Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rannie and his men provided them with what food they could. They proved dab hands at theft, and young Gus set snares whenever and wherever they stopped for the night.
All too soon, Katrin lost any hope of guessing where they were.
Rannie had chosen a route that differed from what the army had followed on the way down—no doubt many of those in flight did so.
He moved due north, pressing the pace when possible, and announced it gladly when he estimated they’d crossed the border and were back in Scotland.
She breathed a little easier then, but not a lot. These marches, disputed territory for centuries, were prime for English invasion, which meant they remained far from safe.
She knew one thing for certain—they would not have made it back to Scotland at all but for Ranald and his band of MacLeods. Da soon took a fever, and the wound in his thigh, far from clean, caused constant pain.
None of them had hope of getting clean. Katrin had never been so filthy, but at least back on Scottish soil she began to sleep better. And to dream.
Most of the dreams were brief, terrible things, memories from the battle. She awoke sweating, screams caught in her throat. Once or twice she awoke weeping, and she not the only one of their group to do so.
She dreamed over and over again of Finlay throwing himself to the English so she could get away. The look in his eyes just before he’d leaped forward. So terrible—and so brave and bright—was that memory, she had to build a wall around it lest the pain strike her down.
And then there was another dream, deep and wonderful and terrible all at the same time.
A quiet chamber where she lay dying. How she knew she was dying, she could not say, but aye, this she knew.
She lay upon a bed covered in furs, with a bolster beneath her head, and she could see her own hands lying upon the covers.
Aged hands they were, thin and frail, skin over bone. Yet hers all the same.
A woman bent over her, and the odd thing was that Katrin both did and did not know her. She had a thick braid of brown hair that fell over one shoulder as she leaned down, and eyes the color of the sea on a windy day. Not precisely young either, this woman, but of middle years.
“Mam,” she said, “ye maun try to drink something.”
A cup was tilted to Katrin’s lips. The smell of the contents turned her stomach.
Was the woman—this woman—her daughter? To be sure, she must be. Katrin’s mind groped for a name but could not find one.
She croaked painfully, “Where is your father?”
“He is here.” The woman glanced over her shoulder. “I bade him tak’ some rest, but he would no’ leave ye.”
Katrin nodded. She should let her beloved husband go find some rest. But she wanted him. Needed him. “Have I been selfish?” she asked her daughter. “Have I asked too much of him?”
“Nay, mam. The two o’ ye tak’ as ye must fro’ each other. Now drink. The healer says ye must. For Da, if no’ for the rest o’ us.”
The rest. She frowned with the difficulties of thinking. How many children did she have? How many grandchildren? Already it faded away, and her not yet gone. How would she remember later, when she needed to? How would she remember him?
In sudden panic she demanded, “I want your da. I want him now.”
The woman—her daughter—gave a sad smile. “Now, there is the Caledonian princess.”
She rose and moved away. A man took her place.
He too was aged, with a mane of white hair that flowed over his shoulders and blue-green eyes like the sea on a windy day. A strong face, broad in the forehead, lined from the years. All the years.
“Deathan,” she said, and reached out to grip his hands. “Deathan, I must go ahead. I fear I must go ahead without you. I did so try to stay. Stay here with you.”
Tears flooded his eyes. Strong he was, and so seldom had she seen him weep. When they’d lost their wee babe that time so long ago. When his brother, the chief, had died, leaving the place open for him. when her deerhound had perished—
Many things he might say to her now. He could beg her to fight against the weakness that beset her, to try harder. To stay with him.
For he could no more live without her than she could without him.
Instead he told her, his voice a fog of grief and pain, “I understand.”
She reached for his face, stroked the grizzled beard that grew upon his cheek. “I am sorry.”
He bent his head over her hands and whispered, “I will follow ye, Darlei. As always, I will find ye.”
His tears fell upon her fingers, the last thing she felt in that world.
Katrin awoke in the heather, her heart hammering. For an instant part of her was still there in that dim room, part of her still with him. As always she would be.
She had no doubt of what she had seen. A past time, a past existence, it had been. Part of the third story Finlay had told, of Darlei and Deathan, yet beyond what he had shared. Was it merely a story? Or something more? A life the two of them had in truth shared.
