“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, wondering how she was going to keep her father’s secret with so many people constantly watching. It wasn’t going to be easy. He’d been quiet this morning, but she still needed to talk to him and make sure he wasn’t having another memory lapse or talking nonsense again. This made her very nervous. Especially since the king would be here soon and they would be under his perusal at all times. “But if ye dinna mind, we are tired from our journey. We’d like to clean up and rest a bit first.”
“By all means,” said Wren. “I’m sorry for being so rude and not even considering how you feel. Let me show you to your room.”
“Faither, I had no idea there would be so many people here,” said Bridget as they unloaded their things into their chamber. “I’m afraid it is goin’ to be hard to keep our secret under the perusal of so many eyes.”
“Aye, ye’re right.” Brigham sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his hand. “I’m barely able to hold the quill anymore when I pretend to be writin’ in the chronicles.”
“Oh, about that. Ye may want to hold it in yer left hand.”
“But I canna write with my left hand,” he protested.
“What difference does it make?” she asked. “Ye are no’ really writin’ anythin’ anyway. Ye are only pretendin’ to write for show. I fill the pages in later.”
“Bridget, I’m afraid somethin’ is happenin’ to me and it scares me. I canna control it, but sometimes I feel as if I am goin’ mad.”
Bridget slowly put down her things and wandered over to the bed. She sat next to her father, covering his hand with hers.
“I ken,” she told him. “It is part of yer illness, I suppose. However, since it seems to come and go, it gives me hope that ye can be cured. I am goin’ to find a healer while we are here at the castle and see if there are some herbs ye can take to help ward off the effects.”
“Nay. No one can hear about this, it’s too risky.” He pulled his hand away and got to his feet and started to pace the floor. “The king is comin’, too. That will only make things more difficult.” He turned and looked at her with glassy eyes. “Bridget, I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake by deceivin’ the king these past few years. But I was only thinkin’ of yer welfare, I swear. I wanted to provide ye with a guid life. A man who canna fight has no chance to succeed. Bein’ chronicler was my only hope. But I dinna think I can do it anymore.”
“It’ll be all right,” she told him, trying to believe it was true.
“I’ll be hanged if the king finds out our secret. I dinna fear for my life. I am an auld man and my days are comin’ to an end either way. But I fear for what might happen to ye.”
“Nothin’ is goin’ to happen. To either of us,” she said, getting up and walking over to him, putting her arm around his shoulders. “We’ll just keep doin’ what we’ve been doin’. With so much goin’ on, no one will pay any mind to us at all.”
“I hope ye’re right,” he said, worry showing on his face. He put his hand to his head and moaned.
“What’s the matter, Da?” she asked in concern.
“It’s just an ache in my head. It’ll pass. It always does.”
“Mayhap ye should lay down and rest.”
“No’ yet,” he told her. “We need to make an appearance in the great hall or out on the practice field. Do ye have the chronicles and the fake bottle of ink?”
“Aye, I have it right here.” She hurried over to her bag, pulling out the book along with the quill and the bottle of real ink. “I’ll write some things in here about what we saw on our way in. Then you pretend to scribble them down in front of everyone. Just open the book to the page with the cloth marker in it.” When she flipped the pages to find the one with the cloth marker, she was surprised to see something already written there. “Da, did ye really write somethin’ in here?”
“Nay, of course no’,” he answered. “Bridget, ye ken that I canna see well enough anymore to write, nor can I properly grasp the quill. Ye are the only one who ever writes in that book.”
At first, she thought her father was truly going mad. That is, until she read the passage and gasped. Her jaw dropped open to read about Caleb’s rock-hard muscles and the way he protected simpering, helpless lassies from stupid things like the weather.
“Is somethin’ the matter, Bridget?” he asked.
She didn’t want to worry her father. And since he couldn’t see well enough to read the passage anyway, she figured it best not to tell him about this at all. She would confront Caleb about it later.
