by King, Susan
Robert smiled patronizingly. "Only a Highlander would ask such a question. Sheep, Elspeth. There is good money in raw wool and woven cloth. Scottish wool is in demand in Flanders and France. I buy lengths of cloth from local weavers for a pittance, and ask a high price overseas. A good profit."
"If you are doing so well," Elspeth said as she broke an oatcake in half, "why do you bother with me and my affairs?"
Robert's answer was too low to hear. Callum snorted derisively and leaned toward Duncan. "He bothers because he thinks he will gain favor with the Privy Council. He craves fortune and power, that man."
"I have noticed," Elspeth said loudly, "that you have given up wearing the wrapped plaid. Do you think Highland wool only good enough for trading?"
"If I had stayed with Highland ways, I would never have been able to afford to rebuild my father's castle. Many Lowlanders believe that Highlanders are unintelligent, incapable of a trade, and can only run barefoot through heather chasing cattle. So I have adopted southern ways, and have found that beneficial."
"Too stupid, are we?" Callum called out loudly. Robert and the others turned their heads. "We are smart enough not to wear satins and laces like a woman and act like a damned Sasunnach." Kenneth chuckled, and Magnus looked pleased.
Robert shrugged. "Wear what you like, Callum Fraser. I dress no differently than any man in the queen's private circle. Your lawyer friend, there, wears southern dress. Macrae of Dulsie knows that there is little value in Highland ways. But if this simple life suits you Frasers, do not let my opinions concern you." He smiled again. Duncan was reminded of a small wildcat, golden and sly, patient and very dangerous.
Elspeth scowled. "You have been drinking imported wine here, Robert." She gestured toward the pewter flagon that sat on the tabletop. "And have you seen the cups of gold, set with rubies, that have been at Glenran for three hundred years? King Robert the Bruce drank wine from one of those cups when he visited a Glenran Fraser. Castle Glenran was rebuilt over a hundred years ago. Surely it took money for that," she snapped. "This is a stronghold to be envied."
"Of course, and you are content with that. I look for something better. For example, I have recently purchased a set of tall candlesticks from Belgium, fashioned of chased silver."
Hugh, who had been sitting back in his chair staring into his cup, leaned forward and slammed his fist on the table. "I have heard enough. You are eating supper in the finest hall in all the Highands," he said. "And we possess finer candlesticks than you could ever purchase."
"That I would like to see," Robert said.
"Then you shall." Hugh leaned over and whispered to Elspeth. She rose from her seat. Running down the length of the table, she whispered a word to each cousin. Then she went to the door, opened it, and left.
"Are there treasures locked away, that you keep secret?" Robert asked Hugh. The MacShimi shook his head and smiled.
Duncan looked at Callum and raised his brows. Callum leaned over. "Wait, and you shall see what a chief we have in Hugh Fraser," he murmured.
Three servants entered the room then, holding blazing rushlights; Duncan realized that Elspeth must have sent for them, though she had not yet returned. He relaxed against the table, prepared to watch with great interest.
Hugh rose from the table and beckoned Robert to stand. Plaided and brooched, the young chief was tall and handsome beside Robert, who, in spite of his fine black satin, appeared slight and sour. Hugh went to the widest window in the hall and threw the shutters open.
"Look there, Robert," he said. Robert Gordon leaned forward to look. Duncan, seated at the table, turned to watch, as did the others around him.
Beyond the open window, Duncan could see the twilight sky, washed in rose and gold and indigo. Dark hills and rocky crags were silhouetted against the tapestry.
"There," Hugh said, sweeping his hand toward the scene. "That is a Highland hall. And that decoration is finer than any hall you will ever see. Those designs have been painted by the hands of angels."
Ah, Duncan thought, Hugh was clever. Anyone would feel humbled in the presence of the natural magnificence of the Highlands. Whether Robert appreciated Hugh's message was an interesting question.
Elspeth's half-brother, Duncan noted, did not seem to feel particularly humbled. He was sputtering. "That is a hill and rocks," Robert fumed. "You play me ill, Hugh Fraser."
