It was the journal of a woman called Saundra MacEwan, who, judging by the date, was Malle’s great-great-great grandmother. She dug a little deeper and found another. It was the diary of Bettina Munro, Saundra’s sister. Malle decided to keep both of these and take them upstairs with her; she had a feeling that they would be fascinating enough to keep her going until bedtime at least.
Then she began to put the rest of the correspondence in the order of their dates, so that she could put her hand on them more easily the next day, and after that she put the two journals in her room and went for lunch. When she had finished she stood by the window contemplating the depressing prospect of hours of more rain, so she fetched some spiced ale and went to her bedroom. It was freezing, and she got into bed, drew the covers under her chin, and made a lectern for her book by bending her knees upward.
She opened Saundra’s diary and noticed one peculiarity at once. She spoke to it as though it were a person. Malle laughed; she must have been quite a character! For the first few pages the only entries were complaints about some of the other lairds’ wives. Then there were accounts of ceilidhs, christenings, weddings, and in quite a few of these she mentioned her granddaughter Isobell, who was obviously her favorite, judging by the indulgent way she talked about her. She seemed to be able to do no wrong.
Just before Easter, when everyone was in the doleful period of Lent, Isobell had gone out to pick her grandmother a bunch of spring and hothouse flowers to mark her birthday. They could not celebrate openly, since the eating and drinking of rich foods was prohibited, as was the consumption of wine and whisky; most ordinary people could not afford those anyway. However, all celebration was frowned upon during this period which was meant to be cleansing for the soul and body before the glorious feast of Easter. Saundra had read the letter and Malle could practically hear her chuckling.
She paged on through a few more days of ordinary happenings until she came to a period of great excitement.
* * *
It is Isobell’s first Ceilidh tonight, Dear Journal! Her friend Elisaid is celebrating her sixteenth birthday and Isobell has been invited. She is in the first flower of womanhood—her blue eyes are shining like the sky on a sunny day, there are roses in her lovely cheeks, and her hair is flowing like a river of gold. She wears no jewelry, but then she needs none. Indeed, she looks like a princess in her velvet dress, which is the color of pale coral. The neckline gives just a hint of the delights underneath which will become more generous as she matures. You understand what I mean, do you not, Dear Journal? Some young laird is going to be a very fortunate man soon!
* * *
Malle laughed at this, remembering her first celebration. She had been bored witless, and had excused herself by pleading a bad headache, then disappeared upstairs to go to sleep. However, her best friend Allie had come to see her and they had spent the rest of the night giggling and gossiping. They had drunk a little too much wine and became very tipsy, then fell asleep. They were only found in the morning, then both of them were confined in their respective castles for a month as punishment.
She went back to the diary. At the beginning of May, the tone changed, and it became one of deep disapproval.
It seemed that a handsome young laird had seen Isobell and had become instantly smitten. She had taken one look at him and fallen in love at first sight. They danced with each other for the rest of the evening and arranged to meet for a ride along the Cut the next day. That day he had asked Isobell to marry him and she had accepted without hesitation.
Malle read through a torrent of abuse hurled at the poor young man, but after that Saundra finished her entries for the day and it was another week before either of them was mentioned again. In between there was nothing but the usual banalities of life, and she skipped past them to the interesting parts because she was greedy for news of Isobell and her swain.
They were written with heavy strokes of the quill which almost pierced the parchment in some places, and there were tiny sprays of ink around some of the letters where it had splashed onto the page with the quill’s pressure. She had even forgotten to address the diary.
* * *
May God have mercy on her soul! That silly young wench Isobell says she is still determined to marry the boy whom she apparently fell in love with at first sight. Her parents have tried to find out who it is, but she will not tell them, but they think it is a childish infatuation that will die naturally, and they are not too worried. I am not so sure, having almost made the same mistake myself. I talked to my daughter-in-law about it but she says that Isobell is utterly determined. I am shocked beyond measure. Nothing like this has ever happened in our family before. I will be going to have a stern word with Isobell tomorrow and see if I can get her to reveal the identity of this reprobate! God help us all!
* * *
Malle wondered what the young lovers would do. They were not free agents; no one of nobility was.
She decided to go downstairs and take a look at some of the other letters; the second diary could wait until later. She had to find out the circumstances that had led to the feud between the MacEwans and the Dunbars. If she could find out exactly what had happened, then perhaps they could put an end to it.
It was easier to find the letters that she was looking for now that she had put them in order, and she laid her hands on the ones between Isobell and Donnan, took them up to her room, then stood by the window looking down on the green landscape, peaceful now in the gloaming, when night and day were evenly balanced. Could there be men among the trees who wanted to do them harm? She shuddered, then the unbidden thought came to her that Craig would protect her. But why should he? He was not her friend.
She sighed and shook her head to banish the unwelcome thoughts, then she began to read the first letter written to Isobell from Donnan.
