The Highlander’s Dilemma

by Emilia Ferguson

  I can't. I can't leave Scotland and Conn.

  The sea slapped the boards perhaps eight feet below her, the thin call of gulls wheeling high weaving through mist. She felt something in her heart break, looking at the gray, rocky shore, seeming a hand's reach away from her.

  “I can't.”

  Her resolve had broken and her inhibitions left with it. She took her skirt in her hand and climbed onto the rail. She was no man's slave. She would not do this! I'm going home!

  She threw herself into the ocean, screaming as the water hit her like a fist, drawing her down.

  The cold bit into her, devouring her as she flailed against it, desperate for air. She came up, struggling to breathe. The water sucked at her, devouring the train of her dress, making her suddenly unable to float. She could swim – had learned from Camma, a village lass, in the brake near the castle – but she could not swim this.

  “I'm going to die.”

  She looked up at the deck, just visible above her head. She could just see where she had stood and knew that no one had noticed her leave. She had made a very stupid choice, and now she was going to drown. She could not swim in this.

  A wave slapped her, dragging her back. She knew she could not make it to shore. She could not stay afloat, never mind move! This was terrifying. She was done for.

  I'm going to die. I'm going to drown here in the ocean. I'll never see Conn and never know the end of the story. I'll never know what Mother's prophecy meant or what would have happened to me

  She felt angry. Angry with herself for her choice, and angry with everyone who had put her in this place.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  The wave slapped her again, hitting her with icy, salted water. She drew in a breath, praying that her legs would keep her afloat. She was pushing down with them, keeping her head above the water, but her dress was heavy and the waves tore at it, bringing her lower each second.

  She spat out water that sought to choke her. She closed her eyes. Her heart was aching, pounding, straining. Her legs were weights. Her arms frozen. She felt her head go under and terror went through her. Terror and the complete inability to fight it.

  I am drowning.

  The urge to breathe grew, grew, became an all-encompassing fear, and then started, abruptly, to fade. The world was a dark place and her mind was cutting off, slowing, bringing her peace.

  I could stay here. I wish I could see Conn before I do. If I could see Conn, then I would stay here. It's so nice...

  She was dying. She knew that. Everything was dark, but she felt peaceful, as if bathed in white warmth. Part of her fought it, but it felt futile. It was so nice here, so quiet. Why fight?

  I don't want to stay! I do not! She wanted to go to Mother and Conn. To see what happened next. She made herself believe that, forced her mind to remember that she didn't want to stay in the soft, drowsy peaceful...

  “Ugh!” Something grabbed her. Tight, uncompromising, crushing her body, forcing her to the surface. She kicked back and braced her arms, terror giving her new strength.

  The thing held her tighter. It was an arm, she realized as she roared with pain and relief, spluttering water and struggling to stay above the surface, lungs burning as fresh air poured into them.

  “My lady, stop struggling.”

  She found herself looking into the long, lean face of Montaigne His level gaze looked back.

  “You nearly drowned, Madame.”

  Leona laughed. Yes, she had! It was so funny that he mentioned it, so matter-of-fact. “Yes,” she said between laughs. “Yes, I did!”

  He smiled at her, black eyes confused as she laughed and laughed, weak with hysteria, terror making her suddenly limp as it drained from her.

  He paddled with her and she let herself relax as he bid her, dragging at the water with her free arm, aiding him in moving them back to where the crew had slung a rope over the side.

  He reached up. Caught the rope. “Hold on!” he shouted at Leona.

  She grabbed his hand. Lean and strong, the grip pained her, crushing her fingers in his own tight ones. She drew in a breath. Then they were moving up. She held onto his hand first and then, when she could reach it, the ship's side. They were dragged up and before long she heard him sigh.

  “We're here.”

  She collapsed onto the deck. He lay on his back, gasping. She realized then how he had pulled her up with all his strength. She looked down at his twisted, agonized face, fighting for breath.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said in a low voice. “You saved my life.”

