“Hmm,” Malle said shortly. “I had no idea Craig Dunbar had any feelings.”
Father John frowned. “Indeed he does, Malle. He is a fine young man.”
“You are a man of God, Father, so I will take your word for it.” Her tone was bitter.
He stared at her for a moment and said nothing, although he was wondering what had made her so cynical.
“We buried him yesterday,” he sighed. “His wife was so sad and so angry.”
He went into the church and returned with a big wooden box filled with papers and leather-bound books.
“These are the parish records for the Dunbars, but if you need the MacEwan ones you will have to ask Father Charles in St Antony’s on your side of the Cut. He has all those records in his keeping.”
Malle nodded. “I see. Thank you, Father.”
They began to go through the documents, starting at the earliest, two hundred years before, when the first Dunbars had moved into the area that the MacEwans had already more or less claimed as their own, even though they had no legal rights to it. The feud, they could see, had started almost as soon as the families had met.
The first argument was border dispute, when the MacEwans demanded the rights to that first piece of land. It legally belonged to the Dunbars, however, since they had bought it outright. After that there were skirmishes over grazing rights, and even arguments about who was working on which estate. There was also a fight for supremacy between them over who had more status and wealth, but nobody really cared but the families themselves.
Occasionally there were squabbles with other families too, but these were usually small in scale, short-lived, and easily settled; however, the animosity between the MacEwans and the Dunbars went on unabated, until Isobell appeared.
“Here is their wedding certificate.” Father John took out a fragile piece of parchment that was carefully pressed in the leaves of a book. Donnan McLeod Dunbar of the Parish of Saint Antony, Invergill, Scotland, married Isobell Maria MacEwan, Parish of Saint Laurence, Invergill, Scotland, on the 10th Day of February, Year of Our Lord 1223.
He handed it to Malle and she gazed at it, wondering if she was holding in her hand the answer to a two-hundred-year-old mystery.
The answer to the feud cannot be as simple as this, she thought.
As if he were reading her mind, Father John spoke up. “I think,” he said, frowning, “that the secret of what is keeping this feud going—not what started it—lies in the reason for Isobell’s death. I think that the original dispute started over the land claim. That is the most likely explanation, but now it seems that someone is fanning the flames for some reason of his own.” He shook his head slowly. “And whoever is doing it needs to be stopped, and quickly, before there are more killings.”
Father John looked at the beautiful young woman before him. He had seen the argument between Craig and Malle beside the grave, and in his long years of studying human nature he had always observed that people who disliked each other most at first were the ones who fell most deeply in love later. He had the strongest feeling that Craig and Malle would do just that.
9
Nightmare
Malle was thoughtful on the way home. The wedding between the two young people had been like something out of a fairy tale. It had moved her immensely, and she was determined to go and see Father Charles to find out what her side of the family’s story was. She had never really believed in love at first sight, but Donnan and Isobell were living proof that it existed. When the love of his life died, something in Donnan died too. He lived for only a few years afterwards and died from “a short illness.” She had heard of people dying simply because they wanted to, and that might have been what had happened to Donnan. When Isobell left him, he had nothing to live for.
She sighed. She had a slightly clearer picture now of what was going on but she decided that she simply could not think about it anymore. She was glad she had met Father John. He was the sweetest person she had encountered for a long time, and she would have loved to talk to him for longer, but his church was out of bounds to her, on the Dunbar side of the Cut.
That reminded her of Craig, and that kiss. Despite its brutal beginnings, it had ended up being a thrilling experience. But how could that be when she was still so angry with him? That was the question she had been asking herself at intervals all through the day, and now, as she put it out of her mind, another worry came to replace it. She had broken her word to her mother and ventured onto Dunbar land, and her sense of honor would not let her keep quiet about it.
She groaned. Her mother never screamed or shouted when Malle did wrong, but there was always a look of quiet pain on her face that hurt Malle more than if she had yelled at her.
She walked Arthur into the castle courtyard just as one of the kitchen maids, Tessie, came out with a flagon of ale and an earthenware cup.
“I saw ye comin’ in Mistress,” she said, smiling. “Ye looked as if ye needed ane o’these!”
Malle sighed with relief. “You saved my life, Tessie! Thank you!” She gulped the entire cup down in a most unladylike fashion, then smiled at Tessie, who topped her by at least three inches. “Thank you again.”
Tessie curtsied. All the staff loved and respected their young mistress and her mother, because they both listened to them and treated them like people and not beasts of burden. The Laird was a little more distant but then he worked hard, unlike many others of his kind. She watched Malle as she skipped off into the castle.
“Aboot time that lassie wis merrit,” she remarked to her friend Janice, who was even shorter than Malle.
“Weel, that’s her ain business,” she said in a philosophical tone. “But I tell ye this, Tessie, there’s nane o’ thae young cockerels oot there that’s fit tae kiss her feet!”
“Ye’re no’ wrang there, hen,” Tessie agreed.
Her mother was in the library when Malle went in, still poring over some of the journals and letters. Her face lit up when she saw Malle. “You look tired, darling,” she said, patting a chair beside her. “How was your day? Interesting?” She looked eagerly at her daughter.
