Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  Shrugging in defeat, the Earl rose from his chair. "I didn't call ye here to discuss the flaws in yer character, nor yer intention to cling to them, even knowing they might destroy ye one day. 'Tis yer choice, after all. But losing Cawdor is not yer choice. I want yer word ye'll do something about securing Muriella's inheritance while there's still time."

  John knew his father was right, but the knowledge could not erase the memory of the horror he'd seen one night in his wife's eyes. "I'll think," he said, "but—"

  "'Tis no' good enough, Johnnie, and well ye know it. Ye've a responsibility to the Campbells. 'Tis that which must guide ye, just as certainly as it's always guided me." Argyll regarded his son closely. He wondered if all the arguments, demands and logic in the world could alter John's course once he had chosen it. A deep, aching sadness settled in the Earl's bones at the thought. He waved his hand toward his son in dismissal, and his shoulders sagged with a weariness so great it seemed, almost, like hopelessness.

  Chapter 20

  "Och, m'lady! I've tangled the thread again," Mary cried in dismay. "I don't think I'll ever learn to do the faces."

  Muriella sat at the second loom, the shuttle idle in her hand. She was glad for the distraction. Abandoning her own weaving, she crossed the room to Mary's side. As she bent to examine the first panel of the tapestry, she saw with pleasure that the design was beginning to take shape. Mary, Megan and she had been working on it for nearly two months, ever since the Earl's brief visit home in July. "Ye're doing a fine job," she assured the servant, running her hand over the forming image of a bubbling burn in a lush green valley. In the background, men and women rode to the hunt, their plaids streaming behind them in the wind.

  "But look, I've woven her hair over part of her face and now we'll have to pick it free again." The servant sighed, shaking her dark head woefully.

  Muriella knelt and took the shuttle from Mary's hand, carefully guiding the weft thread back through the warp until the outline of the woman's face was free of yellow silk strands. "There! Tis no trouble, ye see. This time, try to go more slowly. The smallest areas take the most time, ye ken."

  "But my fingers go faster than I tell them to and the weave gets bigger, though I try to keep it small."

  Muriella tapped down the threads with the comb, then leaned closer so her auburn braid fell over Mary's shoulder. "Mayhap 'twould help if ye did as my mother used to do. Ye find the rhythm ye need for the shuttle as it passes back and forth, and then ye sing a little song in time."

  Mary wrinkled her forehead as her eyes followed Muriella's quick movements. Soon she began to feel the regular sweep and weave and tightening of the threads, but no words came to her. "What should I sing?"

  Muriella tapped her foot, seeking the words that would flow with the sound of the clacking loom. Then she began to chant softly.

  Still on my wayis as I went

  Out through a land beside a lea.

  I met a bairn upon the bent

  Me thought him seemly for to see.

  "Aye, I know that one!" Mary cried. "The men sing it in the Great Hall when they can find naught else to keep them busy." She took the shuttle from Muriella's flying fingers and sang softly,

  I asked him wholly his intent—

  Good sir, if yer will be,

  Since that ye bide upon the bent

  Some uncouth tidings tell ye me.

  Her pale, smooth face grew flushed with pleasure and her sweet voice rose and fell in time with the moving shuttle.

  When shall these wars be gone

  That loyal men may live in lee?

  Or when shall falsehood go from home

  And Lawtie blow his horn on hie?

  When Muriella saw that Mary was working almost as deftly as her mistress, she blessed the memory of the hours spent in her mother's solar. Isabel had taught her daughter well—not only the many skills it took to create beautiful hangings, but also the patience needed during endless hours of weaving. "Remember, lass," her mother had said more than once, "the boredom only lasts for the moment, but the magic of the scene ye create is forever."

  Overcome with a wave of sadness she had thought never to feel again, Muriella rose, leaving the servant to her task. The silent loom across the chamber no longer called to her. She went instead to stand at one of the wide windows, missing Isabel, feeling empty, bereft. Why, in all this time, had she heard nothing from her mother? Why had her own letters never been answered? And why, today, did Isabel's silence hurt so much? Why was she so desperately alone?

