by Sandy Blair
Blood roaring in his ears, fearing his chance for annulment—and Gen—might be lost to him forever, he shoved her back and bent to salvage what pieces he could.
“Nay!”
His father’s voice reverberated like thunder through the nave. Wondering why he had come, Britt looked up and found one of the huge candlesticks from the altar racing toward him, bare inches from his head. Instinct made him duck, but too late. Stars flashed before his eyes as the weighty bronze caught him above his right ear. As he collapsed face-first to the cold granite floor, he was vaguely aware of Cassandra, keening, landing atop him, apparently determined to finish the job. As the world went black, he found himself wishing their roles were reversed. He would gladly see her good and truly dead.
“Son! Please, God…”
The weight pressing on Britt’s neck and shoulders lifted, and he was rolled onto his back, his aching head coming to rest on something soft.
“Britt! Son, wake up.”
Ah, ’twas his father. He’d recognize that gravel voice—despite its shaky tone—anywhere.
“Open your eyes, damn it.”
Britt, confused, did as he was bid, only to find his vision clouded. He swiped at his eyes, wiping away a familiar wetness. Registering the scents of incense, smoke and copper, he looked at his hands. Blood. All came rushing back. He lurched upright, and the world spun. He was in the chapel, had found Cassandra destroying—
“Cassandra?” Had she made good her escape after clouting him? Christ’s blood, his head hurt. For this alone, he would see her put in chains.
At his feet, the torch he’d carried had guttered but not before turning centuries of history to ash. How would he ever be able to garner his annulment now?
His father, white-faced, placed a hand at his back to steady him and tipped his head toward the altar. “There.”
Britt turned. His wife lay prone on the cold floor in a crimson pool, his father’s stag-horn-handled sgian duhb protruding from her neck. He knew the answer but still found himself asking, “Is she…?”
“Aye. ’Twas watch her bludgeon you to death or take her life.” His father sighed in weary resignation as he came to his feet. “Should have done so long ago, and for that I beg your forgiveness.”
His father held out his hand, and Britt took it and came to his feet. “You have it.”
His wife was dead. He had no need for church records or an annulment to make Genny his. He was once again free, something he’d so longed to be, so why did he feel no elation? Why did he feel only this immeasurable sorrow looking at the woman who had vowed to love and honor him as he had her, and to bring forth babes and raise them in the one true faith?
He dashed away the tears welling in his eyes. Why this sorrow? For Cassandra, for his father, and aye, even for Genny.
Having no answers, he asked, “How will you explain this to the MacDonald?”
His father, looking older than he had only an hour ago, studied the woman at his feet. “I shan’t. None from her sept have even bothered to pay her a visit these past five years. I shall ask Margret to prepare her for burial dressed with wimple and couvrechef—to mask the wound—then send word to the MacDonald. Should any from her sept deem to come, we shall tell them she died of dysentery after drinking from the cattle pond.” He shook his head. “She was crazy enough to have done so, and all know it.”
“And where shall she be buried?” He would not tolerate her being entombed in the kirk next to their son.
Apparently understanding, his father said, “In the cemetery with our clansmen…unless the MacDonald requests her return, which is highly unlikely.”
Satisfied, Britt, head still throbbing, bent and scooped the lifeless form of his wife into his arms. How thin she felt, even in a thick woolen kirtle and cloak. “I’ll take her inside, then clean up this mess.”
His father stooped and picked up the family bible. “A damn shame…all our history lost.”
“Surely you and the elders can recall some of what had been written.”
His father, eyes glassy, ran a gnarled hand over the smooth, wooden cover. “Mayhap.”
The MacKinnon preceded Britt into the crowded great hall. Seeing Britt carried Cassandra’s limp body in his arms, his clansmen went quiet. The children who’d been running in play came to abrupt halts. The youngest, with mouths agape, took refuge behind their mothers.
“Listen!” his father ordered. “Cassandra MacKinnon has passed to her final reward, having grown deathly ill after drinking from the cattle pond. We shall hold her wake this eve at gloaming and her funeral at midday on the morrow.” He looked about the room, daring any to contradict him. When none did, he said, “I need four volunteers to serve as pallbearers.”
