by Nicole Locke
‘So we know why he did it, but what did you do?’
Rory’s easy smile fell. ‘Oh, I stole, lied and cheated, but never something so innocent as dessert.’
This was different. Rory wasn’t telling her of mischievous antics he pursued for fun. She was a healer and everything in her knew when someone hurt.
‘What did you do to get caught?’
‘I, unlike my faithful companion, wasn’t so foolish as to get caught.’ He snapped his reins once and his horse increased its pace. ‘Come, we’re holding up the men and my father has already made it through the gates.’
Without looking back, Rory urged his horse on ahead and she did the same. She’d let him go and she’d keep letting him go. He’d given her a glimpse of his past, at least one full of Paiden before he avoided further talking of the past.
There was more to settle between them, but some wounds didn’t heal right away. Some injuries took time. She’d seen Rory avoid personal questions before. She knew he did it now to find the strength and drive he cloaked himself in before he went through the gates that surrounded Lochmore’s castle, his home.
Though it made him more comfortable, letting him go was difficult for her. In fact, for one moment she wanted to call him back. To tell him she understood that as a child, he hadn’t got caught because he was more intelligent than Paiden.
She knew by observing the cold nod to his father, by feeling the frigid air coming off Lochmore’s stone. She was already guessing why he never was caught in that childhood game.
He hadn’t got caught because no one had bothered to search for him.
Chapter Seventeen
It was not as if Rory had never intended to return to Lochmore land. The castles were not so far apart that he’d be excused from ever returning and, in truth, he meant to make Lochmore Castle his familial home.
He’d wanted to wait to make the journey, however, because of Paiden, because of the uneasiness of clan relations. More importantly, he’d wanted to wait until his marriage to Ailsa was on firmer ground. Over the last few days, he’d discovered more and more about his green-eyed wife. How tirelessly she worked at her craft, how caring and beloved she was among her people.
Beautiful. Intelligent. A woman whose father held influence in the clan. She could have married anyone. Someone worthy of her care, of her heart. Someone who didn’t want to marry her for political gain or to prove his worth to his clan. Someone who wasn’t lying to her.
Though his father acted as if he was his son, Rory had never felt as if he was. Ailsa had told him how the McCrieff story of the Great Feud was different from Lochmore’s. He knew, dead certain, that his past was different than what was told as well.
So they’d travelled here, partly because he wanted to search the Lochmore records for his namesake. He felt that if it was proven the Great Feud was as McCrieffs believed it to be, then maybe, just maybe, it was time to talk to his mother, to face the past.
He’d barely dismounted when he saw his mother descending the stairs to greet his father. By the time he’d helped Ailsa dismount, they were already walking arm in arm.
Face the past; he also needed to address the present.
His parents had not come to the wedding, they had not sent the familial brooches, or any missives of concern regarding Paiden’s poisoning. They knew everything and they’d acknowledged none of it.
Rory might believe he was not worthy of her, but Ailsa was a wife to be revered. He’d be damned if they didn’t acknowledge her.
As his parents walked towards him and Ailsa, Rory was all too aware that he stood in the middle of the courtyard. This was his home, where he was raised, but the similarities comparing this moment to standing in the middle of the McCrieff courtyard were there as well.
Many eyes were upon them, many ears were listening. The McCrieffs who travelled with them were meant to be loyal to Ailsa and her father, but there were no guarantees. There were no swords or arrows out, but he could not shake the feeling he was facing some adversary.
His mother, clasping the arm of his father close, nodded. ‘Rory, you’ve arrived in good time.’
His mother’s voice washed over him. Gentle, calm. As a child, he always knew to find her either in the solar with needlepoint in her hands or overseeing the gardens.
With Ailsa by his side, he was struck with the differences between these women. Growing up, trying to emulate his father, he had thought to seek a wife similar in temperament to his mother. He had thought he wanted soft spoken. He married blunt of tongue. He had thought he wanted gentle. He married a woman who threatened him with shears.
