by Carol Arens
‘Athdar?’ she said. Remaining where she was, she said his name once more.
‘Rope. I need the rope.’
He did not precisely say it to her, more at her, and then he looked around the open room and along the floor as though searching for rope. Seeing none, she did not know whether to go and get some or not. He spoke again.
‘Dear God, where is the rope?’ There was such pain in his voice that it hurt her to hear it. It made her move.
‘Here, Athdar. Here it is,’ she said, picking up the length he’d dropped once more and holding it out to him.
As he turned to look at the floor, she saw that empty gaze and knew his mind, his thoughts, were not here.
‘Where is it? Where is the rope?’ he asked again, falling to his knees and searching through the hay for something that was right before his eyes.
‘It is there, Athdar,’ she said.
‘No matter telling him, lady.’ She jumped at the sound of another voice. Turning, she discovered Broc standing behind her.
‘What is he doing?’ Athdar continued feeling through the hay and did not react to their voices.
‘He walks while asleep,’ Broc said. ‘There are stories he did this as a child, but then it disappeared before he married...Mairi.’
‘It is back, then,’ she said. She had heard about people who did this—they could have conversations, even eat and drink, and all the time were sound asleep. But she’d never seen it before Athdar began it.
‘I think ’tis what happened in your chamber that night,’ Broc explained.
She started to say that it did not explain the several times when he had not been sleeping, but decided it was something best kept private for now.
‘Has it happened at other times?’ he asked, moving closer as they watch Athdar repeat the task over and over.
‘In the hall. This day.’ Everyone there had seen it and many had told the tale of it, so it was not a secret. The other times, she would keep to herself.
Athdar got to his feet then and walked past them as though they were not there, the rope left forgotten on the floor.
‘I should go,’ she said, not willing to let him out of her sight. ‘Broc, I would speak to you on the morrow about this.’
Isobel also wanted to know why Broc was watching him this night, but there would be time to ask that after she made certain Athdar was safe.
Isobel followed Athdar back through the yard and inside the keep before she realised he wore no shoes. And he seemed not to notice as he walked over the cold stone floor and steps. He went directly to his chamber and lay down on his bed. She sat on the chair and watched him sleep until she fell asleep herself.
Only when he had roused her in the morning and asked why she slept on the chair did she decide it was time for some plain talk between them.
* * *
Isobel sat in the chair, slumped over and sleeping with her head leaning on the table. Athdar slid from the bed and went to her, only then noticing the mud on his feet. Confused, for not only were his feet filthy but also he was dressed, as well, he touched her shoulder and she startled.
‘Isobel, why are you sleeping there?’
She rubbed her eyes and he noticed the circles when her hands dropped away. She gathered the plaid around her shoulders and shivered before answering him at all.
‘I wanted to know if you left again,’ she whispered as she stood. ‘So, you do not have any memory of the stables?’
At first he thought she must have had some nightmare until she glanced down at his feet—his bare and filthy feet which were not in that condition when he settled to sleep wrapped around her. A sick feeling in his gut told him he would not like what she would tell him, so he turned the chair and sat down.
‘After you fell asleep, you left our bed and the keep. I found you in the stables,’ she explained. She sighed and shrugged, clearly exhausted. ‘You were searching for a rope. And then more rope. You were frantic.’
Then he noticed the tears and—damn it!—Isobel never cried. He tried to take her in his arms and she pushed him away.
‘Tell me about Robbie and the other boys,’ she said, dashing her hand across her face to wipe away the tears. ‘What happened?’
‘Robbie? Robbie died. You know that,’ he spat out. ‘What boys do you mean?’ Did she mean Robbie’s son?
‘Jamie, Kennan, Duff and Robbie?’ she asked. ‘Those were the names you cried out in your drunken sleep that night.’
He shook his head and tried to think about the names she’d said. He did not remember saying them then and could not bring them to mind now. Although he knew Robbie more recently, he could not place him as a child. He shrugged. ‘I cannot remember any by those names.’
‘Try to remember, Athdar,’ she urged. ‘You had about seven years. They were your friends. Something happened to them.’
Her words were like blows to him—his mind reeled and a dizzying blackness began to rise within him. He tried to think of himself as seven again, a child, a boy the same age as Robbie’s son. Something stirred in the blackness of his memories then. Horrible. Nauseating. A wall he could not, he dared not, approach.
His stomach clenched and he bent over from the pain of it.
‘Athdar, let me help you,’ she said. But the pain and the blackness welled up in waves, threatening to claim him.
He thought about something else, not boys, not him, not friends, and it all subsided. He took in deep breaths, trying to regain control and he felt better until she mentioned them again.
‘You are not helping me, Isobel,’ he yelled at her. He had to make it stop. The blackness. The swirling. ‘Leave it be!’ She jumped back away from him. Clearly he had to be forceful about this or, like his sister, she would meddle and make it worse...again. ‘Leave it be and leave me be! Now!’
