Perhaps it is selfish of me to persue my love, despite the swelling feeling that Elspeth is in danger. I have never claimed to be less than selfish. A part of me berates my heart, and my body, for it, but I do not know how I can do anything to save a woman who lived so long ago. Could it be that her destiny has already been written, and can no more be changed than any other bit of history?
October 18, 1936
Life continues to be blissful and full, for both Elspeth and myself. Our bellies both grow now, as our pregnancies progress easily. I had a day or two of brutal sickness, but Elspeth knows a simple remedy that was easy to make for myself.
My parents are surprisingly delighted at the prospect of being grandparents. Mother is already making pretty dresses and handsome little suits, in preparation. I have told them to expect a grandson. Of course, they scoff and laugh, telling me that only God knows the sex of the child. I cannot really tell them that a goddess has already proclaimed it so.
My mother wants me to move back to the estate in the city, where we are nearer a first-class hospital, but I refuse. Rudderfirth is my heart’s home. Leaving it would mean leaving Harriet behind, and I will not let that happen. Father has become indulgent of my every whim. He has even hinted at signing Rudderfirth over to me, a belated wedding gift for a marriage he despised. The irony is delicious. He really is a funny old bird.
* * *
I have pestered Elspeth about the Goddess’ proclamation, endlessly. She finally admitted that her life is in danger, but she is resigned to the idea that she has no control over anything. In her mind, all is predestined by the Gods, and no human can alter their edict.
After nearly a month of badgering, she finally agreed to hear me out. I do not think she had given thought to how her demise might affect me, here in my time. At my begging she had created a poison to be used only in the direst of circumstances, and only after the birth of her child. The mixture of henbane, nightshade and mandrake is potent. Elspeth promises that if her death is at hand, she will take it and pass on to The Wild Hunt without pain.
Once again, I owe her a debt I can never hope to repay. She will commit suicide to prevent exposing me to her death throes. She is truly my sister-spirit, her love and protection stretching out across centuries. I must find an opportunity to save her, if there is such a thing.
January 3, 1937
I have been lax in my duty to the Goddess. Both of my lives have been a flurry of preparation for the arrival of the babies. Father did turn Rudderfirth over to me, as an early Christmas present! Since November, the estate has been in a constant state of renovation and redecoration. I have given Harriet a suite of rooms next to my own, though she is more often in my bed than hers. The carpenters have built a door between our rooms, and those on the other side of my suite, to connect the nursery.
Harriet is blissfully planning the decoration of her suite, just as she helped to plan the nursery. I have found an excellent Nanny, and given her leave to design her own rooms, as well. In fact, every live-in servant has the choice of how their rooms are to be renovated. The staff is grateful and their pleasure shows in their work. I need only mention anything I crave and someone pops up with my heart’s desire, moments later. It is rather like being royalty, the way they dote on me. Father grumbles at the expense, but he has not yet refused to sign a check. I truly believe his griping is just for show.
* * *
Elspeth has been nearly as busy, making things for the wean, helping Ewan fashion a cradle, setting up everything she could possibly need for the birthing. The rest of her time is taken with teaching Ewan the rites for the covenant with Elphane. The decree of the Goddess has her worried that something will go wrong, with her or with the baby, that makes Ewan’s participation necessary. She can think of no other reason for the Goddess’ prediction.
I can think of several reasons she may not be capable of fulfilling her duty, but I keep those thoughts from her. She has enough to worry about, right now. I am thankful that, finally, I have learned to shield my thoughts from her, in both times.
I also keep quiet my concerns about her labour. In the 16th century, birthing was a more primitive affair. Since I still experience every sensation with her, I am anxious about what I can expect when her time comes. Will I experience the birthing with her? Will it send me into premature labour. The Goddess claimed that I would give birth to a son, and apparently he will live to father is own children, but how can I be certain? If my baby is born nearly three months too soon, will it not damage him, irreparably?
Harriet tries to reassure me that all will be well. She says that needless worry will cause more damage to the baby, and I, than any prospective dangers. I am trying to believe her
.
