Highland Magic

by K. E. Saxon

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  A Sea Cave on the West Coast of the Highlands

  Scotland, Late Summer 1205

  Branwenn rose through the foaming waves of the emerald-green sea for the last time and absently scraped her newly-shorn raven hair out of her eyes and off of her brow. The dingy, white finely-woven chemise she wore clung to her slender form, revealing more than it concealed. As had been her habit these past days, she swiftly lifted the outer covering away from her body as she moved toward the boulder upon which rested her green woolen tunic with the wide sleeves, her seashell-and-sandstone girdle, and her filet made of the same material. After clothing herself in the items, she slowly trudged up the rocky shore along the water’s edge, gathering pretty seashells and small stones as she went. This last hunt would give her enough to complete the bracelet she’d begun making to match the filet and girdle she now wore.

  ‘Twas early yet; the sun was just rising over the craggy cliff of the sea cave inside of which all her earthly possessions now resided. A seafowl shrieked overhead and she tipped her head back to watch its circling flight as it followed the path of the breaking surf before surveying the banks of the strand for its meal in the swell’s wake. ‘Twas time and past, she thought wryly, for her to break her fast as well, tho’ hers would be even sparser fare.

  Another wave crashed onto the shoreline just then, its frothing edges soaking and tickling her calves and feet as it sent its salty mist into the air around her. She breathed it in, exalting in the feeling of freedom it manifested inside of her. Tho’ ‘twas still quite dim all around her, the sun had begun to bathe everything in its pinkish-golden glow, making even the most mundane scenery appear mystical. After another moment of quiet communion with her surroundings, Branwenn turned once more toward her secret hideaway.

  She’d been living along this seashore for nigh on a sennight and had yet to see another soul in the area, for which she was deeply thankful. After being swept overboard into the northern reaches of the Irish Sea that horrid midnight and then continuing to be pushed further along with the unrelenting movement of the water and driving wind current, she at last came close enough to land the next morn to make her way to shore by her own propulsion before being aided by a fisherman. It had not taken her long to realize that she was once more in the land of William, King of Scots, for ‘twas a western shore she’d landed upon, not an eastern one, as had been her intent upon setting out on her journey the night of her betrothal feast. Her conclusion was negated, however, and most resoundingly in fact, by her fish-procuring savior. Nay, ‘twas not the shore of William’s land she tread upon, he’d told her, but the isle of Arren, ruled by Ragnald, King of the Isles, who refused to be subject to the Scottish crown. The fisherman then set about filling her belly with a portion of his morning catch before allowing her to take her rest on his cot. When she’d awakened a few hours later and found his hut deserted, she’d left one of the precious few coins she possessed on his table and quietly slipped out.

  Afterward, she’d bought passage on a fish merchant’s coracle that traversed the Dunbreton Fyrth between the isle and the mainland each day. Once on the mainland, it had not taken her long to attach herself to a band of pilgrims who were traveling by land further north to a holy site along the coast. When they’d reached their destination a fortnight later, Branwenn had said her farewells to her traveling companions and purchased a few of the more essential tools for survival and a bit of bread, cheese, and bannocks in the village attached to the abbey before continuing her journey northward on foot. She’d kept to the coast, finding it the easiest means to travel, as there were many caves for shelter and plenty of food sources that were left behind with the tide each morn and eve. ‘Twas a blessing she daily gave thanks for that she’d been trained so thoroughly to survive such harsh conditions by her brother Bao this year past when they’d lived undetected in one of the caves in the Maclean wood for so long. By the time she’d come upon this idyllic, seemingly deserted place, she’d been relieved to at last take a long, and much needed, respite from her journey and quickly settled in one of the more habitable of the caves this Highland shore offered.

  ‘Twas a craggy climb to the cave’s opening, but her tender feet were slowly becoming accustomed to the rugged terrain. The jagged gray sandstone rock-and-pebble coast abutted a natural seawall of tumbled boulders above which lay the green grass and shrub-covered red sandstone cliff that housed her cave. There were several such caves, she’d discovered, along this rocky path. But hers, she believed, was the least easily seen from shore, making it the best candidate for her permanent abode. The opening was low but wide and the ground sloped down sharply just inside it, making it impossible to see its interior without actually entering the cave.

