“And what do you do in your free time?” Malcolm asked Kenneth.
“I play chess with Malle,” he replied. “And I tell Malle stories as if she was still a little girl. And please forgive me, but they are mostly about how we defeated the Dunbars.”
“She sat on his lap until two years ago!” Margaret laughed.
“Do not worry,” Craig said, smiling down at Malle, “I heard the same ones about the MacEwans, but we will not tell them anymore. We will make happier ones. Is she a good chess player?” Craig asked, as if she were not there.
“Indeed she is,” Kenneth answered proudly. “She wins most of our games.” He smiled at his daughter.
“I will have to challenge her!” Craig was laughing, and Margaret laughed too as she watched him and Malle together. It was quite obvious that they adored each other. Malle was everything to her, and the thought of giving her to a careless or cruel man terrified her. However, now that she had met Craig, Margaret needed no more reassurance. She had a feeling that the stories about the Dunbars would continue, but they would have a very different context.
19
The Letter
Malle, despite sleeping during the day, found herself utterly exhausted that night, and fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. She was slumbering so deeply that when Craig crept into her room, having removed all but a tiny piece of the bandage on his foot, she did not even stir.
He knelt by her bed to watch her sleep, her face silvered by the moonlight streaming through the window. Knowing that she was near, he had been unable to stay away, and now he took her hand from where it lay on the coverlet and kissed it.
We will be together soon, my Malle, he thought, smiling.
Presently, however, she said softly, “I know you are there, Dunbar.” Then she smiled and opened her eyes. “Have you come to talk to me?”
He was surprised. “You told me you were a heavy sleeper, so I came to look at you,” he whispered. “The way I did yesterday. I like watching you sleep.”
“I am, and you did not make a sound. I felt you here.” Malle suddenly pulled the covers back. “Come in for a moment, I want to talk to you.”
He hesitated, frowning. “If anyone comes in—”
“No one will come in,” she reassured him. “Anyway, we are only talking, and we are betrothed.”
He needed no second bidding, but climbed into bed and slid under the covers with her, then took her hands and held them to his chest.
“I could stay here forever,” he whispered as he nestled beside her in a cocoon of warmth and comfort.
She giggled, then ran her fingers down his beard as her face became solemn again. “Do you think it is fanciful to believe that Donnan and Isobell were somehow guiding us?” she asked. “Do you think they wanted us to put right what they could not? Mungo Bruce killed Isobell in the past for marrying a Dunbar, and Alan tried to make sure that history repeated itself. Perhaps they have finally managed to get retribution for the wrong that was done to them by killing a Bruce and marrying two enemies.”
Craig thought for a moment. “I think that if that were the case,” he mused, “they would give us a sign.”
“What kind of sign?” Malle asked.
Craig shook his head. “I have no idea. Perhaps you are right, you are being fanciful! Do you not think it more likely that we just fell in love?”
Suddenly he pulled her to him and gave her a long, smoldering kiss.
“No,” she gasped, as she pushed him away. “Not yet, my love.”
“Give yourself peace, Malle,” he said tenderly. “I was just slaking my thirst. I have wanted to do that ever since the last kiss!” Then he slipped out from underneath the sheets and left, turning to smile at her as he closed the door behind him.
After breakfast the next day, Malle took out the letters and diary from her saddlebag and showed them to Craig. Malcolm was looking over his shoulder and was intrigued when he saw them. His eyes lit up when he read the entry from Isobell’s diary and the letter from Mungo to Isobell.
“And as we now know, Mungo killed Isobell, or got some poor girl to do it,” he said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “The story goes that he did not live long after that. I have a notion that there is a letter, or maybe several letters to Donnan Dunbar somewhere here. He was a frequent letter writer, so I have heard, even though paper was quite hard to come by in those days.”
Malcolm stood, thinking for a moment, then turned decisively to Craig. “Well, big man, since you are doing nothing more profitable today, I nominate you to begin the search!” he said generously, as if bestowing a great gift.
“Where would you like me to start?” Craig asked, bewildered. “Father, there are seventy bedrooms in this castle!”
“You are a sensible fellow,” Malcolm said comfortably, patting his son’s shoulder. “I am sure you can find it.”
“Where are you going?” Craig asked, frowning.
Kenneth turned to Craig, grinning. “Your father and I are going to celebrate our new friendship with a spot of rabbit hunting!” he announced.
“And a wee bit of usquebae!” Malcolm added, holding up a flask of whisky. Then they left, laughing, joking, and punching each other like two little boys playing.
“Oh, my goodness!” Margaret said, putting her hand over her mouth and laughing. “What have we started?”
“They have gone back to their second childhood, Mammy!” Malle suggested, smiling and shaking her head.
“If they ever left it,” Craig remarked grimly.
Despite its size, there were not many places in the castle that were unfamiliar to Craig. He searched storerooms, bedrooms, and cupboards, and uncovered dozens of mouse nests, and spiders by the thousands, but there was no letter anywhere.
