Celtic Blizzard

by Ria Cantrell

  “Yes, sneakers,” Sinead answered absently.

  “Aye, sneakers. Yer’ sneakers would be better, but for inside the keep, the slippers will suffice. I will try to get ye’ some heavier boots should ye’ wish to venture out.”

  “Venture out? I thought I was going to be held ….”

  “As far as I know, ye’ have nay been charged with any crime and therefore ye’ canna’ be thought of as a prisoner, lass. But ye’ will need to stay close to the keep till it can be made certain that yer’ safety is secured, I reckon. Now then, there is a chemise to wear under yer’ gown for extra warmth, if ye’ wish, or if ye’ wish to don it before bed and I have brought ye’ a rabbit lined cloak. But I also brought ye’ a fly plaid if ye’ wish to put it about yer’ shoulders. Ye’ may find the castle to be a bit drafty.”

  Sinead picked up the finely woven plaid and she fingered its softness. She looked back to Morag and asked, “Is this your clan’s colors?”

  With a half grin, Morag answered, “Aye. It is.”

  “Do you think that it would offend people if I wore it? I mean I am of the MacDougal lineage, aren’t I?”

  Sinead thought she heard Morag mutter, “Not for long.”

  She said, “What did you say?”

  “Oh, nothing, lass. Never ye’ mind about MacDougal and MacCollum. T’is nay yer’ fight.”

  “Isn’t it, though? The MacDougal were badly maligned in the fight that nearly took Jamie’s life. I need him to know that we were falsely accused. I vow, if I could, I would write the truth so all would know it was not the MacDougal who brought treachery upon your clan.” Why did that thought tug at her as if it had already happened? Isn’t that how she came to be here?

  “Well, mayhap ye’ still can,” Morag said wistfully, as if she knew a secret she wasn’t telling. And then it hit Sinead like a ton of bricks.

  The manuscript! When Sinead was reading it, she had been struck with how vehemently the author was to clear the MacDougal name. Had she actually been the one to write it? She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Had she somehow watched Jamie die before? That thought made her legs weak. It was something she did not want to ponder. She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and she whispered mostly to herself, “But he didn’t die. I warned him in time…if he didn’t die, then who wrote ….”

  “The wheel of time, lass, has turned. Already changes have taken place by ye’ just bein’ here. T’is not for us to question what the Guardians deem to pass. We can only obey.”

  Chapter 19

  John O’Rourke heard the click on the end of the phone. With trembling fingers, he pocketed the cellphone and sat back in the chair in front of the manuscript. He had been a Traveler for as long as he could remember and when he had been given the duty of protector of Sinead MacDougal, he saw the signs that she too shared not only his gift but that of her parents. The Guardians of the Wheel had specific rules to be followed and though Sinead had not shown the aptitude to walk amid the eras, John knew it to just be lying dormant beneath the surface. Some of the people like him were easy seekers of the path. Others, like Sinead, who had analytical minds, were harder to lead to their God given gift. Her parents were expressly forbidden to cajole her toward her destined path but now that John was absolutely sure she had made it back to the 14th century, all he could do was wait.

  Even though he had been given his gift so long ago while he was still a small lad in Ireland, he worried about his charge. Life in medieval Scotland was not for the meek and faint hearted. The only thing that consoled him was that he knew Sinead and she was strong and smart. John also knew that something about Jamie MacCollum had called her back to save him and John suspected that Jamie would somehow return the favor. That gave John comfort as well.

  John knew that Sinead’s parents would be making arrangements to fly to New York to meet with him. From there, they would have to be patient for what was next to come. In all his years, journeying through the eras, he had never known anyone to be stuck in a time unless they wished it to be so. He did not know why, but John had a sad feeling that he might not see his dear Sinead again. He had grown to really love working side by side with her, but she was wasting her life amid moldy old relics and perhaps the Guardians had decided that she would best live her life in a savage world where honor prevailed. Perhaps, even to find love she so desperately deserved. Those thoughts were like ominous portents but John knew they would all just have to see. After all, Sinead would get to make the choice. Guardians never forced the hand of their Chosen. Either she would swiftly understand what her gift entailed or she would willingly choose to stay behind and embrace her destiny.

