“You don’t think this is significant?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “Well, maybe not, but I think it might be worth a hefty check at least, old boy.” She glanced at the clock. It was three in the morning.
She was tired but satisfied as she gathered her brushes and took them to the sink to clean them. She was rubbing paint off her hands when she felt an odd coolness to the air as if the temperature had suddenly dropped. Casper, at once alert, jumped from his chair and started circling the studio. His nose close to the ground he was sensing something, whining softly. Stella turned and watched him.
Casper continued his circling of the studio, his whining growing louder now. Stella watched him and had an uneasy feeling that whatever was going to happen had started. Casper circled to the canvas, sniffed all around it and became highly excited. He sat in front of the canvas, threw back his head and howled. Stella’s sketches, all over the floor, began to flutter as if in a breeze, rattling slightly as if being blown by some invisible fan. The studio doors and windows were locked and Stella knew that no wind from outside was doing this. She felt something now, an energy surrounding her. She felt, more than heard, a whirling noise, like a small tornado, a buzzing in her head and she began to panic.
It was happening again. She had drawn the magic and it had heeded her call.
As suddenly as it began, the panic left. She watched as the papers quieted and lay still. She felt comforted somehow, like a strong hand lay on her shoulder to give her strength. There was a presence in the room. Casper knew it, she knew it. It was strong, but it was not frightening. It was familiar, but at the same time totally unfamiliar. She could not deny that she knew something, or someone, was here, but she could not discern who or what. She was on the verge of remembering something but she couldn’t determine whether it was a memory or a dream. It was on the very edge of her brain, but she was so tired she couldn’t make out what it was she was supposed to know or remember. She needed to be away from here. Magic always disconcerted her.
She looked up at the image of the Highlander and knew that this image was causing the turmoil. Casper continued to chuff and whine by the canvas.
“Don’t Casper, we’re fine, it’ll be all right, boy. Quiet.” She looked around the studio with some misgiving, patting Casper on the head, but it was of no use, he continued to look nervously around and whine, his tail wagging, eyes gleaming.
Stella headed for the door and turned out the lights. Casper stood his ground and continued to look at the canvas, whining.
“Come on, boy, let’s go to bed. It’s late and we need to get out of here. Maybe it’ll be gone by morning. Whatever it is.” When he continued to ignore her Stella grabbed him by the collar and dragged him from the canvas. She left the studio, shut the door solidly behind her, and headed to her bedroom. Instead of following her Casper sat whining and scratching at the door of the studio.
Stella stood at her bedroom doorway and yelled. “Casper! Now! Get over here!” Casper continued to ignore her. It was three in the morning, she had no energy to fight with the dog nor was she in the mood for it.
“Fine, then stay there all night, dog. See if I care.”
She shut her bedroom door against his whining and fell onto her bed wrung out and trembling. She expected to lay in bed for the rest of the night worrying about this turn of events but when she closed her eyes she was immediately asleep drifting into dreams, or memories, she knew not which.
As soon as she slept the door of the studio opened and Casper went inside, tail wagging. The studio door clicked shut quietly behind him.
Chapter Two
Scotland, 1604
Robbie MacDougall sat his saddle with a good deal of discomfort. He still had a long way to go before he reached home and the past two days had been nigh onto miserable. The summer rain had been light, but constant, and Robbie had been soaked for two days. His thighs were rubbed raw with the wet saddle, his fingers and hands burning from the play of wet leather reins and he was starting to sneeze. His heavy beard felt like a wet dog wrapped around his face and had been channeling water down his tunic. His plaid was now useless as a cover because it, too, was soaked. He was in a surly mood from the chill of being constantly wet to the skin.
His dappled grey courser, a stallion equally at home on the battlefield or gingerly nibbling treats from the tiny hands of children, was no more fond of the rain than his rider and let his dislike and ill temper be known with his constant snorting and head tossing.
