by Karen Ranney
“They always did have a fondness for each other, although I’d like to hear that story well enough,” Fergus said. “I’ll give you another memory to make you certain. Leitis gave your father a brooch to wear on the day of your grandmother’s death.”
I was a young boy and badly hurting. His father’s voice spoke in Alisdair’s memory. But such is not the excuse for wounding another. I crushed it with my boot, and made Leitis cry.
“She speaks of you fondly,” Alisdair said, reaching out his hand. “I am Alisdair MacRae, her oldest son.”
The other man blinked a few times, looked away and then back again. “She’s alive, then?”
“They both are,” Iseabal added.
“And you’ve four other nephews,” Alisdair contributed.
For a moment Fergus said nothing, but his eyes glinted as if they welled with tears.
Suddenly, Alisdair was being enfolded in a one-armed hug, the older man beaming at him through the forest of his beard. Alisdair was a tall man, but Fergus was his equal in height and strength.
Releasing him, Fergus glanced at Iseabal. “And who might you be?” Turning to Alisdair, he fixed a stern look on him. “You’ve not ruined the girl, Alisdair?”
“Iseabal is my wife,” Alisdair said tersely.
Fergus smiled in approval, stepping aside for the two of them to leave the cave.
The descent to Gilmuir was made at a leisurely pace, the moments filled with explanation and shared memory. At one point Fergus turned to Iseabal, his smile fading the longer he stared.
“You remind me of a girl I knew,” he said somberly. “Leah was her name. Do you know of her?”
For a moment Iseabal wished he had not asked, or put her in the position of telling him that the woman he loved was married to another. A lie, however, would not serve this man with hope so fervent in his eyes.
“She’s my mother,” Iseabal said quietly.
He said nothing, directing his attention to the ground as if the hollows and swells of the forest floor were of more importance than his memories. Because she knew how it felt to love so fiercely, she spoke again. “She has not forgotten you.”
“She has not?” he asked, carefully not raising his eyes. “What does she say?”
Her words were halted by Alisdair’s oath. He had stopped at the perimeter of the forest, his attention fixed on the glen to their left. Marching across the glen were what looked to be hundreds of men, led by her father and his troop of men.
“I’m thinking your visitors have not assembled to welcome me home,” Fergus said, frowning at the group.
“Nor me,” Alisdair said. “If it’s a battle he wants, it’s one he’ll get.”
Iseabal frowned at their shared grins, but before she could say a word, Alisdair bent to kiss her lightly.
“We’d best get home, Iseabal,” he said. “It seems your father has come to call.”
“Father?” Fergus echoed.
“A long story, and one best told at another time,” Alisdair said.
“I’ve only got one leg, but I’ve two arms, and I’ll fight beside you,” Fergus said.
Once across the land bridge, Alisdair nodded to his brothers, leaving Fergus to introduce himself.
“How many men do we have?” he asked.
“Seventy-three, not counting my crew, but they’re still aboard ship,” James said.
“How many pistols?” Alisdair glanced at Drummond’s men. They might be outnumbered, he thought, but he doubted they were out-armed. The army following Drummond carried sharpened sticks and iron staffs.
“Sixteen,” James answered.
“Are there any people in the village?” Alisdair asked Brian.
“They’re all here, Captain,” Brian said. “It’s the noon meal and they come here to eat.”
“We’ve put the women and children in the priory, Alisdair,” James said.
Alisdair nodded, and a few moments later Iseabal found herself being walked across the courtyard.
“I want you to stay here, Iseabal,” Alisdair said at the entrance to the priory.
“Where are you going?” When he didn’t answer, she took one step back. “No,” she said resolutely, her hands clenched into fists as if she would go to war with him. “The last time you left to be a hero, I nearly lost you. I’ll not do it again.”
“I want you safe, Iseabal,” he said, his mouth thinned. “Now is not the time to argue about it. You must trust me.”
“I trust you, Alisdair, but not my father. Or what he might do.”