At last, exhausted, he went back to the parlor for a drink of ale, only to find Margaret and Malle reading a large sheet of paper which had been carefully preserved in a slim leather folio.
They looked up when he entered, and Malle held the paper out to him, her face a picture of sorrow. He frowned as he took it from her. “Is this what I think it is?” he demanded.
“I believe so,” Malle replied quietly.
“What is wrong, my love?” Craig asked, alarmed.
“Read the letter,” Malle instructed.
Craig began to read, and felt the sadness coming off the paper as if it was a physical thing, like a mist that had been trapped inside the folio, passed down through the years and only let loose when it was opened. He fancied he could smell it.
Donnan had written to Jamie in Thurso, telling him about Isobell’s death and the funeral, and asking his permission to join him in the Monastery of St Kentigern.
* * *
Dear Jamie,
* * *
When I saw my darling girl in the coffin, it was as though God’s light was shining through her. All the cares of the world had left her and her beautiful face was serene and untroubled. She looked peaceful as I had never before seen her in life, and there was a trace of a smile around her lips. I could almost imagine that she was still alive, were it not for the pallor of her skin, which was as white as milk. I only cried when I saw the coffin lid closing, thinking of my darling Isobell lying in the cold ground unable to get out of that box. I almost wished I was with her.
My dear brother, I feel as if my heart has been ripped out. I cannot go on without her. Is there a place for me in the monastery? I do not want to stay here where she died. There are too many memories of her.
* * *
Your loving brother,
Donnan
* * *
The reply was written on the bottom of the same sheet of paper:
* * *
Dear Donnan,
* * *
I have explained your situation to the Abbot Peter and he will be happy to welcome you as a lay brother. I am distraught to hear about Isobell’s death. She was a wonderful soul, and I cannot imagine your grief. However, you are both in my thoug
hts and prayers, and you can console yourself with knowing that she is now with God. Come as soon as you wish.
* * *
Your loving brother,
Jamie
* * *
Margaret read the letter again, then nodded. “We read in Isobell’s grandmother’s diary that the family all mistrusted Donnan, but it was so obvious that he loved her. Everyone said so at the time, and it has come down to us over hundreds of years. Now we know that Mungo did it—we will not count the poor servant girl, since she was another one of Mungo’s victims—this makes it even sadder. He loved Isobell so much that he could not live without her. The poor man.”
“That is so sad.” Malle sighed. “He died of a broken heart, and yet I read in one of the diaries that he did not look sad at all, which is why so many of the family suspected him of killing her.”
“Some people are just made that way, Malle. They cannot show their feelings. Who knows if he wept when no one could see him? We should not judge.”
“I never did.” Then she thought of something. “There are no Bruces anymore, are there Craig?”
“There is Alan Bruce the Younger,” he replied, “but he is only twelve years old and nothing like his father. In fact, since Alan used to beat him, he is quite glad that he is dead, and I am taking him under my wing. His wife is glad too. He beat three babies out of her. We want no more like Alan the Elder here. Even before he died, I began to hear all kinds of tales about him, and I did not believe them. I saw what I wanted to see, I suppose, but when he attacked us I realized all the stories were true. A fine judge of character is Craig Dunbar!” His voice was bitter.
“He was your family’s friend for years, my love,” she pointed out. “Of course you thought the best of him. That is natural, and it makes you a better man, not a worse one.” She looked up into the deep dark gray eyes and felt herself melt inside.
“You make me a better man,” Craig said huskily. “And I cannot wait for you to be my wife.” Then he cupped her face in his and kissed her with all the passion he possessed, glad that he would not have to wait much longer.
When it was over, Malle was breathless and her eyes were bright. “You know, I think I love you now as much as I hated you when we first met!”
He laughed and hugged her as tightly as he dared with her bruised ribs. “Do you have to go home tonight?” he asked sadly. “Please stay another day.”
“I have to get back,” she whispered.
“Why?” He sounded quite sad.
“Because Mammy and I have a wedding dress to make!” she reminded him.
Just then the door opened and the two lairds lurched through it, looking distinctly the worse for wear. They were both smiling broadly and had their arms around each other. Kenneth held up a brace of rabbits, and Malcolm had another two.
“Is there anything left of the whisky?” Craig asked suspiciously.
“Not a drop,” Malcolm said proudly. “We drank all of it, didn’t we, Kenny?”
“Aye, Malky, we did!” Kenneth replied, laughing. In a moment they were both giggling like girls, and a few minutes later they fell asleep, sprawled inelegantly all over the couches.
“Oh, God!” Craig said, pretending to be horrified. “What kind of monsters have we created?”
“They look as though they have been friends forever,” Malle remarked. “It is good to see, but they will be very sorry in the morning. We will have to go and prepare the willow bark tea!”
Just then Margaret came back into the room. She took one look at the sleeping pair and made a strange growling noise that Malle had never heard her make before. She marched over to where Kenneth was lying and slapped his face until he opened his eyes and looked into hers with a dazed, unfocused gaze.
