Once Upon A Haunted Castle: A Celtic Romance Anthology

by Eliza Knight

  With the animals tended, Havilland collected their saddlebags, and her husband’s great war sword, and ran back through the pounding rain. She ran back to the keep entry where she had left her husband. Jamison, a very tall and burly man with a crown of beautiful red hair, had pushed himself off the wall. He had staggered up a couple of steps to the door and by the time she reached him, he was shoving the door open. Havilland tried to get in front of him, because she was holding his sword, but he pushed her back behind him in a protective gesture. Even as sick as he was, he was still stronger than she was, and Havilland resented that a great deal.

  She was as good as he was with a sword, but that was a story for another time.

  Pushing into the keep, it was very dark and smelled of rot. The sounds of the storm rattled the very walls and there must have been more than one uncovered window or even a hole in a wall because the wind was howling through the keep. It was an eerie sound, almost like moaning, and Havilland unsheathed her husband’s big sword. She didn’t like phantoms, or spooky sounds, but she wouldn’t let on. She wanted her husband to think she was just as brave as he was. After all, she could use a sword with some skill so it would stand to reason that she shouldn’t fear anything.

  Except the ghosts that were howling around her.

  Jamison sensed her fear but he didn’t say anything about it. Havilland was proud of the fact that she had been raised like a warrior and it was true that she was the bravest woman he’d ever seen. But he fought off a smile at the fact that she was clinging to him as they made their way into the dark keep, gripping him as if the devil himself was about to spring from the very walls.

  “Havilland?”

  “Aye?”

  “May I have me sword, sweetling?”

  “Nay.”

  “Always the warrior, aren’t ye?”

  “Flattery will not cause me to give the sword back so you are wasting your time.”

  He did grin, then, and chuckled, which ended up in a coughing fit. He had to stop, bending over because coughing weakened him so much and it was difficult to stand. He’d been sick for nearly two weeks now, a horrendous illness in his lungs that he’d contracted about the time they’d crossed from England into Scotland.

  Jamison was heading home, having received word that his father, chief of Clan Munro, had passed away several months before. That meant that Jamison was now the Clan Chief, a role he didn’t particularly relish. He loved his clan, his family, but he was different than the rest of them. They were Highlanders to the core, born and bred, but he’d seen more of the world than they had. He’d learned more. His father had hoped that his experience would help him rule over a stubborn and proud clan, to help them become more benevolent and understanding, but Jamison wasn’t so sure. He didn’t want to go home.

  But he didn’t have a choice.

  So now he was back in the Highlands, deathly ill from the sickness in his lungs, and trying to find shelter in an old abandoned castle that didn’t look all too inviting. The trip hadn’t gone as he’d hoped but it was fortunate for him that his wife was strong and uncomplaining. In fact, she was the strongest person he’d ever seen, man or woman. He loved that about her. Even now, she was trying to get in front of him, trying to hold off whatever threats were awaiting them in the darkness.

  Suddenly, Havilland came to a halt.

  “There is a fire in that room,” she hissed.

  She was pointing off to the far end of whatever hall they happened to be traveling in; it was difficult to see because it was so dark, water dripping on the walls around them. Jamison’s fever-clouded eyes tried to see what she was referring to and it took him a few moments to realize that there was a glow in the distance, just as she had said. There was, indeed, a fire in the distant hearth.

  “Get behind me, lass,” he said, trying to move in front of her. “Give me the sword.”

  But Havilland wouldn’t be pushed about so easily. “Nay,” she hissed again. “I am stronger than you are. Stay behind me.”

  She wasn’t stronger than he was, not by any stretch of the imagination, but she was a fierce fighter and very fast with a blade. He’d seen it many times. Still, this was an uncertain situation and he wasn’t about to have his wife doing his fighting for him. He gave her a good tug, pulling her back.

  “Listen tae me,” he said. It sounded like a command. “Get behind me now.”

