Late one night, Andrea was awoken from her sleep by the shouts of men and horses outside her window. Opening her curtains she could see the shadows of dozens of men, some walking, some on horseback. The warriors were returning. Slipping a cloak over her nightgown and putting on her slippers, she rushed out into the night. Helena never bothered to lock her door now; after all, there was nowhere she could go. As she ran among the men, she tried to look in their faces for Alex’s familiar features. It wasn’t easy. Some of the men held torches aloft, their features wickedly burnished in the golden light. She could see that some of them bore scars or lumps of flesh ripped from their faces in the most hideous fashion. Other men limped or wore their arms in slings. Others less fortunate were carried on makeshift stretchers made from old linen and planks. Her stomach was swollen in front of her, and as she hurried along, she felt the baby kick so she slowed her pace. It was best not to tire herself. As she approached the landing platform by the sea, the line of men had thinned until there was only one lone figure standing over the empty fishing boats. The figure was cloaked in black; it was Helena, and she was looking wistfully across the water, willing her brother to return.
“Is he here?”
She knew the answer already. If Alex had returned to Iona, then his sister would have been the first by his side.
At first the figure did not respond, and Andrea didn’t know if her voice had been heard above the crashing of the waves.
Eventually the figure turned to face her, the skin glowing pale in the moonlight. The eyes were full and stared through the girl. She had never felt so much hate in her life. Without speaking a word, the Abbess pushed roughly past, leaving her alone.
Andrea swallowed hard, sensing something must be wrong. Her stomach lurched, and she tried to remain calm for the sake of the child within her. Surely somebody must know.
She set off back down the track to catch the men, asking the first group she saw if they knew what had happened to Alex. They all shook their heads, most of them too tired to speak after their exertions. She couldn’t tell if they were sparing her the truth because of her condition or if they genuinely didn’t know.
Finally, she caught up with Helena who was engaged in conversation with a couple of older men. She hid out of sight but within earshot. The men were shaking their heads and the woman put her face into her hands, running back to the sanctuary of the nunnery.
At a much slower pace, Andrea followed in her footsteps and found her standing alone in the cloisters, half bathed in moonlight and half in shadow. An eerie halo had gathered around the moon and Andrea could feel the dread mounting in her own heart.
“What’s happened to Alex?”
The words rushed out into the darkness and then disappeared amid their breathy exhalation.
Helena could have been a statue standing there in the moonlight. She did not move for several seconds.
“He is dead. My brother is dead.”
The words almost stopped her heart. It couldn’t be true.
Andrea rushed over to the woman, hoping that they could unite in their shared grief, yet despite her condition, Helena pushed her away with such a force that she landed in the damp grass.
“Don’t you dare touch me! You are responsible for this. I knew when you first arrived that you would bring trouble.”
The woman was grief-stricken, but there was no need to treat her so unkindly. Slowly Andrea rose to her feet.
“Helena, I...”
“Do not speak to me. The damage has been done.”
“But what did I do? Alex died in battle, surely?”
Helena turned and walked towards her, a finger raised in accusation. “You bewitched my brother from the start. I don’t know where you came from, but you are not from this world. When you showed me the rune, I understood. You have been practicing the art of black magic upon us for your own ends. And now you have killed him.”
Andrea looked on in wonder. She had always thought that Helena did not like her, perhaps had been jealous of her relationship with Alex, but never thought that she hated her. The accusations were ludicrous. The woman was obviously mad.
“Helena, I am carrying your brother’s child, your nephew, his only heir.”
The Abbess scoffed in her face. “Oh, you would like to think so, wouldn’t you? I doubt the child you carry has anything to do with Alex. You have probably made a pact with the devil – there will be something unnatural about this child, like the other one. That’s why it could not live. Maybe it is even one of our enemy’s seed, a Campbell’s perhaps? I never trusted you before with your late-night wanderings. Why did you think I locked your door each night? Now I must go and pray for my brother’s soul.”
Left alone in the quiet night air, Andrea began to weep for the loss of Alex as the reality hit her. She had only known him briefly, but it seemed like years, and the grief was very real. She could understand why Helena thought she was a witch. It was 1645 for crying out loud, and people had funny ideas about the devil, but how on earth could she convince her otherwise? As she wept into her cloak, she heard footsteps approach. It was Geraldina, and taking her by the arm, she ushered Andrea back into the warmth. The young nun had lit a new fire and several of the candles. Andrea shivered. She hadn’t realized how tired and cold she was.
The tears still ran down her face as she undressed and put on her nightgown, remembering her last night here with Alex. Without him, what would become of her and the child? Without the rune, she may never return home.
Tucked up in bed, Geraldina brought her a draught of the bitter herbal medicine. She trusted the young girl and drank it straight down. She had to think about the baby now and how they could survive. It wasn’t long until she was in a deep sleep and dreaming.
