The Cursed Highlander

by Emilia Ferguson

  “I wish I knew what that dream meant.”

  The dream held the secret, she was sure. Not the original dream, but the recent one. The one about Dougal, darkness, and blood.

  I wish Aunt Aili were here.

  Wise and powerful, Aunt Aili was her own aunt Alina's mentor. She was an uncannily talented seer, and would have been able to tell Joanna what her dream meant. Aili had disappeared from the castle two years before. No one knew where she had gone.

  Some said she had retired to a convent, but Alina said nothing. Joanna had seen tightness around her eyes, sadness deep within them, and guessed that Alina suspected the older woman had passed away. She was sad about that, too. She had met Aili once or twice on visits here and felt an admiration for her that was close to awe.

  If Aili were here now, this would not be happening.

  Joanna sighed. If Aili were here, there would have been no hiding what she felt for Dougal. She should at least stop hiding it from herself.

  She was falling for him, and she knew that.

  But how can I be?

  There was a lot she didn't know about him. Where he came from, who his family was. She knew his family had a castle in Buccleigh and a house in Edinburgh, and that her mother's distant cousin Jeanne was his mother. However, that was all.

  It was not for her own curiosity she wished to know more. Or not entirely that, anyway.

  This haunting is something to do with someone he knows.

  Joanna had no idea why she thought that, but the conviction she felt was very strong.

  But who?

  Joanna knew nothing of him that could help her find the answer.

  Besides, it seemed absurd. Having Dougal rule in Lochlann could only advance those who knew him, so why would any of them want to chase him off? Her hope was that at the wake tomorrow, she would be able to meet some of them and find out more.

  I can't very well disturb him now. Besides, what would he tell me?

  The thought of going to speak to Dougal was a promising one, he was good company, and simply seeing him filled her with a wild delight. Nevertheless, she knew he was busy at this time.

  She looked out of the window. The sun was already setting, a flame of red on the horizon. It was a bleak, eerie scene and she shivered, sinking into the thick sheepskin that covered the settee.

  “Milady?”

  Joanna looked up. It was Bet. She smiled.

  “Yes, Bet? What is it?”

  “Um...the master – he said to tell you he was retiring early. If you're hungry, dinner is still out in the solar.”

  “Oh.” Joanna felt a little sad that she would miss his company over supper. She enjoyed it, more than she had realized “Well, thank you, Bet. I'll come down directly. I'm famished.”

  Bet beamed. “Good, milady. I laid out a fine dinner, so I did.”

  “Thank you, Bet.” Downstairs she found a fine stew, with bannocks to sop up the gravy. She ate heartily and then went to the kitchen. In the absence of a lady of the castle, it fell to her to plan the wake, for which she would need Bet's help. Together they planned what to feed fifty people.

  “...and we have a lot of barley. We could do something with that.”

  “Good. Soup, perhaps?”

  “Yes, milady! Good.” Bet looked enthusiastic. The kitchen was warm, the firelight dancing on their faces, reflecting in Bet's eyes, which, for once, twinkled with merriment.

  “We'd best bring up the casks of ale, too.”

  “Yes, milady,” Bet agreed. “I should get Mrs. McTavish to brew another few.”

  “She's still here?” Joanna asked, happy. Mrs. McTavish had managed the castle brewery for as long as she remembered – a job reserved for women, which always made Joanna smile. The sturdy, practical alewife was a good person to have on their side.

  “Aye, milady! It takes more than rumors of ghosts and curses to drive her out – or so she said.”

  “I'm glad,” Joanna said, and then paused. “Bet...what exactly are the rumors about?”

  “Well,” Bet said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “They do say that Lord Brien doesn't, um...approve of his lordship – Master Dougal, that is – like. They say that be why he haunts the place. Dinnae want tae leave it in the hands of such a man, they do say.” She chuckled, nervous. “Clearly nonsense, though, ma'am. Though we did see him, so we did.”

  “Yes,” Joanna mused. “What did he, er, look like?”

