The Laird's Vow

by Heather Grothaus

  “It’s nae hearsay! I was there—”

  Harriet’s words were cut off by a loud pounding on the hall doors, and then a woman’s voice was heard crying out for assistance.

  The king stood and motioned the soldiers to the doors. When they opened them, Anne fell through into a guard’s arms.

  “Mistress, mistress!” she gasped. “Miss Glenna! Quickly, the laird!”

  The other soldiers had dashed into the corridor, and there was a shuffling commotion. Tavish was already striding up the aisle, pushing people aside. Anne broke free and ran to Glenna, falling to her knees at her feet.

  “Forgive me, forgive me,” she sobbed. “He said you wanted him. He said he was needed. He was so kind. But then he just left him in the corridor and ran away.”

  Glenna crouched down. “Anne, what are you talking about? Who left—?” The crowd’s gasp drew Glenna’s attention.

  Tavish was walking back toward her, his arms cradling the body of Iain Douglas, his form no bigger than that of a child’s outside of his mountain of covers.

  “Da,” Glenna breathed and left Anne on the floor.

  “Bring some benches,” Tavish ordered. “Set them before the king’s table.”

  Two benches were pushed together and Glenna sat on one end while Tavish laid her father’s head on her lap and then stood to address the king.

  “My liege, Iain Douglas of Roscraig.”

  Vaughn Hargrave shot to his feet again. “I demand he be taken away, at once. He’s a commoner, and nearly dead, besides. What good is a silent testimony?”

  “Not silent!” Harriet shouted and strode forward, her hand sliding into her double-fronted apron, from which she produced a sheaf of pages, rattling audibly with her trembling. “It’s here! In his own hand.” She held the pages toward the king, who only stared at her, then to the crier, who did much the same; and then back to the king. She was panting with nerves. “It’s all here,” she said again. “What I was tryin’ to tell you, Your Majesty.”

  James motioned to the crier after what seemed like eternity. “Let it be read,” he said at last.

  Harriet backed up several paces and sank to the bench at Iain Douglas’s feet. Tavish stood behind her.

  The crier shook the wrinkled pages smooth and then cleared his throat again with a frown for them all.

  * * * *

  “I was a servant in the house of Lady Myra Annesley, given to the family by my parents when I was six years in order to escape the feuding of Carson Town. My duty was as a page until I reached my majority at nine, and Lord Tenred decided that I was to be educated in order to be a companion protector to his only son, young Thomas, four years my junior. I made my home in Roscraig village while the family was away, and in the Tower when they were in residence.

  “After the lord and lady died, Thomas did not return to Roscraig until the spring of the year 1427, when I was a score and two. He told me his betrothed had been killed by her father, and the woman he traveled with was escaping that same man, by name, Lord Vaughn Hargrave.

  “He bade me grant Meg sanctuary, and oversee the Tower until he returned with proof of his innocence. I agreed. I did not expect that a fine, educated lady such as was Margaret could ever love the likes of me. But we married, and she gave birth to a daughter, our own Glenna.

  “Vaughn Hargrave arrived at Roscraig when our bairn was only a fortnight old. He claimed Margaret was his runaway servant, and that if she did not return to her position in his house, he would have her and our bairn jailed. If she went with him willingly, and if I never told, he would leave the gel with me and would let us be as long as Thomas Annesley did not return. I begged Meg to refuse—she had warned me that if Hargrave ever found her, he would kill her. But now that she was a mother, her only thoughts were for keeping our daughter safe. And so she left with him. I never saw Meg again.

  “A terrible illness took over the village upon their leaving; nearly half the villagers died, and so I said that their lady had also succumbed. I was called laird from that time forward—the Annesleys were by then forgotten, by all save for me. I never forgot my friend Thomas, who had delivered to me the love of my life.

  “I know Vaughn Hargrave killed my wife, Margaret Douglas. He is a monster. But the Tower belongs to and always has belonged to Thomas Annesley, and now his son. I beg mercy for my daughter, Glenna; and also forgiveness from her. Her mother was the greatest lady I have ever known.

