by Ria Cantrell
“Mom, come on! You can’t be thinking that my natural mother was some sort of medieval aberration. I mean really. The plague still exists in parts of the world. Maybe my mother was a missionary in India or something.”
“Okay. Tom, but there’s more.”
“Go on, I’m intrigued. I think you’re being a little mysterious but I rather like the effect,” he teased good-naturedly.
“Tommy, the reason Gaelic comes so naturally for you in those songs is because it was the language you spoke as a child. You remember that song you always sang? It was in Gaelic and you would translate it for me. It was the weirdest thing. Not many people are speaking Gaelic in the everyday world.”
“So, maybe she was an Irish missionary that lived in India. Maybe that’s why she left me. Maybe she had picked up something dreadful and couldn’t care for me.”
Deirdre breathed in heavily. “Tom, the Gaelic you spoke wasn’t the Gaelic you have learned to sing with Celtic Storm. I wrote these notes based on what it sounded like. I took it to a friend of mine who worked in the University and she passed on my notes to the linguistic professor on the staff. He said it was an ancient dialect of Erst, which was spoken near the Hebrides Islands in the North of Scotland.”
Tom actually laughed. While his mother seemed dead-serious, the entire conversation seemed absurd to him. “So what, mom? Do you think I was dropped here from another time? I mean really mom, it seems almost funny.”
It was true; he loved history and he loved to read about medieval history in particular, but that didn’t mean he had been ripped from the pages of time to be dropped on the doorstep of the Callums. Deirdre shook her head and tried to smile. Just saying it all out loud made the entire tale sound ridiculous. She gave her son a sidelong glance and said, “I suppose you’re right. It does sound rather ludicrous. I’m just saying you are a mystery in so many regards. But you have been my greatest joy. And no matter what happens, I wanted you to know the truth and to know that….”
“Mom, I know. And I love you and dad, too. I’m not going to try and find my birth mother. I figure after nearly 25 years, if she didn’t come looking for me, there doesn’t seem much point in looking for her.”
“Well, I wanted you to have this information so that when you make it to Scotland, if you want to do some research, you will have the plaid and the notes we kept on you. Well, the notes I kept. Your dad doesn’t even know I did most of this. He would probably think I had lost my mind.”
Kissing his mother’s cheek, Tommy said, “It’ll be our little secret mom. Thanks for doing all that for me. So what do you think? Maybe my biological father was an Indian rug merchant or something. Do I look like I’m from Bombay or some exotic place?”
Deirdre laughed. She said, “Not at all. Actually, you look like one of those bare chested Highlanders on the covers of those bodice rippers.”
“Ha! Thanks! Well, who knows? If this thing with Celtic storm goes south, I can always get a job posing in kilts for a book cover or two. I mean, some of the numbers we will be wearing kilts anyway. I hear the pay is good for such a thing.”
“One more thing. When you get to Scotland, look up your cousin Kiera. She got married to a big Scotsman and is actually a titled lady of an old castle.”
“Oh, yeah? I had forgotten that she was living there. I always had a little crush on her, now that I think of it.”
“Tom! You didn’t! She’s family.”
With a wink, he said, “Well, not really, mom. I mean, I could have dated her with no worries of it really being wrong. I mean, it’s not like we are really blood cousins or anything. Yeah, she was my first teenage infatuation. Too bad about the husband thing.” A dreamy expression came into Tommy’s eyes.
Tom saw the look of shocked horror on his mother’s face and he said, “Just kidding, Mom. But she was a beauty. I bet she still is. Just my type, I guess. Maybe I’ll meet someone like her. Anyway, Mom, not to worry. It’s not like I will be traveling the rest of my life. I’ll be home before you know it.”
Though she didn’t say it, it sure didn’t feel like it to Deirdre. Sometimes a mother’s heart senses the destiny of her child, even if she hadn’t given birth to him.
~
Chapter Eight – Scotland, 1387~
Bronwyn’s mouth was set grimly as she re-read the words hastily scrawled on the note left by her daughter. Drew, having risen early with his wife to get a start on the preparations needed for the King’s visit, watched as the expression soured on his wife’s face. This could not be good, he thought. For the love of God, what now?
