Angel of Skye

by May McGoldrick

  Now, as the bright sun streamed through the window, the morning of the wedding, Fiona looked with pleasure at the gorgeous floor-length dress Lady Elizabeth’s seamstresses had created. Her red hair, loosely braided with slender ropes of pearl, tumbled over one shoulder of her ivory-colored silk gown. The round neckline was exquisitely embroidered with a delicate pattern of entwined golden leaves and silver flowers. The great bell-like sleeves were short, revealing the lining and tighter silk undersleeves. The bodice clung tightly to Fiona’s slender frame, flaring out in satiny folds beneath the cord of woven gold and silver that encircled her waist. From the white skin of her exposed shoulder, the Macpherson plaid—held in place by an elegant jeweled broach—ran obliquely to her opposite hip, and from the cord at Fiona’s waist, Alec’s dirk hung in a sheath of gleaming oak and gold.

  The elaborate broach, depicting a rampant lion on a shield encircled by ten fleur-de-lis—the royal arms of the Stuarts—was given to her the previous evening by Huntly. The gift symbolized the queen’s recognition of Fiona as the true daughter of James IV.

  Looking in the mirror, Fiona saw the token of her Stuart nobility, but no material remembrance of the woman who had given her life.

  Crossing to the bedside, she picked up her mother’s cross and hung it around her neck. Turning, Fiona looked into the eyes gazing back at her in the mirror. Her mother’s eyes. Don’t mourn the fearful shadows of the happiness that short-changed my soul. Live your own life, Fiona. Live your own!

  Fiona looked into the mirrored reflection at Celia, playing with her daughter on a chair across the room. The bairn was holding her mother’s beautiful, auburn curls in both fists and was stuffing them into Celia’s mouth. Listening to the baby’s giggles and Celia’s laugh brought back memories. Closing her eyes with a sigh, Fiona thought over those times long ago. She supposed they’d played those same games. Shared the same joy that these two were sharing now.

  Uncontrollably, a tear welled up in Fiona’s eye and escaped its pool, dropping to her cheek. Celia was there in an instant, turning her friend around and giving her a warm hug.

  “Now, now. Today is a day for rejoicing. For happiness,” Celia murmured, wiping the wetness from Fiona’s cheek. “The problems of the world can wait. Think of the man who will be waiting for you at the altar. The one who is going crazy at the pain of not seeing you. Isn’t it wonderful to be wanted? To be loved? Have I told you what happened when he tried to come to you last night?”

  Brightening through her tears, Fiona began to laugh. “What? What did he do now?”

  The gentle knock drew the attention of the two.

  “If that’s Alec, then I’m now a widow.” Celia grinned at the bride as she crossed the room to pick up her child. “At any rate, I think it’s time I went and checked on my husband.”

  Fiona smiled and reached for the cooing child in Celia’s arms. The bairn laughed with delight and dove toward her. “I’ll keep little Constance for you.”

  “Nay, my friend. I know the damage this wee one can do to a fine dress.” Celia opened the door and said softly, “I’ll come for you when it’s time.”

  Fiona watched as her friend smiled at whoever was in the corridor as she left the room. The door stood open, but no one entered.

  Unaccountably, Fiona’s heart skipped a beat as she hesitantly made her way toward the open doorway. Peering out into the dimly lit passage, Fiona could make out the shadow of a woman. Stepping back, she smiled encouragingly at the reticent visitor.

  “Won’t you come in?”

  When the old woman tottered in, leaning heavily on her gnarled walking stick, Fiona paused momentarily, uncertainty etched on her face. She thought she’d met all the Macphersons, but this old woman...

  “Nanna!” she cried, choking on the words as she sprang toward her old friend. Tears streamed down her face as she hugged the small, snowy-haired woman tightly to her.

  “Oh, Fiona, lass!” Nanna wept. “Oh, my dear, bonny child!”

