The Night Side

by Melanie Jackson

  “Perhaps not, but there is every chance that they will be carried out to sea if the tide is on the turn. You’d have to swim to Norway to see them again.”

  “Hmph! Lowland heathen!” Tearlach snorted and stomped away from his unappreciative audience. A nearby gander hissed at him, perhaps also offended by the noise he produced.

  “May I offer you something to drink?” George Balfour asked, rejoining Colin and MacJannet now that Tearlach was gone. “We haven’t any proper whisky. ‘Tis a brew made with new heather and only a little malt, but it is still rather good.”

  “Thank you,” Colin answered with a polite smile that concealed his thoughts.

  “Frances would conduct you about, but she will be engaged for a while yet,” George said with slight awkwardness. “She is always very busy. It was lucky we could play today. Come inside and I shall show you over the place. It is not a difficult castle to learn, being quite modest and mostly a tower.”

  “Of course.”

  They entered first into a great hall whose ceiling was made with only a moderate vault, which had but one fireplace built on a wall opposite the circular staircase that led up and down to other levels. It was not an unusual design for castles built in this era. Colin knew that directly below them would be the lower vault where the servants, and sometimes animals, would be quartered in winter or in times of war. Beyond that would be the dungeons.

  Being a young keep, the latter would not be so sullied with blood as many older prisons, but still, all dungeons were dreadful. The air was invariably foul and dank, and only dark deeds were done there, the kind that made angry ghosts. At the moment, it seemed unlikely that anyone living was in residence below, but Colin made a note to himself to explore after everyone had retired to bed. He was curious about this Bokey hole where the spectral hound was supposed to live. It sounded like an excellent place for a secret passage. If there was any danger to be had from that quarter, he preferred to know about it in advance.

  Colin let his eyes wander upward and pause at the entresol. The room was more functional than ornamental, as was the narrow winding stairs, which could be easily defended by men with pikes or swords. And one ghost. The apparition first announced itself with an auditory herald, and Colin was able to school his face into calm before it appeared. The apparition was vague in the daylight, but he could plainly see that the haunt was a young man, dark and cruel of face, and he was dragging a body down the stairs by its heel. The only sound was the wet clunk of the victim’s battered skull thumping down the treads. As usual, no one else seemed aware of its gruesome presence. If they felt anything, it was probably an instinctive avoidance of a cold spot in the room. The spirit would be stronger and clearer at night, and Colin made a note to himself to avoid the stairs after dark unless it was an emergency. He had yet to meet a ghost that had hurt him physically, but some were very adept at inspiring terror and could be obnoxious once they realized that he could see them.

  “You like it?” George asked.

  “Indeed. It is a most sensible design.” It said a great deal about the thoughts of the builder that even the interior of the castle was assembled around the possibility of war. This certainly was no rich man’s toy.

  The only surprise in the great room was a grand baldaquin of silk and gold canopied over a heavily carved cross-framed chair of state, which was more suited to an earl—or even a king—than a mere knight. Colin doubted that the present regent knew of this display of power, and that if she did that she would be pleased by it. Monarchs, and especially regents, tended to be sensitive to these things because of their many wars with the rebellious lairds of the Isles, and were apt to react with opprobrium when they met with such usurpations of state. It might be wisest if the chair were taken down before they petitioned for royal help, if that were the path to be taken in defense of the keep.

  There came a stir in a narrow passage, and then a serving wench arrived with a tray upon which rested a silver ewer and four goblets fashioned in the intricate design of the Gaels.

  Refreshments were quickly but silently poured. Colin accepted his cup with a word of thanks that seemed to fluster the serving woman, and then raised his goblet in salute to the young Balfour. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it contained the sweet wine sent by the MacLeod rather than the offered brew made from heather. He wondered how the women had managed to move the heavy casks that had arrived on the ship, for he was quite certain that the MacLeod’s men had not been allowed inside.