Malle had been agonizing over whether to tell her mother about the kiss, but in the end she decided not to. After all, it would never happen again, and she decided to put it to the back of her mind and let it rest there until it faded away entirely.
She smiled at Margaret. “It has been an interesting day, but I have to tell you something, Mammy.” She dropped her eyes from her mother’s and began to twist her hands on the table, a sure sign of worry, stress, or guilt.
Margaret laid a hand on her daughter’s. “Tell me, Malle, is anything wrong?” There was an edge of panic in her voice. “Did someone hurt you?”
“No, nothing like that, Mammy.” Malle shook her head. “ I disobeyed you.”
Margaret’s brow creased in a deep frown. “Why?” she asked. “And how?”
Malle sighed and suddenly the words rushed out. “I went onto Dunbar land,” she confessed. “I am so sorry, Mammy. I broke my word to you.”
There was a pause, which Margaret broke with an exasperated sigh.
“That is not what angers me, Malle,” she said tersely. “Anything could have happened to you. We would not have known where you were—you could have been arrested for God’s sake! Why did you do such a thing?”
Malle passed a hand over her eyes for a moment. “I went to the graveyard as you told me to, Mammy,” she began, then she began to tell her mother the story of the book of condolence and how she had gone to the grave and wept over the gravestone. She omitted Craig’s part in the story altogether, but when she told her mother about Father John, she was delighted.
“Father John Baxter?” she asked in disbelief.
Malle nodded. “Do you know him?”
“Indeed I do!” she replied, smiling from ear to ear. “From ages ago. He Christened me.”
“He did not mention it,” Malle remarked doubtfully.
“I was very
small at the time!” she answered, and they laughed. “He would not have recognized me. My name has changed, and I am probably one of hundreds of babies he Christened over the years.” She was silent again for a moment. “Malle, I must ask you never to do such a thing again. And I know you are not accustomed to taking a guard out with you on our own land, but please do so from now on.” She looked out of the window and shook her head in puzzlement. “I have a strange uneasy feeling that something bad is going on around here. I have no idea what it is, but until we find out, it is better to be safe than sorry. Please obey me next time, Daughter. I would hate to have to confine you to the castle.”
“You are right, Mammy,” she conceded. “It was foolish of me to do what I did.”
“I will not tell your father—this time, Malle. But there are no second chances, do you understand?”
Malle looked into her mother’s eyes, which were so like her own, and said, “I promise, Mammy, and thank you.” She knew that her mother was a woman of her word, and whatever she said she meant.
“Did you find out anything else, Mammy?” she asked.
“A lot of interesting bits and pieces, but nothing that can help us,” Margaret replied. She went to pour them both a glass of wine, then they went through to the parlor where they sat in comfortable silence with their arms around each other. Malle loved this part of the day, and being with her mother was the best part of all.
However, memories of the day could not be kept away forever, and although the last few hours had been quiet and contented, now that her mind was not occupied with anything else, she found that the memory of the kiss had come back to her with full force.
It had only been unpleasant for the first few seconds; after that she had given herself up to it with great delight. If she closed her eyes she could feel the rasp of his beard against the soft skin of her cheek, and the hard muscle of his chest under her hands as she made a futile attempt to push him away. Strangely though, in the first few seconds after the kiss he had looked just as confused as she felt.
She got into bed and lay for a while looking into the darkness. A half moon was making its way across the sky, and she wondered what it would feel like to be lying here in her soft bed with a strong man’s arm around her, sheltering and protecting her.
Her mother had already told her about the mysteries of love, so she would not be entirely unprepared for marriage, but the thought made her shiver with both fear and anticipation. She knew that she did not want a huge man like Craig, and wondered for the first time what Donnan had looked like. The name had always conjured up younger versions of her father; average height, wiry, and pleasant-faced, if not exactly handsome.
She had seen one painting of Isobell, which was no doubt highly stylized, but she had been a stunning beauty, with fair hair, brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a full, well-shaped mouth.
Malle sighed. She was exhausted, but she tossed and turned for a long time before she drifted off to sleep.
Then she plunged straight into the terrifying world of a nightmare.
* * *
She was standing in a beautiful forest under the light of a full moon, enchanted by the world around her. The air was balmy, as it sometimes was in a summer twilight, and all the branches of the trees were gilded in silver. Every leaf underfoot was outlined in the same way, and even though she was walking barefoot, none of the twigs or pine needles scratched her. She sighed, then took a great breath of air, scented with a fresh fragrance of the conifers around her. It was paradise, and she hugged herself and closed her eyes, tilting her face to the moon and smiling.
When she opened them again she screamed. Instead of the slim evergreens she had seen a moment before, there were huge trees with thick, gnarled trunks and branches that blotted out the moonlight. Every tree had a tombstone in front of it, and the name “Malle MacEwan” was on every one. The sight sent a shaft of fear into her that was so strong that she screamed. She saw her birthday on each one of them, but the date of her death was different on every stone, so she had no idea which was the right one.
