“Okay, what today?” In previous sessions she’d taught him things such as how to read portent in a hearth fire; that it was bad luck to circle “widdershins,” or counter-clockwise, rather than “deiseil”; that a crow’s presence meant death; and that graves were never dug nor allowed to be open on Sunday because it meant another one would be dug within the week. She’d taught him the power of thought, and how the maucht of his thinking could be directed to cause things to happen. Though much of it echoed his eastern studies, still some of it struck him as no different from common superstitions involving black cats, ladders, and umbrellas. Yet he did what she asked to humor her.
“Today you ride the wind.”
He laughed. “Okay. With what, a broomstick?”
“With your soul. Come, center yourself.”
Dylan had kept his kilt on, for it was just a little nippier than he cared for when skyclad. He stood, facing southeast where he could sense the morning sun through the overcast, in a horse stance. Eyes closed, he took deep breaths and felt the power of the earth rise through his feet and into his body.
When he felt calm, Sinann said softly, “All right, lad, lie on your back.” He obeyed, and gazed up at the raindrops disappearing overhead. It was almost hypnotic, the way none of them reached the ground.
“Now you need to relax your body, bit by bit, and ease your mind into almost sleeping. Not to sleep, but to be half-waking. Close your eyes.”
He obeyed and felt very relaxed indeed. Her voice continued softly, “Now, I’m going to give you a bit of help here.” He felt a tingling that was not uncomfortable, and he felt so good he never thought to ask what she’d done. She continued, “Riding the wind, you can go anywhere. You can take yourself out of your body and go anywhere you wish. You can . . .”
Her voice faded as he drifted away and the world became hazy.
From somewhere came Cait’s voice. “Dylan? Dylan, wake up.” She shook him, and he opened his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
He’d fallen asleep. Oh, no. He looked around. Sinann was gone. Cait looked worried, soaking wet, having come through the rain outside the broch. Somewhere she’d lost her snood and her hair had come loose to hang around her face. He reached up to kiss her and said, “I came here to think, but fell asleep instead.” He pulled the Goddess Stone from his sporran for a quick look around, and found Sinann perched on the stone block above his head. “Ye fell asleep, you goof,” the faerie said. “I told you not to do that.” She pointed with her chin to Cait. “Tell her to leave.”
“I hope you’re not thinking you’ve made a mistake. About the wedding, I mean.” Cait said it with a smile, but her voice had an edge he’d come to know meant she wasn’t entirely kidding.
He laughed and ignored Sinann as he returned the stone to his sporran. “My only mistake was in not spending the day with you.”
“Well, then,” came Sinann’s voice, “if ye willnae send her away I’ll have to get rid of her myself.” With that, the rain above was set free.
“Uh oh,” muttered Dylan. He drew Cait down onto the grass with him and rolled on top of her as water came crashing over them. He grunted as the weight of it hit his back. Cait squealed and shivered at the cold. The rain continued to come in sheets, and he helped her to her feet. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go back to the castle where it’s warm.” He threw Sinann a cross look, and she snapped her fingers and disappeared from his unaided sight.
Dylan looked down at where he’d lain, and found a puddle forming, swirling red. He shuddered.
He and Cait hurried back along the burn in the rain, then into the glen where the downpour almost obscured the castle. The Tigh stood as a gray shadow surrounded by misty, slashing rain so heavy it almost seemed as if the loch itself was encroaching on the air. Cait’s hand in his was cold and slippery, and he gripped it hard to keep her with him.
But she stopped, and dug in her heels when he tried to urge her along. When he looked back at her, her eyes were wide and her mouth dropped open. He turned to see what she was staring at.
They were still half a mile from the castle, but through the rain Dylan saw a white form trotting across the drawbridge. A dog.
Cait’s hand tightened on his, and she began to shake with a violence that shocked him. She said, “Am madadh ba`n.”