"Ah," the MacShimi answered. "A hill with rocks. And living among these rocks and hills, my friend, is a privilege."
Duncan was beginning to thoroughly enjoy Hugh's dramatic display. He doubted that Robert Gordon would boast soon to the Frasers about his silk tapestries and mahogany tables.
"You have silver candlesticks?" Hugh asked. "I will show you a set of candlesticks with no equal anywhere on earth." He turned his head. "We would have light for our supper!"
Around the table, the Fraser cousins rose from their seats and went to take the burning rushlights from the servants who had been holding them. Then the four Fraser cousins, Magnus, Callum, Ewan and Kenneth, stood in a row and held the blazing torches high over their heads.
Tall and strong, plaided and brooched, they stood motionless, their long hair falling over wide shoulders. The torches sparked and crackled, spilling a wide golden veil of light over the table. Duncan watched with silent approval.
"These," Hugh said, "are our Highland candlesticks, the lights of Clan Fraser. They have no equal anywhere. Do not doubt their worth."
The door opened, and Elspeth came into the room alone, carrying another rushlight. She had changed her plaid for a simple white gown. Walking toward her cousins, she took a place among them and held her light aloft.
Duncan sucked in his breath. Beneath the shining golden light, she glowed with strength and delicacy, an angel come to earth. The brilliant flame turned her flowing hair and the white gown to purest gold. He stared in open wonder.
Then she took a step forward, lifted her chin, and began to sing.
The first notes rose so softly into the air that the song seemed a part of the air. As Duncan heard the rare quality of her voice emerge, he leaned forward, entranced. He had not known that she had this ability.
Her voice was clear as water, strong as silk. He listened to the Gaelic verses, all the time aware that he was listening to a true gift. This beautiful voice, then, must be why her family regarded her as a blessing to the clan.
Sitting beside him, Flora sniffed noisily and wiped at her eyes. Duncan recognized the message of clan pride and loyalty in the song, and saw here the Frasers' keen pride. The music, and the wild sky and magnificent hills beyond the window, stirred something profound in him that had long been dormant.
Duncan loved the Highlands as much as these Frasers did. But he had left his home, choosing to stay away. Now the girl's sad, sweet song tore at his heart. He wrenched his gaze away as the last dulcet note of her song drifted into silence.
Hugh clapped a hand on Robert's shoulder and smiled. Robert frowned, pale and thin-lipped. "Let us hear no more from you regarding what is of value in the Highlands," Hugh said.
Duncan glanced again at Elspeth. Immediately she flicked her gaze toward him, her silvery eyes cool and direct. Then she looked away, the subtle movement proud and defiant.
As if a candle had flared in the dark, Duncan suddenly knew what the bond of caution meant to the Frasers. As the queen's lawyer, he offered no welcome solution to their feud with the MacDonalds. He offered a set of iron fetters to confine and humiliate them. He no longer wondered at their reticence to put their signatures to that bond. He understood why they resisted.
Despite that dauntless Highland spirit, he had to gain those signatures, and leave for the Lowlands as soon as he could.
Looking at Elspeth, who stood between her tall cousins shining like a warm light, Duncan was no longer so certain that he wanted to leave Glenran.
* * *
Her cousins' voices reverberated throughout the hall. Elspeth yawned, listening to the boisterous
clamor of song and laughter. She was too tired to take part and too restless to go to her chamber to sleep. Ewan's true, mellow voice rose now, deep and dominant over the others who sang with him. By the width of their grins and the volume of their song, Elspeth knew that her cousins had consumed a good many drams.
Flora came to sit beside her. "Look at that Robert Gordon. As sour a face as I have ever seen. He will not boast again soon of his fine hall, I think."
"I hope he took no true offense at what Hugh wanted to show him," Elspeth said. "Look, he smiles a little now, and seems to be enjoying himself well enough."
"Hmmph." Flora eyed Robert critically. "That lad's trouble is that long ago he did not have a good wallop to the bottom whenever he spoke like the king of France to his equals. The Highland way holds that no man is better than another, laird no better than shepherd, a woman no less than a man."
