The Raven's Wish

by King, Susan

  "When we went reiving after the MacDonalds' cattle, you said that it was a cold ride, a legal one, with you present as the queen's man. This last ride with Magnus must have been a hot ride. It was a legal pursuit," she insisted.

  He shook his head. "It was not. Only Magnus and I rode out, without witnesses. I did not think this last time, Elspeth. I had no plan. I acted out of anger, out of a need for revenge. And murder was done. Niall believed that Ruari was murdered, and he made sure that his uncle knew."

  "If I had killed Niall myself with that sword—"

  "Hush. That would not have helped anyone. I broke the bond. And I must pay the price."

  She broke his grasp and began to pace. "The Frasers should pay the fine, with no harm to you. What was the fine?"

  "Seven thousand pounds."

  She began to breathe quickly. He knew the amount shocked her; few Highlanders, even chiefs, had that kind of coin. "We will raise it somehow. It is only a bond, after all," she said. "Do not go to Edinburgh, but send word to your friends, Moray and Maitland. State what happened. You do not have to go with Robert. He is no threat to you, with my cousins here."

  "Elspeth."

  "Surely your friends on the Council will pardon you and then arrest Robert for his shameful betrayal. He is your kin, though I am sorry to link you to him in that way—"

  "Elspeth, stop." He took a step toward her.

  She twisted her hands together frantically. "We will ask for time to pay the fine. Coin rules in government, does it not?"

  He grabbed her shoulders. "Stop, girl." Wrapping his arms around her, he rested his chin on top of her head. "I must go to Edinburgh. If I do not, worse trouble will come to the Frasers. Fire and sword will be declared, and the outlawing of the entire clan for the breaking of this bond."

  She pressed her forehead into his shoulder. "But there has to be some way to explain to the Council what happened. They would not execute a man for protecting his wife."

  "They will interrogate me, but they will not execute me."

  "Duncan—"

  "No one will harm me," he said. He took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes, knowing her greatest fear, wanting to eliminate it. "Your vision cannot affect me. Remember that I do not believe in the Sight." That was no longer as true as it had once been; he said it now to comfort her.

  "Duncan, you do believe in the Sight," she whispered. A deep sob burst from her. He caught her within his arms again and held her.

  "You have been put to the horn because of what happened to me. I have led you to this." She raised her head and looked at him, tears glistening in her eyes. "The vision—I knew that I would have a hand in your fate. I felt it that day."

  "Hush," he said. "You had no hand in my fate. I led myself here by my own actions. And I would choose the same again, and ride after you, Elspeth Fraser, to keep you safe."

  "But you placed your life in the balance when you rode out."

  "Your life was already in the balance. Should I have done nothing, because of a bit of paper?"

  She smiled then, a wobbly, wet smile that took his breath away. "For a long-robe," she said, "you sound very much like a Highland man."

  "I am a Highland man, and proud of that." He smiled into her hair. "Very proud."

  She sniffed. "I will come with you to Edinburgh. We will fight this together."

  "You will not," he said. "Stay here at Dulsie."

  "And not know for weeks, even months what has become of you? I cannot bear that, Duncan."

  "I will send word to you. Stay here. If you are here"—he drew a deep breath—"then my heart is here, and I know I will return. Remember the Dulsie legend, the fairy's silver net."

  "The lairds of Dulsie always return," she breathed.

  "The laird of Dulsie will return," he said. "Believe that, if you will believe any prophecy."

  Chapter 23

  The fetters they are on my feet,

  And O but they are cauld!

  My bracelets they are sturdy steel,

  Instead of beaten gold.

  ~"Johnie Scot"

  His dreams were as dark as his days, as black as his nights. Even in sleep he could not escape the enveloping blackness. No images came when he slept from exhaustion, no respite, no hope. Whenever he woke, it was to the same cold darkness.

  Only a tiny opening in the wall provided light and air in his prison cell. He often looked up at that chink, a few feet above his head. Sometimes when the shaft of light cut through the dark, he would pass his hand through the transparent, pale light that flowed down.