Robbie whistled to his dog to come out from under the hedges. The rangy wet dog had been spritely at the onset of the rain, but now two days of it had bested his good humor and he skulked from tree to hedge, doing his best to keep up with his master in spite of the weather.
Generally stoic in the coldest weather or the harshest of battlefields, Robbie did not like being rained on and was having a difficult time being stalwart about it. The sucking sound of horse hooves slugging though mud made him want to run a sword through somebody.
He wanted to sit in front of a fire and be warm and dry and pampered. He wanted somebody to care that he was miserable and he wanted somebody to ease that misery. He smiled because he knew that when Elinor saw the state he was in she would do everything to erase the misery that was now etched so deeply in his face. That was why he loved his aunt. She fussed over him, and though normally he hated fussing right now he needed it. Elinor was the softness in a life defined by hard edges and adversity.
His uncle, the MacDougall, was one to push him hard and he was grateful for that because it had prepared him to be a decisive and formidable leader. He knew that the MacDougall was depending on Robbie to pull the clan through the tricky political situation on the horizon and Robbie would not let him down. He loved his clan and would lay down his life to preserve their homeland.
His uncle was also pressing him to take another bride, but that was not to his liking. There was something about the position of ‘wife’ that sent women into a frenzy of constant nagging, never being happy, never being content, never being silent. No, he didn’t want that again.
He briefly felt guilt all over again for not sufficiently mourning the passing of his young wife. At his uncle’s request he had married her, creating an alliance between the MacDougalls and the MacKennons. He had been reluctant, but he would always do his duty for the clan and his family.
She had come from a convent at age fifteen, frightened, fragile and withdrawn. She had been too young, too idealistic and too innocent. He might have felt sorry for her had she not turned into such a harridan. She hated the castle, she hated his bed and she hated him. Comely enough, she had been rather well rounded and in the last year of her life became even more so. Perhaps her only happiness came from Cook’s kitchen. More’s the pity.
But that was past. Now his life had gentled somewhat, except for the constant state of political uneasiness that hung over all of Scotland. King James had ascended the throne and there were those that thought this Scottish king would absorb Scotland into England ‘afore too long. Most felt very uncomfortable with this ‘Union of the Crowns’, including himself. He was tired of fighting the English as much as any man, but he certainly didn’t want to be united with them. Dogs did not unite with wolves and the English were dirty, flea-bitten, smelly, dung-eating curs and did not unite with wolves. Robbie shook off his contempt and tried not to compound his misery thinking of the political machinations of England and James.
For all his dour mood at the moment Robbie was generally a genial man not taken to cruelty or an exaggerated sense of his own importance. He was now thirty one, tanist to the laird, and the impending stewardship of his clan had given him a marked maturity and solemnity that had flowered since his father’s death. He had a scholarly bent of mind, being quite fond of mathematics and science and quite adept at solving difficult strategic problems. The Laird had seen that he was well educated, sending him to the University at Edinburgh where he had flourished under the tutelage of the finest minds i
n the kingdom. He had liked Edinburgh well enough because of the university, of course, but also because there were plenty of sweet young lasses and he did so love the lasses. He loved the feel of soft skin and nubile flesh, tender touches and a nice round bottom.
In return, the lasses loved Robbie. The strong features of his lean, hard face were pleasant enough to look at, being neither too handsome nor too rugged, and reflected his commanding demeanor. He had a beard which he shaved once a week and hair that he wore past his shoulders, gathered in a leather queue. It was hair that was undecided in its color leaning toward dark wheat with streaks of auburn and walnut brown.
Robbie’s battle training had left him with a body that was fit and in excellent condition. Built like a tree, he was sturdy and strong, the columns of his legs like sinewy tree trunks, and his arms and hands the branches of that fleshy tree. A curious tree with hair rather than bark, and large veins that grew like vines underneath the skin. His wide shoulders were always erect and taunt, a firm foundation for the neck that was always on alert, moving his solemn head in constant readiness to monitor his environment. His fingers were large and thick extending the span of his hand to large proportions. They were the strong hands of a warrior, but hands so sensitive he could gentle a maiden or a mare, a crying child or a baying hound with a touch.
