by Liz Lyles
Cordaella smiled up into the sky, one hand on the wolf’s neck, the other arm behind her head. She knew how old she was now. Her papa had taught her how to count. She knew that every finger on her hand represented something, and that she could keep track of everything that way. She was glad she had at least six fingers because that’s how old she was now. Six. That meant she was almost as old as Papa. A as she turned to look at Culross who was sleeping next to her, she knew she didn’t have to worry about her father anymore; the wound on his leg had finally healed. And Culross had been with her for two winters, one spring, and one summer, which meant that at least a year had passed.
Culross opened his eyes as if he knew she was looking at him. He licked her face and she rubbed his head, reaching under his chin to scratch there, too. Culross was her best friend. He knew everything about her.
Cordaella turned back to the sky, and she thought one massed cloud looked like a huge rock and another—which floated in thin wisps—like a stream, and she wished she were a cloud and could sail above everything just to have a better look at the valleys below.
Papa had told her there were bigger rivers far away, rivers so big that people called them oceans. She thought she would like to see oceans. So much water. So much blue. She loved the color blue.
*
Far away, in Aberdeen, the wind howled, the bracing sea air stinging Duke John Macleod’s eyes and tousling his shaggy white hair. He rode beneath the burgundy and blue of the Macleod colors, traveling with three of his knights, two pages, and six mounted guard along his favorite stretch of coast.
They had just stopped at the village’s small fishing port which hosted a half dozen boats, these tied to the low stone wall where men climbed up and down ladders lugging nets of herring to the wharf. Two women worked at the huge salt barrels, coaxing the herring from the net.
“I ought to do something with this port,” the Duke said, watching one of the women begin filling a new barrel.
His nephew, Dunbar, answered, riding close to the Duke’s side, “It is worth considering, Uncle. This port could be of value.”
“The only profit from the port will come from the continent. No one here—Scotland or England—can afford to develop the harbor. The damn war in France has sucked every purse dry.”
“You still have options, don’t you? Denmark. Castile.”
The old man nodded. “It could provide a dowry for the girl. She has little else.”
“For whom, Uncle?” Dunbar leaned forward, not sure he had heard correctly. The wind perhaps had changed the words.
“For Anne’s daughter,” Macleod said, slightly defensive. “But it is only a thought.” He glanced back over his shoulder, at the rear guard. “Is Geoffrey near?” Dunbar offered to find him for his uncle.
The old Duke wiped watering eyes with the back of his arm as the page returned with his nephew. “It is a salty wind we have today,” he said.
“Yes, my lord.” Geoffrey McInnes agreed.
“But that’s not why I had you called. I want to know—” the Duke hesitated, his gruff voice lowering, “I want to know this, have you news of Ben Nevis lately?”
“No, not lately, my lord.”
“When were you last there?”
McInnes masked his surprise. “I’ve only been to the cottage twice, and then, my lord, it’s been four years.”
“Four, hmm.” Macleod’s expression was closed, the lines deeply etched between his eyes and along his mouth. “The child has turned six.”
“Yes.”
“And I don’t even know whom she resembles. Is it Anne? Perhaps Mary or Charlotte?”
The page spoke carefully, “She does not resemble her mother, or even your other daughters.” He did not want to offend his lordship. “Except for her eyes, she takes after the falconer.”
“What color are her eyes?”
“Pale gray, like a pond frozen in the winter.”
“Is she a dull child?”
“They say she is very quick.” He half smiled in Dunbar’s direction. “It is said her temper is also.”
“None of my daughters had a temper.”
Dunbar’s red hair waved at his nape, the brisk wind dusting his brow and beard with miniature salt crystals. “Maybe my cousins didn’t, but my mother did.”
The Duke gave a barely perceptible nod. “Yes.” His eyes narrowed. “No wonder my father sent your mother to Orkney.” His gaze swept the rocky coast, white water churning against dark cliffs. “How is the girl? Is she well?”
