Adventures of a Highlander

by Emilia Ferguson

  AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

  “A plague on it. Why do I listen?”

  Camden McInvering, son of the Baron Istforth, swore under his breath. It was his father he wished he didn't listen to. His horse switched his ears back and huffed as if offended. Camden patted his neck.

  “Easy, lad. I didn't mean you.”

  In the winter landscape, his closest and most fundamental companion was his horse. If his horse, Whisper-swift, chose to let him down, then he'd die out here. He shuddered.

  So cold. So snowy. And I am sure I'm lost.

  He breathed out, watching the reach of his breath through the winter trees, white plumes of condensation visible up to the length of his arm. It was bitterly cold despite his fur-lined cape and boots.

  It was all his father's fault. If he wasn't so over-excited about these problems with England, there would be no reason for him to be riding about in the snow and frost, searching for shadows.

  I'm sure they are just shadows – figments of his over-enthusiastic imagination.

  It must be so. No sensible living, breathing man would be planning an invasion in this weather. The snow was so deep it went right up to the first branches of the trees in places. Bringing an army through the passes at this time was well-on impossible.

  “I know King Edward's mad, but no one's that mad.”

  His horse snuffed as if in agreement, and Camden grinned.

  “You see? Even you agree with me.”

  They carried on.

  As Camden neared the place where the woods grew thicker and the land became less free forest and more the actual property of whoever owned the edifice on the hill, Camden felt his resolve thin.

  I'll go as far as that path and then turn round. No use in running into trouble with someone over trespasses on their land just because Father has Englishmen on the mind.

  He rode on, feeling his honey-dark hair stand on end. There was something odd about this woodland, as if unseen presences watched from beside the boles of the fir trees. There was an uncanny feel about it.

  “Goodness, Cam. You're imagining things.” Whether it was his father's English threat, or whether he feared some other unseen enemy, he had no idea. Yet the feeling was permeating and persuasive. He wanted to get out of here soon.

  I'll just ride to that tree and then turn round again. If there were Englishmen in these woods, they'd have likely shot me by now.

  The forest seemed to wait, to whisper in ancient sibilance. He shivered.

  “Cam, come on. Up to the tree, then go.”

  That was when he heard the scream.

  “What was that?”

  He shivered. A thousand folk-tales, all detailing in gruesome clarity the sort of thing that screamed in woodlands and what it did to unwary humans, rushed through him. He wanted to run.

  He caught himself before he sped off. “Come on, Cam. That's a human scream.”

  He rode toward the sound. Over a decade of knightly training made him curious, and also made him feel the need to help.

  “Hello? Who goes there?”

  There was another cry. This time it was a word.

  “Help! Please...help...”

  That did it. Whoever this was, they needed help. He jumped off his horse and strode forward on foot, unsheathing his sword as he passed through the impassable growth of trees.

  The sight before his eyes tore his heart.

  A horse was stuck in the middle of the frozen river. A big crack had appeared all round the ice below the poor creature. The slightest motion in either direction and both horse and rider would fall in.

  The rider drew his eye and held it. Red hair, curling and lustrous, fell about her shoulders like a cloud. Her eyes were soft brown. Lips dark red. She was crying, her eyes moist, cheeks tracked with soundless tears of fright. She looked no older than twenty at the very oldest: a young, delicate and just-blossoming twenty, if she was. His heart lurched.

  “Don't move. I'm coming.”

  Rope. Tie it to the saddle of Whisper-swift. Pull them both to shore. If the ice cracked below them, it would shift and float and mayhap they would reach him before they sank.

  He whistled for Whisper-swift and a moment later, heard the crash and crackle that was the sound of a hunting stallion, crashing through the brush.

  “I have rope, milady,” he said. Quite why he did, he actually had no idea. Heaven was kind though and he had it with him on the saddle. He unwound it and made a loop. “I will throw it to you. When you have it secure, wrap it round your waist. I'm going to pull you both to shore. Yes?”