By Fate or by God, he’d married a woman he couldn’t have conceived existed and was quickly becoming everything to him.
‘I have more than arrived in a timely matter, Mother. I have brought you my wife.’
But his mother’s eyes were not on him. Instead, her scrutiny of Ailsa was as precise as it was with her needlepoint. He felt that if Ailsa were to reflect any flaw, his mother would rip her out. Gentle voice, but harsh gaze.
His father had barely acknowledged Ailsa. If his mother insulted her as well, there would be words.
‘You’re not tall,’ Helen said.
Ailsa’s eyebrows rose. ‘None of my family are. My father’s...rather wide, truthfully.’
‘Your mother’s side?’
‘Very short as well,’ Ailsa said, her voice a bit clipped. ‘But my mother’s ancestors weren’t of clan interest. There could have been someone of height, but we don’t know.’
‘Theirs was not an arranged marriage?’
‘Quite the opposite.’
Helen pointed to Ailsa and looked to Rory. ‘She’s the Tanist’s daughter. No relation to Hamish?’
‘None,’ Ailsa said, her voice once again at ease though his mother was uncivil in asking him. But for Ailsa, she acted as if an answer to an unasked question had been revealed, which completely confounded him.
‘My father’s lineage is extensive and well known throughout the clan,’ Ailsa continued. ‘It was why he was so easily chosen as Tanist when Hamish became ill. My mother’s side is too common for Hamish’s revered and proud family. Not a drop of my blood is of any relation to Chief McCrieff.’
His mother released a choppy breath. ‘Not that it matters, of course, but we’ve had difficulties with the McCrieffs and particularly your Chief.’
‘Of course,’ Ailsa said.
A slight smile and his mother eyed Ailsa nervously. ‘You must be tired from your journey. Why don’t I show you to your chambers?’
He wouldn’t be separated from his wife, not this soon. ‘The journey is not far. Perhaps we could have a repast instead and converse on how everyone has been? You have not enquired about Paiden.’
‘We received your missives,’ Finley pointed out.
‘But I received none from you. Paiden was sick, dying.’
‘Your wife is a healer,’ Finley said.
Was everything so easy before? Lochmores had been strategic in their attainment of power and there had also been some minor clashes with other clans. But true adversity, he realised, that is what Lochmores lacked.
Mere weeks away from his family, from Lochmores. Barely any time at all and Rory knew it was more than enough to come to more conclusions.
As he stood facing his father, he realised his attempts to emulate Finley, Chief of Lochmore, wasn’t his true path. He’d seen what Hamish’s desire to gain power and control had done to his clan. He’d witnessed Frederick’s attempts to make amends and wrench his own control to save it.
The kind of discord Frederick faced was nothing his father had ever had to face. Deception. Deceit. Murder. He was grateful it was Ailsa, with her shears and direct ways, who stood by his side.
‘Ailsa can’t perform miracles. We couldn’t wake him. He’s not here now because he�
�s weak and couldn’t make the journey even in the back of a cart.’
‘Well, it’s all over now,’ Helen interjected. ‘Let’s not talk of McCrieff matters, shall we?’
His mother never wanted to argue or discuss any conflict, but her dismissal was out of character. He knew she cared for Paiden, so something else was going on here. And he felt he knew at least part of it. Ailsa hadn’t acted insulted by the odd questioning about height and who her father was, but Rory was offended on her behalf.
‘Ailsa is my wife, Mother. McCrieffs are her clan and so by our marriage am I part of hers. Talking of them should be accepted.’
‘Son,’ Finley said.
The rebuke might have meant something to him once. Discipline. Keeping his silence and never disappointing. This has been his life up until the fateful day he crossed to McCrieff lands. Not any more. He’d faced life threatening conflicts over the last fortnight and preferred directness over niceties now.
Helen tapped his father’s arm. ‘Rory, I apologise if there’s been offence at my questions. I’m merely enquiring since we know so little about her.’