At first she seemed cowed by his order, but then her lip, her God-be-damned lower lip, edged up, showing her defiance.
‘I cannot help you if you do not try, Dar,’ she said. Her voice echoed in his mind and the blackness that waited there.
‘I do not want your help. You overstep yourself in this. I did not ask for your help. Leave. It. Be,’ he shouted.
Did she cry then? Nay, not her. She gathered the plaid around her shoulders and left the chamber without another word. And, thanks be to God, without asking more questions.
Athdar looked around for something to drink then—both to ease the pain in his stomach and to make him forget all the names she kept saying. It was important that he forget and never remember them.
Finding nothing, he went to the kitchen to get some from the barrel kept there. From the looks he received along the way, he knew others had heard the exchange. Well, good and fine, that now they remembered that he was their laird and the one who gave orders here.
* * *
Isobel was stunned. She watched as Athdar battled something within himself, his expression changing moment by moment, once she spoke the names. She could see him arm himself with anger to push her away. She’d seen others do that when the cost of accepting or admitting something would be too much and now saw him doing the same thing. Usually it was caused by pride, but this time? She had no idea of what could cause such a reaction in him.
Husbandly orders or not, she had learned how to accomplish things without a husband’s knowledge and in the face of a husband’s resistance from the best women at doing such things—her mother and his sister. She would need more information if she wanted to help him. Thinking about who would know such things, Muireall’s name came to mind.
After washing in her old chambers, Isobel decided to seek out Muireall before she came to the keep for the day’s work. The older woman had not yet moved all of her belongings out of her daughter’s cottage, so Isobel waved off Jean’s offer of food as she left to find s
ome answers to her questions.
Thinking about all the things spoken about the MacCallums’ past, she thought of Laria who had been here through all of it. Who had grown bitter as Muireall had said.
And she needed to speak to Broc about last night. Why was he in the stables when Athdar was there?
No matter who she had to seek out, she was going to find out what held Athdar in its grasp.
Muireall met her at the door and they walked back to the keep. Isobel did not wait long to begin her search.
* * *
By the time they reached the keep, Isobel knew about the terrible accident: a bridge collapsed, killing three boys and injuring one more. Only Athdar had survived unscathed.
And, the most surprising thing she learned was that the mother of two of the dead boys—Duff and Kennan—was Laria. Muireall’s comment about Laria being bitter made more sense now, though she could not imagine how the woman could remain here and serve the man who was the only boy uninjured when her sons died. It made no sense that Laria and the boys’ father remained here after such a loss.
The image of that green glass bottle flashed through her thoughts again. Laria’s sleep elixir. Iain dead.
Was this all connected? Isobel knew she was missing something about this, something very important. She really wanted to talk to Athdar, which was out of the question.
Jamie and Robbie’s parents had moved away right after the accident—something the old laird arranged. So Athdar’s statement about knowing Robbie only as an adult made sense—if he had somehow forgotten about Robbie being part of the accident.
But could someone do that? Put something so far and firmly behind him that he did not and could not recall it?
Her head hurt by the time they arrived back at the keep, both from the lack of sleep and from trying to figure this out. She realised one thing: she could not barge into the workroom and ask about Laria’s dead sons. Even if there was a connection somehow between what caused Athdar’s suffering and the woman, it would be a cruel thing to do to a woman who’d lost bairns.
Isobel remembered one of the MacLerie villagers—Margaret—whose husband and only child had been killed in a terrible accident, leaving her alone. Connor and Jocelyn had made all kinds of provisions for her since the deaths had occurred in their work in the harvest. Margaret had seemed well enough, bearing up under her grief until one day she simply cleaned and shuttered her cottage and walked off a cliff.
God rest her soul. Isobel crossed herself and offered up a momentary prayer for the poor woman. No one, not the woman’s neighbours or closest friend, had had any idea of the terrible grief she had kept inside or the plans she’d made. Inconsolable people saw no way through and suffered terribly.
Walking through the kitchen, Isobel knew she must rest. She could speak to Laria later. So she told Nessa, who had now agreed to serve as a housekeeper for them, overseeing the needs of the families there, that she would be in her chamber. No one questioned it as she walked through the hall.
* * *
Athdar knew the moment he poured the whisky that it was the wrong thing to do. Last time—well, last time had turned out disastrously and led him down a path that saw his avoidance of marriage be thrown by the wayside. All things considered, he had got more in this bargain than Isobel had. He had got a woman and wife who only wanted to see to his needs and she had got a cantankerous old man who was too set in his ways to accept her help.
Not that he intended to tell her that. And from the glares being sent his way by the servants, he had no intention of letting her know she was right.
His head yet pounded from whatever had happened this morn. He remembered the feeling of it as it happened, but could not make it stop. When he even tried to think about last night, his head hurt.