  “Danton,” he said, rasping a breath. “My name is Danton.”

  “Danton,” Leona said fervently. “My thanks.”

  It was the first time she had ever seen him smile. It transformed his serious face into a strangely handsome one. She felt her heart stir with gratitude for him, and thanks.

  “Come, my lady!” A young man, a sailor, said from behind her, in her own language. “You'll catch cold.”

  Leona looked up at him, suddenly confused. Her mind was moving slowly, suddenly stopping. Cold. Yes, it is cold. So cold...Shivering uncontrollably, she let them lift her, covering her in a blanket.

  “What about Danton?” she murmured as they hustled her through the trapdoor. “Help him.”

  “He's coming, milady,” the sailor said kindly. “Now, get yourself below-decks to your cabin and get warm clothes on. You'll die else.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Dinnae mention it.”

  In her cabin, Leona looked around. The part of her mind that was still awake recognized her bed and the trunk with her clothes, the lamp in its bracket.

  “Allie,” she called. Her maid appeared, and covered her face with her hands in shock.

  “Oh, milady! Oh, look at you...oh my...”

  “Clothes,” Leona said fixedly. “I need clothes.”

  She managed to wriggle from the white linen shift she wore, wincing as the underclothes, clinging to her with salt and wetness, tore from her. She barely had the strength to move their clinging expanse and collapsed, sighing.

  Allie helped her and, still shivering, Leona found herself in bed. Her maid fetched a hot brick to put in the end of the bed for her feet to warm, but even that did not seem to help.

  She lay still, the blankets pulled up high, and shivered and sweated and thought she might die. She was so cold. So cold...

  She woke to hear low voices. It was much later, for the cabin was dark. One of them was Danton, one Allie. The third she did not know.

  “My master will pay any expense...she is very dear to him.”

  “We do not have a surgeon, sir. We will try our best, but she is feverish.”

  “I'll try and keep her warm, sir,” Allie said in a small voice.

  I am fevered. I could die.

  The fever lasted three days. Leona woke fitfully, seeing Allie bending to dampen her hair, or lifting a spoon to feed her. Moments when she gazed at the lamp and saw, with dreamy clarity, her surroundings. However, consciousness was fleeting. On the fourth day, she sweated. The sweat slaked off her and she shivered and murmured and rolled, but when it stopped, she was awake and lucid.

  She lay where she was, looking round the cabin. A sense of purpose filled her.

  I will go to France. See what it offers me.

  She felt determined to live. Charged with new determination, she slipped from the bed and went to her trunk to find some clothes. She was surprised to find her shift wet with perspiration, clinging to her. The bed and pillow were damp with it. The realization of how close she had come to death surprised her. She felt strong. She unpacked the trunk purposefully, drew out a russet linen gown.

  “My lady!” Allie appeared in the doorway, covering her face in shock. “Get back to bed! Monseigneur Montaigne would have my head if aught befell you. I brought you some broth.”

  Leona carefully took the bowl. At that moment, someone entered the door. Allie shot to her feet f
rom the stool beside the bed.

  Leona stared up. Danton was in the doorway, a black robe around him, gray hair brushed, eyes serious.

  “My lady,” he said gently. “You look well.”

  “I am,” she said softly.

  “You were very ill,” he said gently. “I ask your forgiveness.” He nodded at Allie, who left, terrified.

  “Forgiveness?” Leona frowned.

  “Madame,” he said, clearing his throat. “When I...” he paused, looked away. “When I was younger, I had a daughter. Your age. Lovely as a dove. She was everything. My heart, my love...my world. She died. Four years ago. Of fever. It was my fault. I...I should have known. Should not have failed to see her sorrow. When she ran away, I was terrified. I blamed myself. And when they found her, she was ill. Like you. Brought her back...she died, fifteen days later. I...” he looked at his hands, drew in a deep breath. “I never forgave myself,” he said. Looked up into her eyes. “You understand how hard that can be. So now I ask it of you. ”

  Leona found herself reaching out to him, taking his hand in hers. His skin was soft, the only sign of his age.