  For many years, the old woman had thought her little angel dead. Many days she had lit candles in the chapel, praying for the souls of the poor lost mother and child. And then Lord Andrew had brought the news. She scarcely dared to allow herself to hope that his words might be true. No, she would wait and see for herself. She gazed into the face of her little girl grown up. This was her loving Fiona. This was undoubtedly she.

  “Nanna...did you...?” Fiona drew her dear friend to the bed and sat her down. “Where have you been, Nanna? How are you here?”

  Nanna wiped the tears from her face and gripped the young woman’s hands tightly as she studied every inch of the bride’s face.

  “You have grown into such a beauty, child. Aye, you have the best of both your parents in you.” Nanna threw her arms around Fiona, pulling her close. “Ah, lass, I never thought I’d live to see the day when I could be holding you in my arms again.”

  For a moment they just sat, wrapped in one another’s arms, while years melted away like the morning mist.

  “Nanna,” Fiona asked, looking at how telling the years had been on the older woman. “Did you just come from Drummond Castle? Tell me what—”

  “Nay, lass,” Nanna broke in, shaking her head. “I left the place after your grandfather died. I’ll not live in it while your cousin’s there.”

  “Oh, Nanna,” Fiona asked with alarm, “she didn’t throw you out? Where could you go?”

  “Nay. She didn’t throw me out. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. I left. I went to the man who offered me shelter years ago. I went to Lord Huntly.”

  Fiona stared at the woman looking with such openness at her.

  “I had no one else, lass,” Nanna explained. “But I knew he’d take me in.”

  “Why, Nanna?” Fiona asked, confused by her old friend’s assertion. “How did you know him? Is he kin?”

  “Nay. But I’d known him for a long while, long before you were born. He was a suitor of your mother’s before she met the king. And then, later on, he became a devoted friend. He was always there for her. He is a good man. He truly is. But, you know, Fiona, though he was never one to show his feelings outwardly, he is a man who dispenses justice as he sees fit. And he never forgets. When I came to him at Sterling, he provided for me. You know he sent for me to come here.”

  “Nay. I didn’t know.” Fiona looked tenderly into Nanna’s eyes. “Could you tell me? Please? About...”

  “I know. I know, my dear. I met Lord Alec before coming up here. He told me you’d be wanting to ask about it. You want to hear about that evil night, when I was hurt—”

  “They hurt you, too?” Fiona asked in a rush. “What happened? Tell me everything that happened.”

  “My child. There’s plenty of time for this after your wedding. You should be thinking of your—”

  “Please, Nanna. I must know now.”

  The old woman looked anxiously into the young woman’s face. So much of her father’s impulsiveness, so much of her mother’s intensity.

  “All right,” she agreed. Taking a deep breath, she began. “Though I’m afraid what I have to say might not make sense. Let me see, it was a few days before that evil night. I remember being called to Margaret’s room, one early afternoon. She had just come back from visiting someone.”

  “Who it was that she visited?”

  “She never told me. But she was quite upset when I saw her. As I entered her chamber, she was just handing Sir Allan a sealed letter.”

  “A letter? To whom?”

  “The earl of Huntly. I remember Margaret repeatedly stressing the urgency and confidentiality of the correspondence before he departed.”

  “Did she ever tell you what was in there?”

  “Nay, she never did.”

  Fiona looked out the window as she tried to remember the pouch which was hidden in her room. Could it have contained an answer to her mother’s letter? Nay, it was too small.

  “What did the letter have to do with the attack?” Fiona
asked.

  “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps a great deal. You’ll have to decide. At any rate, the night your father was to come, I left you with your dear mother when she sent me to get Sir Allan. I met him just coming from the Great Hall and sent him up the back stairwell to the nursery, just as your mother asked. Your poor mother...”

  Fiona squeezed Nanna’s hands gently as the woman’s voice trailed off in the memory of her long-dead loved one. “Please, Nanna,” she encouraged tenderly.

