The Chieftain's Curse

by Frances Housden

  He hated acting like a brute, but he was the McArthur, and he would be obeyed, whether it meant depriving himself and going without her. “Make up your mind soon, for you’d best be settled somewhere else before winter arrives.

  Chapter 20

  One last night together. Pain swamped Morag. Could she survive Euan leaving her again, face him taking another woman, another wife to this bed they shared? Could she dive down deep into her soul but one more time, search out the courage that had given her the strength to escape Doughall and, more, avoid the dread clutches of Kalem, her brother’s catamite? Find the daring that had seen her setting out from Wolfsdale with naught to her name on a venture fraught with danger that meant dragging Rob through the wilds of Scotland? Where was that woman now?

  She made a heartfelt wish for the answer to come to her.

  Feeling like a fraud, she closed her arms around Euan as he slept with his head cradled upon her breasts, peaceful, beloved. Why, then, did her fingers curl up into fists that craved to release her inner anger and anxiety by pummelling the hard contours of his chest? She abhorred the way her emotions made her cleave to him; cling to him like ivy—strong determined, a green vine that wouldn’t be thwarted.

  At the sensitive skin inside her wrists, she noticed Euan’s heartbeat increase, quicken. More slowly, his shaft thickened; its tip burned the soft flesh of her thigh and gradually made its presence felt against her mons.

  Though the night had passed in torrid flurries of lovemaking, Euan, ’twould appear, wasn’t done with her. Through the narrow window she saw the sky lighten, on the brink of a new day. She tucked her chin into her throat, below it, Euan looked up at her, his irises gold in the dawning, burning with a glow that promised his night wasn’t yet over.

  A flash of the anger that had sown her earlier anxiety sprang to life. Hands on his shoulders, she pushed Euan off to his back and slid her breasts down his chest.

  “So that’s the way o’ it,” he laughed on a sleep-threaded breath. “You want to be in charge.”

  He flung his arms wide in surrender. “Have at it, lass. I’m all yours.”

  The irony of his capitulation wasn’t lost on Morag. She only wished he meant what he said in the heat of the moment, that Euan was all hers, as was his son.

  Though Euan had, two days before, left for Stonehaven and his ship, and had sailed past Cragenlaw a day later, Morag still haunted the window, looking out at the water below. At high tide, the waves licked higher up the cliff, as if a ship could sail over the bailey wall and into the castle … but then Morag’s imagination could do wondrous things, including believing she could find her way to Cragenlaw and safety.

  To be sure, she had found her way here, as well as safety of a kind—no matter the wondrous lovemaking they had shared the night before he left—it depended on her doing as she was told.

  She had no notion why Euan’s steely resolve surprised her. Perhaps it was the lingering wish that he would recognise her and forget about remarrying. No chance, he had already put her aside once in her lifetime and would do it again if it suited him.

  The only concession he’d allowed her was leaving Rob behind. Instead, he took Jamie with him. The Ruthven heir already had experience at court. Alexander stayed behind with Rob, the former needed to learn to get along with others, and Euan was confident that Rob could win Comlyn’s bear cub over.

  Rob.

  Morag hoped that she was doing right by her son by not sharing her secret with him. From the moment he was born, she had lived her life solely for him. … even before his birth.

  The day she discovered Euan had left the cave without a by your leave had been the worst in her life. Gavyn was dead, her father grieving and Doughall taking advantage of both. Then she’d discovered what the lack of her courses boded. She was with child, and no matter what it cost, she had someone to live for.

  Morag placed her palm on her stomach, remembering the joy that had brought her, knowing she was about to have a child. The hand she caressed the curve of her belly with, stilled. No longer hollow from lack of food, as when they journeyed north; her curves had rounded again through rest and good provender.

  As she stood at the window embrasure, eyes blank, viewing her life from a distance, one thought surged above the others.

  When did she last have her courses?

  The weather had been with them, and Euan’s ship propelled by both sail and oar reached the Firth of Forth on the third day. They anchored off Culross on the firth’s northern shore, within an easy distance of Dunfermline, where his messenger had said they were residing.

