Chapter 22
An axe is sharp on soft wood.
—African proverb
Grim was right. Alysandir returned on the third day, and most of those who had been ill were over their illness, like Isobella. While the others saw to the game the hunters had killed, Alysandir went in search of Isobella. He checked her room and spoke to the servants. No one had any idea where she was, but Grim did tell him to go easy on her.
“Any special reason why I should?”
“Aye, she has been verra sick with the fever. I imagine she wanted to be away from Màrrach, where the air is fresh and clean.”
“Did you know she was going and you allowed it?”
“Nae, I didna ken what she was aboot. Had she asked, I would have taken her myself.”
“Ye have a lot to learn aboot the wiles of a woman, so dinna allow one to persuade ye to do that which ye shouldna.”
“I dinna think Isobella has any wiles. She is gentle, kind, honest, unselfish, and principled.”
“It seems she has clapped a padlock on yer mind and clouded yer judgment.”
“Are ye going to look for her? Can I come with ye?”
“I can handle Isobella.”
“Aye, ye ken and that is why I am worrit.”
“I willna be too hard on the lass,” Alysandir said, and turned away. He wondered how she had managed to disappear in a castle full of people without at least one of them seeing her.
He returned to the courtyard and mounted Gallagher, anxious to find her. He had advised her, more than once, not to wander beyond the castle walls unescorted. She did not seem to understand the danger. When he found her, he would make certain she understood.
He rode along the beach, checking the sand for footprints. He was about to turn back when he heard the musical chime of her laughter coming from the direction of the castle burial grounds. He reined Gallagher into a tight turn and rode until he saw the ancient standing stones of his ancestors jutting up from the ground not far from a burial cairn. He dismounted near an old coffin slab, marked with an ornamental cross so old that no one had any idea just who was buried there.
He stepped through the gate and saw the familiar Pictish stone with cup-and-ring engravings, but he hardly recognized it. Someone had cleared away all the lichen and wild vines growing over it, along with the weeds that had clumped around the base. He continued on and paused for a moment beside the grave of his mother, where he saw flowers had recently been planted.
Here lyes Joanna Mackinnon
who dyed in the year of God, 1507
He spotted Isobella on her knees, just as she laughed again. She was watching the clownish antics of a puffin, with its gaudy rainbow-colored beak, looking as clumsy as a whale trying to fly. He stood quietly, captivated by the slender hands pulling weeds at the base of another Pictish stone. He also saw her black satchel lying nearby.
She seemed sadly alone. It had struck him that she was alone, but the idea had never seemed as real to him as it did now. Was there something about her loneliness that drew her to the graves? Did she find some kind of solace here?
He watched her wind her hand around a clump of grass, and he thought of the way she had wound herself around him in a very short time. He continued on his way unnoticed until his boot struck a rock and she turned toward him. Her eyes widened, her expression expectant, as if she knew he would berate her for disobeying him. He wondered what she would do if he pulled her into his arms and kissed her with all the wildness of this place.
“So you are back from the hunt,” she said.
“Aye. I have returned to find ye were disobedient. I told ye not to leave the castle unescorted.”
She turned her head to gaze out over the water. “Everyone has been sick with the fever, so I came alone. The flowers needed watering.”
“Grim told me ye were ill.”
She smiled. “He was being kind. Three days ago, I was certain I was dying. He assured me that I was not. And, as you can see, he was right.”
She was still holding the clump of grass she’d pulled from beneath a stone that had been carved with a rimmed mirror and a cross-shaft. She pointed at the inscription: MAQQoiTALLUORRH.
“It is thought that the Ogham inscription ‘MAQQ’ may mean son of or descendant of. It is believed that the Picts learned Ogham from the Gaelic-speaking Scots in the eighth century.”
She drew in a breath and added hastily, “That is… it is something trivial I read in a book once. I’m not sure if it is true.”
She was hiding something, but he let it pass for now. He opened his mouth to question her further, but she pointed toward his mother’s grave.
“Your mother’s name, Joanna…”
He cut her off. “You planted the flowers?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Why? You never met her.”
“Joanna is a lovely name. I thought she deserved to have colorful flowers instead of weeds. Women are intuitive creatures, you know. We feel things. Who is to say that some of these feelings did not come from those who came before us? I know your mother must have been a remarkable woman. It matters not that we never met. I feel her presence. I think she is not opposed to my being here.”
She looked at the name carved in cold, hard stone, but the name Joanna itself was soft and warm, like a baby’s breath. “Joanna means ‘God is gracious.’ It’s a beautiful name, and I know she was a beautiful woman.”
