The Return of Black Douglas (12 page)

Chapter 16

Don’t let us make imaginary evils,

when you know we have so

many real ones to encounter.

—
The Good-Natured Man
, 1768
Oliver Goldsmith (1730–1774)
Irish-born British novelist, playwright, and poet

Isobella inhaled the fresh scent of salt water and viewed the Gothic castle rising out of the summit of a rock, whose base lay submerged in the cold depths of the Atlantic. It was worthy of reverence and commanding of respect by virtue of age, dignity, and the secrets of bygone centuries contained within.

It was the ancestral home of Alysandir Mackinnon, descended from the tribal chiefs who came before him, proud, ambitious, protective, and revengeful, who had lived here during a time of feudal greatness. She found herself in awe at the stories the castle could tell and felt the distress of tears, long dried, that had been shed there. Little wonder that the gargoyles frowned down from battlements secluded in shade.

She sensed a warm heartbeat within this fortress that shimmered in the hazy glow of the last remnant of evening, for it was like something out of a fairy-tale. She found herself wondering what it would be like in the cold and stingy grey light of winter, snow lying icy and deep on its stones. The sun melted into deep purple and red on the horizon, and she felt as insignificant as a shadow. She grieved inexplicably for her lost past, the uncertain future, and the knowledge that her life was no longer her own.

Yes, as the voice had told her, her fate lay within the hard, granite walls of that dark stronghold and with the people who lived there. Would they be accepting or rejecting, filled with envy and distrust? She felt an unexpected tightness in her throat and knew she had to redirect her line of thinking, so she started talking.

“Is that your home?”

“Aye, ’tis Caisteal Màrrach, or Màrrach Castle if ye prefer the English pronunciation over the Gaelic one.”

“It’s a beautiful name in any language. It has an almost magical sound to it. Màrrach,” she said, and let the sound of it penetrate her psyche like an aromatic balm. “What does it mean?”

“Màrrach is an enchanted castle that keeps one bound by a spell, usually with a labyrinth, a maze of passages.”

Spellbound in a maze of passages. That should go well with my current state of affairs, wandering through centuries like a celestial nomad.

They passed under the whispering foliage of a towering beech. Then they were suddenly clear of the trees. She caught another shadowy glimpse of the towering, grey fortress looming in the distance just as they passed by a fringe of dark pines and rode into a clearing, leaving behind the scent of rooty dampness that had clung to the woods.

Overhead, she heard the cry of birds and she watched them circling high above, majestic and unfettered. She envied them their freedom.

“Eagles,” he said.

Startled, she waited for the rest of his sentence and realized that, to him, that was a sentence. She didn’t know why she found the idea amusing, but it lifted her mood slightly.

“The entrance to Màrrach lies thither.”

Thither…
she sighed at the sound of the word riding upon the rhythmic waves of his Scots burr and once again felt herself seduced by his history. ‘Impenetrable’ was the first word that came into Isobella’s mind as they rode close enough for a more critical inspection. She imagined herself sitting in the sun and describing it in one of her journals and hoped she would have the opportunity to do so.

Màrrach Castle was a large, fortified structure built on the quadrilateral plan, with curtain walls about eight feet thick and thirty feet high. Corbelled battlements and square turrets seemed etched in black against the blue sky, which caught the sun while everything below lay dark and gloomy.

The castle possessed three square towers. The entrance was wide, with a portcullis protected by iron bars that rose with an intimidating creak to grant them passage, just like something out of the movies but more powerful. How sad to think that in her future time, this beautiful fortress might be in ruins, like so many others of this time period.

“It’s rugged but beautiful,” she said. “You must never grow tired of seeing it, of knowing that you are home.”

“Aye, ’tis receptive as the open legs of a warm and willing woman.”

A thickness seemed to lodge in her throat, and she was left to think upon his words as they rode through the open gate in the wall of enceinte. They continued on past the guardrooms that flanked the passageway through the keep and into the courtyard, to stop at the donjon. Here, beyond those massively carved and iron-studded doors, a new life awaited her. She lowered her head and said a quick prayer for her safety and that of her sister.

Someone spoke, and Alysandir replied with a chuckle of amusement. “Nay, she isna dead. ’Twould appear that the wee lass has frightened herself into a stupor.”

Laughter erupted. He dismounted and leaned against his horse, gazing up at her in a questioning manner as if he would find what he searched for written in her eyes or etched upon her face.