February 9, 1937
Elspeth has delivered a beautiful baby girl! Muireall Greer MacCoinnich, they have named her. Little Mary is a plump, healthy baby, with powerful lungs and a monstrous appetite. She smells like heaven, and her skin is as white as ivory with the rosiest little cheeks! I am certain she will be a singer, as she already coos like music.
She may not be my child, in truth, but I experienced the birthing of her as if she came from my own body. It was a blessedly easy labour, thanks to Elspeth’s knowledge of herbs and medicines. It seems that the very poison she made at my behest, taken in very small doses, eases the pain of birthing, and the violence of contractions. I paid close attention to her preparation of the potion and the amount she ingested when her labour began. Harriet has procured the ingredients for me, but she is anxious about my intention to try it. Since it will be up to her to provide the dose, when my time comes, I must convince her beforehand.
Thankfully, the nanny was not yet in residence when it happened, and Harriet lay beside me in my bed. I fell asleep, as usual, and awoke to the most excruciating pain I had ever experienced. Elspeth was well into the process when I joined her. Her first contraction had come when I was wide awake, in my own time. The shielding I had learned kept me from sensing it.
The midwife tried to comfort her, but she would have none of it. Ewan, surprisingly, was there as well. He held Elspeth’s hand and tried to sooth her, but his murmured words of love were drown out by her cries.
“I am here, sister.” I spoke into her mind. “We will endure this together, and bring a perfect little priestess into the world. You are frightening your husband and annoying the midwife. Breath, sister, and try to let the baby come.”
I kept a running babble in her mind, to distract her. In my bed, I thrashed, unconscious. Harriet was terrified, but I could not know that. She tells me that I sweat and ground my teeth, but I did not cry out. Harriet brought rags soaked in cold water to lay on my brow, and held my hand, though she feared I would crush hers.
Elspeth did relax with my presence, and the labour went much smoother. Within just two hours of my arrival, little Mary came into the world, covered in blood and screaming like an Irish banshee. Ewan was her slave from the moment of her birth, and Elspeth forgot her pain as soon as she counted the ten, tiny, perfect fingers.
My fears of damage to my son were unfounded, as Harriet predicted. I am grateful for the experience, knowing now what to expect when my time arrives. May the Goddess grant me a child half as delightful as our little Muireall.
March 16, 1937
Muireall grows more beautiful every day, and I enjoy my sleeping hours as much as the waking again. During the day, I have my lover, and at night the delights of watching Elspeth and her family. Elspeth is hail and healthy, as is the baby. I can see no reason for the Goddess’ prediction that she will be unable to complete her duty at Beltane.
Harriet is waiting for me in the bed, her naked body beckoning, and her golden hair in a fan on the pillow. It is a wonder to me that she still finds me desirable, despite my monstrous belly and swollen breasts. I am so blessed to have her.
April 12, 1937
And now I see. Elspeth is in danger, but she refuses to acknowledge it.
Arailt h
as returned to Penicuik and he is a changed man. Elspeth cannot see it, though it is as plain as day to me. I don’t know how long it has been since his return, but yesterday she spotted him standing at the edge of wood, watching her work in her little hut. He smiled when he met her eyes, and it looked like he was about to step forward and speak. Murieall cried, in the folds of the sling Elspeth had fashioned under her cloak. When she pulled back her cloak to soothe the baby, Arailt narrowed his eyes. His face grew dark. Before Elspeth looked back up, he stormed away through the trees.
The highlander reappeared that evening, this time he appeared behind her on the road, jogging briskly at almost the pace of her pony.
“He is following you.” I told her.
“Nonsense! He is obviously on some urgent errand.” She scolded, mentally. “Perhaps I should offer him the pony and walk the rest of the way home.”
She slowed the pony, but Arailt checked his pace, walking now. She shrugged to herself and chucked at the pony to resume its trot. When she looked back he was jogging again.
“See? He is pacing you.”