  Muriella rubbed her arms vigorously, but they were cold and stiff.

  She was restless, and though she was not certain what she sought, she gazed out the window as if the view of the turbulent loch beneath held the answer to her question. She tapped her fingers on the edge of the stone sill. Friday, September ninth, she repeated silently for the fifth time. There was something about today, but what was it? She shivered when she noticed the rain was falling again. It had rained off and on for three weeks now.

  "'Tis too quiet today," Jenny complained from the bench where she sat sewing on a shirt for one of the men. "I don't think there'll ever be news of the war. We'll be locked away here till we starve, no doubt, and never know what happened to the army."

  "The rain's keepin' the messengers overlong on their travels, I'll wager," Megan interjected.

  "Mayhap." Muriella leaned out toward the falling rain and wondered if Megan were right. It had been too long since they'd heard from the Earl about the progress of the war with England. The clack clack of the loom and the rise and fall of Mary's voice made a pleasant contrast to the stormy loch below, but today Muriella did not find comfort in these things.

  She glanced at Megan as the servant bent to stir the fire back to life. The room, with its huge windows facing the loch, was thoroughly chilled. When it wasn't raining, the sun was lost behind the dark clouds that never seemed to leave the sky. Despite the lowering weather, Muriella had ridden out every day to escape the somber mood that hovered over the keep, but today the violence of the storm had defeated her; she had no choice but to remain inside. Fingering the intricate embroidery on her silk shawl—a gift from the Earl—Muriella turned suddenly. "I'm going down to the hall," she told the servant. "If the light fades much more, ye and Jenny and Mary might as well stop yer work and get warm by the fire below."

  "Aye, m'lady," Megan murmured. Her mistress crossed the room, her green velvet gown rustling about her legs. Megan watched her go with concern. She had seen that look of unease on Muriella's face before, but she could not remember when. All she knew was that it made her heart beat faster.

  Muriella moved quickly along the passageway. She was possessed of a sudden urgency she did not understand. When she reached the gallery above the Great Hall, she heard the crash of swords below and hurried to the head of the stairs.

  She paused with her hand at her throat when she saw John and Colin facing one another, booted feet spread wide on the bare stone floor, broadswords in their hands. The blades met with a clash so loud it vibrated through her body while the two men stood frozen for a moment, stunned by the impact of metal on metal. Muriella gasped as John lunged expertly toward his opponent and Colin stepped back, then swung his own weapon in a wide arc. Dear God, the inactivity and boredom had finally overcome them. They would kill each other out of pure frustration.

  Muriella had opened her mouth to call out when Duncan came to the foot of the stairs to smile up at her. "Ye needn't worry, m'lady. They're only practicing to keep themselves busy."

  John heard and turned abruptly, dropping his blade to his side. "Aye," he snapped, "here we are playing games when out there the real war is going on." He waved toward the barred doors that opened onto the courtyard. "'Tis madness!" He forced his sword into its sheath and tossed it toward the hearth with such violence it rang against the stone. The sound echoed through the vaulted, cave-like room like a fierce lament without words.

  Muriella moved down the stairs as th
e flickering torchlight closed around her. "There's still no news, then?" she asked her husband.

  Pushing the tangled hair back from his forehead, he regarded her through clear blue eyes. "None," he said, "but ye know that. 'Tis three times ye've asked me just today."

  "Have I? I don't remember." Muriella's eyes grew clouded; she looked around the room as if she could not recall what had brought her here.

  "Ah!" Colin said jovially, tossing his own sword away. "Here's Jenny, freed from her loom at last. I missed ye, girl." As the servant approached, he flung his arm around her shoulders and guided her back up the stairs she had just descended.