"Hugh reminded him of that this evening," Elspeth said. Looking up, she saw Kenneth gesture towards her, wanting her to sing with them. She shook her head in refusal.
She noticed that Duncan Macrae was watching her, his gaze steady and calm amid her cousins' good-natured turmoil. He always seemed to look at her as if he knew her well. Inhaling sharply against the yearning that stirred in her whenever she saw him, Elspeth glanced away, and pulled her tartan shawl closer around the bodice of her white gown.
Ewan began another song, one of Elspeth's favorites, light and quick with a lilting rhythm. She hummed, tapping her foot, and then began to sing a little on the refrains, unable, finally, to keep silent. Ewan grinned at her.
Keenly aware that Duncan watched her, she had to focus carefully on the words so as not to lose her place in the rapid progress of the rhyme.
When Kenneth stood up and began to dance, she laughed and clapped to watch him. Intricate rhythms were tapped out for him, and with quick, clever steps, arms held high, Kenneth toed around two pairs of crossed swords laid on the floor.
Magnus and Callum took their turns. Triumphant shouts burst forth from the dancers, who now and again picked up the swords to swing them around their heads, and drop them back down to the floor. The pace was breathless. Rapid, complicated, and dangerous, the sword dances continued until all were exhausted, those who danced as well as those who watched and clapped time.
"Pipes!" Kenneth shouted gleefully. Callum took up the cry, and then Magnus. "Pipes!" They pounded on the table.
Ewan whooped out loud, grabbed a container of liquor, and left the hall. Invigorated by the music and by watching her cousins' indefatigable dancing, Elspeth followed. Flora came behind her, and then the cousins, including Hugh. Glancing over her shoulder, Elspeth noticed that Duncan was urged to come and did, while Robert declined to follow.
Ewan had run into the yard to fetch the old man who tended the horses at Castle Glenran; the man was the finest piper in this part of Fraser territory. Since the bagpipes would never be played inside a hall, those who wished to listen came outside.
The old man, coaxed with a healthy dram of uisge beatha, set the pipes under his arm, pumped them full, and began to blow. The plaintive sound whined and then grew. As the piper walked through the yard and passed under the opened gates of the castle, walking out toward the moorland that skirted the lochan, Elspeth and the others followed.
The pipes skirled into a high, powerful sound. Elspeth felt the familiar music sweep through her heart. Laughing with the sheer joy of it, she turned and saw Duncan just behind her. He smiled when she looked at him, and she knew that he felt the sound, too, like a cleansing wind through the soul.
The piper, with the Frasers following him, headed for a ridge of hills. When the piper reached the top of one rock-studded hill, he stood and played to the starlit sky.
Elspeth listened, filled with the music. When it faded away on the last reedy note, the momentary silence that followed seemed profound. Her cousins began to clap and ask for more.
The piper began another song, and turned back for the castle. Elspeth, enjoying the feel of the night wind, decided to stay a little longer. She stood on the hilltop and watched the group stride back down the slope toward the castle.
The darkness was not deep, the night cool and pleasant as Elspeth looked out over the shadowed, silent glen. This rounded knoll was very familiar to her, for she had come here often as a child. Breathing out a long sigh, she sat down and propped her back against a boulder. She closed her eyes wearily and listened to the faint, plaintive skirl of the pipes.
* * *
"Are you well?"
Startled, Elspeth opened her eyes, realizing that she must have dozed. She saw long muscular legs in black boots and black trews, and looked up. Duncan Macrae stood before her, his face shadowed, his black cloak draped like a raven's wings.
"Are you well, girl?" His dark hair swung forward to hide his expression, but his tone was sharp.
"I am fine," she answered.
"I saw that you stayed here on the hill—that gown shines like a star in the dark," he added. "I wondered if you were ill, so I came back."
"I like this place," she said. "I decided to sit here for a little while. It is peaceful here."
He nodded and sat beside her, leaning his back against the large stone. Drawing up one leg, boot leather creaking, he rested an arm on his knee and looked out over the dark glen. "A pleasant place for a rest, this hill," he said.
"It is," she agreed. "My cousins went back inside?"