The muscle in his jaw worked. He did not want to discuss his mother. “And how would ye know that?”
“By looking at her beautiful daughters.”
“Aye. She was a beautiful woman,” he said, keeping his tone cold and indifferent. “My father never recovered from her loss.”
“I did not find a grave for your father.” She glanced about. “Isn’t he buried here?”
“No, he is buried at Iona, although he would have wanted to be buried here next to her.”
“Then why wasn’t he?”
“Our uncle intervened, and it was decided that as the clan chief, my father should be buried at the priory where our uncle is the abbot. It was the only time I have disagreed with our uncle.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and he caught the sadness in her voice.
She was an easy woman to be around, gentle… He paused a moment and almost smiled as he finished the thought. Gentle, kind, honest, unselfish, and principled, just as Grim said.
She was watching him now, frowning slightly against the glare from the sun. He was distracted by the sight of her, with her skirts billowing around her with each gust of wind, and he wanted to trust her. He dropped down to sit on his haunches beside her.
When she looked up, he held her trapped with his gaze. She remained still and quiet until he picked up the hand that had held the grass only moments before. He noticed the stains and scratches, several of which bled slightly.
“These are not the hands of a lady. Ye should have worn gloves.”
“I don’t have any gloves. Besides the cuts will heal.” She tried to jerk her hand back, but he held it fast. He brought it up to his lips to press a kiss upon it.
“I am not a lady of rank or title, and I like to work with my hands,” she said, anger lacing her voice. “Why did you come here looking for me? I don’t need your protection, as you can see.”
“That is for me to decide. Ye disobeyed me, and if you disobey me and suffer no consequences, others will think it permissible to do so.”
“So have me flogged.”
“Or confined to yer room.”
“Whatever you feel is necessary. I do not mind. It would be easier if you gave me permission to leave the castle. I don’t like being caged. I will only do it again.”
“And I will come after ye.”
She shrugged and looked off, gazing out over the water. “I saw a whale earlier, and I envied its freedom to go when and wherever it pleased.”
“Ye feel trapped here?”
Her laugh was soft but mocking. “I am trapped here.”
“How did this happen? How did ye come to be here? Ye gave yer word to tell me yer story. I want to hear it now.”
“You won’t believe me, I assure you, and you will probably toss me in the dungeon anyway.”
“I will put ye in the dungeon if ye dinna tell me yer story. The time for excuses is past.”
She sighed and continued to stare at the ocean. “I am not certain exactly how it happened. My sister and I came to Scotland to visit the ancestral homes of the Douglases. We visited St. Bride’s Kirk, and I cried when I put my hand on the effigy of Sir James, the Black Douglas.
“A day or so later, we visited Beloyn Castle to view the painting of Sir James. I was so captivated by the portrait of him that I reached out and touched it… just his boot…and I said something like, ‘I can’t believe it is really you,’ and everything went black.”
“What mean ye, it went black?”
She turned to look at him, wanting him to see the truth in her eyes. “It was like being in a cave where there was no light. I couldn’t see anything. I don’t know how long it was dark. It seemed only a second, and then a freezing wind blew over us. A green vapor that was nothing more than a mist began to take shape. The light returned. I glanced at the painting, but the image of the Black Douglas was no longer there.
“Suddenly, the mist began to swirl. It took on a human shape, and I recognized it as the Black Douglas. I remember I said, ‘Oh, dear God,’ and he answered me.”
“Ye mean the ghost spoke to ye?”
“Yes, with a deep, baritone voice that said, ‘Mistress, I am not God, but ye hae only yerself to blame for my being so hastily summoned forthwith.’”
Alysandir rose to his feet, yanked her up by her arm, and spun her around to face him, gripping her shoulders and giving her several good shakes. “Ye mock me with yer lies.”
She sighed, and all the breath seemed to go out of her. She looked him directly in the eyes, and he saw the weariness there, the defeat. “And so you have the truth that you asked for. Only you do not believe it. Now you see why I wanted to postpone telling you.” She shook her head.
“Do what you will with me. I don’t really care. I just want it to be over. It is as I expected. I told you that you would not believe me. But it is the truth, and I am so tired of worrying about your reaction. Take me to the dungeon. Put me in irons. At least I will be able to have peace there.”
He decided not to respond. He wanted the rest of her story first. “And yer sister experienced this with ye?”
“Yes. You saw her in the glen with me that day. We were talking to the Black Douglas.”
“He came with ye?”