But in spite of his physical hardness his eyes were soft and filled with humor and intelligence. He was a just man and would not tolerate abuse to women and children or animals. He had little patience for liars and thieves and was zealous about revenging those that were wronged. He was fierce on the battlefield, but sweet tempered and gentle when talking with children. His biggest regret was that he did not have children of his own, his wife having denied him her bed too often and too loudly, so he was marginally content to spoil the young children in the castle. Though he did not long for a wife, he did long for an heir.
But at present that was not his utmost wish. At present he wished for a warm fire, a hot meal and dry clothes. He had fulfilled the directive of the laird and delivered the message to the king and he was done with it. He cared not a whit about English alliances, although he kept that to himself. Now he just wanted to be home, but instead found himself, and his horse and hound, to be slogging through mud, waiting for the rain to stop, the weather to calm itself.
He hoped that the Scholar would be at Dunollie when he returned. What better home coming than good food, dry clothes, a comfortable bed and a companion of considerable intellect and interest. He always enjoyed his time with his friend and regretted only that the visits were rarely long enough. Robbie, always an eager student, had learned much from the Scholar and most recently their conversations had been on scientific subjects Robbie found riveting. The Scholar had lectured on the measurement of movement and he and Robbie had argued quite amicably over the value and possible use of lightening. Robbie’s love of science was always nurtured when in company of the Scholar.
Robbie knew little of the Scholar other than he traveled a great deal from university to university, but he knew almost nothing else about him. He was a cagey old man and kept his counsel about his private life. Robbie had asked him about his family once but the Scholar had given up no information of value, being vague about any family he may have had. From his reluctance to speak of them Robbie felt perhaps he had lost them and Robbie knew that a man’s secrets were his own to keep and did not press him further. But his secrets did not subtract from his intellect and Robbie always looked forward to his visits.
But for now he wanted only to be out of the rain, his mood becoming fouler by the hour. His stallion, Grey, reflected his mood and was becoming churlish and obstinate. Robbie hardly blamed him, but he drove himself, his horse and his hound hard the rest of the day until the welcome thatch of an inn came into view.
The soft morning sun shot lines of light thru the narrow inn window, the silent signal that day was breaking. Robbie swung his long legs to the wooden floor, glad to be rested and dry. He rose and stretched his naked body, rubbing the back of his neck trying to work out the kinks of using his saddle pack as a pillow. He felt his clothes, hung on pegs by the door, and was grateful to find them dry. A glance out the window told him the skies were clear and the sun, untethered from the black clouds of yesterday, would spend the day burning off the bounty of rain. Eager to be home again he quickly donned his clothes and belted on his sword. Grabbing his pack and belongings, now reasonably dry, he headed downstairs to break his fast. He could make it back to Dunollie in three days if the weather held
The common room seemed unusually crowded this morning and he was not pleased to see a number of English soldiers at table. They kept to themselves, but were rowdy and loud. Robbie, ever on alert when the English were about, sat at a lone table in the corner, but kept his ears tuned to their conversation. It was always best to know exactly what your enemy was doing, even in these times of ‘peace’. The soldiers glanced his way, and noting him to be a man of some strength and fighting ability they avoided eye contact, wanting to forego any kind of untoward situation. They were vastly outnumbered in Scotland and being on an ambassadorial mission they did not want to enflame the citizenry with threats or unwarranted actions.
Eyeing with appreciation the young lass who served him, Robbie ate a hearty morning meal, thinking he would not eat again until the evening. His meals had been infrequent and paltry the last three days and Robbie, who loved good food, was surly when he missed too many. With his eyes fixed on the firm small bosom of the serving maid, he carefully listened to the soldiers. They were delivering a string of very expensive Arabians to the Earl of Bothwell in Aberdeen, an English lord who fancied himself a great poet. The horses were superbly trained and highly prized animals, a token of the esteem King James had for the Earl. Robbie thought that it sounded more like an arse kissing gift, but since it was none of his affair he finished off his meal and left the inn, thinking no more about it.
The small village was already moving about at this early hour and Robbie turned to the stable to retrieve his horse and hound. Inside the clamor of stallions, his own and one of the Arabians the soldiers had been speaking of, threatened the quiet peace of the morning. The Arabians were well formed and healthy, one black stallion and six mares. Robbie had never had much use for Arabians, thinking them a rather delicate horse more for prancing and show then for any practical use. They were poor war horses, being too smallish and fragile, to his way of thinking, and their legs too thin for the rocky terrain of mountains. But he could not deny the beauty of them. One, in particular caught his eye, solid white with a dark grey muzzle and mane, she was an exceptionally beautiful mare, with an arched neck that was singular in its grace, but alas, she was an Arabian and despite her undoubtable breeding and carriage she would be no good except for the Earl’s delicate English arse.
Robbie pulled Grey from his stall and saddled the stallion who was restless and excited with the proximity of all the mares. No doubt he had spent the night in desperate longing and Robbie understood very well, having spent many a night like that himself, but Grey would just have to get over it and calm himself. He wouldn’t be having an Arabian lass anytime soon.
The dog, unfettered by physical desires other than food, had spent a comfortable night sharing a corner of dry hay with several goats. Robbie tossed him a bit of dried meat and the dog was up and ready to continue their journey, barking and wagging his feathered tail, sniffing the barn for rats.
As the three companions began the homeward trek Robbie noted the unusually warm temperature and it pleased him. In spite of beginning the day in such close proximity to the English he hoped the sun’s warmth promised a day of quiet, pleasant travel. He would begin moving into his beloved Highlands by afternoon and the upward movement would slow them down somewhat, but he much preferred an extended climb in the crags of the Highlands than a swift journey through the lowland meadows.
He had not traveled more than four of five leagues when he spied a thin column of
smoke rising from a wooded area past a small rise in the terrain. Born with an unquenchable curiosity, that often diverted him from his intentions, Robbie rode toward the column of smoke. The dog dashed ahead, drawn by the smell that alerted Robbie that this smoke did not come from a chimney nor a campfire. Within moments the dog came bounding back, barking, sounding an alarm that all was not well. Robbie spurred his mount and rode toward the acrid smelling fire. Upon reaching the clearing Robbie’s horse spooked and reared. A quick survey of the area and Robbie was at once horrified and saddened.
A small croft was at the edge of the clearing, torn and destroyed, the belongings broken and scattered, the thatch burnt away. A young lad, of not more than twelve years stood gazing at a pyre in the middle of the small clearing. Robbie looked at charred human remains, the body bent forward, skull exploded from the intensity of heat, arms tied to a thick stake blackened from the dying fire. The young man stood transfixed watching the smoke rise from the ghastly burnt body, the smell of sizzling flesh hanging in the air like a hellish perfume.
Robbie dismounted and tied Grey upwind from the pyre. He approached the young man quietly, looking at the slack jaw, madness incubating in his glazed eyes. He touched the young man gently on the shoulder. There was no response or recognition from him.
“Who?” asked Robbie looking at the charred body, already knowing what the answer might be. The young man did not acknowledge Robbie or move his eyes.
“Me mam.” He spoke so softly Robbie had to lean closer to hear him. “She was nay a witch, but a healer.” It was as Robbie suspected. The very suspicion of witchcraft was punished swiftly and brutally. There were no trials, no questions. Suspicion was enough to take a life that was, in most cases, innocent of wrong doing. Robbie turned his eyes away from the remains of what had been a mother, a wife, a daughter, and now was no more than a black mark on the souls of those that feared what they did not understand.
Highland Portrait Page 3