He smiled then, as if amused by her caution. “I have no intention of letting Drummond win,” he said, bending down to place a light kiss on her lips.
Without another word, he walked away.
Your actions count more than your birth. The words seemed to linger between them as Alisdair glanced back at her. He’d asked her to see herself as others saw her. An odd time to realize she’d given the crew and the villagers nothing by which to know or judge her except silence, endurance, perhaps even acquiescence.
But that wasn’t who she was.
Unlike her father, she wanted to squander her emotions, feel wild joy and deep passion. She wanted to hold nothing back, not happiness or sorrow, not even money. Each day of her life would be as a spendthrift.
Nor did she wish to be like her mother, greeting any disaster with silent acceptance. Iseabal wanted to rail against misfortune and fight oppression as well as sadness.
She began to smile, lightly at first as the realization came to her, then more brightly when she decided what she must do.
Stony faces greeted her as she turned, taking a few steps into the priory. The women of Lonvight were not a forgiving lot.
Bending, Iseabal gathered up the material of her petticoat with one hand, creating an improvised sling. “If you’ll not join me,” she said, “I’ll fight alone.”
Silence was the only response to her words. Children stood beside their mothers, hands clamped to skirts. A little boy peeped shyly around his mother’s legs, then ducked behind her again.
“Set aside a few of you to care for the children,” she suggested. “And join me.”
Not one of them spoke.
“Then do as you wish,” she said in a voice as rough as the faceted rocks she placed in her skirt. “But I will not have my husband harmed and my home destroyed.”
Courage, Iseabal suddenly discovered, was not simply accepting in stoic silence what came to you. Nor was it the absence of fear. At this moment, standing here in front of these women while the sounds of battle escalated, Iseabal was as afraid as she’d ever been. But the choice was stark and clear; she could remain here or be at Alisdair’s side.
“I’ll come,” a woman said, pushing her way out of the crowd.
Iseabal stared at her mother in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
“Listening to you, Iseabal,” Leah said gently. “You were right. I had accepted too much for too long.”
They exchanged looks, Iseabal seeing in her mother’s face all that she had experienced in these past days. The grief, the anger, the resignation each felt were the same, but her mother’s anguish had been lengthened by years.
“Forgive me,” Iseabal said. “I was wrong. I should never have said such a thing to you.”
Leah smiled. “The truth can be vicious thing, Iseabal, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be said.” She bent, duplicating Iseabal’s actions in gathering up the rocks.
Iseabal had no chance to mention Fergus’s resurrection, because another woman moved beside them, picking up a few bricks that had fallen from the archway. Then another of the Lonvight villagers walked to Iseabal’s side, arming herself as well.
“We’ll not let Drummond take our home again,” one woman said angrily, her hostile gaze fixed on Iseabal. “Any Drummond.” Others behind her nodded.
“My name is Iseabal MacRae,” Iseabal said, raising her voice so that the women in the back could hear her.
An ete
rnity seemed to pass before one of them moved, pushing forward to stand with the other women. Silently, she bent, tucking a few stones into the fabric bowl of her apron. One by one, each woman stepped forward, nodding at Iseabal.
Alisdair was right; these people were judging her by her actions, not by her birth.
They might have been outnumbered, Iseabal thought as she turned and walked toward the courtyard, but the women behind her were a determined group, armed with their rocks and their rage.
Setting the men in a half-circle formation facing the land bridge, Alisdair began passing out the guns Hamish had acquired. Moments later, the first of the riders began thundering over the land bridge.
“Is that him?” James asked, staring at their leader. Most men looked well suited for horseback. Drummond appeared oddly misshapen, his broad shoulders and barrel chest contrasting oddly with his short legs sticking out at an angle.
“It is,” Alisdair replied tightly.
“Someone should shorten his stirrups,” James said with a smile.
Men were fighting hand to hand, some with clubs, others with nothing more than rocks. A few pistols had been fired, but they took long to reload, and a man was not about to wait patiently while his opponent readied his gun.