If so, a terrible parting. Yet he said he would follow her. An aged man, had he died soon after? Or did he mean he would follow her from life to life? Would thus find her.
As, perhaps, he had.
Katrin lay there staring up at the sky while the wonder, the possibilities, and the belief washed over her.
What if the stories Finlay had told were not just stories?
What if the scenes she beheld in her dreams were real memories?
She, Liadan, who had stood in the sun, she, Bradana, who had played on the harp, she, Darlei, who had learned to defend herself, and she, Hulda, who had fought her way back to him?
Had Finlay come to Murtray for a purpose far more vital than entertainment? Had he told her those beautiful tales for a reason—so she would remember him? Recall all they had been to one another…
No stories, no dreams. Memories.
And if she had remembered? If she now recalled and founded a belief in life after life after life after life…the memories, the love? Only too late.
For he was lost to her now, was he not? Dead somewhere back on the broken ground of a foreign land.
Life gave no assurances. Neither did love—none other than the repeated promise from the man she loved that he would find her—as Finlay had. They were not promised a life together. But och, how would she live on, having glimpsed and heard all of what they’d shared?
She rose feeling much like that old woman, in the chilly dawn.
Her party made their way steadily, if slowly, north and westward, the country becoming more hospitable as they went.
Here, householders sometimes gave them food and often a roof for the night, wanting in return only to hear news of the great battle fought in the south.
From one such householder who had heard from other soldiers passing through, they learned that King David had been taken prisoner, and it pierced all of them to the heart.
Caught hiding beneath a bridge, it was said, his reflection in the water betraying him to the English knights.
He had taken not one arrow to his face, but two.
Despite that, he had fought his captors most valiantly before being taken.
He had been hauled away south to London.
A blow for Scotland, that. One from which Katrin did not know they might recover.
So many lost. So many—
But nay, she could not let herself think of that yet.
Her main worry remained her da, whose condition deteriorated steadily. At a place called Lanark, they found a physician who treated Da out of pity, since they had no silver to pay.
After, he took Katrin aside. An older man, the physician had kind gray eyes. He did not give her false hope.
“Mistress, I take it ye still ha’ far to travel?”
“Aye. Far.”
“If ye were not on a journey, I would recommend removal of that leg. But he would not withstand travel, after.”
“I maun get him home.” It had become her one goal, if a half-crazed one.
The physician shook his head. “I will tell you truly, I doubt he will make it.”
“But—” Katrin gulped back her panic. “He is strong.”
“Aye, so he may have been. Once.”
Katrin took that like a blow to the gut. They were all debilitated. Beyond spent.
“I will give ye some medicines to take with ye. For the fever.”
“I ha’ nay money to pay.”
“No matter.”
Aye, he’d been kind. But he’d been terribly certain.
If Da did not make it home, what was she to do? What would become of the clan? Their chief gone and no heir. Many of their men who’d gone away to fight would not come home. They would be left destitute.
She would have to step up and lead, if she was the only one remaining. Marry one day and provide—
Nay, she could not think of that either. Not yet. Possibly not ever.
She decided on that day, standing outside the physician’s home in the autumn sunlight, that she would do best not to think at all. Just get Da home, if she could.
She gestured to Rannie, who stepped up to her.
“Katrin?” They were long on a first-name basis.
“Rannie,” she said for his ears alone, “the physician does no’ think my da will make it back to Murtray. ’Tis a long way yet. If ye and yer fellows wish to go on wi’out us, wi’out the burden we have been—”
He studied her with his gentle, dark eyes. “Well, now—’tis hard news to bear, that.”
“Aye.” She did her best not to cry but she was tired. Tired.
“Wha’ ha’ ye there?” he asked.
“Some powders the physician gave me.”
“Those just might do him some good. So we will carry on helping ye for the now, as we ha’ been, aye?”
“Ye be a good man, Rannie MacLeod.”
“I would no’ be too certain about that.” He gave a weary grin. “But I do my best.”
“Ye shall ha’ yer reward in paradise.”
“Aye, just so long as that does no’ come too soon.”