by Dee Davis
"Or any other of a thousand Comyn women long dead and gone."
Lily shivered, her gut tightening as she stared up at the woman.
"But surely there's no harm in sharing the legend," Mrs. Abernathy said. "I mean, in light of the fact that Lily is clearly the lady's descendent."
Reginald shrugged, and nodded to his wife. "Tildy tells the tale far better than I."
"How much do you know about the Comyns?" Tildy asked.
"Not much." Nothing except what a five-hundred-year-old Macgillivray had told her. "Just that they were a powerful clan. And that there was some kind of blood feud between the Comyns and a rival clan. The Macgillivrays."
"Well, that's the heart of it really." Tildy nodded her approval. "And the legend is the source, I'm sad to say, of that very feud. Many years ago, when David was king of all Scotland, the Comyn clan was already very old and powerful. And because of that, they'd made their share of enemies along the way, the most virulent of those, the Macgillivrays. The initial cause of the two clans' dislike is lost in time, but doubtless it stemmed from their rivalry for positions of power.
"But their animosity toward one another was no more or less than that between any powerful opposing clans. Until Graeme Macgillivray fell in love with Tyra Comyn."
"And the portrait?" Lily interrupted. "You think she's Tyra Comyn?"
"There's no proof, lass," Reginald said. "But family lore has it as true. The portrait has been handed down through the centuries. And no matter what befalls the family, the portrait always manages to survive."
"The woman was known as the light of the valley. And as such, was supposed to have been uncommonly lovely." Tildy smiled, shooting a glance in Lily's direction. "As are you, my dear."
Lily blushed and shivered, her feelings at odds with each other, something almost approaching memory teasing at the corners of her mind. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus on Mrs. Comyn and her story.
"Anyway, as you can imagine, a love between the two clans would have been forbidden. And so our lovers, Graeme and Tyra, hid their burgeoning relationship from their respective families until the day that Tyra told Graeme that she was with child.
"Overjoyed at the news, Graeme pledged his love, and begged her to marry him. And they did so, in secret, fearing for the wee bairn's life. But Graeme also believed that he could convince his father to accept his bride. His father, a great laird, 'twas no' happy with the news, but could see that his son would ne'er be convinced to leave the lass. So he agreed to accept the union and invited all of Tyra's clan to a great feast to celebrate the nuptials."
"The Red Wedding," Lily whispered, her stomaching quaking with the image.
"I'm sorry?" Tildy responded, her brows furrowing in question.
"It's from a book. By George R.R. Martin. It's not important." She waved a hand for Tildy to continue.
Mrs. Comyn nodded. "The Comyns had doubts of course about the sincerity of the Macgillivray laird. Kendrick was his name. But they went nevertheless, willing to put aside their distrust for the sake of Tyra and her happiness. And so the two clans gathered at the Macgillivray holding. Then sometime during the celebration, the Macgillivrays rose up against the Comyns. The party was a trap, meant to lure the Comyns to their deaths."
"Oh God," Lily said, her breath coming in short bursts. It felt as if the story were happening to her. A Comyn in love with a Macgillivray. "So Graeme turned on her?"
"Ach, no," Reginald said, taking up the tale. "He remained true to his love, jumping in front of Tyra to save her from his father's blow, if the story is to be believed. And his own father struck him down."
"And Tyra?" Lily managed to choke out, tears filling her eyes for these long dead people.
"She lived," Tildy responded. "Somehow in the melee, her kinsmen helped her to escape. But men were killed on both sides. For the Comyns it was a slaughter. And when it was over, very few were left standing. But Kendrick, the mastermind of the entire ordeal, managed to escape unscathed. He was quick to point fingers at the Comyns. At Tyra in particular. Claiming the Comyns attacked the Macgillivrays. He blamed her for his son's death. Even claimed that she had been the one to kill him."
"How horrible," Lily cried. "But the story doesn't end like that, surely."
