by Julianne Lee
The day after a particularly lucrative raid, when they were on the move again and the kine had been dispatched northward, Hector was riding alongside Alex and they were chatting away the boredom. At a lull in the talk, Hector nodded toward Morag, who rode between Trefor and Mike. “Do ye think she’s magical?”
Alex glanced over. The woman was fey any way one looked at it. Not frail looking like some of the other creatures he’d seen, but small, and though mostly human, there was no denying she had a lot of faerie in her in spite of her round ears. Her face glowed with it, and with the magic. With her braids undone, her bright hair fairly sparkled, curled around her face, and flowed down her back. He said, “Aye. As magical as it gets.” Magically delicious? The thought made him grin to himself. She could be called a leprechaun, though she would probably not answer to it. The woman seemed as Irish as everyone thought he was. But he knew she was magical because she was — would be — the one who would one day send Trefor to him. Or to herself, which now that he thought of it was more likely. Surely she, as an old woman, would have sent him to be with herself as a young woman, and now he wondered how many mortals she’d done that to over the centuries.
Hector said. “I don’t see how you can abide the wee folk.”
“They’re not so bad. Some of them, anyway.” He’d liked Danu and wondered where she’d got off to. Nemed he’d like to strangle, and he wasn’t all that enchanted with that Brochan guy. But though the wee folk were all crazy, in the end they were still people. Apparently Lindsay was one. He was going to have to come to terms with that.
“They’re evil and not to be trusted.”
“You’ve noticed my son is one of them.”
“And has he behaved as a son? Has he shown any loyalty to his father?”
Alex didn’t have an answer for that beyond “No.”
“Were he any other man, he wouldnae be riding with you today. You’re a fool to keep such a one in your complement.”
“I can’t just send him away. He’s my blood.”
“He’ll be your downfall, mark me. Gregor is a better son to you than that one.”
Alex glanced over at Gregor, who rode atop the canvas covering a provisions wagon. Though short like his uncle Hector, the boy was handsome and full of energy, and as long as he’d been Alex’s foster son he’d carried out his duties in earnest and with a dignity rare in children. Kids in general were different here — sometimes they seemed more like miniature adults than children — but Gregor was special even for his time. As Hector suggested, he was the son Alex wished Trefor could have been.
“Gregor’s a good boy.”
Hector nodded. “He’s a MacNeil.”
“So is Trefor.”
“And one day he may prove himself as one, but until now he has not. Until he does, you should beware. And especially beware of the witch Morag. Her loyalties are entirely in question, even where Trefor is concerned.”
Alex had to agree with that last. He didn’t like Morag either. “I’ll take this under advisement.”
“I assume that means ye will think on it.”
“Aye.”
“And then do as I tell you.”
Alex grinned. “We’ll see.”
Hector emitted an indignant grunt and faced forward.
Morag stayed on Alex’s mind, an annoyance and a curiosity. She seemed to thrive on the rigors of travel, spending long days in the saddle without so much as a telltale crease of fatigue in her forehead. Rarely did she speak to anyone but Trefor, and didn’t even seem to have much attention for Mike. It was as if she were in orbit around Trefor, or a moth flitting around his light bulb. A highly decorative moth, and Alex could see Trefor was pleased to show her off.
One evening Alex noticed her slip away from the fire. Trefor’s attention was elsewhere, and he didn’t seem to notice her leaving. Alex waited a few moments, then rose from his seat with his hand at the ties of his trews as if he were headed into the woods to relieve himself. For all he knew, that could be what Morag was up to, but he wanted to know for certain.
She hadn’t gone far. Not far enough to lose him, in any case. A short distance into the forest, he found a small fire in the midst of a tiny clearing barely large enough to contain that fire and a dancing figure. He hung back inside the forest, hidden by the darkness.
How she’d lit the fire so quickly, he could only guess. But he had a hunch. Still as the black trees around him, he watched Morag dance naked, what the faeries called “skyclad.” The orange light from the little flame flickered across her skin, and she moved in silence, accompanied only by the crackle of burning sticks and her own breathing. Her copper red hair floated about her head and down her back, and tendrils stuck to the sweat on her face. As cool as the night was, she ran with perspiration that made trickles from her face, down her neck, and between her breasts. Distasteful as she was to him, he couldn’t deny her beauty, and just then it mesmerized him fully. She moved like a snake in water, smoothly, fluidly, her frame flowing as if boneless.
Then she came to a sudden stop directly before him, panting and gazing straight at him, her breasts heaving and utterly fascinating. He held his breath, stock still. Could she see him? A tiny smile touched her mouth, then she continued dancing. If she’d seen him, she was ignoring him. He kept still, barely breathing, and continued to watch.
Soon he realized she was muttering to herself. Her lips moved in a voiceless whisper as she danced on, a little faster and a little faster. Soon she was spinning, hair flying, her chanting a silent mouthing of words. Finally she collapsed to her knees, bent over the fire, gasping for air. For one moment of madness Alex wished he could join her, to fall with her to the ground and lie with her. But then he blinked, shook his head, and the desire went away. The need stayed, but his distrust of this woman told him that to touch her would be enormous folly. Alex chose this moment to fade back into the forest as silently as possible, and he returned to the camp and to his tent. He wondered what Red Morag had been up to, and figured it couldn’t he good.
