“In siege at Eilean Donan,” the rider replied, his eyes bulging as if he didn’t fully believe it himself.
“In siege???” Ewan boggled, “By who?” No neighboring clan could be so bold!”
The rider cast a furtive glance at Cait. “It’s the English!’
Cait and Ewan stared at the rider, and then at each other in shock.
“How is that possible?” Ewan said when he’d had a moment to recover-although he thought that he had an inkling. Eilean Donan Castle, although very defensible by land, was surrounded on three sides by water. English ships sailing up the deep lochs could easily cut the castle off.
Ewan took the letter, broke the seal, and then squinted in the fading light to read the lines of script. He recognized his uncle’s hand immediately. The group of MacRaes who had gone to Edinburgh had uncovered rumors of an English warship heading north. They’d left the night before it sailed, and arrived too late to prepare the castle. A rider had made for Castle Cameron to ask for aid, while Lachlan and his tanist had nearly died trying to get back inside the castle.
Ewan’s gut clenched in concern. Quite apart from the political implications, he worried for his sister. The baby was due at any moment-and now she had an injured husband to worry for as well. His mind quickly switched gears to the more important issue: what to do next?
The letter requested Ewan’s immediate return to the castle-which, of course he intended to do, but said nothing of raising the men.
“Your brother is on my heels,” the rider announced, almost reading Ewan’s mind.
Ewan nodded and digested this information. The purpose was obviously to bring him back with no delays. That meant that the situation was graver than he feared. There wasn’t any time to lose. “I’ll ride tonight,” he announced.
The rider nodded smartly. “I’ll water my horse.”
“Cait can fetch you some supper too,” Ewan nodded, and then he hurried inside.
He didn’t stop to offer instructions to his wife. Instead, he climbed directly to his room and began to fill his pack. There wasn’t room for more than a change of clothes, some silver, and his weapons. Ewan was the most careful with these: the giant, savage claymore that his grandfather had carried before him, his dirk, and his pistol. All of them had been sorely neglected since last carried into battle, but he’d have to deal with that later.
Ewan met Cait on the stairs. She was carrying up a tray of food, which he plucked from her fingers, carried to the table, and then packed the cheese and bread that she had brought. “That should keep us until morning.”
“We aren’t leaving now!” Cait gasped.
Ewan looked at her and frowned. “We?”
Cait stared back and him, and then paled. “I’m not going with you?”
Ewan exhaled sharply when he finally figured out what she meant. “No!” he said, more sharply than he’d intended. He didn’t want to be parted from his wife-but neither could he bear the thought of placing her in danger! If the English had attacked Eilean Donan, they were already too close for comfort. Here on the Frasure border, his wife was safe-and that was where he intended to keep her. “I’m sorry, Lass-but no,” he said firmly.
“But-!” Cait started to protest, but Ewan shook his head savagely.
“No, Cait. You’ve got to stay here!” he wished that there was time to tell her more, to make her see that he wanted to be with her-but there wasn’t any time. He watched unhappily when she crumpled like a flower-but held his ground. “It isn’t safe,” he mumbled again, and then went to the courtyard to see about his horse.
It wasn’t more than half and hour before it was time to go. Cait met him at the front door, handing over a sack of provisions, “Some more bread and cheese,” she told him, staring at her hands.
Ewan’s heart twisted. He hated leaving her like this-but duty wouldn’t let him stay. “I’ll be back soon,” Ewan whispered tenderly into her hair, “and I’ll miss you every second of every day. As soon as it’s safe, I send for you.”
“But I don’t want to be safe,” Cait protested, although her expression betrayed that she knew it was futile, “I want to be with you!”
“And you will be!” Ewan said, the thrill of her words chipping at his resolve to leave, “Soon!” he promised. Then, not trusting himself to linger, he gave her a final kiss and swung onto his horse, leaving Cait alone to watch him ride away.