  The woman nodded, small white teeth biting her lip.

  He nodded back. “Good. Very good.”

  He finished the loop, tying one that would cinch around her and stay firm. He threw it out. It missed.

  Her horse neighed and he had a moment's horror. If he scared her horse, making it bolt, they were drowned. He couldn't let that happen!

  “There, there...” he clicked his tongue but had little effect.

  The woman reached out a hand and patted the stallion's neck, talking soothingly to the creature. He snuffed and stopped shying.

  Camden felt himself relax, though the frantic urgency of the situation still gripped his heart.

  As Camden threw the rope out again, his mind noted with deep approval how good she was with horses. The rope reached her. She caught it.

  Good. Elation flooded through him.

  “Now, is it round you?”

  “Yes!” she called. Her voice sounded light.

  “Fine. Hang onto the saddle. I'll pull you both forward. I want the ice to crack. Can you keep your horse still?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Camden turned to his own horse.

  “Let's get them out.”

  He tied the rope to the back of his saddle and ran a hand down his horse's side reassuringly.

  “Alright. Ready. One, two...”

  The horse walked forward. He encouraged him to go faster, trying a quicker walk. The ice had to break for his plan to work, and he had no idea yet if it made sense.

  “Let your horse go a pace forward.”

  “Yes. Come, Tam. You can do it.”

  The horse must have stepped one step forward because there was a dull, grinding horror of a noise that was ice cracking. Camden held his breath.

  “You well?”

  “We're moving...”

  He felt his heart float with elation. It was working.

  “Hang on. We'll get you...”

  He led his horse forward and this time he could see the tension in the rope stretch and then slack off just a little. Whoever was behind them was moving along too.

  When he was through the stand of trees that blocked the river from the trail, he called.

  “Where are you?”

  “Almost on land...” the voice came back. “Go...ah.”

  The last sound was a triumphant exhale. Camden felt it shiver through him.

  “On land?”

  “Yes!”

  She sounded elated. He wanted to yell for joy. To his surprise, he sniffed. Relief washed through him, completely draining him. He patted his horse.

  “Good. Wonderful.” His horse snorted. He undid the rope. Then he followed it back the twenty paces to where the girl and her horse stood, rooted, on the bank.

  “Madam?” he said gently.

  She was sobbing, those big brown eyes shining with tears. She didn't say anything for a moment. Then she reached up and wiped a hair off her face, trying to dab at the tears with her fingers to dry them.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He shook his head. His heart ached, throat tight. This close, she was breathtaking. Her skin was porcelain-pale, her face a generous heart-shape with big thick-lashed eyes. Her mouth was also generous, with full, dark red lips. That hair was a wild tumult of curls, framing her lovely face.

  Abruptly, he felt his legs move almost of their own volition to carry him forward
into a courtly bow.

  “It was my honor.”

  She sniffed. Then she wiped her hand down her cheek and smiled. “Not sure about that, sir,” she said, shakily. “It wouldn't have done you much good if we'd all ended in the water.”

  She surprised him with her wit; also with how composed she was. She looked so delicate, but she'd been so composed the whole time, he realized.

  He smiled at her comment, a full, warm smile that stretched his frozen cheeks up painfully.

  “Well, true,” he said. “But we were fortuitous. And blessed. The ice held.”

  “Indeed.” She sniffed again, wiping a hand furtively under her nose.

  Sifting through his pocket, Camden found a handkerchief. He walked up and gently passed it across to her. Her fingertips – white with cold, soft and tapering, touched his. He felt a jolt as his whole body responded to her light touch.

  She looked down at the handkerchief, a small surprised expression, as if she too couldn't quite believe the effect so small a touch had. Then she smiled, a slow, shy smile. She raised the handkerchief to her cheek, gently dabbing away at the tears.

  “Thank you. Thank you for...helping me,” she breathed.

  He smiled. “It's still an honor to help so fair a lady.”

  The lady frowned artlessly, as if the very idea of her being fair was puzzlement.