The chaos was overwhelming. The shouts of men, the clash of pikes, the occasional sound of a pistol being fired, rang in Iseabal’s ears.
How a man could tell a friend from foe, she didn’t know. But it seemed that killing was not the aim as much as was survival. A man fought back when he was struck, and fought again to prevent yet another blow. From the look of the combatants in the courtyard, she was as well armed as the others.
Searching the crowd, she couldn’t see Alisdair, but she spotted Fergus easily enough. He was plowing through the men, brandishing a cane as a weapon and using it expertly from the bodies in his path.
Suddenly she saw him. Alisdair was encircled by men, each of them intent upon striking him. She watched, panicked, as he turned, his reaction slowed by surprise when he saw her.
Someone struck him on the shoulder and he went down to his knees, one hand flailing against his attacker. She saw his mouth open, knew he called her name. Too many men moved between them, separating him from her sight.
She wanted to rail and fight and weep and scream, scratch each face with her fingernails and dig in the ground with her hands in order to reach him. Dropping her store of rocks, she jerked a staff from a man lying still on the ground, and began to make her way to her husband’s side.
Swinging blindly, she made a path through the men. At one point, a man stepped in front of her, determined to stop her. He gripped her pike and wrenched it from her grasp, only to fall to his knees a second later. She and Brian stared at each other over the other man’s body. He’d struck the man over the head with the butt of his pistol and now stood watching her as if she were a ghost.
Retrieving her weapon, Iseabal stood facing the young man who’d once been her friend.
She would have spoken had the noise not been so great. Her lips tightened as she widened her stance, gripping the pike in front of her at an angle. Whether the obstacle was Brian or an enemy, it didn’t matter; she was going to be at Alisdair’s side.
For a moment she thought he was going to block her way, but he only stood aside. The moment, slowed and silent, lasted just that, until Brian was caught up in the melee and she was free to reach Alisdair.
Whatever happened today, she was not going to lose him again.
He should have known she wouldn’t stay safe, Alisdair thought, standing. She’d never done anything he’d expected. Another blow struck him, and he fought back, using his dirk, his feet, his balled-up fist.
The fight reminded Alisdair of another war, one his father had described out of hearing of his mother. Culloden had been fought by Scots armed the same, with clubs and hoes, and with pikes created from the upper branches of saplings.
They had cried aloud in the same rage, yet their enemy this time was not the English, but a man so greedy that he saw the cost of a single sheep, and not the damage done to innocent people.
Drummond’s men didn’t seem as enraged as the villagers of Lonvight and the crewmen surrounding him. Although they fought well, they did so more defensively than aggressively.
Alisdair spun around, fighting off another attack, a wound on his cheek bleeding, his arm aching from where he’d been struck by a pike. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Iseabal now armed with a wooden spar. But before he could consider her inopportune bouts of courage, a shadow fell over him, and he heard Iseabal’s shouts of warning.
Looking up, Alisdair realized that one of Drummond’s mounted men was nearly on top of him. He saw the man’s face, thinking instantly that he had been here before, had viewed that sharp-toothed, feral grin. The day had been the same, with a warm breeze in the air and the sun in the exact position in the sky.
But here there was no smoke.
Yet the pistol in the other man’s hand was steady, just as before, and the look in his eyes was the same, as if the granting of death were a pleasure.
Alisdair rushed his horse, surprising him. Drummond’s man held onto his pistol with a tenacious grip as Alisdair pulled him from the saddle, but he lost his hold on it when Alisdair smashed a fist into his face.
“That’s for the villagers,” he spat out, feeling the man’s nose soften beneath his fists. “And that’s for me,” he added, hearing the crack of a jaw.
“Give us a chance,” someone called out. Alisdair turned, recognizing him as one of the men he’d seen in the village. Now he was holding a club the size of a small tree trunk and grinning at him.