She said he had walked to the stables and looked for rope. It was like the other night when he woke to find her huddled in the corner and Broc at the door with the guards. And then again yesterday when he’d come to, holding Ailis’s screaming son.
Robbie’s screaming son.
Had the boy reminded him of something he could not or should not remember? Athdar rose and climbed the stairs, deciding to return to the last spot he remembered. Outside Isobel’s, looking for her. So, he walked to that place and looked over the wall, much as he did whenever she was below.
Three women worked at the looms. He laughed roughly as he saw two spinning wheels there now. More changes brought by Isobel. When he leaned over to watch them work, he experienced...nothing. No dizziness. No blackness threatening to swallow him whole.
Nothing.
He walked a few paces to another vantage point and looked down again. Stared at the looms and the women and the other servants as they carried out their duties. One or two peered up at him and looked away when he nodded. One more time he moved, trying another view before accepting that he could not make it happen. It just did.
The door to her chamber opened and Isobel stood there. He thought she would slam the door in his face, but she did not.
‘Do you need something, my lord husband?’
He clenched his teeth against the hurt sarcasm in her voice. He had treated her abominably, no matter if he was right or wrong. He’d never heard Connor raise his voice to his wife as Athdar had. He would have to offer...
‘Isobel, I—’
‘I do not want to speak to you right now,’ she said. ‘I will see you at the noon meal.’
Then she slammed the door in his face. As he turned to walk away and looked over the wall, this time he saw some of the women below smirking. They’d heard and approved.
He had forgotten this part of marriage—the give and take of it. The bad with the good. And, in spite of being on the wrong end of it now, he liked it. They would have differences from time to time, but they would have to find their way through it all. Mairi had been strong-minded and never hesitated to speak her mind and make him see her side to disagreements. Mayhap he had let his fear of some curse, imagined or real, cause this aversion to marriage, which he’d used to avoid it for so many years. Had it been a mistake?
It mattered not. They were married, by custom now and by formal ceremony as soon as her parents arrived and the arrangements could be worked out. He had claimed her, body and heart, as his and he would keep her. No matter what.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lairig Dubh
‘I will wait no longer, Connor.’
He had never seen Rurik like this before. Not when he had brought Margriet back and was present at Isobel’s birth. Not when he faced war and death and destruction. Nothing had brought the man to his knees as this situation with his daughter had.
‘The report is that the snow is melting and the pass should be open in two more days.’ His commander loomed over him, standing across the table with his massive arms crossed over his chest. God help Athdar MacCallum for bringing down this man’s wrath!
‘I am going now. Duncan travelled that pass in the dead of winter when he needed to,’ Rurik said. ‘A few feet of snow will not stop me.’
‘And, friend, we were all so much younger then,’ he offered. ‘This is not the same situation now as then. Isobel is in no danger.’
‘Athdar is—’ Rurik searched for the right words, but Connor cut him off. Without the women here, he could be frank with him.
‘Athdar MacCallum has had an eye for Isobel for the past year. When he visits here, he watches her like a hawk does its prey. He wants her,’ Connor said boldly. When the expression on Rurik’s face spoke of death, Connor then eased his words. ‘And he is honourable and he answers to me. He would not disgrace or dishonour your daughter, or any woman, for that matter.’
‘He is not dependable and acts without thinking, Connor. You know that.’
‘And he was no more than a boy when you had your conf
rontation,’ he answered. ‘And he paid the price. He went home, he learned, he married. Athdar took his place as laird and has been a good one for his lands and people.’ He stood and walked around to his friend. Putting his hand on Rurik’s shoulder, he said, ‘And a marriage to your daughter, in spite of your personal feelings, would not be a bad thing, old friend.’
Rurik wanted to argue; Connor could see it bubbling up from inside the warrior. In the end, he nodded in acceptance.
‘If they marry, you do not have to like him or even see him more than you do now.’ Connor laughed and then grew serious for a moment. ‘But, if you cause strife for him, it will also cause you problems with my wife. And that...’ He did not need to finish it.
‘Damn it, Connor! I cannot stand when you use Jocelyn against me.’
‘Her brother is blood, Rurik. You, although friend for decades, will not win in that battle. So, step carefully when you get there.’
Rurik cursed again, something that crossed the lines between several different languages and was rude in all of them. ‘Are you saying I cannot make him pay if he has hurt my daughter?’
Connor laughed then. Rurik’s forebears were true Viking raiders—bloodthirsty, brutal and ruthless—and at times like this he could see how the blood had been passed down through the generations between them and him.
‘I am simply saying that I support you completely, if you wait for two more days and try not to kill him.’ Rurik’s expression eased then. ‘Mayhap Duncan should come with you? He could work things out in a more civilised way.’
‘If he has hurt my daughter in any way, Athdar will need more than your peacemaker to get him out of my justice.’
Rurik grunted then and left. As Connor watched the most loyal man he had ever known leave, he was certain of two things.