Rogue Highlander: Played Like a Fiddle

by Sondra Grey

  “No,” said Rhona shaking her head a moment. “Deirdre had green eyes.”

  “My father had blue,” said Isla, her voice coming out a whisper. The tears that were hovering at the corner of her eyes began to spill and this seemed to break the spell because Rhona had her arms wrapped around Isla and was pulling her close. This was no fierce, two second hug. It was longer, fiercer, and Isla luxuriated in it. All the tears she had held back since leaving Dundur came pouring from her and she clung to Rhona Gordon and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

  “There, there,” Rhona was saying. “You’ve found us, child. What’s your name?”

  Isla tried to gain control of her sobs. They were standing in the courtyard with an audience. She sniffled and the young man, who Rhona called Gair, offered her a kerchief, which she took and used. She tried a few deep breaths. Closed her eyes for a moment. “Isla,” she said.

  “Isla,” nodded Rhona. “After our grandmother.” Her eyes blazed a moment before she smiled. “Oh well done, Deirdre. That’ll please the old man.”

  Isla must have looked at her quizzically, for Rhona shrugged one shoulder, the gesture so like Isla’s mother that Isla nearly burst into tears again. “Our uncle is the Earl of Huntly. Isla was his mother’s name. And he loved his mother. The name itself will endear you to him.” She shook her head. “But this is nonsense. Look at you!” she stepped back, still keeping her hands clasped around Isla’s shoulders. “I never knew your father, so I’ve notion what of his you have. But you look…” She laughed and Isla saw that Rhona was crying as well. “You look more my child than this one,” she cast a fond look over her shoulder at Gair, who was watching with a sort of amused confusion. Her cousin then. Isla had a cousin.

  “Mr. Laurie,” Rhona called over her shoulder. “Thank you for bringing Isla to my door. We’ve food for you if you’re hungry. It must be well past supper time.”

  The blacksmith nodded and said, “Yes, and the Missus will be expecting me back.” Without another word, he turned his cart around and headed back before Isla could call out thanks.

  Rhona turned her dark, green eyes on Isla and said, voice low with emotion, “Come inside, dear. We’ve much to catch up on.”

  Isla can’t have said if it was her aunt’s calm acceptance or the way she reminded Isla of her mother, but Isla found herself spilling out the entire story. Gair, Rhona, and Rhona’s husband Tom Huntly, a medium heighted man with straight shoulders, a balding pate, and a thick, grey- brown beard, sat inside a cozy room, on fine furniture, near a roaring fire.

  After revealing that Deirdre had died, Isla had to give Rhona a few moments to compose herself. Rhona, who was younger, and worshipped her wild, older sister and had missed her. “I was angry at first, that she left me. But years give you time to get over anger.” The older woman shook her head. “Everyone knew where she’d gone, of course, but she’d disobeyed both our father and the old Lord Gordon to marry your father – the niece of the Gordon married to a Stewart tacksman.”

  Rhona told Isla of how her parents met. Her father, a MacLeay, accompanied a friend to a festival held at Huntly, and fell in love with Deirdre. Apparently it was mutual, for Deirdre left with him, leaving no word to alert her family about what she’d done. Their uncle had wanted to give chase, but Deirdre’s father had called him off saying, ultimately, “Good riddance.”

  “Deirdre caused trouble and strife,” said Rhona, smiling over some memory of her sister doing so, “and more than one fight between men. To be honest it was quieter with her gone.” Rhona had married not long after. “I wanted to visit her,” Rhona confided. “But if Deirdre had wanted us to visit she would have written. She never did.”

  “No,” Isla shook her head. “She was proud.” Something Isla had inherited. But she didn’t feel so proud now. She was at the mercy of her relatives and could only be grateful they’d been so warm and welcoming. “She never spoke much about her past, though she did mention you.”

  “I’ve time to tell you of your mother later. Tell me of you, Niece.”

  Isla told Rhona of her childhood, of her father and her younger brother’s death. Of her relationship with her mother. Rhona nodded sympathetically, “We’d much the same relationship with our mother. She was fierce and brusque. Not overly affectionate, you understand? I suppose, when you’ve a mother like that you can go one of two ways. You end up just like her, or you end up very different.” Rhona reached over and patted Gair’s thigh.

