by Lynn Kurland
"This castle has importance in that it's haunted," she said pointedly.
And then she took off her head and tucked it under her arm.
The woman screamed and fell over in a dead faint.
The man, apparently overcome, wet himself, then fell over in a manner like his wife.
Iolanthe dispensed with her headless illusion. The men in the garrison applauded, then went on their way after offering various and sundry congratulations on a haunting well done. Even the MacDougal unbent enough to grunt at her in a less-gruff-than-usual manner. All of it should have left her feeling rather pleased with herself.
"Now, daughter," Ambrose said, clucking his tongue as he came to stand beside her, "did you have to do that?"
Iolanthe glared at the older man. Older was, of course, misleading. Would that he'd been a toddler she could have turned over her knee.
"I am in a foul mood," she said pointedly.
"Aye, I can see that. What ails you? Thoughts of turning me over your knee?"
"Actually, aye. 'Tis a powerfully tempting thought."
He only smiled. "You wouldn't of course, even had I been your child. You've too kind a heart and will make a wonderful mother."
"In what existence do you speak of?" she asked bitterly. "Certainly not this one."
"The one Thomas will provide for you," Ambrose said. "He'll succeed."
Iolanthe had decided over the course of a se'nnight that she couldn't care less if Thomas succeeded or failed. The man had had a perfectly acceptable existence with her, but apparently it hadn't been enough.
"He can go to the devil for all I care," she said.
"Hmmm," Ambrose said. "Well, as he intends to seek to restore you to life at great personal sacrifice, perhaps you should begin to care."
She glared at him. "I am finished having speech with you."
"I've no doubt you are, as I'm quite sure anything I have to say to you, you won't wish to hear."
"No doubt."
Ambrose reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. "You should go home. Have speech with your laird. Ask him if there is aught you can do to aid the man who loves you so much."
Ach, but she could bear no more of this, for every word was a like a knife in her heart. She knew she should have gone with Thomas to the Highlands. That she hadn't only weighed her soul down with each day that passed. He risked his life to save hers. The least she could have done was watch him prepare to do it.
"My dear," Ambrose began.
She clapped her hands over her ears and vanished like the coward she truly was.
It took her another three weeks to resign herself to the fact that Ambrose was right, and she was wrong. She had spent those weeks counting each hour and damning herself the more as they passed. She hadn't even allowed herself the luxury of her private chamber. She'd lingered in the garden, but without the heart to even create anything.
It occurred to her, midway through that third se'nnight, that she had come full circle. When Thomas had come into her life, she'd been bitter and lonely, passing the hours in misery. And now that he was gone, she had come back to the same place, with the same lack of joy.
Which made that precious time between those points even more painful to think about.
Finally, when she could bear it no more, she sought Ambrose out. He was, as usual, holding court in the inn's kitchen with Hugh and Fulbert. Iolanthe ignored the other two.
"I'm ready," she said to Ambrose.
"For what, little one?"
"To go home."
"Well done," Ambrose said, clapping his hands. He beamed his approval on her. "We'll go on the morrow."
She had several questions to ask, but she surely wasn't going to admit her ignorance before the other two men. So she simply waited, unmoving and silent.
"Lads," Ambrose said, looking at her closely, "I think the lady and I have things to discuss. Seek your ease elsewhere."
The other two left soon enough, after farewells and other such rituals of parting and good night. Iolanthe just wished they'd hurry their bloody business up.
But once they were gone, she found that asking her questions was a much different matter than thinking about asking her questions. She sat slowly.
"On the morrow," Ambrose began without preamble, "we'll just pop ourselves up to the Highlands—"
"Pop?"
He smiled modestly. "You think about where you want to go, then quite suddenly you find yourself there. 'Tis a bit unsettling at first, but I think you'll find it to your liking in the end."
"And then?"
"And then we'll have ourselves a look about and see how young Thomas fares. Once we've sorted that out, we'll talk to James."
She sighed. "And then?"
"And then we'll wait."
She'd done far too much of that, but perhaps she had no choice.
"Will you stay here?" Ambrose asked kindly. "Mrs. Pruitt has your chamber put to rights, no doubt. Or perhaps you would care to come to the sitting room and we'll have speech about nothing in particular."
It may be for the last time.
He hadn't said the words, but she had heard them just the same. So she nodded and followed him into the other chamber.
They left shortly after sunrise the next morning. It took less than the space of a breath to move herself from Thorpewold to her ancestral home. She came to a teetering halt next to Ambrose, the breath and her wits completely stolen from her.
"Ah," Ambrose said, stretching like a satisfied cat, "that was a proper journey. Would that I could have traveled that stretch in such good time when I was alive."
Iolanthe was too shaken for words, so she merely looked around her and marveled at the things that had changed. And the things that had not.
There was still a forest surrounding her home, though she was certain the trees couldn't be the ones she had walked under in life. The pond was still behind her and the entrance to the garden still before her. And the keep still rose up to the sky in much the same way it had before.
