He could not argue with the Earl's knowledge of politics, but John knew a thing or two about tactics. "If the time is wrong, isn't that all the more reason to make our army as strong as possible? Shouldn't we bring all the men we can?"
Argyll shook his head. John had grown up a great deal in the past four years, but he was still overeager to get himself killed. "Johnnie, ye must trust me. I won't be shorting the King, ye can bet on that, but I want my sons at Kilchurn. Think about this, for example. Would it be wise just now to leave the castle at Maclean's mercy without protection from either ye or Colin?" It was true that the Macleans had been restless of late, but that was not reason enough for Argyll's reluctance. "Besides," the Earl added softly, "there's yer wife to consider."
John rose, suddenly uncomfortable under his father's probing gaze. Planting himself before the cold hearth, he stared at the blackened stones. "I don't see what Muriella has to do—"
"Don't ye? Think for a minute. What if ye went off heedlessly and were killed fighting the King's cause? What do ye suppose would happen to Cawdor?"
I hadn't considered that."
"Well, mayhap 'tis time ye did. Old William Calder still has two sons living, and then there's Muriella's cousin, Hugh Rose.
He hasn't married yet, I hear. No doubt he'd be happy to take Muriella back, so long as her dowry was Cawdor."
"The Campbells are strong enough to protect her," John muttered.
The Earl shook his head in despair. It seemed his son was as blind as his young wife. "Without an heir, Johnnie, they'd have no right. Ye'd do well to remember that before ye rush off to war. The Campbells come before yer pride or yer lust for battle."
John clenched and unclenched his hands until his fingers began to ache. His father did not know what he was asking. He did not know about the night when John had last gone to his wife's bed. It had been nearly two years ago, but the memory was still painfully vivid. He had been drunk, John remembered, and Colin had been taunting him, as he so often did, about how little John would be without Muriella's inheritance. Like a fool, he had let his brother's gibes rankle, and had gone to his wife in anger.
He had put out the torch before joining her, because he did not want to see the fear she could never quite hide at his approach. She was more withdrawn than usual that night, and her silence only fueled his rage. He kissed her harshly, and though the warmth of her body teased him—just out of reach—her lips remained as cool as the night air.
"Muriella!" he growled, demanding what he knew she could not give. Then he felt her stiffen beneath him. The cold rigidity of her body at last penetrated his wine-fogged brain and he paused. He saw her raise her hands before her face as if to ward off the devil himself. For a moment the rage rushed through his body, blinding him to everything but his own frustration. Roughly, he forced her hands apart. "Look at me!" he wanted to cry. "I'm a man, not a monster!"
But the words never left his mouth. As the pale blur of her face came into focus, he saw that her eyes were blank and still and her skin was covered with a fine sheen of sweat. She stared through him as if he were not even there, as if the sudden trembling of her body came, not from the pressure of his naked skin on hers, but from the presence of a force he could neither see nor understand. The Sight was with her, he realized, and more real to her, just then, than his fury or his pain or his hungry body.
He froze at the realization, while an unnatural stillness wrapped him in its grasp. Muriella began to shudder violently. As the blankness left her eyes, they were filled with an expression of such terror that it burned his desire to ashes in an instant. Too appalled to speak, he pulled away from her and left without a word.
He had not been to Muriella's bed since. There were women enough who welcomed his caresses, who did not shudder at his touch. He had never had joy of his wife, nor she of him. In the end her fear had proved stronger than his need. Yet, though he no longer lay with her, sometimes she flitted through his dreams, strange and wraithlike, beckoning, luring him toward disaster. But he could tell his father none of these things.
The Earl watched his son as he struggled with his thoughts. Something was wrong, but he sensed John would not tell him what it was. For the first time in his life, the Earl of Argyll felt helpless. "Muriella needs ye, Johnnie," he said at last, "whether she admits it or no'."
"Ye don't know her as well as ye think if ye believe that." "But ye don't know her at all," Argyll murmured.