  “Oh, mercy!” Bet put a hand over her mouth, looking scared. “I scarce want tae think of it again. It were dark, see, and he were a pale specter...all blood around his mouth. All blood...” she shivered. “He were just standin' there, like, gazin' at me with these eyes, all blank and unseeing, glittering in the dark, like coals do. I declare, ma'am, that I was never so scared of anythin' in my life.”

  Joanna shuddered. Her description was compelling and frightening, she had to agree. However, Joanna was like Alina. She had the sight. She would know if there was really a ghost in the castle.

  “How did Uncle Brien die?”

  “Fever, milady. Had an ague, so he did. An' the coughing...racking, horrid coughs.”

  “Was he coughing blood?”

  “No, milady,” Bet frowned. “Not so far as I recall. Mrs. Simmons did tend him, from the village. And Father Mallory. I did nae see him meself, only changed the linen, like. And I did nae see blood.”

  “Oh.”

  Joanna frowned. It was odd that Lord Brien's ghost should be so blood decorated, then. Probably a touch of fancy from whoever was acting his part.

  I should see this ghost.

  She had neither seen, nor heard of it, since that night in the hallway, the first night of her stay. She wondered if it had disappeared.

  “Milady?” Bet asked, breaking her concentration. “Are we done for the day?”

  “Yes, I think we are. Thank you, Bet,” Joanna said, squeezing her hand fondly. The older woman flushed and covered her hand with her own.

  “I did nothing, milady.”

  “You have done so much. I am so glad you have stayed on, despite how frightening it is here.”

  “I love this family, milady. The Lochlann's have been good to me since I was a bairn. And some say we're kin, distantly, the MacLenahan's and the Lochlann's. MacLenahan's my name afore I married, see. So. Now you know. I could nae desert me own kin.”

  Joanna smiled. “I'm so glad you're here.”

  She went upstairs to bed.

  In her chamber, brushing out her hair, Joanna found her mind teeming with thoughts.

  Whoever is playing the ghost had only a vague idea of how Uncle Brien died. Whoever it is has some motive for removing Dougal from this place – and who would benefit most?

  She sighed. Many people might be advanced by his being toppled. Foremost, whoever was next to inherit. Then the McDowell, their eternal enemies, for if Dougal was weakened, they could walk in when spring came. Lastly, someone who hated Dougal.

  If such a person exists.

  Joanna smiled. She could not really imagine anyone who hated Dougal. He was a delight, the sweetest man who ever walked the earth. She giggled.

  “You thought he was a brute, not two weeks ago.”

  Joanna smiled at her reflection as she said it, amazed at her own change of perspective. Dougal was a good man. A man, she knew, she could come to love.

  And when you met him, you found him annoying. Boorish. Bad company.

  She sighed. She wasn't sure, right now, if she had ever really hated Dougal, or if she had simply hated the powerful effect he had on her. She had always found him compelling.

  “You are silly, you know?” She said to the Joanna in the mirror.

  The mirrored Joanna grinned back, her oval face suddenly mischievous, the candlelight glinting down her auburn tresses. She shook her head, amused at herself.

  I should go to sleep. It's a long day tomorrow.

  It was indeed a long day. As the chief mourner, Joanna was expected to greet all the
visitors, most of whom she had never met or even heard of. The villagers would send a representative, as would the cottagers. The men-at-arms were, of course, all there. Each of the neighboring clans would send a representative as well. Even the McDowell.

  As she dropped off to sleep, Joanna felt a shiver down her spine. There were so many enemies, and the McDowell was one of them. She would have to be vigilant.

  The next day dawned cold and dark. Joanna shrugged on her black velvet gown and buttoned it up the back, feeling much stronger than the day before.

  She brushed her long auburn hair out so it shone, a cape of fire hanging down to her waist. She looked stronger too, healthier and more alert.

  I'll need to be.

  Downstairs in the great hall, the men were busy rearranging the benches; Bet was there with a woman from the village, laying out the trenchers on the high-table, preparing for the feast. All was busy and quiet, the air somber and hushed.

  Across the hall, she noticed a darkly cloaked form walking across to her, and felt her stomach flutter.

