A Night of Angels

by Andersen, Maggi

  Calum breathed in the pungent smell of pine, filling his lungs with intoxicating air. Only three days had passed since he’d returned to his father’s lands, and already the bonds of blood and heritage, abandoned during his fosterage, had been forged anew. An ancient, territorial desire to protect what belonged to him and his kin already burned within him.

  “You’ll see it soon enough.” He glanced over at Ailsa, who sat her dun Highland pony with practiced ease. The rich blue of her woolen cloak suited her, he thought, as did the edging of fox fur around her hood, which came near to matching her hair. “’Tis on the other side of these woods.”

  He wondered if the place would be as beautiful as he recalled, or if his childhood memory of it had become falsely enhanced over time. A short while later, when they exited the pine woods, he had his answer.

  “Oh, Calum.” Ailsa reined in her horse and gazed over the hidden glen. “’Tis beyond beautiful! Like a wee slice of Heaven.”

  Calum felt his spirit stir. “’Tis called Lorg Coise Dhè.”

  Ailsa gave a soft laugh of delight. “God’s Footprint?”

  “Aye, an imprint supposedly left behind when He wandered the Highlands, admiring his work.”

  An impressive granite ridge, cloaked in heather-clad slopes, surrounded the tiny glen. At its heart lay a small, circular loch, its surface as black and smooth as a piece of obsidian. A babbling burn fed into it, winding a serpentine path along the valley floor. Here and there, stands of naked silver birch contrasted with dark patches of larch and pine. Even in the muted colors of winter, the glen had a gentle beauty; a serenity, Calum thought, that touched the deepest part of him.

  “Come.” He pressed his heels to his horse. “There’s something else I want to show you.”

  They followed a deer path that led toward the loch, and to a patch of raised pastureland at the western tip. From there, a bank sloped down to the shore. At the top of the bank, Calum reined in his horse, slid from the saddle, and went to help Ailsa dismount. Then he waited for her reaction, which came a moment later in the form of a gasp.

  “Calum, look,” Ailsa cried, gazing at the sweep of small, white blooms that covered the slope, “’tis the white heather!”

  He smiled. “Aye.”

  “And it blooms yet?” She crouched down to touch the tiny bells. “In mid-winter?”

  “Always.” He crouched too, snapped off a sprig, and gave it to her. “For good fortune.”

  A soft blush colored her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  “Do you know the legend of how it came to be? ’Twas a lass’s tears that that turned the purple flowers to white.”

  “Aye, I know the tale.” She rose to her feet. “But I’ve never seen it till now. How come you’ve never mentioned it?”

  Calum rose too, and looked about. “My father used to bring me here as a child, and for some reason, I always thought of it as a secret place, known only to the MacKellars.” He met her gaze. “And speaking of secrets, there’s another I’ve kept since I was a wee lad. I’ve told no one, Ailsa. Not a living soul. I was here with my father one time when this idea came into my head. I cannae say where it came from, but it settled there and has never left. I’ve told no one about it till now, and I’d like it to remain a secret between you and me. For the time being, anyway.”

  Ailsa lifted her chin and drew a cross over her heart. “I’ll tell no one, Calum. I promise.”

  Calum paused, wondering what Ailsa might think. She’d consider him mad, most likely. Perhaps an attribute not without merit.

  He cleared his throat. “I want to build something here. On this very spot.”

  Ailsa’s eyes widened, her expression expectant. “What?” she asked, when Calum remained silent. “A castle?”

  “Nay, no’ a castle.” Again, he paused. Why was it so difficult to declare? Perhaps because he had kept it to himself for so long. Or maybe because, though it made perfect sense to him, it might make little sense to her. Or anyone else, for that matter. “Can I ask you something first?”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “I was just wondering how… how this place makes you feel. Can you tell me?”

  She blinked at him. “Feel?”

  “Aye.” He shrugged. “’Tis no’ a trick question, I swear. I’m curious, is all.”

  “Um, well…” Ailsa twirled the sprig of heather beneath her nose, inhaling as she glanced around. “It might only be due to it being the Lord’s birthday, but right now, I sort of have the same feeling as when I’m in church. I dinnae ken if there’s a word for that. Reverent, maybe?”