“He brought us back with him. He didn’t send us alone, although for all the help he’s been, we might as well have been alone.” She sighed wearily, and her voice grew fainter. “He was there for a short time.”
She explained how they did not know they were in sixteenth-century Scotland until the Black Douglas told them and said they could not go home.
“That was when I noticed we were in the midst of a battle. Elisabeth was furious and told Sir James, ‘It was all Isobella’s fault!’ Then she told me, ‘All I am thinking right now is how much I would love to punch you, flat out.’”
He found that humorous and said that he did not know what to think. Her story was impossible, and yet she told it with sincerity and rather wearily, as if she accepted her fate as well as the fact that he would not believe her. He had seen this type of behavior in men dying on the battlefield, resigned to their death.
“Why did he bring ye here?”
She shrugged. “I asked him that, and he spoke in riddles. One moment, he seems to be my dearest friend, and the next he seems to enjoy throwing stumbling blocks in my way. ‘Ye are here because ye asked to be.’ I disagreed, but all he said was, ‘Ye will understand, lass, when the time is ripe.’”
She looked at Alysandir and hoped he did not see that she was fighting back tears. “The time must not be ripe, for I do not understand why he brought us here or why he allowed us to be separated.”
“Ye told me yer home was America.”
“Yes, it is, but not the America you know of. I am from the America of the future.”
“What mean ye, the future?”
“What year is it?” she asked.
“’Tis the year 1515.”
“My sister and I are from the twenty-first century, in the year 2011.”
“’Tis blasphemy.”
“No, it isn’t. Of course you are free to call it what you will. But believe me, it gets worse.”
“Ye canna be from the future. ’Tis no’ possible.”
“And yet I am here. I have kept my word and told you my story. You can believe it or not. If I am ever reunited with my sister, you can ask Elisabeth before I have a chance to speak to her. She will tell you the same.”
“Mayhap I willna believe her either. The two of ye could have made up this story in advance.”
“You don’t believe me,” she said. It was a statement, not a question, because she already knew the answer.
“Nae, lass. I want to, but I canna.”
“You find it too incredible?” she asked.
“Nae. I find it impossible. With no proof, there can be no belief.”
Oh, great. He wants proof. Just the thing I don’t have. How can I prove something that happened five hundred years from now? I can’t just pull a rabbit or a bouquet of roses out of my hat. She drew in a swift breath. But you can pull something out of your backpack!
Elated and wondering why she had not thought of it earlier, she leaned forward to catch the strap to her backpack and pull it toward herself. She unbuckled one of the two outside pockets and removed something. She handed it to him. “You won’t understand what this is, but this is my proof. It is called an iPhone.”
She smiled as she watched him turn the device over with careful examination. He ran his fingers over the smooth glass.
“Now, watch,” she said, and she took the iPhone, thankful she turned it off in the twenty-first century. She turned it on, held it up, and took his picture. She showed it to him. “This is you, Alysandir. The way you look right now.”
“Ye have captured my spirit! How did ye this sorcery?”
She ran her fingers across the touch screen and found the trailer for Braveheart. This is either going to be hilarious, or he is going to drive a stake through my heart…
He took the iPhone from her. He did not say a word as he watched Scotland’s past shown to him by an object from far in the future. He had dozens of questions, and she answered them. He also found a few historical inaccuracies, as had many reviewers in her time. He wasted no time telling her what the mistakes were.
“Wallace didna wear blue paint on his face. That was the ancient Picts.”
“I know, but for the story I suppose they thought blue faces made it more dramatic.”
“And the plaid? ’Twas no’ worn like that.”
“Actually, it was worn that way many years later, in the eighteenth century. They just moved it forward three hundred years.”
“Why?”
“Maybe they thought women would like to see the men’s legs.”
It took a second before he realized she was teasing him. He laughed and she realized he wasn’t through, for he said, “Wallace couldna make love to Queen Isabella. She was a child when Wallace died.”
He gave her a look so smug that she laughed. “I know all these things. They were merely done because someone thought it would make the story more interesting.”
“It is the way of yer time to find lies more believable than the truth?”
Oh, boy, do they ever… “More often that it should be, I’m afraid.”
He wanted to watch Braveheart again, and when it ended, he stared out over the ocean for quite some time. She wondered what he was thinking, but she didn’t want to intrude on his thoughts.
Then came the flood of questions about the iPhone, and she did her best to answer them. She played a few tunes, and lastly, she showed him pictures of America and her family.
“This is my father, Robert James Douglas.”
“And yer mother?”
