by Lizzy Ford
“Ye forgot t’cross y’self first,” Father Adam reminded him.
Cade obeyed and solemnly made the sign of the Christian cross. The priest smiled, a gleam of laughter in his ancient eyes.
Father Adam had tried hard to convert the clan to Christianity and upon failing, had managed to bridge his religion and the nature-focused seillie beliefs by drawing upon similarities between the two. The result was a healthy respect of a religion not entirely theirs among the clan members, and the priest’s appreciation of his god’s miraculous creation of the seillie and their magic.
“What is it ye found?” Cade asked gruffly.
“These writs are the same,” the priest proclaimed, lifting two scrolls.
“That doesna mean nothing,” Cade said impatiently. He folded his arms across his chest.
“Och!” The priest appeared annoyed. “If ye listened t’me years ago, Cade, ye’d be readin’ by now!”
“I doona wish t’read when I ‘ave ye!”
“Are we wee lads again?” Niall interjected with a laugh. “Tell us what ye found, Father.”
Cade clamped his mouth closed. His temper was shorter than normal, and he blamed the English nobles in his home for it while forbidding his thoughts from straying to the memory of Lady Isabel in his arms.
Like she belonged t’me already. The magic had tried to warn him she was special. He shook his head.
“This writ is t’the Scottish King John,” the priest started. He held up the second. “This is t’the English King Edward. Both writs read the same.” He leaned closer to the candles lighting his desk and began to read slowly, translating from Latin as he went. “I, Isabel de Clare, daughter of Lord William de Clare of Saxony and Lady Martha MacCosse, respectfully inform ye, sire, that I have chosen a husband, in accordance with the contract granted me by His Grace, King Edward. Be it known from this day hence that I am to be known as Lady Isabel de Clare MacLachlainn of Saxony and MacCosse. By the grant of God, and beneath His Heavens, fer which we give grace and gratitude for each day the sun shines His good will upon us, I am humbly grateful fer yer favor, Yer Grace, and may God bless ye and yer reign.”
Cade’s brow furrowed. “Her mother was a MacCosse.” The clan was rumored to have perished completely when their chieftain died childless. He knew little else of the clan, having never had a chance to meet any of its members.
Niall had frowned at the mention of Saxony, his look of consternation one that Cade shared, despite firm evidence there was no link between the Englishwoman in their midst and their time in the Holy Lands.
“In this writ, she addresses King Edward rather than King John and claims to be Lady Isabel de Clare of Saxony betrothed to Lord Richard of Stewart,” the priest finished. “There is no other difference betwixt th’two.”
“How is one wench betrothed to two men?” Niall asked, baffled.
The priest shrugged. “I havena read these.” He indicated two more scrolls. “I believe the question is, what contract did the English and Scottish kings grant her that she can choose a husband. The writs are no’ signed though there is a place for the mark of her uncle, a Duke of some note, to affirm the contract.”
“Two contracts, each made in secret with a king. ‘Tis treason,” Niall said and stared hard at the writs.
“Yea, my thought as well.” Cade picked up the smaller of the two remaining scrolls. It appeared older, its paper less fine and the edges tattered, as if she had kept it for some time. If it were not important, there was no need. “Read this one.”
Father Adam nodded. “It will take me some time. These are no’ written in my tongue but Latin.”
“Verra well. I can wait.” Cade glanced out the window at the tempest. He could keep his visitors here as long as he wished with the rain. “She called herself a MacCosse,” Cade mused. “If her mother was a MacCosse, she is the sole heir t’clan MacCosse’s land.”
“Yea,” Niall said softly. “The land is under the protection of the king. But why did she choose ye in place of a wealthy laird, and why does she want ye dead?”
“I doona ken.” Cade’s thoughts flew with possibilities. His sole purpose since returning from the Crusades had been to reclaim the lands of his clan lost when his father fell into illness. With no gold and no official title, he was able to do neither, hence the agreement he considered from the MacDonald clan.