Alisdair tossed Drummond’s flunky in his direction, thinking that when the villagers were finished, he’d send the man off with the Molly Brown. The British navy could use a person of his dubious worth.
“Fergus.”
He turned at the sound of his name, as if able to hear her voice over the cacophony of battle. In the midst of the fighting, the two them stared at each other, the seconds lengthening until it seemed an eternity.
Her mother would have stood there forever, Iseabal thought, had not Fergus moved, limping through the fighting men, easily pushing those aside who would have separated him from Leah.
Iseabal felt like an interloper in this poignant scene, but she was not alone, she abruptly realized. Her father sat so still on his horse that he might have been carved from stone. His eyes were slits, his face twisted by rage. With a roar, he suddenly spurred his horse on, lifting his pistol and aiming not at Fergus, Iseabal realized with horror, but at her mother.
All of it happened so swiftly that Iseabal was hard pressed to recite the details later.
Fergus moved quickly, pushing Leah behind him, squaring his shoulders, and bracing his legs. Before her father could shoot, Fergus, brandishing his crutch like a weapon, knocked the gun from Drummond’s hand, sending him flying from the saddle.
“What kind of man tries to kill a woman?” Fergus shouted, standing over him. “Are you that much of a coward?”
Drummond kicked at Fergus’s good leg, the larger man toppling to the ground like a felled oak. Scrambling on his hands and knees for his pistol, Magnus reached it, turning and once again aiming for Leah.
A shot rang out, as loud as a clap of thunder. Her father arched back, a blossom of red appearing on the front of his shirt. His face seemed to change, to relax in the instant before he crumpled to the ground.
Her mother collapsed as well, falling to her knees beside Fergus.
Iseabal glanced toward Alisdair. He stood there, his pistol leveled in her father’s direction. On his face was a look of steely determination, his eyes fixed and wintry. But James stood beside him, holding a similar weapon, smoke still wafting from the barrel.
“He didn’t pay me enough to die with him,” a man unexpectedly said, throwing his pike to the ground.
“We’ll never see the rest of our money,” another man said, doin
g the same. He began walking toward the land bridge. A mumbling assent followed him as one man after another dropped his weapon and began to leave Gilmuir.
James walked to where Iseabal’s father lay, kneeling at his side. Stretching out a hand, he held it against Drummond’s throat as if hoping the other man still lived.
“Merciful God,” James said dully. “I meant to strike his shoulder, not kill him.” He bent his head and closed his eyes, visibly shaken.
“We’ll work on the God part, but I, for one, thank you,” Fergus said, rising to one knee with the aid of his crutch and Leah. “He would have killed Leah if not for you.”
Alisdair strode to Iseabal’s side. She stood motionless, her gaze blank and fixed on the body of her father. For an instant she’d felt a killing rage, the same emotion mirrored on his face an instant before he died.
“God forgive me,” she whispered.
Alisdair enfolded her in his arms, and when she remained straight and unbendable, he remedied that by picking her up and carrying her some distance away. “What sin have you committed, Iseabal?” he asked tenderly, rubbing her arms.
“Too many,” she confessed. “I wanted to hate him with all my heart, but instead, I find myself too much like him.”
He said nothing, simply wrapped his arms around her again. “How are you like him?”
She leaned into his chest, pressing against him to feel his warmth. “I would have killed to protect you.”
“And I you,” he said, holding her close. “Are we both to be condemned, then?”
She didn’t know. The question was beyond her at this moment.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “For his death.”
Iseabal nodded.
He was her father, and for that alone, he would be mourned. Not for who he was, perhaps, but who he might have been. And when she buried him, Iseabal thought, she also would put to rest any hope. Only the living can change.
Together they stood, man and wife, in a joint embrace. One not simply of lovers, she realized, nor only of friends. Companions, perhaps, but that word did not quite suit, either. They were partners, and thinking that, she smiled and closed her eyes, feeling him place a kiss on the crown of her windblown hair.