  “I swear it on my deathbed before God and Harriet Cameron.

  “Iain Douglas

  “Tower Roscraig

  “June, 1458.”

  The hall was silent for several moments until the king said, “Iain Douglas, is this the whole of your testimony?”

  Glenna cradled her father’s head as tears streamed down her cheeks. He tried to nod; drool ran from his gaping mouth, his chest heaved with each breath.

  Then his curled arm lifted from his chest, his good eye rolled toward the chairs, and his emaciated wrist hooked toward Vaughn Hargrave.

  “Mon-ster,” he slurred and then gasped, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  Tavish went to Iain’s side, and he looked to the king. “My liege, we should return him to his bed.”

  James nodded and motioned to his guards. “A moment, though. This man has risked his life to be in this court today, and so it is only just that he remain the last few moments to hear my judgment.” All eyes were on the king when next he spoke, and it was as though everyone in the hall held their breath.

  “It cannot be disputed that Tower Roscraig has rightfully been bequeathed to Tavish Cameron,” the king said. “And as I can think of no lawful reason to deny him his birthright, I declare that he is laird of Roscraig, recognized fully by the Crown.”

  Glenna looked to Tavish and he smiled when Harriet gripped his shoulder.

  “However,” the king continued, “I cannot in good conscience declare that Glenna Douglas’s claim is without merit, considering the trials she and her father have suffered in the years since Iain Douglas took guardianship. The loss of a mother, a wife; of livelihood and community. Therefore, in reparation for the damage done to her reputation in the preceding months, and to condone in the eyes of the church the relationship that has perhaps already been begun, I decree that Tavish Cameron and Glenna Douglas shall be married.” The crowd gasped. And then the king added, “Immediately. Call for my priest. Hurry, man—Douglas is fading.”

  “What is happening?” Glenna asked as Tavish pulled her to her feet and Harriet took her place beneath Iain’s head.

  “You can’t refuse,” Tavish murmured, bringing her to stand before the table. “The king commands it.”

  “I object,” Hargrave’s voice rang out. “What of my investment? Thirty years of taxes that went into your coffers!”

  James sighed. “Very well, Hargrave. If I grant you a boon, will you leave my presence?”

  Hargrave’s face mottled. “If the amount is sufficient.”

  James shot to his feet and roared, “Whatever I determine shall be sufficient!” He reined his temper and sat as the priest approached Glenna and Tavish. “The equal of five years’ taxes. Do you agree, Cameron?”

  Tavish nodded. “Aye, my liege.”

  “But, my liege,” Hargrave began in a cajoling tone, “only five—”

  “You were never under obligation to Roscraig, Hargrave,” the king said, cutting the complaint short. “Consider yourself fortunate to recuperate anything at all, and that I have no evidence to bring charges against you this day.” James looked away from him and flicked his fingers at the priest. “Go on.”

  In moments, Glenna was answering the priest numbly, listening to Tavish respond in kind. There was a blessing, and polite applause rose in the hall.

  “Is that all?” she asked him. “Is that really it?”

  “Are you disappoint
ed?” He smiled into her face. “Because I’m not.”

  “I have spoken my judgment,” the king said. “You’re all dismissed. I’ll return to Edinburgh at once where the madness is of my own making.” He stood from his chair and quit the room, leaving the audience to bow at his passing.

  The guards appeared. “Should we take him now, milady?”

  Glenna nodded and pulled her hands from Tavish’s. “Aye. Follow me.”

  * * * *

  Iain was tucked into his bed at last, his color gone now. Glenna knew he was at last slipping away. But his voice called to her, a groan, a click of tongue. She leaned close.

  “Dubhán,” he whispered.

  Glenna felt her face crumple. It truly was time, and he knew. He was at last asking for the monk’s blessing.

  “I’ll go,” Tavish said. “I would have Hargrave’s coin in his hand and send him on his way before I truly do kill him.”

  Iain moaned. No.

  “’Lenna.”

  “All right, I’ll go,” she agreed, leaning down to lay the side of her face against his sunken and bony cheek. She closed her eyes. “I’ll go now, Da. Right now.” She pressed her lips to his temple.