“Victoria.” She continued. “This is Elisabeth and my sister Ana, and my brothers, James and John,” she said, unable to stop the seepage of tears. They talked for some time about the pictures and her family. She told him about how she had studied history.
Then she turned the phone off, explaining what a battery was, how it was like a candle that provided light, but that the more it burned, the less it had left to burn. “At some point, the battery will die and all that will be left is the iPhone.”
“The magic will be gone?”
“Yes.”
He was silent for quite some time before he asked, “Yer sister has this magic, too?”
She nodded. “Yes. Almost everyone in my time does.”
She marveled at the oddity of observing a strong, brave knight from the early sixteenth century staring with incredulity at an iPhone.
At last, he said simply, “’Tis magic.”
She smiled. “Oh, Alysandir, you have no idea just how much magic there is in my time. Only it isn’t magic. We call it technology. What you are feeling now is what a caveman would experience if he suddenly found himself in your time.”
He picked up her backpack and offered it to her. “Ye have more magic?”
She was thinking she had opened a can of worms, but she dumped everything out. She explained coins and dollars, and showed the dates. She did the same with her credit cards, her driver’s license, her passport, and all the other things women carry. She even gave him shot of breath spray.
She handed him the romance novel. “I had no idea when I bought this book about the Black Douglas that I would end up meeting his ghost.”
If he heard her, he did not let on, for he was busy looking at the items before him. After careful examination of everything, he must have been satisfied, for he grunted and handed her the backpack.
“I ken ye willna be happy aboot what I am going to say to ye, but… ye canna tell anyone yer story. Not even my brothers and sisters. One of them might forget and mention it withoot forethought. I think it best if ye keep yer pouch hidden away. I will show ye a place ye can stash it so it willna end up in the wrong hands.
“Sorcery is punishable by death. And even I canna protect ye if ye are found oot. While my clan is loyal to me, I am no’ positive they would all be so understanding and on yer side if they suspected ye were a sorcerer. There would be those who would believe ye were sent here for evil purposes.”
She was quiet for a while. It would be difficult to be on her guard all the time, but she didn’t want to complicate things not only for herself, but for Alysandir as well. She stared at the backpack and then handed it to him.
“Hide it where you will.” She paused and said, “I am sorry for all the trouble I’ve been…” She caught the way he was looking at her, and added, “And will be in the future, for I know the great risk you are taking by keeping my secret.”
He drew a finger along the line of her jaw and stopped at the hollow of her throat, just above her breasts. “Weel, ye will have to see to it that I am justly rewarded, no?”
“So, do you think Elisabeth is being treated well?”
The Mackinnon’s laughter took flight.
He took her in his arms. “Ah, lass, ye do bring back the laughter that has been long missing in my life. The Macleans willna harm her. She will be treated like a lady of high rank, accepted by the clan and as free to come and go as ye are. They have no quarrel with her. She is a pawn. That is all.”
“For what?”
“To extract what they want from me.”
“What do you have that they want?”
“My sister Barbara.”
The hope in her eyes faded. “Then we are doomed, and I will never see my sister again.”
His expression softened. “Dinna look so sad. Ye will be with yer sister. Have I not promise ye that already?”
“Yes, you have. Do you know how you will go about it?”
He shook his head. “No, but we are working on a plan. I am no’ going to try bartering with Angus Maclean any longer. He finds too much pleasure in thinking he has a noose around my neck, and it delights him to yank it.”
She felt guilty. Heretofore, she had seen everything through her eyes, never once considering what this was costing him. It wasn’t as if he could jump in his SUV, buzz over to a neighbor’s house, and kick in his door to rescue a damsel in distress. Nor could he turn everything over to the sheriff. He was the sheriff! And the judge, caretaker, arbitrator, defender, provider, protector, and decision maker.
“You won’t have to resort to bloodshed, will you? My sister is a healer… what you call a chirurgeon. She would not want anyone to lose his life to rescue her.”
“Like ye, I want no bloodshed over this, but trying to avoid it takes time.”
She nodded and turned away, hoping to regain her composure and to chase away her disappointment. She understood what he was saying. She could not blame him. His brothers and clan members were as important to him as Elisabeth was to her. She knew from her studies that Duart was known to be an impenetrable castle, so he spoke the truth when he said it would take planning.
She had no map and could not pinpoint exactly where Màrrach was located or how far it was from Duart, but she had a general idea. So she made an educated guess that Duart was at least two days’ ride. He had said the Maclean would not harm Elisabeth, and she believed him. She knew Elisabeth well enough that she would be willing to bet that her sister wasn’t half as worried over being reunited as Isobella was.