  Calum groaned and shook his head. “Oh, Ailsa. I cannae believe you said that.”

  Her face fell. “Um… sorry. ’Tis how I feel, though. I dinnae ken what else to say.”

  He laughed. “What you said is exactly what I wanted to hear.”

  Her brows lifted. “It is? I mean, it was?”

  “Aye, because I’ve always felt the same. That you feel it too means I’m nae soft in the head.” He spread his arms. “I want to build a church here. On this very spot.”

  “Oh, Calum.”

  He gave a sheepish grin. “Do you think me mad?”

  “Nay, actually. Not in the least.” She glanced about again. “I cannae think of a better place to build one.”

  Chapter Three

  Castle Cathan,

  Sunday, December 23rd,

  Year of the Lord 1240

  Some things, Calum thought, would forever elude the influence of mankind. Like the ebb and flow of the tides, for example. Or the relentless march of time.

  And God’s will.

  The tides, at least, were somewhat predictable in their movements, if not their moods. But time and God’s will, he conceded, would always serve to test the measure of a man. How he faced the challenges of life. How he faced the inevitability of death.

  Calum had been somewhat tested this past while, losing his mother to illness two years earlier and his father to an apoplexy a little more than three months ago. In losing his father, Calum gained the title of laird, though he’d surrender it in a heartbeat if it meant he could spend just one more day with his sire. In the shortsightedness of youth, he had never really considered the mortality of his parents. And, in the arrogance of youth, he had never doubted he could meet any challenge God gave him. His tenacity remained intact, but he had since acquired a little respect for the unpredictability of life.

  No one would deny Calum merited the laird’s title. He had worked hard, honing his skills in attributes expected of a knight and clan heir. His focus, however, had centered on the expertise of horsemanship and weaponry. He sat his horse as if part of the animal, and had become a true master of sword, lance and bow. The physical demands had hardened and thickened his body as he’d grown into manhood. With a flush of pride on his face, he had acquired his spurs and had accepted the honor of knighthood.

  One day, he hoped to test his skills in the Holy Land—that particular ambition remained steadfast. But for now, in this his twenty-first year, and as the new laird of Castle Cathan, Calum realized he still had much to learn. He also needed to marry and produce an heir. Two days from now, on Christ’s birthday, the first part of that obligation would be fulfilled.

  His betrothed and her entourage were arriving.

  His heart quickened as he watched them enter the courtyard. Five years had passed since he had last seen Ailsa. Then, she had been naught but a wee lass in her thirteenth year. Little more than a child, besotted with a boy who, at the time, erroneously considered himself to be a man. Calum couldn’t help but wonder about the child who had once been his shadow. How she would look as a young woman of seventeen years?

  Undoubtedly, the travelers would be weary, having likely journeyed for three or four days—including a sea crossing from their holdings on the Isle of Islay. But everything was ready for them. There would be a week of celebration, both for the marriage and, of course, Christmastide.

  Calum had prayed
for decent weather. So far, his prayers had been answered. Now, as he strode down the steps to greet his guests and his bride, he offered up another swift prayer for a blessed and trouble-free week.

  He went first to greet Laird and Lady Macdonell, voicing an enthusiastic welcome and helping the lady dismount before turning his attention to Ailsa, who sat in polite silence astride a dun Highland pony.

  The lass’s voluminous hood, raised against the north-west wind, partly obscured her face. But as Calum approached, she pushed the hood back, raised her chin, and met his gaze head on. For a moment, he struggled to catch his breath, his stride faltering as he took in the features of the woman who would be his wife.

  Gone, the wee lass with angular lines and bony limbs. Vanished, all traces of fledgling awkwardness. Ailsa Rose Macdonell had transformed into a beautiful woman, slender, obviously shapely, and emanating a natural grace. Only when she smiled did the child he remembered reappear, for it reflected a joy and delight he had witnessed a thousand times before—a familiar display of unabashed adoration for him. It gave his heart an unexpected jolt.

  “Good day to you, Laird MacKellar,” she said, a softness coming to her eyes. “It pleases me greatly to be back at Castle Cathan.”