  Glenna rose and swept from the room, Tavish at her heels. She heard him call to the guards to bring rope, and they loosed two horses from the king’s party tied beyond the bridge and raced up the cliff path. Dubhán appeared to have been waiting for them, and Glenna began calling for him before she had reined her horse to a halt.

  “Dubhán, Dubhán,” she sobbed and slid from the saddle.

  He walked toward her calmly. “What troubles you, Lady Glenna?”

  “It’s Da,” she said, falling into his arms. Dubhán, who had been here as long as she could recall, watching over the graves, watching over her. “He’s asking for you at last. I don’t think he has much time left.”

  Dubhán cradled her face in his smooth palms, the sweet smell of him filling her disoriented senses. “Praise to him,” he said with a smile and kissed Glenna’s forehead between her eyebrows. “At last.”

  “Take my horse,” she said. “I will follow with Tavish.”

  Dubhán nodded serenely and went astride, his stained slippers dangling outside the stirrups. He turned the horse easily and disappeared into the trees, passing the pair of riders bearing the rope for Tavish’s descent. She felt a sprinkle of rain on her crown.

  “Hurry, Tavish,” she urged as he was lowered over the side.

  It seemed like he was gone for ages, but it was only moments later that she heard his shout and the guards began to pull him up. He carried the trunk easily, and when he gained the solid ground in the dampening clearing, he hurled the trunk toward the graves with a roar, where it burst apart against a stone in a shower of splinters, empty.

  Glenna’s stomach turned.

  Hoofbeats sounded in the clearing, and Glenna turned to see Hargrave arriving with an order of the king’s men, including the priest who had married them. The old cleric looked around the clearing with what appeared to be pleasant surprise.

  “Where’s my coin, Cameron?” Hargrave demanded with a smile.

  Tavish charged him, causing the horse to shy. The king’s men dismounted and pulled him away, but Tavish shook them off. “You took it! You knew it was gone the entire time!”

  “My dear man,” Hargrave said in mock offense. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I’ve only come for what pittance your foolish king has determined is mine. If you do not pay me, you must declare forfeit.” He looked to the guards surrounding them. “I’m fine—he’ll not harm me. I’ll grant him a grace for the time. You may leave us. That’s right—go on, go on. Leave us.”

  The soldiers reluctantly gained their mounts and turned to the cliff path again, leaving only the old priest behind to wander through the grave markers some distance away.

  “I told you this on the occasion of our first meeting,” Hargrave said to Tavish when they were alone. “Accuse me all you like, but I never lower myself to perform all the base acts you would accuse me of. No, no,” he denied. “They are beneath me. You doubt my power. But perhaps you will not after today.”

  He looked to Glenna with an expression of indulgence on his face. “You ignorant little slut. Your mother was not my servant. She was my whore,” he said with a smile. “Just like the bitch who couldn’t keep her feet at court. Only…prettier. A whore, though, whom I took a fancy to in London. I bought her.”

  He leaned forward in the saddle. “From a whoremonger. And I took her to Darlyrede and dressed her in pretty clothes and taught her how to speak. She tutored my daughter in the day and I fucked her at night. She was well trained, and she bled so very well. But the bitch bit the hand that had pulled her by her scruff from the gutter. And so after she whelped you, I hunted her down and I put her back in the gutter.”

  Tavish rushed the man again, but he stopped as Hargrave pulled a small arquebus from the voluminous folds of his cape and rested it across his forearm, leveling it directly at Tavish’s chest.

  Then he leaned back, and his face resumed its mildly amused smile as he looked once more to Glenna. “Her grave on this hill is empty. She died screaming. And if it weren’t for your idiot king’s protection, you would have died screaming, too.” His smile broadened, and Glenna saw the insanity in his eyes. “You may yet.”

  “You did kill her,” Glenna choked.

  Hargrave chuckled and leaned over the arquebus balanced on the front of his saddle as if preparing to deliver a wonderful joke. “You’ve heard nothing I’ve said, you stupid bitch That’s the best part—I actually didn’t kill her. But I confess, I did want to.” He began to turn his horse. “I shall see the pair of you again.”