  Her son rolled his eyes. “Yes, mother is very affectionate.”

  Isla saw her uncle cover a smile with his hand.

  Then Rhona asked after the series of events that had brought Isla to Cairne. Isla began to tell the tale, describing the sickness that had swept through Elleric, but then she stopped, and cried again for a good long while. As if sensing that Isla distress came less from the story itself and more for what the story might reveal about her, Rhona assured her that Isla was family, and nothing she could say would make Rhona cast her out. So, Isla told the story of the sickness in Elleric, and how she never caught it. And she talked about Gavin and his brother, and his accusations. How the townspeople had run her out of Elleric, and how she had fled in fear.

  “I was headed here. To Cairnie, because Mother had mentioned it, and I thought I might still have family here.”

  Rhona held her hand fiercely.

  Isla told her about running into the Grant clansmen, about healing the Grant chieftain’s nephew and how the laird had asked her to stay until Hugh was healed fully. Isla voice caught when she talked about Calum, and she thought her aunt might have seen more than she was saying, because she squeezed Isla’s hand and said, quietly, “We’ve heard of The Wolf of Dundur.” She cast a glance at her husband and said, “I think he even visited The Earl’s hall once with the Grant Chief. A few years ago, is that right, Tom?”

  Isla’s uncle nodded. He seemed a quiet sort. He’s said nothing during Isla’s recount of the story, though Gair had piped in a few times with questions, until his mother silenced him. Now Tom looked thoughtful. “He was the big-shouldered lad. Dark hair. Worn a bit long. He was a striking figure, Rhona. I’d think you’d remember him.”

  “There were several young men with the Grant, if I recall,” said Rhona. “But I know the one of whom you speak. Indeed, he’s hard to forget. Did he treat you well, Niece?”

  “Well enough,” Isla said, her heart hammering and her stomach knotting with a pain so emotional it was physical. She didn’t want to go into further details but allowed, “I gave him a false name. I didn’t want him associating me with the accusations of witchcraft in Elleric.” She knew she sounded as upset as she felt, for her aunt shushed her. It was the same patient ssshhing Deirdre would have used. Isla felt tears begin spilling again.

  “And the Hugh lad was healed. You must be a miracle worker. If his injury was as bad as you say, you might have been tending him another week at least.”

  Isla felt shame wash through her and quickly pushed it aside. It was not entirely her fault that she’d left early, and she mumbled something to her aunt about youth healing fast. She felt Rhona’s keen eye on her head, as if the woman were weighing her response. Luckily her aunt didn’t push further.

  They talked deep into the night, until Rhona decreed that they were all too exhausted to continue, and that the housekeeper had made Isla a bedroom of her own.

  Rhona stood and Tom helped Isla to her feet. “We’ll talk again in the morning,” said her aunt, cupping the side of Isla’s cheek, her hand warm. “I’ve cried enough for one night. Don’t go running off, niece. You’ve a home here, and we’ve a good deal of catching up to do.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I sla spent the few days in a state of emotional turmoil. She was overwhelmed by the warmth and kindness of her family. Part of her had expected from Rhona the same mix of pride, impatience, and imperiousness that had so defined Deirdre. But while Rhona had a good deal of imperiousness to her, it was tempered by genuine warmth, her
impatience tempered with humor. In Rhona, Isla found a kindred spirit. The woman knew a bit of the healing arts as well.

  “It’s an old skill,” she said, “passed through families, and our mother was a healer. She died before she could teach me much, but she taught Deirdre everything and it’s a balm for me to see you were taught as well.”

  Living at Rhona’s was a mix between the life she’d had in Elleric and the one she’d come to experience at Dundur. Tom Huntly was well off, but no chieftain. He had a household staff, but the family pitched in with much of the work and so was busy most of the day.

  But as surrounded as Isla was by the warmth of her newfound kin, she was also devastated. With all there was to do around the manor, there wasn’t much time to think about Calum Grant, but in the slow moments of the day, when Isla usually meditated over peeling vegetables, or mashing roots, her mind would wander back to Calum and she’d be overcome with a sense of loss so great it nearly bowed her.

