by Lois Greiman
Some distance from the door, the cradle was silent, empty but for the blankets that lay in a bundle there, since things were so uncertain. What if the grudge held against him extended to the babe? What if her wee life was in danger? His heart contracted, and for a moment he was tempted to race out of his room to check on the babe’s well being. But she was safer with Helena than with him. Mary was safe. Anora was safe. ‘Twas his own life that was vulnerable, or so the miscreant must think. For miscreant it surely was. A person of flesh and blood, and a person he could best.
Yet how had any person been so silent as to sneak into his chambers unnoticed?
He imagined a shadow falling across his door. It paused and then, like a wisp of smoke, it slipped beneath his portal and flowed toward the cradle. He heard it rock gently, but in a moment the quiet noise ceased. He felt the shadow turn, felt its coolness fall across his bed, but no evil seemed forthcoming, only a calm sort of consideration, as if someone was watching him sleep. Yes, that was it. She wished him no harm. She was a kindly soul, after all. Small and fragile, she only worried for her kin. Thus she stood at the foot of his bed and—
Christ! He sat up with a jerk and glanced frantically about the room. It was empty. He was alone, and yet— did the cradle still rock slightly? Nay ‘twas his imagination, he assured himself. His heart raced and his head felt woolly, but all was well. No brigands had interrupted his solitude. No spirit had invaded his chambers. It was nothing more than a dream, no matter how tangible the presence had seemed.
Cautious, stiff, he lay back down. Minutes ticked away. Shadowy thoughts crept back into his mind with insidious softness, soothing, lulling. Somewhere in the darkness a dove sang. Its sweet voice reminded him of Anora. How she spoke. How she felt in his arms, in his bed.
He murmured her name like a dream, and then, in the deepest recesses of his mind, he sensed a movement.
Someone in his room—near the cradle! He jerked to a sitting position and a white figure spun toward him with a gasp. A ray of light from the window slanted across her face.
“Anora!” Her name rasped from his lips. She leapt toward the door, but he was closer. He stumbled out of bed. Blankets tangled and knotted around him, but he wrestled free, blocking her path. “Anora,” he whispered again.
She backed away, a pale, ghostly form in the darkness.
“Why?” he whispered, but in that instant she pivoted away. ‘Twas then he noticed the open window.
She flew toward it, while he, mired in sleep and blankets, stumbled after. For a fraction of a moment she paused on the windowsill. He saw her pale face turn toward him for an instant, and then, like a freed lark, she soared into the inky sky. The moonlight shone on her pale billowing gown for a frozen moment, and then she was gone.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Then, broken free from immobility, he dove for the window. “Anora!” he yelled. Panic washed him in cold waves. “Nay!” he cried, and scrambled frantically onto the ledge to search for her, but she was gone. Disappeared. Broken on the rocks below. He knew it, and with that knowledge, his will to live was also broken.
“Anora,” he whispered and leaned into the wind.
“MacGowan!”
He turned with a start, nearly falling as he did so.
“MacGowan, what are you doing?” Anora raced forward. Her pale gown, made diaphanous by her lantern, billowed behind her.
“Lass.” He whispered the word and stepped, entranced, from the window. “You were just …” He glanced sideways, into the endless darkness. “Here.”
“What has happened? What is wrong?”
“You …” He scowled, lost in his dreams, in his misty uncertainties. “Someone … was here.”
“Senga?” she whispered, her tone awed. “In truth?”
He shook his head, disoriented and baffled. The room danced. “Through the wall?”
“What?”
“If she is not flesh, why not go through the wall?” he asked, and turned toward the door. The floor seemed to tilt beneath him, but he remained upright. ” ‘Twas not a ghost. ‘Twas a person, and we shall find her body down below.”
“Nay!”
Ramsay turned, trying to read her tone, but she was already racing to the door, lantern held high. She did not fly down the steps, as he had expected, but rushed toward her chambers. Once there, she pulled aside a hanging tapestry and wrenched a wooden panel from the wall. Ducking into the dark passageway, she hurried down into the heart of Evermyst.