  He sped into the trees just as the king’s priest approached them; his face wore an expression of bemused pleasure.

  “Who has been caring for the old hermitage?” he asked in delight. “It’s marvelous—some of the stones are very old. Likely the bones of a saint are buried somewhere here. We thought it had all collapsed into the sea years ago.”

  “Dubhán, the monk,” Glenna stuttered inanely, running her hands into her hair. “He’s…a Franciscan.”

  The priest’s mouth turned down a bit. “Not to refute you, milady, but I am a Franciscan. There has been no one missioned to the cave in two score year.”

  Glenna frowned. “You must be mistaken, Father,” she said, and Tavish left her side to begin walking toward the vined hermitage. “Dubhán was— Tavish?”

  But he was pushing the door open, walking inside.

  In that moment, the years of Glenna’s youth bubbled up around her, conversations, warnings from her father. Snippets of Dubhán’s strange way of speaking. She began walking toward the cottage.

  Tavish emerged just as she reached the doorway, and the sweet smell that always surrounded the dark man bloomed from the cottage. Tavish caught her by the shoulders.

  “Glenna, no,” he said. “Don’t.”

  She pulled away from him and entered. But then she staggered back with a strangled shriek.

  Frang Roy’s body was tied to a chair at a table, where a meal had been laid; over the hearth hung a crucifix, its corpus defiled. And along the stones of the chimney were laid row after row of human bones, the corners topped with grinning skulls and decorated with bundles of dried roots and herbs, pouches like the one still hidden behind Glenna’s wardrobe.

  Before the edifice, a square in the floor was shifted slightly off angle. Tavish reached down and pulled the square away, revealing a dark tunnel and ladder, and the hush of waves whispered from the blackness.

  He looked up at her, and she knew what he was thinking, but all she could say was, “Tavish, Dubhán is with my father.”

  * * * *

  Dubhán walked on silent feet into Iain Douglas’s chamber. He hadn’t been inside this room in
the daylight for nearly thirty years. The old man lay on his bed, a pretty maid and the fat Harriet at his side.

  “Oh, Dubhán,” the old woman cried, “thank God you’ve come.”

  He smiled at them all. “I should always come when duty to my lord calls me. Will you give the laird privacy to confess his sins?”

  They left so easily. So mildly. He slid the bolt after them, without a whisper of sound. He had the gift of silence, after so many years being surrounded by bones and ghosts.

  It gave one a greater appreciation for the screams.

  He approached the bed, his hands already outstretched. He had waited so long to fulfill this, his final duty. Then his debt would be paid. It must be paid.

  Iain’s eyes opened. “Dubhán,” he slurred.

  “Hello, old friend,” he said in a singsong. “You called for me and I came.”

  “Tell,” Iain said. “Meck.”

  “Meg?” Dubhán repeated with interest. “Of course. Meg. So lovely. My favorite.” He smoothed the blankets over Iain’s thin form, creased them, caressed the dying man’s hairless head. “I kept her the longest, you know. I made her last. Her skull—ah! So finely turned! It has a place of honor. The lord has used my talents well.”

  “Har-cray.”

  “Aye. He was my savior from the slave market. The white men would have used me as a tool; Lord Hargrave taught me how to make tools. And poison. Poison that can be masked as a sacrament; sickness that can be blamed on plague.” He caressed Iain’s head again. “I was supposed to have killed you long ago. But I wanted you to come to me. I knew you had to know. And I knew that, if I was very patient, you would ask. Now I can tell you.”

  Dubhán leaned down to Iain’s ear. “She lived for almost a year after the lord gave her to me,” he whispered, his words so quiet he could barely hear them himself. “Meg. Meg. Meg. I love her name. I love saying it. Sometimes I would chain her to the gravestone that bears her name and let her watch the Towe—”

  Dubhán felt a hot pinch in his diaphragm, and he leaned back to look down.

  The time-worn hilt of an old dagger was protruding from his abdomen.