“And now, Isobella Douglas, from a place unknown, we will soon have the truth. Are ye a witch, a mortal, or a mixture of more desirable elements than simple flesh and blood?”

She smiled tentatively as she replied, “I am a simple mortal with no hidden talents or magical powers.”

“Are ye now? Ye are in the land of faëry, and I think ye are an imaginary being in human form, clever and mischievous, or mayhap something more dangerous, endowed with a body that softens a man’s brain and hardens another part of him that it shouldna. Yer face is full of innocence, yet yer speech is odd and yer words hard to swallow. Will ye be true to yer word and reveal the truth, or will ye spin a silken web that leaves me wandering in a boscage unable to find my way oot?”

Each word he spoke tore at her conscience. She glanced away, unable to withstand the heat and fire in his gaze. He was a man of superior intelligence, educated, intuitive, wise, and full of distrust for anyone not of his ilk. She had to be very careful how she answered his questions.

She shuddered when she saw the sky had dulled to a wash of deep, blood red, the last glow from the sunken sun marred by a wisp of black cloud, dark as a blot of ink upon her future. She could not hide the woefulness in her words.

“I am at your mercy, for if I prove false, your dungeon will prove worthy of my deception.”

A grim smile crossed his features, and she shivered in response. When he spoke, there was an edge of distrust to his voice that she would have been foolish to ignore.

“Though she should prove false, ’tis not my way to tether a woman. However, ye should be aware that I am the law here and I am within my power to do with ye as I please. That includes giving ye to my men for their pleasure or locking ye away in the dungeon if I so choose. All I ask of ye is honest candor and the answers ye promised to give me. It would be in yer best interest to speak the truth.”

He gave her a stark and forbidding look. “Do ye understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“Would ye like to dismount now, or are ye unable to move?”

“That all depends on what you intend to do with me if I do. Would I fare better taking my chances in the wilds of Mull alone?”

He probed the depths of her eyes with a look she absorbed like a warning. “Ye are safe wi’ me, mistress, as long as ye do not take me for a fool.”

She was more than glad to stretch her cramped legs as she slid from his horse into his open arms, and she turned to face the unknown fate that awaited her within the ancient walls of Màrrach Castle.

Chapter 17

I have learned to live each day as it comes,

and not to borrow trouble by dreading tomorrow.

It is the dark menace of the future

that makes cowards of us.

—Dorothy Dix (1861–1951)
U.S. journalist and writer

She forgot about her ankle until she put her full weight upon it. She would have gone down if Alysandir had not caught her against himself. He did not release her but continued to hold her, her body perfectly aligned to his, and she felt as if she were melting into him. Here she was again, imprisoned in his arms, lost as a fledgling fallen from the nest.

Early Renaissance life was going on all around her, laundry being done and chickens plucked. Children were being fed, candles made, fireplaces cleaned, herbs bundled, bedchambers aired, and vegetables brought in from the garden while a visitor from the twenty-first century stood in the courtyard.

A flag flapped from a tower high above them, and it serving as a reminder to Isobella that her idyll with Alysandir was over. She was about to pull away from him when she was overcome with a strange enchantment. Overhead, the sky was darkened by a mass of shifting, vaporous clouds and dense black fog. She wanted to cry out, but no words would come as brilliant flashes of light hit her eyes.

Fear na ye.

She cast a quick look in Alysandir’s direction and realized she must have been the only one who saw the darkened sky or heard the deep, booming voice of the Black Douglas.

About time you paid me a visit, you one-man disappearing act
.
Are you going to leave me here? Where is Elisabeth? Aren’t you going to help them find her? What are you planning? I have a right to know. I want some answers. I want something besides silence.

Silence is an answer.

She gave a start. What kind of answer was that? A one-size-fits-all reply, like a chair that fits all backsides? A whirlwind stirred up a little cloud of dust that faded just as quickly. She shivered as if a cold rain had washed over her. She opened her eyes. Alysandir was staring at her.

“Why are you looking at me that way?”

“And how am I looking at you?”

“Like I’m a piece of bread and you’re trying to decide which side the butter is on.”

He gave her a ghost of a smile. His finger traced the line of her cheek. “Ye are pale as an evening primrose. Are ye afraid or hiding something ye fear to tell?”

“I am apprehensive. That is all.”

“Yer ankle pains ye?”

“No, I took a moment for some self-encouragement. It isn’t easy to walk into a strange place where you don’t know a soul. I was trying to summon my courage and hearten myself to what lies ahead.”

