The Raven's Wish

by King, Susan

  Yet a heavy dread gripped Elspeth's insides like a fist. She began to run.

  Reaching the doorway, she peered into the shadowed interior. The open door admitted a wedge of cool daylight. Scant light was provided by a little window in the back wall.

  "Bethoc?" she called, stepping inside. Her brogues shushed over the well-swept dirt floor. In the hearth, a circle of fitted stones in the middle of the floor, a peat fire crackled. The sweet, musty fragrance of dried herbs hanging in bunches from the rafters mingled with the peat smoke. Elspeth turned. "Bethoc?" she called.

  Across the room, behind a woven cloth hung for a curtain, lay a snug box bed. Crossing the room, Elspeth drew aside the curtain, and looked down at Magnus's little daughter.

  Eiric slept soundly, curled on top of the fur covering, a tiny form in a rumpled white shift, her black curls gleaming in the faint light, one thumb disappeared into her little mouth. Though dark as her mother had been, her eyes, when open, had Magnus's deep blue color.

  Eiric's mother, Bethoc's daughter, had happily handfasted with Magnus. But before the year and day of their arrangement drew to an end, the girl had died bearing their daughter. Not even Bethoc's considerable skill could save her.

  Magnus had been making plans to marry her in front of a priest. Instead, he had buried her, and had given his infant daughter Eiric into Bethoc's hands for raising. He knew that Eiric would be cared for with great love here. And Elspeth knew that in the two years since, he had secured his heart against hurt, making no attempt to find another wife.

  Elspeth reached out to tuck a woolen blanket securely around the sleeping child. "Eiric gràdhan, little dear, where is your grandmother?" she murmured. Bethoc, she knew, would not have gone far when the child napped.

  The second room of the house, formed by a half-wall made of a wattle screen, held Bethoc's sturdy, wide loom and little else. She saw that Bethoc was not in the weaving room.

  Leaving the cottage, Elspeth walked around the side of the house, past the turf-bench and the goat, her strides parting the cluster of chickens. The kail-yard, a small garden behind the house, was deserted, its rows of herbs and vegetable plants lush and still in the damp, silent air.

  But a few of the green leaves were trampled and smashed. Elspeth suddenly felt as if a lump of lead sat in her stomach. Her heart beat with quick thumps as she turned away.

  "Bethoc!" she called.

  Nothing but the wandering bog-lamb. She shooed it toward the turf-bench, where the goat moved over without interest. Wondering if Bethoc had gone to fetch some water, Elspeth began to run down a little hill that led to a burn.

  There, beneath the alder trees that lined the burn's banks, she saw Bethoc seated on the ground by the rapid, narrow stream.

  Even from this distance, Elspeth could see the darkening bruises that covered one side of the woman's face. Just as she broke into a breathless, anxious run, she saw the stiff manner in which Bethoc half-lifted herself to her feet, only to stumble again to the ground.

  Reaching her, Elspeth fell to her knees. "What happened?" she cried, placing a hand on Bethoc's shoulder. Looking at the woman's face, Elspeth sucked in her breath.

  Purpling bruises swelled beneath Bethoc's right eye. The right side of her face had begun to swell viciously at the corner of the firm jaw. Blood seeped from a cut on her lip.

  Bethoc pushed back the black and silver hair that slipped down from her wrapped braids. "Elspeth," she murmured. "Well enough, I am, girl. Do not fret. Where is Eiric?"

  "Sleeping," Elspeth said. Bethoc nodded as if in relief. Stepping over to the little burn, Elspeth soaked a corner of her plaid's hem in the cold water, and came back to apply the cold compress to Bethoc's face and gently cleanse away the blood.

  "Tell me how this happened," Elspeth said.

  Bethoc shook her head. "Help me up, mo cuachag." Leaning a hand on the tree trunk, she placed her other hand on Elspeth's shoulder.

  Elspeth sensed the weakness in the woman's limbs as Bethoc stood. "Your foot—" she said, looking down. "Can you walk?"

  "As well as ever," Bethoc smiled and stepped forward with a slight lurch, her twisted foot rocking her gait. Born with a club foot, Bethoc moved slowly, but rarely used a walking stick.

  "Lean on me." Elspeth slipped an arm around the woman's back. Bethoc was tall and solid enough, but Elspeth was strong, and easily assisted her as they went back to the cottage.