Bronwyn turned to Drew and with a shaking hand, she blurted out, “She has gone too far this time, Drew. I dunna’ know what we are to do with that daughter of ours.”
“What? What has she done, now?”
“This is the final straw. She has forced our hands.”
Still not clear on what had happened, Drew’s main concern was his wife at the moment. He said as calmly as possible, “Let me see the note and we shall discuss the matter, but I cannot know how to proceed if I do not know all that has passed.”
“We have been at odds for weeks now, and I dunna’ know how to reach her. She believes I am her enemy.”
Drew could see that Bronwyn was becoming more upset as the minutes ticked by, so he took the piece of parchment from his wife’s shaking fingers. His eyes scanned the words penned by his daughter. A slow smile threatened to lift the corners of his mouth, but he stayed it so to not further upset his wife.
~ Father and Mother, I do not wish to worry you, but I have no desire to marry a man I do not love. You have taught me that by your love for each other. I know this will make you angry, but I cannot wait by while my fates are decided by a king I could never trust. I am sorry, but I cannot stay to face a betrothal that my heart will not accept. I love you both, but t’is time I made my own choices; be it to wed or to remain unburdened by the trappings of marriage. ~ J~
Drew cleared his throat and forced himself not to grin. That daughter of his was a willful bag of tricks, but she was not unlike her mother. In fact, he remembered a time that did not seem so long ago, when Bronwyn had done a similar thing. Pondering that memory brought a frown earnestly to his lips. That decision had nearly cost Bronwyn her life and it had jeopardized their betrothal as well.
“What is our daughter talking about? There have been no betrothals arranged, have there, my love?”
“Would I nay tell ye’ of such an arrangement?”
“Well, I would hope so, but I have been away of late so I was not certain if some sort of prospect for our beautiful girl had been offered.”
“Nay, Drew. I have nay made any arrangements or contracts for the hand of that girl. What shall we do?”
“I shall ride after her, of course. She cannot have gotten far.”
“Ye’ can nay, Drew. Ye’ are needed here. The Royal Progress will be here in less than one moon’s time. That stupid girl…she will get herself killed,” Bronwyn muttered in anger and frustration. Drew understood Bronwyn’s point, as there was logic in her words. Still, family came before royal decrees and it would now, as well. Drew had risked it long ago for Bronwyn and he would again for his beloved daughter, Jenna.
Bronwyn paced like a caged animal in aggravated annoyance. Drew said, “My love, I will find her and bring her home. You and she are my life. No royal visit means more to me than the two of you.”
“That child is going to be our ruination.”
Drew caught hold of Bronwyn as she began another pass before him in her nervous pacing.
“My love, that’s just it. She is nay a child any longer. She is a woman grown and she wants to choose the life she will lead for herself.”
“But she....”
Drew’s finger pressed to his wife’s lovely lips and he said, “Hush, love. She is how she is simply because of how we have taught her to be. We encouraged her to think for herself and to foster decisions of her own making. You would nay have wanted he
r to be any other way.”
“Aye, but why would she do this now? We must present her to the king. He is expecting all of us to greet him and show him our declaration of fealty. He will question why we are withholding…” Bronwyn’s voice faltered and Drew held her in his arms. He said, “She is so much like you, my love. Why, I remember you giving the king a piece of your mind when he wanted you to marry Erik.”
“Ugh…dunna’ remind me. That was a terrible time…for us all. Where could she have gone? T’is dangerous for a woman to be riding alone. I can attest to that.”
Drew once again hid his smile. Indeed, she could relate to the dangers hidden on the roads. Bronwyn had nearly been assaulted and killed when she had done a similar headstrong thing all those years ago, before she and Drew had wed. Bronwyn had rashly decided to run from him just to spare Drew from being wed to an unwanted Scots woman. Drew pushed that memory aside. It had been a source of heartache for him and he had almost lost a part of himself when he thought that Bronwyn had betrayed his trust that night so long ago. Instead, he said placidly, “Jenna is kindred to the land. She knows every inch of it and so I would wager she went to seek refuge from the big and scary future husband she believes we are forcing upon her with none other than those brothers of yours. I’d bet she is already safely at MacCollum Castle lamenting her fate to Caleb and Mara.”
