by Barbara Bard
She also though of Alastar. Had she and Catherine unwittingly unleashed a villain into England?
As she was half-way across the room, the doors opened, and men poured in, looking haggard troubled. Rebecca had to leap out of their way. She continued moving towards the door, towards her freedom, when she heard them run up to Lord Flynn and reveal their business.
“They're back sir,” one of the men said. Rebecca froze. If Catherine had returned then there was a danger that she would betray Rebecca, and her part in this plot would be discovered. Lord Flynn's threat was firm in her mind, and she was certain that her punishment would be doubled for lying to his face. Creeping back slowly, she blended into the background as all good servants did and listened in to what was happening.
“Well? Where are they? Bring my daughter to me. The others can be hanged for all I care. I should have killed them when I had the chance, even though death is too swift a punishment for them,” he growled.
The men looked at each other nervously.
“That's not exactly what we meant my Lord,” the leader of the guards spoke again. His words were reticent, and it was clear that he did not like delivering this news to Athelred, but he continued, nevertheless.
“What do you mean?” Lord Flynn replied.
“It's the horses sir, they've come back.”
“The horses?”
“Yes sir. With the riders. Dead riders. And we've had word from another patrol. The men we sent after your daughter and the escaped prisoners have been found dead. All of them were killed by a sword. There was no trace of anyone else. They must be in the Highlands by now.”
Athelred leaned back in his chair and furrowed his brow. His face darkened. Rebecca found it to be a terrible sight.
“This is a grim day, indeed. You have all failed me! They kill my son. They seduced my daughter. They shall pay for these crimes!” he said, his fist crashing down against the arm of the chair.
“You!” he roared and pointed straight at Rebecca. “Fetch me some wine. I have much thinking to do.”
Trembling, Rebecca moved to a cabinet in the corner of the room and pulled out some wine and glasses. All she wanted was to leave this hall and return to her own chambers so that she could finally relax, but she was grateful to hear that Catherine and the others had escaped. There was no telling what Lord Flynn would do next though. He was usually a calculating man, but it seemed as though he was prone to recklessness when it came to his children.
Rebecca served wine as other servants were called in and buzzed about. Lord Flynn ordered messages to be sent across his vassals to raise their levies.
“There will be war. I will avenge the crimes committed against my family. The Highlanders shall never again shame me!” he declared.
Rebecca left as soon as she could, scared about the future, still worried that her part in this would be uncovered. Immediately after she left the hall, she rushed down a corridor and, when she was out of sight, leaned against the wall, doubled over, and almost threw up the contents of her stomach. She braced herself against the wall, and then scurried away back to her chambers when she heard footsteps approaching.
Chapter 11
While Alastar was walking, his thoughts turned to the past, for spending time with Stephen had made him think of his own youth. Stephen was fortunate in a sense, because he was old enough to remember his father, and he got to spend time with his mother. Alastar had been close with his father, but when it came to his mother he only remembered vague memories, for she had died when he was young. His father had tried to keep her alive by talking about her during the time they spent together, but his words were always tinged with sadness.
“She was a fine woman,” he used to say, “the gods dinnae make any like her anymore. She was like a daughter of Teutatis. The first time I saw her it was the first time I knew I was alive, and I knew we were gonnae be married.”
The story had an unhappy ending though. Alastar had been young during the war with England. His father and mother loved one another, but they had terrible arguments about the state of the world. His father often spoke about them.
“She never wanted me tae gae out and fight. She wanted me tae stay at home. She said I never owed anything tae the world, and she was likely right, but what would I hae done if the English hae rolled over the land and taken everything from us? I told her I would nae be a soldier, but I could nae stand by and dae naething. It was the hardest thing I hae tae dae, tae leave the two of ye, but I knew that I could nae look at ye with pride if I stayed at home. Sae I went and fought my own fight, the same fight I am teaching ye about, but now, well...” he said, hanging his head.
He often did that, trailing off mid-sentence when he spoke about Alastar's mother. When Alastar thought of her he was filled with a warm feeling, of comfort and happiness. He saw the image of a smiling face. As he walked through the cold and lonely night, he wrapped his arms around himself and felt her warmth.
The arguments continued after the war. They often took place after Alastar had been put to bed. He remembered being confused. The war was over, but his father still went out every day, and his mother was fretful.
“The fight is over!” she used to cry.
“The fight is never over!” he replied, and that was often followed by the stomp of feet, and then the soft sobs of his mother weeping.
The most powerful, most vivid memory of his mother was one that he didn't like thinking about. As soon as it threatened to enter his mind, he pushed it away with desperate vigor. He clamped his eyes shut, trying not to let the tears roll down his cheeks. Instead, he breathed deeply and tried to embrace the void his father had taught him about.
