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 fa?ry, 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.