The Raven's Wish

by King, Susan

  The lamb was startled as well. Struggling and kicking, it managed to slide halfway out of her lap. Then it leaped from Elspeth's arms and went downward with a plaintive bleating.

  The commotion that erupted was sudden and complete. Shouting for help, afraid the little beast would be trampled by the cattle, Elspeth leaned down from her horse and reached frantically. The lamb disappeared between the cattle's hooves, a rapid blur in the moonlight. Terrified by the white creature that bleated in their midst, the cattle took off in several directions, lowing and grunting and shoving with their heavy heads in their haste to be gone.

  Elspeth leaped from her horse, pushing the animal toward a safe direction. Her cousins were now chasing the runaway cattle, and she dashed off on foot after the tiny white blur. By some miracle the lamb had not been caught underfoot.

  As the lamb fled, Elspeth pounded with booted feet through the heather. Behind her, she heard someone shout, but she did not stop. The moonlight was clear enough to show her the white shape of the lamb, and the long slope of the hill that she rapidly descended.

  A dark, glistening plain spread out at the foot of the hill. Myriad burns sparkled there, like silver threads woven into nubby black wool. She ran on.

  The heather thinned out and her feet struck raw, soggy ground, tufted with mosses. The lamb bounced and bleated, leading her forward. The ground grew softer, and Elspeth slowed her pursuit, suddenly wary of her surroundings. All around her, black water gleamed. Intent on catching the stray lamb, she had not heeded the warning of the moonlight reflections ahead of her, had not thought about the softening ground beneath her feet.

  When the lamb hesitated, its tiny black face merging with the darkness, Elspeth pounced.

  And sank into a cloying peat-bog. One foot, the other, then her legs, sank and disappeared in the thick black mire. She stumbled forward, arms and hands in the oozy stuff. Struggling just took her deeper into the bog. Trying to straighten, she grew still. With the toe of one boot, she felt solid ground beneath the dense, wet peat. Gasping, she fought for balance.

  She was surrounded by a marshy sea of peat. The black, treacherous surface foamed with mosses and grasses and the watery stretches glistened in the moonlight. Safer passes of firm ground were nearly impossible to distinguish.

  Ahead, she saw the pale blur of the lamb, its bleating growing more plaintive now. Elspeth moved toward the lamb, lifting and dragging her legs through the rich, odiferous mire. Reaching out, she touched the trembling little animal and drew it toward her, nearly falling deeper as she did so.

  Coughing and gasping, she gained her footing, inhaling the repulsive odor of dank muck. Then she remembered her nightmare—and began to scream for help.

  * * *

  Easy enough, Duncan found, to follow the Frasers in the bright moonlight once he had spotted them on the crest of a hill, and heard the girl's laughter on the breeze. He kept a discreet distance, but had no desire to lose them and be left riding through MacDonald territory himself.

  If the MacDonalds were to discover a Macrae on their land at night, he would not survive until dawn—the animosity was generations old between their clans.

  Now, shifting the reins of his stallion, he scanned the darkness ahead and wondered whether the Frasers were heading for the glen to his right or were keeping to the river. If he were to follow the course of the river, it would eventually lead toward the western sea and the distant mountains that edged Kintail. His own home, Dulsie Castle, lay nestled in those hills.

  And most of the moors and hills between here and Kintail belonged to Clan MacDonald. Here they disputed borders with the Frasers; to the west, with Clan Macrae. As for the Frasers, he need not follow them further this night. He had discovered what he wanted to know: they had ridden out on another midnight cattle raid. The bond of caution was a necessity.

  Turning the horse's head, he headed back toward Glenran, craving a soft bed more than a hard ride just now. Then, as the sounds of a stampede rose on the wind, he paused to listen—and sighed in exasperation. The Frasers had gone down into the glen. And either they had met with some angry MacDonalds, or they had lost control of the night's booty.

  He spun his horse to ride back. After a half league, he could hear the distressed bellowing of cattle and the thunder of hooves. Reaching the top of a grassy knoll, he saw riders and cattle chasing crazy patterns of pursuit and flight through moonlit heather.

  If this was how the Frasers reived cattle, no wonder there was such trouble here. Sighing, he rode forward, his horse cleaving a path through pandemonium.