She realized how very fragile her situation was. If he turned his back on her, no one here would dare lift a finger on her behalf. Comfortable or not, her very life depended on him alone. Numb, she looked away, not wanting him to see what her eyes could tell him. She knew fear now. Real, aching, paralyzing fear.

He whispered softly, “Beware of fears in borrowed feathers, appearing as counsel and see danger in everything.”

Trembling, she turned and their gazes met. He cupped her chin. “Fear ’tis not always a bad thing. ’Tis never present when all hope is gone.”

Her heart pounded. Did he have a sixth sense? His powers of perception went beyond the ordinary. He seemed to know her thoughts as soon as she had them. She had never known anyone so discerning. How could this man from another time and place understand her with such acuity? How did he find words that were as soothing and warm as a balm of fragrant oil? How could the warrior live in harmony with the poetry of a man who could soothe her with mere words?

His voice held grudging respect, and his hand came up to cup her cheek, soft and comforting. “Dinna worrit aboot their reactions to ye or what they will be thinking in their silence. They will be curious and mayhap they will stare at ye, but they willna raise a hand to harm ye nor say a baleful word against ye.”

He tossed the reins to an approaching groom, caught the shoulders of the surcoat, and gave it a shake or two. It settled into place as it fell to her ankles. The amusement in his voice was frank and undisguised.

“Ye do look like a street beggar,” he said cheerfully. “But dinna worrit, for no one will suspect that beneath the surcoat ye are wearing naught but a wee fragment o’ cloth that barely covers yer particulars.”

She shoved his hands away, which made him laugh. In spite of her hurt and humiliation, she suspected he had inflamed her ire intentionally, for her apprehensions burned away in the heat of her rage. It would be easier to face the scrutiny to come with an angry sort of pride and her head held high than to be led inside mewling and sniveling in subjection.

Alysandir laughed and swept her into his arms and carried her forward with confidence and a long stride. She focused her attention on the intricate carvings of griffons—the ancient, medieval creatures with the head, talons, and wings of an eagle and the hindquarters of a lion—over the doorway.

Not as ornate as the Byzantine ones she saw at St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice last summer—make that centuries from now. It gave her a dash of optimism to be greeted by griffons, the protective symbol of strength and vigilance, in spite of the twisting vines of thorns that coiled around them.

Her arms clung to his neck tightly as he carried her through the heavy doors into the massively walled penetralia, the innermost sanctuary of the castle. She was well aware that she was an alien intruder being hauled into the stronghold like a sack of barley. As if sensing her unease, his lips curved into a smile.

“Dinna worrit if ye should find yerself fraught with fear. I am sure I can find a way to divert yer thoughts and to give ye something else to think aboot now that we are home.” He spoke with surprising cheer.

“I am sure you can,” she said, but her mind was focused upon that one word.

Home
. The word reverberated inside her skull like a ricocheted bullet. She had not considered that Màrrach would become her home, and the realization of it shocked her. But where else could she go? She had no money, no friends, no family or connections. Mull was sparsely populated with probably no more than a thousand or so people. There were small settlements but no towns. Other than the monastery and convent on Iona, castles and clans were the center of gravity for those who lived here. But the truth was that she suddenly felt safe.

“Ye have had plenty to say, but now ye fall silent. Are ye afraid?”

“Uneasy would be a better word.” A murky darkness surrounded them, illuminated only by torches flaming from the stone walls. Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the dim interior, and by the time they approached the door to the Great Hall, she could still barely see into the room, which was lit only by fat, tallow candles guttered in sconces along the walls. The moment they entered, the murmur of conversation died away.

She glanced around and saw that every eye was on her. Even the fire in the fireplace seemed to cringe and withdraw its light. She felt like a waif as he carried her further into the hall. Here she was in a medieval castle in Renaissance Scotland. Under different circumstances, she would have given more attention to her surroundings and taken note of the tapestries, heavily carved furniture, and the vaulted ceilings decorated with shields that they passed.

Instead, her attention was drawn to the sight of at least three dozen people who stopped eating to stare at her. She knew that behind their stunned gazes loomed many questions. She could almost hear them asking, Who is she? Why is she here? Why is she wearing the red surcoat of Alysandir Mackinnon? And what does she have on underneath it?

With cowardly hope, she prayed the trip through this hall would be a short one and that she never had to experience humiliation such as this again. Never had she felt so undressed, unwelcome, or insignificant, and she doubted this was likely to change.

“Was this necessary? Did you have to parade me in front of everyone like some captive slave?” she whispered.