  Once he had collected himself, John deliberately left it open to where Sinead had last been reading it. He did not know why, but he felt there was some significance to it and in the event the Guardians called him to step in, John knew that the pages before him held all the clues to guide him, should he be needed to do so. He would make certain that the libraries were off limits until he knew if Sinead would return or not. Once Sinead’s parents arrived, they would then decide where they should await the next revelation as to their daughter’s whereabouts. Perhaps they would want to go to back in time too, if she stayed over long there. Again, John sighed and said out loud to only the silent walls around him, “We’ll just have to wait and see. Jamie MacCollum, you had better be worthy of her.”

  ⌘⌘⌘⌘⌘⌘

  Sinead walked alongside of Morag. Her thigh burned under the soft fabric of her gown, but she wanted to leave the confinement of Jamie’s quarters. As she made her way through the hallway, Sinead held the skirts of the gown in one fist. She had not put on the fly plaid as Morag had suggested because despite what Morag had claimed about no one being offended, she thought better than to aggravate any of these medieval people. She was in a dangerous enough position at the moment without having to antagonize the leader of the clan; or for that matter his sons.

  Morag led her down to the main section of the keep and Sinead could barely contain her wonder at actually being there. She had only dreamed about seeing an actual medieval strong hold in all its glory and function within the daily lives of those who depended on the Laird. As they neared the Great Hall, delicious smells of roasting meats and stews wafted out into the corridor and Sinead heard her stomach growl. She had forgotten when she had last eaten and she suddenly felt very hungry. She looked over Morag’s slightly stooped shoulders and peered into the Great Hall. There were tables being set up and a vast array of people moved about with absolute purpose and with the precision of an orchestrated dance. Sinead was impressed with the organized effectiveness that the inhabitants and serving people were busily attending their tasks. Some gave nods and smiles to her as they passed her but no one spoke to her; too occupied were they in their many duties to prepare for the evening meal.

  Morag was about to direct Sinead into the an antechamber of sorts when she spied Jamie sitting alone at a table bringing a heavy tankard up to his lips and guzzling great swallows of the contents. As if he had felt her eyes upon him, he looked up and met her gaze. He gave her a curt nod and raised his mug to her in a salute, then seemed to drain whatever he had been drinking in one gulp. His eyes never left her as he drank; looking at her from above the rim of the tankard. Sinead felt a shiver race down her spine as his gaze spoke his intent and she felt herself blush at his obvious assessment of her. She wasn’t a shy girl just out of school but something about this alpha male made her feel like a pre-teen who had just begun to notice the opposite sex. Instead of letting him see her pinking cheeks, she turned back toward Morag who had knocked on the closed arched door before them.

  The handsome man in his early fifties who had visited her when she was taken to Jamie’s quarters opened the door and smiled. He was a formidable man in his own right and Sinead remembered that this was the laird of the clan, Jamie’s father Caleb. Morag said, “Caleb, now that our guest Sinead is feeling better, I thought ye’ would wish to speak
a bit more with her.”

  “Please come in, Lass. I do wish a word with ye’. I am glad to see ye’ are up and about. Ye’ had quite a nasty welcome to our land, I’d say.”

  Sinead briefly turned toward Morag and she silently waited for the old woman to give her further instructions. Though the laird was kindly, Sinead was again reminded that he had been a warrior in his own right and she felt a little nervous, but she answer, “Thank you, Laird Caleb. I am healing nicely, thanks to the Lady Morag.”

  It was once thing to read about the Middle Ages, and to acquire artifacts from that era, but to actually have to present herself before the ruling laird of a thriving castle in the heart of the Scottish Highlands was entirely another kettle of fish. Goodness, now I am thinking in medieval clichés.