  He noticed Ewan and waved a cheery greeting as he passed, then saw Callum—the lad's broad shoulders were unmistakable—and he nodded pleasantly. Kenneth, his dark braids flapping, stopped his garron and gaped. Duncan raised his hand in a relaxed salute.

  "Greetings," he called. "Enjoying the night air, are you?"

  Kenneth continued to stare. Callum rode toward Duncan. "Why are you out here?"

  "I had some trouble sleeping," Duncan answered affably. "There were some rather large mice in Glenran's hidden stair."

  Callum looked surprised, then surveyed the commotion behind him as his cousins chased after the cattle. "We mean no harm out here. Go back to Glenran."

  "I know it is just a little cattle exchange," Duncan said. "But the beasts can be troublesome far past their value. Round up your cousins instead, and get back to Glenran before the MacDonalds arrive." He looked around at the moor. "What frightened the herd?"

  "Elspeth and her—Dhia, where is the girl?" Callum twisted in the saddle. "Elspeth!" He rode away, calling his cousins.

  "Quietly, if you please," Duncan muttered. "This is a raid." In the distance, he saw a riderless, saddled horse—and realized it must be Elspeth's horse. On foot in the middle of a stampede, the girl could be in serious danger. He rode further along the ridge of a hill, searching.

  A scream drifted up from below the ridge. Riding down the slope, he dismounted when it grew too steep for the horse, tossed the reins over a low bush, and walked down.

  He heard another faint shriek, and narrowed his eyes. No MacDonalds, no wolves or wildcats, just a maze of glittering watercourses in the moonlight—

  The girl had gone in the bog. Calling out to summon her cousins, he threw off his cloak and leather doublet, then his shirt as he began to run. Reaching the spongy quagmire, he tread more carefully, unable to tell firm from boggy ground.

  "Elspeth!" he called. "Elspeth Fraser, where are you?"

  "Here," came the reply. Duncan saw a dark, amorphous shape move, and heard a mournful bleating sound. Poor girl, he thought; she was nearly incoherent with terror.

  Pulling off his boots, he tossed them toward his other garments, and lunged forward in trews and bare feet as the cold muck began to envelop him. Moving slowly through the ooze, he made his way toward Elspeth.

  "Stay where you are—do not move," he said. She nodded, just a glint of bright hair and face above peat-blackened shoulders.

  Another careful step, another; he felt with his toes for solid ground beneath the black pudding of the peat-mire. Close enough to see Elspeth clearly, he stretched out his hand. Earlier today he had waded through clear water for this girl, and had reached out to her in just this way.

  "No visions, now," he chided gently, "and no blades, and I will take your hand."

  "Agreed," she said, stretching her fingers toward him. A tremulous cry emerged through the darkness as he took her hand and tugged her toward him. When she pressed something soft and slithery against his chest, he was startled, taking the squirmy little creature covered in muck.

  It bleated, and Duncan blinked in surprise. "A lamb?"

  "She was trapped in a thorn bush, and I freed her, but then she jumped away and scared the cattle, and I ran after her."

  "Ah, and found yourself in the bog." With one arm, he curled the lamb against his chest and took Elspeth's arm. "Come, then—we must be out of this muck quickly and back to Glenran. You and your l
amb and cousins have made enough noise this night to wake the dead." He waded through the bog, pulling Elspeth along with him.

  "Hush," she said. "Do not speak of such things, even in jest." Then she stopped, while Duncan held the lamb and jiggled its scant weight awkwardly. "How is it you are here? Though I thank you for it," she added, and set a hand on his chest for balance.

  Duncan smiled and shrugged. "Noisy walls, has Castle Glenran," he said.

  "Oh," she said in a small voice.

  At the edge of the bog, they rose out of it as horrible as any pair of water-monsters. Ewan and Callum came forward to take Elspeth from Duncan's grasp. He would rather have relinquished the lamb, which bleated, held in the crook of his arm.

  Climbing the hill behind the Fraser cousins, he gathered up his discarded things, and Kenneth brought his horse forward. Duncan handed the lamb over to Ewan, then threw on this cloak and tossed his jack and boots up over the saddle.