Four stout men raised their hands along with an eyebrow or two.
“My thanks. Please go about your business now.”
As the hall cleared, Britt muttered, “Da, have you gone daft? They’re not blind…can see blood covers her gown.”
“True, but they also know what she did and that you’re a MacKinnon and she is not.”
“Remember the Alpin,” Britt muttered. ’Twas the clan’s battle cry, a tribute to their famous forbearer.
“Aye, and best you never forget who and what you are, lad, for they shan’t. For someday, all this”—he waved a hand—“will be yours with but a nod of acceptance from them.”
Britt took a deep breath. “I’ve given little thought to being liege.” He’d not only been the youngest, but he’d been so furious with his father for so long, he never imagined himself returning, much less leading his clan.
“You’d best start, then. I shan’t live forever.”
True. And lies and half-truths had cost him far too much already. “People, a word, if you please.”
Those still in the hall turned to listen. “Our liege tries to protect me and us with his tale. Lady MacKinnon was but a heartbeat from killing me, and the MacKinnon had no choice but to stop her. Say what you wish should you be asked how she died.”
Now he must cling to the hope that lies hadn’t taken everything.
“Truth is often harsh to tell.” ~ An old Scottish Proverb
Chapter Eighteen
Soaked and chilled to the bone, eyes stinging from the assault of salty spray, Genny thanked God that she’d chosen by sheer chance a skilled and sensible captain. Never mind that she was still in Scotland. She was just grateful to be alive.
“Are you sure you don’t wish to go on?” Darby shouted as Genny waited for one of the sailors to bring Silver down the gangway. “The repairs to the sail won’t take but a day or two at most.” Captain O’Neil had miraculously steered the cog through the worst of the storm and brought them into the relative safety of Loch Ryan, where they’d weighed anchor within view of Stranraer until high tide, at which point he raised the torn sail to half-mast and limped into port.
“I’m sure. Buddle is but three days’ ride.” She’d left much behind when she’d gone with Britt, and now, through an act of God, she’d been given an opportunity to retrieve her possessions and, more importantly, to convert her grain and wool stores to hard coin. Coins she and Greer would need to live, albeit frugally. Provided, of course, the Earl of Ross hadn’t learned of her parents’ passing and everything hadn’t been commandeered by his new trackman.
“All right, but do keep in mind we’ll be back in a fortnight. If you’re not here, I very much doubt his nibs will wait.” She nodded toward her husband, who was busy examining the damage the gale had wrought.
She gave Darby a hug. “I promise. How can I ever thank you for your kindness?”
“No need. ’Twas my pleasure.” Darby brushed a loose strand from Genny’s face and kissed her cheek. “Take care, and keep that bow and blade handy as you travel.”
“I shall.” With any luck, the weather would keep the villainous indoors.
Young Mickey, a funny, strapping lad of thirteen, brought her white-eyed palfrey down the gangway and helped
her mount. After thanking him, she adjusted the reins and smiled down at them. “I shall see you in this very place in a fortnight. Take care, and thank your dear captain for me.”
Waving farewell, Genny turned Silver due east toward home.
Three days later, exhausted and dirty, having slept in the saddle and in shieldings for only an hour here and there, she nearly wept seeing Buddle’s rooftops poking up betwixt elm and oak. As she rounded the bend by the kirk, she looked up at the hill that she’d watched Britt charge down, leaping his destrier over tall hedgerows as if they were mere ant mounds. What was he doing now? Did he think about her as often as she thought of him? She hoped so, despite knowing the wish was selfish. Her agonizing over his loss, her acknowledging her vanity and bullheadedness, surely should be penance enough for both of them. But still she wondered.
The moment her cottage came into view, her heart stuttered. “Look, Silver, the roses really are in bloom.” Saint Bride, she’d missed the sight but hadn’t realized how very much until this moment.