She felt his hands, warm upon her shoulders. He drew her backward, and she nestled comfortably against him. He must have understood how alone she felt and that she was moved at the depth of his compassion.
His breath was warm against her hair as he said, “Ferment not yer mind with worry nor fill yer heart with cares. Ye have my word that I will reunite ye with yer sister. I canna tell ye when that will be. But before yer sister arrives, I want to hear how it was possible for ye to make the journey back five hundred years.”
“I don’t know how it was done, only that it was. If that wretched ghost will ever show himself while you are around, you can ask him.”
Her words surprised him. “Ye have seen him here at Màrrach?”
“Oh, yes, more than once. He knows I am upset with him, so I don’t know when he will decide to show himself again. Actually, I never know. Sometimes he talks to me. Other times he just stirs up a wind, or I hear him laugh at something I said. And then there are times when there are none of these outward signs, and yet I know that he is present.”
“Ye are na alone,” he said.
“Yes! Exactly! I am not alone. I always feel his presence out there somewhere.” She smiled. “Even when I wish he wasn’t.”
A breeze stirred itself into a small whirlwind and blew over them, causing the puffins to take flight. Then everything was as it had been.
“That was yer ghost?”
She nodded. “That’s his usual way of letting me know he is around.”
His knees were starting to ache, so he sat down next to her. Without really deciding to do so, he took her in his arms. “Dinna worrit. I’ll no’ chain ye in the dungeon… at least not yet.”
“You do believe me now, don’t you?”
“Yer story is difficult to accept, but I canna find another explanation for the things ye have shown me.”
His lips brushed hers delicately. “Dinna worrit. The burden is lifted.”
For the time being anyway, she thought, her expression wary.
He pulled her close and continued to hold her, neither of them saying anything.
She could be quiet… Not many women had that virtue. He found that besides desiring her and wanting to bed her, he truly liked her. To his knowledge, he had never truly liked a woman, other than his sisters, before.
He kissed the top of her head. He did not know how he would handle all of this, but he had her in his arms, and for now, that was enough.
***
A few days later, Isobella stood at the window looking out at the sun as it began to shine upon the castle walls. Soon, the lilacs in the garden would be full of whistling blackbirds, and the pleasant scent of baking bread from the kitchen ovens would drift by her window. But now the bailey was quiet, almost deserted. Alysandir had left Màrrach before daylight to sail to Iona with Gavin and Grim. He wanted to talk with Barbara.
After two days of rain, Isobella decided to take advantage of the beautiful weather. She was dying to go outside to feel the sea air upon her face. How she missed the warm Texas sun! She inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the sea. She knew the moisture in the air would make her hair curl in coiling ringlets, not that she cared. The day was far too lovely to spend indoors. She dressed in a simple brown dress and went downstairs. She ignored the curious stares of guards and castle-folk who knew she was going against the Mackinnon’s wishes by leaving.
Then she was free. She turned toward the ocean and went for a walk along the beach. Invigorated after what seemed to be at least an hour-long walk, she was about to turn around when she happened upon a young boy about seven or eight. He was sitting in the sand, working on quite an impressive sand castle and moat.
He wasn’t exactly ragged, but his clothes, while obviously of good quality when new, were beyond worn and his cast-off shoes looked too big for his feet. She noticed his socks lying nearby, and her heart wrenched, for they were as full of holes as a colander.
She stopped. “Hello, that is a lovely castle you have built. Is it Màrrach?”
He tilted his head back to look at her, but he did not speak. He studied her from beautiful, dark-blue eyes framed by an exquisitely handsome face. His silence did not deter her, for she had two younger brothers and a younger sister who often gave her the silent treatment. So she gathered her skirts about her and sat down beside him. He smelled of peat smoke and little boy.
“My name is Isobella Douglas. Who are you?”
He remained silent, and she knew he was contemplating whether to answer or not. She was about to ask another question when he said, “Bradan Mackinnon.”
A Mackinnon? How could he be? She had seen other children about the castle dressed far, far better than this urchin. She had never felt such pity for a child in her life. That he should be a Mackinnon and dressed like a ragamuffin. It was beyond appalling. Why was this child an outcast? What had he done wrong, and for God’s sake, who were his parents? She had to look away for a moment to gain her composure, and she stared at the ocean to clear her mind. She did not want to scare him. He probably had enough troubles as it were.
The tide was going out, and the water lapped the shore in little wavelets that left curving ripples in the wet sand. Further offshore, she caught a glimpse of a white sail in the distance. It was peaceful here. She understood why he was drawn to this place.