Ramsay followed, down, down into darkness, until he saw the slightest glimmer of light shining around a bend.
“Who goes there?”
” ‘Tis your mistress.” Anora’s voice was breathy. “Ready the boat.”
Someone stepped out of the darkness. “Is that you, me lady?”
“Aye.”
“You have need of the boat? At this hour?”
“Now!” she snapped.
They were in the water in a minute. Glancing up the sheer face of the rock, Ramsay calculated the location of his window, and there they searched, up and down the precipitous shoreline. But they found nothing.
Finally, strangely exhausted and confused, Ramsay followed the lantern light up the tunnel toward Anora’s chambers once more. In the circle of light her face was as pale as death. The panel creaked open and they stepped into the flickering light of the room.
“Me lady!” Anora’s maid stood beside the bed, one narrow hand sheltering a feeble flame. “I heard your door open and came to make certain all was well. I have been worried sick. Where have you been?”
“Isobel!” Anora whispered, and as she stepped forward, the lantern wobbled in her slim hand. “You are …” She paused inches from the maid. “There is no cause for worry. The MacGowan thought someone was in his chamber.”
“His chamber?” the girl asked, turning wide eyes to Ramsay.
“Aye. He thought ‘twas a woman, and that she … dove from the window toward the sea.”
Isobel blanched and stumbled back a step, crossing herself as she did so. “Lord save us.”
“You heard nothing from his room?” Anora asked. Ramsay concentrated on the conversation, trying to decipher her hard tone of voice, but it was strangely difficult, as if his mind still slept.
“Nay,” Isobel gasped. “Do you suppose it was Senga, warning him away?”
“Nay!” Anora’s voice was hoarse. “Why would she?”
The women’s gazes met and locked. “I know not,” Isobel whispered, wide eyed. “But ‘twould be a pity and a shame if your champion met the same fate as the Munros. Dead before their time.”
“What do you think killed Ironfist Munro, Isobel?” Ramsay asked, but the girl only shrugged. She looked paler than ever tonight, her lips so light they held almost the hue of lavender.
“I know not what killed the Munro.” Isobel ducked her head. Her ugly cap shadowed her face, and her baggy gown seemed more drab than ever in the gloomy darkness. “But ‘tis said it was by Senga’s hand.”
“Senga.” He did not believe in ghosts, yet when he said her name it was little more than a whisper. “Have you seen her?”
“Nay, but I have felt her,” Isobel murmured.
The whisper of a shiver breezed up Ramsay’s spine, weakening his knees, but he locked them hard and focused on the moment. “So you know not how she looks?” he asked.
Isobel flickered her gaze nervously to Anora and away. “In truth, me laird, all know how she looks.”
He turned, concentrating hard. Sleep crowded in on his senses. “How?” he asked, and in one hazy moment, Anora turned away, bidding him to follow.
‘Twas not far that they went, just down the darkened hall to the solar. There, beside the far wall, Anora lifted her lantern. The circle of light rose until, looking down at him from a gilded frame, was Anora in her youth—her golden hair loosed, her blue eyes alight. But there was something different. Gone was Anora’s aloof nature. In its place was a gentleness, a carefree happine
ss. It drew him in, transfixed him, for it seemed almost that she smiled for him alone, for him and the future they held together.
“When was this commissioned?” he murmured, still falling into the glistening eyes.
“A hundred years ago.”
Ramsay’s dreamy thoughts crumbled. “What?”
She lifted her chin slightly. ” ‘Tis not me, but Senga,” she said, and Ramsay, feeling the earth give way under his feet, toppled to the floor.
* * * * *
He was waking! Anora held her breath. Of course he awoke. He was strong. Invincible. He had bested the Munro; surely he would awake. Yet her hands still shook as she watched his eyes open.
His lashes, ridiculously long and full, lifted like the rising sun. His dark gaze roamed the room for an instant, then settled on her face. “What happened?”
She tightened her hands in her skirt, careful not to let them caress his rough cheek, to feel the pulse that thrummed in his broad throat. “You swooned.”
“Swooned?”