"Aye, well, she seems happy enough as she is." "Mayhap, and mayhap not. But this ye cannot argue. I'm going off to war within the week. She's come to depend on me, Johnnie. Now it will have to be ye she turns to. I know I can count on ye to keep her safe, but will ye see, too, that she's cared for?"
John looked up. "She's my wife," he said. "I haven't any choice."
It was not exactly the answer the Earl had been hoping for. "Colin has a wife too, but that doesn't seem to concern him overmuch."
"I've told ye before, I'm not like Colin."
Argyll leaned forward, hands braced on his knees. "Ye say that as if ye're proud of the fact, but 'tis not always such a good thing. As I've told ye before, Colin is the kind of leader this clan needs."
"The men don't like him," John pointed out obstinately. "But they fear him, and 'tis that very fear which gives him his greatest strength." As he considered the rigid line of John's back and the angle of his head, framed by gray, lifeless stone, Argyll inhaled sharply. He realized with a shock that though John was still guided by his heart and his rage instead of his head—or perhaps it was because of that—this son had come to mean a great deal to him. For some strange reason, John had given him hope. But that did not—could not—change the facts. "And ye might think of this, Johnnie," he added quietly. "Colin is no doubt happier than ye, because he doesn't rage at things he cannot change."
John turned to face his father, fingers hooked in the wide leather of his belt. "I'd rather rage than feel my blood turn slowly and surely to ice, and no matter how often ye call me a fool, that won't change."
Shrugging in defeat, the Earl rose from his chair. "I didn't call ye here to discuss the flaws in yer character, nor yer intention to cling to them, even knowing they might destroy ye one day. 'Tis yer choice, after all. But losing Cawdor is not yer choice. I want yer word ye'll do something about securing Muriella's inheritance while there's still time."
John knew his father was right, but the knowledge could not erase the memory of the horror he'd seen one night in his wife's eyes. "I'll think," he said, "but—"
"'Tis no' good enough, Johnnie, and well ye know it. Ye've a responsibility to the Campbells. 'Tis that which must guide ye, just as certainly as it's always guided me." Argyll regarded his son closely. He wondered if all the arguments, demands and logic in the world could alter John's course once he had chosen it. A deep, aching sadness settled in the Earl's bones at the thought. He waved his hand toward his son in dismissal, and his shoulders sagged with a weariness so great it seemed, almost, like hopelessness.
Chapter 20
"Och, m'lady! I've tangled the thread again," Mary cried in dismay. "I don't think I'll ever learn to do the faces."
Muriella sat at the second loom, the shuttle idle in her hand.
She was glad for the distraction. Abandoning her own weaving, she crossed the room to Mary's side. As she bent to examine the first panel of the tapestry, she saw with pleasure that the design was beginning to take shape. Mary, Megan and she had been working on it for nearly two months, ever since the Earl's brief visit home in July. "Ye're doing a fine job," she assured the servant, running her hand over the forming image of a bubbling burn in a lush green valley. In the background, men and women rode to the hunt, their plaids streaming behind them in the wind. "But look, I've woven her hair over part of her face and now we'll have to pick it free again." The servant sighed, shaking her dark head woefully.
Muriella knelt and took the shuttle from Mary's hand, carefully guiding the weft thread back through the war
p until the outline of the woman's face was free of yellow silk strands. "There! Tis no trouble, ye see. This time, try to go more slowly. The smallest areas take the most time, ye ken."
"But my fingers go faster than I tell them to and the weave gets bigger, though I try to keep it small."
Muriella tapped down the threads with the comb, then leaned closer so her auburn braid fell over Mary's shoulder. "Mayhap 'twould help if ye did as my mother used to do. Ye find the rhythm ye need for the shuttle as it passes back and forth, and then ye sing a little song in time."
Mary wrinkled her forehead as her eyes followed Muriella's quick movements. Soon she began to feel the regular sweep and weave and tightening of the threads, but no words came to her. "What should I sing?"
Muriella tapped her foot, seeking the words that would flow with the sound of the clacking loom. Then she began to chant softly.