  Inside, Bethoc sat on a bench by the table and let out a heavy sigh. Elspeth checked to see that Eiric still slept, then went to a wide cupboard and opened its doors. Bundles of herbs, wrapped and tied in pieces of cloth, and a few small clay jars sat on the shelves.

  Bethoc had taught her much over the years. Now Elspeth chose comfrey for bruises, willow for pain, oak and wormwood for swelling, gathering each bundle or jar as she found it. Then she fetched the wooden bucket that always held cool water for drinking and cooking uses.

  "An infusion of comfrey and willow bark would help, but would take too long just now," Bethoc said. "Just moisten the comfrey root—there—and make a cool poultice."

  Elspeth worked quickly, and listened to further suggestions from Bethoc as she began to prepare an infusion. She stirred herbs into an iron kettle of hot water, suspended on a rod over the hearth.

  Her mind worked as quickly as her hands, racing through her anger and shock and fear. Repeatedly, and fretfully, she glanced at Bethoc, who calmly held the comfrey poultice to her cheek and leaned her head back against the wall, eyes closed.

  Elspeth was reassured to see that calm in Bethoc, a hint of the constant serenity that seemed part of Bethoc's nature. When the infusion was steeped, Elspeth added honey and knelt on the dried rushes to hand a cup to Bethoc.

  "Now tell me," she said sternly. "This was no fall down a hill, or onto some rocks."

  Bethoc gazed evenly at her. "That is what you assume," she said, and took a sip. "What do you sense?"

  Elspeth half-smiled; even now, Bethoc would be her teacher. Obediently she closed her eyes, took a breath, and tried to clear her mind. She tried to let the knowledge come, in spite of her wildly beating heart and anxious feelings.

  Nothing. Only the darkness behind her eyes. She drew another breath, slowing her chaotic thoughts by slowing her heart. Then a glimmer of an image: a shock of rusty hair, an upraised arm.

  Elspeth opened her eyes. "Ruari?" she whispered. "Ruari MacDonald did this to you?" Bethoc looked at her in mute admittance. "But why? You have no herd, only a few sheep, a goat, chickens—"

  Bethoc shrugged. "My house sits on the border of the land that Ruari inherited from his father." She winced and brought a finger to her swollen lip. "He told me that he has no care to share marches with—with a—" she looked away quickly.

  "With a charmer and a healer?"

  "He did mean that, though his words were not so kind."

  "Was he alone? Did he—oh, Bethoc," Elspeth murmured, "did he—"

  Bethoc shook her head. "He only hit at me, and left me laying there by the burn, when one of his brothers rode over the hill calling for him. I was in the kail-yard when he came. He rode his garron through the plants. I had just put Eiric down for her nap." She settled her back against the wall. "He drove me from the yard with the flat of his broadsword, as if I were a cow. He struck me with it, and screamed vile things at me, saying that my twisted foot branded me a creature of the devil, and he would not have a witch-woman living so near his land. I heard Eiric crying inside, but I could not go to her—" she drew a shaky breath and closed her eyes.

  Quick tears came to Elspeth's eyes. Bethoc's strong-boned face was distorted with bruises. After a moment, Bethoc opened her green eyes, and took a sip of the herbal infusion.

  Folding her arms, Elspeth anticipated the moment when she would tell her cousins the truth of the man they wanted her to marry—and the moment when they would ride out in revenge against Ruari MacDonald.

  "My cousins will see Ruari pay for this," she said. "Magnus especia
lly…will kill him."

  Bethoc shook her head. "The lads must not go after him! Magnus knows the folly in attacking Ruari. The crown wants peace between our clan and the MacDonalds, I hear. Clan Fraser cannot afford such an incident just now." She gazed at Elspeth. "Magnus was here the other day bringing fresh trout. He told me of the lawyer at Glenran, and of the queen's letter."

  Elspeth scowled. "Bond of caution or not, the lads will have Ruari's head for this."

  "Then you must not tell them."

  "We cannot ignore this—Ruari MacDonald is evil to do such a thing to you."

  "Tcha," Bethoc said, drifting her eyes shut, "he is only simple and stupid."

