Highlander's Forbidden Love: Only love can heal the scars of the past...

by Faris, Fiona

  Matthew spoke very little as they wound their way across the clifftops, and the silence between them was palpable in its awkwardness. With a small smile, Elizabeth realized that it was because he was shy, and she found that touching. She was possessed by a wish to set him more at ease, to bring him out of himself and nurture his trust. She decided to treat him to a pique-un-niche; so, as they passed the copse where she had picked strawberries earlier in the year, she paused to gather blackberries and sloes from the heavy bushes that spilled over the verge, and called a rest when they reached the grassy bank where she and Duncan had met that day he had surprised her by appearing over the cliff edge.

  She laid out the fruits on her kerchief, between them, on the bank.

  “They are bitter but refreshing,” she told him.

  He looked at her, mildly mocking at the implication of his idiocy.

  “I have eaten blackberries and sloes before, you know,” he reproached her.

  She laughed.

  “Of course you have! I did not mean to imply—”

  “We do much foraging when we are at war.”

  “I imagine you must. Have you been to war often? You seem very young.”

  “I have fought in King Robert’s cause since I was twelve year’s old. I am twenty-one now.”

  “A veritable veteran,” Elizabeth joked. “And you have risen to be one of the Earl’s trusted lieutenants.”

  “Old Aonghas MacNeacail took me under his wing,” Matthew said regretfully. “He was like a father to me.”

  “And now he is dead.”

  “And now he is dead,” he echoed sadly.

  “And what of your true father?”

  Matthew smiled, almost fondly, at the memory.

  “It was he who sold me into soldiering. He took the king’s penny in exchange for me. I was one less mouth to feed, and the penny would have helped feed the others.”

  Elizabeth said nothing. She knew from her own bitter experience that children could be bought and sold. She picked up a blackberry and crushed it between her lips.

  “I cannot get used to the sea,” she said, scanning the distant horizon, “it is so… big.”

  “The world is vast.”

  “Have you seen much of it?”

  He sighed, contentedly.

  “I have served in Ireland, Flanders, and England.” He too turned to scan the horizon. “There has long been talk of a crusade against the Moors in Espayne. That would be an exciting adventure.”

  “You do not fear death?”

  He looked at her curiously, as if he suspected she was thinking him a simpleton again.

  “Everyone fears death, but only cowards let it daunt them.”

  “Sir Gilbert says that is the essence of courage: doing one’s duty despite the fear you feel.”

  “And Sir Gilbert speaks the truth,” Matthew said with feeling. “That is a man’s virtue. It is what raises him above the beast.”

  Elizabeth considered this for a moment, her brow creased in a pensive frown.

  “Not that alone, surely. There are also the qualities of preudomme: benevolence of the strong towards the weak, especially against unjust and cruel treatment.”

  Matthew looked at her in surprise.

  “You are well-versed in manly virtue.” He grinned.

  She lowered her eyes with a self-satisfied smile.

  “Lady Margaret has taught me well. She sets great store by virtue, both manly and womanly virtue. She calls it ‘the daub that holds our world together’.”

  “She may well be right. Aonghas always said that it is our virtue that maintains the divine order of things, that the stars themselves would fall out of kilter if we did not strive for justice.”

  Elizabeth grew thoughtful again.

  “I often wonder,” she hesitantly mused aloud, “if the demands of preudomme could warrant the overthrow of a cruel and unjust king.”

  “Most certainly it does,” Matthew said passionately. “A monarch who usurps and violates the natural law of God in his domain, by decreeing or permitting immoral customs or laws, thus dethrones himself. He becomes a false king and, as such, not only may but must be overthrown.”

  Elizabeth nodded slowly.

  “No doubt this was the argument made when the Bruce overthrew the Balliols: they had become false kings.”

  “By their actions, yes,” Matthew affirmed, thrusting out his chin in challenge to any who would gainsay them.

  “And no doubt this would be the same argument that would be made by men like Duncan Comyn and the Disinherited, for they too have suffered great injustice and cruelty at the hands of the present king, have they not? I have heard much talk, since I came here, of the Rape of Buchan.”

  “That is dangerous talk, Elizabeth,” Matthew warned, his voice quivering with unease. “Remember your recent involvement with the traitor, Comyn. Talk like that could draw suspicion on yourself.”

  Undeterred, Elizabeth pressed her point.

  “But truly, Matthew, the Disinherited could claim just as much right for their cause as you can for yours. Even Sir Gilbert has admitted that he would have considered Duncan Comyn and his ilk remiss had they not rallied to their cause.”

  “It is entirely different,” Matthew protested, his anger rising. “We cannot right the wrongs that the Balliols and the Comyns have done without removing them as a future threat to King Robert’s rule. And we cannot remove that threat without denying them their rights and privileges.”