"He's made a few additions," Ambrose said with a nod. "But nothing that you'd notice from the outside. You'll see the inside soon enough." He beckoned for her to follow him as he walked around to the front gates. He entered without hesitation.
Iolanthe followed more slowly. The keep had sported no such wall in her day. The village provided whatever poor buffer they'd had against the outside world. This wall before her was intimidating, to be sure. She followed Ambrose in past the iron gates and through the courtyard to the training yard. The sounds of a mighty battle came from there. That was nothing unusual, for her kin had always trained with much enthusiasm.
But now Thomas was in their midst.
Iolanthe stood in the shadow of the hall and took in the scene before her. None of the men were ones she knew, save Thomas, though she immediately identified the Scots. They fought in strange short trews, but she could tell by their bold and clever fighting that they were kin of hers, for if there was one thing a MacLeod could do, 'twas fight with his wits and his blade alike. Another man wore armor like the English had many centuries before, so she assumed that was his origin.
Then there was their leader. She couldn't call him anything else. He was taller, broader, and more fierce than any of the others. His curses blistered her ears—and the sweetness of hearing Gaelic from a mortal mouth was a joy she hadn't expected—and he laughed as he wielded his great sword.
"The laird, James," Ambrose said.
"Aye, I supposed it was," she murmured.
"But see your man," Ambrose said with a nod. "He doesn't shame himself overmuch, does he?"
She looked at Ambrose narrowly. "Have you been here recently?"
He only smiled pleasantly, but she had no trouble divining the answer to her question.
"Busybody."
"Thomas is my grandson, several times removed. Kin looks after kin, as he strives to look after you, though I doubt he does it for that reason. He seeks to give you another chance at life,
and for that you should be grateful. Look you how hard he's trained."
She looked at Thomas critically. She couldn't have in all honesty said that he was Jamie's equal by anyone's measure, but then again, neither was anyone else in that yard. Iolanthe had to admit that, all things considered, Thomas was holding his own rather respectably. She listened in frank amazement as he spewed forth his own selection of curses in her native tongue. She'd listened to him learn a few things from her garrison at Thorpewold, but those curses had been nothing like this. She had to admit that he was not only inventive but thorough.
And, she admitted reluctantly to herself, he was beautiful.
And determined.
The intensity on his face was plain to the eye. Whatever he seemingly fought for, he fought to win.
"He has worked hard," Ambrose repeated. "For you."
The enormity of his sacrifice truly struck her for the first time. 'Twas one thing to speculate about his sincerity, fight with him over the stupidity of the idea, and watch him leave and suppose perhaps that he went on holiday to warm his toes at her ancestral fire.
'Twas another thing entirely to see him with his muscles straining, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes blazing with the light of battle.
She turned and walked away while she still could. She walked out the gates and paused, trying to decide which way to go. The meadow stretched for a goodly distance both north and south of the keep, but it was south she went. Though she had often trudged up the hill behind the keep in life, she had just as often walked down the meadow and sat in the long grass where she didn't have to look at her home.
She sat herself down, and for the first time allowed herself to imagine how it might be to actually sit again thusly and have a body to enjoy the sitting. To smell the heather, to feel the wind in her hair and the sun on her shoulders.
To have a man who loved her hold her in his arms.
My house in Maine is on the shore.
His words came back to her. She could hardly credit him with guile, for she'd never told him of her heart's desire. For all she knew, 'twas something he loved as well.
She sat there the whole of the day, noting the movement of the sun overhead but feeling none of its warmth. She watched the wind move the grasses. She heard the birds in the trees.
And then she realized someone was behind her.
She didn't move as he cast himself down on the earth next to her. He sported a plaid, a finely wrought saffron shirt, and a mighty blade. His hair was dripping wet, as if he'd just bathed to become presentable. She looked at him, and her eyes burned with tears she couldn't bring herself to shed.
"Iolanthe."
She closed her eyes in self-defense, but said nothing.
"I'm glad you came."
She managed a nod.
"I'm leaving tomorrow morning."
She opened her eyes at that. "So soon?"
He shrugged and smiled easily. "I could spend a year here and not learn everything I need to know."
"But—"
"I'll manage. I've been talking to Duncan—"
"Duncan was here as well?" she interrupted incredulously.
"Yes."
"My whole bloody family is thick in this plot!"
He looked at her for several minutes in silence. "A wiser man might begin to believe that you are truly opposed to this."
She turned her face away. What was she to say, that she feared for his life? That the chance he took was more than she could stomach? That she would rather have a part of him than none of him?
Ah, but there was danger in that as well. There was little she could offer him. He would grow weary of their life together, then leave. Then not only would she be left with her miserable existence, she'd have a broken heart as well.
"Or are you worried about me?"
"Of course I'm worried, you fool!" she said, whirling on him. "You might die!"