McInnes leaned on his saddle. “From all accounts, I would say yes. In Glen Nevis they call her a Highland fairy, for she lives on berries and nuts and swims as if a fish in the mountain streams.”
Macleod could not have been more shocked. “She swims?”
“As if a trout.”
“Are you sure of this?”
Geoffrey shrugged. “It is what I have been told.”
Dunbar hooted at the idea of a girl swimming. “Come now, McInnes, where do you get your tales from? Now you’ll be telling us she just jumped in.”
“No, she didn’t jump without provocation. It seems her wolf pup fell into a frigid lake, and frantic, the child dove in after it. The pup swam out and so did she.”
Dunbar howled with laughter, ribcage heaving. “What do you mean, wolf pup? What pet is this? I’ve never heard of a Macleod taking to water much less wild animals.”
“She began swimming last year when she was five.”
The Duke’s voice was quiet. “And the wolf?”
“That was the last time I heard from the falconer. He sent a message after his accident, asking about a possible home for the girl in the event he died—”
“You never told me,” the Duke said coolly.
“—I was asked to wait until the falconer made a turn for the worse. He said I would know when he wasn’t going to make it. And so I waited.”
“You should have come to me.” Macleod’s grip tightened on the reins. He was staring out over the sea, the waters deep green, dark beneath the blustery sky.
“Forgive me, my lord.” Geoffrey was genuinely puzzled. “But you had refused all previous communication…” He looked to Dunbar for help.
“But the wolf, what’s the story there?” Dunbar wanted more of the girl’s antics. McInnes noted Duke Macleod’s expression, his features twisted in grief, or pain. “My lord?”
“Yes,” the Duke conceded, “tell the story.” He spurred his horse forward, riding around the last of the bends as they made the ascent towards Angus Castle.
“About two years ago the falconer was attacked by wolves. He killed several—or so I think the message read—however, he discovered that one of the wolves he killed had left a pup. The pup was not yet weaned and sat in the snow next to its mother crying piteously. The falconer—never one to leave an animal injured—carried it back to the cottage with him.”
The fingers of Macleod’s right hand played lightly on the hilt of his sword as he listened. McInnes smiled and continued, “Of course, the girl, Cordaella, took straight to the pup. It now follows her like a dog. The village folk think she is a strange sight, coming down from the mountain—singing fierce Gaelic songs—with a huge male wolf padding at her heels. The wolf is full size now. He is at least a hundred pounds heavier than she. No one comes near the girl. They are too afraid of the animal and Cordaella’s wild ways.”
Dunbar wiped his eyes dry, tears brought on by his laughter. “She is a barbarian!” He grinned, flashing a smile minus several teeth. “You should send for her, my lord. Can you imagine the wee waif and her wolf in Aberdeen?”
They reached the top of the hill, the best vantage point from the Angus estate. The Duke scanned the sea and its misty gray horizon. Far out on the water, two carracks sailed into the distance, their huge white canvas sails billowing fat and full in the wind.
Dunbar’s words struck close to Macleod’s heart. The idea of his granddaughter, so alive, smote him. He wanted that chi
ld and her fierceness here. He wanted her energy and her pride and her wild spirit. He hadn’t given up hope yet that he could bring the girl to him. He owed it to Anne to see that the child was raised properly. He owed it to himself. Maybe this granddaughter of his would even grow to love him. He looked away from the dark green sea towards the distant ridge of mountains. Yes, Cordaella should come soon.
*
In the mountains, the summer smelled of pine and heather, and lower down the slopes, great thickets of birch trees spread lovely dappled shade across the rocky patches. Kirk had decided they should make one of their rare visits to the village in the valley. He rolled the furs he had trapped and treated last winter, hoping he had enough to trade for a young goat. The girl could use more milk. Some cheese. He worried constantly about her. She was getting so tall lately, her arms as skinny as her knobby kneed legs. In her shift, she looked like a waif. Maybe she was. “Are you ready now?” he asked, knotting the rope around the bundle. He would sling it across his back like a pack.
