Muriella slipped through the sleeping castle like a wraith, her bare feet making no sound on the stone floors. When she reached the Great Hall, she was surprised to discover the door hanging open, forgotten in the excitement. Gathering her skirt about her, she stepped out into the dawn.
It did not take long to reach the hill behind which the Gypsy camp was hidden. Arriving at the top, breathless and exhausted, she stared in disbelief at the scene before her. The Gypsies had gone. The tents had been pulled down during the night, the wagons packed and the fires put out. The only sign they had ever been were the two blackened holes where the bonfires had burned.
Muriella was stunned. She looked up and down the valley again, hoping for a sign that they would return, but there was none. They had gone, every one of them, and Alex had gone with them, leaving her behind. While back at the castle, her husband was waiting. Muriella sat down on the barren hilltop and wept.
PART 2
1513-1514
Chapter 19
The shutters had been thrown back to admit the breeze, and the scent of summer flowers drifted through the wide windows of the solar. Muriella looked up from the loom to breathe deeply, enjoying the fragrance of lavender and roses that wafted up from the garden.
"The air should be lovely today," Megan observed. She knelt beside a finished tapestry, binding the last of the bright silken threads. "Shall we ride down the loch when ye've done?"
"Aye," her mistress agreed, turning her attention back to her task. The Earl had hired an artist the winter before to paint the sketch of this new tapestry. Now, with the huge piece of painted linen secured from behind, Muriella was transferring the design to the vertical threads of the loom with charcoal. When she and Mary began the weaving, they would have a pattern to follow.
Muriella gazed through the tightly secured wool threads, which could not obscure the bright colors of the painting. She was pleased with the first panel in a tapestry that, when finished, would tell the story of the legend of Loch Awe. She had wanted to capture the magic in color and thread ever since she first heard Alex tell the story nearly four years before, and now, at last, it was becoming a reality. Bending closer, she traced the outline of a tumble of rocks at the edge of a stream. "M'lady?"
She turned to the servant Jenny, who had been working beside Megan on the hanging they had cut from the loom that morning. "The edges are bound. Must we start with the finishin' now?"
Muriella shook her head. She could see Jenny was bored with the work, and her needlework suffered when she grew restless. "No. 'Tis enough for today. We'll all begin sewing the slits between the colours tomorrow. 'Twill go faster with many hands."
"Then may I go?" Jenny's eyes brightened at the prospect of escape. She rose, straightening her stiff knees with difficulty.
"Aye, as ye wish."
Without bothering to curtsy, the servant left the room. Before the door had closed behind her, Mary stepped over the threshold. "The Laird is askin' for ye, m'lady," she said.
"Thank ye, Mary," Muriella put down her charcoal. Turning to Megan, she said, "Ye can do what ye like for a time.
I'm only grateful that ye're more patient than Jenny."
"Och!" Megan scoffed. "A mad dog is more patient than that one. 'Tis no' such a virtue, after all."
"Mayhap not when ye put it that way, but I thank ye just the same."
A flush of color crept up Megan's cheeks. She bent to busy herself with the loom to hide her pleasure. "Ye don't want to keep the Earl waitin'," she said.
"No." Muriella smoothed out her rose silk gown and kirtle, which had become crumpled as she knelt before the loom. Then she crossed the room and stepped into the hall. She moved through the curving stone passageways toward the library, noting with pleasure that the narrow corridors were almost warm; summer had finally made its way inside the thick stone walls of the keep. Even the walls themselves were vibrant with color, so the empty hall seemed less grim and forbidding. The hangings she and the servants had woven in the past four years kept out some of the chill and disguised the unevenness of the rough stone beneath. With the two looms the Earl had had built soon after her wedding, she had created several tapestries that hid the mottled stone behind brightly woven scenes from the poems and legends she loved.