  “Good morning, my lady.”

  “Morning, Lord Dougal.”

  She smiled at Dougal, whose eyes glowed as they settled on her. She saw him take in the black gown, which she knew became her, despite it being mourning wear, and she flushed warmly.

  “My lady,” he said, voice low with admiration.

  Joanna smiled at him, eyes sparkling, and then quickly removed the merry expression. It was a wake! She shouldn't be looking so indecently happy.

  “It seems things are running well,” she said to Dougal, her voice tight.

  “Indeed,” he nodded. “I hope that, seeing this proper wake, people will stop their talking.”

  Joanna nodded, knowing what he meant. When Lord Brien's ghost was finally laid to rest, prayers said, and his spirit sent on its way, the rumors could stop.

  “I hope so.”

  “Speaking of which, there's the priest. I'd better go and talk to him. Excuse me.”

  Joanna smiled at him as he smiled ruefully over his shoulder, and then hurried off towards the tall, austere-looking young man in the long robe who had just arrived.

  Joanna watched him carefully. He was young, perhaps Dougal's age or a little older, with hollow cheeks and black eyes. He glanced around with a serious mien, and Joanna found herself missing the wise, kind face of Father Mallory.

  I wish he were here instead.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Bet.

  “Milady!”

  “Yes?”

  “The guests. They're arriving now.”

  “Oh. Thank you, Bet.”

  Joanna nodded to the cook and went to take up her position outside the great hall.

  The villagers had sent a representative, as had the tenants. So had the Inverglass, the MacNeith, the MacConnelly, and the McDowell.

  Joanna eyed the man with extreme suspicion. Tall, though not quite as tall as Dougal, dark haired and with a heavy jaw, the man was about two years younger than Dougal, she guessed and could, with a good imagination, have been the man she saw in that vision in the hall.

  “My condolences for your loss, my lady. My lord,” he added, nodding curtly to Dougal, who stood beside the priest. Joanna blinked, seeing the cool distaste on the man's face.

  Could it be that he is the cause of all this trouble?

  Throughout the wake, she found her eyes drifting back to him. Joanna resolved to keep her eye on him. He could have been the man of whom her dream warned. Now that she knew Dougal, she didn't think the two men looked very alike, but perhaps at the time of her vision, she would have done. She glanced across at Dougal now, noticing his chiseled profile. He seemed to sense her gaze, for he turned and looked into her eyes. He did not risk smiling, but his eyes were soft and Joanna felt an equal tenderness well up inside her. She looked away before she smiled.

  At last, the flow of guests ended. Feeling as if her knees might break from curtsying, Joanna left her post at the door and went into the hall, where she could partake of the cakes and ale the ladies in the kitchen were busy supplying.

  Joanna took a spiced cake from a village woman and ate it slowly, leaning against the wall, watching the seething mass of guests.

  Dougal, himself, was everywhere. Talking to the guests, shaking hands with the men-at-arms, commiserating with the representatives. He was, she thought, trying to cement his position with the local clans, a wise move.

  He was also avoiding her.

  At least, it seemed that way. Every time he and Joanna found themselves standing near one another, it seemed he would find an excuse to go somewhere else. She had said two sentences to him since their greeting that morning. “How are you feeling?” and “Do we still have ale?” She sighed.

  I think he's embarrassed to be seen alone with me.

  She watched him as he talked to someone in the corner – a tall, serious man she guessed to be a merchant, from the rich wool of his tunic. Dougal looked tense, nervous. He was bending to hear the man's words, his hands making some gesture, a frown twisting his brow. Joanna smiled, enjoying just looking at him.

  “My lady?”

  Joanna turned round to find Len beside her.

  “Yes?” He looked worried, and Joanna instantly felt her heart begin to pound.

  “My lady, we're having trouble in the storeroom. Could I beg a moment of your time to come and see?”

  “Of course!”

  Joanna walked briskly from the room. Dougal caught her eye and shot her a questioning look. She indicated Len, and hurried out.

  He wanted me to stay. It was a nice thought. It made her chest glow and even the worries about the ale running out faded back.