“I brought ye here because it is better to let them see ye in my arms and holding yer head high enough to strike the cobwebs on the ceiling than for ye to be led with a chain through an iron collar, submissive, defeated, and trembling with fear.”

“I am surprised they make such an effort to stare. One would think they would be accustomed to the public display of your captives.” She lifted her chin a bit higher, determined to give him, and them, the cobweb-striking pride he described.

“My captives don’t make their first appearance wearing naught but my surcoat. That usually comes after I have bedded them.”

Her indrawn breath sounded, even to her own ears, like the wheeze of a winded horse. “I wouldn’t sleep with you for all the bells in Edinburgh.”

“’Tis a moot point, mistress, for ye slept with me yester eve.”

That sent a warm flush of blood racing to her cheeks, made redder by the sudden bark of his laughter. She looked down, thankful for the surcoat, in spite of how it must look to them. It would have been worse, much worse without it.

“I’m too tired to bandy words with you.” The only thing that was truly inviting about being in the Great Hall at a time like this was the succulent scent of food. That and the warmth emitting from the fire that blazed in the fireplace as they passed. What she wouldn’t give for a hot shower, a razor, a toothbrush, a bottle of fragrant shampoo, a large Mexican martini… no, make that two… and some honest-to-God privacy.

“Fret not. ’Twill not be long now, lass.” Alysandir shouted a few words in Gaelic, and two women about her age left the table and hurried toward them. A few more words of Gaelic, and he carried her from the room, the two women following close behind as he barked what she assumed were orders, and then they turned away.

“My sisters will be in charge of finding something more suitable for ye to wear, and they will send Mistress MacMorran to yer room. She will to see to yer ankle and to a bath fer ye. Once that is taken care of, a servant will bring ye something to eat.”

Before she could respond, he said, “I didna mean to humble ye by such a display, but it would have been a long time if we waited until everyone left the hall. With yer ankle ailing ye, ’tis better to get ye to a place where ye can rest.”

When she did not respond, he said, “Be of good cheer, lass. The worst is over,” as he carried her from the Great Hall into the corridor. Relieved, Isobella let her head flop against his chest and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his footsteps, the ring of his spurs against the stone floor, and the low whispers that followed them.

“Ye came out with yer head intact.”

“Only because I was in your arms. Had I been alone, they would be mopping the floor with my blood about now.”

He laughed. “So brave a mouth, so faint a heart.”

She felt a flash of anger. “So quick to pass judgment, but then, the fox is always comfortable in his own den.” She sighed wearily.

“Tired, are ye?”

“Yes. I am tired of thinking, talking, and worrying. I don’t think I can link two words together.”

Her head flopped against his shoulder again. She found comfort in the familiar sound of his breathing. With her arms around his neck, she could feel the hard coil of the muscles of his shoulders and she understood what it was like to feel safe. Yet she could not help wondering: now that their time alone had come to an end, would she become one of dozens of castle-folk who lived here, rarely catching a glimpse of him?

He stopped in front of an arched door, beautifully carved and heavy.
He will deposit me in this room and leave, and that might well be the last I will ever see of him
.

He paused just long enough to nod at a sconce on the wall. “Remove one of the candles,” he said. She did as he asked. He pushed the door open with his foot and carried her into the dark room, their way illuminated only by the light coming from the hall and the candle in her hand.

“’Twill be yer room, mistress,” he said, and kicked the door shut behind him. He paused while she lit a taper and took in the sight of the dim room. Then he carried her to the bed. He stopped beside it, but he did not put her down. Her heart pounded thickly in her throat, and his heart pounded wildly under her ear.

She gave him a questioning look. “Do you intend to hold me while I sleep, or are you going to put me down?”

“’Tis a tempting thought surely.”

“I would think that coddling a lass while she slept would be beneath the dignity of the chief of Clan Mackinnon.”

“That,” he said, “all depends upon whether I deem it worth my while.”

“Put me down. I’m too tired to bandy words at the moment. Trust me. There is nothing you could do to me at the moment that would be worth the time that it took to do it.”

For a moment he did not seem to understand what she said, and then he laughed. “I wouldna be so certain of that if I were you.”

She wasn’t certain about it either, but she wouldn’t let him know how his nearness disturbed her or how the warm touch of his breath upon her skin brought back memories that were best left forgotten. She did not want to remember what it was like to lie next to him or to recall the feel of his arms around her, the melting into him at the touch of his lips upon hers. “Think of me as a cold, stone statue in your arms and drop me on the nearest bed.”