by Pam Binder
On this remote wall, in the Highlands of Scotland, was a history of the world. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to complete such a gallery. She noticed a portrait of a fierce looking Mongol warrior, and another of a Samurai. The corridor was so long she couldn’t see the end and paintings took up every available space.
As she examined the faces and costumes of each person a common thread emerged. These were all people in the prime of their lives and they were all warriors. Nearing the end of the hall she saw a man standing in the shadows in front of one of the portraits. It was Lachlan.
“You have ventured far from your chamber.” His voice sounded hollow and distant.
Her heart beat faster at the sight of him after so many days. As she walked toward him she fought the impulse to run into his arms, uncertain of his response. She rubbed the palm of her hand.
“You were gone quite a while.”
“Aye. My business took longer than expected.” He reached for her hand. “Are you still in pain from your injury?”
She shook her head. “No, but I’ll have a scar to remember Angus by.”
“He was wrong to injure you in such a way.”
“Lachlan, it was an accident.”
“ ‘Tis true enough.” His words trailed off.
Amber watched him search for something more to say. “How long do you think it will be before O’Donnell will be well again?”
Lachlan’s eyebrows scrunched together and then he smiled. “Oh, I understand your meaning. You wish to know if he still remains confined to bed?”
Amber nodded. She figured that if he knew in hours how long it would take for the man to recover from a life-threatening wound, Lachlan would certainly be able to make a calculated guess as to when O’Donnell could get out of bed.
“He has challenged Marcail to a game of chess, and plans to test his skill with my men on the practice field in the morning.”
She sucked in a breath of air so quickly she began to choke.
“Lass, be you ill?”
“Ill no, confused yes.”
“And what is it that confuses you?”
She rubbed her temples. “You can’t be serious. He had dire wounds. I know because I saw them myself. So how can O’Donnell even think about prancing about with a sword?”
“I doubt that he prances. And as for his recovery, the Irish are a hardy bunch.”
This was crazy. A critically injured man not only survived and recovered in forty-eight hours, but planned to have a vigorous workout in a matter of days. And Lachlan didn’t think it was strange? Well she did.
She shook her head. “Never mind, let’s talk about something else. The portraits for instance. These people are all about the same age. Was that on purpose?”
“You are the first to remark on it.”
Somehow she doubted that.
“It is a tradition of my clan to have a portrait commissioned in the year of their thirty-fifth birthday.”
“None after?”
Lachlan shook his head.
She took another look around the hall. “Do you have any idea why this kind of tradition was started?”
“Aye.” He hesitated. “It was the belief of my ancestors that it was not until they reached the age of thirty-five that the true nature of their character showed in their faces.“
Amber was curious. Her own time was only beginning to see value and beauty in men and women as they grew older. This seemed like an advanced concept and she agreed. “Do you have a portrait somewhere, or aren’t you thirty-five as yet?”
His laugher echoed down the corridor and took her by surprise. “Aye, lass, my portrait hangs in the next hall.” He tapped her on the tip of her nose. “And what is your age, my beauty?”
The way he was smiling at her took her breath away. “I turned twenty-eight on June nineteenth.” She needed to switch to more neutral territory. “Can you tell me about these people?”
“Aye. You may ask any question that pleases you.”
Amber indicated the portrait Lachlan had been looking at earlier. It showed a warrior in a suit of gleaming armor.
He tensed visibly. “That is my father. My mother is on the opposite wall a short distance farther down. I am told he would travel from one battlefield to the next, sometimes for years, before returning to the home of his birth. He would enter a town or village he had heard was embroiled in conflict, investigate the problem, and then fight on the side he felt had the just cause.”
The words he spoke sounded hollow to her, as though they held little meaning to him.
“I think I would have liked him.” Lachlan’s expression turned so dark she backed away. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “ ‘Tis nothing. Come, I shall show you the picture of my mother.”
He put his arm around her waist and guided her across the hall to another portrait.
The contact of his hand on her waist made her lose focus. Amber looked up at him. That was a mistake. The harsh expression he’d worn was gone. She felt herself go soft inside. At any second her brain would turn to mush.
“How did your parents meet?”
“ ‘Twas a story made into a minstrel’s tale. My father wounded my mother in a battle.”
“You mean they fought each other? I thought you said your father did battle only to protect the innocent?”
He nodded in the direction of his father’s portrait. “Nay, what I said was that he fought on the side he felt just. My mother often did the same. On the day they met, they were opposing each other, dad in chain mail, her head covered by a helmet and wielding a sword, my father did not recognize her as a woman until he wounded her and her helmet was knocked off as she fell. ‘Twas said the moment he looked on her, his heart was lost.”
A gentle rain misted through an open window at the end of the hallway and drizzled onto the wood planks of the floor. He crossed the corridor to close the shutters, latching them together with a metal bar. “The hour is late. Una will not allow the rest of the castle to eat until I arrive.”
“Another MacAlpin custom?”
