Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  In the unnerving stillness he left behind, Muriella tried to fight off the chill that crept over her quaking body. It was not a true vision, she told herself, but only a waking nightmare caused by her weariness. Still she could not quite make herself believe it. She was not usually so timid. Hugh had taught her to defend herself with dirk and bow, and though she had never come close to his prowess, she was fairly accomplished “for a girl,” he’d told her more than once.

  Despite the Roses’s panic, she had left Cawdor Castle without a weapon. In her yearning to reach the river, she had forgotten the most basic things her betrothed had taught her. And now she was defenseless. She, as much as anyone, had let this happen. She wanted desperately to get away, to find her way back to Kilravok, to her mother and Hugh.

  Her heart beat faster at the thought. Bunching her damp skirts in her hands, she rose carefully to her knees. She did not dare stand or they would certainly see her. Her mouth dry, Muriella held her breath as she stood awkwardly, trying not to make a sound. Before she took a step, however, her head began to spin and her body to sway. She gasped and grasped the tree in both hands, resting her forehead against the rough bark. She was too weak, she realized, and the pain in her hand too intense. Even if she could get away without the Campbells' knowledge, she could not crawl all the way to Kilravok. She was trapped, just as Rob had said.

  A weight like lead settled in her chest as she sank back against the support the tree offered. Her gaze was drawn reluctantly to John. She watched, unable to look away, as he paced the glen in agitation, unable to stay still even for a moment.

  Then Rob began to sing softly.

  She hadna ridden a league, a league,

  Ne'er a league but one,

  When she was 'ware o' a tall young mon

  Riding slowly o'er the plain.

  One by one, the other men joined in. Even John paused, listening.

  But nothing did the tall knight say,

  And nothing did he blin,

  Still slowly rode he on befar,

  And fast she rode behind.

  At last the voices seemed to draw John in, and he crouched beside his men to take up the verse.

  "This river is verra deep," he said,

  "As it is wondrous dun;

  But 'tis sich as a saikless maid,

  And a leal true knight can swim."

  As the mournful tune, the quiet drone of the voices, crept into Muriella's heart, she shivered, closing her eyes to the dark circle of heads burnished golden by the firelight. Still the voices crooned their song, weaving about her an invisible web of melancholy.

  "But ride on, ride on, proud Margaret

  Till the water cooms o'er yer bree:

  For the bride maun ride deep and deeper yet

  Who rides this ford wi' me."

  The last note quavered, then faded away. In the lingering silence, the girl heard the gurgle of a nearby burn, which slowly began to soothe her until her exhaustion overcame her and she slept.

  * * *

  Muriella awoke and sat up, listening. It was still deep night and she was thankful for the wolf pelts someone had tucked around her. Aside from the snoring of the men who crowded the tiny glen, the night was silent. Yet something had awakened her. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and wondered what it could be. She recognized the soft rumble of the burn nearby, but knew it was not that which had shaken her from her sleep. Then she heard it—the thrumming of hooves in the darkness.

  She dug her fingers into the earth and tried to feel relief. These men were coming to take her home. Home? That meant Cawdor, she reminded herself, and Cawdor was not where she wished to be. She wanted to be back at Kilravok where she and Hugh had played as children, where she had been happy. Before she'd begun to recognize the brutal world that existed beyond the soft, curving hills of her home.

  She sensed movement nearby, and her breath escaped in a rush when she heard the warning shout reverberate through the trees.

  "Ware! Arms!"

  Shadows leapt into men all around her. John Campbell appeared from beneath a fur on one side, his uncle from the other. Both struggled to shake away the webs of sleep.

  "Take the lass and go," Rob commanded at last. "My sons and I will hold them off till ye get clear away."

  John looked down at Muriella. "No," he said. "I'll stay to face the Calders with ye."

  "Get ye gone!" his uncle said gruffly. "I know ye can't bear the thought of missing a chance to cut down a few more men, but ye'll have to swallow yer disappointment this time. The girl is more important than a single sword against this enemy. 'Tis her safety ye must think of, Johnnie. And once ye're back at Kilchurn, take care of the girl. She's a canny lass, is that one."