“When the tide is oot, ye can gather a peck o’ shellfish.” His accent was thickly Gaelic, and his speech resembled that of the poorer Highlanders who worked at Màrrach, rather than that of the more educated Clan Mackinnon. Was he an orphan? But even an orphan with the Mackinnon name should be treated as well as the other children.
“Who is your father, Bradan?”
He was patting the sand into a turret, and he did not pause to answer. He went on working as he said, quite simply, “He doesna want me to say he is my father, so I dinna call him father and I canna tell ye who he is.”
Isobella was surprised at the strange answer, for why would any man not want to claim this adorable child? “May I help you with your castle, then?”
He shrugged.
She scooted closer until she was sitting with her backside plopped flat on the sand and her legs crossed, just as his were. She leaned forward and cupped her hands to scrape the sand and drag it toward her, so she could start a pile of her own to work with. Soon, she had a large mound of damp sand.
“I think I shall be your neighbor, and I will make another castle nearby… one with a loch beside it.”
He did not say anything, so she went to work on her castle. All went well until she tried to make a round tower, which kept collapsing. “Blast and double blast!”
Bradan looked at the fallen tower and then at her. “Ye canna make it so tall, or it willna stand.”
“Ahhh, so that is the secret,” she said and tried again. This time the tower stayed together.
They worked in silence for a while, and then Bradan dusted his hands against his breeks and took a piece of cloth out of his pocket that looked like a scrap from a well-worn plaid. He unwrapped two oatcakes and extended one to her. “Will ye have an oatcake now?”
“Only if you will take one of my scones,” she answered, and withdrew a kerchief from her pocket. She unwrapped a triangular-shaped scone made of honey and oats and baked on a stone. It was quite different from the scones at Starbucks in the twenty-first century, but then, scones had originated in Scotland only about ten years before.
They exchanged an oatcake for a scone, and she observed the way he turned it over and over in his little hand, observing it carefully in that curious way children have. He looked back at her, and she could tell he didn’t know what it was. Her heart cracked a little.
“Have you never had a scone before?”
“Nae, I dinna ken how I will like it.”
“Take a bite. I think you will like it better than an oatcake. In fact, I believe you will think you have never tasted anything so good.”
She could never remember such pleasure over watching somebody eat, for he truly relished it. When it was gone, she handed him the kerchief that contained three more. “Take these with you.”
He took the kerchief and looked down at it and then at her. He said nothing as he busied himself with tucking the kerchief into the doublet he wore.
“Who is your mother, Bradan?”
“I dinna remember my mother, but I know she is in France.”
Isobella decided to move the conversation away from his family and to concentrate on him. “Do you come here often?”
“Aye, ’tis a nice place to be and I dinna get into trouble when I am here.”
“And are you often in trouble, or does it just seem that way?”
“When I was little, I would get my ears boxed about when I displeased them. They said trouble followed me like a mangy dog, but not so much now, for I have learnt to be verra careful.”
She could not help smiling at the way he stressed the pronunciation of “verra,” but the overall message was heart wrenching. How could anyone be so unfeeling to a child? She was willing to bet they treated their horses and dogs better than this motherless child. She gave his black hair a tousling.
“Boys are supposed to get into a little trouble now and then,” she said, and decided to change the subject yet again. “Where do you live?”
“At Màrrach,” he replied
“Màrrach?” How odd, she thought, for she had never seen him about the castle. “In what part of the castle do you live? Where is your room?”
“In the tower.”
She thought the tower was an odd place to put a young child. “Who stays in the tower with you?”
“No one, but I am not afraid. I can look out my window and see the ocean, and sometimes I can see there is more land floating on top of it.”
“More land on top… oh, you mean the land looks like it is sitting on top of the water?” she asked, thinking that was a clever way to describe an island.
“Aye, it sits there, floating on top of the water, but I dinna always see it.”
“Have you ever been to any of the other islands?”
“Islands?” He cocked his head to the side and looked at her with a frown.
Lord, did he not know what an island was, even though he lived on one?
“Do you know what Scotland is?”
“Aye, ’tis where I sleep.”
“What is Mull?
“’Tis where Màrrach is.”
“And what is Màrrach?”
“’Tis where I live.”
“You do know Mull is an island and there are many other islands out there scattered in the water, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “I dinna ken aboot that,” he said.
“What do you know about England?”
“’Tis where the bad soldiers live and sup with the deil.”
