Edana stood back from the basin, smiling in satisfaction. She smoothed her gown down over her lush figure and shook out her abundant hair once more. The breeze lifted and caught at her wild, copper curls. She laughed and raised her arms to the welcome wind that rushed toward her, bearing spring in its arms.
The world was hers. Almost
She cast the water from the basin out over the meadow, creating a cascading lavender arc, beautiful to behold. It fell to the grass and vanished. She tucked the bowl under her arm, took up her basket, and limped slowly back across the meadow to the castle that loomed beyond, humming a tuneful air.
"So what is this place?"
"The cell," her guard, the man named Ross, replied.
Julia sighed. She'd heard of Scots thrift, but she hadn't realized it applied to the spoken word. "A monosyllable saved is a monosyllable earned," must be the clan motto, she decided. Gary Cooper must have been their idol. Their impossible brute of a leader certainly wasn't forthcoming with any details she could use. She hadn't even seen him since he'd ordered his men to lock her up yesterday morning.
She took another bite of the porridgelike substance in the bowl she held and nearly gagged. How could anyone eat his gunk? she wondered. Ice-cold haggis with a boiled rubber-boot sauce would have been tastier. The aroma alone was an offense to her finely-tuned chef's palate. But she'd spent most of a day and all of a night in her chilly cell, and her body was beginning to protest the lack of sustenance. She tried once more to engage the man who'd brought the gunk in lieu of breakfast and who stood, ramrod straight, watching her every move.
"I know it's a cell," she said. "What I meant was, where are we? What place is this? Who is this Darach MacStruan?"
"The MacStruan. Chief of our clan."
"Is that like being the mayor or something?"
"Nay. Clan means children, kindred. For us, that's what it means as well. We're all family." She caught the note of pride in his terse speech.
"You're all brothers?"
"Nay. Cousins, uncles, brothers, most of us that are lairds. All o' that. But we all have the first MacStruan as our kin. We've all sworn allegiance to the MacStruan."
"And this place?"
He shrugged. "Our clachan. Our village. It's where we live."
"And this house?"
"Darach's house. He's a laird, ye know. A baron. O' course, so are we all lairds. But he's the chief among us, descended direct from the first MacStruan." Julia recalled the massive MacStruan. He certainly didn't look like a baron. With his broad shoulders and dramatic warrior's garb, he looked more like some perfectly buffed actor in a swashbuckling movie. But she didn't think it likely that eight men would all be researching for a film. Besides, there wasn't a pair of sunglasses or a bottle of Evian water anywhere to be seen.
"Do you live like this all the time?"
He frowned. "I kenna what ye mean."
"I mean, like this. In thisclachan." She pointed to his woolen blanket. "Do you always dress like that?"
He looked thoughtful. "Aye. What else should we wear? I've seen trews, such as ye wear, but they're bindin' to a fella and too much draggin' in the mud."
"So you spend your days out in the woods, hunting?" As she spoke, she cast a jaundiced eye upon the grayish yellow substance piled on her spoon. She hoped no one had wasted a shot for the sake of this noisome entree. Valiantly she tried to swallow the gunk quickly to avoid any unnecessary lingering on her tongue. She was only partly successful.
"Nay, no' every day," Ross replied. "Some days we're huntin'. Some days, fightin'. Some days we're tendin' the kine. No' today, though."
She sighed. This was too weird, she thought for the hundredth time. She was getting nowhere. There had to be a reasonable explanation for these people and the way they lived. She tried another tack. "Where I come from, you can't be locked up in a cell in someone's house. It's against the law."
He nodded. "None but the chief may do so here."
"This chief of yours. Is he married?"
He shot a sharp glance her way. "Why would ye wish to know?"
She shrugged. "Just curious. I haven't seen any women around here. Not that I've been allowed out and around much."
"Ye ask too many questions. It's none o' your affair."
"I suppose not. But a woman does like another woman's company sometimes."
"If there's somethin' ye're needin', we can provide."
"Oh, that's good. Then I'd like a telephone, a hot bath, clean clothes, a mushroom omelet with a glass of fresh orange juice, a cup of coffee, and a lawyer. In that order, please."
