Exile’s Bane

by Nicole Margot Spencer

  “It was like this on the mountain,” he said suddenly. “Here, we have a clear road, but then, on those trackless slopes, we constantly lost our sense of direction. You could walk through a mist-cloud to continue up the slope or off a cliff-face, a thousand feet down, never knowing the edge was there.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but kept my silence and, like him, studied the walls of shifting white mists around us.

  “We had climbed for hours,” he went on. “Finally we reached the flat summit of the mountain and set our camp among the stone cairns. I remember the bite of the cold there, the whistling wind, and the restless cloud-mists, so like these around us.”

  I shivered, as much from the chill as from the frigid heights he described.

  “I remember my mother’s warmth around me, her hot, sobbing breath in my ear, my father’s strong arm around us both at the end. He fought like a demon, but there were too many of them.”

  “Why? What happened?” I asked, unable to hold my questions any longer and concerned for the pain welling up in his face, already red and chapped from the unnatural cold.

  “Everyone was slaughtered.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Most of my clan. I lay there, a wee boy and terribly wounded, for many long hours. My back went numb from the cold ground, but I could not move for my mother, who had me pinned. She was dead, and I expected to die, but someone finally came and spirited me away to my grandmother’s home in Durham.” He looked down at himself with a long exhalation, as though awakening from a dream. “Your situation, your fear for your life, your fight for your heritage, speak to me in a way I did not expect.”

  “Shocking, are they not, our similarities?” Like me, this man had his own ghosts, just not so literal as my own.

  He nodded, chagrined.

  “Was it the English who did this to you?” I asked. A sudden yearning for his arms around me once again left me shaky and clinging to my saddle.

  “Oh, no.” His gentle smile belied what he must have felt. “Twas Clan Campbell. They caught us on the flat summit of Ben Nevis. My parents, my aunts and uncles, my brother, my sisters.” Pain writhed in his face. “Murdered.”

  “But why?”

  “They wanted our land, wanted to drive us from the face of the earth.”

  I asked a few more questions, but he did not want to discuss it. His reticence was entirely understandable. From my father’s death, I had learned that the only way to heal and go on was to not think about it. And so I left him alone, knowing with a warm spot in my heart that I was no longer alone in that particular agony.

  “Where is Ben Nevis?” I asked.

  “In the southern Highlands at the head of Loch Linnhe.”

  “You must hate the men who did this to you.”

  “The Campbells? I did, for many years. But no more. My grandmother Comrie was very strict. She insisted on my education. It gave me perspective.”

  “I have heard talk of the name Comrie around York. But I did not know the Comries were a highland clan.”

  “Does na matter,” he said, bitterly. His gloved hand reached over and settled on my rein hand. “Twas long ago, and I am well over it. Leave it be.”

  I nodded, but he pointed off across my horse’s head.

  “Someone is there.”

  We had ridden up to higher ground and left the thickest of the mists behind us, only to find two men exposed in the distance, between us and the town. One of them was a Roundhead soldier. They were bent over something, speaking between themselves. The road ran to within fifty feet of them.

  “Slouch,” I hissed. “Look like a dispirited servant, for God’s sake.”

  “Aye,” Duncan said, his words apparently still touched by his Scottish memories. He reined his horse in to ride behind me, as a proper servant would do.

  In the distance, the soldier looked up. Obese, with close cropped hair, he wore no armor. His buff coat rode high up over his belly. At sight of us, his eyes went wide, and he grabbed his matchlock musket, though I could detect no lit matchcord, nor its giveaway smoke.

  My cheeks sucked in, head held high, as though I expected to be recognized, we rode on unconcerned, the lady and her servant headed home. We continued thus, my sweaty hands slick on the reins, heart pounding, and my mouth a sudden dry wasteland.

  They watched us for some time, the soldier unsure as to whether or not to approach us. But he did not, and soon we were at the spot where I had left Peg. The city spread out below us in the afternoon sunlight, the whirring whisper of River Croal close by. The house guard must not have come this far, after all, for the traffic in the town had settled.

  Round helmets were still to be seen patrolling here and there in the market areas and along the streets which were crowded with tall, high peaked houses, a distinct air of suppression in the unnatural quiet. Duncan studied the occupied town, asking questions about where he could go, where the markets were, the churches and the town hall. I studied him closely as he surveyed the town. His square jaw, his broad shoulders, his flashing, multi-hued eyes could not hide behind any disguise. This vital man in his oversized hat and cloak, which covered a multitude of weapons, was not at all what he appeared to be, not now nor in his rightful uniform. That inkling had struck me once before when I first encountered him. It seemed stronger and more certain now.

  We went on, carefully skirting the edges of town by moving through fields and small stands of trees. Finally, we came to the meadow that I had last seen covered with summer flowers. It was green now, and sparkling with moisture.

  “My friend’s home is just beyond the old church ruins there.”

  “Let us walk from there. I have something I want to ask you.”

  We rode across the wet meadow and dismounted at the edge of the tumbled-down old church, only one of its thick Norman walls still standing. The Reedy house, surrounded by a leaning stave-board fence, appeared in the distance before us as we strolled around the edges of the ruin in comfortable silence, leading our horses by their reins. We continued on for some ways.