“Bradan, do you have a tutor… a teacher… a person who shows you how to write letters and read books?”
He went on perfecting his sand castle. “Nae, I havena learnt my letters or my numbers.”
“Do you have anyone who teaches you about history and geography?”
“Nae, I dinna, but I have been taught to groom a horse and skin a hare, and I can write my name. I can make arrows and shoot a crossbow, too.” He stopped long enough to write his name in the sand.
“Bradan,” he said proudly. “And I can muck out the stables, and I sometimes get to help with minding the sheep.” He stopped suddenly, and she was puzzled by the fearful expression that came over his face.
“What are ye doing doon here?”
Isobella gave a start. She turned and held up her hand to shield the sun from her eyes, puzzled that Alysandir had returned so soon. Why had he ridden Gallagher down here? She wondered if he often did that, or was it because he was searching for her.
“You gave us a start,” she said. “I thought you were not coming back until tomorrow.”
“A change of plans,” he said curtly. “I dinna want ye roaming around out here like this. It could be dangerous. I have told ye before that ye are na to leave the castle unescorted. Hie yerself back to Màrrach. Now.”
“This is Bradan,” she said as she came to her feet. “We are building castles. Do you want to join us?”
“I know who he is,” he said, his voice as cold as ice.
Isobella noticed how Bradan seemed to shrink away then, and how he kept his head down as he crawled sideways, like a crab, until he was several feet away. Then he snatched his too-large shoes, stood up, and ran down the beach.
“Bradan!” she called, but he did not stop.
She stood and started to go after him.
“Leave him be!”
She stopped. “What’s wrong? He is such a beautiful little boy. It saddens me to think…”
“Stay away from him.”
She was shocked. “What?”
“I said stay away from him. I dinna want ye to have anything to do with him.”
She was aghast. “For the love of God, Alysandir, why? Why are you being callous toward him? He is not old enough to have done anything. He is only a child.”
“He is the spawn of the deil,” he said, with intense hostility that struck her a bitter blow.
“What are—”
“Leave him be. I forbid ye to have anything to do with him.”
Forbid ye… Oh, he had said the wrong thing that time. She bristled, and the hair at the back of her neck stood up. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I like him. In fact, I intend to teach him to read and write.”
“I warn ye… dinna have anything to do with him.”
“Why?”
“It is time to go. It will be dark soon.”
She turned away, giving him her back as she tried to still her pounding heart. She sought to gain control of her runaway emotions, for two angry, unreasonable people would solve nothing. “I will be there later.”
He dismounted, and she hardly knew what was happening before he swept her into his arms and plopped her in the saddle. He mounted swiftly behind her so she barely had time to grab the pommel before he spurred Gallagher into a gallop. They did not slow down until they were almost through the gates of Màrrach.
By the time he lifted her down, Isobella was seething. If he noticed, he did not let on as he said, “I will not tell ye again, mistress. Leave the boy be. He is the black-haired spawn of Satan.”
“His black hair is the same color of yours, and his eyes…” Oh, my God! It struck her then… those beautiful blue eyes, the black hair. Alysandir was Bradan’s father. But what could have happened that caused him to hate and despise his own child? “He’s your child, isn’t he? Bradan is your son,” she said, surprised at the calm control she possessed.
“He is a bastard.”
“A lot like his father, but whether you admit it or not, his face speaks the truth. He favors you too much for you to deny him.”
“Dinna mention him again to me.”
“Refuse and reject him all you wish, but you are wrong to blame him for the spilling of your seed. From a bitter seed a beautiful flower has grown. You punish yourself by not knowing him. He is as innocent as a babe.” She saw that her arrow had hit its intended mark. She would give it time to fester.
She realized this was not the time to stand here and bandy words with him, but she knew what was right. Alysandir was as hard and craggy as the granite mountains of the Morvern Peninsula, and just as easy to move. She was not stronger than he, but she was softer, and not every obstacle had to be overpowered with brute strength. It was amazing, really, what strong defenses one could bring down with persistent softness, like water that turns mountains into sand.
They had arrived back at the keep, and when they stepped through the door, he said, “I will see ye at supper.”
“Not if I see you first. And to be certain I don’t catch even a glimpse of you, I will take a tray in my room.”
He paused, and the hardness of his face subsided. “It was not my objective to raise yer ire.”
“Whether it was your objective or not, you raised it. A tyrant’s plea does not excuse his offense.”
“I was not angry with ye,” he said.