  At other times, amber light glowed through the small grate set in the thick iron-bound wooden door. He could hear voices, distorted by the narrow stone passageways beyond his cell. He heard the scrape of heavy boots and the clink of pikes and swords. But those voices were rarely directed at him, and the firelight was not always there.

  He was in a cell in Edinburgh Castle, one of a block of cells on the south side of the castle, below the palace apartments. He knew exactly where he was, having visited prisoners here himself. But he had never spent more than a quarter or half of an hour here before. He had been held here ten days, two weeks perhaps. Though he had tried to observe and record the cycle of light and dark in the tiny shaft of outside light, he was not certain of his count.

  The cell was small, a pacing of eight one way, ten the other. The floor was well below the level of the door, forming a kind of dark pit. At night the cold was piercing, and he would burrow under straw for warmth. There were no furnishings, unless he considered the covering of straw and filth on the floor to be his bed, his table and his chair. Once a day a bowl of gruel and a hunk of bread was handed down to him, and every few days the guard would bring in a bucket of water.

  Adequate accommodations for a condemned man, he thought. Most prisoners sentenced to death received less than this, unless the man was of very high rank and could offer better bribes to the guards. Duncan had offered what coin he had on his person, and had traded his boots for fresh water.

  He had plenty of funds elsewhere, but no way to get more coin unless a friend were to contact him. To the guards, he was only a man doomed to die in another week or so. Without more money for bribing, his status as a lawyer or a Highland laird was of no use to him. For now, water, bread and gruel would come his way, although he doubted that the straw would be changed.

  He sighed loudly and slid down to the floor. The iron fetters around his ankles bit unless he sat a certain way. The heavy chain that bound his wrists was long enough to allow movement. Heavy enough, too, to challenge his strength. He had spent hours lifting and lowering the chain methodically as he paced the cell.

  His legs and arms were just as strong as they had been when he had been thrown in here. He would not die a weak man. He ate every morsel of the gruel and bread each day, drank the stale water, and began to understand why some prisoners ate the mice and rats raw, when they could catch them. He preferred his meat cooked, and so let the creatures nibble at straw undisturbed.

  Most of his time was spent thinking of alternatives to the sentence of beheading that the Council had passed down to him. He had had few visitors since the day of the trial, that swift afternoon of justice-mocking that Robert had somehow arranged. Swift and sure, for Duncan had not been entitled to counsel at the trial due to the harsh Scots laws concerning treason.

  Robert had come once, but had not entered the cell, and had only passed on a document to him requiring his signature. Duncan's houseservant, a dour old woman, had visited to inquire if the rooms Duncan kept should be rented out to another. He had asked the servant to keep them at least until he was gone. Then he had asked her to send word to William Maitland, the secretary to the Privy Council, who was away from Edinburgh, to inform him of the situation. He had asked, too, that word be sent to the Earl of Moray, the queen's half-brother, who was also away. The woman had seemed intimidated by the two great names uttered in the dark prison cell. She had left, and Duncan had little
hope that she would contact either of those men.

  So each day he slept, and ate, and lifted his chains for strength, and watched the dusty beam of light that divided his cell. Helpless to affect his situation, he waited for a miracle.

  On the twenty-fifth day, by Duncan's count, Robert Gordon came again. The key grated in the lock, the door swung open, and Robert jumped the length of the drop to the cell floor. Cloaked from head to foot, he tossed back his hood. The door swung closed, but Duncan knew a guard waited in the corridor.

  He would gladly have throttled the man who stood a few feet away from him. He considered taking that moment of pleasure in exchange for his life, knowing that the guard would surely kill him if he even attempted to kill his visitor.

  But he decided, rationally and coldly, to wait. Curiosity, if nothing else, rose in him as Robert stood in the deep shadows.

  "What do you want?" he asked in Gaelic. He hardly recognized the rasp of his own voice.

  "I have received word from my sister," Robert said, in Scots. "Your wife rides here with her Fraser cousins."

  Duncan stood slowly, all of his senses tingling at the mention of her name. "I did not send word to her."

  Robert shrugged. "A gillie arrived yesterday with the message that she was on her way. She had not heard from you, I suppose, and decided to make the trip before the winter snows close the passes to the Highlands."

  "Perhaps." Duncan stepped forward, into the beam of light that sliced through the darkness. He knew how he must look, a bearded wild man, but he knew, too, that the steady gleam of hatred in his eye kept Robert standing nervously by the door.

  "I informed the Council that an appeal might be presented. They told me to come down here and tell you, since it is your right to be aware of such proceedings. But I wouldna hold out hope for an appeal, Macrae. Especially from a girl dressed like a wild Scot. She will make scant impression on the Council. And the Frasers are not in favor just now."

  "Nor are the Gordons." Duncan took a step forward. Robert inched back. Sliding his bare feet in their shackles, Duncan advanced again, just for the pleasure of seeing Robert shrink back toward the door. "You have told the Council much, Robert."

  "It is my duty, I believe."

  "Your duty? Was it your duty to arrange that cursed marriage offer with Ruari MacDonald months ago? And when you could not carry that off, was it your duty to make certain that the Council knew the bond had been broken? You are Elspeth's half-brother. Where is your loyalty? Where is your bond with your own kin?"

  "My kin are Gordons," Robert snapped. "Elspeth is only half-blooded to me. I felt an obligation to see that she was well-married. Beyond that—"

  "She is well-married. To me. But you've ensured that she will be a widow. Who will you wed her to now? Someone else who will advance you in the Council's eye? Another MacDonald? Opinion of them goes low, but a gesture at Highland peace might be worth it for you. A Gordon? Marrying your sister to a Gordon would not gain you any favors now." Duncan tapped his chin in a pretense of thinking hard. "Your better course might be to wed her to someone of power. Some widowed judge who could benefit you, perhaps. Or…a lawyer for the Privy Council." Duncan wanted to shout it, and did not.

  Robert reached up to knock at the door. "Open up." The guard who had been outside either had stepped away or was very hard of hearing. "Guard!"

  Duncan crossed the cell, chains screeching over stone. Robert backed against the door, knocking again. An idea had occurred to Duncan a few days earlier; he decided to give it an airing.

  "The Gordons need someone to advance their cause, do they not?" Duncan grabbed a handful of thick wool lined with fur, and lifted Robert to his toes. He knew, as he breathed into Robert's face, that his rank breath alone could have brought someone to their knees. He liked that thought just now.

  "You are a cousin of the dispossessed Huntly of Gordon, and a lawyer into the bargain," Duncan said. "And I am one of the lawyers who brought George Gordon to trial. I am the man who interrogated John Gordon before he was condemned to die. And my signature was among others on the document that declared George Gordon, the earl of Huntly, guilty of high treason, even in his putrid, decaying state of health, or death, as it were."

  Robert stared at him, his breathing a rhythm of wheeze and pant. "My kinsmen asked me to—it was not I—"

  "Not you, never you, is it, Robert. It was not petty jealousy of your sister and the Frasers that brought you after me when the bond was broken. You and your Gordon kin saw a chance for some revenge when ye learned about the Frasers' bond of caution. A chance to break one of the lawyers who broke John Gordon. That is what you were after with me!"

  "Guard!" Robert croaked out.

  Duncan opened his hands and let go of Robert's cloak. Then he slammed the chain linking his wrists against Robert's throat, pinning him to the cold wall. "I have little pride left to me, and I will gladly commit murder. These chains are long enough to choke a man."

  Robert's eyes rolled wildly. "The Council sent you to the Frasers with the bond of caution," Robert said. "I should have gone. So I decided to promise Elspeth to Ruari MacDonald. I thought that the marriage would seal the truce, and your bond would be unnecessary."

  "You have no subtle understanding of Scots law, then, even for a lawyer. Go on." Duncan tightened his grip. "What then?"

  "You humiliated me with that letter sent to John MacDonald," Robert said. "I spoke with my Gordon cousins. We decided that you had earned some humiliation yourself. But then you married Elspeth—so I paid Ruari MacDonald to steal her. I hoped the Frasers would break the bond. What luck when you broke it yourself." He grinned in the shadows. "Guard!" he bellowed.

  Duncan flicked his glance up toward the grate. No movement there yet. As long as this piece of luck held, he would use the time to question Robert. If he were to die, he would at least die knowing the truth.

  "And the trial? You pushed those charges through, with yourself as sole witness. I was accused of breaking the queen's peace, countenancing with Frasers under a bond of caution, practicing Catholic rites with a wedding. Spying and treason. Where did you get those letters, Robert? Who forged them?"

  Robert shrugged. "Notorious charges, were they not? Some of the Privy Council members enjoy wielding their power and were willing to condemn anyone who disturbs the peace. I emphasized the charge that you underwent a Catholic rite recently with your marriage."

  "That was particularly low," Duncan snarled.

  "But that alone was enough to get you tossed in the dungeon. A sentence of beheading was easy enough, once they realized that they could make an example of you. The dire consequences of ignoring the Council's wisdom, breaking bonds of caution, and corresponding with the English. Notorious."

  "When Moray finds this out, I will be pardoned. He may fine me for the bond, and I will gladly pay. Treason. Hah."

  "Moray knows nothing of this, and you can get no word to him. Every friend that you have in this town is either too frightened to be associated with you, or has been turned away at the door. And your wife will not be allowed to visit, should she come."

  "Do not bring Elspeth here," Duncan growled.

  "If she and her bunch of cousins arrive here, they may be charged with breaking the queen's peace themselves."

  "You are a snake," Duncan said, "and easily throttled." He pressed with the chain, his arms trembling with the effort to control himself. He felt a need, a physical urge, to kill this man. Hatred pounded in his gut, raw and heavy.

  "I am a Gordon," Robert said slowly, his voice strained by the pressure of the chain at this throat. "And my clan will have revenge on ye, Duncan Macrae, for aiding in our disgrace."

  "Your kin disgraced themselves," Duncan said.

  "Is everythin' fine wi' ye, Master Gordon?" came a throaty voice at the grate.

  Duncan heard the scrape of the key in the lock. He saw the triumph in Robert's pale gaze as he reluctantly lowered the chain. The door creaked open.

  "That man at
tacked me," Robert said to the guard as he scrambled out of the cell.

  "Sorry sir, I wasna here, I dinna see it," the guard said.

  "God have mercy on your soul," Robert said to Duncan. The door slammed shut.

  "And on yours," Duncan growled, and spat on the floor.

  The guard returned a few moments later to stand by the grate. "Did ye attack Master Gordon?" he called down.

  "I did," Duncan said affably.

  The guard chuckled. "I heard ye talkin', an I says, there's twa men that want a moment tae work things out atween 'em. So I left, ye ken, an came back, but ye hadna killed the worm. Did ye want more time, then?"

  Duncan began to smile. "That is a voice I have heard afore," he said slowly. "Hob Kerr?"

  "Greetings, Cousin Duncan," Hob answered. "Nice to see ye again, though I am sad to see ye in that cell, a fine long-robe like yerself, and one o' the finest reivers we ever knew." Duncan looked up to see grimy fingers shove through the grate and wave at him.

  "Hob! How is it you are here in the castle?"

  "Man-at-arms now, for steady pay. It pleases me wife more than reivin' in the night. I heard ye were here, and asked for this duty, and just got it. What can I get for ye, Duncan man? A blanket? Some meat?"

  "I know one or two things," Duncan said. "Unless, as a guard, you prefer to remain true to your duties. In that case, a blanket and meat would be welcome."

  "I am a Kerr, man. Scots laws are a bairnie's playthings to us." Hob dropped his voice to a whisper. "I dinna ken how I might set ye free, though, unless we both flee to France—"