  The box holding the flint and striker was under a small shrub to the left of the mouth of the cave. She was just lighting the taper that she’d placed next to them when she heard a loud commotion, as if something quite heavy had fallen several feet, followed by a hoarse groan coming from deep within the dark interior of her seaside home. After a moment of anxious inner debate, she at last decided to face the intruder. She could not afford to lose the few possessions she still owned, nor the meager amount of foodstuffs she’d managed to cobble together on her journey. Nervously reaching for the dirk that she kept strapped to her upper thigh, she pulled it out of its leather sheath before entering the ebon cavity. After sliding forward feet-first onto the flat, stone-strewn sandy floor, she lifted the taper high above her head, but the small flame could not illume further than a few feet in front of her. Her eye was instantly drawn to the cave’s craggy ceiling. There was now a bit of natural light shining down from up above. A hole, she surmised, tho’ how she’d not discovered it before was a puzzle she would need to solve after she’d ousted the trespasser.

  “Who goes there?” she thundered boldly, tho’ her heart thrummed in her ears and her palms sweated so profusely that she had difficulty maintaining the death-grip on her weapon.

  Silence.

  After a moment, Branwenn forced her feet forward, determined to face down her fear and find the origin of the noise.

  ‘Twas not until she’d reached the furthest end of the cave’s front chamber that she found a dark mass on the floor next to the north wall. With some trepidation, she moved toward it, not stopping until she stood over what she quickly ascertained was a slumbering male form. He lay curled on his side in a ball, the edge of his cloak masking his visage.

  She stepped back and nudged him with her foot. The man grumbled low in his throat, but remained unawakened. She tried again, and then once more, each time using a bit more force than the time previous. Was he sotted? She bent forward and sniffed. Nay, he smelled not of spirits. More curious than afraid, now that she realized the man was of little threat to her, she crouched down and cautiously edged the cloak away from his face.

  Callum MacGregor! “Blood of Christ,” she whispered. Was she on the MacGregor holding, then? What strange force was at work that would bring her to her foster brothers’ kin when her deepest wish was to stay as far from those she loved and might endanger with her presence, should her Norman betrothed decide to search her out? And this man had been a particular thorn in her side from the moment of their first meeting. He’d surely cause her naught but more grief and misery, should he discover that she’d sailed away from her nuptials and somehow landed on his holding. And he’d no doubt immediately run to the Maclean holding and tell both her foster brothers that she’d broken the contract they’d each signed with Prince Llywelyn.

  * * *

  Callum slowly regained consciousness. His head was pounding and his eyelids felt as heavy as a castle’s cornerstone. Where was he? There was a distinct smell of the sea in the air—was he on the shore, then? Nay, ‘twas too quiet. Mayhap, he was in one of the sea caves. He tried to open his eyes once again, but to no avail. Why was he in such a state? He truly could not ken it. The last event he could recall with any
certitude was taking a swallow of that abominable wine his father-in-law, Laird Gordon, had encouraged him to try. The two had come to an agreement about the validity of the contract the MacGregors and Gordons had in regard to the tract of land both clans claimed belonged to them. Had the man poisoned him, then? Aye, that would attest to his sore head and persistent stupor.

  Callum tried once more to open his eyes, this time with greater success. Peering through the narrow slit in his eyelids, he saw what seemed to be a mystical creature standing before him holding a lighted taper in its hand.

  Dressed in a jagged-hemmed tunic of dark woolen, the waist of which was cinched and draped with seashells, the sea creature studied him as well. The brightness of the taper the being held kept its features in darkness, but illuminated its form enough for Callum to see what looked to be winged arms attached to its hands. ‘Twas just as the tales had described. “Be you water goddess...or selkie?” he croaked.