“Ach! You worry for nothing. He simply tired and slowed to catch his breath.”
When she came to the croft, Ewan was there to greet her at the door. Arailt slowed again, in front of their home.
“Fàilte Dhachaidh, Arailt!” Elspeth called out. “Where are you running to?”
He had been staring at Ewan, and the question seemed to startle him.
“Da…Da asked me to fetch some of the cream you made for his feet.” He said.
“Well, you could have had it hours ago!” she laughed. “I will see if I have any here.”
She ducked into the house, found a jar of the cream and settled Murieall in her cradle. The baby had fallen fast asleep, as she always did when Elspeth rode. Outside, she found Ewan and Arailt taking each other’s measure.
“You have not met my husband. Ewan of Clan MacCoinnich, this is Arailt of Clan Fraser.”
“Well met, Arailt of Fraser. We have met once before, I believe.”
“We have.” Arailt murmured. He turned to Elspeth, then, took the jar from her hand, and turned to go back the way he had come. A few steps away, he stopped and turned back to shout.
“I have not paid you! Come to the croft on the morrow, and I will give you your reward.”
The phrase, so close to the words of the Goddess, set my teeth on edge. I begged her not to go. She cannot believe that Arailt would ever mean her harm, but I know that a jilted lover, or even potential lover, is the most steadfast danger.
At least she promised to take Ewan with her. I am counting the minutes until I sleep again. Harriet has suggested I try a nap, if only to relieve my mind. She may be right; this strange, bewitched time-travel, though it seems to follow the calendar, has never obeyed a clock.
She was amused to hear that the man I suspect a menace is named Arailt. It is the old Scots for Harold, she tells me, the masculine of Harriet, the second name I had chosen for my son. I do not find it at all amusing. To me, it is simply disturbing.
April 13, 1937
All is well with Elspeth. Ewan accompanied her to the croft of Arailt’s father. He was there alone, the rest of the men being busy in the fields. Arailt paid them with a young lamb, which Elspeth protested as too much, but he said it would stand as advanced payment for more cream in the future. Ewan was well pleased with the deal, and promised to deliver the cream, himself, whenever it was required.
Perhaps I am jumping at shadows.
April 28, 1937
Elspeth of Furnes, Clan MacCoinnich will die tonight.
Just writing those words shatters my heart. For nearly twenty-five years we have shared every moment of our waking lives, and now I have said goodbye for the first, and very last, time. I am afraid—for her, for me… I feel like the lowest form of life, leaving her to face this alone. How can I abandon her, now?
She insisted I stay away, though neither of us is sure that will prevent me from living this with her, or dying with her. I have never resisted sleep before. The one time I woke in the night was that once, nearly a year ago, but Elspeth slept then. I cannot think clearly.
I have no more idea what has happened to Ewan and Murieall than she. I fear that Ewan will follow her in short order, and that pains me all the more. He came back to the house, yesterday at mid-day, burning with fever. Elspeth was beside herself with worry, which turned to utter terror when a swelling lump appeared, just under his left arm.
She gathered Murieall into her sling and saddled her pony. Arailt was walking when she flew past him on the road. When she looked back, he was running after her and calling, but she was not stopping. There was not much she could do for Ewan, if he had what she feared, but she could pray that Murieall had not been close enough to catch it.
The Goddess had told her the plague would return.
She took Murieall to the hut she had lived in—was it just a year ago? When she had the medicines she wanted, she would stop Arailt on the return ride, and ask him to send someone who had lived through the last plague, to care for her.
Elspeth had survived, but only because her mother did what she was doing now. She sent her daughter away, and saved her life. Murieall would need someone who had been exposed and lived. The few who had done so were said to be immune afterward.
She raced to the smaller, hidden hut, and filled the empty sling with everything she could. If she must, she would try everything at hand!
Back on the pony, she urged it into a full gallop. The poor beast was already winded, but he gave everything he had for his mistress. When she saw Arailt, she stopped and procured his oath to protect Murieall and keep everyone away from her croft.