She was standing in the middle of a battle zone, and there were Highlanders and English men fighting all around her, but she seemed to be a ghost and able to pass through them, unharmed. And although the battle raged fiercely on all sides of her, there was no noise except for the melancholy whine of a lone piper. A mist appeared and someone was calling her name. No, not her name—Andra’s. She recognized the voice; it was Alex calling out to her through the void. As the mist rose, she could see him, battle worn and bloody but not dead.
“Wait for me, Andra,” he was saying, over and over again.
When she awoke, she felt calmer as if Alex had really been with her. Maybe there was still hope, but she would keep it to herself.
She expected Geraldina to bring her breakfast and was surprised when Helena opened the door with her meal. She braced herself for another onslaught of venom.
Placing the tray on the bed, Helena walked over to the window.
“Andra, I am deeply sorry about last night. The news of my brother’s loss hit me strongly and I spoke out of turn. I have not been as welcoming to you as perhaps I should have, and I think that I should start to make amends, especially as you are carrying his child. After breakfast, come walking with me. The air will do us both good.”
It was a struggle for the older woman to say the words, and her face twisted with every vowel. She was trying hard to be pleasant, but her manner left Andrea cold. Still, if Helena could make the effort, then so could she.
The girl smiled and nodded. “I could do with some air and exercise too. I will come to you after I have dressed.”
Andrea ate up her breakfast. She needed to keep up her strength. Then, pulling on her layers of stockings and tunic to keep warm, she wrapped a large woollen blanket around her shoulders to keep off the chill from the sea air. Helena was already waiting for her by the door, and the two women set off into the bright winter air.
Together they walked over the brow of the Island to the northern-most point, the “Bay of the Breaking Waves,” the locals called it. The view was spectacular and the women walked on in silence, each one thinking of Alex in their own way. As they rounded the hill, Andrea began to break out into a sweat, becoming breathless before the pains started in her abdom
en. Clutching her belly, she shouted out to Helena who was walking slightly ahead of her. By the time Helena had turned around, Andrea had already slipped to the stony ground, writhing in agony.
The Abbess walked over to the girl, a strange look upon her face. She was about to speak when a voice called out to them in the distance, and a small black figure approached them. It was Geraldina, who, noticing that Andrea had not taken her cloak, followed the two women to bring the garment.
“Geraldina, come quick, the young mistress is unwell, and we need to get her back to the nunnery as a matter of urgency.”
Slowly and carefully, the two women supported her back to the room. Luckily, they hadn’t walked too far and within half an hour, Andrea was tucked up in her bed with a roaring fire in the grate. The pain had subsided in her stomach, but her heart was racing and she had a fever. The physician had examined her and left another draught of bitter herbs to help her rest.
She slept for the rest of the day, and by suppertime she was feeling much better and sat up in bed to eat a small meal that Helena had brought for her. The Abbess had showed her great kindness that day, and Andrea wondered if she had been wrong to doubt her. It was only when Geraldina came to check on the fire about midnight that anyone realized the attack had happened yet again. After her meal, Andrea had slept only to wake with a raging thirst and a pounding head. As she had tried to get out of bed for a glass of water, the stabbing pains started again and she was too weak to shout for help.
The young nun wet a rag with cold water and laid it on her forehead. Andrea was almost delirious with pain but could see Geraldina smiling kindly down at her. For once the girl spoke.
“Listen to me. There is not much time. Helena is trying to poison you; she does not want you nor the child, now that her brother is dead. She is poisoning you through the food, and I cannot stop her–but I can give you an antidote for the poison. Here, drink this up and you will soon be feeling better.”
The nun went on to pour three drops of a reddish-brown liquid into a goblet and filled the rest with water.
Andrea drank down the potion; it tasted sweet and of berries, and within five minutes the fever had eased and the pains gone.
“You must take three drops of this with water before and after each meal to protect you. Now I must go, I have been here too long.” And leaving a small vial on the bed, the nun left, locking the door behind her.
She was in deadly danger. If Helena was trying to kill her, then she would stop at nothing. Geraldina’s potion would only prolong the inevitable. She had been right all along about Helena. Grandma Betty had returned back to the present on the seeming death of Andra, but then again she had the rune. What would happen if Andrea died without it in her hands?
All night she lay awake, afraid of every noise, of every footstep in case it was Helena’s. She tucked the glass vial under her pillow out of sight. Without the young nun’s help, she would have been dead already. She must keep the faith.
Chapter 12
Andrea eventually slept, for when she finally awoke the rain was lashing down at the window. She was also not alone; Helena was standing at the foot of her bed looking like death herself, dressed in a long black habit.
“I am glad to see that you have had a good night. I am surprised; the doctor thought that you might lose the child again. I have brought you some breakfast to keep up your strength. Some beef tea and bread will do you good, now let me help you.”
Her hand reached under the pillow. The little vial had gone. Her heart started to beat fast as Helena sat by her side and started to pick up the spoon.
“What is wrong, my dear? You look like you have lost something. Now drink some of this, it will do you good.”
Andrea had no choice; if she struggled, then Helena would force her. They were both playing a dangerous game, and Helena currently held the upper hand. Her only hope lay in the hands of Geraldina.