Cait didn’t know how long she stayed there. She watched his figure growing small in the distance, squinting into the growing darkness until he and the messenger were no more than specks crawling up the side of Ben Mohr. Then, when the night had finally blanketed the highlands, she continued staring into the inky darkness, imagining his progress in her mind.
She was still in shock. She hadn’t had time to contemplate his leaving, much less to prepare for it. One moment she was in his arms. In the next, he had been ripped away, leaving a terrible, aching hole in her heart.
“You’ve got to come in, Mistress.”
Cait turned toward Becky, the little serving girl that Ewan had hired to wait on her at the house. She was a simple, pleasant creature, and was terribly solicitous of Cait. Cait didn’t have the heart to deny the other woman’s obviously well-meant request. She allowed herself to be led into the kitchen and sat down in front of a bowl of stew which she had no intention of eating.
Becky opened her mouth several times before she gathered the courage to speak, “He’ll be back before you know it, Mistress,” she finally dared. “It was the same with my Gerald. I was plain desperate when he first went away to fight them MacRaes, but he was back before I knew it.”
Cait nodded her head numbly.
“Besides,” Becky continued, “It will be nice to be alone for a while, won’t it? Men are nice but…” she let her voice trail off when she noticed that her mistress wasn’t listening. “Well, I’d best stop my prattle,” she said gently, “and I’ll be telling you goodnight, mistress-unless there’s anything else?”
“No,” Cait responded, “Nothing.”
The servant nodded, and then left Cait alone with her thoughts.
Ewan rode all night, and most of the following day, stopping only once-when his path crossed with James. He shared a meal with his brother and learned the latest news. Then he set off again. The sun was already low in the horizon when he approached the heavily fortified gates of Castle Cameron. He wanted, desperately, to find his bed and rest, but he knew that he had to see the Laird first. He spared only a second to freshen his appearance before he headed to an audience with his uncle.
Laird Cameron looked as exhausted as Ewan felt. He had never noticed his uncle’s beard looking so grey, or his skin so lined. The older man’s shoulders seemed to hunch, as though they were weighted down by a heavy load. In a few months, he seemed to have aged a decade. It wasn’t until he offered his nephew a fleeting smile that Ewan felt he even recognized the older man.
“Ewan,” he said, gesturing toward a seat. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
“I came as soon as I heard,” Ewan assured him.
The Laird nodded, “And your…” he twisted his lips, looking as though the words he wanted to say tasted awful in his mouth. “Your….did Cait come with you?”
Ewan shook his head, “no”.
The Laird nodded thoughtfully. “And…how is Cait?” he asked.
Ewan frowned, confused by the direction of the questioning. Eilean Donan was under siege and the Laird was asking about his personal life? “She’s fine,” he responded.
“Pregnant?” the Laird asked bluntly.
Ewan’s mouth fell open, but he managed to recover quickly. “Er…no,” he said, frowning. That fact had been the one mar on his happiness over the holiday season. He had somehow expected his wife to fall pregnant as quickly as his sister had, but they were married three months, and her courses were still coming regularly. He wasn’t panicked-yet- although they were both disappointed.
“Good,” the Laird
said unexpectedly. The frown on Ewan’s features darkened.
“Good?” he echoed uncertainly.
Laird Cameron sighed and sank down into his chair, “Surely you see that it’s for the best?”
Ewan shook his head. “I don’t.”
“Ewan, you know that I intend to name you tanist. You can’t be tanist with an English wife.”
All of the breath left Ewan’s body. He’d been expecting the Laird to name him, although he didn’t think that one could ever be prepared for such a momentous announcement-but he hadn’t expected there to be a problem with Cait. The Laird had been one of the chief proponents of Ewan’s quest to have a son. “But-!” he began to protest, but was swiftly silenced by the Laird.
“I know that you’ve been fond of Cait. She’s a pretty thing, but-,”
“But YOU told me -!” Ewan began hotly, but fell silent when his uncle held up his hand.