The MacCosse lands, however, ran along the northern coast. They were fertile, easy to defend – and unclaimed after the death of the chieftain. The war that ensued after Laird MacCosse’s death was brutal, even by Highland standards, and King John had been forced to step in to end the feud for the sake of peace. The lands were placed in the royal holdings pending the claim of its rightful heir, which all but the Crown seemed to believe was dead.
“Even if ‘twere possible she was yer wife, ye have the MacDonald’s drawing up a contract already, with lands that are equal in size.” Brian pointed out. “We doona ken if this is real.” He waved a hand at the writs. “But Laird MacDonald is old. He willna last five years, and the lands will be yers.”
Niall paced away to the window, rubbing the back of his head in what Cade knew to be frustration.
Cade would never place his clan in danger; why was he considering Lady Isabel over the MacDonald lass, when he knew not to trust the English noble? How had she bedeviled him? Or was his wild spirit not yet ready to settle? His private concerns should not matter in the face of his clan’s survival. Was this his fear directing him?
Lady Isabel had arrived with nothing of value. No proper English noblewoman would travel as she had. She was hiding more than the writs. Was it possible she stole them from their rightful owner?
“I canna explain it,” he voiced at last.
“Beauty will do that t’ye.”
“Nay, cousin. When I look in her eyes, I see something.”
“Love?” Brian laughed.
“What I saw when I looked in yer eyes in the Saracen prison.”
The light in Brian’s face vanished.
They shared a long look.
“No man or woman deserves t’suffer as we did,” Niall said at last. “If this is so, yer honor bound to help. Is that no how it’s always been?”
“She has Lord Saxony. Isna my place t’rescue her.”
“Wasna yer place t’rescue me, but ye did,” Niall said from his place near the window.
“Yer my kin, Niall. I couldna leave ye behind.”
“Ye ken as well as I do that kin meant not a thing in the Crusades. Fathers abandoned sons. Sons slay fathers. Ye didna leave me because yer heart isna so black as they say. I learnt t’be strong from watchin’ ye, Cade.”
Cade snorted. “Saxony may not agree.”
Uneasiness crossed Niall’s features. “Yea,” he whispered and then shook his head. “There canna be a connection. There must be a thousand men in Saxony. We ken one.”
“A noble one.”
No one spoke for a moment. The English knight they had left in the Saracen prison went by the name Saxony. While he never confirmed his real name, he was too similar to the nobles and knights commanding the Christian armies: educated in the bible, history and the names and hierarchy of nobles. He spoke several languages, to include Latin and French, and could read and write as well as a priest or scholar.
The man had been broken when Cade stumbled upon him, near the point of madness. After seeing him fight, Cade had nonetheless adopted the fierce knight and taken him into the band of Highlanders who answered to him. But the madness would not be kept at bay long, and soon after they were captured, Saxony’s mind left him. None of Cade’s seillie healing magic could save the Englishman.
But he tried, and in doing so, drew the madness into himself and crossed into the Dark Court. The deeds he committed under the influence of madness were in his dreams every night, reminding him what he was, what he had lost, how he had fallen to evil and was condemned to forever fight its influence.
“Methinks I need t’ta
lk to the noble lass,” Cade said. “She ken where t’find me and comes from Saxony.”
Niall was grim.
“And t’sort this mess.” Cade waved a hand at the scrolls. “Two letters, two betrothed.”
“D’ye think ye should ask?”
Cade heard the unspoken sentiment that he should throw the English out before there was trouble. He began to think, though, that there was already trouble, and Lady Isabel’s arrival was the harbinger of something greater to come. “I need t’ken who sent her my way.”
“Just t’ken?” Niall’s eyebrows were raised.
Cade ignored him and turned away. “Father Adam, make haste with that writ.” Without waiting for a response, he left them and walked across the hallway to the door marking his bedchamber. Not about to knock on his own door, he opened it and paused.
The English noblewoman was lying across his bed, her soft snores deep.
