Highland Treasure

by Mary McCall

  "'Tis a horrid thing to say, Bowyn!” Hope exclaimed.

  "Don't fash, milady,” Freya reassured her. “Bowyn and I have carried on like this for years. ‘Tis no danger of anything happening to the old coot."

  "Freya is right, Lady MacPherson. I would never jest were there true cause for alarm."

  "Why do we raid on these MacDougalls?” Hope asked, not one bit appeased.

  "You'll have to ask the chief,” Bowyn replied while Freya fidgeted.

  "So we are feuding with this clan?” Hope persisted.

  He crossed his arms and frowned. “We feud with many clans."

  "How many?"

  Bowyn shrugged. “Besides the MacDougalls, there are the MacCallisters, the Grants, the MacConnellys, the Lindseys, the MacEwens, the Brodies, the MacKinnons...Am I leaving anyone out, Freya?"

  "Only everybody in the Lowlands, and the MacKays.” Freya gathered her cleaning supplies and the soiled laundry.

  Bowyn nodded. “They go without saying. Everybody is feuding with them."

  "Do we not get along with anybody?” Hope asked, aghast.

  "'Tis a slow time,” Bowyn replied apologetically. “We would feud more if William didn't pose such a threat to the South, and the Norse weren't encroaching at Caithness and the isles. All the clans rotate sending warriors to The Canmore for defense of the southern border, except The MacKay. He is too busy holding the Norse at Caithness."

  "Do we get along with The Canmore?” Hope clipped out.

  "Of course, ‘twould be treason not to. Malcolm is our king."

  "I bloody well knew that. I just wondered if we were feuding with him too,” she said sarcastically.

  Freya opened the door at the sound of a small knock.

  "Mam, can I come in?"

  Glancing toward the door, Hope smiled. “Aye, Bertie. I was about to ask Freya to send for you. I have a need to tell a story about a slow turtle and a fast rabbit."

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  Chapter Sixteen

  * * * *

  Five mornings later, Hope awoke in a dismal mood. Leonce still hadn't returned. Her wantonness had surely driven him away. Sick from her confines, she went to her chest and pulled out one of the gowns Freya had left. Her belt, dirk and whip lay underneath. Apparently Leonce trusted her not to kill herself after all.

  She donned the gown, tied on one of the belts that had belonged to his mother, and then secured the weapons at her waist. Grabbing the staff that Bertie had given her the day before, she hobbled down to the hall and joined Freya, who sat mending before the hearth.

  As the morning progressed, several women came to visit Freya, but left upon seeing Hope. When yet another young woman turned away, she had endured enough stinging rejections for the day.

  "Wait.” Hope pushed up from her chair and leaned on the stick.

  The woman grudgingly turned and glared at her.

  "I am leaving. If you wish to visit Freya, please do not go."

  "Nay, milady. ‘Tis your right to be here.” Freya sent a stern frown toward the woman. “If Aileen wishes to visit, ‘twill be with both of us."

  Aileen started to turn away.

  "Wait, Aileen. I'm going outside for a visit with my friend. Please stay and keep Freya company.” Hope noticed the woman had a second plaid draped across her lap. “Why do you wear the extra plaid? I do not recognize it."

  Aileen stared at Hope and offered no reply.

  "Aileen was a Cameron afore she married a MacPherson. Must have family passing through and wears the plaid to honor them."

  "My thanks, Freya.” Hope took an apple from the table and hobbled out the front door. After sending forth her melodious call, she descended the steps and reached the bottom just as Diable arrived. While feeding him the fruit, she heard Bertie crying. She located him down the path sitting on a rock, huddled over in tears. Leaning against Diable as well as the stick, she limped to the child and sat beside him, laying a motherly arm about his shoulders.

  "What has my precious son so sad?"

  Bertie threw his arms around her waist and cried against her. “They're going to put Robbie in a cursed box."

  "Who would do such a horrid thing?” She dabbed at his tears with her skirt.

  "His papa.” Bertie hiccupped. “He says ‘twill keep the worms out of him."

  Hope realized what kind of box Bertie meant and caressed his cheek. “Did your friend die?"

  "Not yet.” Bertie sniffed. “His mother said he was drownin’ and ‘twould not be long. Then his papa went and started making the cursed box."

  Hope frowned. “Did he fall in water?"

