Highland Vow

by Hannah Howell

  “Do ye need the piss pot?” asked a familiar voice.

  Easing his eyes open slowly, Cormac felt the light in the room burn its way into his brain. “That you, Will?”

  “Aye. Let me help ye sit up. Alaister’s gone to fix ye a potion.”

  Even as Will helped him sit up, Cormac opened his eyes a little wider. It was a struggle to do what he needed to do, for his head felt as if it would shatter and his stomach roiled. Muttering his thanks to Will for helping him, he eased his body back down on the bed. A moment later he was half lifted and someone made him drink a foul-tasting potion. As he was settled flat yet again, someone else slapped a very cold, very wet cloth upon his forehead.

  “Ye should be better in an hour or two,” Will said, “and then we can talk.”

  It took almost three hours before Cormac could open his eyes, before he felt capable of doing anything more than groan with pain. He looked at his brothers and cousins and marveled at their patience. Although he could recall very little past the moment he left Isabel, he had obviously said enough to rouse their curiousity.

  “Did I hear ye say our parents were dead?” he asked.

  “Aye,” replied Will. “Thieves killed them and ye are now our laird. Have some bread,” he said as he shoved a chunk of fresh bread into Cormac’s hand. “’Twill soak up the poison and help ye talk sense. I have a whole loaf.”

  “I said something last eve? Something that interested you?” Cormac slowly ate the bread, finding that he was recovered enough for it to actually help him.

  “Ye told us ye had to stay here to watch Isabel hang. I admit that roused my curiousity some.”

  “Ah, aye, that.” Cormac kept filling his belly with the bread Will handed him as he told them all he had heard and seen. “Sir Ranald holds Isabel and her lover now and ’tis certain they will be swiftly judged and hanged.”

  “Then why must ye linger here?”

  “There is always the chance that the need of another witness might arise—one who isnae a Douglas leastwise.”

  “And would ye be that witness, kenning that your words will send her to the gallows?”

  “Dinnae look so worried, Will,” he said to his brother and, with one sweeping look, included his other kinsmen in that advice. “Aye, I feel some regret, but little else. She has killed or helped to kill five men and was willing, twice, to let me hang for her crimes. E’en if I felt more deeply than I do, I would still be willing to act as witness to her guilt. Honor demands it.”

  “Honor was one of the things that got ye into this mess,” Will muttered, then crossed his arms over his broad chest, leaned against the post at the foot of the bed, and studied Cormac steadily for a moment. “Ye are cured.”

  “An odd way to put it.”

  “Nay.” Alaister shook his head, his riotous bronze curls swishing over his shoulders. “’Tis right. That woman was a sickness with you.”

  Cormac smiled faintly at his young, often too serious brother. “Aye, mayhap she was. But I had made a vow and my need to honor it had also become somewhat of a blind sickness. I clung to it and ignored all else.”

  “I would think that ye would be more upset then ye are.”

  “So would I, but it appears that the cure had already begun ere I learned the whole ugly truth. I was just too slow to recognize that. And if I had opened my eyes to the truth that was all around me, I would have been freed of my pledge long ago.”

  “Are we to believe that ye were drinking yourself blind in celebration then?” asked William.

  Before Cormac could reply to William’s sarcasm, Alaister demanded, “Who is Elspeth?”

  “The cure,” Cormac replied softly, then tried to pour himself a tankard of water only to have William hurry to take over the chore. “’Twas strange. Elspeth asked all the same questions the rest of ye have, made many of the same accusations, and yet she constantly raised my doubts. She somehow doggedly pushed me toward the truth I fought so hard to ignore for so long.”

  “Where is she? I should like to meet the lass who finally broke Isabel’s spell o’er you.”

  “Gone.” Cormac was not really surprised when just saying the truth hurt. “I feared I was still trying to understand what had changed, or e’en if it had, when I was forced into a corner. I had to make a choice. I chose to cling to that old vow, to my honor, nay realizing it was wasted on one like Isabel.”

  Alaister cursed, causing the others to stare at him in surprise. “Ye chose Isabel.”