  MacJannet had also been served with a silver goblet of fine wine, though he was supposedly only a servant. Colin wondered if it was because he was a man. Those seemed so scarce at Noltland that mayhap every one was valued. Too, there seemed a lack of the formality among the servants that usually dominated such households. Perhaps a siege mentality had set in and they had dispensed with class roles. And perhaps they had all lost so much that mourning united them.

  George tossed back his wine, wearing an expression of delighted surprise, and then, wearing a new flush in his cheeks, suggested that they continue their tour of the keep. His young tongue quickly relaxed in the genial company and he grew expansive. He pointed the way to the privies and solar and even the kitchens, and then offered to conduct the men to their chambers. All the way up the stairs he regaled them with gruesome stories of haunts and portents. Obviously, he didn’t believe in any of the ghosts that supposedly haunted Noltland. This was simply the grisly appetite of an eleven-year-old boy finding an outlet in a male audience who might appreciate the sorts of things his female cousin doubtless abhorred.

  Colin murmured appreciatively, discounting most of what the boy said, thinking all the while of Noltland’s household oddities and what they might mean. Obviously the boy did not care for his inheritance, which was in itself odd. And again, it was telling that both Colin and MacJannet were given the grandest rooms upstairs, where George and Frances also slept. They were either there so they could be observed by the castle’s mistress, or they were placed there to offer some protection from unknown dangers. Whichever the cause, it proved that something was definitely amiss in Noltland Castle.

  Colin’s chamber was a far cry from his spacious rooms at home, but it was also less mean than many a bedchamber in a battle fortification. From his room he had a view of the ocean, which, at the greater height and on so pleasant a day, seemed a less fearsome thing. The tide had turned and was back on the rise, and the surf was shying about like a nervous animal as it came in contact with the upthrusts of coastal stone. It even seemed to murmur sweetly as it briefly withdrew from the rough shore, leaving only a line of thin white foam scalloped on the rocks. It was a transient pleasure. The honeyed voice would only last until the next storm. With the wind driving it, the sea would scream as it was split open by the knife-edged rocks.

  Colin had already seen entirely too much of Tearlach MacAdam but was not all that surprised when the newly dressed piper sought out him and MacJannet in chambers for further conversation.

  “See that smirch’d floor?” Tearlach demanded abruptly, pointing at a darkened patch of stone beneath a carved chest. “That’s where the first master of Noltland got rid of his wife.”

  MacJannet blinked.

  “Leastwise, that’s where he put the top half of her. Done her to death with a reaping hook. But who could blame him, so shrewish was she. Balfours were always marryin’ witches and poisoners.”

  “Perhaps the wives were driven to it,” MacJannet muttered.

  Knowing that it was probably a mistake, nevertheless Colin asked: “And the lower half?”

  “Tossed out the window intae the sea. Except she didnae go intae the sea as the tide was out and it made a right mess when she hit the rocks. The servants saw everything. Well, how could they not when there was bit of her all over the walls and ground?”

  MacJannet was as stiff as a poker. Colin hoped it was disapproval and not superstitious fear that had arrested his breath.

  “She’s still scarin’
the servants,” Tearlach added. “They say her legs gae runnin’ aboot on stormy nights. But I’ve seen ‘em sometimes just floppin’ about on the stones.” He tsked and looked up to see how this story was being taken.

  “And the rest of her?” MacJannet asked in a faint voice.

  “Well, she cannae get aboot without legs, can she? Nae, she just knocks on the chest askin’ tae be let out. But we never do let her. It’s a wicked enough time dealin’ wi’ her legs.”

  Colin doubted this story, but if the ghost did disturb his rest, he would have the chest removed.

  “And the Bokey hound?” he asked, sounding only mildly interested. This familial fixation with ghosts was getting annoying. So much superstition would impede any efforts at reasonable conversation.

  “Aye, poor mutt. He mostly stays below stairs until some puir soul is tae die. He crawled there after the master beat him, and there he died, the miserable beastie. Some reward for knocking the poison cup out of the drunkard’s hand. But Balfours are mean.”