  "Nay. He's fevered and rattles.” Bertie wiped his arm under his nose.

  "Can you tell me how to get to Robbie's home?"

  He raised hopeful eyes. “I can show you. Are you goin’ to heal him?"

  "I'm going to bloody well try. Run and get my medicinal case as fast as you can. If they have already built a box, we may not have much time."

  Bertie raced into the keep and quickly returned with the case. They mounted Diable, and Bertie directed Hope along several winding paths lined with neat cottages. The contemptuous glances cast her way set Hope's nerves on edge. She was relieved when Bertie pointed to a hut and told her it was the one they sought. She dismounted and hobbled to the door, carrying her supplies. Then she knocked with her staff.

  A tall, lanky man with red hair and ruddy cheeks opened the portal. When he saw Hope, his sad expression transformed into an irate mask. “You are not welcome here."

  "I have come to try to save your son."

  "Go away.” The man began closing the door.

  Hope swiftly lodged her stick into the opening. “I will go away after you answer a question. Do you hate me enough to let your son die?” She read uncertainty in his eyes. “No matter what my cursed father may do, I do not hurt young boys. If your son is truly dying, nothing I do will harm him, and, the Good Lord willing, it might save his life."

  The door eased open. Though the man continued to regard her suspiciously, he allowed her entry.

  A young woman with light brown hair and red-rimmed gray eyes looked up from wiping the brow of a young boy who lay on a pallet near a window on the opposite side of the neat one-room cottage. “What is she doing here?"

  "She is come to tend Robbie,” he said from behind Hope.

  The woman stood, her hands fisted. “Nay, Rob! Make her leave."

  "Give her a chance, Mauri. Nothing else has helped.” Rob gestured helplessly with his hands.

  As they argued the matter, Hope glanced beyond Mauri. Blue lips accentuated the pallor of the boy's face. A high-pitched wheeze accompanied each shallow breath, followed by a deadly rattle.

  She moved forward, and Mauri blocked her path. Hope turned to Rob. “We have little time. Move Robbie's pallet near the hearth. Start a fire with two pots of boiling water, and bring me a large linen that we can drape over him like a tent, plenty of fresh cool water, two bowls, cloths and a cup. Oh, and a low stool if you have one. The MacPherson will wring my neck if I put weight on my leg."

  Mauri glared at Rob as he moved the boy and hung the linen.

  "Sit behind your son, Mauri. Hold his head and shoulders in your lap. ‘Twill help him breathe easier. Talk to him too. Your voice will soothe him when the coughing starts."

  Sitting on a low stool near the pallet, Hope pulled some leaves from her case and broke them into a bowl of steaming water. Then she poured powders into the bowl, added more water, and mixed a thick, odiferous paste, which she rubbed on the boy's chest. The leaves soon emitted eye-stinging vapors. Hope mixed more powder into a small amount of cool water and coaxed the potion down young Robbie's throat. She dipped a cloth in cool water and bathed the child's fevered flesh, stopping every so often to urge a cup of cool water into him.

  The hacking episodes started a few hours later. Hope showed Mauri how to cup her palm and gently pat the lad's back to help him cough up the disease that filled his chest.


  The afternoon arrived and progressed as Hope tended the child, mindless of all else. Early evening, the sweats came, washing away the fever, and the child breathed easier. Hope sighed, knowing the immediate danger had passed.

  She arched and rubbed her lower back, smiling at Mauri. “The worst is over. I will leave him in your care. May I tear one of your linens?"

  Mauri nodded gratefully, her eyes brimming.

  Hope tore a cloth and placed some leaves inside, then folded the material over and around the leaves. After pouring powder into the other half, she folded it in the same manner and handed the linens to Mauri. “I am leaving these. Keep Robbie in the vapors till they die down. Do the same tomorrow. Takes five leaves. Give him a pinch of the powder in a small amount of cool water every three hours until morning. ‘Twill keep the fever away. And coax a cup of cool water down him every hour. You'll have leaves and powder left over. Keep them in a sealed jar in case this happens again."

  Hope closed her case and stood, leaning wearily upon the stick.

  "Thank you, milady,” Mauri whispered, rubbing Robbie's cheek and rocking him in her arms.