  He yanked her back and she nearly tripped, glaring at him. But he was moving forward and so was she. She wasn’t willing to let him get ahead of her, to face danger in his ill state. Her husband was a mountain of a man, as strong as a bull, but he was too ill, in her opinion, to be effective in a fight.

  As she tried to move ahead of him, avoiding being yanked back yet again as they advanced on the distant fire, they could both see that the chamber they were in was divided by a wall. A heavy door, oak-latticed with iron, was half-off its hinges in a doorway shaped like an arch. Indeed, beyond the broken door was another chamber with a fire in the hearth. They peered in through the door, seeing a table, chairs, but little else in the darkness. They didn’t see anyone in the room. Jamison reached out a big fist, rapping softly on the chamber door.

  “Is anyone about?” he asked, trying not to sound sick but firm and in control. “Anyone there?”

  An answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming, and Jamison and Havilland looked at each other curiously. A fire but no man to be warmed by it? Peculiar. As Jamison reached out a hand again to knock, a voice arose in the darkness.

  “Lenore?” a man asked timidly. “Is that you?”

  Jamison and Havilland looked at each other in surprise. “Nay,” Jamison said, peering into the chamber and trying to see where the voice was coming from. “My wife and I are traveling and were caught in the storm. We only seek shelter and a little food. We shall be on our way in the morning. May we stay?”

  There was a very long pause. They could hear the man in the shadows, breathing. Somewhere in the room, a great bird screeched and wings flapped; they could hear it. Startled, Havilland moved just a little closer to her husband. Odd things were afoot in that chamber, things she couldn’t see. She didn’t like it one bit.

  “A polite and gentle tapping upon my chamber door,” a man finally said, disappointment in his voice. “I thought… well, it does not matter what I thought. Mayhap I thought that I had imagined your voices but I can see now that I have visitors. Enter and welcome.”

  He spoke in a heavy Northman accent, something that Havilland didn’t recognize but Jamison, having been born in the Highlands, recognized immediately. A Northman, he thought, not at all pleased with the discovery. His clan and the Northmen had never been allies; his people had, for centuries, fiercely resisted any attempt at Northmen raids or settlements, so he was instantly on his guard to realize that his host was a hated Northman. But his wife had the sword and he reached out, taking it from her even as she looked at him in concern.

  “Show yerself,” Jamison said steadily. “Let me see that ye are sincere in yer welcome and not waiting in the shadows tae ambush us.”

  Their host didn’t hesitate. He came forth from the darkness, swathed in what could only be termed as tatters of furs and wool, wrapped up in a stink so foul that when he moved, a noxious cloud billowed off of him. He was a large man, made larger by his layers of clothing, and stringy gray hair hung all about him, spilling over his shoulders and down his back.

  He was frightening, to say the least. Havilland didn’t like the look of him at all and she tried to take the sword back from Jamison, an instinct to protect herself, but Jamison wouldn’t release it. He simply pulled her to him, trying to position himself so that he was in a protective position.

  Something about their host simply didn’t seem right.

  But the man with the Northman accent held up his hands to show that he wasn’t armed. He moved a little closer in their direction as the fire illuminated him in profile.

  “I am unarmed,” he said. “I do not intend to
harm you. In fact, I should be more worried about you, entering my home with a weapon in hand. Have you come to kill me?”

  Jamison shook his head. “Nay,” he replied. “But a prudent man arms himself in uncertain situations.”

  The host eyed them a moment before finally nodding his head, turning back to his fire. “True enough,” he said. “Come and make yourself comfortable. I will have food brought to you.”

  The words of invitation came again and Havilland looked at Jamison, hesitation in her expression, but he simply took her arm and pulled her with him into the chamber. Still, Havilland could feel the wariness in his big body simply by the way he moved; he usually moved with confidence but at this moment, he was moving slowly, coiled, as if waiting for something to happen. She could tell that he didn’t trust their host but, given their situation, there was little choice. