“Milread!”
Horrified, Alys reached down and grabbed for her friend’s hand. She wasn’t afraid for Alex so much as she was for Milread. Bad luck had a way of bouncing back. She’d never before known the wise woman to ill wish anyone.
Alex scowled, making the puckered lip more pronounced. “In England we burn witches. What a pity we’re not there now.” He shifted his gaze to Alys. “We have a long journey ahead, my love, and I am eager to be on my way.”
She nodded. “I will follow you anon.”
Seemingly satisfied, he nodded and turned his horse in the direction of the gate.
Alasdair burst into tears. “Kit-ty. Want Kit-ty!”
Alex huffed. “What is he bawling about now?”
“He wants his cat,” Alys answered. Addressing Alasdair in a soothing voice she said, “Dinna fret, sweeting. We’ll send someone to fetch your kitty cat before we go.”
Alex scowled. “You’ll do no such thing.”
Wondering why her husband must be so difficult, she lifted her face from Alasdair’s reddened one. “Why ever not?”
“I loathe cats. I refuse to have the scurrilous beasts about me. God only knows what diseases they carry.”
Though she’d spent the hour since leaving Callum praying to the Virgin to be a more biddable wife, Alys felt her temper rise. “That’s ridiculous. Cat is my responsibility. I have tamed him and fed him and made a pet of him. Alasdair loves him dearly. If we don’t bring him with us, what do you suggest I do with him?”
He shrugged. “You may drown the creature for all I care.”
“Drown him!” She drew back. “You would murder an innocent animal and deprive our son of his pet? Is it not enough that he must give up the only father he has ever known?”
Alex fisted his leather-gloved hands. “I am the lad’s sire. I and no other. The sooner he learns that, the better it will go with him.” He urged his horse past them.
Milread reached up and squeezed her hand. “Dinna fret, wean. I will care for the wee beastie until you can reclaim him.”
Alys felt her shoulders fall. “Thank you, Milread, only I can’t say when that would be. Alex is determined to take us to England. What he means to do once we arrive there, he hasna said. Rejoin his lord’s army, I suppose.”
She heartily hoped he would. A soldier’s life was spent largely away from home. If she must live out her days as Alex’s wife, mayhap she might be spared having to pass too very many of them in his physical company.
From across the courtyard, she caught Alex beckoning her and sighed. “I must go. Pray give my love to Brianna.”
She’d planned to attend Brie at her lying-in and to help Milread with the delivery. Now she would never see her friend again or come to know her unborn babe. So many goodbyes, so many dear friends to whom she must bid farewell.
She glimpsed a glimmering on Milread’s shrunken cheeks. “Why, Milread, are those tears I see?”
“Of course not,” the crone snapped. “I am an old woman. The cold stings my eyes.”
“Then my eyes must be stinging, as well.” She reached down and squeezed her friend’s hand. “I hadn’t thought I’d have to say so many goodbyes today and at Christmastide, no less.” She gathered the horse’s reins and moved forward.
Just kisses, only kisses…
She forced herself not to look back. How she wished she might have found the courage to carve Callum’s initial, a C into her own palm. Were it not for having to explain the wound to Alex, she would have done so. As it was, it had required all her willpower not to draw out the jewel-handled dirk Callum had given her as a present and do the same violence to her own hand. A scar would have been such a fitting keepsake of their beautiful seven months together, for despite what she’d said earlier, she couldn’t believe the wound of losing him would ever truly heal.
Tears striking her cheeks, she crossed the courtyard to the bridged gate. On the cusp of passing over, she couldn’t help herself. She weakened. She looked back. She honed in on the eastern tower and the uppermost arched window belonging to the laird’s solar, Callum’s solar. Gaze straining, she still couldn’t see whether or not he watched from within, but selfish woman that she was, she liked to think he did. In case he did, she raised her hand in farewell and silently said the words she hadn’t dared utter to his face.
Goodbye, my Callum. Though I willna be able to share that lifetime of Christmases with you after all, I swear to keep you in my heart, you and only you, for the rest of my days.
SO THIS IS WHAT it meant to lose.
Kneeling on the velvet-covered bench before his family crypt that eve, Callum realized he’d never before lost, not really. He’d always wondered privately what it might feel like. Ere now, he’d been a darkened version of the golden boy, the flawed hero, the winner. Whether the contest was caber tossing or wenching, he’d always been the front-runner, the leader of the pack, the victor whose only concern was in what manner to collect his spoils. Lazy lout though he must have been even in the womb, still he’d somehow managed to be born a full few minutes before his twin, cinching for himself the title of laird. For someone who’d always applied himself so very little, he’d enjoyed an enormous bounty of success. He’d never expected to experience loss firsthand.
But now he’d lost in a very big, very personal way. He’d lost Alys, not for an hour or a day but for the totality of their earthly lives. No amount of praying could begin to alleviate the pain.
He turned over his bandaged hand, the fabric of Alys’s veil clotted with his blood. The A he’d carved into his flesh would honor her until the day he was laid in his grave. Wanting to see it, he unsheathed his dirk, thinking to cut the cloth away. But staring down at the candlelight glancing off the blade, temptation of a different sort seized him. He played the blade about his wrist and thought how easy it all might suddenly be. One slash, sharp and sure, would secure the deed and afterward, the final, coveted peace.
“Callum Fraser, drop that dirk—now!”
Startled, he let go of the knife. It clattered to the stone floor. He followed it, falling forward onto the flagging. He bowed his head and slammed his fisted hands into the sockets of his fast-filling eyes.
Beside him the kneeling bench creaked. A warm hand settled on his back. Callum turned his head and met the kind eyes of Father Fearghas, his parents’ priest, his priest now. A burly man of middling years and yeoman stock, the good father had tutored Callum and his brother in Latin and Greek, geography and ancient history. Scholarly Ewan was the favored one, of course. Then again, putting toads in his tutor’s confessional and painting curse words on the back of his cassock were hardly the ways to curry favor. Sputtering and scarlet-faced, the priest had regularly predicted the damnation of Callum’s soul. Like all pranksters, Callum had found his victim’s suffering hilarious at the time. Now he wondered if his misdeeds weren’t finally catching up with him.
“Talk to me, my son.”
Callum hesitated. Though he’d known Father Fearghas all his life, still he had a powerful distrust of holy men, which he found difficult to move past. When he’d first become laird, he’d been tricked into making a pilgrimage to the monastery of St. Simeon by Brother Bartholomew, who’d scourged his back—and stolen a scrap of his plaid, which he’d passed on to Brianna’s traitorous advisor, Duncan. Soon after Duncan had killed the lady laird’s first husband and planted the plaid in the murdered man’s hand. Predictably a blood feud had followed. Fortunately all had ended well. The feud was healed, the traitorous Duncan dispatched, and Brianna and Ewan united in holy matrimony with a bairn soon to be born. And yet Callum’s face still heated to think of how easily he’d been duped. That encounter had been his humbling and the beginning of his reformation. He’d realized he must cease living for pleasure and start being a chieftain in deed as well as name.
And then he’d met Alys. With her at his side, steering him with her simple wisdom and quiet strength, he’d felt as though he could move mountains.
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And now that dream was dead.
In desperation he blurted out, “I dinna ken how to go on without her.” He smacked a hand to his brow, clammy with sweat though the sanctuary was cold.
Father Fearghas didn’t hesitate. “Day by day, hour by hour, and minute by minute just as she is doing.”
“I’d rather be dead.”
The priest grabbed him by the shoulders. “You think ending your life will bring you peace but it willna. Do you want to close out your days with your soul un-shriven and your body buried at a crossroads grave?”
Callum shrugged. “I scarcely care how they end so long as end they do.”
Father Fearghas screwed his face into a frown. “And what of Alys? Does that poor, brave lady not have a surfeit of sorrows already without you adding to them?”
Callum broke down. “Father, help me. I don’t know what to do, how to go on without her.” He who’d never before humbled himself had done so twice in fewer than twenty-four hours. “Mayhap I should take vows.”