“Nay, fair maiden, ‘tis a rule Una has decreed. And as long as she is in charge of the cookroom, no one dares defy her command. A few have tried and were denied food until she thought them sufficiently repentant.”
“And what did you do to get in her good graces?”
A shadow passed over his face. “I was hunting in the Highlands and came across a village which had been burned and looted. Alongside the men who had fought to defend their families lay the dead. Babies in their mothers’ arms, children, the old and the crippled. The dwellings were still smoking. A woman staggered toward me holding the limp, dead body of her boy child. It was Una.“ The muscles in Lachlan’s jaw tensed as he turned toward the window. ”She has been with my family ever since.“
Amber closed her eyes to shut out the mental image he’d painted. “Did you ever find out who was responsible?”
“Aye.”
“And?” She opened her eyes and saw he was still turned away.
“They are all dead.”
Amber crossed over to him. An expression of raw pain covered his face. It startled her. The revenge he’d brought down on those who’d massacred the village might have shocked someone living in the twentieth century, but in the sixteenth, it was expected. She put her hand on his arm.
“You did what you had to do. It happened a long time ago, and you need to put it behind you.”
“Two days ago I came across a village where the dead were left to rot in their own blood.”
Amber swayed against the wall. “What are you talking about?”
“My enemy, Subedei, took more man my cattle.” Lachlan’s voice seemed hollow. “The Mongol was not satisfied with murdering the inhabitants in the village. One man who survived told me that Subedei impaled the villagers on long poles, and watched them die a slow death.”
She tasted bile. The extent of some men’s cruelty to others unnerved her. “Dear God,
no. What kind of monster would…”
“My father was such a monster… and I fear the same madness awaits me.”
Amber struggled to get her trembling under control. Lachlan had been there. He had seen firsthand the horror of which she could only imagine, and the fear that must have run like a brush fire through die village. However, the expression in his eyes told of a deeper fear. She needed to find the right words to help him fight this battle.
“Lachlan, from what you’ve said, your father and Subedei have done unthinkable things, but that does not mean you will as well. I know you.”
The cruelty she heard in his laugh startled her and his mouth turned up in a grim line. “You do not know me at all. I will become like my father.”
A chill shivered through her. She shook herself free from its grasp. It was essential for Lachlan that she keep a level head. Amber reached for all the psychology she’d learned from the high school counselors.
“Just because your father did terrible things doesn’t mean you automatically will do them.” She turned his face toward her. “You have a choice. You need to take control of your life and choose your own path. Besides, I won’t let you turn into a beast.”
He brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead before cradling her against him. “I pray your belief in me will prevail.”
Stuffing a chunk of Una’s freshly baked bread in his mouth, Lachlan warmed himself by the cookroom hearth. He watched as she kneaded a sticky lump of dough. Sleep had eluded him last night, after he had escorted Amber to her chambers. Wandering restlessly through the castle as all others slept had given him time to think. He had no illusion about his wakeful state, or the reason for it. Amber was the cause. Last night, in the corridor lined with portraits, the words she had spoken held strength and conviction. Although others had told him he might escape his father’s madness, Amber said he had the power within himself to change. When he had looked into her eyes, he believed it as well.
Thoughts of the way she would touch his arm when she wanted to get his attention, or to coax him out of ill-humor, drifted through his mind. And her smile; it lit up her face and his heart.
“Lad, you are far away this morn.”
Una’s words pulled him to the present and to another concern. Marcail. On the night that O’Donnell had returned to them, Marcail had told Lachlan she had chosen the Irishman. He respected her decision, but he would not give his sanction until he knew more of the man. He pushed away from the hearth.
“O’Donnell was not in his chamber. Have you seen him?”
Una clucked her tongue as she added flour to the dough. “I fixed him a bowl of porridge. He mentioned he was headed toward the courtyard to practice his game of chess. The Lady Marcail trounced him well last night after he awoke.”
“O’Donnell will need more than practice to beat Marcail at chess. He will need the intervention of the ancient gods.”
She laughed and brushed a wisp of gray hair off her face. “Aye, lad, the Lady Marcail is a match for any man. I sense many are scared away before it gets interesting.” She winked. “But this man is different, and is much like you. The greater the challenge, time more satisfying the prize.”
“You have known me for too long.”
Her expression grew serious. “True enough, we go back a ways, you and I.”
Her skin was lined with age, but her eyes were as clear and bright as when he first rescued her from the ruins that had once been her village. There were many years between them. It was not the first time he regretted their speed. Still he did not regret telling her about himself and his race. He lowered his voice. “Truly, the loss was mine that we never became more than friends.”
She rubbed the small of her back and dosed her eyes. Pain marred her features. She looked at him and the full impact of her age and weariness struck him. He put his hand on hers.
“Why do you not answer me?”
“The answer was always as dear as rainwater. A woman needs to know that she is more than wanted. She must be as necessary to her man as sun and water are to the heather in the Highlands. In those days, you needed no one.” She squeezed his hand and nodded in the direction of the staircase. “But I have watched you with the Lady Amber. There is a difference about you when she is around.”