The next morning when he saw her, she gave no indication she’d seen him the night before. Perhaps she hadn’t. Trefor certainly hadn’t noticed anything amiss, for his demeanor today was his usual sullen self. Alex put the incident from his mind and focused on what lay ahead on their march through England.
Chapter Twelve
Alex figured his future and his position were largely dependent on James Douglas, and it was James’ opinion of things that mattered. It was he who reported to Robert, and as a royal vassal Alex’s status was entirely contingent on what the king thought. Such dependence on a single man did not lend itself to a feeling of security, particularly since Alex had never much liked James personally. He never let on how much he didn’t care for the single-mindedness and obsessive behavior, for James appeared fond of Alex and Hector. They were good fighters, and that seemed all the earl cared about, so that was how Alex stayed on his good side. After Berwick Alex took no mercy on his opponents and racked up kills he then bragged about around the fires afterward. His reputation was solid, and he knew James was impressed. Trefor was silenced for a time.
News came one day, via a Scottish rider who intercepted the raiders as they made their way across northern England, and it was the first contact they’d had from Scotland since leaving Berwick. Alex looked to the front to see the single horseman approach James at the head of his column, and watched the exchange he couldn’t hear. The rider pulled a leather packet from inside his tunic and handed it over to the earl. James took it, opened the thong, broke the seal on the papers inside, and unfolded them to read as he rode. Even from where he sat, Alex could see the large, elaborate seal. Important papers. From the king? Who else would be allowed to know where to send a messenger to James? The rider was astride a fine horse and was well appointed in his dress and accoutrements, obviously of high rank. Alex’s interest perked, and even more so when James paused in his reading to have a glance back at him. Something was up, and Alex had
to resist the urge to spur forward to find out what. He glanced over at Hector, who raised his eyebrows as well, having been watching James himself. Alex feigned indifference but probably did not fool Hector.
They both looked behind at Trefor, who didn’t seem to have noticed anything. He was deep in conversation with Morag riding beside him. Mike was gazing at the horizon, daydreaming, and also not noticing what went on up front.
It was a wonder Mike was still alive, but Alex had to admit the guy was holding his own as a fighter, At least he was still walking around, and that was better than some others of Trefor’s men had managed. He’d gone quiet these days, and wasn’t so mouthy as he’d once been. Alex figured that was a good thing, even though bragging rights were stock-in-trade for a knight. Shutting Mike up made him less of a loose cannon.
***
When they stopped to make camp that night, Alex expected to be approached by James about the day’s messenger, but was disappointed. Nobody came to summon him for the earl. Huh. Alex supervised his men while they encamped, turning over in his mind what he’d seen earlier. Maybe he’d only imagined that glance back from James had been at him.
While supper was roasting he went to his tent. His sword needed cleaning and sharpening, and once that was done he figured he’d strip and pick off the lice and fleas he’d collected over the past few days. The wee beasties were a constant nuisance, and if he wasn’t diligent about keeping them away they drove him nuts while riding.
He sat inside his tent, on the edge of the low pallet he’d acquired since his last foray with James, by the oil lamp that sat atop a folding table. Yellow light flickered over the blue fabric of the tent and the lamp threw a slightly rancid whiff into the air. He liked these quiet moments when he could think slowly, turning things over in his mind, sifting through his thoughts in search of something soothing. He found Lindsay.
She’d always been the best part of these hours that stretched into the interminable twilight of mid-summer, when they would talk quietly of their situation in a language that only they shared in this century. Back when his feelings for her had not yet been requited, he’d secretly relished the long conversations. There had never been anyone like Lindsay. She thought and spoke like no woman he’d ever known, and she seemed to understand things even the men around him couldn’t grasp. Certainly she was the only person on the planet with a clue about his culture shock over medieval life. That had been important to him, and it occurred to him how odd it was to be unable to relate to Trefor and Mike that way. Especially Trefor. They should at least have that, and they didn’t.
But even more than relating to Lindsay, he’d been attracted to her physically from the very start. The woman was hot. On nights like this he’d been sustained by watching her, drinking in her beauty, her grace. The way her almond-shaped eyes shone, the way her hair waved just enough to make tendrils around her face. And how that face brightened when she smiled, and darkened in a way not to be taken lightly when she did not. But he smiled at the memory of how she’d been so fascinated by the hair on his chest. Often she’d play with it as he lay on his back in bed, petting it down or smoothing it into swirls this way and that. Like doodling, she’d fiddled and tickled, and he’d grown to love it.
Now, as he ran an oiled linen cloth over his blade, his chest tightened the more he thought of his wife, and he wished for her to tickle him again. Lindsay had become his life well before she’d become Lady MacNeil, and tonight, here in the tent they’d once shared as knight and squire, he missed her horribly.
He had to cough to free up his breathing again, and forced his focus onto his sword.