  “Aye, where was I?” the sad woman paused as she tried to gather her thoughts. “When I went out the rear door into the castle close, some of those wretched barbarians were waiting. One of them dinged your old Nanna on the head, and I remember nothing more until I became conscious a couple of hours later. I was left to die on the dungheap.” She wiped away a tear from her reddening eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Fiona said consolingly.

  The woman patted her young friend’s hand. “Nay, lass. You needn’t feel sad for me. I survived that terrible night. But something did die inside me when they told me of your mother and of you.”

  “Who told you?” Fiona asked, looking intently at her dear friend. “Oh, nay. First, tell me, who was in the Great Hall, Nanna? When you went for Sir Allan.”

  The aged duenna gazed perplexedly at her beautiful inquisitor. “In the Gr—? I don’t know, Fiona.”

  “Well, when you became conscious later, who was there in the castle?”

  Nanna thought back through the haze of long years. “Well, when I awoke, Lord Gray was there. He found your dear mother. And Lord Huntly—”

  “Lord Huntly was there when you awakened?”

  “Aye, lass. They both arrived that night. Lord Huntly came ahead of your father. The king was delayed, and he sent Lord Andrew ahead. Your father didn’t arrive until the next day.”

  Fiona clenched her fists. “Tell me more. Please tell me what was happening when you went back inside.”

  “The whole place was in a chaos. They had found your mother’s body and the note she’d left behind. Lord Gray was getting his men ready to search for you. And Lord Huntly...Lord Huntly...”

  “What about him? Please, tell me.”

  “The earl went mad that night. As crazed as a loon. He must have been, for he’s not one to act the way he did. I never to this day have seen a man more upset than he was. In fact, I heard he was running through the castle like a madman, looking for something. I just can’t help wondering if it had something to do with the letter your mother sent him.”

  The pouch. The proof of his guilt. He was looking for the pouch, Fiona thought.

  Twenty-eight Years Earlier, 1488

  Separated from his soldiers, King James III lay before the miller’s hut in the muddy lane of the village of Bannockburn. The great sword of Robert the Bruce still strapped to his side, the king kneaded his ribs and his leg, gingerly assessing what injuries he’d sustained in the plunge from his horse.

  The miller, recognizing the king, moved his thick body quickly toward the fallen nobleman and helped him into his hut.

  Outside, two men reined in their horses as the miller reemerged, running for help. Leaping to the ground, one of them took the stocky man roughly by the arm, while the other ran his short sword pitilessly into the miller’s back.

  With no show of emotion, the leader stepped past the twitching body and ducked inside the hut. On the straw in the corner lay the king, looking weakly at the two men.

  “I know you, Andrew,” whispered King James, spying the clan broach the young nobleman wore. “You’re no help!”

  “Nay, m’lord,” he answered, his blue eyes, so pale that they were mere reflections of the ice in his soul, glimmered malevolently. “But I am here to help you into the next world.”

  Behind him, his crony stepped into the king’s vision.

  “Torquil MacLeod...I should have hung you when I had the opportunity.”

  With a glance at his companion, the Highlander moved back a step, a shadow of fear crossing his face.

  “Don’t fret, Torquil,” said the blue-eyed warrior over his shoulder. “This old man knows opportunity must be grabbed by the forelock.”

  Andrew crossed the room to the king and covetously eyed the gleaming ring of Robert the Bruce—symbol of Scottish kingship—that encircled monarch’s finger. “And that, old king, is exactly what we will do,” he whispered harshly. “When you are dead, your son James will be king. Aye, we’ll make him king. But not for long. Power belongs to the strong and the quick...and soon I will rule Scotland.”

  Then, raising his sword, Andrew thrust the bloody blade again and again into his king’s chest.

  Edinburgh trembled with the news that James III had been found slain in the miller’s hut, and that the monarch’s ancestral ring, the symbol of his power, had been missing from his hand.

  But there was no information as to the identity of the assassin.

  Chapter 22

  Her gown should be of Goodliness,

  Well ribboned with Renown,

  Adorned with Pleasure in every place,

  Trimmed in the finest Style...