  “You will be rewarded,” she said quickly, as if to cover her own discomfort. “My father would wish to thank you for saving me...” she trailed off and Camden tried to conceal his worried expression, not wanting to distress her. All the same, he couldn't help the worry.

  I don't know what your father would say if he knew I'd been spying on his land.

  “I...I thank you, milady,” he said, bowing low again. “But I must hence.”

  She sniffed, surprised. “Oh, but you must come back with me! It's so cold! And Father would want to reward you.”

  “Your father lives up there?” he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the imposing stone fortress, just out of sight behind the treeline.

  “Yes. The lord of Lochlann, duke of Buccleigh and...Oh, probably other things to that I've forgotten.” She blinked artlessly.

  He stared. This lady was the daughter of a mighty duke? His whole being slumped. She's so far above ye, ye might as well court the duke himself. He's as available.

  He wanted to give a grim laugh, and bit his tongue to stop it flowing out.

  He smiled. “Well, my lady,” he said, surprised by how tight his throat was. “It was nice to meet you. But now, I must be on my way.”

  Whist, Camden. What is the matter with you? You only just met the lass. Stop it!

  “Wait!” she called. “I can't leave you here in this state.”

  He turned and smiled. “I have a fur-lined cape, milady. And sturdy boots. I'll not die of cold, and you need to go back again.”

  She looked into his eyes. He blinked, trying to make himself dislodge his own gaze and failing. He sighed. Feeling foolish, he raised a hand in farewell. Then he turned away.

  “Come on, friend,” he murmured gruffly to his horse. “Let's head off.”

  His horse snorted and he led him out to the path.

  “Wait...” the lady called behind him. He mounted, and then closed his eyes. His whole body ached to go back. To see her again. To touch her. He didn't know anything about her, not even her name.

  “Better that way. Last time you'll ever see her, it is.”

  The sooner he forgot all about the incident, the better. Ladies like that were not part of a humble knight's life.

  NEW REALIZATIONS

  Rubina rode back to the castle, shivering inside. It wasn't just from the cold, though that was starting to affect her.

  “Who was he?” she asked her horse, Tam. Her horse snorted. “I'll never know, will I? Maybe I imagined him?”

  She would almost believe it, save that someone, flesh and blood, had saved her and Tam from drowning earlier. He did exist.

  Why did he make me feel so strange?

  Rubina shivered, recalling the way it had felt when he passed her the handkerchief. When her fingertip and his touched, it sent a jolt through her. And his eyes!

  He had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. Gray, with a hint of moss in the grayness, so they seemed mottled, like a forest stone, or like the eyes of some gentle eagle.

  She sighed.

  “I'm being fanciful, aren't I, Tam?” she asked the horse. In answer, he snorted. She felt her frozen cheeks lift in a smile. “Yes I am.”

  The forest was darkening now, she noticed. She had left the castle round lunchtime, planning a gentle jaunt to the river and back before settling down to tapestry and warm drinks in the solar. Now, it was getting dark, a cold, hollow dusk-light settling between the trunks of the closely growing pine and fir.

  She shivered, this time with cold. It was so cold. Her fingers were unbending, cramped to the reins. She started to feel really afraid. If they didn't reach the castle soon, they would both freeze. There were also wolves in the wood – not so much in summer, when they could safely skirt the places used by humans. However, in winter, hunger drove them close.

  I could die here.

  It was a very real possibility. She hunched forward, patting her horse's neck.

  “Come on, boy.” They had to get home soon. They walked on.

  As they walked, Rubina decided to sing. Not only would it cheer her up, it would calm her. Whoever was in the woods, might also hear her. If Gylas or the other caretakers were about, they would hear and could help her.

  She cleared her throat. “A miller...lived...by the river's flow...” she started an old ballad.

  As the words and tune flowed through her, she found herself focusing on the images of the song. It was an old tale, of a miller and his daughter who lived in a hut-like home in the woods. In the song, the daughter fell in love with a prince, who rode past each day through the woods on his way to the neighboring castle.