  So! The beast might not be a hellhound. It could be a ghost. Animal spirits were rare, but Colin had once encountered a spectral horse and its ghostly rider in Cornwall.

  “How charming. Does any room in the castle not contain some grisly ghost? Perhaps we would be safe in the privies?”

  Tearlach’s brow furrowed. “Well, there is at times some howling and moaning in the privies.”

  “That is not entirely supernatural,” MacJannet pointed out. “Particularly if the meat has gone bad.”

  Colin shuddered. Tearlach’s vulgar conversation was beginning to affect even the prim MacJannet. The man was a verbal plague.

  “Enough. When is the evening meal served?”

  “After nightfall. We never eat before full dark,” Tearlach answered reluctantly, clearly wishing to continue his discussion of ghosts and other horrors.

  “Then I shall see you at dusk and not before,” Colin said, indicating to MacJannet that he should eject their visitor from the room.

  Tearlach, who was finally beginning to read Colin’s gestures, hied himself away without further argument, though with a great deal of muttering. MacJannet closed the door gently and then cleared his throat.

  “Go ahead and speak your mind,” Colin invited. “I know that you are unhappy with what you have seen.”

  “I believe that we may have barely arrived in time to prevent a disaster. You must see that Mistress Balfour cannot continue to care for the boy and this keep alone. She’s sly, but that is not sufficient to keep the local wolves away.” He sounded disapproving. MacJannet had very set notions about the roles of the sexes.

  Colin grunted. “Aye, I do see it. And I know that clever females can be a nuisance, particularly if their hearts are evil, but do you know, MacJannet, in spite of the current fashion, I have never cared for a total absence of wit in women? And especially not in one who must serve as an ally.”

  “I do not think that we are seeing any such lack now. And I did not say that she was evil,” MacJannet protested mildly. “’Tis simply not a task for a woman alone. And she must be made to see it before disaster befalls this keep.”

  “No, she’s not lacking in wits, is she?” Colin smiled widely. “I think Mistress Balfour is a very devious and brave creature. And likely quite willful. This is going to be a most interesting time, and possibly even an arduous one, wresting power from her tiny hands.”

  “Indeed.” MacJannet sounded considerably less happy than his master.

  His pessimism with their circumstances was confirmed quickly after Colin said: “I suppose that you made note of the complete lack of pampered paunches in this keep.”

  “I did. Winter may see the end of some of these people if supplies of meat are not found.”

  “That is also my belief,” Colin replied. “And so…we will have to journey back south almost immediately, I fear.”

  “Aye?”

  “The remaining Balfour men must be brought home, of course. I suspect you’ll find them somewhere near Blar-na-leine.”

  “And how shall you arrange their freedom from the queen’s service? She’ll be reluctant to let any of her men go,” MacJannet said. He was not challenging Colin, only seeking enlightenment.

  “I believe that the Bishop of Orkney may be of some help. He can probably persuade the regent that the royal child’s interests are better served by allowing the men to return north and defend the castle.”

  MacJannet blinked. “I didn’t know that you included the bishop among your many acquaintances. You generally do not involve yourself in religious matters.”

  Colin smiled. “He doesn’t like Beaton, you see. And any enemy of the cardinal can be made good use of.” Seeing MacJannet frown, Colin added: “My friend, it is nice to know that I still have some secrets from you.”

  MacJannet shook his head. Plainly he did not agree. “I cannot say that I care for this plan. There are too many variables to calculate, and any of them may go disastrously awry.”

  “Nor do I love it,” Colin agreed. “But it is the only one that has presented itself, so what choice have we? You can’t be suggesting that we leave these innocents to the MacLeod’s tender mercies.”

  MacJannet shook his head.