He peered through the rain. The white dog trotted to the gatehouse, turned three circles widdershins, then settled by the stone wall as if it were his accustomed place. It was a huge animal, shaggy and long-limbed like some sort of wolfhound, though he’d never seen a white one, and it appeared to be on guard. Then, as they watched, it melted into the rain and mist until there was no more sign of it than if it had never been there. A shudder took Dylan, and he was rooted to the spot. Cait clutched him, trembling.
“It’s a bad sign.” She began to cry. “Dylan, it’s a bad thing. A terrible thing is going to happen.” He held her close and she sobbed into his wet sark.
Though he was as shaken as she, he tried to calm her. “Shhh. It will be all right. Nothing terrible is going to happen.” He made her look into his face and wiped strings of wet hair from her forehead as the rain tried to flush it all back. “And even if something bad happens, we’ll be together. We can handle anything if we’re together, right?”
She hiccuped and nodded.
He tugged on her hand. “Come on. Let’s get inside and dry before we catch our death. That would be a terrible thing.”
She followed him, but at the gatehouse both gave wide berth to the spot where the dog had been.
The next day, the Monday before the wedding, Artair came to Dylan after the morning workout in the bailey and asked if he knew the way to Killilan. Dylan nodded. When he’d gone in November the return trip had been entirely by daylight, and he’d been again with Malcolm and Robin to retrieve Cait’s mother. Over the past two months, since the snows left, Dylan had walked the local terrain and his knowledge of the topography had grown. “Why do you ask?”
“Marc was to go to Killilan for the purpose of escorting Deirdre Mackenzie to the wedding, in the absence of Ailig Og, who cannae attend. He is now indisposed with a fever and cannae make the trip. Iain Mór asks if you would go fetch her instead.” He stood before Dylan with his fists on his hips.
The last thing Dylan wanted just then was to be away from Cait. “Me? He wants the groom to get her?”
The habitual sneering tone came to Artair’s voice and he shifted his weight. “Too proud to escort your kinswoman to your own wedding? Or is it only . . .” He stopped short, blinked rapidly then said, “Sure, it would be a gesture of good will to your future mother-in-law.”
Dylan chewed on the inside corner of his mouth and glanced around the bailey as he thought about it. Artair’s snide attitude aside, escorting his future mother-in-law’s sister to the wedding would be a gesture of good will toward Una and Iain. He nodded and said, “All right. I’ll go.” One day there and two back would put his return at Friday.
In his room the next day, readying to go, he called for Sinann as he strapped his sgian dubh under his arm and hung his sword across his chest.
She blinked into vision, sitting cross-legged on his bed.
“Tink, I need you to watch Cait for me.”
“Am I your servant, to be ordered about?”
“I’m not kidding. This is important. I’m going to Killilan to bring back Deirdre MacKenzie for the wedding. I don’t trust Artair, nor Coll for that, and I need you to make sure she’s safe until I get back.”
“And if she were in danger, what would I do for it then? Put a love spell on her, I suppose?”
“Let the others see you, and tell them Cait needs help.”
“Nae, that willnae help. Those cursed witch-hunts have made it near impossible to catch the attention of a mortal these days. I could scream myself blue in the face and not a body would let on they could hear.”
“Then get Ranald to raise some noise. He’s good at that. Iain will listen if eve
n Ranald screams that Cait is in trouble.”
Sinann’s voice turned to disgust. “Ranald . . .”
Dylan thrust a finger in her face. “Do it, Tink. No guff. Make sure she stays safe.”
Sinann sighed and nodded. Dylan hurried downstairs to the bailey where Cait waited by his horse with a stuffed bannock wrapped in a napkin for him. He thanked her and slipped it into his sporran.
“Can’t another one of the men go?” She ran her palms up the front of his sark, and he thought again of how much he didn’t want to get on that horse and leave.
But he’d promised he would go. “It’s your mother’s sister. And, besides, I’ll be back in a couple of days. We’ll be together when it matters.” He held her hands together and kissed them, mostly to make her stop driving him nuts. Much more of the touchy-feely stuff, and he wouldn’t be able to get on the horse, let alone ride. He kissed her mouth and whispered in her ear a promise to be fulfilled on their wedding night, then mounted the horse and left for Killilan.