Still on my wayis as I went
Out through a land beside a lea. I met a bairn upon the bent
Me thought him seemly for to see.
"Aye, I know that one!" Mary cried. "The men sing it in the Great Hall when they can find naught else to keep them busy." She took the shuttle from Muriella's flying fingers and sang softly,
I asked him wholly his intent—
Good sir, if yer will be,
Since that ye bide upon the bent
Some uncouth tidings tell ye me.
Her pale, smooth face grew flushed with pleasure and her sweet voice rose and fell in time with the moving shuttle.
When shall these wars be gone
That loyal men may live in lee?
Or when shall falsehood go from home
And Lawtie blow his horn on hie?
When Muriella saw that Mary was working almost as deftly as her mistress, she blessed the memory of the hours spent in her mother's solar. Isabel had taught her daughter well—not only the many skills it took to create beautiful hangings, but also the patience needed during endless hours of weaving. "Remember, lass," her mother had said more than once, "the boredom only lasts for the moment, but the magic of the scene ye create is forever."
Overcome with a wave of sadness she had thought never to feel again, Muriella rose, leaving the servant to her task. The silent loom across the chamber no longer called to her. She went instead to stand at one of the wide windows, missing Isabel, feeling empty, bereft. Why, in all this time, had she heard nothing from her mother? Why had her own letters never been answered? And why, today, did Isabel's silence hurt so much?
Why was she so desperately alone? Muriella rubbed her arms vigorously, but they were cold and stiff. She was restless, and though she was not certain what she sought, she gazed out the window as if the view of the turbulent loch beneath held the answer to her question. She tapped her fingers on the edge of the stone sill. Friday, September ninth, she repeated silently for the fifth time. There was something about today, but what was it? She shivered when she noticed the rain was falling again. It had rained off and on for three weeks now.
"'Tis too quiet today," Jenny complained from the bench where she sat sewing on a shirt for one of the men. "I don't think there'll ever be news of the war. We'll be locked away here till we starve, no doubt, and never know what happened to the army."
"The rain's keepin' the messengers overlong on their travels, I'll wager," Megan interjected.
"Mayhap." Muriella leaned out toward the falling rain and wondered if Megan were right. It had been too long since they'd heard from the Earl about the progress of the war with England. The clack-clack of the loom and the rise and fall of Mary's voice made a pleasant contrast to the stormy loch below, but today Muriella did not find comfort in these things.
She glanced at Megan as the servant bent to stir the fire back to life. The room, with its huge windows facing the loch, was thoroughly chilled. When it wasn't raining, the sun was lost behind the dark clouds that never seemed to leave the sky. Despite the lowering weather, Muriella had ridden out every day to escape the somber mood that hovered over the keep, but today the violence of the storm had defeated her; she had no choice but to remain inside. Fingering the intricate embroidery on her silk shawl—a gift from the Earl—Muriella turned suddenly. "I'm going down to the hall," she told the servant. "If the light fades much more, ye and Jenny and Mary might as well stop yer work and get warm by the fire below."
"Aye, m'lady," Megan murmured. Her mistress crossed the room, her green velvet gown rustling about her legs. Megan watched her go with concern. She had seen that look of unease on Muriella's face before, but she could not remember when. All she knew was that it made her heart beat faster.
Muriella moved quickly along the passageway. She was possessed of a sudden urgency she did not understand. When she reached the gallery above the Great Hall, she heard the crash of swords below and hurried to the head of the stairs. She paused with her hand at her throat when she saw John and Colin facing one another, booted feet spread wide on the bare stone floor, broadswords in their hands. The blades met with a clash so loud it vibrated through her body while the two men stood frozen for a moment, stunned by the impact of metal on metal. Muriella gasped as John lunged expertly toward his opponent and Colin stepped back, then swung his own weapon in a wide arc. Dear God, the inactivity and boredom had finally overcome them. They would kill each other out of pure frustration.