"Well, it wasn't a truly happy ending," Mrs. Comyn admitted. "Tyra had lost her one true love. But she still carried his bairn. And swore to love Graeme's child until the end of her days, knowing that through the babe, a part of Graeme would live on. So in the end, love found a way. Even in the wake of tragedy, Tyra held on to her love.
"But both clans were destroyed. The Macgillivrays more so even than the Comyns. With so many dead, they were scattered to the far corners of Scotland, their power lost. And of course they blamed the Comyns. Although fate was no kinder to them. They too were eventually scattered and fated to a lesser history. But that's not truly the end. The legend has it that when the circle is again complete—Macgillivray and Comyn joined by love, then both clans will rise to power again.
"As I said, however, there's only sparse evidence to support the truth of what really happened. We know that Tyra truly existed. And that Kendrick was laird of the Macgillivrays at the time. We also know there was a battle between the two clans. And that the Macgillivrays were decimated by the outcome."
"But you have nothing to prove that the lady in the portrait was Tyra. Beyond the fact that it's old, I mean."
"Just the ring," Tildy said.
"The ring?" Lily answered, her voice catching as she struggled for words.
"Yes. The ring." Tildy waved off her husband, who was clearly about to protest. "I'm afraid I left the best part of the story out. You see, supposedly when Graeme and Tyra first married, she had a ring made specially for him. And he wore the ring from the moment they were wed until that fated day." Tildy paused, her gaze shooting to the portrait.
"After he was struck down, Graeme apparently held on to life for short while. And Tyra held him close as he breathed his last. And then before her kinsmen spirited her away, she took the ring, and according to the story, wore it on a chain around her neck until the day she died. There are some who say the circle in the legend refers to the ring. That when a Macgillivray again wears the Comyn ring all with be right with the clans."
"Which is a lovely story, except that the ring doesn't exist." Reginald crossed his arms over his chest on a cynical sigh. Clearly the man wasn't a romantic.
"But there is proof. Right there in the painting. The lady is wearing the ring," Tildy insisted.
"Ah, but even though it is clear she's a Comyn, it's more than possible that someone romanticized her painting by adding the ring. Or maybe it's some other ring altogether."
"But there's writing on the ring," his wife argued. "You can't read it, but you can see it. In Gaelic. It says—"
"Mo chridhe gu bràth. My heart forever." Lily spoke softly, her hand to her chest, her heart pounding so loudly she feared they could hear it.
"How in the world could you possibly know that?" Tildy asked, her expression puzzled. Reginald and Mrs. Abernathy also turned to her in question.
"Because—" She licked her lips nervously and pulled the chain from beneath her shirt. "—because I have the ring."
CHAPTER 18
"THIS IS ALL RATHER HARD to believe," Reginald Comyn said, his eyes still riveted on the ring.
Of course the Comyns didn't know the half of it. Although Lily had shared information with regard to the ring, she had no intention of mentioning her slips through time. Especially when said slips had led her to a Macgillivray. It didn't seem likely that her newly discovered cousins were still holding to the feud, but it didn't seem worth the risk of opening herself up to what were essentially strangers.
Although that's exactly what she'd done with Elaine, Jeff and the Abernathys. And if she were being totally honest, with Bram. Still, she'd shocked the Comyns enough for one day. Better to leave them trusting her sanity.
They'd re
tired back to the parlor, the smaller room much more comfortable. And frankly, Lily wasn't certain she wanted to be within range of the portrait. Something in it called to her. Tugged at her memory. She shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate on the conversation at hand.
"I know it's a lot to take in," she said, her gaze encompassing both Tildy and Reginald. "But there's certainly no denying that I have the ring."
"Or that your family has been in possession of it for centuries," Mrs. Abernathy added.
"I think it's a marvelous find," Tildy exclaimed. "And it's wonderful to find you as well, my dear. There are other Comyns about of course, but none that we can directly link to the legend." She smiled and poured Lily a second cup of tea.
"So since you obviously had no idea what you were walking into, what with the portrait and the legend and all, I presume you had some other reason for wanting to see us?" Reginald sat back in his wingchair, balancing a teacup and saucer on his knee.