She shook a flour-smudged finger at him. “And don’t be telling me you feel responsible for her because you pulled her from the loch or some such nonsense. You are in love with her, Lachlan MacAlpin. And it scares you more than the affliction that cursed your father in his last days.”
“You read more into my actions than is there.”
“Nay, lad, I do not.”
“Even if what you say is true, she deserves something I am unable to offer. Our high council does not agree with me that there is a difference between the future and the past. As yet, I cannot give her the child I believe she longs for.”
She punched the dough with her fist. “Your responsibilities are too heavy for one man to carry.” Her voice was a soft whisper. “Be off with you. I feel a lecture bubbling to the surface, and unless you want to hear its full force…”
He reached over and brushed a tear from her cheek. “Madam, I would sooner face the cannons of the English queen than your words of rebuff.”
“Well spoken. Promise me you will not take your feelings for the Lady Amber lightly.”
“Aye, I shall consider it. But you well know…”
She interrupted him. “What I know, Lachlan
MacAlpin, is that if ever there was a man who needed the touch of a woman to make him whole, it is you.“ He shrugged. ”You worry overmuch.“
“And who else but me would have the patience?” He bent over and kissed her on the cheek. “I do not know why you have put up with me for so long.”
“ ”Tis a wonder to me as well. Now, off with you.“ Una shaped the dough into loaves and began to hum an old Celtic tune. It was her way of dosing the conversation between them. He felt a tightness around his heart as he tore off another chunk of warm bread and crossed to the door that led outside. The unspoken words between them cut him deeply. There was a time when he had tried to return, in kind, the feelings she had for him. He wished she were not so perceptive, but she had known the limits of his love and turned him away. Una, in her fragile mortal body, needed someone with whom she could cherish each moment as though there would not be another to take its place. She was wise to cast him aside.
He stepped into the courtyard. The air was cool and brisk after the warmth of the cookroom. He hoped it would dear his troubled thoughts, but knew the only solution was to attack another problem.
As he paused, the courtyard started to churn to life. A maid carried a bowl of grain and a stable boy yawned and stretched as he headed toward the horses. The day was beginning.
Ribbons of pale morning light stretched across the horizon as Lachlan went in search of O’Donnell. The man was not hard to find. He sat, leaning against a stone wall, a chessboard balanced on his knees. So, this was the man Marcail chose over all others. O’Donnell was not yet aware of her decision and might still refuse her. He doubted the likelihood of that outcome. Marcail was seldom denied what she sought.
Chickens clucked and squawked as the maid tossed a handful of grain in their direction. Lachlan walked over to O’Donnell. He did not question that Marcail had given the matter much thought, but he did wonder at her choice. She was acting impulsively. It was not the Marcail he knew. Although she had committed to drinking the elixir, there were no assurances O’Donnell would do the same. There were a few incidents where one person had fulfilled his vow and drunk the Elixir of Life, only to learn that the one chosen had changed his mind. Of course the penalty for such a breach of conduct was death. He would not allow such a fate to happen to Marcail. Lachlan would find out the mettle of the Irishman before he consented to the match.
“I have heard the Lady Marcail beat you at a game of chess.”
“Not one game, but three. The last was almost over
before it began.” O’Donnell picked up one of the chess pieces carved from translucent rose marble. “She took my Queen.”
“She usually does if it is left unprotected.”
“You have played chess with the Lady Marcail?”
“Only when cornered.”
O’Donnell’s laughter was spontaneous and loud. A few chickens flapped their wings and screeched in protest at the disturbance to their daily routine. It startled Lachlan as well. The man had a sense of humor. Good, he would need one.
O’Donnell rubbed his thumb over the smooth curves of the chess piece in his hand. “You are right. I did leave the lady unprotected and let my eagerness overshadow my judgment.“ He put the piece back on the board. ”The Lady plays the game as she experiences life, with a shield of protection as thick as the wall of your castle.“
Lachlan sat down. “Even if she loses her first line of defense, she knows of another that will protect her at all cost.”
“Do we speak of Marcail or of chess?”
Lachlan turned his head toward O’Donnell and held the man’s gaze until the air was thick with tension. “I speak of both.”
“You need not concern yourself with my conduct around the Lady Marcail. I have deep feelings for her.”
“And why should I not be concerned? I know you not, and think now that I should have left you for the wolves.”
O’Donnell tapped one of the pieces lightly on the board. “Not a pleasant thought for a man who would not have been able to defend himself against such an attack.”
“Better that, than Marcail lose her heart to a man who is but passing through.”
O’Donnell stood so abruptly the chess pieces clattered to the ground. He drew his sword.
“I have killed for less offense.”
Lachlan rose to his feet slowly as he appraised the man. He let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. A red haze clouded his vision. The image of the man who stood before him, dead from his blade, appeared so strong he could smell the blood. He tightened his grip on the hilt and the thin thread of sanity he still possessed. He took a long calming bream of air, and thought of Amber. O’Donnell was prepared to risk his own life to defend his intentions toward Marcail. The man had passed the first test.