  “In truth, I didnae really have the wit to make any real choice, but Elspeth felt I had. Worse, I didnae do anything to stop her. How could I? I still felt I was pledged. She is probably back at Donncoill now cursing the day she e’er met me.”

  “Donncoill?” Alaister frowned; then his eyes widened. “That Elspeth? The Murray lass? The wee lass who saved your life ten years ago? Jesu, Cormac, dinnae say that ye seduced her.”

  “Aye, that Elspeth, and I didnae seduce her. She seduced me.” Cormac was not surprised to see the looks of scorn and disbelief on his kinsmen’s faces. “I willnae say she had to do verra much to succeed, but I was trying to be an honorable mon and she wouldnae let me.” He shrugged. “’Tis hard to explain.”

  “Why dinnae ye try?” William drawled.

  Cormac started to tell his brother that it was none of his business; then he sighed. In many ways it was. If Elspeth wanted to, she could bring a lot of trouble down on his head, and the heads of his family. There was also the matter of a debt owed. Ever since the Murrays had saved his life, Cormac and his kinsmen had sought some way to repay that. The honor of their whole small clan would be at risk if it was thought that he had insulted the Murrays through Elspeth. Such were the things that stirred long, bloody feuds. Although Cormac did not believe Elspeth was the sort of woman to stir up that sort of deadly trouble, he could not forget the look of pain and fury on her face.

  “I will tell ye all of it, sad mess that it is, as I dress,” he finally said as he got out of bed.

  Although he was circumspect to some extent, Cormac was honest with his kinsmen. He told them everything, from the moment he found Sir Colin holding Elspeth against her will to the day Elspeth left. It was painful to do so, but he related every word and action of that fateful day. Cormac realized that he had some hope that they would not hear the same strong note of finality in Elspeth’s words that he did.

  “Ye did make a wretched muddle of it all, didnae ye?” said William, shaking his head.

  “Love doesnae die in a winking,” said David, his dark eyes fixed unwaveringly on Cormac.

  “Ye be but sixteen. What do ye ken about it?” William snapped.

  “Love doesnae die that fast. Ye dinnae have to be old or experienced to ken that. She said she loves him.”

  “Loved,” Cormac corrected. “Did once. Doesnae now.”

  “I think that was just the anger talking. Weel, unless ye think her the sort to be fickle.”

  “Nay, not Elspeth.”

  “So woo her.”

  “I thought I had,” Cormac said, remembering all too clearly the passion he and Elspeth had indulged in so greedily.

  “Nay, ye bedded her as ye traveled to meet with another woman. And I would wager ye ne’er seriously considered breaking your pledge to Isabel e’en if ye wanted to. My sister says a woman who thinks a mon’s passion goes any farther than his cullions is a fool. Is Elspeth a fool?”

  “Nay.” Cormac was a little surprised at the wisdom young David was revealing. “She may think she is, though. I hurt her verra badly. As she sees it, she gave me everything and I spit on it. She kenned what Isabel was and it must have made it hard for her to ken I would turn from her to honor a vow made to a whore.”

  “And the hurting will stay if ye leave her thinking ’twas only passion she wrung from you. Woo her. Let her ken she means more to ye than a warm nest for your rod. What do ye have to lose?”

  Before Cormac could reply, a sharp rapping sounded at the door. Malcolm opened it to
reveal a young lad. When Cormac recognized the clothes as those Isabel dressed her servants in, he tensed. Did the woman really believe that, after all he had learned, she could pull him back into her web?

  “I have a message from Lady Isabel,” the youth said. Then he backed up when Cormac’s four kinsmen all glared at him.

  “What is it?” Cormac asked.

  “M’lady says that ye must come and speak with her. She says she has something she must tell ye—a secret she has kept for years. Ye are to come with me. I ken where they have put her.”

  All four of Cormac’s kinsmen loudly protested, but he silenced them with one sharp wave of his hand. There were some advantages to being laird, he decided. “She wouldnae tell ye what she wishes to talk about?”

  “Nay, sir. Just that ye must come. If ye dinnae, ye will regret it all of your days.”

  “Wait for me downstairs.”

  The moment the door closed behind the boy, William said, “Ye cannae mean to go to her.”