His tone was dry, but devoid of the haziness and uttered delusions of the previous night. It had been almost as if he were drugged. But surely she wouldn’t have … Anora clamped down on the thought. ” ‘Tis not uncommon when one has been wounded.”
He watched her in silence for a moment, his dark eyes steady. “You think ‘twere me wounds that caused me to lose consciousness?”
“Of course.” She tried not to look at him, but God help her, she could not stop herself. “What else?”
“A sleeping potion, mayhap?”
She jerked involuntarily. “What?”
His eyes were deadly level. “Someone wished me to sleep soundly.”
Though she tried to drag her gaze away, she could not.
“Someone poisoned me mead,” he said. “I should have realized it earlier.”
Fear knotted her belly. “Nay.”
“Who was it?”
” ‘Twas no one. You are deluded.”
“Was it you?”
“Nay!” She leapt to her feet, but his hand clasped her wrist, pulling her back down.
“How did you do it?” he asked, his face inches from her. “How did you exit by the window, then enter by the door? Why are you not dead?”
She said nothing, fear clogging the words in her throat.
“Are you a witch?” he whispered.
Panic erupted inside her. “Nay!” she gasped, and jerking from his grip, stumbled backward. “You may stay the day while I ready your entourage. But on the morrow you will leave,” she said, and turned shakily toward the door.
“Anora,” he said, and though she knew better, she turned toward him, her breath stopped in her throat.
“I’ll not be leaving, lass. On that you can depend.”
For a moment she feared that she, too, might faint, but she steadied her nerves and raised her chin. “Then you may die like the others.”
“I may indeed,” he said, and she forced herself to leave.
* * * * *
Ramsay spent most of that morning in bed, yet despite his lack of activity, the hours sped by, for his mind was spinning. That evening, in the great hall once again, he said little and observed much—how Helena poured the ale, how Meara watched everything, how Isobel kept her eyes averted, and how Anora, looking pale in her crimson gown, could almost hide the fear in her eyes, but not quite. When the meal was ended and the keep had been given time to settle into silence, he left the hall and strode down toward the kitchens.
Isobel should yet be there. Isobel with the narrow hands and bird quick glances.
“Ramsay.”
He turned with a start, and there, just rounding the corner from his right, was Anora. The crimson gown made her appear more fragile than ever and her wide eyes were bright with a terrible anxiety.
“I thought you had retired to your chambers,” he said.
She glanced sideways and wrung her slim hands together. “I’ve only a moment, but I must speak to you,” she said, for once not attempting to hide her fear.
Worry cut at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, and strode toward her. Her eyes widened still more and she stepped quickly back.
“I cannot speak here. There are ears everywhere. Meet me at Myst Vale—where you battled,” she whispered, and turned to leave.
“Anora.” He grabbed her arm. “What is amiss?”
They were inches apart, her eyes as wide as bluebells, her lips like scarlet bows, and already he felt himself pulled closer, longing with a terrible need to draw her close.
“Nay!” She pulled free and backed away. “I cannot. Meet me at the vale.”
“Why must—” he began, but she cut him off.
“If you love me, you will meet me, and you will tell no one,” she said, and fled.
* * * * *
“If you love me, you will meet me … If you love me you will meet me …”
Her words ran through Ramsay’s mind like a litany. It had not been a difficult task to escape the keep without being seen, though the precipitous descent from Myst had caused his thigh to throb as his scabbard pressed into it. Beyond the castle’s feeble lantern light, the night was quiet, the air cool. Mist curled like forgotten souls from the lowlands, and high above, tattered clouds whispered past a grinning moon.
“If you love me you will meet me.” And so he came, for he could no longer deny the truth. It burned at his soul like a Candlemas flame, consuming him. Aye, God help him, he loved her.
He slipped across the open moor and into the trees beyond. Branches rustled, whispering secrets that made him turn and glance behind, but no one followed, so he hurried on, his mind churning.
The moon slid beneath a wisp of a cloud, and the midnight wind whispered his name. He turned back again. Nothing but darkness.
“So you have come.”