  Even the lass’s voice had changed, its resonance rich and smooth, with a velvet quality that lifted the hairs on Calum’s neck. The sincerity of her greeting, so sweetly expressed, set his jolted heart racing.

  “Ailsa Rose.” Everything around him faded away as he reached for her. “Welcome back to Castle Cathan. It pleases me greatly to see you safely arrived. And you will call me Calum, please. As you always have.”

  Ailsa’s smile remained as she slid into his arms. “You look very fine, Calum.” Her voice wavered a little. “I have missed you.”

  Dear God, she is exquisite!

  “I have missed you too,” he said. Not a complete untruth. He had missed her, as he knew he would. But, in truth he had not fretted too much over her absence. “You’re breathtaking, Ailsa. I am a fortunate man.”

  A touch of color came to her cheeks. “Thank you, Calum. I consider myself fortunate also.”

  The sound of a throat clearing pulled him from his trance. “Perhaps we should bring the ceremony forward,” a man’s voice said.

  Calum turned to see Ailsa’s father watching them, one brow raised and a corner of his mouth twitching.

  “Forgive me, Laird Macdonell,” Calum said, grinning. “I confess your daughter had me spellbound there for a moment. The stable lad will see to your horses, and I’ll have someone bring in your luggage. Come inside, please. Everything is ready for you.” He turned back to Ailsa and proffered an elbow. “My lady.”

  “All done, my lady,” the maid said, bobbing a curtsey. “You’ll find your parents and my laird awaiting you in the dining hall.”

  Ailsa touched the neat, braided hairstyle that circled her head and smiled at the maid. “Thank you, Una. I’ll be down shortly.”

  After the door closed, Ailsa pulled open the shutters to gaze out, seeking a few moments of solitude to gather herself. To her surprise and delight, it had snowed during the night. The world was now cloaked in white and bathed in watery, winter sunlight. Befitting, Ailsa thought, for this holy eve of Christmastide.

  Tingles of excitement ran across her scalp, and butterflies swarmed in her stomach. She had never felt such joy in her life. Indeed, the intensity of it almost frightened her. Surely no mortal merited such happiness!

  She had not arrived at Castle Cathan without a few fears. The five-year separation from Calum had seemed like an eternity and had generated a few doubts. Not about her feelings for him, mind. Nay, they would never change. But what about his feelings for her? What if he’d come to regret the agreement made between their respective fathers?

  Calum had always been kind to her but, looking back, his reactions had seemed to be those of amusement. He’d humored her. Teased her. Then again, he’d also taken her into his confidence and shared secrets with her. Ailsa had never forgotten her visit to the pretty little glen called God’s Footprint, with its bank of white heather. She still had the sprig Calum had given her, though it had dried out, and the small, fragile bells had faded. But she treasured it, nonetheless, and kept it wrapped in a square of soft cloth.

  Five years had been long enough to emerge from the season of youth. The lanky lad she had known was now a man; tall and broad-chested, with stubble on his chin. A knight, no less. Sir Calum Tormod MacKellar, laird of Castle Cathan.

  But she need not have worried. The man Calum had become appeared to be more than happy with his bride-to-be. Indeed, Ailsa had seen something in his eyes that had not been there before. Admiration, perhaps.

  Or desire.

  They had spent some time together the previous night, but other than glances at each other, they’d shared nothing of a private, romantic nature. Nonetheless, surrounded by family and friends, it had been a special evening. Wishes for good fortune had been made and prayers had been said for those who now dwelt with God.

  Shivering from the chill, Ailsa closed the shutters, smoothed her skirts, and settled her woolen wrap around her shoulders. She had slept later than usual, and might have slept longer if not for the maid’s polite tap on the door. Not that it really mattered. There was no great rush. But she was eager to see Calum and hurried downstairs, drawn to the great hall by the sound of voices.

  The room, bedecked in its Christmas finery, brought back memories from five years earlier. A slight blush warmed her cheeks as she recalled meeting with Calum in the stables. She wondered what had become of the little white foal, and resolved to ask him about it.

  He sat by the hearth, chatting with her parents.