Dylan’s horsemanship skills had improved greatly since his first ride to Killilan, and he was now used to the idea of a thousand-pound beast between his legs. He’d learned so quickly as to wonder whether there might be something to the idea of ancestral memory. His paternal grandmother’s people had, back in the early nineteenth century, owned a Thoroughbred farm near the Cumberland River, and had often raced their horses against Andrew Jackson’s. But over the next hundred and fifty years the tradition of horsemanship had passed from the family. During the Civil War the Yankees commandeered the horses, which nearly crippled the farm. A recovery was attempted, but then racing was outlawed in Tennessee at the beginning of the twentieth century and the farm eventually folded. But now, for Dylan, riding was another one of those things, like swordsmanship, that seemed to click into place like it was supposed to have been there all along.
He rode at a trot through a wooded area along the narrow trail that would take him partway to Killilan before he would have to cut over the shoulder of a mountain where there was no track, then down a winding series of glens and hollows. Walking would be more direct and take no more time, but he would be returning with Una’s sister and so needed a horse. Only the rich rode in these mountains, and carriages were nonexistent because the lack of roads made them useless. Dylan guided his mount carefully, and by mid-morning had made some fair distance from the castle. His mind was on accomplishing his errand in good time that he might be back in Cait’s company soon.
He was not the least prepared for the sight of the red-coated English soldier who stepped from cover of the close forest and pointed a flintlock musket at his face. More Redcoats followed. A total of four armed men ranged across his path. They were Bedford’s dragoons.
CHAPTER 16
Dylan pulled up and his hand went to his sword. His horse danced at sight of the strange men.
An English voice from behind warned, “Stand down, Matheson!” Dylan wheeled to find Captain Bedford on horseback, with three more soldiers with guns, also mounted. He stayed his hand and raised his palm to indicate it was empty. “Dylan Matheson,” said the Englishman in an accusatory tone.
Dylan nodded. “Aye.” He felt a surge of alarm, but he stayed calm. He’d done nothing. They would let him go, he was sure. But the guns made him wary.
The blond officer nodded to one of his men, who approached Dylan’s horse. The animal shied, and the officer barked, “Control your mount, or I’ll have it shot!” Dylan tightened the reins and urged the horse still with his knees as the man on foot reached under his saddle blanket.
“Got it, sah!” the soldier crowed, and yanked something from underneath.
Got what? Dylan wheeled his horse to see the soldier with a fistful of letters. He recognized the paper as the stationery Sarah had given him for Christmas which he’d never used. The letters were handed to the officer, who broke open one of the seals and scanned the page. Then he read aloud, beginning in the middle of a sentence, “. . . the return of the rightful King James . . . imprison Her Majesty . . .” He looked at Dylan, his eyes wide at the appalling words. “Bloody murder! Here’s an arrogant bastard! Take him, men!”
Dylan didn’t wait to argue. He dug his heels into his horse’s ribs and wheeled to flee, barreling through the line of men on foot. Shots went off like firecrackers all around, and as balls whizzed past his head the horse grunted and went limp between his knees. Thrown headlong, Dylan rolled as he hit the ground, regained his feet, and plunged into the woods at the side of the trail.
He ran, crashing between trees and through undergrowth down a short slope, splashing through a shallow burn, digging into his sporran as he went. Fingers flying, he took long strides up the other side. Finally he found what he was after and pinned it to his plaid. Then he stepped behind an oak tree and leaned against it, perfectly still, concentrating on nothing but controlling his breathing and making no sound.
The English soldiers went crashing past up the slope, and never saw him. At the top when they broke from tree cover, they realized they’d lost him and spread out to search the area. Some of them came back down toward the burn. He stood still, listening to their shouts and curses, and prayed none of them would brush against him. They trampled ferns and peered up into branches. Their boots slipped on mossy ground. They poked their bayonets into thick stands of bushes.