Father Fearghas tossed back his tonsured head and laughed. The chapel filled with his guffaws. Finishing, he swiped at his watery eyes.
Callum balled his hands into fists. “I pour out my soul’s sorrows and you dare mock me! You, a priest!”
Father Fearghas shook his head. There was no trace of apology in his reddened face. “Priest or no, how can I help myself? In my fifty-odd years, I’ve never known a man less suited for the collar than you, Callum Fraser. Your energies are best directed to the temporal world. There is no reproach in that for the Almighty Himself fashioned you so.” He cocked his head to the side. “Is that dripping I hear?”
They both looked down. Callum saw that his makeshift bandage was soaked through to sopping. Blood splashed the stones.
The good father swallowed hard. “That hand of yours wants for tending.” He stood and helped Callum to his feet. For a little man, he was both burly and strong. “Come, my lord, let us get you fed and tended and bedded. After a night’s rest, matters will look brighter on the morrow.”
Callum tried pulling away. He opened his mouth to proclaim he didn’t need anyone’s help but before he could, the chapel pivoted, and then seesawed. He sagged against the stout little body which, he realized, was holding him up. When God humbled a man, it seemed He did so all at once.
“Draw it mild, my lord.” Father Fearghas firmed his hold. “For this night at least, put you in the Lord’s hands—and mine.”
ALYS AND ALEX PASSED most of their day’s ride in silence, Alys deep in thought as she struggled to hold her seat. Alasdair fussed frequently, not that she blamed him. Arms and back aching, she felt fussy herself. She lanced a look to Alex riding ahead and felt her resentment rise. More than a horse’s breadth separated them. She’d been staring at his horse’s hind side for hours and though she had no real desire for his company, his lack of care grated. Since they’d left Callum’s castle, not once had he offered to take their son from her or to help her in any way. Harkening back to their trip north, she realized he’d not been much more solicitous of her comfort then. Despite her pregnancy, he’d pushed her to ride hard. More than once, he’d shown annoyance when she’d had to stop to relieve herself or be sick. Now that Alasdair was born, he was hardly showing himself to be a tender father. Thinking of how wonderful Callum was to them both, recalling the hurt look on his handsome face when she’d lied and said she loved Alex, she felt tears squeeze out of her eyes. It might be the second day of Christmastide, but never had she felt less hope or joy in all her life.
A dust cloud from ahead signaled another rider was fast approaching. She tensed. Alex hadn’t only refused the litter for her. He’d also refused safe escort to the border, folly indeed. The open road was a dangerous place but particularly so on a holy day when the lesser thoroughfares were deserted. A couple with a baby would make easy prey for bandits or worse. She felt inside Alasdair’s swaddling, checking for the money purse she’d hidden there, and then reached for her dirk.
The rider overtook them and slowed to a canter. Seeing that he wore the MacLeod colors, she relaxed and sheathed her knife.
He touched his forelock to her and addressed himself to Alex. “Good master, can you point me the way to the Fraser fortress? I’ve a most urgent message for the laird there.”
Alys spoke up. “We have just come from there. You are not so verra far away. If you retrace your path to the northern highway and then head due east, you may make Beauly before nightfall.”
Relief washed over his young features. “I thank you.” He urged his mount forward.
Alys reached out and caught his sleeve. “Halt. Before you depart, is something amiss?”
He jerked free. “I must be on my way.”
“I used to wait upon the MacLeod. I am her former handmaid, Alys. If some ill has befallen my lady, I would know of it.”
In the twilight, she saw his eyes widen to the whites. “The same Lady Alys who is to wed the Fraser?”
“I am. I was.” Avoiding Alex’s gaze, she said, “Tell me, please.”
“The MacLeod’s pains started late last night.”
The news slashed at Alys’s heart. Brianna so wanted this baby. And poor Ewan, he would go mad if any harm befell his lady. “But she is not due for almost two more months.”
“Aye, hence my haste. Lord Ewan set me to fetch the witch woman, Milread, and bring her back.”
“Be on your way then and Godspeed.”
He broke into a gallop, raising clumps of dirt and clouds of dust.