  —Robert Henryson

  “The Garment of Good Ladies”

  Alec’s breath caught as Fiona stepped into the open doorway.

  From behind her, the brilliant sunlight radiated in a thousand luminous streams, shimmering as it dispersed in the dim half-light of the church’s interior. Alec moved into the space before the chancel, gazing with pride and open admiration at the woman of his dreams.

  The crowd inside, dressed in their colorful finery, had been jovial and restless, but now quieted into a hushed silence as every eye focused on the red-haired beauty crossing the threshold.

  Looking past them, Alec felt all other senses fading as the enchantment of the vision before him grew stronger. Even the majestic sound of the lone musician, piping Fiona’s approach to the altar, became a vague background to the look of love that was being directed toward him. A look of love from an angel floating serenely through the crowd to him.

  When Alec had ridden down from the castle an hour ago, the villagers and crofters who had lined the sun-drenched route were a festive crowd, cheering and singing along with the roving groups of bagpipers. The children, running back and forth amid the housewives who were handing out food and sweets, continually raced up to the groom and his escort of armed warriors. Alec smiled as the fierce, tartan-clad fighters, their polished armor flashing in the sun, constantly reached down and scooped up the shrieking youngsters for short rides along the way. Even his squire Robert, dressed in his new chain mail, his sword gleaming by his side, looked quite manly as he joked with the other warriors and the flower-throwing maidens that they passed.

  Crossing the bridge into the village, Alec shook hands with the gleeful folk as the shouts rang out, announcing his entrance into the hamlet.

  The buildings of the town itself were decked out for the celebration, sporting new coats of bright blues and yellows, reds and greens. Banners and the Macpherson plaids waved in every window, and the residents risked toppling from the upper stories onto their neighbors in the streets, in their excitement and revelry.

  Everywhere there was laughter and music and exultation, and Alec’s heart overflowed to think of how this jubilant greeting would transport his beloved bride when she traced this joyous route to the church.

  As the young warlord turned with a wave at the top of the short flight of steps to the church, the crowded Marketcross again erupted with tumultuous sounds of gladness and gaiety, and the pipers continued to add their melodious strains to the boisterous gaiety of the event. Suddenly a moment of regret struck Alec that his brother Ambrose couldn’t have been here for the celebration, and he thought that probably Fiona was feeling the same way about the prioress’ absence. The message had arrived though, from both, that a big event was being prepared to celebrate Fiona’s and Alec’s marriage once they returned to Skye.

  But the extemporaneous para
de of bagpipes and dancing folks that began to move around the village square drew a broad smile from the groom, and as he watched, many of the guests and even his brother John joined the happy revelers. Pushing back down the steps to the thunderous ovation of the crowd, Alec, as well, joined the festive marchers with a single lap of the Marketcross. Then, with a laugh and a shout to answer their clamor of approval, he vaulted the steps once more and disappeared into the church.

  Now, standing spellbound by the vision of loveliness gliding toward him, Alec felt his heart thundering in his chest as he gazed in rapt admiration at his fairy bride.

  Fiona, too, saw nothing but her beloved.

  Her eyes traveled over the magnificent warrior before her. And he was magnificent. Alec’s long blond hair was tied back in an orderly fashion. Arrayed in his finest kilt and a shirt of gleaming white silk, a tartan of Macpherson plaid crossing his massive chest, the groom cut a bold and dashing figure as he awaited her before the altar. The light of a thousand candles flashed on the hilt of his long sword and on the clan arms inscribed on his golden broach.

  But it was the look in his handsome face that captured her. His blue eyes shone with such love that Fiona felt herself melting inside. And her own love—glowing, fluid, molten—threatened to burst through her skin as her eyes locked on his.

  Colin Campbell, the earl of Argyll, sitting on the same bench as the Macpherson family, put a gentle hand around his wife’s shoulder and pulled her tightly to his side. Leaning down, he kissed away the joyful tear glistening on Celia’s beautiful face.