Ramsay jerked forward, and there, standing before him, was the Munro. The moon skidded clear of the clouds, shining its silver light on the giant’s broad scarred face.
Then the final puzzle pieces clicked together in Ramsay’s mind. He straightened, glad that he had come, happy to pay the consequences to know the truth. “So Isobel told you I would be here.”
Even in the darkness, the surprise was evident on the Minotaur’s face. “In truth the maid told another, someone she calls a friend, but my spies are many. So you knew the lass planned to betray you?”
Ramsay shrugged.
“I meself was surprised that she wanted you gone, for I thought surely all of Evermyst worshiped you as their champion. But it seems me lady’s maid thought you were putting her mistress in grave danger.”
“Did she say how?”
“How?” The Munro grinned as he pulled his sword from its sheath. “In truth, laddie, I care only that you are here.”
“So you have come to be rid of me.”
” ‘Twas the lassie’s wish, even if she planned for another to do the deed,” he said, and took a scant step forward. “And how can I resist? She loves her mistress so.”
“Aye,” Ramsay agreed, “she does that. Like a sister. But I fear I’ve no wish to die this night, Munro.”
The grin broadened. ” ‘Tis damnably bad luck for you then, isn’t it, laddie,” Munro said, and lunged.
Ramsay danced backward, arms flung wide. “Mayhap we should discuss this first.”
“I do not hate you as I’d prefer, MacGowan, but we’ve nothing to talk about,” Munro said, and slashed again. Just as Ramsay leapt backward a second time, a woman shouted and a missile whizzed out of the darkness. The Munro stumbled back with a grunt.
“Run, MacGowan!” she yelled.
Munro’s men streamed out of the woods, but Ram-say was busy searching behind him. And then he saw her, her face pale in the moonlight as she stood amidst the ghostly trees.
“Anora!” he yelled, but just at that moment Gryfon raced up from behind him, and on his back was another lass. “Anora?” Ramsay gasped, gazing in confusion at the pal
e oval of her face. He glanced at her, then at the woman behind, terror alive in his mind. Which one was she? “Get back!” he yelled, desperate to save them both. He finally whipped his sword from its scabbard. “Back to the—”
Then Munro’s men fell upon him. He slashed at the closest two. They parried and fell back, but there were a dozen more, pressing up from behind. The closest raised his sword, but again something whirred out of the darkness, slamming him aside. Rocks! They were rocks, thrown from the woods like well placed arrows. But other warriors pressed past their fallen leader, and in that moment Gryfon leapt forward.
“Nay!” Ramsay yelled, but the rider pressed the bay onward, plowing into the nearest two soldiers. They stumbled aside. One stayed down, but the other rose, bringing his sword to bear. “Get back, lass!” Ramsay shrieked.
“Take her!” Munro roared, stumbling to his feet. “Take her unhurt.”
“To the castle!” Ramsay yelled as he parried, but the rider was already aiming Gryfon toward an advancing swordsman. The warrior went down, but another had come up beside them. “To your left! Your left!” he yelled, but even now Anora was being pulled from the bay’s back. Frantic, Ramsay slashed his blade in a hard arc. The closest man hissed in pain. The others retreated only slightly, but it was enough. MacGowan leapt into the opening and rammed his shoulder into Gryfon’s barrel.
The stallion stumbled sideways with a grunt. The man on the far side fell with a yell beneath his weight, but refused to let go. Anora was pulled sideways. Ramsay reached to grab her, but too late. She disappeared from view. Gryfon plowed ahead, and Ramsay leapt in, kicking the warrior’s sword arm. The soldier yelled as his blade flew into the darkness, and relaxed his grip on the captive’s arm.
Grasping Anora’s wrist, Ramsay yanked her to her feet. Then they were running, scrambling through the woods as he searched frantically for the other maid, but already they could hear the Munros crashing up from behind. Closer. Closer. Pivoting about, he pulled Anora behind him and raised his sword, arms outstretched.
The Munros streamed at them in a roaring mass. Ramsay struck, parried, and struck again. They fell back, just as a devil’s yell rang out. A flash of gold streaked out of the darkness as horses galloped toward them from the woods.