  Turning then to Elspeth, he took her by the waist and boosted her up onto his horse. Mounting behind her, he wrapped her with him inside the wide folds of his black cloak.

  "I rode a garron here," she protested.

  "You will feel the night's chill if you ride alone in that wet plaid. Your cousins will lead your garron back with them. Ewan," he said, "hand up that bothersome wee thing." Duncan gave the bleating bundle to Elspeth. "Here is your bog-beast, girl," he said. She cuddled it, wrapping it inside Duncan's cloak with her.

  The momentum of the horse caused Elspeth to lean against Duncan's chest, warmth gathering in the damp stickiness between their bodies as they rode over the moonlit moor. The pounding rhythms of the horses surrounded them as her cousins followed.

  She stifled a yawn, and rested against him. Despite his exhaustion and his irritation with these Frasers for their ill-thought raid, he felt strangely exhilarated. Even a reiving gone awry was an invigorating, thrilling thing.

  Somehow he realized that the sweet press of the girl's head on his chest brought an excitement and a contentment unlike any he had ever felt before. Without quite knowing why, Duncan smiled to himself as they rode on through the night.

  Chapter 6

  And see not ye that braid, braid road,

  That lies across yon lillie leven?

  That is the path of wickedness,

  Tho some call it the road to heaven.

  ~"Thomas the Rhymer"

  "The Council has tossed me into a devil of a pit here." Duncan glanced at Alasdair as they sat sipping cool watered morning ale. "I hoped to convince these lads to sign the bond. The Earl of Moray and the Privy Council want the matter seen to quickly. And now—"

  He poked a silver spoon into a steaming bowl of porridge that a serving girl had brought from the nearby kitchen. Such close proximity guaranteed hot food, but this was amazingly hot, and the girl had forgotten the cream to cool it.

  Alasdair gingerly blew on his spoonful. "I leave for Dulsie Castle this morning," he said, slipping easily into Gaelic. "I have not seen my wife Mairi for three months and more." He took another mouthful and sipped quickly at his ale. "Be patient, man, and your bond will be signed."

  "A few days more will see only more argument, and no signature but mine on that page."

  "Truly, I did not think the MacShimi would refuse—he is an intelligent lad, but stubborn. You are a fine lawyer, and you will convince him of the need for the bond."

  Duncan sighed. "I had planned to talk to him again this morning about the dire importance of this document. But he and his cousins went out hunting just after dawn."

  Alasdair nodded. "They will be gone most of the day, if they come back at all before tomorrow. Your bond will wait yet again."

  Duncan nodded. He had expected the bond to be signed without fuss, had expected to deliver the documents to the Council and return to his quiet house near Edinburgh. The Council would have other legal cases that would require his attention.

  He was unaccustomed to frustration and delay, and s far the Frasers had shown him nothing else, and had sorely tried his temper. He was long on patience, having learned to keep a careful rein on his emotions. His temper had nearly ruined him in his youth, and he would never again let it overtake him.

  Yet these Fraser lads—and the lass—made him want to shout, to wave that cursed document in their faces, and get those signatures if he had to use the dirk to do it.

  "These lads have a strong disregard for the law, and for lawyers," he muttered.

  "Highlanders," Alasdair remarked, pouring cold ale into his porridge and stirring it.

  "True, Highlanders will ever ignore the rule of the law. That raid the other night went against the letter of caution, and the Frasers show no remorse. They just regret losing the cattle they had cut out of the herd."

  "My kinsmen do not trouble themselves with rules. They leave that for the long-robes and the Lowlanders."

  "Am I to slap their hands like babes, and put the pen in their fingers to get the bond into effect? I have no desire to send for the sheriff's men at Inverness."

  "Ach, no need for sheriffs or for forcing the lads. They will sign when they trust you."

  Duncan groaned. "A lawyer who acted like a wild Scot would better gain their signatures, I think," he grumbled, stirring his porridge.

  "Do that, then."

  Duncan slid him a wry look and tasted the thick cooked oats. Hot, but hearty and good. He ate a few mouthfuls and considered Alasdair's words.