Bronwyn sighed impatiently. She knew Drew was probably right. Her father and stepmother were usually the people Jenna sought when she was troubled. Bronwyn also knew that Drew could sense these things. She forgot sometimes that he had that uncanny Gift of the Ancients, like so many of her own people did.
“Look, t’is only a day’s ride to MacCollum. I will go to retrieve that daughter of yours. All will be well.”
Bronwyn shot Drew a look. Funny how Jenna was her daughter when she had done something foolish!
“I’d like to see to it that your daughter is thrashed for her foolery.”
“Now, now, love. We have not taken to spanking her much when she was a child. We certainly cannot start now. She is nearly three and twenty years old.”
“I vow that girl is going to need a strong man to take her in hand. I dunna’ know if all of MacCollum, MacDougal or MacKay could produce a man with metal enough to take the likes of Jenna Brandham.”
Drew kissed Bronwyn sweetly and said, “She is so like you, my love and you did well enough, I think.”
With another nasty look that could frost the netherworld, Bronwyn pushed out of her husband’s arms. She was certainly not finding anything humorous in his words and she did not like being compared to her wayward and headstrong daughter. Drew laughed in spite of the menacing look cast upon him. He took Bronwyn’s hand again and led her down to the main hall. He would eat a quick breakfast and would then ride to the MacCollum lands to collect their daughter.
~~~~~
Morag leaned heavily on her staff. It was getting harder to move with ease at times. She had been on this green earth years longer than she could count. Still, the Fates saw it fit to keep her from passing into the after-life. For so long, she had taken care of the offspring of the MacCollum lairds, that she was treated more like a grandmother than a chatelaine. She felt like she was, too. That was a blessing with her age, she supposed. She sighed. She had been a widow for far longer than she had ever been a bride. Funny how that happy time when she was newly wedded seemed to be but a whisper in the Wheel of Ages! She had held it in her heart throughout her entire long life. The Goddess had blessed her with many gifts and for those Morag was utterly grateful.
Alas, those gifts had not come without a price. She had walked the Path of the Ancients and had embraced the Old Ways by plying her hand as a Healer and Seer of the Clan. There was that other gift, that few knew about, too. That was the one that was the hardest to hide for it was even hard to believe herself, at times, let alone having to try to explain it to others. It was THAT gift that had cost her the most, but far be it for her to question the Ancients who had bestowed it upon her. Somehow, Morag knew that it was going to be put to the test and she was nay longer going to be able to hide it from the people she loved the most. Her day of reckoning was at hand; of that she was certain for she could feel it in the wind like a call from the hawks in flight.
Morag had come to live with Bronwyn and Drew only a few years after they had wed. It was when they had taken on the restoration of the old Campbell Keep to its former glory, that Morag took up residence with her acolyte and cherished Bronwyn. Bronwyn’s brother Rory, the famed Highland Wolf, had wed the last known survivor of this branch of the Campbell clan but she wanted no part of it for it held memories that only brought Brielle pain. Gabrielle Campbell had suffered greatly at the hands of her brothers, so her childhood home was an unwelcomed prize to inherit. When Bronwyn and Drew began to restore it, Morag found a home after moving from place to place most of her life. For Morag, the place held happy memories of simpler times before the great rift between MacCollum and Campbell and before her very heart had been cleaved with the grief of loss of her husband Ian and their son Tavish. Before there was strife between Campbell and MacCollum, there was peace and friendship. Morag thought upon the carefree days she had spent with Ian and their best friend Gavin Campbell.
They all knew that Gavin would one day become Laird and they had spent their youth dreaming of the lives they would share as allies and friends. Only, her husband Ian’s death brought about a chain of events that had thereafter put emnity between MacCollum and Campbell. It was not until Drew and Bronwyn settled within the Campbell walls that Morag was able to set foot there again. She loved those hallowed halls and she could still feel the presence of her dear friend within the confines of the ancient stones which had been used to build the fortress. Morag was grateful to be close to her precious Highland Rose; her Bronwyn and to the memory of her own youth which lived in Campbell keep. Bronwyn had embraced the Old Path and was Morag’s greatest student. That dear girl was like a daughter of her heart and it helped to fill the void in it that had been left by the loss of her son.