* * *
My Isobell,
Nothing prepared me for the shock of seeing you for the very first time, and I knew at that moment we were meant to be together forever. After our first kiss I knew I had found the love of my life, but I also knew that our families would try to keep us apart, but they will not succeed. I am determined about this. We must be very clever, my darling. If you accept me, we can be married in secret. I have a very good friend, Donal, who studied at the same seminary as my brother Jamie. He will marry us quickly if we ask him, and I can rely on him to be discreet.
So, my love, will you marry me? I will be the happiest man in the world if you do.
* * *
Your loving Donnan
* * *
Malle picked up the next letter, which was the reply. Isobell had obviously asked Donnan to give this one back to her so that she could keep them together, no doubt as souvenirs of the happiness she had expected to share with her darling Donnan forever. Knowing what had happened made Malle so sad that she almost shed tears while she read it. Understanding the relationship between the two families, she was astonished to see that Isobell and Donnan had married, and thought that it was an act of great bravery.
* * *
Oh, my darling, darling Donnan,
* * *
You have no idea how happy you have made me! Please tell me the time and the place and I will be there!
* * *
Your adoring Isobell
* * *
Malle smiled and sighed, wishing she could be so happy.
6
More Letters
Malle paged through the entries in the diary until she found one that was dated six weeks later. Isobell seemed to be floating on a cloud of joy.
* * *
Donnan and I were married secretly under the spreading branches of the only oak tree on the Dunbar estate! It had shed its summer finery for the winter, but we did not care. We were both wearing fur cloaks and gloves against the cold, and our witnesses were my friend Elisaid and Donnan’s brother Jamie, and our priest was Donal, Jamie’s friend.
The ceremony was, of necessity, short, as were both sets o
f vows, because it was very, very cold. I will never forget the words he said:
“Isobell, you are the love of my life. Will you be my wife and the mother of my children?” he asked, smiling at me.
“I will, Donnan. And will you be my husband and protector and the father of my children?”
“I will.” He smiled, and slipped the ring on my finger. Then we were husband and wife. We have decided to call the oak tree “The Wedding Tree” from now on.
We consummated our marriage in a tiny cottage that had once belonged to a tenant farmer but is now empty. Elisaid made it cozy and pretty for us. Donnan and I made love for the first time. It was glorious, and nothing like I imagined. I was very scared at first, but Donnan, my wonderful husband, helped me through my fear. Now I am truly Donnan’s wife, and we both wanted to be sure of that before we told our parents. It is a good thing we did, because they were not pleased at all!
* * *
Malle went on to read about the reception they got from both sets of parents. They were most unhappy that the two had married, because it had not been planned by them. Furthermore, neither Isobell nor Donnan had sought their consent.
However, when Isobell moved into Dunbar Castle with her husband they could see how happy the young couple was, and things became less tense, as Isobell wrote in frequent diary entries.
Then one morning six months after their marriage, Isobell was found dead on the floor of their bedroom; there were no marks on her and nothing to suggest she had been bludgeoned or stabbed to death.
Donnan, after spending a few silent minutes with his head bowed, showed no apparent reaction, as she saw in Aunt Saundra’s diary entry the day after Isobell’s death:
* * *
My heart is broken. My own dear granddaughter Isobell was found dead this morning on the floor of her bedroom and no one knows what caused it, but her callous husband has not shed a tear.
* * *
From the moment of Isobell’s death, relations between the MacEwan and Dunbar families went downhill. The MacEwans suspected the Dunbars of murdering Isobell, and in a few years mutual wariness had given way to outright hostility.
Malle felt so sad after reading about the ill-fated lovers that she went to see her mother to talk about it downstairs in the parlor. However, she was dozing in an armchair by the fire, and she was reluctant to wake her; she looked so peaceful.
As Malle looked at Margaret, she felt a deep upwelling of tender love. Margaret was over forty now but she still looked like a woman in her early thirties. Malle thought her remarkable in every way. She could sew, draw likenesses in charcoal, ride like a man, and sing like...well, Malle had no comparison. No one had a voice like her mother, and no one had a mother like Malle’s.
Her love for her mother and father may have had different qualities, but they were both equally strong.
Malle had brought Isobell’s diaries with her. They dealt with the minutiae of daily life, the things they laughed at, the things that worried them, and the things that annoyed each one about the other. There was nothing remarkable about them at all, and it came to her that this really was love—accepting each other for who they were, not living in constant worship of each other. It gave her a little glimpse of what marriage was really like and it reassured her that she would not have to be perfect, because she never could be.
When she thought about the two of them lying in bed at night chatting about the day it made her smile, and she wondered what it must be like to wake up with a man in her bed. She knew that she should not, but she kept thinking about Craig, and the brief second of kindness and concern in his eyes. Then she shook the thought out of her head. He had been deceptively gentle when they were all talking, but as soon as they had finished he had gone back to his old self—grim, cynical, and threatening.
Presently Margaret sat up, rubbed her eyes, and yawned. She smiled at her daughter. “What do you have there?” she asked.