“Nay, Da. Everythin’ is fine,” she said, her blood already boiling. She picked up the quill and the bottle of ink and smiled. If Caleb were going to play this feckless game, then she decided she was going to make him sorry he ever thought to pull such an addled stunt. Because if he wanted to be mentioned in the Highland Chronicles that badly, she would make sure it would be for something that no one would ever forget.
* * *
“Is Bridget here yet?” Caleb asked Logan, as they approached the practice yard where the lairds were sparring with each other in the preliminary round of the Leader of the Lairds Competition. Today, they would go through a round of events, and only the top six with the highest scores would compete in the finals tomorrow. His brothers, Grant, Quinn, and Finn were with him. There was such a crowd inside the castle walls, that he still hadn’t seen his sisters, Finnea and Trea, yet.
“Isna that her over there with the auld man?” asked Grant, pointing in the opposite direction.
Caleb turned his head to see Bridget standing with her father at the rail. Her father had the Highland Chronicles in his hand and was scribbling something down.
“Aye, that’s them. Brigham is writin’ in the Highland Chronicles,” said Caleb anxiously.
“Has he mentioned ye in the book yet?” asked Grant, always admiring his older brother. “After all, ye’ve done lots of things that should be recorded.”
“Oh, believe me, he’s mentioned,” said Logan. “His heroic deeds are all recorded on the pages of that book, and ye willna want to miss it.”
“Really?” asked Quinn. “Well, let’s go over there and hear what’s written about ye, Brathair.”
“I want to hear it, too,” added Finn.
Caleb shot Logan a dirty look. Logan laughed and headed in the opposite direction. “Happy readin’,” he called back over his shoulder.
“Well, what are we waitin’ for?” asked Grant. “Let’s go.”
“Why dinna we wait until later?” suggested Caleb. “The chronicler seems pretty busy right now.”
“Nay, we want to hear what he wrote about ye in the king’s book,” insisted Finn.
“Now isna a guid time,” said Caleb, trying to keep them from reading about him. If Logan laughed at the passage, then mayhap his brothers would, too. That was not the reaction he was looking for when he wrote it in the journal.
“They dinna seem that busy. Ye stay here if ye want, Caleb, but we’re goin’ to ask to read the passage about ye.” Quinn took off in the direction of Bridget.
“Nay, wait!” Caleb ran after them, thinking mayhap he could read it aloud, and change a few words to make it sound even better. He rushed ahead of them, getting there first. As he approached Brigham, he noticed the oddest thing. The man had the quill in his right hand, even though Bridget had told him that her father learned to write with his left hand.
Bridget turned her head slightly and saw him. “Caleb,” she said, jumping in front of her father. “What are ye doin’ here?”
“We want to hear what yer faither wrote about him in the Highland Chronicles,” said Grant anxiously. “Chronicler, can ye please read it for us?”
Brigham and Bridget exchanged a glance that, to Caleb, almost seemed a bit worried.
“He’s very busy right now,” said Bridget. “Ye’ll have to come back later.”
“See, I told ye so,” said Caleb. “Come on, Brathairs. I’ll just tell ye what’s been said about me
in the book.” They started to walk away.
“Wait a minute.” Bridget stopped them. She took the book from her father while he held on to quill and put the bottle of ink on the ground. “Mayhap Caleb would like to read it for ye,” she suggested, flipping the page and handing the book to him.
“Nay, that’s all right,” said Caleb. “We’re leavin’.” His pine marten poked its head out of his bag and he reached over and petted it. “I dinna care to read it. We’ll come back later.”
“Nay, I want to hear it,” protested Quinn.
“Me, too,” said Finn.
“If he doesna want to read it, I will.” Grant reached out and took the book from Bridget causing Caleb’s heart to jump into his throat. He was starting to regret ever writing in the book at all now. If his brothers laughed at him the way Logan did, he wouldn’t ever be able to live it down. What if everyone laughed at what he wrote? He thought it sounded heroic and admirable but now he was having second thoughts. He had to stop his brother from reading it aloud.
“Nay, I’ll read it.” Caleb put his bag and his pine marten on the ground and took the book from his brother.