  Morag nodded and said, “Go on, lass. He’ll nay harm ye’. He only wishes to talk to ye’.”

  “Indeed. Please come and find comfort. I am interested to know what ye’ remember about the ambush. T’is what I wish to speak to ye’ about. There is no need to stand and I would sooner see ye’ off yer’ wounded leg. Come, Lady MacDougal.”

  It sounded so formal but something about the man put her instantly at ease. It was true he was a powerful leader of the clan and his physique marked him as a man of strength and war. Despite that and the fact that she was a MacDougal by her name at least, Sinead felt completely at ease and so she entered the man’s privy chamber, followed by Morag. The Laird shut the door behind them and he took her hand to lead her to a comfortable looking bench before a fireplace, which crackled with a pile of logs in its hearth. It was a bit warm and Sinead was now glad she had not donned the extra covering of the plaid. Still the heat felt delicious and as she let it warm her, the Laird poured a mug of some amber liquid for each of them to drink. He then motioned for Morag to sit down as well and she did on a cushioned chair opposite them both. The Laird handed the drinks to the women and he offered a toast in Gaelic. Sinead secretly sniffed at the beverage and determined it was some sort of strong alcoholic drink. It must have been the medieval version of Scotch. Sinead’s head was still pounding from whatever it was that Morag had dosed her with so that she would sleep and now Sinead had not eaten in many hours. She did not want to offend the Laird of the Clan by refusing his hospitality, but she did not want to drink medieval Scotch on an empty stomach. As she stared down at the contents of the ceramic mug the laird patted her hand and said, “Go on, lassie. I promise ye’ to find it smooth.” As if to prove his words, he took a deep sip and he let it settle down his throat and he said, “Ah, such a fine dram.”

  Sinead took a cautious sip and felt the warmth of the drink snake its way through her body. Though it was indeed smooth, it was an acquired taste, Sinead was quite certain. She did not drink much more than a couple of glasses of wine when she went out with friends. She didn’t want to sputter it out so she took a second tentative sip. She settled the mug in her lap and the man Morag had familiarly addressed as Caleb, smiled at her.

  “So how is it that a wee bonny lass saved my braw laddie?”

  “It wasn’t so much that I saved him. I merely shouted out a warning. Nothing more. It was enough to prevent the heinous deed that those…those….”

  “MacDougals?” Caleb wanted to see her reaction. Though he believed her claim, it was his way to test the truth.

  Sinead jumped up despite the pain in her leg and she set the mug down on the mantle. She said, “It was not the MacDougal clan, sir. This I shall swear to.”

  “I realize ye’ of the MacDougal, but….”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, for I do not wish to interrupt you, but I would stake my life upon this. It was the MacKenzie. I am sure of it.”

  Sinead felt her face heating again, but this time it was not because she was caught gazing at the hunk of man in the great hall. It was because she felt herself becoming angry again at the accusation of the MacDougal clan. She needed to get herself together. The last thing she needed was to go head to head with this man.

  “Lass, sit down. Ye’ shall rent yer’ wound and I’ll nay have ye’ hurt any more than you have been.”

  “I am sorry, Sir, but it is true.”

  “Yes, so ye’ have said, lass and for that matter so did Jamie. There is not much that happens here that I do not know about. I needed to be certain that Jamie’s fear of ye’ being, hmm shall we say a spy for the MacDougal was unfounded.”

  Meeting him eye to eye, Sinead said, “And was it?”

  “So it seems, lass. So it seems. I make it a point to calculate a person’s reaction. Yer’ insistence could nay be faked, I would reckon.”

  The laird stood up and took Sinead’s trembling hand into his big warm fist and he gently had her sit back down on the bench. Just then, the door burst open and Jamie stood shadowed in the archway. For some reason, his sudden appearance made Sinead snatch her hand free of the laird’s and she gripped it into her lap.

  “Da’, I said I would question her, once she had recovered enough. I was the one they wanted dead, after all.”