  “I know that your daughter would forgive you.”

  He looked into her eyes, and then looked down. He was crying. She could see the tears though he did not let them drop, squeezing his eyes shut as he held her hand.

  “You are just like her,” he said. “I thank you.”

  Leona smiled at him. “Don't thank me,” she said, laughing shakily. “Or I'll have to thank you for saving me and we will never stop thanking each other.”

  He laughed too. “You're right.”

  Leona smiled at him. She was alive. She was saved. She would go to France and find out what it had to offer her. “I am eager to see France, good sir.”

  “Good,” he said firmly. “And now you know that if you'd died, you'd be sorry if you missed out on what was coming next. You never know what'll happen, instants after you close your eyes for the last time, or the last wave breaks over your head. The thing you least expected suddenly comes true. The person you thought lost returns in some way. You find a way through the dark you thought endless. If you'd just hung on a moment longer, the sun would have come out and all that gray vista changed to gold. If you'd just waited to see what happens next.”

  Leona saw the pain on his face and guessed that he had tried to end his life. Though it had not been her intention when she threw herself in the sea, it had been a rash, desperate act. She had known, even as the water closed over her, that she did not wish to die. She had wanted to see what happened next.

  And she still did.

  “Monseigneur?” she asked, curiously.

  “Mm?” he replied, blinking as she drew his consciousness back to the present.

  “What is the weather like in Annecy?”

  He smiled. The look transformed his face, carving wrinkles beside those heavy-lidded eyes, lifting his thin lips into a look of beauty.

  “That's better. It's mild in summer, though there are days it can be warm; unbearably so. You will find it, I think, to be moderate in comparison with the harsh winters of your homeland.”

  “I hope so!” Leona said firmly. “I hate those.”

  They both laughed together. The time they spent together was tranquil and happy, and they both seemed to benefit from it. They were laughing about a story of his of stranding on the coast when a voice called from the door.

  “My lord?”

  “Allie!” Leona said, surprised.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “My lord, you...you're called for outside.”

  “Oh,” Monseigneur shook himself, shaking his head. “My apologies. I became distracted.” He looked tenderly at her as he spoke. “I'm there directly,” he added, turning back to Allie. “Madame, excuse me?”

  “Of course,” Leona said, smiling.

  He left and she watched his retreating back, then sighed and leaned back on the pillows. He was right: tomorrow was another day. And who knew what it would bring.

  She closed her eyes, imagining the world of France, and Annecy, as he’d described it: all white and clean and lovely under the sky, huddled on the chalky hills perhaps a day's ride from the ocean.

  She imagined it a place of beauty, a lofty place, with elegance and refinements she only barely knew right now. Her only sorrow in a landscape of joy was that Conn could not see it too.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MAKING PLANS

  MAKING PLANS

  “Brother? Come outside for a game of throw-and-catch?”

  Conn glanced up, his thoughts interrupted by Alf's plaintive inquiry. He was sitting at a window in the gallery, looking over the green land. He looked at Alf distantly.

  “Sorry, Brother. I'd rather not.”

  Alf looked distressed. “You've been like this for weeks, Brother!” he protested. “I know...” he trailed off, unwilling to mention Leona for fear of upsetting his brother again.

  “I know you know,” Conn said gently. He also knew that Alf didn't understand what he felt like. He appreciated his younger brother's attempts to cheer him, but they were doomed not to work, as he was not sad, not really. He simply felt nothing. His feelings were a varied mass of grays, like the distant clouds on the hillside. He felt neither happy nor miserable; just dead inside.

  “Amice said she wanted to play too,” Alf supplied, smiling. “You should come – she always makes us smile.”

  Conn smiled pallidly. He loved his little cousin Amice, but even she was unlikely to cheer him up today. “I'll stay,” he still said.