  Muriella was hardly aware they had gone. There was something she should know—something that hovered in the back of her mind, just out of reach. Her hands were trembling and her skin was suddenly cold. She felt her head begin to spin and knew the Sight was with her again. Straightening her shoulders, she took a deep breath and closed her mind against the blackness that was coming. For a moment, she shivered uncontrollably; then, as the haze cleared, she saw John leaning toward her. "I think I'll go read for a bit before supper," she told him, amazed that she could speak at all. "'Tis warmer in the library."

  Without another word, she turned to leave him. A chill of unease ran up John's back as he watched Muriella go. He saw how she paused at the foot of the worn stone stairs, then started laboriously upward, as if the weight of her body were too heavy to bear. He did not like it.

  When she had disappeared from view, he swore silently, turned and started toward the door. "I'm going for a ride," he called to Duncan, "and the weather be damned!"

  "But, m'lord," the squire objected, "yer horse won't be able to find his way through the rain."

  John did not pause as he shouted over his shoulder, "That animal could find his way over these hills blind, and well ye know it. But don't worry, ye needn't come with me this time. I'll go alone."

  The squire hurried over the rushes, blond hair flying. "What if he loses his footing in the mud and throws ye? We wouldn't be able to find ye in this downpour."

  "Leave off!" John roared. "I've heard enough. I have to get away from here before I go mad." Ignoring Duncan's restraining hand on his arm, he lifted the heavy bolt and wrenched the doors open. The cold, damp air rushed in with a force that stopped him in his tracks. He could only stand and stare at the rain falling in slashing silver sheets across the courtyard. Even he could not penetrate that wall of fury. It would be madness to try. Once again he was a prisoner in his own castle, held captive by the malevolence of the weather.

  He swung the doors closed, cursing under his breath. It seemed he had done little else since his father left with the Campbell army. John waited for news and heard none, longed for the release of battle and found only boredom and frustration. "This can't go on," he said to no one in particular. "Something has to happen soon." The memory of Muriella's pallid face came back, wavering in the air before him like the shadow from his dreams. There had been something in her eyes today—something dark and threatening that lingered even after she had gone.

  Without conscious thought, he kicked aside the rushes in his way and started up the stairs after his wife.

  * * *

  The hallway was dark, and much colder than the hall, Muriella discovered. She felt the chill penetrating her skin, seeping into her blood as she hurried toward the library. Pausing for a moment on the threshold, she pressed her hands lovingly against the heavy oak door. In the maze of rooms and galleries and passageways at Kilchurn, this alone was her haven. Here she felt safe, protected, among the leather-bound manuscripts she loved. She pushed the door open and was relieved to find a huge fire burning in the fireplace. Someone had already lit the lamps, though it was still the middle of the day. But the Earl was not here.

  It seemed like years since she had seen him, though she remembered clearly the brief moment before he left when he had pulled her to him. She could have sworn she felt him shiver, even through his cloak. "Take care, lass," was all he had said.

  Drawing the chair close to the desk, she ran her hands over the manuscripts scattered before her. She sat for a moment, undecided, then reached for the large book in the new leather binding. She opened the cover reverently. The Earl had given it to her before he left, encouraging her to continue with her reading. Scanning the brightly painted title page, she read it for the hundredth time: "Lancelot of the Laik—for Muriella, the last of my children, and before God, the dearest. I believed I had nothing left to teach, but ye have proved me wrong. God bless ye. Archibald Campbell, Second Earl of Argyll."

  She lowered her head when the words began to blur. She could see the other works they had read together: Alexander the Grate, The Three Priests of Peebles, and the first printed book the Earl had owned, The Morale Fabillis of Esope, by Robert Henryson. Muriella smiled, remembering when he had brought that one home with him. He had come to her laughing and pulled the book from its canvas shield as if it were a great treasure. When she stared at it, shaking her head, he had laughed again, explaining, "Tis printed on a press, lass. They can make many at a time. There are already two hundred of these." She had been delighted, as he had known she would be. They'd begun reading it then and there, huddled in their chairs before the fire with the book open between them.