Muriella had opened her mouth to call out when Duncan came to the foot of the stairs to smile up at her. "Ye needn't worry, m'lady. They're only practicing to keep themselves busy."
John heard and turned abruptly, dropping his blade to his side. "Aye," he snapped, "here we are playing games when out there the real war is going on." He waved toward the barred doors that opened onto the courtyard. "'Tis madness!" He forced his sword into its sheath and tossed it toward the hearth with such violence it rang against the stone. The sound echoed through the vaulted, cavelike room like a fierce lament without words.
Muriella moved down the stairs as the flickering torchlight closed around her. "There's still no news, then?" she asked her husband.
Pushing the tangled hair back from his forehead, he regarded her through clear blue eyes. "None," he said, "but ye know that. 'Tis three times ye've asked me just today."
"Have I? I don't remember." Muriella's eyes grew clouded; she looked around the room as if she could not recall what had brought her here.
"Ah!" Colin said jovially, tossing his own sword away.
"Here's Jenny, freed from her loom at last. I missed ye, girl." As the servant approached, he flung his arm around her shoulders and guided her back up the stairs she had just descended. Muriella was hardly aware they had gone. There was something she should know—something that hovered in the back of her mind, just out of reach. Her hands were trembling and her skin was suddenly cold. She felt her head begin to spin and knew the Sight was with her again. Straightening her shoulders, she took a deep breath and closed her mind against the blackness that was coming. For a moment, she shivered uncontrollably; then, as the haze cleared, she saw John leaning toward her. "I think I'll go read for a bit before supper," she told him, amazed that she could speak at all. "'Tis warmer in the library."
Without another word, she turned to leave him. A chill of unease ran up John's back as he watched Muriella go. He saw how she paused at the foot of the worn stone stairs, then started laboriously upward, as if the weight of her body were too heavy to bear. He did not like it.
When she had disappeared from view, he swore silently, turned and started toward the door. "I'm going for a ride," he called to Duncan, "and the weather be damned!"
"But, m'lord," the squire objected, "yer horse won't be able to find his way through the rain."
John did not pause as he shouted over his shoulder, "That animal could find his way over these hills blind, and well ye know it. But don't worry, ye needn't come with me this time. I'll go alone."
The squire hurried over the rushes, blond hair flying. "What if he loses his footing in the mud a
nd throws ye? We wouldn't be able to find ye in this downpour."
"Leave off!" John roared. "I've heard enough. I have to get away from here before I go mad." Ignoring Duncan's restraining hand on his arm, he lifted the heavy bolt and wrenched the doors open. The cold, damp air rushed in with a force that stopped him in his tracks. He could only stand and stare at the rain falling in slashing silver sheets across the courtyard. Even he could not penetrate that wall of fury. It would be madness to try. Once again he was a prisoner in his own castle, held captive by the malevolence of the weather.
He swung the doors closed, cursing under his breath. It seemed he had done little else since his father left with the Campbell army. John waited for news and heard none, longed for the release of battle and found only boredom and frustration. "This can't go on," he said to no one in particular. "Something has to happen soon." The memory of Muriella's pallid face came back, wavering in the air before him like the shadow from his dreams. There had been something in her eyes today— something dark and threatening that lingered even after she had gone.
Without conscious thought, he kicked aside the rushes in his way and started up the stairs after his wife.
~ * ~
The hallway was dark, and much colder than the hall, Muriella discovered. She felt the chill penetrating her skin, seeping into her blood as she hurried toward the library. Pausing for a moment on the threshold, she pressed her hands lovingly against the heavy oak door. In the maze of rooms and galleries and passageways at Kilchurn, this alone was her haven. Here she felt safe, protected, among the leather-bound manuscripts she loved. She pushed the door open and was relieved to find a huge fire burning in the fireplace. Someone had already lit the lamps, though it was still the middle of the day. But the Earl was not here.
It seemed like years since she had seen him, though she remembered clearly the brief moment before he left when he had pulled her to him. She could have sworn she felt him shiver, even through his cloak. "Take care, lass," was all he had said.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 83