  "You are a Highland man," Alasdair said. "They trust their own kind. You come from a clan that has fought MacDonalds for longer than the Frasers have done. Macrae is not just the name you bear, it is your legacy as well."

  Duncan ate another mouthful. "You may have a point."

  "You take a challenge well, Duncan, and always did. Here is one for you. See these lads on their own ground. Hunt with them, or fish with them—"

  "Or raid with them." Duncan smiled. The idea taking shape in his mind had a pleasing irony. "They are a bit inept at the raiding, from what I saw."

  Alasdair lifted a shaggy brow. "You would know a poor raid if you saw one."

  "I would."

  "And you might know the way to improve the raids."

  "I might."

  "Until the bond is signed, the raids will continue."

  "They will," Duncan agreed. "So if they will ride out, they may as well do it proper."

  Alasdair grinned. "I pity the MacDonalds by the time this bond is signed."

  "A displeased MacDonald has never kept me awake at night. I do not wish to see the Fraser lads killed trying to take the cattle by their own unique methods."

  Alasdair laughed as he poured ale into both cups. "The law and the Lowlands have not made you stale all through just yet. That wild Macrae is still in there."

  "Only enough to light a fire under the Frasers so they will sign that cursed document."

  "You will get your bond made, and amuse yourself a bit in the process. Your own father could not have thought up a better scheme."

  Duncan glanced away. "He would have enjoyed this scheme. He was a good man."

  "He was that. Well," Alasdair said. "I must leave within the hour—and I will ask you once again to come to Dulsie Castle when you finish here."

  Duncan shook his head. "Give my grandmother and my sisters my greetings."

  "No other message?"

  A muscle jumped in Duncan's cheek. "None other."

  * * *

  Climbing into the hills that rose behind the castle, Elspeth turned to whistle softly to the leggy lamb that cantered behind her. She laughed as the lamb bleated, as if asking her to wait.

  Her own stride was quick and strong, though she moved carefully through deep grasses and over rocks slippery with mist. Her leather brogues were protection enough from the wet ground, though she had not pulled on woolen stockings or full trews. Even for a damp day in late summer, the moderate weather required no extra layers beneath her plaid.

  She sang as she walked, her clear
voice and steady steps creating a pleasing rhythm. Clearing the last hill, she descended toward the moor, hastening her stride now, aware that Bethoc was expecting her. For several years, Elspeth had gone nearly each week to Bethoc MacGruer's home, only missing a visit when severe weather prevented travel.

  To her right lay the long loch, like a shard of a dark mirror reflecting the hills and sky. The lamb scampered ahead, its fleece only a shade or two lighter than its dark face. Elspeth and Flora had scrubbed the lamb's soft pelt with soft wet cloths and even a bit of precious Flemish soap, but the peat had stained the lamb's fleece to a muted gray-brown.

  "Bog-beast indeed," she said, thinking again of that ride home from the raid, leaning secure and warm against Duncan Macrae. She had fallen asleep as they rode, and he had held her in his arms, the feeling so pleasant—and she even let him carry her into the castle.

  She had seen him in the hall the next day with his hair still wet from a bath, dark as raven's wings, his freshly-shaved face lean and handsome. He had handed over to her, silently and discreetly, the little sgian dhu that she had lost in his bed. When she had blushed, he only smiled before turning away to speak to Hugh.

  She had seen little of him since then, though he spent his days with her cousins, riding with them, walking out over the hills, and discussing the queen's legal document, sometimes with calm dispute, from what she overheard.

  Shoving her fingers through her unruly hair, she followed the lamb. Fine mist dampened her plaid and coaxed her curls into a frothy halo. She loved the washes of mist and rain that rinsed the land, loved cool fresh billows of air, and the soft green and heather tones. Feeling content, aware how much she loved the Highlands, she walked on, singing softly.

  Soon Bethoc's croft lay just below, close against the foot of the hill. Elspeth halted her step, cut her song short in mid-phrase, and frowned. Smoke curled, cosy and dark, from the chimney-hole set in a roof of heather thatch. Vines climbed up a stone wall. A white goat nibbled on a block of turf that also served as an outside bench, and several chickens pecked in erratic circles. The front door stood open, and all was quiet and apparently peaceful.