After the Gloaming
Leah Marie Brown
Oh! Samhain, that wicked and perilous season has once again come upon us, when the barrier between this world and the orbis alia is dissolved and spirits roam free, wreaking chaos where once there was order; when the evil lurking in the shadowy chambers of men’s hearts is exposed, leaving the innocent vulnerable.
– Excerpt from Scottish journal
Deidre Monreith clutched the edges of her hooded cloak to keep it from billowing in the wind gusting through the battlement of the crumbling tower and looked out over the vast, wooded domain that would one day belong to the man she loved.
To her right, the Solway Firth glimmered beneath the setting sun, reminding her of the angry, smouldering ashes that glowed many shades of orange in Potter Murray’s oven.
And to her left, rising majestically from the centre of a triangular-shaped moat, was Caerlaverock Castle. Constructed of thick, amber-hued sandstone and boasting a double tower gatehouse, it was the most impressive castle in all of the lowlands.
Perhaps in all of Scotland.
For hundreds of years, the wretched, wily English had been crossing the border, pillaging the lowland villages and laying siege to Caerlaverock. Yet still she stood! Rampallions be damned!
Truth be known, the pride that swelled inside her when she looked upon Caerlaverock was a mere trickle when compared to the torrent she felt for the man destined to rule it.
Robert Maxwell, eldest son of John Maxwell, the fourth Lord Maxwell, would one day be master of Caerlaverock and all the Maxwell lands. Brave, handsome, charming and clever, Robert was to be the fifth Lord Maxwell, laird of the Clan Maxwell, commander of the mightiest garrison south of Edinburgh.
For a certainty, ’twas a challenge she knew he’d rise to with little effort. Had he not already proven himself a champion in the lists, effortlessly vanquishing many a battle-tried opponents?
And to his prodigious roll of admirable traits, she would one day add steadfast husband.
For Robert Maxwell loved her – Deirdre Monreith, the humble daughter of his father’s bailiff.
Robert loved her! And soon he would climb the tower steps, take her in his arms, and whisper the sweet, wooing words that made her heart ache with gladness.
Ravaged by warfare and abandoned to nature, the derelict tower upon which she now stood was all that remained of the first Caerlaverock Castle. A forgotten place, nestled in the woods, it was where they met in secret, beyond the prying eyes of the hall.
The sound of a twig snapping somewhere beyond the tower walls drew her from her reverie and she suddenly realized the sun had set.
She peered into the strange blue-black darkness that always followed the gloaming.
Everything appeared to be as it should; and yet she could not dispel the pervasive sense of foreboding that had plagued her intermittently throughout the day.
The ominous feeling had settled upon her, thick and heavy, like a mantle that could not be shirked.
Had something moved in the distance? Was that a light flickering near the water?
She leaned out over the battlement probing the thick, black forest and salt marshes.
She searched for … something, anything that would disprove her ever-growing fears.
But what could possibly be lurking in the darkness?
She wasn’t a child, after all. She no longer worried about glaistigs.
She smirked now as she remembered how terrified she had once been by her da’s tales of the nefarious spirit who rode under the cover of darkness, snatching unsuspecting souls from their beds, and carrying them away upon her headless steed.
Just as she was about to turn away, she noticed a dim, red light flickering in the distance.
“Beware the bean shìth, lass.” She could almost hear her father’s voice whispering in her ear. “The female wraith with eyes of blazing red who leaves her otherly-world realm to keen on the doorstep of one about to die.”
“God’s teeth! Deidre lass, have ye misplaced yer wits?”
She spun around and saw Robert standing near the top of the stairs, his ebony hair gleaming in the moonlight, his muscular arms crossed in front of his broad chest.
“Robert!”
“Come hither and move away from the wall before ye fall to yer death,” he snapped, his tone unnaturally cold.
Something about his manner frightened her, increased her mounting sense of doom. She obeyed and quickly stepped away from the crumbling rock wall.
It was his wont to greet her with a pretty word or sonnet so why did he not remark on her beauty or take her in his arms? Something was amiss.
“I am to wed Janet Douglas,” he confessed, confirming her suspicions in the worst manner imaginable.
The dagger-sharp pains assailing her heart, robbed her of breath.
“Nay!”
“Aye, ’tis true. We wed in six days time.”
He turned, meaning to quit the tower, but she darted in front of him, blocking his path, desperate to retain that which she held so dear if only a moment longer.