“You’re drunk,” Margaret said in a voice that sounded like ground glass.
Kenneth said nothing, but gave her a bleary smile. Margaret stood up and put her hands on her hips, her face like a thundercloud.
“May we trespass on your hospitality again, Craig?” she asked, embarrassed.
“I was going to offer it,” he replied, smiling at her kindly. “I will see to these two creatures.”
“Thank you so much,” Margaret breathed. “I am going to kill him in the morning.”
“She has killed him so many times I have lost count,” Malle said dryly.
Craig put an arm around her shoulders. “At least one good thing has come out of it,” he remarked, grinning.
“And what is that?” Malle asked suspiciously.
“You are staying here tonight!” he cried in triumph.
20
The Wedding
Malle’s dress was breathtaking, as everyone who saw it said. Margaret had spent weeks sewing it, and she did not stop until every stitch was perfect, and the gown fit Malle like a second skin. It was made of the lightest gray satin, and its pale color was a perfect foil for the river of dark hair that flowed down her back. The dress had a long train, and long fitted sleeves that ended in a point. The waist was high at the back and dropped into a flat point at the front, with pleats of fabric fanning out from underneath it. It had a modest round neckline, and Malle was glad of this, since she did not want her wedding gown to be too revealing.
The reason that Malle’s hair was not tied up in its usual knot was that Craig had asked her to leave it loose, and since it was such a small request, she had agreed. She carried a bouquet of white heather, which was quite difficult to come by and was meant to bring good luck, and around her neck she wore a daisy chain like the ones she used to make as a child from the tiny white blossoms in the fields around the castle. It was a childlike innocent touch and Malle loved it. So did Margaret, who had suggested it.
Malle had finished her ensemble with some silver hanging earrings lent to her by her mother, and when she put them on her wedding finery was complete.
Margaret looked at her and almost burst into tears. “My little girl is leaving,” she said hoarsely. “What am I going to do without you, Malle?”
Malle laughed and hugged her.
“Mammy, there are not enough hours in the day for you to do all the things you need to!” She laughed. “You will never be bored, I promise. And we are not too far away—we can visit. Travel is safer now that there is no feud. And I am in love, Mammy. You have no idea how much I love Craig.”
“I think I do,” Margaret replied, as Malle’s father walked in.
“Ready, love? You look ravishing, and I have never been so proud of you.” His voice was thick with emotion as he hugged and kissed her. “Come on darling, your bridegroom awaits!”
Craig’s hands were shaking. He had never been so nervous in all his life, and it was strange because he had been wanting this day to come for months. Now that it was here though, he thought of the enormity of what he was doing. He was entrusting his life and his happiness into the care of another, and he was taking on the responsibility of looking after her and their children—if they were blessed with any—forever. It was an enormous burden to shoulder, and it terrified him.
He tried to imagine himself with a baby in his arms. A little boy was usually preferred, but in their case they wanted a little Isobell. They had not discussed the name; it had just seemed right. He smiled at the thought of it, but it only brought home to him what he was doing even more forcefully.
This was the most important day of his life, and he prayed to God he could get through it without spilling his wine at Holy Communion or tripping over his own feet. All he wanted was to be safely married so that he could wrap his Malle in his arms and hold her close all night to protect her from any more Alan Bruces. As any man would, he wanted to possess her body, but the thought of holding her after loving her was glorious.
Just then, his father came in. He looked his son up and down, then smiled broadly. He was still a handsome man in his own right, tall and broad like his son, with just a few streaks of gray through his red hair, which he kept short.
“You look grand, m
y son,” he said proudly, clapping Craig on the back. He stood back to look at him, and his eyes became a little moist. “If only your mother was here,” he said sadly. Craig’s mother had been one of the many women who died in childbirth, and Malcolm Dunbar had never remarried because he had never found another woman to love.
“I wish it too, Father. I would love to have met her, but she will be looking down on us from heaven, will she not?”
“Aye.” His father wiped his eyes. “Look at me, acting like a maid!”
“I understand.” Craig put his arm around Malcolm’s shoulders. “If I lost Malle I would feel the same.”
“Then I hope you never do.” His father put a hand in his pocket and drew out a little chased silver box, which he gave to Craig. He opened it, and inside was a gold crucifix on a gold chain. It sparkled and winked in the sunlight, and Craig smiled and caught his breath at its beauty.
“From your mother,” he said, and his voice was very loving. “She knew she was dying and she made me buy it for you to give you on your wedding day. She wanted you to pass it on to your son or daughter when it fits them.”
He reached around Craig’s neck and fastened the chain so that the cross hung down to his chest, resting against the slight dusting of reddish hair.
Father and son hugged each other, then Malcolm said, “Time to go, Son.”
Craig nodded and took a deep breath, then he and Malcolm walked out to the chapel so Craig could meet his destiny.
Duty And Passion In The Highlands: A Scottish Medieval Historical Highlander Collection Page 12