"Yes." Lily returned Tildy's smile and accepted the replenished tea. "I've been doing some research. More relevant to me than I'd supposed." She exchanged a glance with Mrs. Abernathy, who nodded, urging her onward. "Anyway, I'm looking for information on a fight that may have taken place here at the manor. Sometime in the fifteenth century. When the tower house still stood. Alec Comyn would have been the laird."
Reginald set his teacup down and reached for a stack of files he'd brought from his office.
"Reginald is bit of an historian himself," Tildy said, while her husband sorted through the papers in the files.
"Ah, yes. I have it here. Alec Connal Nivan Comyn. Fourth laird of Tigh an Droma. He inherited from his father."
"Is there anything about his life? Particularly a battle or skirmish with the Macgillivrays?"
"In those days I'm afraid such fighting was rather common. Especially with a Macgillivray holding nearby."
"Dunbrae. Yes, we've been there," Lily said, trying to keep her emotions in check.
"I don't see anything specific." Reginald frowned as he thumbed through the contents of one folder. "No, wait. Here it is. There was a fight. In early May of 1468. Apparently a band of Macgillivrays, led by the son of the neighboring clan, along with a group from Clan Chattan attacked the tower. There aren't any specifics unfortunately. The only reason it's recorded at all is that the tower was damaged. But there are records of Alec beyond 1468, so you can rest easy knowing he survived the attack."
"And the Macgillivrays? Is there anything about them?"
Reginald studied the paper in his hand again. "No details. Other than that the Comyns held strong. Apparently the Macgillivray's leader was killed in the fray, and with him gone, the rest of his forces withdrew."
Lily's heart sank.
"My dear, you've gone quite white," Tildy said, her voice filled with concern. "Is everything okay?"
Lily opened her mouth, but words refused to follow, tears filling her eyes. Bram. Dear God. Bram.
"She's just a bit overwhelmed." Mrs. Abernathy was quick to fill the silence, her arm coming around Lily as she pulled her to her feet. "I think after everything that's happened, it might be best if I get her home. There's just too much to process."
"Yes. Yes, of course," Reginald, too, rose to his feet. "I wasn't thinking. I confess I'd never even considered the possibility that there was any truth to the old stories. And to find out that somehow there might be a link through my line—well, as you said, it is overwhelming. And I'm not the one who is a ringer for a dead woman."
"Reggie," Tildy chided as they all walked toward the door.
"It was lovely to meet you both," Mrs. Abernathy was saying, her arm still around Lily.
"Yes," Lily echoed, her heart still twisting at the news of Bram's defeat, and what appeared to be his death. If she'd been with him, maybe he'd… She shook her head. If she'd been there most likely she would be dead as well. But then it hadn't happened yet—had it? Her heart stuttered, hope blooming. Reginald had said May. The battle was in early May. But it was still the end of April.
Maybe there was something she could do. She squared her shoulders, determination replacing her anguish, her fingers closing around the ring. All she had to do was find her way back.
*****
"I canna see a blasted thing in this mist," Ranald groused, his face scrunched in disgust as they made their way across the rocky ground. "We might as well be blind."
"Aye," Iain agreed as they pulled their mounts to a stop at the crest of a hill. "'Tis only getting thicker. And the path here is treacherous." He nodded toward the rocky edge of the cliff, barely visible through the swirling fog.
"Best to stop here for the night, I'm thinking," Ranald offered.
Bram fought against frustration. "You sure we canna push a wee bit further?"
"Not with night falling." Iain shook his head. "There's a copse of trees just over there." He lifted a hand to indicate the shadowy outline of branches waving in the wind. "We can make camp just beyond it, at the base of the rocks." Granite thrust out of the earth like giants' fingers, the formation offering protection from the night.
"Aye, 'twould seem best," Ranald agreed.
Bram bit off an objection as he dismounted. There was no point in blaming Iain for the weather. Still, it rankled that they'd made little progress and now, thanks to the mist, were being forced to stop early for the night.
"Save your ire," Ranald said, slapping a beefy hand against Bram's shoulder, obviously recognizing his frame of mind. "There's naught to do but wait it out. And you know that's the truth of it."