  “Aye. I expected her to try to woo me into aiding her at least once. To try to turn my sense of honor against me just one more time. Dinnae fear it will work. I swear to ye, ’tis ended. And kenning how devious the woman is, how deeply sunk into murderous plots she is, it may serve to play the game if I can stomach it. If she still thinks that I am naught but a besotted fool, that that old vow will still protect her, she may weel give me e’en more proof to set against her.”

  “True, and I suspect ye are a wee bit curious as weel,” Will said.

  Cormac grinned. “Aye. Wouldnae ye be if someone told ye to come heed their words or ye would regret it for all of your days?”

  As Cormac followed the young page into the bowels of the gaol he began to feel uneasy. It struck him as odd that, after ten years of approaching Isabel with only eager anticipation and lust, he should now see any summons from her as a threat. The fact that the Douglases had locked her away in such a deep, dark place only enhanced that feeling.

  The same two men who had guarded her chamber door as he, Ranald, and James had listened to her confession now guarded her cell. Sir Ranald clearly trusted only his own men near Isabel. Cormac stood in front of Isabel’s cell and studied her new quarters as she rose from her bed to approach him with measured wariness. Although it was chilly, damp, and lit only by torchlight, her cell was the most comfortable he had ever seen. The narrow bed was covered with soft furs and pillows. Tapestries hung on the walls—one was even draped to hide the necessary bucket. And there were rugs on the floor. It was very clean, as was Isabel. She had obviously been allowed both bathwater for washing and new clothes. Cormac suspected she was allowed regular visits from her maids. Such courtesy and gentle treatment must surely give her the confidence to believe that she would be able to escape justice if she could just find the right ploy to use. Isabel, Cormac decided, was not going to accept her fate until the bitter end. She simply could not conceive that, this time, she was not going to be able to lie or seduce her way out of trouble.

  “Cormac, my love, I was afraid ye wouldnae come,” she said as she reached through the bars, frowning when he clasped his hands behind his back so that she could not hold them.

  “If naught else, Isabel, ye have stirred my curiousity,” he said, deciding that he did not have the stamina to even pretend that he still cared. “What do ye think I must hear?”

  “Ye are so cold to me,” she whispered in an unsteady voice. “How can ye so quickly forget all we have meant to each other?”

  “’Tis hard to recall much more than ye trying to decide how ye could make me hang for yet another murder ye committed. That sort of thing tends to cool a mon’s ardor.” Cormac smiled faintly when the guards snickered.

  “Sir Kenneth forced me to do those things.” She faltered into silence beneath the look of utter contempt Cormac gave her. Then she started to get angry. “So ye side with Sir Ranald. I ne’er thought ye would fail me, Cormac. Ye have let them turn ye against me with their lies.”

  “Ye did it all by yourself. I but listened to your own words and watched how deftly ye used your whore’s skills.” If she could get free, he thought as he watched her grip tighten on the bars, she would rip my eyes out.

  “It matters not what ye think. Ye will still help me.”

  “Nay, I think not.”

  “Aye, I think so—that is, if ye e’er wish to see your son alive.”

  Cormac was faintly aware of the gasped curses of the guards as he stared at Isabel. A slow, smug grin started to curve her full mouth and he ached to slap it away. It took several moments to rein in the confusing array of emotions that had assaulted him when he had heard and understood her words. A son? With Isabel? It was something he was finding impossible to grasp. And why, if she had borne him a son, had he never seen or been told of the boy? He realized he had asked that question aloud when Isabel chuckled.

  “Did ye think I would take the little bastard with me when I got married or when I traveled? Jesu, I tried to rid myself of him the moment I realized your seed had taken root in my womb, but unlike the others, I couldnae shake free of him. So I have had the burden of the brat for nearly seven years.”

  Her words chilled him to the bone. “So ye should have told me. I believe ye were widowed then. We could have been wed. Or I could have taken the bairn and raised him myself.”

  “I ken it, but I decided he might prove useful at some time. A time such as now,” she said brightly. “So ye help me and I shall give ye the boy. He isnae far away.”