  The cogs in Branwenn’s mind turned swiftly. The arrogant man had just given her the perfect solution to her dilemma. “I be selkie, sir. And you have invaded my dwelling, for which my father, the king, will not be pleased. You’ve strayed too close to our realm and must leave here forthwith, else you may be carried away by my kinsmen, the daoine sìth, never to see your home or family again.”

  “I fear that my wound is too great for me to rise from this place, fey creature. Tell me, how did I arrive at this place? I’ve no recollection of it.”

  “Know you not?” she asked in disbelief. She pointed up and behind her a bit. “You fell, good sir, from yon hole in the cave’s ceiling. Now, truly, you must leave in all haste.”

  Callum attempted to sit up, but his head began to spin and he fell back into a fetal position once more. “‘Struth, fey one,” he said groggily, “I am in no condition to rise at this time. Will you not afford me a few more moments of rest?”

  For the first time, Branwenn began to worry for Callum’s condition. Kneeling down by his side, she rested one palm on his lower calf for support as she placed the other on his forehead to check for fever.

  “Ow!” Callum groaned, “my ankle...’tis sore...do not press so heavily upon it, I beg you.”

  “Pray, pardon me.” ‘Twas now clear to Branwenn that Callum’s befuddled manner was not due to some manly overindulgence in ardent spirits, as was her original belief. But what ailed the man? His skin was hot, his usually vivid green eyes were dull and void of spirit, and his face was drenched in sweat. “Your skin is as hot as a blacksmith’s forge!”

  “I fear I’ve been poisoned,” Callum said weakly.

  Poison! A cold tremor of alarm shook her to her core. “Callum,” Branwenn said his name without thinking, “you must purge your stomach of its contents forthwith!” Not waiting for a reply, she quickly pinched his nostrils closed with one hand and forced two fingers down his throat with the other. Tho’ he attempted to fight her off, he was so weakened by the effects of whatever he’d ingested, that she was easily able to overpower him, and in the next instant, he was gagging, heaving, and expulsing his earlier meal.

  “By the blood of Christ, fey one...leave me be,” Callum pleaded afterward, his voice now thread-like, as he rolled onto his back and turned his face away from her. His thick auburn hair, that had come loose of its leather thong, fell across his cheek and she brushed it away from his face.

  “’Twas your wife who did this to you?” she was impelled to ask, no matter the imprudence of the query.

  “Nay, my wife is dead,” he rasped. “‘Twas my faithless father-in-law who did the deed.”

  Dead! Lara was dead? What of her babe? She dared not question him further, however, lest her true identity be revealed.

  He said naught more, and after another moment, Branwenn realized he’d fallen into a slumber once more. Leaning down, she rested her cheek against his chest and, feeling the even rise-and-fall of his chest and hearing the tempered, strong beat of his heart, expelled a sigh of relief.

  She rose to her feet and retrieved a cloth and a bucket of water. With slow, gentle strokes, she cooled his brow and cheeks with the damp cloth. Afterward, she silently cleaned up the results of his purging before positioning the rolled blanket she’d been using for a pillow under his head. Leaving the taper in its holder next to her reclining patient, she walked a bit away and settled against the wall on the opposite side of the cave to continue watching him. Over the next hour or so, she monitored his recovery from a distance, but ‘twas not long before questions began to spin madly about in her mind: Why would his father-in-law have done this to him? What had Callum gotten himself into this time? And, oh, God, what if he did not recover? With effort, she forced her worries down deep, for she had no way of aiding him, and, Lord knew, she had worries enough of her own without taking on his burdens as well.

  A strange smacking sound came from the area where Callum now rested, followed by a muffled groan. Branwenn leapt to her feet and hurried over to him.

  “Water,” Callum said, his voice a dry whisper.

  “Aye,” Branwenn answered anxiously as she lifted the candle and turned first one way and then the other looking for her leather flask. Spying it at last, she hurried to retrieve it and, after removing the stopper, settled the opening to his parched lips. “Drink slowly—and only a bit—else ‘twill no doubt rise back up just as quickly,” she warned softly.