"Besides," Iain added, "if we can't see then neither can our enemies. Which means that even if they're about, we should be safe enough here for now."
"You think they've sent more men, then?" Bram asked.
"Ye canna predict what a Comyn will do," Frazier said, pulling his horse to a halt next to Bram's. "Especially when angered."
"You canna predict at all to my way o' thinking." Ranald's grin loomed out of through the mist. "The only Comyn you can truly count on is a dead one."
"So we stay alert," Iain agreed. "But we still stop for the night. We dare not risk the horses. 'Tis too easy to stumble off the cliff in this mist."
Bram saw the truth in what Iain was saying, but that didn't make it any easier to stomach. He wanted it over with—the Comyns vanquished and Dunbrae restored to its rightful owner. His uncle be damned. There'd never been any love lost between Malcolm and Seamus. And clearly his uncle was not interested in reconciliation with his nephew. Otherwise he'd have quashed the rumors and called for Bram to come home.
Instead, the lies were still circulating, Bram's honor sullied by the innuendo. Anger forced his fingers into fists. He'd never felt so impotent. And leaving Lily had only made it all that much more unpalatable.
Although, in truth, had his father not been betrayed, he would never have been at the cottage and so never met her at all. Fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of irony, the loss of his father leading to the love of his life. And now, it was possible that he'd lost her as well. For even if he did manage to vanquish Alec Comyn, there was no telling if he'd be able to find her again. And perchance that miracle were to occur, there was nothing to say that she'd forgive him for what she no doubt saw as a betrayal.
For the first time he wondered if the price of honor might not be too high.
He shook his head, banishing the thought. There was nothing more important. Were he here, his father would demand vengeance against both the Comyns and the brother who had so deftly put his son aside. And even if Bram could overlook all of that, there was the matter of his clansmen, slaughtered by the Comyns, many of them in an effort to let him slip away.
He owed them all his life, and that was a debt he intended to pay. Lily would simply have to understand. He'd make her see.
After he'd defeated Alec Comyn.
But first they had to wait out this damned weather.
With a start, Bram realized the hillside had gone qui
et. While he'd stood there ruminating, his cousins and the rest of the men had disappeared into the mist. He strained into the silence, relieved when he could just make out the distant whinny of a horse. His own mount shuffled nervously, hoofs echoing against the loose rocks littering the hillside.
"Ho there," he soothed, reaching out to stroke the horse's flank. "'Tis nothing to be afraid of. Only a wee bit o' mist. Come now, and I'll find you some nice oats for your dinner."
He led the horse in the direction of the copse of trees. They moved slowly and carefully. As predicted, the mist had thickened. It would be easy to become disoriented. To the right he knew the cliff dropped away sharply. A wrong step and he'd surely fall to his death.
He squinted into the gloom, the movement of the shadowy branches in the distance barely visible. He hoped Iain was right and that there weren't enemies about. Fighting in the mist was a dangerous endeavor. One to be avoided if at all possible.
Bram stopped, frowning into the night. Even the shadows of the trees had disappeared. Silence surrounded him, only the soft hiss of the horse's breathing filling the air. He strained for some sign of the camp ahead. But there was nothing. No firelight. No neighing from the horses. Just the heavy weight of the mist as it swirled around them.
He led the horse forward again, their movements louder now as their footsteps rang against the stones, the sound still smothered by the mist. Each step was taken slowly, Bram's eyes locked on the ground in front of him. He trusted his sense of direction, but even so, knew it was easy to lose one's way in this heavy a fog.
Behind him stones rattled, and his horse reared in fright. Bram whirled around, pulling his claymore from the sheath against his back. The mist entombed them, the clearing gone quiet again. His horse skittered nervously, but held its ground. Bram waited, listening, and then chided himself for being so jumpy.
He slid the claymore back into its sheath and then picked up the horse's reins. Best to get on with it, before Ranald and Iain came looking for him. He'd never hear the end of it if they believed he'd managed to lose himself in the mist.