Muriella stopped on the threshold of the library to smooth back the few red curling hairs that had come loose from her heavy braid. She frowned when she saw the Earl was seated before the empty fireplace, eyes closed, head resting against the back of his carved chair. His face was deeply lined and his thick beard seemed grayer than she remembered. His expression was grim, almost despondent. He had been away only three months, but he looked much older, as if years had passed since he'd last closed his eyes in his own keep.
"Is there trouble at court?" she asked softly as she came into the room.
Argyll opened his eyes with a start. "Ah, Muriella. 'Tis glad to see ye, I am, lass. I swear ye grow lovelier every time."
Smiling with pleasure, he took her hands and held them tightly.
She noticed he had not answered her question. "We missed ye while ye were away."
His grip on her hands increased for a moment before he released her. "And I ye." He sighed, then shook his head to clear away the lingering chill of a bad dream. "Ye'll not be surprised to learn that I brought ye something from Stirling. 'Tis in the little chest by the hearth."
Muriella left him reluctantly and went to kneel beside the carved oak chest. Lifting the lid, she found several huge spools of silver and gold thread. "Oh!" she breathed. "They're lovely."
The Earl looked over her shoulder as she took a strand of fine thread and rubbed it reverently between her thumb and forefinger. "I thought ye could use it in yer hanging of Loch Awe. Silver for the moon and gold for the path of the light across the water."
Muriella's eyes filled with tears at his thoughtfulness. She had worked with the dyes for many days, trying to create just the right color for the moon and the radiant water, but had never been quite satisfied. For this tapestry especially, she wanted everything to be perfect. "How did ye know?"
Argyll smiled at her obvious delight. "I watched ye as ye worked at choosing the colors. And I've come to know ye well enough to see when ye aren't happy."
He put his hand on her shoulder and she turned to smile up at him. "Thank ye," she murmured.
"Ye' re welcome, lass. 'Tis the least I can do to help ye make this keep more of a home. I didn't realize how cold and empty the castle had become till ye changed it with yer woman's touch. I'm grateful for that, ye ken." His fingers tightened briefly on her shoulder before he moved away. "Besides the thread, I brought some cakes of dye Queen Margaret sent ye from her own stores. She was sore disappointed that I didn't bring ye with me this time."
Muriella unwrapped one of the cakes, exclaiming over the deep blue color. "The Queen is kind to remember me."
"No," the Earl murmured, "she's wise to recognize a true friend when she has so few."
There was a hint of something in his voice that Muriella found disturbing. "'Twas a difficult trip, wasn't it?" she asked.
Argyll ran his hand through his heavy gray beard. "Aye, but I don't wish to think of this right now. Give me a little time to enjoy being safely home." He leaned a hand against the wall, staring moodily into the lifeless ashes of the fire.
He looked so weary, so burdened by his own unhappy thoughts, that Muriella's heart went out to him. Argyll rarely allowed her to see his sorrow, but now she could read it in every line of his face. "Shall I recite to ye?" she asked, closing the chest with care.
Without looking up, the Earl nodded. "Aye, I'd like that. Mayhap John Barbour can keep my attention today. Naught else can."
"'Tis to be The Bruce, then?" The epic poem told the story of one of Scotland's first true heroes, Robert the Bruce, and Argyll loved it above all others. Muriella had spent so many hours reading and then reciting it with him that she knew it by heart.
"Ye know the part I like
to hear, don't ye?"
"Aye, I know." Muriella sat on a low stool and clasped her hands together, summoning up the familiar words and lines like old friends.
Alas that folk who e'er were free,
And in freedom wont for to be,
Through their great mischance and folly
Were treated then so wickedly
That their foes their judges were.
What wretchedness may man have more?
"'Tis good to hear yer sweet voice again," the Earl murmured. "I only wish ye could do it in the Gaelic. Och, what a spell ye could weave then. But don't let me stop ye." Muriella drew a deep breath, then continued.
Ah! freedom is a noble thing!
Freedom makes a man to his liking.
Freedom all solace to man gives.
He lives at ease that freely lives!