“What shall I do?”
He frowned, as if truly perplexed by her query, and his brow knit together.
“Do?”
Tears clouded her vision.
“What shall I do … without ye?”
“Perchance, ye shall marry a cooper, flesher or swineherd and give him a hut full of squalling brats,” he said in a tone devoid of warmth, a sardonic smile marring his handsome face.
“I pray ye stop,” she cried, pressing her hands. “This cruel jest wounds me.”
“I jest not. I mean to wed Janet Douglas.”
“But I love ye!”
“Verily?” He shrugged. “Love is but a festering wound that heals when properly tended.”
She stood in mute horror.
For a moment she feared an archer had fired a crossbow, for the pain assailing her heart was surely akin to that of an arrow to the chest. Who was this man standing before her, coldly sneering, as if they had never laughed and shared their dreams?
As if he had never happened upon her in the bluebell woods nor secretly left those delicate blossoms upon her windowsill?
Something broke inside her, sending painful shards of light catapulting through her brain. Grief blinded her and muddled her wits. The grief abated, replaced by anger.
Fists clenched, she lunged forward. She meant to strike out at him, to inflict a fraction of the pain he had inflicted upon her, but he grabbed her wrists and shoved her violently from him.
Unprepared for the assault, she stumbled backwards until she felt the sharp edge of the top step beneath her feet. She seemed to hover a moment before falling into the yawning abyss.
She heard Robert cry out. She heard a sickening thud as her head struck the stone wall. She heard the rush of air roar in her ears as she made her spiralling descent and the curious crack her neck made just before she landed on the tower floor.
With blood filling her mouth and trickling down her face, she stared in stunned wonder at the shafts of silvery moonlight streaming in through the arrow slits.
And then, Deidre Monreith, daughter of Angus Monreith, bailiff to the great and mighty Lord Maxwell, heard no more.
Caerlaverock, Scotland, present day
Caden Maxwell sat in shades of darkness listening to the harsh, hacking coughs of the dying man and couldn’t help but marvel at the capriciousness of Fate.
He had once vowed never to lift a finger to find his father and now here he was keeping vigil at the emaciated man’s bedside.
Four months ago, Caden had been in his loft in downtown Seattle, enjoying the fruits of his labour as a successful day trader in the futures market.
He had a tight-knit group of college buddies he met every Friday at Bad Albert’s Tap and Grill for burgers, beer and blues.
He played football every Saturday morning at Brighton Playfield, met his mother for brunch on Sundays, and volunteered at his local Boys and Girls Club.
His hectic, fulfilling life left little time for thinking about his biological father and the hole his absence had once created.
Then he received a letter from a man claiming to be his father.
In concise, contrite terms James Steward Maxwell had explained that he had recently been diagnosed with lung cancer, was not expected to live more than a few months, and wanted to spend his final days getting to know the son he had neglected.
Caden’s first impulse had been to crumple the letter and toss it into the waste bin, but years spent at a Catholic school, being taught the virtues of compassion and mercy by strict nuns, had instilled in him a disproportionate dose of guilt.
Cancer. Dying. Regrets. Final days.
He wrestled with his conscience for a few hours and then he remembered the words his mother often told him when he struggled with an important, moral decision.
“Listen to the voice in your heart, Caden, and do what you feel is right.”
Early the next morning, he dialed the number embossed on the bottom of the expensive, crested stationery, just beneath James Maxwell’s scrawling signature.
After a brief, awkward conversation with James Maxwell, he clicked on and booked the next flight from Seattle to Edinburgh.
One 3,000-dollar Air France ticket, a thirteen-hour flight with a brief layover in Paris, an exhilarating two-hour drive down the A702 from Edinburgh to Dumfries later and he found himself at Blackstone House, James Maxwell’s ancestral home situated on six acres of parkland near Caerlaverock Castle and the banks of the Solway Firth.
James drew a long, wheezy breath that roused Caden from his musings. He sat up, leaned forwards, and studied the sleeping man, waiting for his chest to rise again. A moment later, James awoke from his narcotics-induced slumber, his eyes widening in terror, as violent coughs racked his body.
“I’ll get the nurse, but try to relax,” he said, in a calm voice.
Caden pushed to his feet and had barely made it a step when the door opened and the home health care nurse hurried in, syringe in hand. She jabbed the needle into the IV line connected to James’ hand and pushed the plunger.