"Oh," he said, looking enormously pleased. "You are worried."
She jumped to her feet, but he leaped to his just as quickly.
"Please, Iolanthe, don't," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I won't tease you. Please sit with me a little longer."
She sat back down grudgingly.
"I'll be okay," he said, sitting down next to her. "I promise."
"You have no idea what you face."
"I'll manage."
She shook her head. "You'll be in my father's pit before you know it. 'Tis an unwholesome place."
"I'll manage."
She sighed. "At least if he kills you, we'll both be ghosts."
"Well," Thomas said thoughtfully, "there is that."
"How can you jest about this?" she asked, pained.
He looked at her with such tenderness that she found she could scarce see him for her tears.
"Iolanthe, I love you," he said quietly, "and there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you. Or give up for you."
"But not your life," she protested.
"Well," he said with half a smile, "I won't answer that. You know, I think sometimes it's just as hard to live for someone than it is to die for them. And believe me when I tell you that I intend to live a very long time. With you."
"Ach, Thomas—"
"It's going to be all right, you'll see."
She paused. "How did you know I was here? Did Ambrose tell you?"
"Of course not," he said with a smile. "I felt you the moment you set foot on Jamie's land."
"You are a fey man," she managed. "Fey and daft."
"But you love me."
She couldn't even manage a decent response to put him off the scent. All she could do was stare at him and make certain that she didn't weep.
"Thank you for coming," he said with a small smile. "It means a lot."
She nodded, waving him away.
"You could come back to the keep with me," he offered.
She shook her head. "I can't." She looked away. "I just can't, Thomas."
"Well, then," he said, "that's that." He stood. "I'll see you soon."
She looked at him miserably. "But I won't know you."
"But you'll remember me," he said confidently.
She shook her head, but he held up his hand.
"It may take a little while," he conceded, "but you'll remember. Something will click. You'll wonder why I know your name, or how I know so much about your clan."
"I'll think you're a spy from an enemy and stick a knife between your ribs," she said darkly.
He laughed uneasily. "Let's hope not." He smiled at her. "It'll all work. Trust me."
"I have no choice," she said simply.
He hesitated. "Do you mean that? Do you really not want me to try?"
"How can I answer that?" she managed. "You're offering me another chance at life. A chance to be loved and love in return. How can I forbid you to make that possible? Nay," she said, shaking her head, "I am the one who is selfish, for you do this all for me—and at the dearest risk to yourself. Rather I should be telling you to save yourself."
"I am," he said with another smile. "Trust me, I am."
She sighed. "Very well, then. Be off with you, and take your rest. I'm certain you'll need it. My kin are a troublesome lot, and you'll need all your wits about you."
"I'll see you soon."
She nodded, but she couldn't speak. She did watch him walk back up to the keep and saw him hold up his sword in farewell before he went inside the gates.
And she wondered if that might be the last time she saw him.
She hid herself far in the forest the next morning, that she might not witness whatever happened. It was evening before she dared venture back to the keep. Ambrose was nowhere to be found. She went inside the hall and looked about her. It was empty save for the fire banked in the hearth. She walked up the stairs, feeling an eerie sense of having been in this exact place before, though 'twas a certainty the inside of the keep had been changed greatly. It was far larger than it had been in her day.
But as she
walked down the passageway to the laird's solar, she shivered.
She had done this before, and not during her lifetime.
The door was ajar. She went inside to find that her great-great-grandfather sat at his table, scratching away with his pen. There was a chair there next to the desk. She made her way to it and sat down slowly.
She saw Jamie stiffen, then watched him look up. When he saw her, he took a deep breath.
"Ah," he managed, then closed his mouth. He took a deep breath. "Good e'en to you, lady."
"And to you, my laird."
He leaned back in his chair carefully. "Thomas left this morning."
"Aye, I know."
He considered for several moments, then spoke again. "I asked him your name, but he said he wasn't at liberty to give it to me."
I'll be discreet, Thomas had said.
And so he had been. And that was perhaps the only thing, or mayhap 'twas the final thing, that made her burden more than she could bear. She bowed her head and wept.
She wondered absently if she'd ever wept as she did then.
When she had regained some bit of control, she found that Jamie was making little sounds of distress and wringing his hands as if he wasn't quite sure what he should be doing.
It was somehow comforting to see that men were still men, no matter the century.
"There, there, my girl," he said, looking as cornered as if she'd had him pinned in the stables with three dozen blades at her disposal.
She would have laughed, but her heart hurt too much for laughter. So she dried her tears as best she could and sniffed a time or two.
"I'm Iolanthe, my laird," she said, finally.
"Iolanthe," he repeated. "I'm James."
"My grandfather's grandfather," she agreed.
He shook his head with a wry smile. "Aye, that as well." He looked at her with a goodly bit of relief she could only credit to the cessation of her tears. "How can I serve you?"