"'Tis true, ye know," Argyll murmured more to himself than to her, "though some don't choose to understand." Before she could begin again, he picked up the lines where she had left off.
A noble heart may have none else,
No other thing that may him please.
But freedom only; for free liking
Is yearned for o'er all other things.
His voice faded and Muriella knew he had forgotten her for the moment. His brow was furrowed with thought, and he stared at the ashes at his feet as if they held some meaning only he could see. In the sudden stillness, she could hear his heavy breathing and her heart began to beat unsteadily.
She was feeling oppressed by the silence when Argyll turned unexpectedly.
"Tell me how ye're getting on with Johnnie," he said. She looked down, spreading her fingers across the silk covering her knees. So it was to be her husband again. That was the only subject about which she and the Earl had quarreled over the years. He was watching her closely; when she met his gaze, she saw the hard gleam in his eyes. "We manage well enough," she said at last. "Things don't change much."
The Earl left the fireplace to seat himself across from her.
"'Tis just as I thought." With his feet planted firmly on the floor and his hands gripping the carved armrests of his chair, he ceased to resemble the man she had come to love, and became instead the unbending Laird of the Clan Campbell.
"Don't ye realize how quickly the days are slipping through our fingers? Ye're seventeen, Muriella. 'Tis long past time ye bore my son a child."
Muriella bit her lip as she thought of Colin's wife, shut away in Castle Glamis with only her sons and daughters to keep her company. "If 'tis grandchildren ye want, Colin's Janet has given ye those."
"Aye," Argyll agreed. "But none who can inherit Cawdor." Rising abruptly, Muriella turned away. So it was Cawdor he was thinking of. Always it was Cawdor. But this time he was helpless; even her father-in-law's unbounded ambition could not force her to conceive a child.
He must know that John had not come to her bed for a long time now, but he could not know why. He could not know that, after the wedding, she had tried to accustom herself to her husband's occasional visits to her chamber, but she had never succeeded. Always, when his naked body lay next to hers, the fear came, holding her in its grip. Megan had told her it got easier with time, but she had not found it so. Then her sixteenth birthday had arrived and with it the second anniversary of their wedding. John had come to her late that night. She remembered so clearly how he had put out the torches as he entered the room, how loud his footsteps had seemed to her sensitive ears.
He had said nothing as he climbed into bed beside her, but she knew he had been drinking; she could smell the wine on his breath. Without a word, he had buried his face in her hair, drawing the furs away from her body so it was exposed to his hungry gaze. Even in the darkness she could see the burning blue of his eyes, and the fear had moved like flame through her body.
John bent to kiss her, his mouth hard and insistent on hers, as if he could force her to respond with the mere strength of his own need. "Muriella!" he growled. The single word demanded all she had to give: her attention, her acquiescence, the secrets of her body.
She felt his rough beard scratching her face, her throat and breasts as he moved down, claiming every inch of her with his mouth and hands. She held her breath, praying this time his assault would not bring with it the vision that had become her nightmare. But when he entered her, the darkness blurred and the humming in her ears began. Then the water rose, cold and threatening, closing around her, filling her mouth and lungs as the waves dragged her under. She was fighting for air, clawing her way through the choking water, but she knew she would never reach the light. Mindlessly, she cried out once, then raised her hands before her to ward off the rushing white foam.
Because the fear still clutched at her throat, she was hardly aware that John had forced her hands apart and was looking down at her through the darkness. Her heart thudded and her skin grew clammy with sweat as her husband's face came into focus. John stared at her for a moment, his eyes cutting away the protective darkness like a bright, sharp blade, then he cursed violently and swung himself off her.
He had left the chamber without a word and had not come again to her bed. She was not quite sure why that was so, but she was grateful, for she had not seen the vision since that night. Almost, she could convince herself that it was no more than an unpleasant memory.
"Muriella, are ye listening to me?" Argyll demanded.
With an effort, she forced her thoughts back to the reality of the crowded library and the warning in the Earl's voice.