Cade closed the door quietly and went to the bed. She was on top of the coverlets, her wavy auburn hair fanning out around her head and more bruises on her face. Her beauty, marred by Lord Richard’s heavy hand, only solidified the sense Cade was already involved in what danger she brought with her. He inched up the leg of her trews to see her swollen calf. It was worse. She was certain to fall to fever soon, if he did not see the wound treated.
Rather than wake her, he crossed to the pendants dangling in the window with their subdued colors. The flickers of magic captured within each glowed brightly at his approach, and wind laden with rain swept into the chamber. He touched the talismans out of instinct and was greeted by the faint sizzle of magic each contained and the sparkle that companied his touch.
“Tell me if she is t’be saved,” he whispered to the magic.
A pink pendant dazzled him with sudden brightness.
Cade lowered his hand, pleased by the quick answer. She was to be saved, according to the playful magic dangling in his window. Magic did not understand truth or lies. It only knew what was in one’s heart, and the pink light thought well of his guest.
He sealed the open space to prevent rain from entering and went to the bed once more.
“Verra well, lass,” he said to her quiet form. “I have little t’offer aside from protection, but I give it freely.” Troubled, he left her alone and went to find his own place to sleep this night.
Chapter Nine
Isabel’s despair faded when she awoke sore but clear headed the next morning. Bursts of sunlight cut through the clouds outside the great windows of the bedchamber. The air smelled heavily of rain and hearth, and distant sounds from the hamlet drifted to her. Harp music joined the chatter of clan members and the neighing, squawking, and plaintive cries of penned animals.
Isabel remained on her side beneath the warm coverlets, listening to the peaceful fortress. It was difficult to imagine the friendly people who greeted them at the gates were constantly at war with one another, if the bard’s tales and Ailsa’s stories were to be believed.
She remained in bed longer than usual after waking, her mind less desperate this day than the previous night. Not only had she found Black Cade, but she was in his home. She had come to the Highlands with one goal, and she was in the place she needed to be in order to see it through.
Her situation was not so hopeless in the drizzly light of morning. Before Richard found her, she needed the contents of her satchel.
Stiff yet pleased by her ability to move, she put weight on her leg gradually before rising. The pain and bump were lessened this day, and she hobbled around the chamber. The bruises caused by Richard’s anger hurt more, and she gingerly explored the latest damage he had caused with fingertips. A swollen cheek, aching nose, and the warm pain of bruises around her neck from where he had grabbed her. For a moment, her hope flickered. She was always helpless when it came to Richard, afraid to anger him further by defying him and unwilling to beg him to stop.
Her father had wanted her to wed him at one point, and she became distraught whenever she considered she was possibly breaking a sacred commandment by disobeying her father. But Father Henry, the priest who had helped her navigate the final years of her mad father’s life, had told her to listen to her heart, for God would guide her, and to believe in His plan.
Had His plan led her here, or was it her own sinful will?
She breathed deeply and focused once more on her purpose. She had come hundreds of leagues, alone, often with little to eat or drink. Richard’s presence was not going to dissuade her.
Unable to walk without a limp, she was at least capable of moving on her own without grimacing in pain each step. Her headache lingered, aided by the ache of one cheek.
Isabel cleaned herself and then hesitated. While she slept, someone had entered and placed a gown at the foot of her bed. It was well spun, clean and simple, without adornment of any kind, and red with a thick belt the same shade of green as the Highlands. Her first thought – it was not befitting a woman of her birth – vanished when she considered she had arrived wearing the trews of a boy.
She dressed and searched his chamber for the saddlebag where she had stashed the precious writs. They were nowhere to be found.
She went to one set of windows, those overlooking the bailey. Dread settled heavily in her stomach, and she found herself peering out in apprehension, afraid to see Richard preparing to leave and her horse saddled and waiting.
No train of horses or Englishmen loitered at the stables. If she did not know better, she would entertain the wild wish he had gone and decided to leave her here.