  "Best thank the Good Lord, Mauri. ‘Twas Him who sent me here.” Slipping out of the makeshift tent, Hope found Rob pacing a worn path in the small cottage. When he spotted her, he stopped.

  "My son, is he...” Rob broke off, unable to verbalize his worst fear.

  Hope patted his arm. “I have one thing to say to you, Rob MacPherson. Go burn that cursed box."

  Rob looked at her for a moment in shock, then smiled and went to join his wife and son.

  Leaving the cottage, Hope was brought up short by the incensed crowd that had gathered. Not a soul spoke as she hobbled down the path and called Diable.

  Bertie rushed over and threw his arms around her. “Is Robbie going to be well, Mam?"

  Hope smiled and hugged him back. “He will be playing soon."

  Diable joined them, and they rode back to the keep. Upon arrival, Bertie scampered off to play with his pony, Wildfire. An angry Bowyn and anxious Freya greeted Hope.

  Bowyn glowered, a fist on each hip. “I don't know where you went, milady, but you're not to leave this keep again until the chieftain returns."

  Having never accounted to anyone regarding her whereabouts, Hope clenched her fists. “I will leave anytime I bloody well please."

  "I'll bar you in your chamber if you try. I have angry warriors out searching for you now."

  "They cannot be looking too hard, or they would have found me.” Her eyes narrowed perilously. “My cursed father tried to make me a prisoner once. I doubt you would enjoy the revenge I got on him. Now I am tired and going to rest."

  Bowyn clamped his mouth shut. Everyone had heard of the secret recipe she'd given her father.

  "Can I get you anything, milady?” Freya asked, wringing her hands.

  "A small snack would be appreciated.” Hope hobbled toward the stairs and then stopped. “Freya, please ask Jeannie if she has enough to spare in the kitchen to send dinner to Rob and Mauri. I doubt they will eat today otherwise. And, Bowyn, you'll not have to worry about me leaving the chieftain's chamber. I am bloody well wearied from having so much hate tossed at me, so I will be staying there."

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  Chapter Seventeen

  * * * *

  Finding her friend distraught and still abed at midmorning, Cassie sailed across the room. She perched on the edge of the bed and took hold of one of Hope's hands. “What happened? Did your leg inflame?"

  "Leonce doesn't want to keep me.” Hope burst into tears.

  Cassie pulled a small linen square from her sleeve and dabbed at Hope's eyes. “Lord, Hope, ‘tis the second time I've seen you cry. You've never been this emotional. Tell me the problem."

  "He left the morn after we wed.” Hope sniffed. “'Twas my fault. I didn't mean to, but I turned wanton and seduced him."

  Cassie snorted. “I'm sure he helped. I cannot believe he didn't wait till your wounds were healed."

  "He didn't wish to touch me at all. After he fell asleep, I got curious and kissed him. Then he said he couldn't stop. He came home five days ago, but didn't even come to see me.” Hope grabbed the linen from Cassie's hand and blew her nose.

  "Why did you not go to him?” Cassie asked with a touch of exasperation. “If you are this upset, you should have tracked him down."

  "I didn't know he was here until after he left. I was cursed. After Freya took out my stitches, she slipped something in my drink and put me to bed.” Hope grasped Cassie's arm. “That is not all. The MacPhersons are feuding with the MacDougalls."

  "Of course they are.” Cassie patted Hope's hand. “The MacDougall's eldest granddaughter was to marry The MacPherson, but he married you. I don't know why he left, but I doubt you drove—"

  "Wait, Cassie. Was he supposed to marry Mildread, or The MacDougall's eldest granddaughter?"

  "'Tis all the same. Mildread is The MacDougall's eldest granddaughter."

  "Nay. I'm bloody certain I've at least three seasons on her, so I am eldest.” Hope raked her fingers through her hair.

  "Oh Lord. I forgot who your mother's clan was. This means the MacPhersons and MacDougalls are fighting without cause."

  "Nay, they have cause.” Hope sat up straighter and clenched her jaw. “And I intend to make sure they know what it is.” She leaped from the bed and walked to her chest.

  "What are you going to do?"

  Hope threw open the chest and pulled out a gown. “Visit my rotten grandfather so I can keep a promise I made to Mama and a vow I made at her bier.” She tossed the gown over her head and began pleating her plaid.

  "Hope—"

  "Do not say anything to anyone or try to stop me. If I don't go now, The Lion will kill him. Then I'll never get my revenge."