"Absolutely, lass. Soon as I finish flyin' to the moon. The MacStruan's no' so easily taken in by the likes of ye."
She decided she'd upend the bowl of gunk on his head if he mentioned "the MacStruan" one more time. Was this Darach guy a god or something? He sounded a lot more like some egomaniacal president-for-life, ruling over the world's tiniest country.
But she was too hungry to sacrifice her only source of nourishment for the sake of making a point. She had to keep up her strength in order to make her escape. Shuddering, she lifted another bite to her unwilling lips. She grimaced and swallowed.
Yes, Clan MacStruan was one bizarro little company, she thought, studying her stiff and proper guard once more. Could there really be no women around? Were there none here at all, or did this Darach character insist that they stay locked up somewhere?
Her mouth fell open. What if
She looked at the man who stood before her. Ross, they'd called him. He wasn't as big as Darach, but he was solidly built and hardened and he carried both a sword and a knife. He looked about as macho as they make 'em, she thought. But that wasn't any real indicator. . . .
Good Lord, she thought with a start. Was this . . . had she strayed into the world's most peculiar gay resort?
She almost started to giggle at the thought. Be cool, Addison. It wouldn't be prudent at this juncture to be laughing to herself like a loon. Besides, she argued with herself, gay men, even on vacation, weren't likely to kidnap womenor anyone elseand drag them through the woods to their camp. At least none of the gays she'd ever known would. How many exceptions could there be? No, the historical reenactment idea was the soundest of her possibilities. She took another look at her kilted captor and decided they must be the most dedicated historians on record.
"Finished wi' yer gruel?" Ross asked. "Gruel, eh? Yep, good name for it." She choked down a last spoonful and handed over the bowl. He headed for the door. She rose to watch him go.
He spun around in the blink of an eye, his knife appearing out of nowhere. She gasped and raised her hands.
"Get ye back on the cot," he growled. "And dinna make any more such moves. Darach says he'll no' endure any foolishness."
She sat back down, her hands still raised. "I wasn't trying"
"It doesna matter. Sit."
She glared at him, but the glittering edge of his knife convinced her he would indeed hurt her if she moved. She watched in fear and outrage as he unlocked the door and went out. The outer bar thunked down into place and she was alone once more.
She really had to get out of here.
Chapter Three
Darach strode along the rill, his long legs eating up the distance from the clachan to the tiny loch that lay in the glen above. Liam, Alasdair, and Niall kept pace with him, each in his own fashion.
"Do ye think it was Morestons?" Liam asked. He was a good three hands shorter than Darach and of a slighter build. His owlish face looked worried.
"Who else would bother?" Alasdair replied, picking up a rock and sending it flying through the rare, clear air.
"But why kill the cattle?" Niall asked, following along with long, steady strides. "Stealin's one thing. A body can sell a stolen beast. Or eat it. But to slaughter it and leave it to rot, that's plain daft." "Or plain malice," Darach said.
The quartet of men bore left from the loch and climbed up over a rise. Down in the narrow glen be
low, they could see the still, bulky forms lying in the moving grasses. Darach counted.
"Five in all. And one a calf, besides." He swore beneath his breath. "Craigen Moreston's the cravenest coward that ever was whelped. He'll no' face me, but a fat old heifer holds no fear for the likes o' him." He turned to the men. "Liam, I'll need ye to go back and get a wagon. Bring twa more o' the men. We'll need help gettin' 'em back." He sighed. "Perhaps we can salvage somethin' out of Moreston's dirty little prank.''
Liam was off at once, running easily over the rocky ground, his plaid swinging about his knees. The other three started down the hill into the glen.
"D'ye think they're safe to eat?" asked Niall.
"I canna say. We'll know more when we get there. It canna be that long since they were laid low. They may be fresh enough."
There was a pause. "I dinna mean exactly that," Niall said.
Darach looked at him quizzically. His cousin colored a bit and cleared his throat before speaking. "It's the witch, Darach," he said gruffly. "How do we know she didn't poison the kine? Or cast some evil o'er them? Surely they wouldn't be safe to eat by man or beast."
Darach scowled. "It's no' happened before," he said slowly. "And this doesna seem like witch's work to me."
"And we have the witch," Alasdair said. "She couldn't be out here and under our guard at the same time."
"As of yestermorn only," Niall argued. "None can say if she didna put a spell upon them before we laid hands on her. Or that she couldna have done it from the cell and all."
Darach glowered at the hills. "If only the woman had stayed at Castle Moreston."
They had descended into the glen, where the cattle lay like a range of dark, woolly hills. All three fell silent as they walked around the fallen beasts.
Darach squatted down and pointed to one of the bodies. "See. That's no' witchcraft. That's the work of a mortal knife, clean and sharp." He examined the next one. "And the same for this one." He straightened. "They're stiffenin'," he said, nudging one woolly flank with his boot. ''But I see no reason for us not to taste o' them. At the least, we'll get the leather from them." He put his hands on his hips and looked back up the hill. "While we're waitin', let's have a look about. The tracks of these curs may tell us somethin'."
They split off in three directions, each of them looking for any clues as to where the killers had come from and where they'd gone. Darach tramped along to the north, up the glen toward the pass.
He knew these hills and valleys as well as he knew his own name. His childhood had been spent racing over every rocky mile of the MacStruan lands, tagging along behind his father and the other men of the clan. He knew every glen and rill, every secret grove or tiny loch, and his very heart beat to the rhythms of the land.
But today it all felt sullied to him, this clean, wild land. His old enemy, Craigen Moreston, chief of the neighboring clan, had sent his minions here to spill blood and lay waste to the lives he and his people tended with such anxious care. Cattle were the clan's best source of money, and every beast was precious. Raiding cattle was a time-honored pastime in the Highlands, and the MacStruans had done their share. Everyone knew that what roamed free, out in nature, nourished by nature's bounty, was anyone's fair game. One always had the option of stealing them back.
But wholesale slaughter of beasts just for sportthat was another matter. It was a gesture of such pure, grinning contempt that Darach wanted to unsheathe his sword and put to rout every Moreston in the whole of Scotland.
Yet he knew such an action would be utter folly. As chief, he had to be practical. The Morestons could overpower tiny Clan MacStruan in the twinkling of an eye. They possessed more land, more money, more property, more men, more arms, and more influence than the MacStruans had ever held. Yet they wanted more. And so they warred upon the MacStruans in every underhanded way, stealing away more of their land with each passing year.
Darach reached the mouth of the pass and turned to look back across the glen. What was Craigen up to? he wondered. Why this?
He thought of the young woman who'd been brought before him yesterday morning. Was she the witch who, everyone claimed, aided Craigen Moreston in all his affairs?
He shook his head. He was not a superstitious man. He knew that most things could be known or understood if only a man used his eyes and his mind. But there had been too many incidents in the past three years that could not be explained away. And if the scholars and priests he'd met in the city believed in witches, who was he to disbelieve? Besides, he knew first-hand the depths of the Morestons' evil ways. They wouldn't be above trafficking in witchcraft, he knew that much.
He strode about the area, searching for tracks. He saw nothing. He wondered what the other two men had found. Everything about this business made him uneasy. He wanted to hear that they'd found bootprints and broken grasses, drops of cattle blood upon a stone. He didn't want to think about any other explanations.
The image of mad, lovely Julia Addison came to his mind once more. Was he a fool to think that she was more insane than evil?
He shook the thought away. He had more important things to worry about. She was locked up and that was that.
He headed back down the glen to rejoin the others, trying hard not to think of odd, soft breeches, full red lips, and snapping, intelligent brown eyes.
"So, Ross, ye talked wi' her, then?"
A cheerful fire blazed away in the center of Bruce MacStruan's little house, its smoke rising up to exit through a hole in the roof. The fire's golden light reflected off the faces of the lairds who had gathered for an evening of drink and talk, and created dancing shadows on the snug stone walls. This night the men had plenty to discuss, and the witch-woman was at the forefront of all their minds.
As the eldest member of the clan, silver-haired Bruce would quite naturally command considerable respect, and did so. Over the years, however, the old laird had been nursing and honing a fuller, more majestic identity for himself. Through tortuous reasoning, a smattering of hearsay, and a dash of clan folklore, he had decided that he was not only a MacStruan, but also a direct descendant of Robert the Bruce. As the years passed, his self-created kinship had flowered so fully that he lived the part: assuming royal poses, offering proclamations, and answering almost exclusively to "Your Majesty." He was the Bruce. And as he was well beloved, and sound in every other way, the rest of the clan went along with the fantasy, honoring the old warrior with their respect and their good-natured tolerance.
Ross shifted on his footstool and nodded to the Bruce. "Aye, I spoke to her when I brought her gruel this mornin'. She's as curious as twa cats, that one. Asked question after question."
"Ye didna answer her, did ye?" Liam asked, aghast.
"Aye. Most of 'em were sae daft and simple, I wondered she didn't ask to be told up from down."
Niall shook his head. "Liam's right. Ye should no' be answerin' questions, let alone talkin' wi' a witch."
"We've no proof she's a witch," Ross replied, his long hands laced around his mug of ale.
"No proof!" Tommy, the youngest of the lairds, looked around the circle of men. "We all heard her wild words. We saw her strange clothes. And ye all saw the unairthly objects she kept in that pouch o' hers."
Brawny Dugan nodded. "Darach locked her awa'," he rumbled. "He thinks she's a witch."
Ross flushed. "Nay. I say he doesna think so yet. He said as much. She may be only a witless wanderer."
Alasdair, who had been perched on the deep windowsill, looking out at the rising moon, now spoke. "Ye sound a bit bewitched yerself, Ross," he said over his shoulder.
Ross's flush deepened. "Are ye sayin' ye don't even believe your ain brother, Alasdair?"
Alasdair dropped to the floor. "I make up my ain mind," he said mildly. "Darach knows that. And I was only makin' an observation."
The Bruce cleared his throat. The men fell silent, awaiting his word. "Witch or no," the old man said, raising a finger, "I say she's as bonny a maid as I've ever
seen. I'd no' turn a fine, wee bit like her out a' my bed on a cauld nicht."
The men laughed heartily, if a bit self-consciously. Bruce swept the group with a knowing grin. "So, ye admit the woman's been on yer minds, and no' just because ye think she's goin' to make the milk-cows gang dry."
"We're only human," said Niall.
"Aye," said Ross. "And it's been a while since"
"Whisht," said Gordon, shaking his balding head. "Dunna ye say it!"
Ross looked apologetic. "Pardon. But the lass is fair-faced and fair-limbed. And she didna seem too awful dangerous. Except"
Niall leaned toward him, eyes narrowed. "Except what?"
"At the last," Ross said. "She made as if she'd run out when I went to the door." He glanced around the circle defensively. "I set her back wi' my knife, o' course."
Heads nodded all around. They all gazed into the fire for a while. The room seemed a bit warmer than the fire warranted, some of them noted. Alasdair went back to his perch on the windowsill.
Gordon broke the silence. "What d'ye make of the beasts that were slain, Niall?" Niall shrugged. "Looks like Moreston mischief."
Liam snorted. "Thievin' bastards."
Gordon looked at the ceiling. "Takes a thief to know a thief."
Liam puffed up like a bantam rooster. He nudged Dugan. "'Man's worst ill is stubbornness of the heart,' said Sophocles. Tell him some folk know what's theirs and what's not."
Dugan, long accustomed to the feud between Liam and Gordon, turned to Gordon. "He says some folk know what's theirs and what's not."
Gordon flushed to his shining scalp. "True enough! And I know my ain fowl! Tell him that."
Dugan shifted heavily toward Liam, looking bored. "Says he knows his ain fowl," he recited.
"And ye tell him"
"Whisht!" The Bruce banged on the table with his ale cup. "Listenin' to the pair of ye is like bein' pecked to death by your damned chickens! All that happened years ago and we're every man of us gripin' sick o' the whole tale." He waved a regal hand. "Niall, ye may go on about the kine. I'd know more."
The Mirror & The Magic Page 3