Highland Magic

by K. E. Saxon

  “Blood of Christ!” Branwenn cried out. She flew to Callum’s side and dropped down to her knees. “You’ve hurt yourself, you simple-minded fool! And now I know not how I will ever get you up again!”

  A fleeting memory of someone else speaking to him in much the same manner flitted through his mind, but ‘twas much too nebulous an image for him to catch and keep hold of. So, swallowing another groan, he simply ignored the vexing creature. As this was not an unfamiliar injury for him, he did as he’d been taught should this happen on the battlefield. Slowly, he brought his arm up and placed his hand behind his head and rotated the appendage. With very careful, slow movements he began to reach toward his other shoulder. He felt the bone slide back in place. Aahhh! Perfect. But now he was beginning to see pinpricks of colored lights. Afraid he’d swoon when he was so close to his destination, he took a few slow, deep breaths and manfully shook the false visions clear before staggering to his feet once more.

  “Praise be, you are still able to walk,” Branwenn said with a sigh of relief.

  “Why are you still here? Have you no other mortal to hound with your endless yammering?” His head ached so badly now, his stomach was threatening to spew its bile.

  “Oh, and I suppose you would rather have no one here to aid you should you swoon and fall to the ground again?” …you unthankful cur!, she finished in her head.

  The fey one had a point, but Callum would rather eat a live toad than tell her so. “The door leading to the tower is just ahead,” he said instead.

  They’d just come to it when, all at once, Callum’s head began to reel and the cave walls began to billow in front of him. Confused, he stumbled forward, hitting his head on the frame and sliding to the ground. The taper fell with him, coming loose from its base, and rolled several feet away. The flame went out.

  “Callum!” Branwenn cried out in the sudden darkness. Moving in the direction of her patient with her arms out in front of her, she felt her way toward him. “You cannot die yet, I won’t allow it!”

  Later, much later, Callum would recall this moment—and the time previous—and question how the fey one could possibly know his name, but for now, his befuddled mind could do naught more than direct its thoughts to the problem at hand. He managed to force his eyelids open and was met with complete darkness. But he felt the now-familiar hands of the fey one as she examined his head for new bumps. “I’ve no new wounds, but I fear my head is spinning too much and my hand shakes too badly to unlock the door.” Though his limbs were now lethargic, he managed, with his good arm, to bring the leather thong that held the key out from under his tunic and over his head. “Here, take this and I will tell you the way to open the locks.”

  Branwenn nodded, tho’ he could not possibly see the action, and felt for the key he held out to her. Grasping it tightly in her fist, she stood and explored the door with her other hand until she at last found the metal devices he’d spoken of. They were cold to the touch, and shaped like—she took a moment to become familiar with their contours—hearts? How strange. Now, to find the keyholes. “These are unusual,” she said absently as she slid her fingers lightly over the face of each lock. “It feels as if they are all connected, but each also joined to its own latch—and.... Are they interlocking hearts?”

  To fortify his waning strength, Callum took in a deep breath before answering. “Aye, they are, and they require a specific combination of turns of the key and slides of certain brass plates in order to get them all open.” Luckily, even with his fading mental acuity, he could still remember what that combination was, for he’d practiced it many times with his mother after it had been installed. She was the only other person who held a key to this secret exit, as ‘twould be her means of escape during a siege, should the need arise. There was a small, hand-sized door to the left of the locks that only opened from the other side and which used the same key. When open, ‘twas large enough to put one’s arm through and unlock the door.

  Over the next quarter hour, Branwenn diligently tried to follow Callum’s instructions, but because she was doing so without benefit of light, the process took several attempts before she at last found success. And, to her thinking, with little time to spare—for their nerves were frayed to their limits by this time and she could tell by Callum’s groggy voice that whatever reserve of strength he’d been relying on thus far was fading quickly.

  With a hard jerk of the handle, Branwenn opened the arched oaken door and found the other barrier Callum had told her of. Doing as he’d instructed, she felt for the recessed stone and pressed. The barrier opened with little effort and she peered into the chamber before her.