  John looked unconvinced, but at the adamant expression on Rob's face, he nodded reluctantly. Leaning forward, he grasped his uncle's hand. "Take care." Then he turned and called for his horse. Kicking the pelts from around Muriella, he pulled her to her feet. The unexpected motion broke the spell that had held her in its grasp. With little effort, she shook her hand free.

  Her head was spinning at the confusion of sounds that assaulted her ears—the clanging of swords, the muttered oaths, the terrible cries of death that shattered the darkness. But no, that was not yet. Later it would come; just now she heard only the labored beating of her own heart. She turned toward Rob and reached out blindly. "I won't go unless ye come too."

  He smiled while adjusting the sword at his hip. "There now, lassie, ye've no cause to worry for me. I'm a clever old man, am I, and no' afraid of any Roses or Calders, ye can bet."

  In Muriella's inner sight, his body turned and turned again in the stiff white folds of a winding sheet, and she knew his faith was foolish. He would die, and soon. The sounds in her head spun faster and faster. She covered her ears with her hands, but the screams only grew louder. She fought to stop the spinning, to gain control of her body, but she was powerless.

  She felt John pulling on her hand and resisted. Perhaps if she stayed, if she refused to leave Rob's side, she could change the future and banish this feeling of helplessness. Why had the vision come to her if not as a warning? "I won't go!" she cried. "He was kind to me."

  "Come, we've no' much time." John insisted. "Ye can see him at Kilchurn."

  "No!" she repeated in desperation. "If ye leave him now, ye’ll never see him alive again!"

  Shaking his head with exasperation, John lifted her off the ground to place her, protesting, on his waiting horse. He leapt up behind her, then, without a backward glance, he and a few of his men left the clearing.

  Muriella fought the dizziness that overwhelmed her at the sudden motion of the war-trained animal. The horses were fleeing from the dim light of the fire and she yearned toward it. Once again, fear touched her as they rode into the starless night. Hearing the tumult begin in the glen they had left behind, she sat motionless in the saddle. Rob would certainly die, and the others, perhaps all of them—because of her. No matter what they had done to her, that knowledge was a weight too heavy to bear.

  Oblivious of the girl who sat silently in their midst, the men rode hard mile after mile. The rocking of the horse was like a drug to Muriella, lulling her body into painful weariness, but John seemed unaffected. He held her tightly and did not relax his grip. She perched in discomfort for a long time before she heard a cry from up ahead.

  "Loch Awe, Sir John. We're nearly home now!"

  Muriella felt John heave a sigh of relief, then lean forward eagerly. As they paused at the top of a ridge, she realized why.

  The loch spread below them, wide, rippled and dark, while the moon swept a silver path across its heart. Along the bank, the trees shimmered with leaves that appeared silver white in the moonlight, making the shadows beyond seem even darker. The scene was beautiful in a ghostly way—so beautiful that it made her ache.

  The other horses had clattered down the hill and were beginning to pick their way toward the shallow water where they could cross with ease. The me
n, excited by the prospect of reaching home, urged their animals forward incautiously. Just as John's horse stepped into the water, the animal in front stumbled, dumping his rider into the icy loch. The path of the moonlight seemed to break into fragments that glimmered for a moment in the darkness, then disappeared.

  Muriella had seen it before. She stiffened as the water splashed over her ankles and John leaned forward in irritation. "Are ye daft, man? 'Tis black night out and the horses can't see their way. Ye know how dangerous are the caverns and currents beneath the surface. If ye slipped into the water, we might never find ye again. Besides, ye might have broken yer neck!"

  Shaking himself, the man lunged for the horse's bridle. As he got the animal under control, he laughed, calling over his shoulder, "Aye, I might have done it at that. Mayhap I'll tell my Flora she nearly lost me. That would warm her up, sure enough."

  John was silent, but the other men chuckled. Their journey was finally over.

  Muriella could just discern the outline of a range of mountains to the east and north. They looked huge in the darkness, and their presence sent a shiver down her back. When John tightened his arm around her waist, she saw they were circling toward a castle that loomed before them.

  It stood on an outcropping of land that appeared, for an instant, to be surrounded by the waters of the loch. Then John guided his horse into a narrow channel of stone, invisible until horses and riders were upon it.

  Suddenly, the castle was there, its walls rising steeply into the night. Some of the tension left John's body. "'Tis Kilchurn," he whispered. "We're home."

  To Muriella it looked dark and gloomy—a cold prison. The chill reached out to enfold her. "Yer home," she said, "not mine. Ye've taken that away from me and well ye know it."

  She felt him stiffen as if she had struck him. He removed his arm from around her waist, slapping his horse's side as he did so. She could feel his anger in the labored rise and fall of his breath, but he did not answer. There was nothing he could say.

  They moved in silence over the drawbridge and into the still courtyard.

  Chapter 3

  The men who sprawled on piles of hay at the edges of the courtyard heard a shout that woke them from their sleep. Then the gate began to rise, squealing and scraping as it hit the stone walls. The men shook their heads to clear the drowsiness away and stumbled through the darkness, groping for torches. As the clatter of hooves on cobbles filled the enclosure, each man lit his torch and, holding it high over his head, moved to take the reins that were tossed in all directions from the necks of panting horses.

  In contrast to the men who had just awakened, who moved numbly about their tasks, the ones who rode under the gate laughed and called noisy salutations. Except for John. As he slid from his horse, peering through the melee of foaming, stamping animals and exhausted men, he remained grimly silent. The first person he recognized in the fitful light of the torches was Duncan, his squire.

  "M'lord?" The young man glanced at the girl still huddled on the horse's back. "Is that her?"

  John waved the question away. Turning his back on Duncan's curiosity, the older man continued searching for a particular face. "Is Richard Campbell here?"

  "Aye. He couldn't sleep, he said. Thought ye might need him, though I couldn't see why ye should."

  Duncan realized his cousin was not listening. The young squire noticed for the first time that John's shoulders sagged and his face was haggard. "M'lord—"

  "Richard!" John shouted.

  Responding to the cry, a tall man with dark red hair shoved a sleepy groom aside. He was followed by a younger version of himself, except the hair was brighter and the face covered with freckles.

  "Was there trouble?" Richard asked. "I told Andrew here 'twouldn't go well, but he only laughed."

  "Aye, well I'm glad to see ye're awake.'" John grasped Richard's hand in relief. "I need ye to go back. Uncle Rob is still there with most of the men. I wouldn't even know how many of the enemy there were. But I want ye to take as many men as ye can gather. Donald will tell ye where."

  "Aye, m'lord. We'll be gone before ye look behind ye." Dragging his brother by the arm, Richard moved away. "What did I tell ye?" he called. "Didn't I say there'd be trouble?"

  "So ye did," Andrew grumbled sleepily. "But ye need no' shout in m'ear. I can hear ye well enough, man. See to yer men instead o' yer gloatin'."

  John watched them go, then turned to consider Muriella where she sat unmoving on his horse's back. He noticed a groom hovered at the animal's head, grasping the reins uncertainly. Even Duncan seemed to be waiting. He felt a sudden impulse to simply turn and leave her, but his common sense won out over his weary frustration. He reached for the girl to lift her from the saddle and set her on the ground, where she swayed for a moment, then drew herself upright.

  Muriella looked at him, her eyes glassy green, but behind the surface he saw a violent spark of fear—or was it fury? At the moment, he was too weary to care which. Besides, his mind was back in that glen with his uncle and the other men. "Duncan," he called, motioning the squire forward. "See to the girl while I collect my wits." He started away, then added as an afterthought, "Don't let her out of yer sight, ye ken?"

  "Aye." As his cousin turned to go, Duncan touched his arm. "Colin's here. He rode in this morning. Told us to wake him as soon as ye returned."