That will never happen, she admitted sadly.
A warm breeze rustled the herbs hanging from the top of the window. She stretched up, fingertips brushing the ferny leaves of one. Mixed amid the herb bunches were strange trinkets. At first glance, they appeared rather plain, but as she gazed at them, she was able to make out the faded carvings in the face of each – and the glimmer of crystals or jewels encased behind the humble metals of the pendants.
A flicker of pink caught her fancy, and she stretched upward on tiptoes to reach the charm. Unable to grasp it, she balanced precariously on her good leg then hopped. Her hand closed around the pendant, and it fell into her hand as she landed.
Warm from hanging in the morning sun, the pink pendant mostly hidden by a tarnished shiver coat heated her cool palm. She studied it, puzzled. The crystal almost seemed to glow, and something about its simple, gentle beauty settled her fear. Charmed by the strange display, she glanced up at the rest of the dangling pendants before tucking the pink one in her pocket with a silent oath to return it later.
She went next to the weapons displayed along a long table. Many of Black Cade’s weapons were too large for her to lift, and she admired and envied his strength. Recalling her purpose, and her anger, she selected one of the smallest daggers he possessed and slid it into her pocket beside the pendant.
Isabel squared her shoulders and limped to the door. Her heart raced at the prospect of facing the world outside the peaceful bedchamber. The man she wanted dead had given her refuge. The man who wanted her lands would stop at nothing to drag her away and formalize their wedding contract.
She needed time to deal with both men.
Isabel left her bedchamber and paused in the hallway outside. She had been far too tired the night before to pay heed to the direction she had been led. She began walking. Instead of hiding her limp, she exaggerated it in the hopes she may be seen as too wounded to ride if she saw Richard and thus, buy herself more time.
She walked through the small hold, waiting for either man to leap out from around a corner at any moment to confront her. No one did, and the servants and other clan members greeted her with curious looks and friendly smiles without stopping to address her. The Great Hall was quiet, swept clean of rushes, and the courtyards and bailey void either of the men she dreaded encountering.
She reached the stables and paused again. This time, her thoughts traveled a different path. What if she fled? Left both men
and just … ran? She was already homeless and alone, at the mercy of two powerful men, whose intentions were counter to hers. Some part of her had always known there was no return from this journey. What harm was there in being free, truly free, the last few days of her life?
Isabel took a step towards the stables.
“Where do ye go, Lady Cade?”
The way Black Cade said her name, a low growl edged with amusement, sent her stomach aflutter and caused warmth to reach her cheeks. She braced herself and turned to see him. His stance was wide, his moon-hued eyes pinned to her, and his muscular arms were across his chest. He looked every bit the warrior, every bit the cold, cruel man who had taken everyone she loved from her.
“’Tis not your concern, Laird Cade,” she replied.
“Yer in m’home, and already stole one of m’horses. Ye think I’d trust ye with another?”
“You who lied about your true name would pass judgment upon me?” she challenged, anger rising once more.
“A strange lass, an English one at that, shows up claimin’ t’be m’wife and says I should ken this already. Ye began this with a lie, m’lady.”
“Betrothed. And it was not a lie.”
He studied her and moved closer, until the heat of his muscular frame reached her. “I do not ken ye, lass. No king ‘as ever asked me t’wed ye, either. But ye know this, don’t ye? Ye didna come t’wed me.”
She reached into her pocket for the knife. “You know why I came.”
“Yea. To kill me,” he said, amused once more. “Praytell, how have I wronged ye?”
How did he not know? For a moment, she was so surprised at his ignorance of the purpose which consumed her so fully for two years, that she was unable to speak. Had he kilt so many men in battle, he did not remember the noble Englishman her brother was?
“I want to hate you for what you have done, even if ‘tis a sin to feel such,” she whispered. “I wish you had not taken mercy on me.”
“Yer betrothed will remove you from m’home soon enough, Lady Cade.”