“Read it loud enough for everyone to hear,” said Bridget, smiling at him oddly. “After all, it is quite noisy with the crowd and the swords clashin’ on the practice field.”
“Of course,” said Caleb, staring down at the page, making up words as he spoke.
“Caleb MacKeefe,” he started.
“That’s no’ even the right page,” said Bridget, stepping up and flipping the page backwards. “There it is.” Her finger tapped the top of page with Caleb’s writing on it. “Try it again.”
“Of course,” he said, flashing a smile. The oddest thing was, that Bridget was smiling, too. She must know her father didn’t really write those things about him. If so, she’d be scowling right now instead. He didn’t understand this at all.
“Go on,” said Bridget with a nod of her head.
Caleb cleared his throat and looked down at the words on the page and started to read. “Caleb is perhaps the most horrific and nosiest of the MacKeefe Clan.”
His brothers let out a chuckle.
“Wait. What?” Caleb looked down at the page, knowing damned well that he didn’t write this! He wrote honorable and noble, he was sure of it.
“Keep readin’,” said Bridget with a smug smile.
When he looked down at the page, his eyes opened wide. He knew now why the girl was smiling. She’d changed his words to make him sound like a fool.
“Nay, we’ve got to go,” said Caleb. He started to close the book, but his brother, Quinn, grabbed it from him.
“I’ll read it,” he said, making Caleb cringe. “It says Caleb is perhaps the most horrific and nosiest of the MacKeefe Clan. He helps lassies undress and has a rock-hard head.”
“Stop,” said Caleb as his brothers burst out laughing. “Give me the book.” He reached for it, but Finn took it next and continued to read. “He protects them from the mice as well as shields them from the happy elemental nature spirits.”
“Let me see that,” said Grant, taking the book next. “Praises for his pine marten only are often sung by the bards that travel the lands.” Grant closed the book as Quinn and Finn almost burst a gut laughing so hard. “Brathair, this makes ye look like a fool.”
“Aye, it does,” said Caleb, taking the book and glaring at Bridget. She, in turn, smiled as if she had won some kind of competition between them. “Bridget, what did ye do?”
“Mayhap the question is what did ye do, Caleb?” She snatched the book away from him. “My faither and I need to rest now, before the king arrives. Then my faither will record the events of the true heroes.” With her nose up in the air, she took her father’s arm and they disappeared through the crowd.
“Egads, Caleb,” said Finn with a chuckle. “If that’s what’s written in the Highland Chronicles about ye, then I hope I never get mentioned.”
“Me, neither,” said Quinn, as they walked away laughing.
“How could ye let them say these things about ye, Brathair?” asked Grant, disappointment showing in his eyes. “This is goin’ to sully the family name.”
“Grant, ye ken those things ye read are no’ true.”
“Then why did the chronicler write them?”
“He didna. I wrote them,” Caleb admitted.
“Ye did that to yerself?” Grant asked in shock.
“Nay, I wrote – I mean – someone changed . . .” It didn’t matter what he said, he’d end up looking like a fool. “Never mind.” Caleb reached down and picked up his bag. Slink’s back end was sticking out and the pine marten played with something inside. “I need some Mountain Magic,” he mumbled, furious at Bridget, but even angrier at himself. How could he have ever done such a stupid thing to begin with? This was something that was going to haunt him until the day he died.
Chapter 9
“Da, lay down, please,” said Bridget, trying to pull her father away from the window. He had one leg up on the sill and he was spouting nonsense again.
“Yer mathair’s drownin’. I have to save her.” He acted like he was actually going to jump out the open window if she didn’t stop him.
“Lady Wren will be here soon with some herbs,” she told him, closing the shutter and pulling him over to the bed. “Please, lay down and rest.”
Her father finally stopped fighting and sat down on the bed. She heard a knock and ran over and pulled the door open.
“Lady Wren, thank ye for comin’,” said Bridget. “I didna ken who else to ask. My faither is ill.”
“Then I’m glad I’m here.” Wren walked into the chamber, followed by a young woman with dark hair. She looked to be a little younger than Bridget. “What exactly are your father’s symptoms?” Wren headed over to the bed with a covered basket over her arm. The girl followed.
“I wasna expectin’ two people,” said Bridget closing the door. She didn’t like telling anyone about her father’s condition, but she did trust Wren. However, she didn’t even know this other girl.
“Oh, I’m in trainin’ to be a healer,” the girl told her. “Lady Wren is teachin’ me how to identify herbs and what they do. Did ye ken she was once blind and lived off the land with her son and her army of renegade women?”
“Really? That sounds like a story for the Highland Chronicles,” said Bridget, interested in learning more.
“My husband is the one mentioned in the chronicles, and I have no desire to be in it,” Wren told her. Wren laid her open palm against Brigham’s head. “How are you feeling?” she asked the man.
“I’ve got to save my wife,” he said, jumping up off the bed.
“Yer wife?” asked the dark-haired assistant. “Where is she?”
“She’s drownin’ and I’ve got to save her!”
“Da, sit down and let Wren look at ye.” Bridget gently pushed him back down on the bed and then looked over to Wren. “Can I trust that ye two willna say anythin’ about what ye’re about to hear?”
“Of course,” said the young woman.
“You can count on us,” Wren assured her. “We only want to help your father.”
“He has been havin’ bouts of . . . goin’ mad. Ye see, my mathair is dead and yet he sometimes sees her, ever since he fell off his horse and hit his head a few months ago. Years ago, he had an injury in battle and he canna grasp things with his right hand anymore. He also is goin’ blind.”
“Och, that’s awful,” gasped the young woman.
“Do ye think ye can help him?” Bridget tried to remain hopeful. “Wren, if ye were once blind, how did ye get yer sight back?”
“That was different, and too long of a story to tell you now.” Wren pulled out a bottle and uncorked it, handing it to Brigham. “Drink some of this. It will help.”
The man did as instructed, and made a face. He handed the bottle back, seeming to instantly calm down.
“That’s amazin’,” said Bridget. “What did ye give
him?”
“It is a very expensive and rare concoction made of ingredients from the Far East that the old sorcerer, Orrick, gave me before he left. It’s mixed with plants from the Highlands and fish oil. I can’t say it’ll stop his hallucinations, but it should help.”
“What about his eyesight?” asked Bridget. “Can ye fix that, too?”
“There isn’t anything herbal I know that will cure that, but I wouldn’t give up hope. I’ll leave the bottle here for you. Give him a swig several times a day. But I will warn you, it’ll make him sleepy. So, don’t give it to him if you need to be somewhere.”
“Thank ye, Wren. I need some time to myself, so if he sleeps, I think I’ll talk a walk outside in the sunshine.”
“The only place where you’ll get any peace and quiet with all these people around is in the graveyard,” said Wren. “You are welcome to visit there anytime. It is near the back of the castle and far enough away from the practice yard and all the activities going on so it should be quieter than anywhere else.”
“Thank ye for yer help,” said Bridget, opening the door. “And for keepin’ my faither’s condition a secret. It wouldna be guid for anyone to ken about it, with the competition going on and the king comin’ and all.”
“Of course. We understand and won’t say a word,” Wren assured her as they walked out into the corridor.
“Och, I’m sorry. I dinna even ken yer name,” Bridget said to the young woman.
“My name is Trea,” the girl told her with a smile.
“I’m sorry, Bridget,” said Wren. “I didn’t introduce you two because I thought you already knew Caleb’s sister.”
“Caleb’s sister?” Bridget asked with a start. This was the last person she wanted to know about her father’s secret. If Trea told her brother, the word would spread like wildfire around the castle.
“So nice to finally meet ye, Bridget,” said Trea. “Caleb’s friend, Logan, tells me that Caleb talks about ye all the time. It seems he fancies ye. A lot,” she told her with a giggle.
Highland Spy: Highland Chronicles Series - Book 4 Page 8