  "Have you no anger against him?" Elspeth asked. "We will be angry for you, then, my cousins and I. The MacShimi will gather a tail of Frasers to march after the MacDonalds."

  "Elspeth, say nothing of this," Bethoc said sternly. "I want your promise."

  "Do not ask this of me. I will not risk your safety, and Eiric's. What if he were to return and do worse?"

  "He will not come back and he will expect the wrath of the Frasers over this," Bethoc answered. "But if the Frasers were to strike out over this and a MacDonald were to die at their hands—" she sighed heavily. "The crown would send fire and sword after our clan. Elspeth, think what that means. Remember the queen's lieutenant and the power he has to bring disaster on us."

  Elspeth nodded reluctantly. "Macrae could bring down swift retribution on all our clan." She sighed. "I will keep your secret then, so long as you are safe."

  Knowing only virtues in Bethoc, Elspeth could not conceive of the hatred that must sully Ruari's mind. He had beaten her because she helped others, using her herbal knowledge and her gift of the Sight. Never turning down a request, including those from MacDonalds who lived nearby, Bethoc offered her healing skills freely, offering remedies, performing charms and auguries, never expecting payment though grateful to receive gifts of food or goods or livestock. Bowls of oats or milk were sometimes left on her doorstep, a sign that if she was regarded as a witch, she was not feared, but respected.

  "Healers and those with the Sight are thought special in the Highlands. But Ruari and his brothers—" Elspeth shook her head, remembering the taunts at the stream the other day. Her cousins would butcher him like a beast if he ever made such a move against her. She wanted to tell them the truth of this day; she wanted them to ride against Ruari; she would go with them.

  "Elspeth, mo cuachag, Ruari and his brothers drink fear and think it wisdom. They cannot understand how we see things beyond earthly sight. It frightens them."

  "They think it evil to have such a gift? But you have never done ill to any," Elspeth protested. "You heal and help and advise. You are a good woman—and the only mother that little Eiric has ever known. Who could fear you or think you evil?"

  "Elspeth, before the end of your lifetime," she said, her voice flat and slow, "after I am gone, there will be widespread hatred of the sisters and brothers of the Sight. They will be hunted, and accused of evil deeds. Horrible deaths will come to them. You must beware."

  "But we are not evil," Elspeth whispered in protest.

  "This will come to pass," Bethoc affirmed, and passed a hand over her eyes.

  Elspeth helped Bethoc to the bed, lifting Eiric out when the chld whimpered softly, waking up. Elspeth gave her a bright smile and a soft greeting, fetched a little cup of goat's milk, and then sat with Eiric in her lap.

  Smoothing the glossy tangle of dark curls, she sang a soft tune. Eiric listened, sipping the milk, dribbling some liquid down her chin and onto Elspeth's hand.

  Elspeth thought again about Ruari MacDonald's cruelty. She could not imagine any man so brutal as to beat a defenseless woman with his sword. Rage rose in her, and she squeezed her eyes shut against its power. She had promised to do nothing.

  Marrying Ruari was unthinkable now. She could not tell her cousins what had happened here today. But Ruari MacDonald would pay well for his deed today. Somehow, she would see to it. She had come here today hoping to discuss her strange vision of the queen's lawyer with Bethoc, but would not mention it now. Elspeth decided to tell Bethoc in a few days.

  As for Bethoc's ominous prophecy regarding those with the Sight, Elspeth knew little about matters of southern thinking and Protestant ideas. Most of the Highlands, including the Fraser clan, still remained Catholic, unconcerned by the dictates of the Lowland ministers.

  The queen's lawyer had already made it clear that he did not believe in prophecies. He had even thought that she schemed the vision in an effort to scare him away. Perhaps he shared this Protestant distrust of the Sight, although he did not look like a man who would succumb to ideas based on fear.

  Well then, she thought, let Duncan Macrae think what he would. She would say no more to him of her vision. Shifting Eiric to her other knee, she kissed the warm crown of the little girl's head.

  Then, remembering his arms around her, she felt an unwilling tremor spiral through her. Undeniably, he raised odd feelings in her. She would be glad to see the letter signed. Then he would ride away on his tall horse, and she would never hear of him again, would never know if he lived or died.

  "My dark little lamb," she whispered to Eiric. "I have just remembered that I brought you a new friend today. A young bog-beast. And I think your grandmother, who loves you so very well, will let you keep her."