  Queen Margaret was right fond of the place and had gone to the bother of building a small chapel there, at Pittencrief, a braw leafy glade.

  When, Euan disembarked ship, taking only a couple of his men-at-arms with him. He received news that though Queen Margaret had remained at Pittencrief, Malcolm Canmore had crossed the Firth and returned to Dun Edin Castle. Learning that, he decided to first seek the Queen’s advice and, early next morning set out with ten men to visit the Queen.

  Many had complained that her Anglo-Saxon heritage—as sister to Edgar the Atheling, sometime heir of Edward the Confessor and son of Edmond Ironsides—made her inclined to change Celtic traditions. For his part, Euan looked up to her. She was granddaughter of a king, a pious woman, generous to the poor, yet thought no less of her husband for breaking the fealty he had sworn to William I. Like her husband, she wanted what was best for Scotland, not convenient for a Norman conqueror.

  When he reached Pittencrief, one of her ladies informed him she was meditating in a place of natural beauty that needed no silks and velvets or jewels to enhance its charms. Her lady-in-waiting guided Euan, to a cave set in a gentle slope that fell away to a stony-bottomed burn at its base.

  He waited outside, planting his arse on a large mossy rock that had probably supported more than a few. Overhead, trees of birch and beech swayed in the breeze, a soft sound that made contemplation simple. No wonder the Queen loved this spot. While he waited, he pondered his own dilemmas.

  Had the Queen heard he had lost yet another wife to the curse, and what would she advise? Dare, he mention Morag?

  For all the grandeur and beauty of the Scottish coastline, she had never left his mind as they sailed south. He despised the way he had acted the night after the gathering for Graeme and Iseabal’s betrothal. His treatment of her had been despicable, and as hard on him as on her, but he felt too much for her to leave her with any hope that there was a future for them, together. He was the McArthur; he couldn’t let her forget that truth.

  Miles deep in thought, Euan didn’t realise that the Queen had finished her meditation until she touched his arm. “Euan McArthur, what brings you south to Fife instead of bringing in crops and preparing for a hard northern winter at Cragenlaw?”

  He immediately vacated his place on the rock and knelt at her feet in supplication then kissed her hand. “I have a grand seneschal who sees to all that, better than I ever could.”

  The Queen was dressed simply, her kirtle the pale blue one might see on the tiny flowers that grew close to water. Her veil was white, held by a plain band of gold that sat across her forehead, and a braid of golden hair lay over one shoulder.

  For all that, she never disdained a seat on the rock where Euan had awaited her arrival.

  “As to why I’m at Pittencrief, your majesty, I’d like your advice.” That said Euan began recounting the travails that had afflicted his life, and sent him south on his quest to break the curse and acquire mercenaries to safeguard the masons if the king gave him leave to build it.

  After she had heard him out, the Queen congratulated him on his forethought, ensuring the McArthur clan had an heir would prevent power struggles, should anything befall Euan before he sired a living son. “Iseabal Ruthven is a bonnie lass,” she said, “with a good head on her shoulders, despite her lack of years. It’s a grand match and you have my approval.”

  “As for the curse,
diplomacy will be required. I know when you met the crone you were still young and, to your detriment, probably a mite foolhardy—a problem that comes hand in hand with a lack of years. From my perspective, when your men burned her willow cabin, they burned her home. What, might appear of little value to someone who lives in a castle probably meant everything in the world to her.” She considered a moment. “I suppose you laughed as well?”

  When, he would have denied it, she waved away his excuses. “I have sons of my own and stepsons forby. I know how young lads act when confronted by something beyond their ken. I suggest you try being conciliatory, begging her pardon and offering to buy or build her a cottage.”

  She reached into a pouch at her waist, but kept the article she withdrew enclosed in her fingers. “You do understand that this is one battle you can’t win? The crone is bound to be very bitter and guarded. Best you surrender to the inevitable, for the sake of yourself, and whosoever you next take to wife.”

