Drawing the chair close to the desk, she ran her hands over the manuscripts scattered before her. She sat for a moment, undecided, then reached for the large book in the new leather binding. She opened the cover reverently. The Earl had given it to her before he left, encouraging her to continue with her reading. Scanning the brightly painted title page, she read it for the hundredth time: "Lancelot of the Laik—for Muriella, the last of my children, and before God, the dearest. I believed I had nothing left to teach, but ye have proved me wrong. God bless ye. Archibald Campbell, Second Earl of Argyll."
She lowered her head when the words began to blur. She could see the other works they had read together: Alexander the Grate, The Three Priests of Peebles, and the first printed book the Earl had owned, The Morale Fabillis of Esope, by Robert Henryson. Muriella smiled, remembering when he had brought that one home with him. He had come to her laughing and pulled the book from its canvas shield as if it were a great treasure. When she stared at it, shaking her head, he had laughed again, explaining, "Tis printed on a press, lass. They can make many at a time. There are already two hundred of these." She had been delighted, as he had known she would be. They'd begun reading it then and there, huddled in their chairs before the fire with the book open between them.
Muriella closed the manuscript, rubbing her fingers over the soft leather. Why was she thinking back, remembering so much today? It was a habit she had overcome soon after her wedding, when she realized it only caused her pain. But now she could not seem to avoid images of the past.
All at once she became aware of the shadows the lamp cast over the desk. She watched as they danced across the books; she stared until the books became indistinct, the shadows hard reality. Her head began to hum with strange, discordant notes and she swayed forward, driven by a force beyond her will. She held her head in her hands, breathing raggedly, and fought against the trembling that possessed her, but it would not go. With a gasp, she leapt up from the chair, hoping to shake herself free of the premonition.
For a second, her mind grew black as she grasped the edge of the desk in a painful grip. Then the blackness cleared and a red mist took its place. There was confusion while men scrambled blindly through the red fog. Flying mud filled the air, turning from brown to crimson as down the hill the men came racing, but few reached the bottom. Dead, dead, one after the other, until they lay like deep snow covering the earth, soaking it with their blood. The pipes were wailing, wailing, screaming, pleading...
"Holy Mother of God!" Muriella gasped.
~ * ~
John stood outside the library with his fingers spread on the cold stone. He had been there long enough to see his wife take the book from the desk to look at the title page. He'd had the odd sensation that for the first time, he could read her thoughts as if they were written out before him. She was remembering her reading sessions with the Earl, missing him. John was surprised when she closed the book to lean back, staring, her eyes dark and wide.
It was happening again; even as he watched, the Sight had come upon her. He saw how she trembled, how her breath came in painful gasps as the vision transformed her. He could feel the little hairs along his neck standing on end and he wanted to turn away. He could understand battles and death and war, and so, did not fear them. But this—
Muriella rose abruptly, clutching the edge of the desk to keep herself from falling. She turned her back to him until she faced the fire. Her body tensed and she cried, "Holy Mother of God!"
He realized then that he could not leave her. She was swaying forward; he knew he must catch her before she fell. John crossed the room quickly and, with his hands at her waist, turned his wife to face him. He swallowed dryly when he saw her expression.
Her eyes were pitch black—dark and empty—and the blood had drained from her cheeks, leaving them chalk white. Near her temple and down the center of her forehead two purple veins stood out, pulsing rapidly. But none of these things disturbed him as much as the way she stared at him as if he did not even exist.
When Muriella began to shake, he pulled her closer, circling her with his arms. All at once the tension left her. She grew slack and heavy, nearly slipping to the floor, but he held her more tightly, bracing her body with his. For a long time she continued to shake uncontrollably.
When the trembling began to subside at last, he guided her to a chair near the fire. She seemed oblivious of his presence. She was like a carved doll without life or warmth. He did not know how to bring her back. Perhaps some wine would help.