  Muriella closed the manuscript, rubbing her fingers over the soft leather. Why was she thinking back, remembering so much today? It was a habit she had overcome soon after her wedding, when she realized it only caused her pain. But now she could not seem to avoid images of the past.

  All at once she became aware of the shadows the lamp cast over the desk. She watched as they danced across the books; she stared until the books became indistinct, the shadows hard reality. Her head began to hum with strange, discordant notes and she swayed forward, driven by a force beyond her will. She held her head in her hands, breathing raggedly, and fought against the trembling that possessed her, but it would not go. With a gasp, she leapt up from the chair, hoping to shake herself free of the premonition.

  For a second, her mind grew black as she grasped the edge of the desk in a painful grip. Then the blackness cleared and a red mist took its place. There was confusion while men scrambled blindly through the red fog. Flying mud filled the air, turning from brown to crimson as down the hill the men came racing, but few reached the bottom. Dead, dead, one after the other, until they lay like deep snow covering the earth, soaking it with their blood. The pipes were wailing, wailing, screaming, pleading...

  "Holy Mother of God!" Muriella gasped.

  * * *

  John stood outside the library with his fingers spread on the cold stone. He had been there long enough to see his wife take the book from the desk to look at the title page. He'd had the odd sensation that for the first time, he could read her thoughts as if they were written out before him. She was remembering her reading sessions with the Earl, missing him. John was surprised when she closed the book to lean back, staring, her eyes dark and wide.

  It was happening again; even as he watched, the Sight had come upon her. He saw how she trembled, how her breath came in painful gasps as the vision transformed her. He could feel the little hairs along his neck standing on end and he wanted to turn away. He could understand battles and death and war, and so, did not fear them. But this—

  Muriella rose abruptly, clutching the edge of the desk to keep herself from falling. She turned her back to him until she faced the fire. Her body tensed and she cried, "Holy Mother of God!"

  He realized then that he could not leave her. She was swaying forward; he knew he must catch her before she fell. John crossed the room quickly and, with his hands at her waist, turned his wife to face him. He swallowed dryly when he saw her expression.

  Her eyes were pitch black—dark and empty—and the blood had drained from her cheeks, leaving them chalk white. Near her temple and down the center of her forehead two purple veins stood out, pulsing rapidly. But none of these things disturbed him as much as the
way she stared at him as if he did not even exist.

  When Muriella began to shake, he pulled her closer, circling her with his arms. All at once the tension left her. She grew slack and heavy, nearly slipping to the floor, but he held her more tightly, bracing her body with his. For a long time she continued to shake uncontrollably.

  When the trembling began to subside at last, he guided her to a chair near the fire. She seemed oblivious of his presence. She was like a carved doll without life or warmth. He did not know how to bring her back. Perhaps some wine would help.

  Having placed her in the chair, he went to pour a glass of the dark liquid. Then he knelt, closing her fingers around the glass. His wife hesitated for a moment longer, then raised the glass and began to drink. After a few sips, she closed her eyes. Taking both her hands in his, John spoke for the first time. "What is it?"

  Muriella felt her head grow lighter as the wine moved down her throat, burning a warm path to her stomach. She was vaguely aware that someone was nearby, but she was still under the influence of the images of blood and death, and could not focus her thoughts enough to discover who it might be. As the wine began to stir her awake, she realized her hands were cupped by other hands, and she heard a voice. Whose?

  "Muriella, what is it?"

  Carefully, she opened her eyes, squinting through the red haze that clouded her sight. As she blinked, the face in front of her began to come into focus. John.

  "Tell me," he insisted, "what have ye seen?"

  She sat rigid, leaning forward slightly, her face gray and haggard. Unaware of what she was doing, she reached out to put her hands on her husband's shoulders and draw him toward her. When she spoke, her voice seemed to come from somewhere outside herself. "'Twas a terrible slaughter," she said. "The English destroyed everything: King Jamie, the army, Scotland's honor and her pride. Yer father couldn't save those things." She faltered, then forced herself to go on.