  “At least the castle is sound enough,” he said after a moment, trying for something cheerful to say. “I doubt that anything larger than a hare could get in or out of it with the yett in place—and not even that if the gates are barred. They look strong enough to hold back the ocean.”

  Colin gave his friend a playful look. “I hope that you are wrong, my friend, for I fear that we are going to face some heavy rain and I’d prefer it escape the castle, for I would as soon not get my feet wet when I explore the dungeons this evening.”

  “You won’t like drowning, either,” MacJannet said unhappily.

  “You think the dungeons may flood when the tide is in?” Colin clarified. “But I shouldn’t think the tide would often get that high. And it will not, unfortunately, rain so much until December. I’ll likely end up playing gowff every bloody day.”

  MacJannet shook his head. “I was speaking of the drop-hole down to the sea. It is almost certain that they have one. No Scottish dungeon is truly complete without one,” he added without irony.

  “You have a point. It has to be examined, though. A sea egress is an improbable choice of entry for a malefactor, but it is something else to investigate in order to say with certainty that the castle is secure.” From human enemies, at least.

  “It is best examined from a safe distance,” MacJannet warned. “And with a torch.”

  “Of course, my friend. Of course. I’ll use every caution.”

  MacJannet snorted, not at all reassured. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They had not saild a league, a league,

  A league but barely three,

  Until she espied his cloven foot,

  And she wept right bitterlie.

  —“The Ballad of the Daemon Lover”

  Frances watched tiredly as one by one the ribbons of dying light were pulled down from the clouding sky and tucked below the horizon. It was night again. At last their daily labors were at an end. Only the cook and sculleries still had heavy work before them; she had ordered that as sumptuous a dinner as the larder could bear was to be prepared that evening in honor of the new arrivals.

  All afternoon while Frances had worked at the loom, her thoughts had been dwelling upon her new Master of the Gowff. Silly of her to be so distracted by him. Even though he was obviously of good birth, it was not as though he was a potential suitor, particularly not in her present situation when she already had too many men pursuing her. Still, she dwelled upon his face. She was even annoyingly weak of knee and careless of hand, which twice caused her to miss with the shuttle and snarl her work.

  Frances sighed at her wandering wits and consoled herself with reason. She was not to be blamed for her inquisitiveness. It was an inb
orn trait. And Colin Mortlock was not at all what she had expected. In her experience, sporting-mad gentlemen were not interested in mundane household matters. To their minds, meals appeared by magic. Linens mended themselves. One might completely disarrange the furniture or set new servants to old tasks, and as long as they had a place at the table and a fire in the hearth, most men would not notice any difference. They cared for golf and hawking—and perhaps debauchery—and nothing else.

  Yet, from the moment he had entered the castle, she could see that Colin Mortlock was making careful observation of its arrangements, assessing the people who worked there and treating everyone—except Tearlach—with great courtesy and interest. He’d even urged George to confide in him about their alterations to the castle’s defenses and dungeons.

  Frances bit her lip. Perhaps it had been a mistake allowing anyone into the castle. Colin Mortlock and MacJannet were temporarily isolated at Noltland and could not carry tales back to England, but eventually the world would suspect that there were almost no men left at the keep—only ancients and babes—and then others would come calling, swords in hand. What if Colin said something to these tiresome men when they came to woo her by force? Though probably reticent with her other neighbors, he would likely speak to his cousin…

  She had hoped to delay the time when their extreme weakness was revealed until George’s position had been strengthened by recognition from the new regent, or her father’s men had returned home from the war. Could Colin be trusted? Could he be convinced to hold his tongue?

  The facts as they stood were grim enough without betrayal from within. She wished that she could simply throw a blanket over the unpleasant truth and smother it forever. But that was not possible now. She would have to tell this Englishman and his manservant something plausible about why there were no men in the castle, or else reveal the truth and throw herself on his mercy and plead that he keep silent if he ever left them, or if his cousin came to call. Unfortunately, trickery wouldn’t serve. She had no way of conjuring soldiers even for a day.