Having placed her in the chair, he went to pour a glass of the dark liquid. Then he knelt, closing her fingers around the glass. His wife hesitated for a moment longer, then raised the glass and began to drink. After a few sips, she closed her eyes.
Taking both her hands in his, John spoke for the first time. "What is it?"
Muriella felt her head grow lighter as the wine moved down her throat, burning a warm path to her stomach. She was vaguely aware that someone was nearby, but she was still under the influence of the images of blood and death, and could not focus her thoughts enough to discover who it might be. As the wine began to stir her awake, she realized her hands were cupped by other hands, and she heard a voice. Whose?
"Muriella, what is it?"
Carefully, she opened her eyes, squinting through the red haze that clouded her sight. As she blinked, the face in front of her began to come into focus. John.
"Tell me," he insisted, "what have ye seen?"
She sat rigid, leaning forward slightly, her face gray and haggard. Unaware of what she was doing, she reached out to put her hands on her husband's shoulders and draw him toward her. When she spoke, her voice seemed to come from somewhere outside herself. "'Twas a terrible slaughter," she said. "The English destroyed everything: King Jamie, the army, Scotland's honor and her pride. Yer father couldn't save those things." She faltered, then forced herself to go on.
"He couldn't even save himself. He's dead."
Chapter 21
The bell rang through the castle, echoing upward, slow and mournful, counting off the years of the dead men's lives. So many had died at the battle of Flodden Field that the bell had not been silent for many hours. Muriella had listened to the hollow tolling for so long it had become one with the pulse of her blood, drowning out even the clack of the loom. Within the mesh of wool and silk beneath her busy fingers, the burn flowed through the valley, lovely and tranquil under the Kelpies' watching eyes, but its beauty did not touch her.
"M'lady, ye must come away from there!" Megan pleaded. "Ye'll make yerself ill if ye don't eat."
"I'm no’ hungry," her mistress replied, her hands never faltering in their task.
"But it's been near two days that ye haven't left this room. Ye can't stay hidden away here forever." Megan's voice rose shrilly on the last few words; she was frightened by the unnatural pallor of Muriella's skin and the blank look in her eyes. Since the news of the Earl's death had come, Muriella had not wept or cried out once. Instead she sat hour by hour at her loom, retreating within herself until Megan could no longer reach her.
"Please," the servant began again, but when the door to the solar opened, she paused to look up in relief. "Sir John," she cried, "will ye talk to her? She won't leave the loom."
John frowned when he saw the shadows under his wife's eyes. So she’d had no more rest than he in the past few days. Then her flying fingers caught his attention and he stared, momentarily mesmerized by the lacework of silver and blue that shimmered under her skilled hands. He wished, for an instant, that he could lose himself in the soothing rhythm as Muriella seemed to have done. "'Tis time," he said at last.
His wife concentrated more fiercely on sliding the shuttle between the threads. "Time for what?"
"To see my father."
She flinched, then her hands grew still.
"The hall is quiet now," he continued, "but, 'twill no' be for long. I thought ye'd rather go down when no one else is by."
M
uriella let the shuttle fall from her fingers to dangle against the brightly colored fabric. "Have ye—" She stopped, unable to say the words.
"No. I didn't want their eyes upon me when I said goodbye."
She looked away. "I don't think I can do it."
"If ye don't," Megan interjected, "the Earl will surely haunt ye.”
“He’ll haunt me anyway,” her mistress whispered. He was with her now, this moment, in the thin red mist that cloaked her thoughts, in the memory of his voice that echoed through the emptiness inside her.
John moved closer, resting his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Come," he said. "There isn't much time."
She had no strength to resist his command, no desire to draw away from the pressure of his fingers on her shoulder. She knew John was right; she had to see the Earl's body. It was the only way to bar his bloody specter from her dreams. Leaving the shuttle swinging free, she rose to follow her husband from the room.