  Euan’s mind flooded with pictures of dead wives and sons. Bile rose in his gullet, realising that the queen laid the responsibility square on the shoulders of the uncouth self-important lad he had been back then, at a time, when all his brains resided in his prick, as the auld crone had more or less suggested.

  Yet all the marriages he had contracted had been done with his head, never his heart or even his cock. He’d reserved that foolishness for a barren woman, or was Morag too, part of the curse. An example to show him he could have young wives he didn’t love and no sons, and a wife he could give his all to, and still no sons. However he turned, Euan McArthur was firmly caught in a cleft stick.

  “Here Euan, take this.” She handed him a gold cross, fastened to a rosary of deep indigo blue beads. “Wear it inside your shirt and pray to the blessed virgin for her help.”

  Unlike the Queen, he had never been what anyone would call religious. He bent his knee to the Queen, kissed her hand and made sure she had no doubts that it was in gratitude, for both the cross and the advice.

  “I’m not finished. When you meet with Malcolm, tell him you have spoken with me. He will no doubt give his permission to build the keep, and for the hiring of mercenaries to protect the masons. Protecting one’s borders is a thing close to his heart. Forby, I advise you to ask for the Raven. He’s a landless man, who lost all memory of his past in a battle. Much like you, he is strong and commands respect from his men. Honest, too, he keeps a tight rein on his mercenaries—most important in an age when few feel a tug on their conscience over ravaging another’s land.”

  Kneeling once more, Euan said, “You majesty is all that is gracious.”

  “Away with you, McArthur, flattery makes no difference to me.” She placed a hand on his shoulder as if in blessing. “God go with you, Euan McArthur. I’ll expect news of a new son or daughter by this time next year.”

  He wished he shared the queen’s confidence. However, he would wear the gold cross she had given him and pray that matters would go favourably.

  Irvin the pedlar drove his cart horses over the drawbridge at Wolfsdale, through the portal and straight into the bailey until his path was blocked by a dark man wearing fine ring-mail, the likes o’ which Irvin had never beheld afore.

  “So, you wish to speak with Wolfsdale? I can assure you he has ribbons and trifles aplenty.”

  “I c-come with news not to sell the B-baron aught,” Irvin’s stammer hid the lie that slid past his teeth as he contemplated the reward.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Bu-but…” his stammer real this time as he watched the dark man draw a large, curved sword.

  “The news,” the man demanded—on pain of death belikes with him aiming the sword at Irvin’s throat.

  “’Tis news about his sister.”

  Kalem’s smile gleamed white in his oddly dark face. His head, hairless, narrowed to point, and swayed above his shoulders like a stoat eyeing his prey. “Her name?”

  The air in Irvin’s lungs left in a rush. “’Tis Morag.”

  He breathed more easily, as the dark man moved his sword and, using it like an extension of his arm, bowed like a gallant.

  “Enter,” he said, and suddenly the smile on his wide, yet somehow thin mouth was as cold and as fearsome a thing as Irvin had ever seen.

  Chapter 21

  During the seven years that had passed since Euan last stood before the auld crone, the wooded glade, place of Euan’s undoing, had changed beyond all recognition. Grass and scrub covered earth once blackened by flames—a place, where the McArthur he’d once been had stood like a grinning fool, letting his laughter join the hearty merriment of his warriors, while an auld crone’s pointing finger turned his life to chaos.

  Not only his life, but the lives of those lasses he’d taken to wife. How much easier it would have been had the crone simply smote him with a spell instead of laying a curse on him. Every memory of the five agonising years his life had travelled since he first lost both wife and child, made his stomach pinch with acid. Sweat broke out on his top lip.

  He sucked in a long, calming breath, closing his eyes. The action didn’t blind him to the vision of the day he held his last son in his arms. Unless his venture proved successful, he could never again enter a physical union that wouldn’t be overshadowed, made bleak, by the deaths of those he was meant to protect.

  He thanked the gods for sending him Morag in consolation. Without her, he might have gone mad with grief and anger and aye, with lust. He was too young for abstinence ever to become a comfortable way of life. The sooner he got on with finding the crone the better.