  Callum, his eyes barely open, surprisingly did as she bade, taking only two small swigs before rolling to his back and resting his head on the make-shift pillow once more.

  Branwenn ran the palm of her hand over his forehead and cheek. His skin was still a bit too hot and much too damp for her liking. She began to worry her lip as her conscience did battle with her intellect. In the next moment, her decision made, she said, “Your fever is not lessening, sir. We must get you to your dwelling in all haste, for, ‘tis clear to me that you are in need of more proper tending, else surely you will grow worse.”

  Callum opened his eyes and looked at her. “What is your name?”

  Branwenn thought quickly. “Mai,” she said with a shrug. Why not? She’d always liked that name.

  “Mai? So plain a name for one so magical?”

  Bristling, Branwenn replied, “I think it a lovely name. And do not change the subject. Where is your home?”

  Callum, tho’ still a bit groggy, was revived enough for the moment to get his bearings. He tried to sit up.

  “Be careful!” Branwenn said.

  He fell back with a groan. Well, mayhap he wasn’t as recovered as he’d believed. “Aye.” His head throbbed and his muscles were stiff and sore, but he was determined to rise. So, with a loud grunt, he lifted up again and forced his body to hold his weight this time. Dizzy from the exertion, he held his aching skull in his hands for a moment.

  “Have you a sore head?” Branwenn asked.

  “Aye, a bit,” he said before looking around the cave once more. The fey one was right, he must get home—and quickly—for he must inform his stepfather of this latest outrage against their clan. “Stand back, I must rise.”

  Branwenn nodded and did as he bade, staying close enough to catch him if he began to fall.

  Using the damp wall of the cave as leverage, Callum struggled to his feet.

  Fighting the mental lethargy the poison and headache were causing, he strained to focus on his surroundings.

  “Are you feeling dizzy?” Branwenn asked, her concern mounting.

  “Sshhh! I’m trying to think,” he snapped.

  Branwenn stiffened her spine. “Pray, pardon me, Your Highness.”

  Callum ignored her. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he should apologize for his rudeness, but ‘twas all he could do to stay on his feet and shake the shroud of fog in his mind to think more clearly. After another moment, he breathed a sigh of relief. Aye, he knew this cave. ‘Twas the one his cuckolding wife had used to make her secret departure from their fortress two moons past. If he traveled the meandering passage
that began at the back of this chamber, ‘twould eventually lead him to a hidden entrance inside the west tower of the fortress. He pushed himself away from the dank wall he’d propped himself up against, picked up the taper, and set out in that direction.

  “Where are you going?” Branwenn asked as she stumbled into step behind him, stretching her arms out in front of her so she could catch him when he fell—for his gate was stiff and uneven as he tried to keep the weight off of his injured ankle.

  “I’m going to my family’s fortress.”

  “But...this passage leads only to my father’s realm.”

  Callum was growing short of breath now. “Nay, it leads to a”—he stopped walking and bent forward, resting his palms on his knees as he took a couple of deep breaths—“secret entrance to the castle.” He would not swoon, he vowed to himself.

  This was news to Branwenn. She’d thoroughly explored this cave when she’d first arrived and had found no such entrance.

  A drop of sweat trailed into the outer corner of Callum’s eye and he blinked the sting away. After a minute more, he resumed his trek. ‘Twas not long before he came to the place where the passage forked. Recessed in the entrance to the adjacent tunnel was a large portion of planked wood which had been fitted to block the opening and then curtained in a painted black and gray fabric, the design resembling the stone walls around it. The darkness of the cave, the skill with which the painter had copied the look of the stone, along with the little light even a torch could provide in the black chasm, helped to conceal the second route.

  “Take hold of these a moment,” he said, placing the fistful of pulled-back curtain in the fey one’s hand and the taper in her other. Taking two deep breaths and releasing them, he filled his lungs once more and thrust his shoulder against the wooden barrier. Unfortunately, it gave much easier than he was expecting and the force sent it, and him, flying forward. He landed with a loud thud directly on top of it. “Aargh!” he yelled as he felt his shoulder bone thrust from its joint.