She nodded eagerly, smoothing her hair back from her face, her eyes bright. Cordaella loved the visits to the village. There were always so many people. So much to see.
“Is that all you have to wear?” he asked, seeing how much leg showed beneath the short hem of her shift. More scorn in Lochaber, he thought wearily. God only knew what they’d say now.
“I won’t be cold,” she answered brightly, skipping to the door. “It’s a fine day, so much sun everywhere.”
“It isn’t the cold I’m thinking of,” he said, whistling for Culross to follow. “It’s just that your dress is small.”
“Because I am so big.” Cordaella danced delightedly in front of him. “See?” she said, pointing to the mark on the door. “I am much bigger now than I was in the winter.”
“Yes, I see.” He shut the door behind him. “Don’t waste all your energy yet, lassie,” he said, watching as she twirled down the path, her long hair flying in a circle of black. “We have hours of walking ahead of us.”
“Oh, hours,” she laughed. “Hours and hours!”
*
That night, she woke with a lurch, her eyes flying open and her hand reaching out to the side of her straw pallet. Her fingers grasped the space between the pallets and she lay still, listening to the night and the wind blowing across the mountain behind the croft.
Culross, her wolf, was at her feet, and his head lifted in her direction. Slowly Cordaella lay back down, her heart still beating quickly, a pummeling that made her feel as if she had been running hard across the hill. “Papa—”
He grunted in his sleep.
“Papa, are you awake?”
“No. Go to sleep.” He rolled over, pulling the blanket higher around his shoulders.
She stared up at the thatched roof, damp with the terror of her sleep. She had dreamed of a man in a strange robe. He had come with two other men to take her away. He had tied her to the back of the horse. “Papa!” Cordaella turned on her side to stare at her father’s back. “I dreamed an awful dream. I dreamed that someone came to take me away. You were gone and Culross was dead.”
“It was a nightmare. Go to sleep.”
“I can’t, Papa! It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Going into Lochaber has given you strange ideas, Cory. Maybe I shouldn’t take you with me anymore.” He listened for a moment and, when she did not reply, he was about to sink back to sleep.
“I dreamed that you let them take me. You walked away! I cried for you. But you were not listening. You did not hear me,” she whispered, a profound terror in her hushed tone. She shivered and inched closer to the falconer.
He pulled her pallet next to his and patted the straw. “Hush, child, you will make yourself ill dreaming such things.” She snuggled against him, her eyes just able to make out his profile in the dark.
He studied her tense face, not able to fathom her fear. “I told you that no one shall ever take you from me. I will not let your grandfather have you, nor the friar. As long as you wish to stay with me, I shall protect you.”
“What if you are gone?”
“But where should I go? Lochaber? Not a chance. You saw how they nearly chased me from the merchant’s stall.” He tried to smile but he hadn’t forgotten his shame from earlier in the day. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, lassie. We’ll be here forever, in these great mountains of ours.” Kirk placed one hand on the top of her head and he could feel the tangles beneath his rough palm. “I should have washed your hair before we went to town.”
“I like it this way,” she said, enjoying the feel of his hand against her head. He rarely touched her, never held her. It was nice to feel him now. “Perhaps you might have to go away like Mama.”
“I am much bigger than your Mama. Now sleep, child, and remember that tomorrow the sun will rise and I shall still be here, and your Culross will be here.”
She lay still, again listening to the night. Far away in the distance she could hear the hoot of an owl. It sounded lonely, she thought, as she plucked at the bedcover, a strange ache filling her chest. Culross sat up and whined, creeping nearer to Cordaella. He placed one paw on her ankle and whined again. Cordaella felt another wave of sadness but did not understand why. “Papa…”
He resigned himself to her questions. “Yes, Cory?” They were inevitable. When hadn’t she asked him things he couldn’t answer?
“Do you ever get afraid?”
He flashed back to the scene in Lochaber today, the merchant picking up a rock and brandishing it over his head. Kirk had been glad Cordaella was busy in the street with Culross, too entranced by the town activity to see the merchant’s threat. Awkwardly he patted her head, his fingers tangling in her hair.
