Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  “Nay, ’tis your brother, John.”

  Gyllis opened her eyes, a faint smile splitting her upper lip with a sharp sting. “You came.”

  “And you still have your heart set on that MacDougall roustabout.”

  She attempted to raise her hand, but it was too heavy. “’Tis good to see you.”

  Dressed in black robes, John looked ever so serious—a far cry from the lad who used to show her how to climb trees and net fish in Loch Awe. He tugged the bedclothes down slightly and grasped her shoulders. “What’s ailing you?”

  “It started with the sweat and shakes, and now my limbs ache so much I can hardly move.”

  He took one arm and massaged it between his large hands. “Does this feel good?”

  “Aye.”

  He took each arm and rested them by her sides. “Now see if you can lift them.”

  With all her effort, Gyllis clenched her muscles and tried to raise her arms, but only the one John had rubbed rose off the bed.”

  John’s brow creased. “Is that all the better you can do?”

  Gyllis closed her eyes and bore down, trying to force her arms to rise.

  John patted her shoulder. “”Tis a fine effort. I do not want you to overexert yourself.”

  “Have you ever seen this before? Do you have any idea what’s wrong with me?”

  He frowned and brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “You’ve paralysis for certain.”

  A cry caught in her throat. “Is there a cure?” she whispered, dread filling her voice.

  “I’ve seen it in the infirmary at the priory. It seems to attack its victims and linger.” He scratched his chin and hummed. “If anyone can recover from this, ’tis you, but it will not be easy. God gave you a willful spirit for a reason.”

  He pulled the bedclothes up to her chin and gave her a pat. “I’ll need to take you to Ardchattan Priory. The monks can care for you far better than Lady Meg—nothing against Duncan’s wife, but you need more care than one person can give.”

  A tear slipped from Gyllis’s eye. “Oh John, why has this happened to me? One day I was happy and gay and the next, I became so ill I was certain I would die.”

  “Only God knows the reason one person is afflicted and another is not.” He stood and clasped his hands as if he were praying. “As his sheep, our role is to take our lot in life and make the best of it—be strong and trust in God to lead us through the dark shadows.”

  She wanted to wipe the tears from her eyes, but had not the strength to put forth the effort. “When did you become so wise?”

  He offered a faint smile. “If only it were thus. Rest. I shall arrange a transport forthwith.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sean and his men rode west toward Fearnoch Forest. Cattle thieving had begun before the effigy had been placed on his father’s grave. If the outlaws think they can cross me, they’ve another thing coming. And why did Da not send for me when I was on the borders? Every time the MacDougall drove out the vermin they were replaced by others? I’ve been battling lawlessness since I reached my majority. Now’s the time to end it on my own lands.

  If the thieves thought they could take advantage of the MacDougalls because they were in mourning, they were sorely mistaken. “Did anyone see the backstabbing tinkers?”

  Slapping his reins like he was beating a drum, Angus struggled to keep pace. “Nay.”

  “Six cattle thieved without a sign?” I find that hard to believe. A lot of things hadn’t sat well with Sean since he started diving into the estate’s affairs. And all had not been smooth whilst his father lived either. Small coin and livestock disappeared from the ledgers with a stroke of a pen. With each little adjustment Sean uncovered, his suspicion grew. That he had a traitor in his midst was certain. Who…was yet to be discovered.

  “A rider approaches from the south,” bellowed a sentry at the rear of the retinue.

  Sean held up his hand and slowed his horse. Circling around, Fraser galloped toward them. Of all the MacDougall clansmen, Sean trusted him the most. They had been boyhood friends and Fraser often rode with him when carrying out Highland Enforcer tasks for the Lord of Glenorchy and the king.

  “Another five head missing by the southern border.”

  Sean gaped. “Any sign of the thieves?”

  “No, m’laird.”

  “That makes no sense at all—if the outlaws are holing up in Fearnoch Forest to the west, how are they slipping unseen to the south…and where are they driving my cattle?”