“Surely you can see that things are different now!” he protested. Ewan nodded, although he couldn’t, really. It had been apparent when the idea had first been broached that Ewan was the logical choice of tanist in his cousin’s place.
“Cait was English before!” Ewan argued.
The Laird blinked at him and then gave his nephew an almost pitying look. “Good God-you don’t know!” he breathed.
“I don’t know what?” Ewan asked, feeling unnervingly helpless.
The Laird looked up at the other man. “The English surrounding the MacRae castle-they’re being commended by Colonel Everleigh.”
“Everleigh?” Ewan blinked in noncomprehension.
The Laird nodded, “The seducer of the old Laird’s daughter-Ewan, it’s Cait’s father!”
Ewan reeled at the news. Cait’s father! To his knowledge, Cait had never had any sort of relationship with the man. He hadn’t even acknowledged paternity-but there was clearly a history with the clan. Regardless of whether Cait knew him or not, the association would reflect badly on her-on them both.
“You know what you have to do?” The old Laird said.
Ewan’s lips pressed into a hard grim line as he considered the meaning behind the Laird’s words.
He was going to have to give Cait up.
The pain that sliced through Ewan’s heart at that revelation was nearly unbearable. Could he do it? He wasn’t sure that he could. He didn’t give his heart readily-but now that he had, he had done so completely.
“It’s the hardest thing about being Laird.”
Ewan looked up when his uncle interrupted his thoughts. He quirked an eyebrow in question.
“Putting the clan first,” the older man said, “Even when it rips out your heart. It’s your duty, Ewan-bigger than both of us. Lord knows there’ll be enough dissention in the Septs about going to the MacRae’s rescue. Five years of peace isn’t nearly enough to erase a lifetime of suspicion. But if they don’t come together we’re all ruined, Ewan. All of us.”
Ewan nodded grimly, trying not to let his face show that his heart was breaking inside. Of course, his uncle was right. He might love Cait, but he loved the clan more…didn’t he? Ewan was troubled that he wasn’t able to answer the question. He’d sorted out in his own mind that, if he failed to lead the clan, then the order would crumble. James would never be able to rally everyone together, and his uncle was too old to fight. It was up to him to save the clan-but at such a terrible price.
“It doesn’t have to be straight away,” his uncle said in what he hoped was a compassionate tone, “No one’s thinking about the wee lassie as long as I’m alive to be the Laird. Let the year run and allow things to end quietly. There won’t be any call for fuss. If there isn’t a baby, there won’t be any cause for people to even remember.”
Ewan bobbed his head numbly, barely noticing when his uncle clapped him on the shoulder and then led him toward the door.
“Where are we going?” Ewan finally asked when they neared the great hall.
“Best get it over with now,” the Laird said.
“It?” Ewan asked, and then his heart sank when he realized where he was being led. They walked through the main doors, and then into a small courtyard where a group of boys were playing with stones.
“Keith, be a good lad and get yer daddy,” the Laird said to one of the boys. He nodded to a man across the way “Gather the men you can,” he said. “I’m going to do the naming.”
Ewan felt all of the blood drain from his face when his uncle walked him to the swearing stone-the place where the men of the clan made their oath of loyalty every year.’
He knew what was going to happen next. The Laird was going to officially name him Tanist. Usually, such ceremonies were carried out with much more pomp and circumstance-but usually, situations were not quite so desperate. There simply wasn’t any time to call in the outlying clansmen to witness the act. If Eilean Donan was going to be saved, they would have to leave almost at once-and Ewan must first be invested with the full authority as Tanist in addition to his position as chieftain.
Little by little the men of the clan who were present, and a number of their wives and children trickled into the courtyard. James had not yet returned from the East country, but Ewan was surprised and relieved to find his sister-and his assorted nieces and nephews-among the first to arrive.
“I didn’t want to go back without Lachlan,” Muira confided as they waited for other’s to arrive. Ewan could tell from her face that she was conflicted about the decision. She was relieved that she and her children were safe, but obviously worried sick about her husband.