  “At last,” her father said as she approached—a teasing remark rather than an admonishment.

  Calum stood to greet her, the obvious admiration on his face making her stomach flip. “Ailsa, you look very bonny.” He held out a hand. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did, thank you.” Her heart quickened as his fingers wound around hers. “Though a wee bit later than planned. Forgive me.”

  “You were exhausted.” He waved a servant over. “And you must now be hungry.”

  Ailsa shook her head. “I fear I’m too excited to eat. Perhaps some warm milk with honey?”

  As it happened, she managed some warm milk with honey and an oatcake besides before following Calum out to the courtyard. “There’s something I want you to see,” he explained, squeezing her hand.

  At this time of year, the sun hung low in the sky, its rays barely skimming the tops of the castle walls. The courtyard, consequently, remained steeped in shadow, its covering of snow already peppered with a plethora of foot and animal prints.

  As they reached the bottom of the steps, Calum glanced down at Ailsa’s shoes. “You’d best wait here, wee lass,” he said, frowning, “or you’ll get your feet wet.

  Ailsa laughed, delighted by his use of the familiar epithet. “Where are you going, Calum?”

  “I’m going to fetch your wedding gift.” He gave her an impish smile. “Just wait here, please. Dinnae move.”

  An inkling of what to expect arose in her mind when she saw him enter the stables. She clasped her hands beneath her chin and waited.

  Moments later, he stepped out, leading a horse as expected. What Ailsa had not expected, or even guessed at, was the significance of it. She gasped, her eyes brimming with tears as Calum approached. It seemed she had no need to ask him about the foal. The sight of the beautiful white mare, following him placidly across the courtyard, answered all of her questions.

  The horse’s rich winter coat gleamed whiter than the surrounding snow. Her mane and tail, groomed to perfection, rippled like silk as she moved with fluid grace over the muddy ground. Ears pricked, she regarded Ailsa with blatant interest and blew out a cloudy breath of greeting.

  “Oh, Calum, how wonderful to see her again!” Ailsa stroked the mare’s velvet nose “I cannae believe it.”


  “I’d venture to say she recognizes you.” Calum shrugged. “You were, after all, the first person she ever saw.”

  “I swear I was just thinking about her this morning, wondering if she was still here.” Ailsa heaved a sign. “She’s beautiful. Thank you so much.”

  “Aye, she’s very bonny, and you’re welcome.” He patted the horse’s neck. “She’s been well-schooled and is gentle enough to carry a bairn. But she doesnae have a name. I thought I’d leave that to you.”

  “Malvina,” Ailsa said, without hesitation. “Like the lady in the legend of the white heather.”

  Calum’s smiled showed his obvious approval. “A fine choice. When all the celebrations are over, and weather permitting, we’ll take another ride out to the wee glen. It can be Malvina’s first outing with her new mistress.”

  Ailsa nodded. “I would love that. ’Tis exactly as we did five years ago.”

  “Except, the last time, you were a bothersome wee lass.” Calum lifted her hand to his lips and allowed the kiss to linger. “This time, you’ll be my wife.”

  “A dream come true for me,” she said, a wistful look coming to her eyes. “I hope you still have your dreams, Calum.”

  “Aye, I do,” he said, “and some new ones besides.”

  Chapter Four

  Christmas Day,

  Year of the Lord 1240

  The white horse was not Calum’s only gift to Ailsa. Unbeknownst to her, he’d also arranged for a special bouquet of white heather to be made for their wedding day. The twig-like stalks had been tied together and wrapped with white silk, the ends of which fell in two long ribbons. She had accepted it with undisguised delight and insisted on adding the faded sprig of heather that he’d picked for her five years before.

  “For good fortune,” she’d said.

  That she’d kept the sprig, and treasured it, touched Calum’s heart. To his further delight, he discovered that Ailsa had arranged to have her wedding gown embroidered with sprigs of white heather. The bouquet, as a result, matched perfectly. A simple, golden circlet adorned her head; a perfect contrast to the glorious tumble of russet-gold hair that fell to her hips. The grayish blue of her gown reminded Calum of the sea in summer. He especially liked the way it skimmed her pretty curves.