  Angus rode in beside him and pulled up. “The two crimes could be unrelated.”

  Fraser’s horse snorted and stomped its right front. “I reckon someone’s testing your verve—trying to see what they can take from the new chieftain afore they get caught.”

  “They’ll be caught and the risk is nay worth the gain.” Sean looked up and watched a hawk circle overhead. “I’ve plenty of enemies, but only one comes to mind who’d go to so much trouble.” He eyed Angus.

  The older man’s shoulder ticked up. “I do not think Alan MacCoul would stoop so low, besides, he sailed off in his sea galley a fortnight ago.”

  Sean smirked. “I could never trust that bastard.” He raised his voice and eyed all his men. “Where did MacCoul sail after he left Dunollie lands?”

  No one said a word. He dug in his heels and walked his horse along the line of men. “We’ll rid the wood of outlaws, but moreover, I want a scout on MacCoul’s trail.” He spun his horse and started back the other way. Right now there weren’t many men he could trust—or who had the necessary skills to follow a cold trail. “Hell, I’ll find him myself. I’m the best damn tracker in the Highlands.”

  “That you are,” Fraser said.

  “Do you think it wise to leave your lands so soon after you’ve taken up your father’s mantle?” Angus asked. “There are a great many affairs needing your attention.”

  Sean had always trusted his father’s henchman, but presently he questioned the man’s loyalty.

  “MacDougall!” A rider galloped from the direction of Dunollie. “I’ve a missive from the Lord of Lorn.”

  Sean threw up his hands. “Does everyone ken our whereabouts?”

  “I didn’t think it was a secret,” Angus said.

  Sean pointed at the laggard’s sternum. “We need a sober discussion, you and I.” He beckoned the messenger. “Come.”

  Sean took the missive and ran his finger under his uncle’s red-wax seal and read.

  “What is it?” Angus asked.

  “My uncle…ah…has requested a meeting.” He wasn’t about to say where or when—not to Angus and most definitely not in front of all his men when there could be a backstabber about. He needed to learn whom he could trust and whom he couldn’t and fast. Unfortunately, his uncle’s summons changed Sean’s plans.

  He stuffed the missive in his doublet. “Angus, take the men and drive out any outlaws in the wood. Fraser, find out where MacCoul sailed after he left the clan. Better yet, find out where he’s holing up and report back. I want to see you at Dunollie within a fortnight.” He grasped his friend’s shoulder and squeezed. “Do not fail me.”

  “On my way, m’laird.”

  ***

  “Trevor’s galley approaches, sir,” Brus hollered from the cave entrance.

  With two more rutting thrusts, Alan ground his teeth with a grunt and finished swiving the whore he had shoved up against the cave’s wall. Pulling up his trews, he shook himself off, revived at the relief of tension the quick hump had brought.

  He expected good news. Hiding out on this God-forsaken island didn’t suit him. The damp made his bones ache and his temperament border on the verge of tyrannical—not that intimidation was a problem. It was a tactic he used even when he wasn’t feeling like an ogre.

  Brus caught the mooring rope while the galley ran aground on the beach.

  Followed by his men, Trevor hopped over the side, a daft grin spread across his face.

  “Well?” Alan a
sked, leaving the whore in a tousled heap.

  “Easier than taking a Sunday stroll with my ma,” Trevor boasted.

  “Out with it, man. I want details.”

  “Two bands thieved cattle. One to the west and the other to the south—exactly as you said.” He dug in his purse. “I sold the beasts to a transport headed to Glasgow—Eleven marks, one for each head, less payment for me and the men.”

  Alan snatched the coin and counted it. Trevor had taken the agreed quarter. He didn’t like that his men had taken their share first—but if he challenged the brigands with coin in their pockets, their loyalty would wane. “Did you see any trouble?”

  “Nay—could thieve the laird’s cattle every day, I’d reckon.”

  Alan was no fool. “If you tried tomorrow, you’d be caught for certain.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The alarm’s raised by now. It will not be half as easy next time—besides how much torture could any one of your men take if caught?” Alan adjusted his crotch. “We shall lay low for a time—travel to visit our allies in the Lowlands where we do not have to hide in a cave.”