"Aye," she said, "I'm listening." But she did not turn to face him.
“Johnnie must have children,” her father-in-law repeated.
“I haven’t stopped him from doing so.”
The Earl regarded her through narrowed eyes. “Mayhap not, but ye also haven’t encouraged him. The time has come to stop yer games and grow up. I know ye hold yerself apart from him, as if ye were made of ice and stone instead of flesh and blood. But that will have to change. Ye must be a real wife to him."
She whirled on one slippered foot. "I've told ye—"
"Aye, ye've told me more than once. But I'm not willing to listen anymore." He saw how she retreated from him, how she struggled to control the trembling of her hands. "Tis not only for the sake of the Campbells, lass," he added more gently. "'Tis for yer sake as well. Ye don't realize it, but ye need Johnnie by ye. Ye need to depend on someone besides yerself."
"But I have ye!"
The Earl sighed, sinking deeper into his chair. This was partly his fault, he knew. He had taken Muriella away from Kilchurn too often, but he had sometimes wanted her with him when he made the long, lonely trip to Stirling or Edinburgh. She had been the only light on an increasingly dark horizon. The distance between himself and Elizabeth had grown greater over the years as the Macleans became more hostile to the Campbells, and John and Colin were men with their own concerns. Only Muriella seemed to need him. Only she brought him joy. Because of that he had selfishly kept her by him, even though he knew it was not wise. "I won't be here always," he told her. "I've been lucky so far in my career as a soldier, but—" "No! I won't listen to that kind of talk."
"Ye'd best get used to the idea," Argyll snapped, "because we go to war with England within the month. I've only come home to gather the men and see that my affairs are in order."
"War?" she gasped. "But why? Have the English attacked the borders again?"
"No," he said wearily. He had not meant to tell her this way, but perhaps it was best after all. "There are many reasons. King Henry has never taken Jamie seriously and our king's vanity has been battered once too often, it seems." He shook his head, releasing his grip on the arms of his chair. "Ye won't believe what decided him in the end. 'Twas a love letter from the French queen." He glared at Muriella as if she might try to deny it. "She fears Henry will attack France soon, and she told King Jamie 'twould no' be chivalrous to leave her at England's mercy. So, we go to battle."
"For a woman's pride? Only that?"
"I advised the King against it, and others with me, but he won't be swayed."
Muriella's heart began to pound. "If ye think he's wrong, why can't ye refuse to join him?"
"Don't ever suggest such a thing to me!" Argyll cried. "'Tis not only a woman's pride that's at stake now. 'Tis Scotland's pride. And that I'll fight for. I wouldn't ever stain the name of Campbell by hiding like a coward in my keep. What I do, I do because I must—for honor. If the clan loses that, they lose everything I've fought for." He paused to take a long, deep breath. "In a week we leave to join the King. 'Tis likely I'll be away a long time, and ye'll have to turn to Johnnie when I'm gone."
"He isn't going with ye?"
"No," the Earl told her, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. He had no strength left to argue or explain. "This time when I go to war, I go alone."
~ * ~
"Why?" John demanded furiously. "Surely ye've lost yer mind!"
The Earl, who sat where Muriella had left him two hours since, schooled his features with difficulty. "Because I want ye here. Ye and Colin can help gather the men, but neither one of ye will go with the army this time."
His son was staggered by the Earl's calm announcement.
Ever since he was thirteen years old he had been at his father's side in battle. "Do ye think we've grown lazy in the use of our swords? That we aren't skilled enough—"
"Don't be a fool, Johnnie!" Argyll snapped in annoyance. "I know full well ye and Colin are two of the best fighters in Scotland. Ye wouldn't be my sons else. But nevertheless, ye'll stay behind."
John ran his hand through his hair in agitation. "I don't understand."
"No, nor can I expect ye to. But the fact remains that I've a feeling about this war. The King isn't always as wise as he should be, and 'tis not the time to pick a quarrel."
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 82