“Papa?” she persisted. “Not ever?”
“Everybody is afraid at some time,” he said slowly, quietly, feeling as if he had already failed her.
“Even you?”
“Yes.” He took a breath and exhaled slowly, easing the tightness in his chest. “But there is nothing to be scared of here, especially as you have Culross near.”
“He loves me, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, and he will never let anything happen to you.”
“Good.” She was sleepier now and her eyes felt heavy. “Good night, Papa.”
“Good night, Cordaella.”
In minutes, she was asleep, but Kirk lay awake, her questions raising questions of his own. Should he send her from him? Should he return her to Aberdeen, the Macleod in blood even if not in name?
But for the love of God, she was seven. Just seven. How could he let her go yet? They were still so young together, he the father, she the daughter. He needed another winter, another summer, another lifetime to teach her about the great birds, the subtle but distinct personalities between the hawk and the gerfalcon, the tercel and the peregrine. He wanted to teach her the name of every plant, to help her see the differences among the wildflowers and the herbs and mushrooms which grew wild in the Glen Nevis woods. Cordaella. He wanted to touch her, to brush her soft cheek, but was afraid of the emotion bottled within him. He loved this girl more than life. Cordaella, he thought, watching her, dream.
The snow piled outside the cottage door, the night still, no wind to scatter the thick white powder that coated the roof and windowsill.
Kirk sat up late by the fire, his black hair shaggy, bangs falling in his eyes. He was determined to finish the doll by Christmas but there were only a few days left.
Culross stirred, sat up and got to his feet. He whined softly, his muzzle rising.
“What is it, boy?” the falconer asked, glad for a bit of company. The wolf whined again and Kirk reached over to stroke the animal’s coat. “What do you hear?”
The wolf growled low in his throat, his lips pulling away from his bared teeth. Outside a heavy hand banged on the door.
Kirk set aside the wooden doll, alarmed by the intrusion. There hadn’t been a visitor in nearly two years. He went to the door and unla
tched it.
“McInnes!” Kirk exclaimed and swung the door wider. “What brings you here?”
“Bad news,” the page said, pushing through the doorway into the croft, his hands too stiff to peel his gloves off. “I can only stay a moment for I am to continue to London. I was afraid to send word by anyone else—”
“What news? What are you saying?”
McInnes paced the short stretch before the fire, oblivious to the wolf, the sleeping child, the late hour. “I can’t believe it. I don’t know what to think. It happened so fast and I don’t know how I managed to survive—”
“Macleod?” Kirk asked.
“The clan Fergus has been quarreling for months with the Macleods. Then last September, Dunbar and his men marched on Moray, taking several Fergus nobles captive, seizing the odd castle. James Fergus, the clan leader, has been waiting for an opportunity to strike back.”
“Why was Angus Castle not better prepared?”
“The castle had been opened for the festivities, the traditional banquet for the servants and staff. It’s nearly Christmastide.” He swallowed hard, light-headed. “Yet today the castle is littered with dozens of clansmen, Macleod and Fergus.”
“And Dunbar?”
“Dead.”
“His three sons? The young lords, Kenneth, Alasdair, Alick? Not them too?”
“All slain.”
“Christ!”
“Worse, the Duke—”
“No.”
“There was no one left to protect him.”
For a moment there was just the crackle of the fire and the slow drip of melting snow from McInnes’ cloak.
Kirk struggled to put his thoughts in order. “The Duke. Did you see to it that the he had a proper burial?”
“I could not.” It was clearly an effort for Geoff to speak. “A Moray commoner strung the Duke from the drawbridge over the moat. I alone am left. There was no one else alive to help cut the duke down. None to defend the castle. That is why I go to London. The Duke and Bolingbroke were friends. Bolingbroke could send troops. He will help. He is the King.”
Geoffrey staggered to a chair, burying his face in his hands to suppress the tears. “Ah, but Kirk… there is nothing left at Angus.” His voice broke as if a child again, “Not a lord, not even a man.”