Morag had watched Bronwyn grow up from a once headstrong lass into a beautiful woman. Bronwyn had blossomed with the love her English knight and she had become a woman of grace and dignity. The lass was also extremely gifted in the Old Ways. Now with Bronwyn’s son soon to wed, there was only the lady Jenna to see settled. Ach, that girl could give a mother fits, but Morag understood her. Aye, she was not one to be told what her lot in life would be, nay indeed. Jenna Brandham was wont to make her own way in the world. Morag definitely understood that. She actually admired the willful determination of the young woman who had once been one of her charges. She was not unlike her mother, nor for that matter was she so very different from her own self. Why, Morag remembered many a time when she defied the rules set by men who sought to suppress the callings of a woman such as herself. Morag knew what it was like to want to make a stand of her own in the world. Ah, but Jenna was different, for she was more determined to set her own path. But, the Fates had spoken. It would nay be long now.
Morag had spent the night in prayer and supplication. The moon was nearly full and t’was the best time to perform her rites. She had stood in the glade amid the standing stones when the visions came o’er her. She almost had thought she was going to once again be pulled to another space and era as she had so many times before. It was that gift that she had not shared. Not even with Bronwyn. It was one of many secrets Morag had tended carefully in her heart. So many secrets bear down heavy on a woman’s heart. Morag spoke these words out loud to herself.
Instead of finding herself in a different time, as she had done before, the visions came. Most times when Morag scried, the images were clear, but lately, as she seemed to get older and older, the messages were harder to discern. Still they came and it was up to Morag to make sense of them all. She saw Jenna Brandham riding out alone. She was heading to MacCollum keep, no doubt, to commiserate with her cousin, Brigid.
Morag sense
d no danger, even though it was foolhardy to make such a journey unescorted in the middle of the night. But that revelation was not what troubled her, because Morag knew Jenna would arrive at MacCollum keep without being accosted along the way. Nay, there was a presence that shadowed Jenna. It was a man. Morag could not see his face clearly but she knew this was the one that would steal the heart of the girl who had vowed to embrace spinsterhood. The image had brought a smile to Morag’s old lips, but it was soon erased by the next vision.
She next saw the English king crossing into the Highlands. She saw him cloaked in darkness. Someone was determined to betray him; someone the young king trusted; someone who donned the attire of the Highlands. Morag’s stomach lurched at the premonition. The attack would look like a Scotsman had done it. It would break the fragile peace between Scotland and England to be certain. None of them were safe if that plan was carried out; least of all Morag’s precious MacCollums and Brandham offshoots of the clan.
~
Chapter Nine ~
Michael de la Pole had succeeded in becoming the Lord Chancellor and his position would skillfully influence the boy king; making his reign nothing more than a puppet regime. De la Pole would pull all the strings. He practically felt his cock harden from the sheer brilliance of the scheme.
A cabinet of men set to also control Richard. They called themselves the Lords Appellant. They tried to thwart Michael’s attempt to gain Richard’s ear but so far they had been unsuccessful. Michael had charmed Richard of Bordeaux and fed the king’s self-important mindset with flattery and coercion. It had earned him a place higher than the Appellant and perhaps, when all was said and done, Michael de la Pole would rise to take the title of King Regent. He knew that John Gaunt was a man to watch and Gaunt’s son also had claims to the throne, but now, as Richard hung on de la Pole’s every word, the threat of the Appelant Lords were far behind him; for now. The young, coddled chit was easy to mold, sort of like potter’s clay and Michael fanned his indulged ego. The Appellant made it appear that Richard was in control of the throne, but de la Pole knew better. The Appellant were a conniving nest of vipers; the lot of them, but no matter. Michael trusted them as much as he trusted Richard, but he counted on his own strength and influence to be his biggest asset. Richard’s parliament was a joke. In truth, there was no telling what the unstable little fool would have deemed as part of his rule, or as Michael liked to think, Richard’s Misrule.