  Praise be, ‘twas lit by a torch that hung from a sconce to the left of her, but was free of human habitation. “Come, we must get you inside at once,” she said, turning to Callum.

  “Bmm...mmm,” Callum replied.

  With a sigh and a shake of her head, she placed her arm around the waist of her near-unconscious patient and, with no small amount of effort, managed to get him to his feet and into the tower chamber. His eyes remained closed and his head canted to the left the entire time she walked him to the pallet in the far corner. “Will the guard return soon so he can get you to the keep? For I dare not go further inside these walls. I want no other mortal to see me—and, I beg you, tell no one of our meeting, else my father will surely have you vexed with mischief the remainder of your days.”

  “Nay...sext,” Callum answered, tho’ ‘twas all he could do to get the words past his dry throat.

  “Sext! But that is not for at least two more hours!” Branwenn felt his forehead. Godamercy, ‘twas still so hot—but his brow was dry as a bone now. Not good. She could not leave him here with no one to help him. She just couldn’t.

  An idea came to her. Grabbing a stool and an unlit candle holder from atop a small table, she hurried to stand near the opening of the secret entrance and threw them with maniacal force onto the ground. Satisfied with the loud clatter she’d made, she then began to cry out in as low and manly a timbre as she could manage. In the next instant, the sound of pounding feet on the stone stairs outside the doorway to the tower, as well as the sound of men’s raised voices, filled the room. With one last quick look at Callum, she fled through the opening and hastily closed it behind her. When she was safely on the other side of the oaken door, she breathed a sigh of relief. Surprisingly, she could still hear what was going on inside, so she stood and listened as the men hustled to get Callum to the keep and made plans to find a physician in all haste. When all became quiet once more, she turned to make her way back to her own dwelling but stopped short. Hellfire and damnation! She had no lit taper. Blood of Christ and Mary and God, too! She was going to have to go back inside that chamber and get the torch. She giggled then. Well—wasn’t that just the type of mischief mortals expected of the wee folk? And ‘twas awfully still and quiet inside that chamber now—no doubt, the guard on duty would not return until his scheduled time. With a shrug, she turned back to the door and opened it wide. Hmmm, mayhap she would find a few other items she could use while she was about it. And she did have the key—as well as the combination—to the secret entry...hmmm.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  “‘Twas my impetuous young nephew who did the deed, I tell you! I knew naught of it until well past the time your stepson left my holding last eve!” Laird Gordon avowed heatedly, his brow damp with sweat and his cheeks the color of new-picked berries. “I and my men immediately went in search of Callum as soon as we learned of my nephew’s son’s treachery.”

  Laird MacGregor’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. “That well may be—”

  A knock came on the door just then and directly behind the sound, the door swung wide and the keep’s steward propelled himself forward. “Laird,”—his eyes flitted nervously to Laird Gordon and then settled back on his liege—“your stepson lives—”

  “Praise be!” Both laird’s exclaimed at once.

  “Where is he?”
Laird MacGregor asked.

  “We’ve taken him to his bedchamber, Laird.” A short pause followed. “He is not well. He’s a fever and is barely conscious. ‘Tis clear as well that he took a tumble from his steed, for his ankle and shoulder are mightily swollen and bruised.”

  “I must go to him immediately—have my wife and her mother been informed of the blessed tidings?”

  “Nay, not as yet, Laird. But the solar is my next destination.”

  Laird MacGregor turned to his unwelcome guest and said, “Do not leave. I will return in an hour’s time, for we must come to terms regarding recompense—as well as punishment—for this crime.”

  With a curt nod of the head, Laird Gordon solemnly agreed. “Aye.”

  * * *

  Branwenn went through the remainder of the day worrying over Callum’s health. No matter how hard she tried to turn her thoughts to her own problem—and how she was going to resolve it—her mind refused to cooperate. Finally, late that night, she gave in to her nagging thoughts and returned through the passage to the secret door of the tower chamber. ‘Twas now nearing the chimes of midnight, and she worried that the guard would be in the chamber, but after a quarter-hour of intent listening, she heard no sound emanating from the other side of the wall, and stealthily unlatched and opened the door.