  “Very well.” Alf sounded sad. “I'll see you at dinner. I'll tell you about it then.”

  “Do that,” Conn said gently. He leaned back and closed his eyes, waiting until he could no longer hear his brother's footsteps. Then he opened them again. He sighed and put down the carving he had been making; a swallow, carved small and forming part of a ring. It had been meant for Leona.

  Leona isn't here anymore.

  The thought drained the color from his world, leaving it gray and bland. All his life, Leona had been at Dunkeld. They had grown up together.

  He hated being here without her. It was torture, for everything held so many memories of her. There was the wall where they’d climbed as children; there the solar where she’d sat at the spinet in the evenings, her singing stroking his soul. There the window where she’d sometimes stood when they trained. He had almost got himself killed, looking up at her merry blue eyes during a bout at sword-craft.

  She is every brick of this castle, every breath I take.

  It was torture. He could not stop thinking about her, for he was ever reminded. In any case, it was habit to think of her when waking, when retiring to bed. He thought of her often and each thought was a slap. A reminder that she was not here.

  She will probably like France.

  It was some comfort, if it held the terror that she might like it and stay also.

  He had asked his Uncle Broderick about France. He had been there once, long ago, on a trading venture; taking brandy and purchasing swords at the market in Torron. He had said it was a place of refinement; a place where things like swords and armor were forged with care and an eye for the decorative, where fine things flowed from Bruges and Toledo, from Cologne and Ghent and Milan. The trade of the world seemed to find its way there, to the harbor at Calais and beyond, and people lived a refined life.

  He smiled. He imagined her at a castle, draped in lace from Bruges and satin from Arabia and curtseying elegantly to kings and lords.

  She would like that.

  He felt a hand clench round his heart as a new worry assailed him. What if she met someone while she was there; wed someone else? He shook his head.

  Don't be daft, Conn. If she does, she is free to choose that. You don't have any right to say her nay in this. But I choose her. I always would. I do.

  Like it was for Leona, the obligation to wed was not binding. He had gone with his father to castles and min
gled with many folk, both here at Dunkeld and far afield. He had met lords and ladies and joined the dance with lasses his own age, high-born and eligible. However, he had never seen any to equal Leona.

  She has my heart.

  He shook his head. He felt foolish for it, almost as if he should be able to forget; as if loving this deeply was a flaw, not a strength. Nevertheless, he knew that he would continue to do so.

  He lifted himself out of the chair, wincing as he felt how bloodless his left foot was, a cramp shooting up from it as the blood flow returned. He stretched and shook his head to clear it, going out again.

  If anyone could help me make sense of this, it's Father.

  He headed downstairs to the armory, where he suspected his father might be found.

  “...And so we should send for more pine logs,” his father's low, serious voice was saying gravely. “We need to make spears from them for the front-most ranks.”

  “Aye, sir.” Dougal, the solidly-built armorer, agreed seriously.

  Conn stepped back in the doorway, knowing his father would likely be busy for hours and not welcome disturbance. His father's brown gaze saw him and shifted to his face, eyes gentle.

  “Hold on, son,” he said kindly. “So, Dougal, you think that's a good way to go forward?”

  “I do indeed, I do.” The small, compact armorer agreed. “We'll get that wood in from the north lands, sir.”

  “Good, Dougal,” said Blaine, looking across the room at a rack of daggers, fresh-made. “And teach the men that new maneuver we discussed – I think it's helpful.”

  “Very helpful, sir!” Dougal sounded enthused. “I'll do that.”

  “Good,” Blaine said again. “See you tomorrow.”

  “See you then, sir.” Dougal nodded. “I'll send off for those logs directly...”

  Blaine left as he went to the bench in the corner, chalk in hand, working out how many new logs they would need to order, and the cost thereof. He headed out into the light of the courtyard where Conn stood, waiting. “You busy, son?” he asked.