"They are still in the yard, sharing drams and stories now with the piper. I had no wish to hear more." Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes with a deep sigh.
Elspeth watched his profile in the dark, and felt sympathy for him, a harmony of shared fatigue. The anger she had felt earlier today had faded, and she felt a small twinge of guilt at her behavior in the stairwell; his left eye was dark with a bruise. "If they are still telling stories and singing, then they may stay there until dawn," she said.
"They may. They are there, in the courtyard." Raising his arm to point, he leaned sideways, his shoulder brushing hers. "Do you not see them, just over the castle wall?"
She squinted. "You must have the eyes of a hawk."
He leaned closer, and the warm pressure of his shoulder against hers sent an odd thrumming through her body. "There," he murmured. "Can you hear them?" His voice was velvet, deep and soft and warm.
Hearing the soft strains of a song, Elspeth nodded. A breezed skimmed over the hilltop, and she shivered, drawing her plaid more securely around her shoulders.
"That gown is a fine thing."
She looked up. "You like it?"
"I do."
Her heartbeat quickened and deepened. "Hugh told me his idea to have us hold the torches. I thought the song and the gown would add to what he wanted to show Robert."
"It was cleverly done." His glance was keen and direct. The increasing pace of her heart felt as if she were running. "And you sang like an angel. Or a fairy. Finer than—"
"Hush!" She pressed her fingers to his lips.
"Mmmph?" he asked, blinking.
"Hush," she said urgently. "Do not boast in this place." She lifted her hand away.
"I only said that you sing like—" her hand flew up again at his words. His unshaven beard was sharp and short beneath her fingers, his skin pliant, his breath warm on her skin.
"This is a sìthean," she whispered.
"A fairy knoll?" His lips moved against her fingers. The curious sensation, lush and pleasant, sent a chill through her.
"This hill is a home of the daoine sìth, the people of peace. The fairies. Do you know of them?"
He laughed. "Indeed," he said, lifting her hand away from his mouth. "What Highlander does not know of the fairy people?" He let go of her hand, and she missed the dry, warm touch.
"Ah. You were Highland born."
"I was. And my own castle is on just such a fairy knoll. We call it Dulsie, for tull-sìth, hill of the fairies."
"Your own castle?"
He looked
away, out over the dark hills. "I am laird, there," he said softly. "Laird of Dulsie, in Kintail." He rubbed his jaw. "So I have heard of the fairies who live in the hills. They play their music at night, and any human who hears may be lured inside, to dance forever." He cocked a brow at her.
She nodded. "A night is a hundred years. And the singing of the fairies is so beautiful, it cannot be resisted."
Looking at her, he tilted his head. "Your voice," he said softly, "could lure the fairies out of their hill."
"Hush! They are very jealous," she whispered.
His smile was an elusive, joyful thing in starlight, the smile of an elven king, clever and charming. When it faded, she longed to see it again. The weight of his arm pressed gently against her shoulder. He smelled of smoke and wind.
"And if we should fall asleep on this fairy knoll, would we be taken, as usually happens in such tales?" he asked. "What story is told of this place?"
She looked down. "Just that the fairies are here."
"Just that? Come now, I have lately been with your cousins. Surely you tell a tale as good as any of them."
She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, afraid that he would laugh if she told him what she had believed as a child. She shook her head silently.
"There is something. Tell me." When she remained silent, he leaned over. His voice hummed through her chest, soft and deep, as much a lure as the fairies themselves. "Tell me, Elspeth Fraser."
She took a breath, hesitating, for the tale was precious to her. Yet his solid, warm presence was somehow comforting, patient and non-condemning. She wanted to tell him.
"When I was a small child," she said, "Robert would sometimes spend time here. We had the same mother, though he lived with his Gordon kin." She saw him nod. "He told me that our mother went into this hill and disappeared after I was born."
"He told you that she was taken?"
She shook her head. "He said that she returned to her real home through here. He said that she was a fairy lady, who left her baby daughter and little son and returned to her own kind."
"Ah." He did not laugh. "Robert was very young. He told you his own fantasy."