  “Aye, but as yer’ laird, I must know all this lovely lady can tell us.”

  It was an admonishment that had not gone unnoticed by those present in the suddenly too hot privy chamber of Laird Caleb MacCollum.

  The look on Jamie’s face seemed murderous. Sinead suspected that he did not like being chastised by his father especially in the presence of an unknown woman. He leaned into the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. His silhouette was impressive and Sinead felt her mouth go dry as she watched him standing there. He was built like a wall and his eyes seemed to darken as she looked at him. Sinead knew he was simmering at the words of not only his father, but laird of the clan, that had reminded him not so subtly of his place. Sinead felt a bit sorry for Jamie because she did not want him to resent her for her witness to his scolding. He was a grown man and Sinead supposed men in this time had to fight for their place within the clan. Despite the seeming kindness of the older man, Sinead knew he was still the one in charge. She realized that no matter what time period one was from, she did not want to see any man emasculated; especially a man like Jamie MacCollum.

  Caleb watched the silent exchange between his son and the lovely young woman who had come to spare them their great loss. He had always observed people closely in order to gauge their mettle and intentions. So far he could tell the lass had a bit of a temper of her own. Hmm that would give his hot headed son an interesting challenge. Besides her temper, Caleb could see the woman had courage and strength. She had loyalty to the honor of her family, as evident in her outburst at the mention that the MacDougals were at the seat of the trouble that had nearly cost him the lives of Jamie, Ruiri and Liam.

  As Caleb continued to silently observe Sinead MacDougal, one other thing became quite evident. The lass also could not take her eyes off of his son. That was perhaps the most telling thing of all about her. Clearing his throat, Caleb said, “Now then, can ye’ elaborate again on how ye’ know t’was the MacKenzie?”

  Sinead started to panic in earnest now. She knew she had mentioned it when the laird had visited her, but there was still so much she did not even understand about what had happened. How was she going to explain it when she could scarcely believe it herself? She looked to Morag again for guidance and the old woman simply nodded.

  “It was just as I had said. I read it. It seemed that the person who wrote the entry was quite definite about the fact that it was not the MacDougals. Almost as if she had wanted to clear the name herself.”

  Raising an eyebrow in part amusement and part curiosity, Caleb said, “She?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I assumed it was a written by a woman for I remember the handwriting to be more delicate than I know men to write.” Sinead could not remember more about it and she once again did not want to think that she somehow had witnessed Jamie’s death. She was just confused, that had to be it. From everything that had happened, Sinead was thinking more into it.

 
It wasn’t much of an explanation, but really what more could she say? That she had somehow turned a page of an old manuscript and Jamie’s plight called to her through the centuries? Or that she found herself tumbling through time to save him? It sounded so farfetched to Sinead, she could not find her voice to speak the words. Instead of questioning her further on the subject, the laird of the clan just looked at her, as if he was once again assessing the truth of her words. His eyes held hers and Sinead was quite certain that this man made it his business to understand the nuances of body language. It was probably something he had honed throughout his life as a leader of a clan in these wild highlands of Scotland, in an age of savagery and war. Sinead did not look away for if she did, she would seem to be lying and for all the craziness of the situation, she needed this man to believe her.

  He did.

  Caleb watched the determination in the expression of the young woman. Her gaze never wavered and in fact, he saw her lift her chin slightly in quiet defiance. She was telling the truth, he was certain. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and he said, “I see. And this document that ye’ read clearly stated the MacKenzie to be at the foot of our troubles this day, did it?”

  “It vehemently stated it was not the people of my ancestors. I mean…the MacDougals were not to be blamed for this attack.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, then, were ye’ able to learn if they wished to attack further?”

  Sinead shook her head in denial. She had learned nothing more. Instead, she had been shunted back in time and there was nothing she could do to fix her plight. Part of her wasn’t so sure she needed it to be fixed. There was something very exciting about being in a time where honor was the unspoken code. All that she had devoted her life to in the reading of written history and ancient artifacts was living and real in the here and now.