The Captain dismounted and came into the woods with his men. He stood, gazing about, as they searched. He was so close Dylan could smell the laundry soap on his uniform. He turned, peering into the trees, as still among his noisy men as Dylan. Facing him, Bedford’s pale blue eyes seemed to look into his, and it was all Dylan could do to not bolt like a rabbit. But he kept still, like Sinann said.
Finally, Bedford called his men in. The Redcoats gave up and moved away down the trail back toward Ciorram. Dylan was alone in the woods. He sank to the ground by the tree and rested his forehead against his knees. What now? Who had done this to him? Artair? Or Iain? He’d made it clear he’d had plans for Cait he’d considered preferable to marrying Dylan. Had it been a mistake to think Malcolm had succeeded in changing the Laird’s mind? Just how much had Iain had at stake with the other match he’d made for Cait? Malcolm had warned him to beware of those who would want him dead for being too close a relative, but Dylan had been so wrapped up in becoming one of the clan he hadn’t seen the real danger.
He raised his head. He had to get back to Cait. He stood and began to walk back to the castle. Avoiding the trail, he kept a parallel course nearby. A Vietnam war movie he’d once seen had shown how soldiers never walked along trails for fear of ambush. Using this trail was what had given the soldiers the drop on him to begin with, so he kept to the woods and made his way slowly to the castle.
He arrived at Glen Ciorram near dusk. From the wooded slope above the village, under cover of the bare trunk of a pine tree, he could see the detachment of English soldiers clustered outside the castle gatehouse. They’d set up a small camp on the meadow, with a fire for cooking and a tent for the Captain. They weren’t going anywhere for a while, not even back to their barracks. He didn’t dare approach. Not today, in any case. He was at a loss now. Where to go? Where would he be safe? Was Cait all right? He wondered what was going on inside those stone walls.
The sun was setting, and he couldn’t just stare at the English soldiers until they spotted him. He turned and made his way to the broch. There he could rest and think of what to do.
But when he rounded the hill by the stream, he saw a thin line of smoke rising from the broch into the air. Someone was there. He drew Brigid and circled away from the entrance to the oak tree. He climbed its trunk to the branch that had grown through an upper window, and carefully stepped along it and through to see what lay below.
In the center of the tower floor, Cait sat, huddled and shivering, by a small fire, staring into it. “A Chait.” Dylan hurried to her down the interior steps.
She looked up and her breath caught. Her skirts in her f
ists, she leapt to her feet and ran to meet him at the bottom of the steps. She threw her arms around his neck, weeping and talking so fast he couldn’t understand her. Her clothing was soaked and ice cold. He kissed her and smoothed the tears from her face.
“Shhh. Take it easy. Shhh.” He lifted off his baldric and let the sword drop to the ground, unbuckled his belt to unwind his feileadh mór, and put it around her shoulders. “Here, you’re freezing. Get out of that wet dress.” Her teeth chattered as she unfastened her overdress and let it and the shift drop from her shoulders to the ground, then pulled his kilt around herself. He held her until she was calm enough to talk. When her sobbing eased, he led her to the fire and sat with her next to it. “Are you all right? What happened to you?” The danger from the English slipped his mind in his worry for Cait.
More sobs escaped her, and she shook her head. “They want to hang you. If you go to the castle they’ll kill you. They have letters—”
“I didn’t write them.”
She nodded. “I know. Father knows, as well. He’s . . . he’s . . .” Her face crumpled again as she tried to speak through sobbing. “They’ve killed Coll.”
Even with Dylan’s concern for himself and Cait, that hit him with a shock. “Coll? How? Who?”
“When the Sassunaich came looking for you and searched the castle and the village, they dinnae find you. They told us what they’d found under your saddle, and Father was furious. He guessed what Artair and Coll had done, because he knew you could not be guilty of the treason they accused.” She looked up at him, “You, of all of us, are the one who argues with Father against the cause. So he knew any seditious letters in your possession had to have been put there by someone else, and I knew Coll had saddled your horse. When the soldiers left to set up their guard outside the gatehouse, Father ordered Coll to be put into the prison tower. Coll drew and fought. And lost.” Fresh tears came, and she trembled in Dylan’s arms.
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