  “And if the Balliols were restored, do you not think that they and their supporters would be justified by the same argument in submitting the Bruce and his supporters to the same cruelties and injustices you have visited on them?”

  Matthew threw back his head in laughter.

  “Elizabeth, you dispute like a schoolman. Has Lady Margaret trained you in casuistry as well as in needlework? If so, she has excelled herself as a doctor.”

  Elizabeth threw the stalk of a blackberry at his head in a fit of mock petulance.

  “What I am asking is whether you do not feel some sympathy with Duncan Comyn? I find you very much alike, gallant and virtuous; only he is for Balliol while you are for the Bruce.”

  She did not add that she found him handsome too.

  “Aye,” he answered, falling serious again. “I can honor him as a foe. But he is my foe. If I were in his position and him in mine, I would not expect to be treated any differently. I would be seeking to impress him by going to meet my fate with courage and fortitude. If he does so, I will remember and honor his memory as a fine virtuous man.”

  But Elizabeth would have disagreed. She was determined to have Duncan’s body to honor rather than his memory.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Bullers

  Shortly after, they pressed on and were soon skirting the chasm of the Bullers.

  “I have never dared go close to the edge,” Elizabeth confessed. “Will you come with me and hold the back of my robes while I look?”

  “There is nothing to be afraid of,” Matthew assured her. “The air is still; there is no danger of you being blown over.”

  “I still fear the height. When I first came to Slains, I feared I was being pulled from the battlements by some dark force. I have grown used to the battlements now and no doubt, in time, I will grow used to this precipice. But, for the moment, I would feel much safer if you had a tight grip on my surcoat.”

  He grabbed a fistful of the cloth between her shoulders, and she stepped forward to the edge. Beneath her, the sea tossed and pitched like a beast that had been caught in a trap, sending up plumes of spray where it cashed against the ragged rocks. Above the turmoil, seabirds wheeled and soared on the air’s treacherous eddies, squawking and screaming. The noise was tremendous; it reminded her of the day she became trapped on the rocks by the running storm tide.

  “It is quite a sight,” Matthew shouted in her ear.

  She nodded enthusiastically, not trusting her voice to be heard above the din.
It amazed her, how violent the sea was in the enclosed space of the ‘pot’, compared to the almost glasslike calm of the ocean outside its narrow entrance. The sight and sound of the crashing waves far below both thrilled and repelled her, inspiring in her a kind of delicious terror that made her legs tremble but also stirred a flutter of uncontrollable laughter in her midriff. She also felt an almost irresistible impulse to simply let herself fall forward and plunge into the arms of the empty space.

  Unable to bear the thrill any longer, she turned to move away from the precipice and slipped. Matthew’s grip immediately tightened, and he pulled her back into his arms. She rested her palms and cheek against the welcome security of his chest, and he held her there, far longer than was necessary. She looked up questioningly at his face, and her eyes met his. His look was smoldering with longing. He inclined his mouth towards her lips, but she pushed past him and tramped breathlessly through the bracken to the safety of the path, where she stopped and waiting for him, gazing unseeing at the purple mass of the Grampians in the distance.

  He joined her on the path, laying a hand on her shoulder, but she slid away from beneath it and walked away.

  “I would like to go just a bit further,” she called back over her shoulder as if nothing had happened. “As far as St. Cyrus’ cove.”

  She turned and continued walking back along the path, an uncertain smile shimmering on her lips.

  “I have a favor to ask of Dearbhorghil Goudie, which is the real reason for my coming.”

  With a long sigh, Matthew followed to catch her up. When he did so, he did not try to put his hand on her shoulder again.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, in the pitch darkness of his cell, Duncan wondered what time of day it was beyond the heavy wooden door. A bucket of slops sat untouched just inside the door, a leather waterskin across his lap. He shifted his legs to ease the stiffness of inactivity. There was barely room to crouch, let alone stand up straight, and his shoulders, back, and legs ached from being constantly bent.

  For the hundredth time, he reflected on his situation. He had long reconciled himself to death. He knew his time had come and had known it from the moment he had stood up from beneath the ferns and given himself up to Hay. His fate was sealed. He hoped only that his little play with the dirk had been enough to save Elizabeth from falling under suspicion of complicity. He trusted that he would be able to go to his death courageously, with his head held high and his integrity intact. He was determined that he would die well.

  His only regret was that he would be dying for the sake of a fool’s errand. His master, Henry of Beaumont, had much overestimated the strength of support the Comyns still enjoyed in Formartine. He had traveled the length and breadth of the country and met only cowed indifference and exhausted hope among those few supporters who had not been cleared from the land. He’d had no more chance of fomenting unrest than he had of standing upright in his cell.