  "The MacPherson will be angry,” Cassie warned.

  "For all the time he spends here, I doubt he'll ever know I went. Even if he finds out, he promised never to beat me.” Securing her plaid with a rope belt, she slipped her dirk through a loop and tied her whip at her side.

  "Well, you cannot go alone. I'm going with you.” Cassie stood and smoothed her skirt as if preparing for a pleasant jaunt.

  "The Fraser wouldn't like it. I'll not have you riling him because of me.” Hope dug through the chest until she found her pouch.

  "I know the way. Do you?"

  "Zounds! How do you do that?"

  "Do what?"

  Hope raised imploring eyes to heaven and glared at Cassie. “Come up with something I cannot argue with."

  Cassie flashed her dimples. “'Tis a gift from the Almighty to save your neck from all the falling axes your infernal mischief tosses your way."

  "'Tis my cursed plague.” Pulling a small piece of MacDougall plaid from her pouch, Hope folded the material and hid it under the one she wore. “Let's go. And if anyone asks, we are just going for a cursed ride."

  "'Tis probably the first time I have heard you use the word cursed in an appropriate manner.” Cassie slipped her arm through Hope's.

  She snorted, and the two women left the chamber.

  * * * *

  Bertie crawled out from his secret hiding place under the bed where he stored all of his boyhood treasures and gazed at the door. He might get a thrashing, but he had to save his mother from Malicious MacDougall.

  He headed down to the hall where a number of clansmen enjoyed an ale break from their labors on the construction of the battlements. He approached Freya, who was spreading fresh rushes across the floor, and tugged on her skirt.

  "Not now, Bertie. Can you not see I'm busy?” Freya chided.

  "'Tis important."

  "You can tell me in a few moments. That much time never hurt anyone."

  Bertie cast a troubled gaze toward the men at a nearby table. “Bowyn, how long does it take an axe to fall?"

  The warrior lowered his tankard. “What's that you say?"

  "I asked how long it
takes an axe to fall."

  "The blink of an eye,” Bowyn said with an authoritative nod.

  Bertie turned to Freya. “A few moments could hurt someone cursed bad."

  Bowyn crossed the hall and placed a hand on Bertie's shoulder. “Who is in trouble, lad?"

  Bertie raised fearful eyes and looked down at the rushes. “I know I'm not supposed to tell when I hear somethin’ by accident."

  "'Tis permitted if you're keeping someone from harm."

  "Did you see my mam leave with Lady Fraser?"

  "Nay. She wasn't to leave the keep.” He eyed the boy sharply. “Do you know where she went?"

  Bertie scratched his nose. “'Twas goin’ to visit her cursed grandfather and get revenge afore Papa kills him."

  A frown furrowed Bowyn's brow. “Why would she think the chief is going to kill him?"

  "We're feudin'.” Bertie jumped as several tankards hit the tabletops about the room at once, affirming the clansmen had heard.

  Bowyn's grip on Bertie's shoulder tightened. “Saint Columba, lad! Who is Lady MacPherson's grandfather?"

  Fear welled up in Bertie until his knees knocked and he blurted, “Malicious MacDougall."

  The name fell like a stone in the huge chamber. Bowyn straightened and shouted, “Darach, find The Fraser and tell him what happened. Freya, tell Jeannie to pack dry stores for one night. Jamie, take word down the mountain. We'll be riding in quarter of an hour with all but twenty men. We can pick up the chief on the way. He should be at the Cameron's by now."

  Everyone hurried to follow the commands.

  Bertie tugged on Bowyn's plaid until he glanced down. “Am I going to get in trouble for tellin'?"

  "You did well, Bertie.” Bowyn gazed off through narrowed eyes. “The trouble for this will be all mine."

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  Chapter Eighteen

  * * * *

  As the sun began its mid-afternoon descent, The MacDougall sat at the high table in his hall, hearing disputes between his clansmen. At eight and fifty, the gray-headed, barrel-chested chieftain held the reputation for being the meanest man in the Highlands. Some believed he had reached such an old age because the devil feared he would take over hell. Few people knew the demon possessing him entered his heart the day he handed over his once-beloved daughter to a Norman, keeping her away from his worst enemy. And those knowing the truth would never tell for fear of his wrath.