  The men nodded in agreement.

  “Walter,” Alan hollered over his shoulder.

  The smithy stepped out from the cave’s shadows. “Aye?”

  “While we’re away I want you to fashion irons for a man.”

  “You mean you’re not taking me with you?”

  “You heard me.”

  The blacksmith knuckled his head and glanced at the woman Alan had just discarded. “You’ll leave the whore?”

  “Very well.”

  “All right, then, but I’ll need measurements.”

  Alan gestured to his body. “My size, but a hand taller.”

  Walter shook his head. “Tis nay that easy—”

  “Just see it done. I’ll hear no more from naysayers.” Alan turned to Trevor and Brus. “We sail at dawn.”

  ***

  Propped up with pillows, Gyllis closed her eyes and yielded to the monk’s gentle ministrations. She’d been in the cell at Ardchattan Priory for a month now and, though the sickness had passed, the paralysis still plagued her. Even her breathing had become shallow and labored. She closed her eyes. Dark thoughts of a life as a cripple blackened her mind. She’d be a burden to her family—or to the priory unless by some miracle, God saw fit to give her the strength to walk again.

  “I’ll wager things are not as comfortable here for you as they are at Kilchurn Castle,” Brother Wesley said in his ever-soothing voice. He had a sallow complexion with grey eyes, black hair, and his front teeth were large and crooked. It was difficult not to stare at them on the rare occasion he smiled.

  How different and ever so mundane things were cloistered behind the priory walls. Nothing exciting ever happened—she never heard a voice raised or the clanging of swords when the guard sparred as she’d heard daily at Kilchurn Castle. The dangers of the world seemed a hundred miles away.

  Gyllis glanced at the stark walls with a single wooden cross nailed above her head—aside from the bed, the only piece of furniture was a wooden stool. Brother Wesley looked at her expectantly.

  “Aye, my chamber is five times the size of this cell,” she answered. “And the bed is far softer than this cot.” Indeed, she’d prefer to be home now.

  He pressed the heel of his hand into her thigh and rubbed with a circular motion. Had he not taken an oath of celibacy, Gyllis could never have permitted him to care for her. “With God’s grace, we shall have you up in no time. I’m sure you are anxious to return to your kin.”

  “If I could spring from this bed this moment, I would.”

  “You must take one thing at a time. ’Tis a long process to recover from a disease like paralysis.” He patted her leg then resituated her skirts. “Let us see how your arms are faring today.”

  Her fingers twitched and she closed her eyes. Clamping her teeth and scrunching her face with effort, she forced herself to lift them from the bed. Sucking in a gasp, the worthless limbs dropped back down. She glared at Brother Wesley. “They’re useless.”

  He lifted her hand and held it in his palm, offering a serene smile as if he had not a care. “You raised them twice as far as yesterday. I am impressed with your progress.”

  If only Gyllis could share in his subdued exuberance. If Brother Wesley were to raise one of his thick eyebrows, it would be an untoward display of emotion. “I most certainly am not pleased. Do you have any idea how miserable it is to lie on this cot hour upon hour unable to move?” And now she’d begun to suffer from bed sores.

  “It must be very monotonous indeed.”

  “’Tis unbearable.”

  The monk frowned. “I shall continue to pray for you, Miss Gyllis.”

  That’s all she’d heard since arriving at this miserable priory. “Praying? What good will that do? I cannot even feed myself—and the indignity of being changed like a bairn.” She turned her face toward the wall and groaned.

  “I am sorry—I shall continue to try to help, though my efforts have not met with your satisfaction.”

  Gyllis cringed. She’d just insulted the kindest, gentlest person she’d ever met. Devil’s bones, this illness turned her into a curmudgeon. “Apologies, I did not mean to imply your ministrations have not been met with my sincerest gratitude.” She took in a deep breath and willed the air to fill her limbs right through her fingers. With her exhale, her hands rose at least six inches. She chuckled and glanced at Brother Wesley.