  “Nay, he certainly isnae,” drawled Sir Ranald as he stepped up to the bars. “Ah, my sweet betrothed, it truly astounds me that no one has yet wrung your bonny neck. Howbeit, we will soon rectify that problem.”

  “Go away, Ranald,” Isabel snapped. “I am trying to talk to Cormac.”

  “Ye are trying to bribe the poor mon with something ye ken every mon wants. I suspected ye would.”

  “How verra clever of you.”

  “I am a verra clever mon. Did ye nay ken that I have suspected ye of murdering my kinsmen for years? I began to watch you closely, verra closely, several years ago.” He smiled slowly as he tugged a slender boy out from behind his back and watched Isabel pale, her expression a mixture of fury and fear. “Christopher, meet your father.” Never taking his gaze from Isabel, Ranald nudged the boy closer to Cormac. “Armstrong, your son, Christopher.”

  “Ye cannae just grab the boy and drag him here,” shrieked Isabel.

  “I believe I did just that.”

  “And how do ye ken that the lad is mine? Mayhap I was just lying to Cormac.”

  “’Tis certain that ye have done that a lot, but this lad is your son. Did ye think ye could hide him away for his whole life? Aye, ye dinnae have much to do with the lad, but ye do struggle to visit him now and again to see if he still lives. The old nursemaid was ready to talk to me. Ye dinnae inspire much loyalty in your servants, ye ken. And, m’lady, one needs to see the lad but the once to ken whose fruit ye bore.”

  Cormac paid little heed to the argument between Ranald and Isabel. His full attention was on the boy, who stared at him as intensely as he suspected he was staring back. Eyes very like his own and hair much like his brother Alaister’s proclaimed the child his. There seemed to be little of Isabel in the child. A hint around the mouth and, Cormac suspected, a stronger influence in the delicate perfection of the child’s features.

  “Hello, Christopher,” he said quietly, the wealth of emotion he fought to control making his voice hoarse.

  “Hello, sir,” the boy replied. “Are ye truly my father?”

  “Aye, I am. Ye have come as a wee bit of a surprise to me.”

  “I ken it, sir. Lady Isabel didnae tell ye about me, so how could ye have kenned I was born? Nurse Agnes says Lady Isabel was keeping me tucked away until she thought ye might need your chain yanked taut again. Nurse Agnes says I should wait until ye ken that I am alive and see what ye do then ere I decide if ye are a good mon or nay.”

  �
��’Tis my hope that ye will decide in my favor. How old are ye, laddie?”

  “I will be seven in a month.”

  Cormac took a deep breath to try to push aside the fury welling up inside of him. All those years, and Isabel had not once mentioned a child. He had missed years of the boy’s growth, from his first smile to his first full sentence. Yet another thing Isabel had stolen from him. Cormac knew that, if he did not leave, he would soon thrust his hands through those bars, wrap them around Isabel’s slender throat, and end all need of a hangman.

  “Would ye like to come with me, laddie? To stay with me?”

  “Can I bring Nurse Agnes?”

  “If she wishes to come along, aye, although I think ye may be getting a wee bit old for a nurse. But she is welcome.”

  Christopher glanced nervously at his mother. “Does Lady Isabel come, too?”

  “Nay.” Cormac realized that it was going to be difficult to explain matters to the child. “I dinnae think ye will see your mother again, so ye had best say your fareweels now.” His eyes widened slightly when the child visibly relaxed, shyly slipped his small hand into Cormac’s, then looked at Isabel.

  “Fareweel, Lady Isabel,” Christopher said and bowed slightly. “I will live with my father now.”

  “Nay,” Isabel screamed. “Ye havenae agreed to help me, Cormac. Look at the boy. I have given ye a fine son. Ye owe me. Curse ye. Do something about this. Can ye truly turn your back, walk away, and let the mother of your child hang?”

  “I owe ye nothing,” Cormac replied, “save the promise that I will care for Christopher.” He glanced down at the child, who appeared to be unaffected by Isabel’s tirade. Then he looked back at Isabel. “And better than ye e’er have, I am thinking, Lady Isabel. I suggest ye cease plotting ways to escape justice and call for a priest.” Cormac nodded his farewell to the Douglases and walked away.