To her right in the far pasture, her sheep grazed in contented fashion, white clouds on a lush field of green. And there on the knoll was her majestic and grumpy ram MacDuff, standing guard. She grinned.
Drawing closer to her cottage, she held her breath, looking for any signs that a new trackman may have already taken up residence. Seeing no smoke puffing from the chimney, no counterpanes being aired over windowsills, no linen flapping on the wash lines next to her kale yard, she turned her attention to the dovecote, shearing shed and stable. “Thank God and Saint Bride, naught stirs.”
As tempting as it was to leap to the ground the moment she came abreast of her front door and race into the cottage, she steered Silver toward the stable. Not until she stripped him of tack, wiped down his lathered sides, filled his water bucket and tossed hay to him did she walk back to the cottage. Heart thudding with apprehension, she pressed down on the latch with a shaking hand. The door swung wide, and she crossed the threshold into the cool interior.
“Thank God.”
The parlor was just as she’d left it, save for the dust coating the floor and modest furnishing. Taking a shaky breath, she walked through the house and then checked the loft where she found her mother’s cedar chest—its contents undisturbed—still tucked under the eaves. In the dovecote, she found her secret stores of grain and wool. Not believing her good fortune, she returned to the cottage and collapsed in the rocking chair and burst into tears.
She’d lost Britt through vain stupidity, but God had granted her a boon by seeing to her and Greer’s future. Now she must make every effort to see that His efforts weren’t squandered. And all within a fortnight.
Much to Britt’s relief, Cassandra’s funeral proved a short and simple affair. An aunt and wailing woman from the MacDonald clan had come, much to everyone’s surprise, peered into the coffin and then extended their condolences to Britt and his sire. Under a clearing sky, the MacKinnon read a short but appropriate verse from what remained of the family bible, then Britt, as custom dictated, threw the first handful of dirt onto the coffin. When everyone returned to the keep for refreshments, Britt, feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, turned toward the chapel.
Inside, he studied his mother’s black granite effigy. The stonemason had done a masterful job of not only capturing her beauty but her importance to his clan with the ornamentation of the MacKinnon and Campbell crests lying upon her chest in unyielding stone.
To her right, in the wall vaults next to his brothers, lay his son. Britt ran his fingers over the child’s delicate features carved in stone, then down the curve and swell of his gown, feeling small nicks and grooves that shouldn’t be there. Frowning, he leaned closer. The stonemason had offered to craft straight wee legs beneath the long gown, but Britt said nay, he wasn’t ashamed of his son. He wanted his child to appear as he had in life. But someone had tried to alter the stone.
“Britt, are you all right?”
He straightened at the sound of his father’s voice. “Aye.” Hand on the marks, he said, “Ian’s effigy has been defaced. Why would anyone do such a thing?”
His father drew closer and, looking to where Britt pointed, sighed. “Why did Cassandra do anything?”
Cassandra. Of course.
“What shall you do now, son? Will you remain?”
Britt shook his head. “Now that I’m free, I need to find Genny.”
“Damn beasts.” Sitting at her kitchen table, chin resting heavy in her hand, Genny counted again the meager coins she’d garnered from what remained of her grain stores after the mice had gotten into the bails. How wee vermin could consume so much in so short a time was beyond kenning. Worse than cleaning what grain she could salvage was the fact that the labor had proved tedious, giving her far too much time to think. Hour upon hour she’d thrashed and fashed over how her sister would take the news of the king’s demise, over Greer’s birthing, and worse, over her parting with Britt.
Never had she imagined it possible to miss anyone more than she missed Greer, but her longing for Britt went well beyond the ache in heart and mind she felt being separated from her twin. This new pain went bone and soul deep, to the point where she had no desire to eat, only to sleep, yet sleep proved elusive. She only wept. Chores that had to be done to secure her and Greer’s future were also proving nearly impossible to do. Her limbs felt heavy, as if lead had replaced their marrow. Had she not breathed without thought, breathing would likely have ceased.