  On her sixth day in Cairnie, Rhona volunteered to take Isla to Aberdeen to shop for clothing. “I’ve informed the Earl of your arrival and he’s sent a letter back, most insistent we visit Huntly Castle.” Isla had been wearing some of Rhona’s old dresses and couldn’t contain her excitement at the opportunity to visit Aberdeen.

  The whole family went on the outing, for it seemed that her uncle had some business associates in Aberdeen and Gair was to accompany his mother and cousin about town. Isla couldn’t stop herself from gawping. She’d never been in a city before. “Does the Earl lord over this place?” she’d whispered.

  Rhona had laughed at that. “No,” her aunt had explained. “The Church does, now. Look over there, you can see the steeples, and the abbeys. There are black and white friars here, and three hospitals.”

  The city was fortified, and inside its gates were rows upon rows of houses and shops. People thronged the streets, villagers, vendors, jugglers, there was even a harpist who was playing in one of the squares. The city was a wash of confusing sights and smells, and Isla reeled. “It’s amazing,” she said. That something like this was only a few hours ride from Cairnie…

  They shopped for a few hours, visiting seamstresses and cloth-makers, cobblers, wood-workers and jewelers. Rhona laughed at Isla when the young woman tried out a pair of jet combs to keep her black, heavy hair off of her face.

  “Vain wee thing, are you?” Rhona teased, when Isla lingered over her reflection. Isla blushed. Her confidence was heavily diminished by Calum Grant’s dismissal, and she had been purposely shying away from thinking about what they’d done together. How it made her a ruined woman. If she ever wanted to marry, she’d have to find a husband who might forgive what she’d done…

  In the end, Rhona wouldn’t let her buy the jet combs. “We’ll find you something silver, or pewter. The jet disappears in your black hair.”

  Isla wasn’t sure how to repay Rhona’s generosity. Her aunt purchased her several dresses, and two arasaids of beautiful blue and green patterns. “I’ve never had a daughter to spoil,” said Rhona, waving off her thanks. “Now quit thanking me or I’ll take it all back.”

  When they were done, when Isla had possessions of her own again, she felt like a new version of herself. As they walked back to meet with her uncle, who’d business near the harbor mouth, she allowed herself to watch the men watch her. She felt a bit like the old Isla, who’d wandered Elleric secure in her beauty.

  It wasn’t until they hit the harbor that she began to feel ill. She tried to ignore the sensation, the nausea that churned in her gut and rose. She tried to focus instead on the grand sight before her – the harbor, with its noise and tall ships: sails, and rope, and wood, and men. Men ran around the dock, large pulleys unloaded boxes of cargo. But the stench was almost unbearable. The harbor was at low tide and the air was ripe with brine, and the sharp stink of fish and sulfur.

  “Excuse me,” Isla said, faintly, and rushed over to the nearest alley mouth where she was swiftly sick.

  Gair was the first to reach her, but stayed out of the way until she’d finished heaving. Then he patted her back, “There, cousin,” he said, sounding concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “It was the black pudding, or the oysters we ate” she said, “I feel fine now.”

  But as they walked back to Rhona, Isla’s aunt looked concerned. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Much better,” said Isla, though the smell of the harbor was still making her queasy.

  Rhona nodded but watched her niece worriedly. “Let’s find you some drink and find Mr. Huntley.”

  It was two days later that they were summoned to Castle Huntly to meet the Earl. Isla had been to an Earl’s castle before, The Stewart was often at Castle Stalker, but Huntly was even more impressive, or at least it would be soon. The castle was still under some construction, and the finished parts looked grand: a five-story tower and a keep that stretched out in an L shape, long and imposing. But it was clear that there was still more to be built… At the end of the L were piles of timber and stone. Another tower, perhaps?

  Rhona had given her the history of the castle on the ride over. The Douglass’s had sacked and burned the old Castle a few years ago, as part of an ongoing clan war. “King James himself has given our uncle funding for the project,” Rhona boasted.

  “What do I tell him about my journey here?” Isla had asked.

  Rhona had thought about her question for a while before responding. “Tell him all. Tell him about Elleric. If what you fear is true, and the Stewart’s might yet accuse you, you will want the Earl as an ally. And tell him about your time with the Grants. He knows the Red Bard personally and would like to hear that you were treated well by one of the Bard’s chieftains.”