This weapon was pleasing; it had stood him in good stead over the past couple of years. He’d taken it from a man he’d killed early on in his career. The opponent had been of high rank, and so the sword was more showy than those usually owned by a knight banneret not of the peerage. The gilded pommel glowed with a warmth he’d never seen in modern metal work; the gold was rich and nearly pure. Nearly red, almost as if it had been dipped in blood and bore a translucent coat of it. The wire around the grip was thick and solid. The blade was finely forged and kept a keen edge. He cleaned his weapon with the same care he took with his body.
A woman’s voice came from outside. “Sir Alasdair?” Morag. Alex looked over at the tent flap and debated the pros and cons of not answering.
But he decided he had to eat sometime. He couldn’t avoid her for more than a couple of hours, and that wouldn’t be enough. So he said, “Enter.”
She ducked through the flap and stood just inside with her hands folded before her. “My lord — “
Alex laughed and continued running his whetstone over his sword. “Nice try. Flattery will get you nowhere. ‘Sir’ will do, thank you all the same.”
“Will it indeed?” She seemed unfazed.
Now he looked up at her. A tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth and her eyes sparkled as brightly as her hair. Whatever was on her mind intrigued him, but he didn’t care to pursue her down whatever weird conversational path she might have on her agenda. So he said, “What can I do for you?”
“I wish to speak to you of Trefor.”
Alex returned his attention to his sword cleaning. “What of him?”
“You don’t like him well.”
He shrugged. “He’s my son. Whether I like him or not is irrelevant. In the end, he’s not all that likable. You have to admit that.”
“He has had a hard life.”
Alex looked up again. “I can’t help that.” He wanted to ask how hard Trefor’s life had been, but didn’t dare.
“He has, nevertheless, had a hard life.”
“He was in foster care. I see kids here every day who would climb over each other for the chance to live the way he did. He didn’t starve.”
“You think he did not?”
“You think he did?”
Morag stepped closer, farther into the tent, and put a hand on the center pole. “Trefor has told me some things of the many homes they sent him to in your future time. Of one home where food was rationed to an extreme that some might call starvation and where he slept on the floor with a number of other children. Where babies were rarely cleaned of their own dirt until they had open sores and cried for the pain. Where the older children did injuries to the younger and were not disciplined. Where the foster parents’ own children were given preference in all things and he was given nothing. He tells me of the medicines given to him and other children so they would sleep and not be a bother to their caretakers.” Her voice took on a pointed note, and her eyes narrowed. “You must acknowledge that even in these times you consider ‘backward’ only the poorest and most wretched people do such things to their own family members, and particularly not to foster children who are often honored more than one’s own. Fostering is a privilege here, but apparently not so where you come from, and I would wonder who are in fact the backward ones. Even when Trefor was quite young, he knew it was not the usual for children to be so treated. He tells me he knew from drama stories told to him by... what did he call it?” A hand waved and she glanced around the tent as if looking for the item she was trying to name. “A box with pictures?”
Alex looked around as if he might see the thing, too, then realized what she meant. “Television.”
“‘Tis true, then? A box with pictures on the front? That move all by themselves?”
“Yeah.” Alex didn’t know how to explain a cathode-ray tube to someone who didn’t even have the concept of an electric lamp, so he left it at that. “We have TV like you guys have bards. It tells us stories.”
Morag nodded and continued. “The television stories showed him how life was for children who had parents. He spent his life knowing he’d been abandoned by his kin, another thing we primitive folk of this time and place are not prone to.”
“I didn’t abandon him. And I really wish you would stop telling him I did. I haven’t even had a chance to abandon him.”
�
�Yet.”
“He was stolen. You bloody know it. Your people did it.”
For a moment she bristled, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Regardless of how you were separated, there were other things to cause him pain. His physical appearance brought much grief. The other children teased him mercilessly. Called him names.”
“I bet they did. Let me guess: Mister Spock, Legolas, Bugs Bunny, Roger Rabbit... I expect the list was long.” As a boy Alex had been the new kid in enough school yards to know how that went. Being a military brat who moved frequently with his father’s transfers, he’d learned early on how to fit in quickly. Trefor would have had no hope of ever fitting in. Not with those ears.
“All that and more. He tells me that when he was finally told by the Bhrochan why he looked that way, he nearly wept for joy at finally knowing it wasn’t a malformation. A defect.”
Alex’s heart clenched. “I can’t help what happened to him.”
“You were... are his father. You gave him his life and were responsible for his safety.”
“I kept him as safe as I could. And his mother. I took them to the twenty-first century where he would have a better chance to survive. Faeries snatched him. Look to them for blame.”
“You are nevertheless his father. In the end you are responsible for who he is.”
“I’m not.”
“Would you not be proud if he were more, as you say, ‘likable’?”
Alex had to admit he would be, and nodded. He knew what she would say next, and sure enough she did.
“Then you should take the blame for what you do not like in him as well.”
“Did you just come here to give me guff, or is there a point to this?”
“I came in hopes you will begin to consider him your son, and — “
“I do. I just wish he wasn’t such a brat. Sometimes he acts like he’s twelve.”
“And you act as if you were just another foster parent.”