If she were brave, she would write to him. Tell him how sorry she was for running as she had. She should have been woman enough to face him, admit her own complicity in their affair and listened to whatever explanation he might have. Hearing him out wouldn’t have made any difference—he was still married—but at least she would have had the satisfaction of knowing she wasn’t a coward. But she was a coward, hadn’t admitted her own complicity until Darby had made her see the light, so she hadn’t written and she wouldn’t.
She could only take comfort where she could. The grain was sold, and she and Greer would be safe in Ireland should war break out. That Britt would be in the thick of it should war come she dared not think about, for then her heart would surely stop.
Better she focus on the remaining tasks before her. She had only a week to clean her wool of mouse droppings and find a merchant who’d give her a fair price before making her way back to Stranraer. By sheer force of will she rose, gathered her coins and placed them in her hiding kist. If she missed O’Neil’s ship, she’d have to pay another captain for passage to Ireland, something she could ill afford.
Seeing Mittens studying her through narrowed eyes from the windowsill, she growled, “Don’t you be lookin’ at me like that. ’Tis your fault half my grain was eaten, and I’ve now wool to nitpick.”
The cat, stretching, yawned.
“Damn beasts.”
Feet dragging, she crossed the kale yard, her goal the dovecote and what would likely be hours of mindless nitpicking and hours of fashing. She sighed. Reaching for the door handle, she heard a familiar bleating, looked over her shoulder and found auld MacDuff, his huge horns curling about his head, standing on his hind legs, peering over the stone wall at her. “So, you’ve finally come to say hello.”
He bleated again, making her grin. Her wool forgotten, she crossed the kale yard, leaned over the wall and scratched MacDuff behind his ears. “So you missed me. Good to know someone has.”
He nuzzled her neck, then gave her shoulder a gentle butt. Taking him by the horns, she pulled his formidable head toward her and kissed his forehead. “I missed you as well, you scraggly auld thing. In fact, I’ve missed everything here.”
Silver nickered in his stall. “Hush, you. I’ll not have any jealousy here.” God knew she’d suffered enough just thinking about another woman lying in Britt’s arms to last her a lifetime. The gray apparently thought not and nickered again, this time shrilly. MacDuff, snorting, jerked away, hi
s attention riveted on something behind her. A deep nickering filled the air. She spun in alarm only to have her heart leap into her throat. A black destrier, his huge hooves flashing in the sunlight, a dust storm rising behind, strode toward her. Atop him, riding straight and proud in the saddle, rode the man she longed for but never thought to see again.
Seeing Genny at the edge of the pasture, Britt, heart soaring, couldn’t believe his good fortune. She’d not gone to Ireland after all, but stood, a hand at her breast, not but a few hundred yards from him. Praying she’d not bolt, would hear him out, he put his heels to Valiant’s sides.
As he drew closer, Genny, to his monumental relief, grabbed her skirts in hand and started loping toward him. He reined in and leapt to the ground. Closing the distance between them, he saw that she was crying, and held out his arms. She crashed into him much as she had in the wood so many weeks ago, and he scooped her up in his arms. “I was right. You do kiss your beasts.”
Her arms flew around his neck. His hand burrowed beneath her hair and brought her lips to his. She tasted of oats and parsley, of salt and honey, of everything that was good in the world.
When they came up for air, her fingers fluttered over his scruffy jaw. As if not believing he was real, she asked, “How…why?”
He pressed her head to his shoulder and squeezed, wishing he could absorb her so she might never leave him again. “I so feared I’d not be able to find you.”
In unison, they said, “I’m sorry,” then laughed in awkward fashion.
She spoke first, saying, “I’m still angry with you, Britt. You should have told me.”
“You’ve every right.” Britt put her down but kept his arms about her. “And you’ve naught to be sorry about. I should have told you I was married at the very beginning.”
“Why hadn’t you?”
“I so treasured what little time I had with you that I couldn’t bear sullying it with…” He took a deep breath. “I hated her, Genny. Hated her with every ounce of my being. Just thinking about her and what she’d done was so beyond understanding. I just couldn’t speak of her. Not then, but she’s gone now.”