  She had no idea which bedchamber was Callum’s, but she decided there would surely be guards, or maids, or some-such lurking about the correct door. She was dressed in a plain brown tunic, underneath which she’d carefully bound her breasts in a strip of fine linen, and with her hood-covered, short-cropped hair, she was sure to look like one of the lads that worked with the gong farmer. If she encountered anyone on her journey, she decided to simply explain that she had been told to retrieve the chamber pot from the laird’s stepson’s chamber.

  Thankfully, the tower stair was deserted and it didn’t take her long to make her way down to the outer bailey. In another moment, she was through the arched portal to the inner bailey of the keep. Surely, one could gain entrance to the family quarters through the chapel, she thought as she set out in that direction.

  All was silent as she scurried across the moonlit courtyard toward the chapel. Her feet crushed the dew-bathed turf as she went and it perfumed the air with its clean, fresh fragrance. The dark beauty of the walled enclosure at this time of night, all velvet purples and watery greens, blended well with the scent of sod and it lifted her lagging spirits.

  Fortune was with her, for she encountered no one as she made her way through the passage between the stone oratory and the family quarters and then climbed the stairs leading to the upper chambers. There were few about above stairs either, and she was growing worried that she’d not learn which was Callum’s chamber, when a door at the end of the hall opened and a servant carrying a ewer emerged. Praise be! She slipped into the shadows and waited for the man to pass before taking the last few steps to Callum’s door.

  She silently edged it open and looked around. The fire from the hearth illuminated the room enough for Branwenn to see an aged man—the physician?—resting on his side on top of two long benches that had been shoved together and covered in a fur. Her nose crinkled as the smell of stale bile and the gong bucket wafted toward her. The physician must have given him an herb to induce more purging—or, mayhap ‘twas just a symptom of the poisoning. The sound of muted snores emanated from the direction of the benches, telling her that the physician was a sound sleeper, so she silently walked further into the room. The curtain to the large bed was drawn, making it impossible for her to see how Callum faired without moving across the room to stand at the bedside.

  As lightly and silently as she could, she crept across the wood floor, praying all the while that one of the boards wouldn’t creak. There was a small vial next to a cup on the table next to the bed. She picked the cup up and sniffed. ‘Twas the remainder of a sleeping draught. The physician must have given it to Callum to help him sleep through the pain. She placed the cup back in its place on the table. Then, lifting the taper that rested beside it, she pulled aside the curtain and gazed down at the handsome, tho’ clearly fever ravaged, countenance of the man who both vexed and drew her to him at one and the same time.

  Reaching out, she placed her palm first on his hot brow and then over his flushed cheek. Still dry. She looked over her shoulder at the still-slumbering physician and then toward the wash basin a few paces away. With less trepidation than she’d felt upon entering—now that she knew how hard the man slept—she made her way over to the basin and doused a cloth in the cool water. After ringing it free of excess moisture, she brought it back to the bed and lightly ran the cloth over Callum’s face and neck. If, by chance, he awakened, she felt sure he’d be in too groggy a state from the draught to recognize her. And the dimness of the chamber, as well as her lad’s attire would also help to keep her identity hidden.

  Since the ministering seemed to soothe him, she repeated the exercise several more times. Thankfully, tho’ he mumbled in his sleep, he never fully awakened or opened his eyes. After awhile, her legs and back became pained and weary, so she decided to settle next to her patient on the bed to continue the task. His face contorted and he groaned when the indention of the mattress rolled him onto his sore shoulder. She held her breath, for if anything would awaken him, this would. He resettled on his back, but his eyes never opened.