  “I will protect you, as best I can, despite your insistence on leaving Tor House.”

  I jumped, shocked by his sudden words. He put an arm around me, his hand resting at my waist, and I leaned into him, thankful for his presence.

  “In this time of war, riding around the countryside looking for supporters is neither a safe nor a sane thing to do. But I respect your feelings and understand better than most what drives you.”

  By the time he finished this rush of words, we had come to the shabby little gate before Thomas’ house. The house’s thatch roof was bare in spots and dark with mold. Where the barn had been just last summer was a jumbled pile of timbers, as though it had been left where it fell. The huge old lilac bush at the gate remained. Its blooms were spent, but it still leaned over us in a protective canopy.

  “Will you wait for me, Elena?” he asked. He took my hands in his.

  “Wait for you?” I looked up into his dark, probing gaze. More than anything, I wanted to say yes.

  “Until after the war. I would court you properly,” he said, as though he assumed I questioned the proprieties of his suit.

  “I have no idea where I might be,” I hedged.

  “I shall find you,” he declared. And surely he would. If he lived.

  Other than my father, I had never known any man who understood and cared for me. Yet I could not accept Duncan’s attentions, much less a courtship, while engaged to another man. Though I had rebuked my betrothal to Gorgon, it remained a legal complication that could whip around and put us both in deadly peril of the earl’s wrath and at the mercy of the King’s law.

  Despite this, having found Duncan, I did not want to lose him. My mind raced and my stomach roiled. What could I tell him? Surely I would never see him again—I would lose that precious, vital spark between us—should he learn of my betrothal. He was too honorable a man to do otherwise. Though it was too early and too wet for it, the vag
rant smell of lavender, from Mrs. Reedy’s garden no doubt, wafted past us. I hesitated, desolate. In the end, I took a great breath.

  “I cannot tell you that I will wait for you, Duncan. There are things . . . matters over which I have no control.”

  He studied me as though he could see through me.

  Could he sense my need for him? At that moment, I was ready to throw my heritage away for him, though I knew I would hate myself later. And so I stood there in wretched silence and watched him expel a breath.

  “Aye,” he said, as though he had been prepared for this answer. He threw his shoulders back, reached under his cloak, and brought out one of his long-barreled pistols. “It is fully charged, should you need it.”

  “Thank you,” I said meekly, glad to have the weapon. I took it and dropped it in my hand beside me.

  “Don’t tell your friend of our forces coming. Can I depend on you for that?”

  “You can.”

  “Also, the aftermath of battle can be deadly. When we enter Bolton, I will send guards here for your protection.” His cloak rippled at its lower edge to the accompaniment of shuffling feet.

  “Duncan?”

  “Yes?” He studied his boots and would not look at me. The front door scraped open at the house, but I ignored it.

  “Please take care.” I shoved the pistol into my deep cloak pocket, stood on my toes, and threw my arms around his neck, hitting his hat, which flew off. Neither of us went after it, for I pulled his head down and kissed him.

  His mouth was soft and pliant. He put his arms around me and pulled me close within the shelter of his cloak. My lips parted, and he caressed my inner mouth with his tongue in an embrace that sent me, mind and body, into a whirlwind.

  He dropped his head to my shoulder with a sigh, his breath hot on my neck. “So it is not hopeless, you and me?”

  At that moment, I desired him desperately. My hunger for him overwhelmed any logic that remained in me. I ran my hands around his waist and hugged him to me, my breasts tight against the warmth of his clothed chest.

  The clump of heavy footsteps approached us over the stone walkway. We stepped quickly apart.

  “And who are you?” It was Thomas, puffed up in arrogance. He glared not so much at Duncan himself as at his long red locks.

  Duncan returned the glower with a frown of distrust. He turned to leave.

  “Wait,” I cried. “I want you to meet my friend.”

  He turned back and came up close beside me, protective still.

  “This is Thomas.” I pushed open the shabby little gate that hung by one tattered leather hinge and pulled Duncan in with me. “He has been a good friend throughout my childhood.” I stepped forward, clasped Thomas’ arm, and motioned at the big, black-cloaked man who now stood within the gate. “This is Duncan, who is very special to me.”

  “Yes, I could see that. Who is he?”

  Duncan’s rust-colored eyebrows crawled together in irritation.

  “Thomas, be civil.” I shook his arm for emphasis.

  I turned apologetically back to Duncan to find that his gaze had shifted into the distance behind me. When I looked, it was Peg who stood in the open door of the house, an odd, calculating smile on her face.

  “Stay in the house. Keep them safe,” Duncan demanded of Thomas. He turned smartly on his heel, his cloak awhirl behind him. Hat back securely on his head, he was mounted and on his way toward town before Thomas, who blustered in wordlessness, could collect himself enough to respond.

  “Cocksure bastard.”

  Chapter Seven

  The condition of the little front gate should have prepared me for what I would find in the house. His mother had died last year and, knowing Thomas’ propensities, I should have expected what I walked into. But my memory of this house was a cheery, bright, well-kept home and so it was a shock when I walked into the dim house. The stench of decay nearly stopped my breath. I had not realized how much I had relaxed while in Duncan’s company until concern for my surroundings set off my anxieties again.