  John shook his head at the thought of facing his older brother now. At the best of times, Colin and he were no more than uneasy allies, and tonight John was not in the mood to swallow his brother's bitter humor. He moved toward the hall with reluctance, but the thought of meat and ale was too great a temptation to ignore.

  Duncan watched his cousin go with concern. ‘Twill no’ be a pleasant night, he thought, remembering Colin's annoyance at having missed the chance to join the ride to Cawdor. "The hunt," he had called it. Not until John disappeared into the hall did the squire turn to Muriella.

  Her shoulders were drooping and she seemed small and frail in the unflattering light of the torches. His eyes narrowed against the yellow glare, Duncan lifted her chin with his forefinger so he could see her more clearly. Her skin was pale and there were shadows under her eyes and along her cheeks. Her lids were lowered, but as he stared down at her, she glanced up. He saw weariness and a kind of hopeless resignation in her gaze that tore at his heart.

  Duncan took a deep breath, released it slowly. For a moment he was silent, held by her gaze, then she looked away. "So ye're the Calder girl," he mumbled, turning her in the direction John had taken.

  "Aye."

  "They didn't say ye were so bonnie."

  Muriella was grateful he could not see the grief that welled within her at those words. Hugh had said the same thing every time she braided her hair and put on a fresh gown—as if he were seeing her for the first time. Just now the memory was painfully vivid.

  Her silence made Duncan uneasy. "I suppose yer uncles will be coming to Kilchurn soon to try to take ye back."

  She whirled. "They won't. They're too afraid of the Campbells. Mayhap not a few in the woods, but they won't dare to come here." As she said it, she realized it was true and her despair deepened. Without another word, she turned to step through the blackened hole of the doorway and into the vast hall.

  A fire burned in the fireplace along the far wall, and several torches guttered in their sconces against the rough-hewn stone, but the light was too dim to destroy the shadows that played about the vaulted, cave-like room. Most of the men were already seated around the rows of trestle tables strung across the uneven stone floor.

  Muriella's gaze swept over the Campbells. The heavily armed military force had melted into weak and haggard puppets with their heads cradled against the tables on which they rested; their exhaustion had finally overtaken them. Even John.

  He was leaning forward, elbows resting on the table, his face white except where the shadows had settled around his eyes and between his nose and mouth; even his heavy beard could not disguise his pa
llor. His dark hair was in disarray where he had pushed it back from his forehead, and his eyes were cloudy gray. He sat glowering at the pitted tabletop in silence.

  As Muriella paused in the doorway, apparently unnoticed, young women began to appear from the kitchens with thick slabs of bread, cold meat and ale. Nudged out of their lethargy, the men ignored their aching muscles and concentrated instead on filling their stomachs. No one glanced at Muriella or spoke to her or asked her to sit down. For the first time, her weariness retreated behind a wave of anger. It was followed by the same intense loneliness that had overwhelmed her earlier. The Campbells had taken her but did not want to care for her. They made no offer of food or shelter or even a tankard of mulled wine.

  A commotion at the top of the stairs drew Muriella's attention away from her own numb misery. A tall man stood laughing, a servant girl fluttering about him. He was fastening his robe, and his blue eyes glimmered when they rested on the girl at his side. Slapping her on the behind, he called, "Get me some ale, lass. 'Tis time to celebrate!"

  The girl scurried down the stairs and off to the kitchen while the man followed more slowly. Considering the occupants of the hall with interest, he located John, who stood up. "Ho! Johnnie! Ye've got the lass then?" Running his hand through his sandy hair, he strode forward. "Well, bring her!" he demanded. "Let's have a look."

  John squinted across the room at Duncan and the girl. When his cousin nodded, Duncan took Muriella's arm gingerly, as if he were afraid of hurting her. She wanted to stand on her own, but wasn't certain she could move without his support. Her attention focused on Colin's flushed face, she managed to cross the hall without stumbling. When she stood before the brothers, Duncan released her. Muriella thought she would fall, but Colin caught both her hands in one of his while accepting a tankard of ale with the other. She winced at the pain as his fingers closed around her makeshift bandage.