  In the storeroom, Joanna quickly understood the problem. A cask of ale had fallen, and, bursting, blocked the access to the rest. Some of the village men had left, seeing that, thinking it a bad omen. Joanna sighed, and then sent Len up for the carter.

  “We can tie ropes to the barrel, and rope it to the cart. That way, we don't need any men to haul it.”

  “But, my lady, it might take an hour to get it all set up and moving!”

  Joanna bit her lip. “Well then, it will take an hour. There's still half a barrel in there for the guests. It will have to do.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  Joanna hurried back to the wake, smoothing her hands down the thick black velvet of her dress. She felt quite proud to have resolved that issue alone. She thought about finding Dougal to tell him.

  Suddenly, a shout made her whip round.

  “Stop!”

  Joanna looked round to see two men-at-arms, running to the wall. She frowned, following their gaze. They were running toward a ragged man, lurking in the shadow of the wall. She, too, ran towards the spot.

  “What're you doing here?” the first guard said, grabbing the man.

  “Aye! State yer business, scoundrel! Or we'll beat ye blue.”

  “Wait!” Joanna said. She did not want to see violence done here, on the day of Uncle Brien's wake.

  The men stopped.

  “Who are you?” Joanna asked, facing the intruder.

  “Milady,” the man said. He looked relieved and bowed to her. “Forgive me. I am Francois. I'm a minstrel. I was in Lochlann, earning my living, when I heard of your...bereavement. My condolences.” He bowed elaborately, hand on heart. He had a strong French accent, and his manners were impeccable. Joanna couldn't help but feel calmed by his presence.

  However, he was intruding. Why would he?

  “Francois,” she said carefully. “You say you were in Lochlann. When did you arrive?”

  “On Tuesday, milady,” he said smoothly.

  Joanna shrugged. He could be lying, or not. She couldn't yet tell. She looked at the guards and they looked at her, seemingly as much at a loss as she was.

  “Take him to the kitchen.” Joanna decided. “When he has broken his fast, we could ask him to perform a lay for us. It would be pleasant to have a skilled musician h
ere.”

  The guards nodded vigorously. Old Norries, the resident musician, had been tormenting them all for the last twenty years, or so her aunts and mother said. She was sure a change was welcome.

  And if he is lying, we'll soon find out. It would be hard to keep up the minstrel story if he actually had to play something.

  “My lady. My thanks. I have been on the road many days. Any hospitality is welcome, and at a home such as this, it is an honor.” He bowed low again.

  The men-at-arms conducted him, none too gently, in the direction of the kitchens. Joanna watched them leave, eyes narrowed.

  I don't like him.

  He was too affable, too polite. He had ready answers, but perhaps he was just a smooth talker. Minstrels often were – it helped them make a living.

  Nonetheless, I'll watch him carefully.

  The wake went on. Joanna took a seat at the high table, where the first course was being served. She made conversation with those seated around her, missing Dougal's presence. He was at the head of the table, deep in conversation with the priest, who sat at his right.

  After about half an hour, Francois arrived to perform for them. He was, it turned out, a personable lutenist, and his voice was smooth and pleasant.

  I still don't fully trust him.

  He could have been a minstrel. However, why, then, did he sneak into the castle? He should have known there would be a ready welcome for his kind at wakes.

  Joanna watched him carefully, but he seemed content with the applause, and even more so with a trencher of stew and his own place with the servants, the soldiers, and townsfolk when he was done. Shortly after his lay, the fresh ale arrived. It was, Joanna noticed with a small smile, greeted with even more enthusiasm than Francois' performance. She left her place to whisper a word of congratulations to Len.

  When she returned, she walked past the head of the table. Dougal frowned at her, swiveling his eyes to the empty seat on his left. Joanna felt her heart thud with excitement.

  Even in this dark and threatening place, there was suddenly a spark of joy. She drew out the seat and sat down beside him, nodding to the priest, who nodded back.

  “So,” Dougal said as she sat down. “We had a crisis?”

  “Yes! The ale. It was stuck downstairs.”