Margaret read it, and it had much the same effect on her as it had on Malle. Tears trickled down her face as she read about Donnan’s sadness.
“I heard that Donnan had asked to join him as a lay brother in the Monastery of St Kentigern. Donnan wrote to his brothers and his father for a while but after a few years he died. Some say of a broken heart although nobody really knows for sure.”
“Paw never talks about this story, Mammy,” Malle said thoughtfully. “It seems that because no one ever found out the cause of Isobell’s death, things became violent.”
“I have heard something about it,” Margaret answered, “but I have not thought about it for a long time. The feud now is not open warfare—the fact that Laird Dunbar would talk to you at all is proof of that, but frankly I was amazed that he would even have you on his land. But I had heard that he was a much more reasonable man than many of his predecessors.” She thought for a moment, then decided to tell her more.
“What I heard was this: After Donnan died, and because Jamie had become a monk, the Lairdship passed to the youngest son, Colin, on his father’s death. Colin had no wish to be a laird at all. He was more interested in flirting with the local ladies, especially the married ones, and this gave him a bad reputation among the local nobility, and the Dunbars were no exception. As you can imagine, it gave them an excuse to dislike him even more, and to deepen the rift between the two families. However, he did his duty, got married, and had a son.
“Colin was a wastrel and a seducer, and he was fond of his whisky, so when he suddenly found himself under attack from the Dunbars he was rather unprepared. It was his wife Anabella who rallied the troops and brought all their defenses to bear against the Dunbars.
“However, there were many families whose loyalties were split. It was devastating—the most violent time in the history of the two families. And many innocent people were killed, most of them among the common people. The tragedy is that although the violence eventually stopped the feud carried on, and does to this day.” She sighed and passed a hand over her eyes. “Malle—I hate it!” She was angry.
“I hate the whole affair and the stupidity of it. I do not think Isobell was murdered, but I think she died naturally of some condition no one knew about, perhaps her heart. Maybe we can explore further and see if a physician monk examined her corpse. There are many such educated men at the big monasteries.” Then something struck her. “Where did you find those letters, Malle? I thought I knew where all our documents are kept.”
Malle sighed and rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. “I will tell you soon, Mammy, but let me sleep on these things first. I am very tired.”
“Tell me tomorrow,” Margaret said sternly. “I am exhausted too. I need you to trust me, Malle. Now goodnight, love.” She put her arms around her daughter and embraced her tightly. “We must find a good husband for you soon, darling. It is past time.”
“I am in no rush, Mammy,” she answered, yawning. “And there are not too many young suitors hammering at the gates!”
“Not yet!” Margaret released her, laughing. “You are seventeen, young lady, and beautiful. It is time we had a ceilidh for you so you can meet all the young lairds—but this time you must not sneak upstairs away from your guests!”
Malle sighed and smiled as they began walking towards their bedrooms. “Mammy, I do not want to be married. To wake up in bed next to some great hairy man? No, not yet. Maybe not ever.”
Margaret put an arm around her shoulders. “You will not be saying that when you meet the right big hairy man, Malle. He will completely change your mind, I promise.”
Craig Dunbar crossed Malle’s mind fleetingly, but she chased him away.
7
Isobell’s Grave
The next morning Malle decided to use her daily ride to visit the cemetery where both the Dunbar and MacEwan clans were buried to visit Isobell’s grave and pay her respects. However, Margaret had other ideas. When her husband had left the breakfast table, and Malle stood up to do likewise, Margaret caught her arm.
“I wo
uld like to know where you got those documents,” she demanded.
“I found them in a secret place, Mammy,” Malle said resignedly. She had long since given up trying to keep anything from her mother. Malle looked up into her mother’s green eyes, which had now darkened with determination. “There are many more in there, and it will take a long time to go through them.”
If Malle thought that this would deter Margaret, she was sadly mistaken; in fact, it did the opposite.
“Then the sooner we get started the better,” Margaret said grimly. Malle said nothing for a moment, so Margaret waited and drummed her fingers on the table. Malle sighed inwardly. She had wanted to keep the storeroom a private place where she could be alone and no one could find her, but her mother did not give up easily.
“Very well, Mammy,” she said in a defeated tone, and led Margaret reluctantly to the library, where she pulled out the book and led the way into the hidden room behind the bookcase.
Margaret gasped when she saw it. “This is a treasure trove, Malle!” she exclaimed.
“It is,” Malle agreed. “I have tried to put everything in some kind of order but it needs a different kind of mind from mine to do it!”
Margaret looked at her fondly. “Not you,” she laughed. “Leave it to me, and we will see if we can piece some more of our family history together. I would love to find out about all of it!” She gave Malle’s backside a playful pat. “Go riding and do not pass into Dunbar land. I do not care what the Laird says or how well intentioned he may be, but we are only safe if we stay on our side of the Cut.”
Highlander's Ancient Vengeance (Scottish Medieval Historical Romance) Page 4