I can only guess what he did then, but he must have gone to Ewan’s father, for Elspeth had barely finished her preparations and ministrations, before her father-in-law exploded through the door.
The malevolent grin that spread across his face was almost as terrifying as the plague! He finally had all the evidence he needed, to have Elspeth declared a witch.
* * *
When I left her, she was calmly awaiting the arrival of Sir Thomas Scott, to whom the pastor planned to turn her over. She waited in the smaller of her own chicken coups, which Dubhglas had forced her into. Arailt stood guard. I was right. How I wish I was not!
Her suicide potion is in her pocket. Elspeth begged me to leave her, afraid for me and for my unborn baby, but I cannot leave her alone! I will sleep, and pray I am in time to see her to the end!
May 2, 1937
For the first time in my life, I am alone in my head. Behind me, in his cradle, my son shrieks his colicky wail. He has not stopped since he came screaming into the world. My labour was quick, but I cannot say it was easy.
Colin was born less than an hour from my first pain, the pain that came hard upon my waking, right after I died with Elspeth.
Yes, she has passed, I presume to The Wild Hunt, as promised. I know nothing of the fate of Ewan or sweet, little Mary.
I was with her when Sir Thomas Scott arrived, looked over the collection of medicines the pastor had seized as evidence, declared Elspeth a witch, and summarily ordered her execution. I was with her when she sent up her final plea, unanswered, to Elphane. I was with her when she took the poison.
“Goodbye, my husband. Goodbye my heart. Goodbye my sister. I come to you, My goddess.”
Those were her simple, brave last words, before she drank the entire bottle. She did not cry for fear, but for we three, the loves she was leaving behind, and the love she was fleeing to.
The poison sent her into the final sleep almost immediately, casting me back to my time and the nightmare of Colin’s birth.
He is a small, sickly child. I love him with everything I have, but I have not slept since he came into the world, and I have had twisted daydreams of silencing him with a pillow. Harriet is my savior. It is she who held me through the labour, cooing soothing words into my ear and drying my tears. Onl
y she knows why I mourn. Without her I am adrift, empty, and hollow. I have lost a great piece of myself, and I do not know if I will ever feel whole again.
I had thought to fill every page of this journal, but now I cannot bear to look at the smooth gold-trimmed pages. The rest shall remain blank. The Goddess gave me the task of recording the truth of Elspeth’s life, and I have done—and I am done. I will store this book in the library, high on the dusty shelves. One day, someone may find it. Perhaps they will learn what happened to Ewan and Murieall. It is the not knowing that hurts most.
I finish. Goodbye my sister.
~Beth Mackenzie
The Scottish Genealogy Society
September 14, 2012
Dear Ms. Mackenzie:
As per your request, I have done a thorough search for any references to one Elspeth of Furnes, or Elspeth of MacCoinnich. I have discovered that an Elspeth of Furnes, married into Clan MacCoinnich, was indeed convicted of witchcraft. She was executed in Edinburgh, Scotland in the year 1585. The exact date and method of execution are not recorded. The record gives the age of Mrs. MacCoinnich as approximately twenty-five years.
I also investigated Ewan MacCoinnich, for whom more information is available. Ewan’s birth record shows his place of birth to be Strathcarron. He was the son of a Protestant minister. The records show he died in early May 1585, in Edinburgh Scotland of the Bubonic Plague. I did find a reference to it in the private letters of a local Laird, which claims he was found at the foot of Arthur’s seat. The implication is that on discovering he had contracted the plague, he threw himself over the cliff.
Murieall MacCoinnich does not appear in any records at all, but a Mary MacCoinnich does. She was given to Simon, 6th Lord Lovat, to foster. She joined the royal court at Edinburgh on July 25, 1603, strangely enough, the date James VI was crowned James I in England. Shortly thereafter she vanishes from the public record. If she married her name may have been changed, or it could be that the records have simply been lost.
Between The Sheets (A Naughty Box Production Book 1) Page 20