They moved in silence through the narrow passageway while the torches leapt and wavered above them. They had nearly reached the top of the stairs when Mary met them on her way to the upper keep. She stopped as if turned to stone, her eyes wide with fear, when Muriella met her gaze. With a cry of alarm, the servant crossed herself and fled.
"Damn!" John cursed, glaring at the servant's retreating back. "'Twill no' happen again," he added. "I'll speak to her later."
"No. Leave her be." It was not the first time a servant had shrunk from meeting Muriella's eyes in the past few days. They had heard, no doubt, of her vision of the slaughter of the Scottish army, and their fear of her power had flared again. Even Mary could not face her. It seemed that, of the servants, only Megan had that kind of courage. When Muriella swayed on her feet, John took her arm. She welcomed his support as they continued down the corridor.
At last, the stone walls seemed to fall back and with them the enveloping darkness. Narrowing her eyes against the light, Muriella stood with her husband at the top of the stairs. The worn stone steps led directly to the bier resting on trestles in the center of the Great Hall. John's grip on her elbow increased, and slowly, on feet made of lead, they started downward.
The silence, broken only by the ringing of the soul bell, swelled until it filled John's head. He stood for a long time with his hands on the lid of the plain wooden coffin. I've a feeling about this war, the Earl had told his son in despair. Argyll had known the cause was hopeless, had guessed before it even began what the outcome of this conflict would be. John clenched his fists impotently against the unyielding wood. He simply could not believe that his father had chosen to die alone.
Closing his eyes, he summoned the rage that had burned in him for so long, but now that it would have brought him relief, he found it was gone. In its place there was only grief, which ate at him constantly, leaving his insides hollow and raw. With sudden resolution, he pushed the lid aside.
Muriella hung back when she saw John grip the wood in rigid fingers, then shudder, breathing with difficulty, as if he could not get enough air. His face was haggard in the unkind light of the many torches, and his eyes revealed an agony so great it made her shiver. Then he reached out to touch the Earl's cheek. Muriella turned away from the sight of his pain.
When John looked up, she moved closer to the bier, willing the numbness to protect her. Her heart pounded dully in her chest and, for a moment, her eyes refused to focus. Then, gradually and with painful clarity, her sight returned. She saw before her the corpse of a man who had died a violent death from the blow of an English bill, but it was not the Earl. This gray and rigid death mask belonged to a stranger, not the man she had grown to love. Her throat felt tight with unshed tears as she reached out to touch Argyll's sunken cheek, as she had once touched Rob Campbell's. In that moment, the chill seemed to move from the Earl's body into hers. She thought she might be ill, but then she realized that John was pulling her away. Without a word, he replaced the lid.
"Johnnie, where the devil have ye been? We're gathered in the library to discuss what's to be done about the Macleans. David Campbell is asking for ye."
Colin's voice rang out, competing with the tolling of the bell. John stiffened as he turned toward his brother. Colin seemed unaware of the coffin and its burden; his attention was occupied with the heavily carved silver brooch he was polishing with a corner of his plaid.
John caught a glimpse of the familiar brooch that bore the Campbell arms and the wild myrtle that was their badge. For all the years of his life, his father had worn that symbol of the Laird of the Clan Campbell. To him it was obscene that Colin should flaunt it so openly when the Earl was not yet buried. "The Macleans are always speaking out against us. Now isn't the time—"
"But that's where ye're wrong. Ye see, Johnnie, I've men watching and listening on Mull, and they tell me Maclean is ready to strike soon. I told David we didn't need ye, but he wouldn't listen." Leaving his brooch for the moment, he added, "What I want to know, little brother, is if ye're still a member of this clan or no'? I'm sure we could manage quite well without ye."
John fought back the angry response that rose to his lips. He would not argue with Colin while his father's corpse lay a few feet away. "Ye won't rid yerself of me so easily. I'm coming." While his brother started up the stairs, he turned back to Muriella. "Rest," he told her. "'Twill be a long night."
As Muriella watched her husband climb the stairs behind his brother, shoulders bowed under the weight of his sorrow, she thought it might well be the longest night she had ever spent.