They didn’t wait more than half an hour until the Laird signified that the ceremony should begin. It didn’t take long. The Laird announced his decision, invited comments. Then, there being none, invested Ewan as his tanist, inviting him to take the oath.
Ewan had to struggle not to let his voice waiver as he repeated the ancient creed-one that had been passed down through his grandfathers before him, since the very first Cameron’s had come to these lands. He repeated the words, never expecting them to cut so deeply: I will defend the clan with my honor, and my blood, and my heart…
Ewan felt his mind try to wander again and again toward Cait. Again and again he pulled it back. He was about to go to war, and any distraction could mean his death, and the deaths of countless members of his extended family, but he couldn’t make himself stop. He was almost painfully conscious of Cait’s absence. He felt that she should be there, listening to him take the oath, waiting for him afterwards for them to pass their final night together before sending him into battle.
They’d already had their final night together. The thought twisted in Ewan’s stomach like a knife. He wished that he could turn back time and savor the moments they had shared.
After what seemed an impossibly long time, the event was finally over. The tribesmen broke up, but Ewan was led into the feasting hall with his family. It was hours later before he could leave. Even then, he was called almost immediately to a council of war. He collapsed in his bed that night, and left the following morning at dawn, already weary, and already wondering if it really mattered whether he won or lost.
It was four weeks before Cait quit running to the window at the sound of hoofbeats. She knew that it was foolish and irrational to hope that Ewan might return so soon, but she couldn’t stifle a flicker of hope that she might be wrong. At the very least, if it wasn’t her husband, he might send word.
Word traveled to the village, but very slowly. Cait supposed that this was a good thing. If anything happened to the Laird or, God forbid, to Ewan, she knew that it would reach her quickly. The last bit of news had arrived in a matter of days.
Ewan was the tanist.
Cait supposed that she wasn’t surprised-how could she be when Ewan was the natural choice now that the Laird’s own sons were dead? In addition to the claim of his birth as the Laird’s nephew, he had the claim of might. He was a natural leader and an experienced warrior that the people could rally behind-but she didn’t know wh
ere that left her. Cait was, frankly, no one’s idea of a Laird’s wife!
She knew a little bit about running a castle. She had commiserated with Muira while her friend suffered under the tutelage of her very capable aunt, and, of course, she had scrubbed the floors herself-but she didn’t have the first idea how to plan a banquet, or how to dance, or any herb lore or the other arts where Laird’s wives were meant to be adept. She felt hopelessly out of depth-not that it was even likely to matter.
Cait knew that it was foolish to hope that Ewan would keep her on when the year was over, but she couldn’t stifle the dream completely. Surely there was something real about what she and Ewan had shared together? At least, it had felt real, bundled up in his arms. If only they had more time! Four months had already passed. Cait greeted the Ides of March – her four month anniversary-with a heavy heart. One third of her time was already over, and her husband wasn’t even at home!
There was a small chance that he would be back quickly, at least. Two days earlier, gossip began to spread that Eilean Donan had been liberated. The English warship had sailed away. She didn’t know where that left matters. Would the English leave completely? Would they return on foot?
Cait grew sick with worrying about her husband’s health. Then she was simply sick.
Cait had always been a hardy girl. She hadn’t had the leisure to be delicate when she faced the long, hard days of working at the castle. When she’d woken one morning, climbed out of bed, and promptly dashed to the basin to heave, she attributed it to something she’d eaten. The second time it happened, she was less certain. By the third, she was anxious enough to consider a doctor. It wasn’t her only symptom. She was so exhausted, some days she could barely manage to crawl out of bed, and she was sore and aching all over her body. Still, she assumed that the matter was trifling, and carried on as best she could.
One morning, when the cook served fish for supper, she was sick in the middle of her lunch.
“I’m sorry,” she cried, mortified, “It was delicious. It’s just…the smell!”
A Year and a Day Page 14