  “Praise be to God, Miss Gyllis.” He stood and clapped his palms together. “I do believe the Lord’s strength just showed the greatness of its power right through the tips of your fingers.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Let me try again.” She closed her eyes. Please, please, please. Once more her hands rose from the bed. They trembled a bit, but she’d done it. No matter how small the win, it was something. She splayed her fingers. Without telling Brother Wesley, she tried to wiggle her toes. Possibly the toes on the right foot moved. She couldn’t be certain.

  The door opened and John stepped inside, holding a lute and a parcel. He grimaced at Brother Wesley and bowed his head. “Have I interrupted you?”

  “I was just finishing.” The monk straightened and smiled. “Miss Gyllis lifted her arms further than ever before.”

  John smiled. “Very good news.”

  “Indeed.” Wesley bowed. “I should prepare for vespers.”

  “I shall be in the nave shortly.” John sat on the stool beside her bed. “Mother sent a few things.”

  Gyllis eyed the lute in his hands, her spirits again sinking. “I doubt I’ll ever have the wherewithal to play that again.”

  The cell was so small, he simply leaned back to place the instrument in the corner across from the bed. “We’ll keep it here until you are ready.” He reached inside the satchel and pulled out a book. “You might start with this first. We can prop you up and I’ll wager you’ll be able to turn the pages since you can raise your arms a bit.”

  Gyllis squinted at the title. The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle & other Romantic Tales. “My heavens, ’tis not the Holy Bible?”

  John smoothed his palm over the leather binding—with light dun hair, her brother posed a handsome man. “I suppose Mother thought you’d prefer something lighter, though I’d be more than happy to replace this with a Bible from my own library.”

  Gyllis’s fingers twitched, if only she could snatch the book from his hands and cradle it to her chest. She may never find romance for herself, but she certainly could live it through the text on the page. She’d read The Legend of King Arthur over and over until she could recite lengthy passages. “Please, can I start now?”

  “Very well.” He glanced around the tiny cell. “Perhaps you’ll be able to read if I rest it in your lap.” He opened the book to the first page then lifted Gyllis’s arms and placed them across her lap.

  Instantly she was transported by the mystical knight, Sir Gr
omer Somer Joure as he challenged King Arthur to discover what women desire most. Anxious to turn the page, her fingers twitched, her arm moved spasmodically and knocked the book from its perch.

  John slid it back in place, but kept it open to the page she’d already read.

  Grinding her teeth, Gyllis concentrated, focusing on the simple task of turning the page. When at last her feeble hand grasped the velum, her motion jerked, and the cursed book clattered to the stone floor. A cry caught in her throat. “Bless it, I am completely useless.”

  “I’ll fetch it.” He retrieved the book and again set it on her lap.

  Gyllis shook her head. “No. What use is it if I cannot turn the pages myself?” She looked at the ceiling and wailed. She couldn’t even clench her miserable fists. “My God, why has this happened to me? What did I do to deserve a life in purgatory?”

  John placed his hand on her arm. “There, there. You mustn’t fret.”

  “But I can do nothing without help.” A tear spilled down her cheek. “It would have been better if God had taken my life than to have left me paralyzed with no prospects of recovery.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. You’ve made progress.”

  “D-do you honestly believe that, John?” Uncontrollable sobs racked her body. It had been ages and ages since she fell ill—and she hated every moment of her confinement. “I am the most worthless lass who ever lived. I cannot even hold a miserable book. I’ll never walk again. I’ll never be courted by a dashing knight. I’ll never bear children.” She wiped her miserable nose on her shoulder because she couldn’t—possibly never would be able to—use a worthless kerchief. “I am nothing.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sean couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to Ardchattan Priory, but he was looking forward to the prospect of seeing John Campbell, the prior. After the untimely death of John and Duncan’s father, the younger son had left the Highland Enforcers to become a priest. Sean hated to see him go. He was a fine knight and a better friend.