~ * ~
The men and women had come by the dozens for the feast on the eve of the funeral. They had consumed so much ale and wine that the stores in the keep were badly depleted, yet the salmon and mutton, salted herring, sweetmeats and bread they ate by the platterful did not seem to satisfy their insatiable appetites. At the end of the evening, the clansmen reeled around drunkenly, forming the patterns for the funeral dance, while the pipes blew their wailing lament. When it seemed to Muriella she would choke on the odor of stale food and the sound of their harsh laughter, they began to filter out into the courtyard. Those who could not move lay where they fell among the rushes, snoring from the effects of too much ale. Gradually, the last of the voices faded out and the silent vigil for the dead Earl began.
John, Muriella, Duncan and Megan seated themselves on benches around the bier to watch and see that no evil befell Argyll in these final hours before his internment. At first Colin was there, sprawled across a bench, half-sitting, half-prone. But presently he fell asleep. When he began to snore, John nudged him rudely awake. The third Earl of Argyll went up to bed.
No one spoke as they sat waiting for the night to pass. The soul bell had ceased its ringing at last; Muriella found the stillness oppressive. With her arms crossed over her chest, she stared at the coffin, swaying a little on her hard bench, fighting to keep her thoughts unformed so that they could not hurt her.
Her head rang with the sound of the others' breathing, overly loud in a room wrapped in silence, and she thought she might scream. Then John began to speak, softly at first, so that the words were indistinguishable, but with a slow, measured cadence that matched the labored beating of her heart.
His voice grew louder, stronger, and Muriella raised her head in blank astonishment as the meaning penetrated her fog of her unconsciousness.
“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.”
The last time she had heard those words, she had been sitting in the library, watching the Earl struggle with a burden of hopelessness she had not understood. Then it had been her own voice that had caressed the familiar lines as John's was doing now—rhythmically, as if they came, not from memory, but from the heart. Muriella felt her husband's gaze upon her and she huddled forward, bowing her head in protection against the pain that flared within her.
A noble heart may have none else, No other thing that may him pleas
e, But freedom only; for free liking
Is yearned for o'er all other things.
Drawn by the rise and fall of the poetry, Muriella looked up until her eyes met John's. She opened her mouth to speak, but could not find the words. Her husband's bright blue gaze was holding her, probing beyond her mask of indifference to the agony underneath, and against her volition, her lips began to move in silent time to his voice.
Now he that aye has lived free May not know well the property, The grief, nor the wretchedness
That is coupled with foul thralldom.
Slowly, she began to whisper the words, prompted by an instinct deeper than fear, until her voice mingled with her husband's as they recited the poem the Earl had loved above all others.
But if by heart he should know it,
Then all the more he should it wit,
And should think freedom more to prize,
Than all the gold in the world that is.
Muriella rocked on her bench, her fingers digging painfully into her arms. When a drop of moisture fell on her gown, she realized she was weeping. Closing her eyes against a wash of pain too fierce to bear, she willed the numbness to cloak her feelings once more. But then John's fingers met hers, burning away her protective veil with a single touch, and she gripped his hand tightly—in gratitude, in grief, and in compassion.
Chapter 22
Dawn brought the men from the courtyard and the guests from their beds. They began to file into the hall, taking their places for the funeral procession. John rose from his chair as Colin appeared at the top of the staircase. Despite all the drinking his elder brother had done the night before, his eyes were clear and unmarked by the heavy shadows that had settled under John's own eyes. Colin descended the stairs with regal calm, surveying with satisfaction the preparations going on below him. His dark cloak was trimmed with expensive fur, his black doublet velvet with carved silver buttons. Beneath his cloak, the wool plaid was draped across his shoulder and fastened with the Campbell brooch. Colin's expression was correctly solemn, but there was no flicker of grief in his eyes as he glanced at the coffin. He nodded once to his brother, then left the hall to head toward the kitchen.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 84