“I know and that makes it all the worse. To be angry to that degree with a child over the misfortune of his birth, I find abhorrent. I am disappointed in you, Alysandir.” He started to speak, but she held up her hand. “I have nothing more to say on the subject, for you are behaving like a brute and I don’t want to be around you.”
She did not join him and the others in the hall for the evening meal that night but took a tray in her room as she said. When he came later and knocked on her door, she did not answer. After he left and Mistress MacMorran came to take her tray, Isobella said, “I met Bradan when I walked along the sea today. He would not tell me who his father is, but I suspect he is Alysandir’s child. Is he?”
“I canna speak of the child, mistress.”
“Why?”
“Dinna ask me anything aboot it, please, for I canna discuss it. None of us can. If ye canna get yer answers from the Mackinnon, then ye willna have an answer.”
Sybilla and Grim came by not long after Mistress MacMorran left. “We missed ye at supper and wanted to make certain you were not feeling poorly,” Sybilla said.
“I feel fine, but I am so angry at your brother that I dared not go to supper for fear I would say something I should not. But never mind that. Come, let us sit and visit.”
The three of them sat in a solar off the main part of Isobella’s room. “As you can see, I am the picture of health,” she said, touched at their concern.
“We are glad to hear that,” Sybilla said, “for we were afraid ye might have fallen ill again.”
“’Tis not such a bad thing that ye were absent. Alysandir was like a red deer in rut. Ready to fight anything that moved,” Grim said. “Has he been by to see ye since he returned?”
“He has been by, yes, but I haven’t seen him since before dinner. Nor do I want to.”
Grim was grinning at her as he spoke, “He will come to ye if ye dinna go doon, for ’tis easy to see he is itching to have words with ye.”
“It won’t do him any good to come here. I intend to keep my door locked.”
Grim gave her a serious look. “That willna keep Alysandir oot, not if he has a mind to speak with ye. If ye dinna gain him passage, he will kick the door doon or have a battering ram brought up, if need be.”
“I am not afraid of him.”
“Tonight, ye might want to be,” Sybilla said. “He barely touched his food, but he did drink a week’s ration of ale and that was afore he opened a bottle of brandewijn.”
“He can have poison for all I care.”
Sybilla reached over and took Isobella’s hand and gave it a squeeze as she said, “Grim is right. If he wants to speak with ye, ye canna keep him oot. He would level the entire castle if he has to.”
“Then the two of you might want to sleep elsewhere tonight,” she said. The three of them laughed, but Isobella noticed it was a bit forced.
After they departed, she locked the door and readied herself for bed. Let him come, she thought. There isn’t anything he can do or say that would make me open that door.
It was an eerie wind that came into the room and billowed the tapestry over the window. Then the mournful weeping of bagpipes snuffed out one of the candles.
“Blow them all out and see if I care. You men are all alike,” she said, and went to change into her sleeping gown. “Nothing but hot air!”
***
Alysandir could not erase the memory of his hands around her small waist as he lifted her from Gallagher’s back, or the way she fled into the castle to the sanctuary of her room the moment they returned. On the one hand, he admired her courage, for she had the heart of a lion, the patience of a rock, an abundance of compassion, and more stubbornness than he had ever come against.
She infuriated him and he had nothing to measure her by, for there was not a woman in the whole of Scotland like her. It was as if God had created one of her and decided mankind would not survive and he changed his design. She talked too much; she would not listen; she would not obey. She would argue with the pope himself; she would fight him to the bitter end; she had an opinion about everything whether he asked for it or not.
She was too stubborn, too determined, too beautiful, and too desirable, and he wanted her so much he ached. But a woman like her would strip a man bare, down to the very marrow of his bones, until he was mindless as a beggar. He poured the last dram of brandewijn in his goblet and drank it faster than he should. He paced the room three times and decided what he had to say to her could not wait until the morrow.
It was the second time he took the stairs three at a time, and it was the first time he wanted to throttle her, especially when he found her door locked. No amount of knocking, pounding, or brash threats changed that. He stared at the door for a few minutes. He turned around and headed back toward the stairs. But instead of going down this time, he went up.
Not more than ten minutes passed before he had ripped the tapestry drape in the room above hers from its moorings, cutting it into strips with his dirk and then tying them together. One end he fixed to the post on the heavily carved bed. The other end he tossed out the window, and then he followed it, scaling down the wall until he reached the top of the window of the room below… Isobella’s room.
He pushed himself away from the wall to swing out just far enough to let a few inches of the tapestry slip through his hands. When he swung back, he caught a glimpse of her standing by the bed wearing a white linen gown, just as he sailed forward and through the open window into her room.