  “And his hair...was like...the summer flax...”

  The words had changed since last she sang them. The prince in the song had always been dark before, something like Callum or one of her other cousins, but the description of the prince she imagined now was a fair-haired man, or rather with hair midway between chestnut and golden-colored, with eyes like slate and the green depths of a pond...

  She flushed. It was him she imagined now. The man who had saved her. The man from the woods.

  “Ruby, stop it,” she scolded herself, using the nickname her relatives and companions gave her. She bit her lip, embarrassed at herself. She wasn't going to finish the song, at this rate. She wouldn't indulge these fancies about the unknown woodsman.

  I'm only singing it if I can make him dark-haired and brown-eyed again.

  “And...his hair...was like the coal...dark shade...”

  She tensed. There was a noise.

  Crack. Crackle. Crunch.

  All Rubina's hair stood on end. Not a wolf, for certain. Too big by far, and alone, whatever it was. A boar? No. Not out in this weather. At twenty years old, she should be less fanciful. A bear?

  Don't be silly. Bears sleep now.

  “Hello?” she called. No answer. She cleared her throat and continued with the song, hoping to raise her own courage and maybe to dispel whatever wild thing heard.

  “And his eyes were dark as the dark of night...”

  “Hello?”

  Rubina gasped as someone appeared, then let out her breath in a weary sigh.

  “Oh! It's you!”

  The man in question was Fergal, the head of the verderers. A friendly man, his lined, weathered face was as familiar as an uncle or grandfather and her heart rejoiced.

  “Milady.” He bowed low. He looked horrified. “What brings you here?”

  “I got stuck.” she said. Why on earth couldn't she think straight? It felt as if every thought was coming slowly through a haze of weariness, her mind tired, her body cold...so cold..
.

  Suddenly she slumped forward in the saddle. Relief must have been overwhelming. Now that she no longer had to fight it, she could give in to the weariness that flowed through her blood like a dark tide. She sighed and leaned forward, unmoving.

  “Oh, Mistress. Oh, milady. There, there...”

  She felt strong, warm hands in thick gloves at her shoulder and she was dimly aware that she was dragged insistently but carefully off the saddle. She felt warmth surround her and the scent of wood smoke and leaf-mold and spice. She could hear a horse walking slowly behind them over the leaf-mold, hoof-beats muffled and indistinct. She felt relief. They would be safe now. Soon, they'd be safe, fed and warm. She was under his cloak, held against his chest. Cradled.

  She sighed and dropped off to sleep.

  Light played over her eyelids, warming her face. Rubina stirred. She felt overly warm, and made a soft sound of protest.

  “There, there,” a voice said from a long distance. She stirred and felt her eyelids flicker. They opened briefly, focused on dark gray hair, and then closed again.

  “Grandmother?”

  “Yes, it's me,” a gentle voice said. Lady Joanna of Lochlann, Rubina's grandmother, was a seer of remarkable renown. It was a gift her mother Amabel had inherited. Rubina had not. Lady Joanna was also a healer of profound repute. She sighed and closed her eyes again, knowing she was in safe hands.

  “Grandma...” she murmured. “Hot...”

  “Yes, dear,” her grandmother said. She shifted in the chair and Rubina smelled lavender, sage-smoke and strewing herbs. “It is hot. You're feverish. But you'll recover soon.”

  Rubina nodded fractionally. She could feel she was feverish – her feet were icy and her head hot, her body shivering painfully. Her view was blurred and she felt lightheaded and drifting.

  Definitely fevered.

  She also didn't question that she would recover. Grandma said so. She trusted that.

  “Grandma?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I won't die?”

  Her grandmother's chuckle was a rich, lovely thing in the smoke-scented darkness. “No, dear. No, you'll live. And good things are coming your way. You met someone. Someone who'll bring changes. You'll wonder where the path is. You'll feel lost sometimes. But you'll find your way back, though the place you return to will be different.”