  Softly, Elspeth began to croon a song, a quiet, soothing melody. Music often brought her peace and calm; she surrendered now to the lilting rhythms.

  As Elspeth sang, Eiric hummed and clapped her small hands. When the lamb poked its dark, narrow muzzle through the open doorway, the child cried out in delight and wriggled down from Elspeth's lap.

  Chapter 7

  `O waly, waly up the bank,

  And waly, waly down the brae,

  And waly, waly by yon burnside...'

  ~"Waly, Waly, Love Be Bonny"

  A leather ball the size of a hen's egg flew in a high arc over Duncan's head and thunked down on the ground. Bouncing once and rolling a little farther, it landed on a bare hillock close to where Callum stood.

  "Well struck, Kenneth!" Callum yelled, as he pointed to a small hole nearby that had been dug in the turf. Kenneth, waving, climbed the slope to join him.

  Tucking his borrowed golf club under his arm, Duncan walked alongside Magnus toward another knoll. Shaking his head, he thought in dismay about his own luck that morning, which was not nearly as good as Kenneth now enjoyed. Instead, he felt as if he had spent hours knocking a fair host of those little feather-stuffed balls into tough snags of heather, boggy puddles, and shallow burns. The leather-covered featheries, as they were called, were too easily lost in the heather and bracken, and had grown soggy with water.

  The sorry way he had played this morning did not reveal his expertise at the golf. He had managed to strike close enough to each turf-hole, tapping the featherie with the hawthorn head of the club and watching the ball roll across grass that had been nuzzled short by sheep. But far too many times he had swung, missed, chopped into turf or rocks, or watched helplessly as the ball had plopped into water. He had fought winds and moist grasses and the unfamiliar feel of the borrowed ashwood club—too short for his height and grip, he had decided glumly—and noticed that Magnus, Kenneth and Callum were looking at him with pity in their eyes.

  Sighing, Duncan shoved back his hair, which blew across his brow in the stiff breeze, and moved a few feet away to lean the polished head of his club against the ground. He practiced his swing while waiting for Magnus to strike his current shot. Curling his hands around the cloth-wrapped whippen, shifting his fingers, he tested the slight, supple give of the shaft; swinging, he felt the resistant wind.

  All the frustrations of this morning's game, he thought suddenly, reminded him sharply of his failure, so far, to gain signatures for the letter of caution. He was disappointed on all fronts in games played with Frasers. Since Alasdair's departure, he had continued to try
to earn the Frasers' trust. And he would not hesitate to advise them on raiding techniques—join them at it, too. If the Frasers were determined to raid before the bond was signed, he would do his best to ensure they did it carefully, without incurring a full-scale battle with the MacDonalds.

  Although he was a representative of the crown and the law here, he was prepared to turn a blind eye until the bond was signed. He had no choice. Knowing how unimportant legalities were in the Highlands, he knew that the young chief and his equally young bodyguard would need coaxing in order to sign the document. If that coaxing took the form of raiding, hunting, golfing and fishing with them, then so be it.

  As yet, he had heard no mention of raids being planned, nor would he as the queen's lieutenant. And there had been no retaliation for the Fraser raid last week; with luck, the MacDonalds were unaware of that embarrassing venture onto their land.

  A day earlier Duncan had gone fishing with Hugh and Ewan, learning to club trout. He had enjoyed the day and the meal that followed, though no progress had been made with regard to the bond of caution. Duncan knew, now, he need only wait. His customary patience was gaining ascendance once more.

  He had been glad, this morning, of Magnus's invitation to play at the golf. The day was too fine to spend it explaining and cajoling. Hugh Fraser was a clever chief, but young and incredibly stubborn. He continued to insist that there was no need for the bond of caution.

  The MacShimi's quiet refusals were as resistant and constant as the wind that Duncan now fought against with his slim wooden golf stick. He set down his stick and as Magnus balanced a featherie ball on top of a small rock.

  Magnus swung hard and fast, sending the ball very near the mark. The chief's cousins were skilled, bold golf players, who swung fine clubs made by an Inverness bow-maker and had a barrel full of expensive Flemish-made featheries. A sheep-nibbled moor served as their course, dug with a crazed pattern of holes. The long course, they called it.