His mother was talking around Ailsa who for reasons he didn’t understand was keeping her courtesy and her blunt tongue silent. ‘You weren’t asking about her, but asking of her ancestors. You were enquiring whether she was worthy of a Lochmore.’
‘Rory,’ Ailsa said.
Discourteous, but he’d risk sounding like a petulant child if it meant from this day forward his wife was treated with more respect.
His mother paled. ‘That’s not why I asked, I—You care for her.’
Ailsa stiffened at his side, but he wouldn’t shirk the truth. ‘Very much, so I won’t have talk of McCrieffs versus Lochmores. Not in my presence.’
‘There’s something...’ Helen said. ‘You have to believe I wish only—’
Whatever it was she wanted to tell him, it wouldn’t be here. Not in the courtyard, not before he talked to his wife. Once the truth was said, it couldn’t be unsaid. He needed to prepare her. He needed to face his past.
All his life he’d felt like an outsider. Now that he was married, he refused for his wife to be made to feel the same way. For once, he’d face his past and see if he could find the truth, or at the very least, talk to his wife about his belief.
‘I know what I believe, Mother, and it isn’t here.’
Placing his hand on Ailsa’s back, Rory turned them towards the chapel.
‘Rory, wait!’ Helen called.
Never again.
* * *
Rory didn’t shorten his strides and Ailsa was almost running by his side. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I need to see a priest.’
Ailsa said nothing more. Rory’s storm-ridden countenance didn’t invite conversation, nor did she want any now. After Helen’s questioning, and Rory’s response, Ailsa had much to consider.
Helen’s questions were very specific. She was concerned Rory might have married Hamish’s family and then Rory defended her.
Soon, maybe now, she needed to tell Rory of Rhona’s story. She shouldn’t, couldn’t lie to him any more. Especially now that Rory, in front of his parents, and Lochmore’s Chief, confessed his feelings for her.
Ailsa kept her silence when they entered the chapel, kept it again as he talked to the well-intentioned priest. Agreed with him when he asked for privacy and so followed as he carried the chest full of cartularies to a quieter location.
Now they were here in Lochmore’s crypt. Her family’s burial tomb wasn’t as fine as this. Cool and damp, but the stones were clean, the markers shining. Even dead, the Lochmores held more wealth than a McCrieff. For this crypt wasn’t uncomfortable or unlit and the wooden benches, now covered with quilts, afforded a place to put the chest carrying the parchments and for them both to sit comfortably.
Only it wasn’t the differences between McCrieffs and Lochmores she wanted to explore. It was Rory and his expressions as he...one by one...carefully opened the familial cartularies.
‘What are you searching for?’ she said.
A tightening of his jaw, a shake of his head. ‘Ailsa, there is something I feel I need to tell you, but I—’
He read the document in his hand, his expression one of incredulity.
‘You were right,’ he said, looking back up at her. ‘Lochmore’s nephew who tried to stop the fight and was stabbed by the McCrieff was named John.’ Rory handed her the journal. ‘How could the story of the Great Feud possibly have been switched to my name?’
She read the inscription, the print so small it hurt her eyes. The entire document was written in this way. It was an effective way to preserve parchment and to keep secrets hidden.
‘You keep forgetting that, according to McCrieffs, the baby who died was always named Rory.’
Rory picked up another journal, glanced at it and set it down. ‘Ah, yes, so it’s good I married a McCrieff to remind me.’
One mystery solved. Rory was named after the baby in the Great Feud. According to McCrieffs, Rory was named after a McCrieff baby. Ailsa was beginning to understand why.
Clever Helen. It was her way of telling Rory who he was without telling him.
All her life, Rhona carried the secret of the boy who was secretly born of Hamish and carried away from McCrieff land. She now knew Rory was that baby and that Helen knew it. So she had named him after a McCrieff child.
Helen knew the secret, Ailsa also knew this secret. Of all the women Rory could have married, he had married her.
Was now the time to tell her husband? Her whole life, she spoke exactly how she felt. Now she wished she had gained other ways of conversing so that she could soften her words. Even as she clenched and unclenched her fingers, she suspected there would never be a way to soften these words.
‘Rory, who named you?’ she said.
‘My mother.’ Rory walked to a table, sat and within moments drummed his fingers against it. Each finger was deliberate as if he was counting points or facts in his head. ‘I can’t see my father... I would assume my mother. But my name isn’t important and not the reason I came here.
‘I want you to know, I’m not usually curt with my family, it’s just...you can’t help but notice my relationship isn’t the same as yours with your family. My mother’s recent questions aside, she’s usually polite and kind. I need to talk to you about my father.’
She wanted to ask him so many questions regarding his relationship with his father, but now wasn’t the time. ‘I think we need to talk of your name,’ she said firmly.
He opened his mouth to protest, but she pleaded with him. She needed to tell him the truth, or what she knew was the truth. He’d defended and announced he cared for her, she couldn’t deceive him any more.
At his nod, she continued. ‘With your name, do you think...’ Ailsa swallowed ‘...do you think your mother was telling you something?’
‘I used to believe that she was telling me that she wanted me to be like the nephew who tried to stop the fight between the McCrieffs and Lochmores.’ He stopped his drumming. ‘You think she named me after the baby?’
She pointed to the journals. ‘Look. Your records say the baby’s name was Rory. Could she have read the journals?’
He’d always thought his mother would have been better placed in an Abbey than as a warrior’s wife. Would she have read the old tomes? With certainty. ‘Even if she did know the name of the nephew was John and not Rory, what could she possibly be telling me by naming me Rory?’
‘How long have you known you were left-handed?’ she said.
Rory closed his eyes on those soft, but precise words and ran his hand through his hair. His left hand. What his mother named him, he didn’t care. He felt her affection for him, faint and removed though it was. It was his father for whom he feared he didn’t belong. ‘When I entered the lists w
ith my father and held up my wooden sword to face him.’
‘So you were a mere child. Five, six?’ Ailsa said. ‘I followed Rhona the moment I could walk without assistance. She always smelled so good to me. The lavender and mint, the rosemary and smoke.
‘I watched what she did and listened to the many questions she asked. She was very observant so I learned to be as well. The McCrieff clan is large, but with healing you notice family traits and patterns. How red hair crops up in one family and deafness in another. How most families use their right hands and a few, a rare few, use their left.
‘Your mother or father don’t use their left hands, do they?’
‘Ailsa,’ he choked out. He hadn’t been this vulnerable, this exposed, this weak since he was a babe. He’d trained and fought and educated himself so it would never come to pass and this woman, his wife, felled him. He’d always thought his height was the reason he didn’t match his father—was it his left hand as well? If so, did Ailsa know Finley wasn’t his father? ‘You’re as direct as ever, lass.’
‘At what point will you admit you like my directness?’
He’d never get used to it, but he was realising he’d always want her words. Even now when she was hammering her point until he couldn’t avoid the truth. He had no defence against it since he wasn’t all that sure he wanted to hide the truth from her any more.
Still, he couldn’t lie to her. Since childhood he’d been kept at a distance and all he could do was study his father. The way he walked, talked, ate, trained. His mannerisms as he ordered his edicts, the way he turned his back if Rory entered the room. His father used his right hand for everything, so Rory taught himself to use his right hand as well.
‘Neither my father nor my mother used their left hands,’ he said.
‘You force yourself to use your right. It’s amazing what you can do with your right hand, Rory, but I can’t help but think how much greater you’d be with your left.’
‘I’m better,’ he said. Since the time he was a child, with a wooden sword in his hand, he’d known he was different. ‘I fight Paiden with my left. Ever up for a challenge, he asks me to. He asked me to train him with his left as well, thinking it was something I taught myself, but...he was terrible at it. Is terrible at it.