  Yet, he had also met Elizabeth Bryce, and for that he was thankful. Even though he had known her love only for a few sweet days, he would not have exchanged those days for anything, not even for a future life without her. Hers was the most beautiful soul he had ever encountered, and he knew that even if he were to live, his life would be empty without her. He was ready to die; he was reconciled to his fate.

  He held Elizabeth’s image in his mind, and he stared into the darkness. He rehearsed the conversations they’d had, in the Cullen’s cottage, on the clifftop path, in the old shieling high in the fells, and he cherished every word. Most of all, he recalled the sweetness of their lovemaking, the gentle intimacy of it, the way in which the flesh that separated them had melted, and they had for the eternity of a moment become one.

  He passed a hand over his face and found that he was weeping.

  All seemed lost.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Slochd Altrimen

  It was not long until Elizabeth and Matthew had reached the top of the Jacob’s ladder at the top of St Cyrus’ cove.

  “You need not accompany me any further,” Elizabeth said. “There is no other way into and out of Slochd Altrimen, so you can safely await me here. You can come if you want, of course, but I wanted to speak with Dearbhorghil on women’s matters, and you might find the conversation a bit delicate. I am hoping she might give me a physic to help with—”

  “I don’t need to know.” Matthew raised his hand and shook his head. “I will wait for you here.” He hesitated. “You will be alright on the path down, the herringbone ledges? I recall you have little head for heights.”

  “I will be fine, Matthew. I have been this way several times before. Just you mind a selkie doesn’t catch you,” she added, nodding out towards the round heads that bobbed in the bay. “If you are not here when I return, I will report to Sir Gilbert that you have been stolen away by the seal folk.”

  “Very funny,” Matthew said with a grumble. “I have eaten seal meat while on campaign as well, I’ll have you know. Though I would not recommend it.”

  He was rewarded with a trill of laughter before Elizabeth disappeared over the lip of the cliff and began her descent.

  The descent was easier than the last time she had made it. The zigzag ledges were dry, and she did not have a gale trying to snatch her from the cliff face. Once she was out of Matthew’s sight, she did hitch the skirts of her gown up over her thighs, but she kept on her soft leather shoes.

  As before, the family group was assembled around the hearth in the middle of the cave. They watched her suspiciously with their bright gleaming eyes as she entered through the entrance fissure and sought out Dearbhorghil in the gloom.

  “Lizzie Bryce,” the old crone said at her elbow. She seemed even more stooped and withered than she had done on Elizabeth’s previous visit, and her breath wheezed in her chest and whistled in her throat.

  “Mistress Goudie,” Elizabeth returned the greeting. “I hope I find you well?”

  Dearbhorghil dismissed the state of her health with a curt sweep of her hand.

  “Ach, I doubt I’ll see oot this comin’ winter,” she said, as if she had decided the matter for herself. “My bones creak and grind in their sockets something painful, and I canna shift the damp frae my chist.” She coughed up some phlegm from the depths of her lungs and deposited it on the floor of the cave as if to illustrate her complaint. “I’m gettin’ tired and done. It’s high time I was away.”

  “But what will we Formartine lassies do without you, Dearbhorghil, with all your physic and potions and simples?”

  Dearbhorghil chuckled shyly, clearly flattered by the compliment.

  “Well, I’ve been teachin’ the granddaughters all that I know. Between them, they should be able to mind maist o’ it. The rest… weel, they’ll just ha’e to make it up like I did.”

  She placed a hand on Elizabeth’s forearm and lowered herself painfully to the floor, where she crossed her legs beneath her. Her claw-like grip, Elizabeth noticed, was remarkably strong. She imagined that was what death’s grip would be like when it finally came for her.

  “And what are you looking for today?” Dearbhorghil inquired, squinting up at her.

  Elizabeth crouched down on her haunches and lowered her voice.

  “A sleeping draught.”

  “A sleeping draught?” Dearbhorghil cackled. “Is your man too lively when you go to bed at night?”

  Elizabeth pushed her playfully on the shoulder and returned a smile.

  “No, nothing like that, more is the pity. Let us just say I have some business to conduct, and I need to ensure that a certain set of eyes is not privy to that business.”

  “Oh-ho!” Dearbhorghil slapped her knees with glee, her eyes bright with interest. “A ploy! I like a ploy. Though you need tell me no more… Could you not just slit the throat that belongs to those eyes?”

  “Heavens, woman! I said I wanted to conduct some business, not hang for it.”

  Dearbhorghil cackled again.

  “I like your
smeddum, lassie, I like your smeddum. Here, help me to my feet, and I’ll away and fetch you what you need.”