Soon the beef tea was all gone and Helena smiled as she proffered the last spoonful.
“There, all done. Now I will leave you to rest. I have told the other nuns not to disturb you today. I will lock the door and take away the key, just to make sure you rest in peace.”
The key turned in the lock and the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor until all was still. Was this to be her final fate?
After half an hour, the fever and the pains started anew and within an hour she was almost unconscious with the pain. Her mind kept blanking out, but she concentrated on the pain to keep her awake. The little song kept playing round and round in her head:
Long ago and far away
I dreamed a dream one day
And now that dream is here beside me.
The words came and went as she tried to sing them out loud, tried to remember the tune that the little nun had sung.
Her heart was beating fast, and her breath was rasping in her throat. So this was the end. She thought of Steve and New York, of her Grandma Betty, and of Alex.
Her eyes began to mist. Death was pulling her towards eternal sleep, and there was nothing she could do. As her senses began to shut down, she was aware of a commotion around her. The door had opened and a shadowy figure was in the room. Maybe it was Death paying her a personal visit? But the face was real. It was Alex; he had returned. He was shouting something out loud to another figure behind him.
“What have you done? What have you done?” His voice was desperate.
Soon she could feel a strong arm around her, sitting her up, shaking her, trying to restore life, but it was too late—she was slowly breaking down. The last thing she remembered was a small stone being thrust into her hand before all went black.
At 30,000 feet in the air, it all came flooding back to her. Geraldine MacDonald had found her that morning slumped over a grave in the little Chapel of St. Oran. She had been overdoing it lately, and the stress had taken its toll. Once she was feeling quite well again, the old woman had given her a book on the genealogy of the McDonald clan and not wanting to be rude, she had taken it along with her name and address and telephone number, just in case she happened to be in the area again.
At first she had tried to sleep. She had an aisle seat and was at least able to stretch out her legs. Yet every time she almost dozed off, vivid dreams and imaginings would wake her up. She looked in her carry-on bag. She had nothing to read except the book Geraldine had given her so she casually flicked through the pages to pass the time. On the third page she paused as she read the name of Alexhander McDonald. Her heart stopped as the memories came flooding back in every detail. Surely it had been just a terrible dream, brought on by her grieving state? Maybe she had been influenced by her grandma’s diary. She had always had an active imagination.
She looked at the family tree spread out in the middle pages of the book. There was Alexhander McDonald, married to Andra in 1642. They had a child, Alexhander (dead) in 1644, and another, a girl in 1645. There were no dates of death, only question marks against the entries. The history books couldn’t tell her everything.
Andrea put a hand against her stomach, remembering the pregnancy. Could it be that she was expecting? She had been sick that morning when she returned to the hotel, and she still felt a little queasy. Deep inside her, it all started to make sense. If it had been just a dream, then she wouldn’t be feeling so strongly. Alex had come through for her in the end, just at the right moment. She fished out the small rune from her jeans pocket and held it in her hand. This tiny object connected her past and present; it was her link to the one man she loved and would return to.
In the dark room of the nunnery, Alex McDonald held onto the still, warm body of his beloved Andra. The dawn had just started to break, and a weak sun was rising above the mist. He knew that she was safe and that she would come back to him. As long as he kept holding her, she would not die. Their love was eternal.
THE END
The Highland Dream
Book 2 of the Runes of Argyll series
Jessica Savage
Copyright ©2015 by Jessica savage All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic of mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Table of Contents
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As the plane started its descent to 20,000 ft over New York, Andrea woke as the pressure popped in her ears. The cabin was noisy with the chatter of passengers, most of who had just woken in time for the landing. Seat belts were fastened and stray hand luggage stowed away in readiness. Everything seemed so ordinary, so 21st century and Andrea breathed deeply. When she had set off from Glasgow airport that morning she had been full of fire and fury and ready to read the riot act to Steve, but now she was back in civilization her determination had started to waiver. The events of the last week now seemed a dream and she wondered if she could actually be going slightly mad. Her memory was foggy, as if she was trying to recall something that had happened years ago rather than just yesterday.
She remembered carrying out her Grandmother’s last wish, her pilgrimage to the Isle of Iona in the Western Hebrides to return a strange looking stone to the cemetery of the ancient chapel of St Oran. Something had happened there, something remarkable in that sacred place, the thin place where time and eternity met. That's what Geraldine had said, the old woman she had met at the hotel Columba over coffee. Even she now seemed like a phantom.
And then there was Alexhander MacDonald. How could she ever forget him? Yet she could scarcely remember his face now, only the eyes remained burning brightly in her memory, the intense way that he looked at her with his green grey eyes. It all seemed like a distant memory rather than yesterday. But it hadn't been her time, it had been his; 1625 to be exact. The date was engraved in her mind. Yet still it was so ridiculous. The old woman, Geraldine, had found her in the chapel grounds, being violently sick: food poisoning or something of the like. Yet it had seemed so real, she could still feel his touch on her skin, could still feel his presence around her even though the details were no longer clear.
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