  Curious to see how badly he’d injured himself when he’d burst through the barrier in the cave opening, she took a quick peek under the top edge of the woolen blanket. ‘Twas wrapped tightly, so ‘twas hard to tell how much damage he’d caused himself. She dared do no further investigation, however, as, from the look of things, he wore naught else. After resettling the blanket snugly over his chest, she bathed his face with the cool cloth and dribbled very small amounts of water into his mouth that, even in his stupor, he managed to swallow. She continued in this vein for the next two hours.

  At some point, the physician awakened and moved toward the bed, but she managed to scoot over to the other side and hide between the bed’s edge and the curtain while the man checked on his patient. Afterward, he lay back down on his makeshift bed and quickly fell into what seemed to be an untroubled slumber once more.

  Finally, a couple of hours before sunrise, Callum’s fever broke. Unfortunately, his eyes opened then as well and there was not one tittle of confusion in them when he saw her. “Branwenn!” he croaked.

  “Nay, ‘tis but a dream you are having!” she whispered as she hastily descended from the bed. “And what, pray, are you doing dreaming of me, you lewd-minded devil!” she said, deciding ‘twas the kind of comment he would expect from her in life—and in a dream.

  “‘Tis no dream,” he said sleepily. Callum’s eyelids drooped, then shut completely. “For, why would I dream of a laddish bairn...such as”—He yawned loudly—“yowww?”

  His harsh words caused a sharp pain in her heart and Branwenn’s eyes misted. In the next instant, however, fury overcame hurt and she drew her fist back and nearly punched him in the arm before reason won out and, scrubbing the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, she took the opportunity to escape before the rest of the household rose for the day.

  * * *

  The next time Callum awoke, ‘twas nearing sext. Pulling back the bed curtain, he peered out, squinting when the bright light coming from the window stabbed his bleary eyes. He blinked a few times and rubbed them to ease the pain. How long had he been asleep? Hours? Days?

  He began to stretch, curving his back and lifting his bent elbows up in the air. “Aargh! Oww! Holy—”

  The door flew open and his mother barreled forward, followed closely by his paternal grandmother, Lady Maclean. “Callum, dear! Which of your injuries pains you? I will call for new bindings forthwith.”

  “I am well, Mother, fear not. I only meant to stretch a bit and was instantly reminded of my sore shoulder,” he said, flinging the sheet over his bare nether regions.

  “That
sluggard physician only just came down to tell us that your fever broke early this morn,” Lady Maclean said. “Here, let me feel your forehead.” Her gate was slow, and her tall frame a bit stooped, but her unusual eyes—one blue, one green—snapped with vitality as she walked over to stand at the side of the bed and proceeded to do just that. “We should not have listened to him when he told us to stay away from you while your fever raged, else we would have known of your recovery much sooner.” Her gray-sprigged black brows furrowed as her eyes scanned his countenance. “A bad business, this. Your uncle...er...stepfather—pardon, I’m still not used to thinking of him thus—met with Laird Gordon for most of this day past to negotiate a settlement for this insult.”

  “Insult!” Callum yelled. “‘Twas attempted murder!”

  “Now Callum,” his mother soothed, “‘twas not as dark a deed as that, for ‘twas—”

  “How can you say such! I—”

  “Hush, and I will explain,” she chided gently, her voice softer, more melodious than her mother’s. “‘Twas the Laird’s young page—his nephew—who...well...he stirred your wine with a finger he’d stuck in swine offal.”

  “What!?” In the next second, he was gagging and coughing as his innards roiled inside of him.

  Lady Maclean placed her hand on her grandson’s good shoulder. “Now, now. You didn’t partake of enough to perish,” —she turned to her daughter and said, “Maggie, fetch him some water, else he’ll surely retch more bile,”—before turning back to Callum and continuing, “so you’ve no need to carry on in such a manner.”

  “And I suppose you would react with dignity,” cough, cough, gag, “not even raise an eyebrow, were you to find out you’d been fed pig turd for supper?” He glared at her through blood-shot, watery green eyes.

  Lady Maclean caught her daughter’s eye and gave her a look that said, ‘Do not laugh!’ “Nay, I’m sure I would react in much the same rather excessive way.”