Alex drew up beside her. “If you are thinking what I think you are, then think again. We are bound for England. You are my wife. Your duty is to me.”
Alys drew a deep breath. Heart pounding, still she measured her words. “Aye, I am your wife. But I am also a mother and, in this case, a friend. Brianna needs me. I must go to her. I will go to her.”
“Alys, I’m commanding you. Stay you here.”
Alys turned her horse’s head and set her course for Skye and the MacLeod lands.
STANDING OUTSIDE his laird’s solar Father Fearghas marveled at how a mere hour could alter one’s perspective, in the present case, his. Up until an hour ago, he’d not been overly fond of Callum Fraser. Far from fond, he’d harbored a dislike of his former pupil, now brash young laird.
He’d been but a young man himself, a newly collared priest, when he’d first come into the Fraser household to serve the previous laird as chaplain. Once the twins, Callum and Ewan, attained a certain age, tutoring them had become one of his primary duties. Ewan was the scholar, the sensitive one, the brother whom Father Fearghas would have chosen to be laird. Mayhap it was the contrast between pupils that caused him to paint Callum so black. Looking back, he allowed that in the main, the boy’s misdeeds were more capricious than cruel. Still, Fearghas had spent many a night on his knees praying for the strength to overcome his dislike. That prayer had been answered this last hour in a way that he would not have wished on his very worst enemy.
The girl, Alys, was good for him. With her gentleness and unassuming presence, she had succeeded in reaching Callum where so many others, himself included, had failed. It was enough to make a man such as himself question his faith.
“He sleeps.”
Lost to his thoughts, Fearghas started. The witch woman, Milread, drew up beside him. Blind as she was reputed to be, it was a marvel how easily she moved about.
Gathering himself, he asked, “How does he fare?”
She shrugged. “The hand will heal with time. Of his heart, I am less sure.”
He nodded. The day’s doings had torn the young laird asunder. He was battered in both body and soul. A broken heart didn’t mend overnight, but a grief-wracked body could greatly benefit from the healing power of sleep.
Her cracked voice broke into his thoughts. “I leave at first light. The MacLeod has called me home. A messenger arrived a while ago to say that her pains have come on.”
Fearghas stared at her
, marveling at her unnatural lack of concern. “If you’re her midwife, shouldn’t you set out at once?”
She tossed back her grizzled head and cackled, looking every whit the unholy creature she was. “A surfeit of fine holy-day fare sets ill on a pregnant belly.”
“You canna say so for certain without examining her.”
She snorted. “Och, I ken things, priest, that you with your collar and frock canna begin to mind.”
Rather than engage in pointless argument, he said, “I too am leaving on the morrow…to visit my sister, Enid. She is the anchoress at the Church of St. Andrew in Portree. That is where the Lady Alys was first wed, is it not?”
“Aye, it is.” Milread broke into a crooked grin. “You go on a fishing expedition, do you, priest?”
He hesitated, and then nodded. “When the Almighty closes one door, he almost always leaves open a window—and a great many flock to my sister’s cell window. Beyond that, she has the parish priest’s ear. If there was the slightest irregularity with the proceedings, anything that might be brought to bear in a case for annulment, she will know of it.”
She fixed him with her blind, steady stare. “You go to a great deal of trouble for a master you dislike.”
He didn’t deny it. “For many a year, I looked upon him as my cross to bear. There were times when I came close to hating him.”
“And now?”
He leaned his aching back against the stone wall. “I’d do a’most anything to see his wounded heart healed and his love returned to him.”
He’d thought she might mock him but instead she nodded. “As I would so for the Lady Alys. I’ve nay known her long, but I love her well.” She gazed ahead. “We’re nay so verra different, you and I. We both trade in belief, you in your One God and me in my ancient deities and magick. I minister to those with sick minds and bodies and you to sick souls. Were we to join forces, it might be that both our purposes would be better served.”
“Mayhap we already have.” Fearghas pushed away from the wall. “For now, I’m to bed.” He started down the corridor to the stairs, Milread keeping pace beside.
Blaze Historicals Bundle II Page 26