It had been one of the first lessons he had ever been taught. Alastar remembered the day well. His father had taken him out for a walk and they were alone in a sunny glade. At one point his father had stopped and sat down on a log. He gestured for Alastar to join him.
“One day ye are gonnae be a man, and ye are gonnae have tae decide what type of man ye are gonnae be. I want tae help ye make that decision, sae I'm gonnae teach ye something my father taught me. Ye see Ally, the world is a dangerous place. Ye ma and I hae tried our best tae keep ye safe, but as ye get older ye will face threats, and if ye dinnae prepare now ye will be hurt.
There are two types of people in this world, the strong and the weak. And when ye are strong ye can either hurt people or protect them. I hope ye turn intae the second type.”
“I want tae be just like ye,” Alastar remembered saying.
“Ye ma is afraid of that,” his father said, patting him on the back. He went on to explain the void. “When ye are in danger, when ye are scared, look intae yerself and breathe. Remember that ye are a master of ye own destiny, and nobody can take that away from ye. If ye keep ye head ye will dae just fine, and ye will be better than most other swordsmen ye will meet. But ye need tae push all other thoughts and feelings out of ye mind. Focus on ye breathing, be one with ye surroundings. I will let ye practice now.”
And his father insisted on practice. The two of them would go into the forest every day. They would sit at the same log, and Alastar would train. He wasn't very good at it at first. There were too many thoughts tumbling through his mind, and for a time he felt absolutely useless, and was afraid of disappointing his father.
But then, something wondrous happened. He found the void. He burrowed deep inside himself to find a place that was as still as a lake, and a sense of serenity washed through him. He opened his eyes excitedly, and from that moment on he was able to go into the void whenever he needed it.
After that came the rest of his training. They began with wooden sticks. Alastar returned home with dark bruises from where he had let his defenses slip. His mother always fussed over him and scolded his father for being too rough.
“It's the only way he'll learn,” his father had said simply. Alastar felt the same, and he burned with a desire to end a fight with no bruises, to be able to move on and fight wit
h real swords.
The arguments continued though. Alastar's mother and father wrestled over his destiny every night, pulling him this way and that. Alastar would scream into his pillow, hating that neither of them actually asked him what he wanted.
Then the lessons stopped.
The following morning, Alastar had bounded outside and picked up a sword, ready to try and best his father again, but his father came out, looking beleaguered.
“Ye can put that down son. We will nae train taeday. There are other things ye must learn,” he said. Alastar protested fiercely, but his father was not having any of it, and it soon became clear to Alastar that it was his mother's doing.
For a time, he hated her for that, but now he only regretted those feelings. He saw that she wanted to protect, to want the best for him. Living his life now, he knew that if he had listened to her, he would have been safe in the Highlands, probably with a little family of his own, and he wouldn't be concerned with England or the threat they posed.
But he also wouldn't have been able to make a difference, just like his father. And he wouldn't be able to make amends for the mistakes he had made.
Lanterns hung high through the village. Small houses were dark, the people inside them sleeping. There were the sounds of animals screeching and rustling for scraps of food. A few people slept on the streets. Alastar had walked through many villages just like this, sleepy places where people tried their best to make the best out of living.
He was the only person around. His feet pressed against the ground as he walked through the main path through the village, his mind turning back to all the places he and his father had been, and all the people they had helped.
But there was always that one last village that stuck in Alastar's mind. The one where he had been arrogant and cocky and had failed to pay heed to the lessons his father had tried to teach him. Both had to pay for Alastar's mistakes, Alastar with imprisonment, his father with his life.
The night was cool, but the anger Alastar had inside him kept him warm. The flame inside him burned more powerfully than the lanterns hanging around the village, and it had been burning all through his imprisonment. It was the only thing that had kept him going.
But always he looked back on himself, back at those moments spent with his father, always wishing he had done something differently.
“We cannae gae in yet. We need tae wait for the English tae move on,” his father had hissed at him as they waited in the trees outside the village. Alastar's body was thrumming with energy. For a long time, he had wanted to test himself against English soldiers, just as his father had during the war, and now he had the opportunity.
“We cannae wait. Think of all the people they'll hurt.”
“Ally listen tae me. We need tae wait.”
But Alastar had not listened. He'd jumped down and ran into the village. His father had had no choice but to follow him, and in that one moment their lives had been irrevocably altered. During his imprisonment Alastar had learned that life was long, but it was amazing how dramatically it could change based on decisions made in a heartbeat. It was as though a wave of a hand was enough to shift the seas.
Alastar reflected on this, and on the people, he had left behind. He thought of Stephen and knew that the boy would be a better man than he, for he would not be burdened with the guilt and shame of knowing that he had caused his own father's death. It was one thing to lose a father, but quite another to be responsible for it. Alastar would never be able to have a life until he avenged his father's death and made up for his mistake.
His mind spun plans and stratagems as he continued his path through the night, leaving the village behind. Following the stars, he made his way back to the estate. Soon they would realize he was gone. The time to strike was approaching. But unlike last time he would be patient. He would be more like his father. He would truly live up to the name of the Blue Thistle.
Chapter 12
Rebecca had been so distracted by the whirlwind of events that she had forgotten it was time to eat. Pale of face, she groaned when she saw Elayne approach her and drag her away to the kitchen, where dinner was being served.
Rebecca's appetite had vanished because of her encounter with Lord Flynn.
Elayne was curious about what happened and asked her a hundred questions as they took their seats, but Rebecca was stunned into silence. Bowls of soup were served. Rebecca breathed into the heavy scent of the soup and looked at the chunks of vegetables swimming in the thick liquid. It was a hearty meal, and she broke off a piece of her bread, because eating was better than talking.
Others looked at her with curiosity, wondering why Ellen had led her away. Rebecca kept her head down and forced herself to eat.
“Come on Rebecca don't be so coy, I know that you have plenty to tell,” Elayne said.
Rebecca glanced around at the servants sitting around them. They were engaged in their own conversations, but often glanced surreptitiously towards Rebecca, hoping to pick up on anything she might say.
Dinners like this were always filled with gossip, and the servants often knew more than the nobles who lived in the estates. Rebecca kept her lips sealed however, for she didn't want to risk letting anything slip. Thankfully, there was another servant at the table who had interesting information.
“I saw the horses return. They had dead bodies slumped over them,” he began, enjoying that the attention was on him. “I had to drag them off. It looked as though it had been quite a fight. The men were slashed, and shortly after that another patrol came back and told us that they had found the rest of the dead bodies. I can't believe that a group of men as well-skilled as that were defeated so easily, without causing any casualties of their own,” he said.
“This is a grim time indeed. Lord Flynn is not going to be happy. I have heard that he has already given the call for war. It seems as though history is repeating itself,” Adam said. He sighed and shook his head. He was an older man and had been in service to this estate for all his adult life.
“I remember the first war,” he said, “and the toll it took on the land. I feared for our fate when the younger Lord Flynn seemed hellbent on going to war just to follow in his father's footsteps. I had hoped that this madness would end when Lord Flynn returned, but it seems as though we are doomed to repeat the mistakes of history.”
“Surely you don't think Lord Flynn should simply let his daughter leave or let his son's death lie without being avenged. He must do something!” another servant said.
“Perhaps, but violence only leads to more violence. More people will die, more deaths will need to be avenged, and it will never end. Eventually somebody will have to lay down the gauntlet and let go of the anger. I had hoped that with Lord Flynn's ambitions turned southward he would ignore the Highlands. If his son hadn't died perhaps things would be different, but I fear that one day these halls will be stormed by rampaging Highlanders, and none of us shall be safe,” Adam said.
“I should not worry. The war will be far from here,” another man said. Many of the younger people seemed to agree. Elayne looked pensive though, and Rebecca didn't think there was much truth in the words. She had learned much over the years, and it was clear that the last war had had effects reaching across the land, affecting the lives of people who didn't even fight. Nobody came out a victor in war.
The debate grew stronger, and Rebecca noticed Elayne growing more tense as each moment passed. Eventually she pushed herself up and ran off, leaving the remnants of her soup in her bowl. Rebecca got up soon after and chased after her.
She found Elayne outside, on the edge of the gardens, sitting on a bench, sobbing. The evening dusk had set in and the sun had relinquished its celestial throne to the moon. The bright flowers were cloaked in darkness, but still looked beautiful. The estate was quiet when compared with the noise during the day. Nearby, a fountain trickled. The two of them were alone.
“What's wrong?” Rebecca asked, taking a seat by her friend. Elayne wiped
her eyes when she became aware of Rebecca's presence.
“Nothing,” she said, turning her face away, ashamed of letting Rebecca see her in this state.
“Elayne, there's no point lying to me. I know that something is wrong. Is it about your parents?” Rebecca asked.
Elayne nodded.
“All that talk of the war just reminded me of everything we lost, and how impossible it is for me to regain it. I want to be a good daughter, but I don't know how it's going to be possible to reclaim the lands my father lost.”
“What exactly happened?” Rebecca asked. Elayne had often spoken to her about the fall of her family, but she had only spoken about the consequences, not about what had caused this fate to occur.