  Relieved to find her safe, I embraced Peg.

  “I see ye found him.”

  I nodded, but kept my silence.

  “I don’t like the look of that man,” Thomas grumbled. He strutted around like a dislodged hero.

  “Open the curtain. It’s dark as a tomb in here.” I walked over to the table and reached for the thin muslin fabric.

  “Don’t do that. People will be able to see in.” Thomas followed and slapped my hand away.

  I could appreciate his position, with Roundheads in the town close by. With distaste, I looked around the disheveled room, at the cold fireplace in the far corner. When my eyes acclimated, I saw that a pallet sat in front of the hearth stone. Large chunks of wood, peat and faggots were heaped up alongside it. Closer to the door, under the curtained window, was a table with a burning candle in a wooden holder. There were two chairs and an empty corner beyond. On the wall perpendicular to the entry was a door blocked off by timbers nailed across it. That door had led to the bedrooms the last time I was in the house. On the back wall stood a big barreled cistern, a large hutch, and beside it an enormous wooden chair. Shelter, it was, but hopefully not for long.

  I turned to Thomas, who impatiently awaited my attention. “I need your help.”

  “Yes, Peg told me.” He studied his fingernails at length in the low light, this way, then that, and finally turned about in an open-armed swirl. “What do you need? I and my humble home are at your command.”

  “Why is the door shut off? Is it safe here?”

  “Of course.” He had followed me around the table and stood now before the big carved chair, that odd chair that had always been in the house. “Why do you think I keep the curtain closed? It makes the place look abandoned from the outside.”

  His air of grievous hurt touched me. I gave him a gentle hug.

  “Anything for you, dear Elena.” He stepped back, grasped my hand and kissed it; the same old Thomas, dramatic to the core.

  I took a deep breath and plunged into the necessity of our visit. “I must petition the King.”

  His face blanched, and he swallowed with difficulty. “The King? Why—”

  “The King?” Peg interrupted. “Whatever for?”

  “King Charles is known for upholding the rights of widows and orphans,” I insisted to the two of them, who stood gawking at me as though I were the village idiot.

  “What did Devlin do to bring you to this?”

  “I told ye, dunce. He disinherited her,” Peg said, with a frown.

  “Ah, yes. You did tell me.” He sat down on the big chair and puffed his chest out in importance, ready to hold court. After a quick bite at his thumb nail, he slowly stretched his right arm to rest it magnanimously on the wide chair arm. “This turn of events does not surprise me. For my part, I think we should send off your petition to the King, go back to Tor House and confront the bastard.” He stood up in haste. “Demand your rights, publicly.”

  “It be ‘we,’ now?” Peg asked, always one to trip Thomas up, if she got the chance. Like it was when we were young, the three of us playing catch-all in the courtyard.

  “No,” I said. “That would in all likelihood get us killed or imprisoned.” I had forgotten Thomas’ unthinking tendency to jump into whatever opportunity presented itself.

  The room grew chilly. I clenched my cloak tight around me and approached the hearth, but the stones were cold and the dark maw heaped with white ash. Unable to stand or sit still, I went over to the hutch’s top cabinet that used to be bursting with fresh-baked bread, eggs, fruit, and cheeses, to find no more than a deep layer of dust in an empty cabinet.

  I turned back to Thomas. His hair had grown. Brown and wavy, it hung almost to his shoulders. It set off his handsome features, but there was something crucial dominating his face.

  “How long have you been without food?”

  “I’ve been forced to connive and steal to survive.” He looked down
at his hands, fingers curled into his palms.

  “I thought so. When did the Roundheads come into town?”

  “In force, yesterday. But they have been around, demanding things, for months. The barn collapsed through the winter. Then, holes appeared in the roof above both bedrooms. So, I made them into a stable with an entrance on the other side of the room. That’s where I left Kalimir just now. I managed to get both of your horses in there.”

  “So that be the awful smell in here.” Peg made a face, as though she had just realized where she was.

  “Kalimir won’t stand to be crowded,” I said, alarmed. Ominous silence hung around the blocked door.

  “Not to worry. He is in the large end stall,” Thomas said. He waved his hand in dismissal and threw himself into the big chair, landing in a moody slump.

  “We do not dare show our faces outside your door,” I said, anxious to move on. “Will you go into town and see what you can find out about the conditions of the roads south?”

  “Roads south?” He sat up straight. “You want to leave here? I cannot blame you, seeing how the Roundheads have made life near to impossible, but south is headed right into the thick of it, is it not?”

  “We need to get ready. When this is over . . . “ My voice trailed off as I remembered my promise to Duncan. I put my hand to my throat and coughed.

  “When what is over?” He smirked and leaned forward.

  “I’m talking about Oxford, Thomas.” I clenched my hands gracefully before me and tightened my face in resolve. “We must go to the King in Oxford.”

  “Why?” His face fell in dismay, but abruptly changed to suspicion. “Can you not send your petition by a trusted courier? Wallace would do it.”