  The Earl of Huntly turned out to be both an underwhelming, and yet entirely impressive man. Isla had been expecting someone tall, but the Earl was short, robust, and advanced in years. He was almost entirely bald and wore a neatly kept white beard. Standing in a sumptuously decorated Great Hall, Isla realized what it was to have real wealth and the King’s favor. There were new and beautiful tapestries on every wall, and the floor was clean, the hall smelling sweetly of incense and herbs. The clansmen who dined with them that evening were polite and boisterous. Isla couldn’t imagine what had driven her mother to leave such a place. Love. An inner voice whispered. And you well know its power.

  To Isla’s surprise, the Earl demanded she and Rhona sit beside him and his wife, displacing the Earl’s sons who seemed relieved to slide down the great table and eat in the company of their cousins.

  “Tell of us of your adventure,” the Earl ordered. Perhaps it was old age, or maybe he was, like Calum, used to being obeyed. Isla told her story, attempting to be as honest as her reputation would allow her to be.

  The Earl was demanding and clever. He liked to joke, and he liked to joke at others’ expense. Not a few times he set both Rhona and Isla’s ears flaming with embarrassment over a crass remark, but he was also shrewd. Her listened to Isla’s tale with eyes that refused sympathy until the tale had ended.

  “For the mistreatment of my Great Niece I might declare war on the Stewarts,” he avowed, loudly enough for the whole table to hear. But then he lowered his voice and winked at Isla. “Although I suppose I cannot blame them. Men will fall victim to a pretty woman every time, and blame the woman when they can’t control themselves. I too have been felled by many a woman in my day – much easier to think them witches than to think myself dim-witted.” And he laughed and laughed.

  Isla wasn’t quite ready to laugh over the incident, so she smiled, weakly. Explaining what had happened in Elleric wasn’t nearly as painful as explaining what had happened at Castle Dundur. Apparently, the Earl of Huntly was well acquainted with Calum the Black. “Serious man,” said the Earl approvingly, “Until he drinks, of course. Drink will do that, aye? It has godlike powers to change a man. It’ll rid you of all that holds you back. Dundur can hold his drink and you’d not know he’s been affected
until he starts to laugh. He visited this very hall with the Red Bard. How long ago? Perhaps six years now! The Old Bard told such tales of that man. Used to get into terrible trouble in Inverness, apparently. Drinking and fighting and getting into scrapes with The Grant’s sons and nephews. I could barely believe it. No laughter in that man, not unless there’s drink involved.”

  “Why is that?” Isla asked. She couldn’t help herself. Much as she didn’t want to talk about Calum, the Earl’s insight was a temptation she couldn’t refuse.

  “Who knows why some young men are so dour?” murmured the Earl. “If I recall, this was after the Old Laird of Dundur had passed on. His son was newly appointed chieftain, and it’s a serious undertaking. Was he a second son, Mae?” He asked, turning to his wife.

  “I don’t recall,” murmured Lady Huntly. Isla was less impressed by the woman than she was by her husband. Lady Huntly was small and quiet, if delicately beautiful, even in her old age. Isla supposed that being so quiet was only natural when your husband was so loud.

  “Either way. A smart lad, and a real favorite of the Red Bard, who’s a canny man himself.” There was much about the Earl of Huntly that suggested he, too, was a canny man. Isla had a tough time judging him, had a troublesome time understanding his humor and it wasn’t until the Earl engaged one of the clansmen down the table that Rhona leaned in and said, “It’s his way. You’ll see. Give him ten minutes and he’ll start telling you terrible tales about your mother. The more terrible the tale, the more you know he loved her.”

  And Rhona was right. As the night wore on, the Chief of Clan Gordon began to spin tales. And for Isla’s sake, the tales were about her mother. Deirdre emerged from these stories as a tainted figure, only barely redeemable: Proud, vain, and stubborn, but with a heart of gold. There was more than one clansman who recalled a time when Deirdre had healed him of some ailment or another. The Earl told Isla stories of her grandfather too, and her grandmother, from whom Deirdre, Rhona, and Isla had received their beauty and their skills at healing and who – it seemed – the Earl of Huntly had never much cared for.