  Tramping through the tangle of grass and self-sown herbage, he noted the differences here on the shifting boundaries betwixt north and south. At home, heather’s rowdy purple blooms coloured the landscape. Here blueberries, heavy with fruit, sprawled, leaving a trail of juice underfoot as they walked. Looking around, Euan sought evidence of sooty earth or scorched branches, ancient signs that there had once been a fire in this grove—though, no doubt by this late date, both worms and grubs had taken care of any detritus remaining from that day.

  Dugan, one of his housecarls, walked ahead, using his sword to clear their path of wicked thorns hidden amongst the sharp, coloured haws and ragged green leaves of the hawthorn.

  With a twist of his head, Euan glanced over his shoulder. Behind him followed two warriors—the ones he had sent toward the border but days after Astrid’s death.

  “How much farther to the auld crone’s place?” he grumbled, still unable to speak civilly to the pair who had begun his torment by dragging the crone before him on her knees.

  The men, both bearded, were dressed in trews and tunics, abandoning their plaids as a way of blending in with the local populace, as had Euan. Of the other housecarls he’d brought south, four had been left behind to avoid scaring the crone with too large a force. “Och, ’tis but half a league’s walk through yon trees, laird,” one of them responded. “Some folks hereabouts know her as a wise woman, but others call her witch.”

  The other butted in with, “Aye but ‘tis the men that call her witch and the women who call her wise.”

  His loud chuckle earned a warning from Dugan to be quiet. “Whist now, ’tis no laughing matter.”

  Aye, Dugan had the right of it. Laughter had been Euan’s downfall. “Will you two never learn?” Euan muttered the reprimand, nostrils flaring. The scowl on his lips caused his men to glance at him sideways, waiting to be yelled at for wrongdoing. Knowing they waited, Euan decided to leave them none the wiser. And why shouldn’t he?

  Yet had anyone asked, he would have been hard pressed to admit what was really going on his mind. Two words stood out from his conversation with Queen Margaret, they were ‘diplomacy’ and ‘conciliatory’, both of which went against the grain after everything his family had suffered, had lost. Finally, he all but growled at the men, who continuously annoyed him, “You two walk on ahead of us, and let’s be done with this diabolical curse at last.”r />
  Merely thinking on it made his stomach churn again. He tried, but couldn’t summon the notion that he was entirely blameless: Magdalene, Fiona and Astrid, all of them on his conscience.

  The closer he came to resolving his troubles, the harder it was to stop the past and all his mistakes turning over and over in his mind. Then there was Morag, she bore no fault in this, yet she, too, would suffer. If he’d had a wife, he never would have taken her to bed, never would have made her his own.

  She pretended indifference, but he knew better. By his reckoning, the way women were made, it was harder for them to hide their feelings. Morag certainly loved him in thought and deed. His mind overflowed with what-ifs, all floating around, banging into each other, giving him a headache to match his heartache.

  What if he’d never been cursed?

  What if he’d waited to take a wife until Morag arrived?

  What if she hadn’t been barren?

  A multitude of questions—Euan at their midst, with no answers to any of them—were all shoved aside when the man ahead of him whispered, “Not long now, McArthur.”

  “I’m with you.” But if he hadn’t kept his eyes peeled, Euan might have missed the cabin … no, a hovel … not fit for a beast, far less for a woman.

  “See whether she be there,” his voice rumbled through the silence beyond a canny breeze flicking at the leaves on its way past, and somewhere a hum of bees whispered. “Gently now … gently, I say,” Euan commanded.

  A single warrior approached the opening in the woven willow branches. Padding as softly as one may across the dried leaves of an overly hot August, which had segued into an equally dry September, he reached the cabin. The forest was like tinder. If they’d been forced to light fires today in order to flush out the English, the way they had on that fateful afternoon, the witch would never have survived.

  “Breath of God!”

  Euan’s man swore, stumbling backward through the opening, a hand clasped over both nose and mouth.