She could not move. Her feet seemed to be stuck to the forest floor; she pulled and tugged, then bent her knees and tried to jump, but nothing worked. She was trapped in the middle of a forest of tombstones, and she could go nowhere. She knelt down and wept with sheer terror and despair, then she felt a hand on each of her shoulders.
She looked up. Silhouetted against the moon was the shape of a tall man’s head. The rest of him was in darkness, but as soon as he spoke she knew who it was.
“Get up, Malle,” Craig said. However, his voice, unlike its usual gravelly tone, was silky. “Kiss me and I will free you.”
She tilted her face up to his, then felt his mouth come down on hers, sweetly and tenderly. The kiss lasted for a few moments, then he drew away, but when she opened her eyes he was nowhere to be seen. However, he had kept his promise; when she tried to lift her feet again it was easy, and she sighed with relief. The slim conifer trees had returned and there were no grave markers anywhere.
She took a step forward and screamed. The ground beneath her feet was no longer soft and yielding, but covered in sharp stones and broken seashells that cut into the tender soles of her feet and made her weep tears of pain. She could not stop walking, for that made the pain even worse, so she labored on. She looked up once, and Craig was standing a hundred yards away, laughing.
At last she got to the end of the rocky patch and looked up to scream at Craig, but he was gone; all that was left of him was his mocking laughter.
10
Another Killing
Malle woke up with a start. She could tell by the position of the half-moon that it was still very early in the morning, and that dawn was still hours away. Still half in the dream, she checked her feet for cuts and bruises, and was surprised to find that they were smooth and unmarked, without a trace of blood anywhere.
She sank back on her pillow with a feeling of complete relief, but an even stronger feeling of resentment against Craig Dunbar than before. She had asked him to leave her alone, but now he was even invading her dreams!
She turned over and closed her eyes, expecting to struggle to go to sleep, but she slipped away immediately, and slumbered dreamlessly for the rest of the night.
She woke to the sound of angry voices reaching her faintly from outside, and jumped out of bed to run along the passage to a room overlooking the courtyard. There she saw a crowd of men yelling at each other, and since each one was trying to be the loudest so that he could be heard over the din, the noise was almost deafening.
Malle ran back to her room and dressed hastily. She could wash later, she decided; this was far more important. She ran downstairs barefoot without making a sound, just in time to see a tall, bearded, redheaded man striding into the courtyard. Craig Dunbar plowed into the throng, scattering men right and left as he made his way to the front of the crowd.
“Enough!” he cried. He was wearing his claymore by his side, and he kept his hand on it as he spoke. How dare he walk into this castle as if he owned it? Malle was staggered by his arrogance, and even more so when his father joined him.
Then she saw the most baffling and outrageous thing of all; her own father and mother came out to join them. The two families kept a wary distance from each other, but one clan was in enemy territory, and was not suffering for it. What was going on here? Malle was raging.
She drew closer and stood at the back of the crowd to listen. They were all rough working men, and every one of them was furious.
“You might be wondering what made the Dunbars and the MacEwans come together like this,” he began. “I thank Laird MacEwan for allowing us on his land, as this is because of a situation that concerns both our families and all of you.”
There was a low rumbling from a few dozen men’s voices at this announcement. The MacEwan workers were not happy that the Dunbar workers were there on what they considered to be their territory, even though it belonged to their Laird, and
the Dunbar laborers were not happy either, feeling threatened and endangered on their enemy’s land.
At the moment that Craig began to speak, one of the MacEwan workers stood up to shout at him. “Whit are ye here for big man? Ye’re no gaunnae dae onythin’ wi’ that big knife!”
For answer, Craig sighed, unbuckled the claymore, and dropped it on the ground, then stood in front of the man, chest to chest, spreading his arms out in a crucifix shape. “Do your worst, my man,” he said reasonably. “I will not stop you.”
The man gulped and took a step back, looking embarrassed, and Craig took a small flask of whisky from the pouch at the side of his kilt. He held it up to its owner then handed it to Laird MacEwan.
“If this happens again I will flatten you,” he informed him, then he pushed him away. There was an angry murmur among the MacEwan workers. Someone shouted an insult at someone else, a bit of pushing and punching began, and a scuffle broke out between the two sides. Craig cast his eyes heavenward and plunged into the fray again. This time he cracked two heads together, one from each side. Then he roared: “Stad!” in Gaelic. “Stop!” and silence fell immediately.
Despite herself, Malle was impressed, not only by the volume of his voice, but by the instant obedience of his men. Her father had also been going around separating scuffling men from each other, but he did not have Craig’s deep voice, which sounded like the deepest drumbeat she had ever heard.
Now she wanted to join her family, feeling threatened by the rough men around her. She pushed past Craig and he glared down at her, opening his mouth to snap at her, but she tilted her head back and smiled in a smug fashion. “Please say whatever is on your mind, Dunbar,” she invited him. “But have a care. We are on my ground now.”
Duty And Passion In The Highlands: A Scottish Medieval Historical Highlander Collection Page 6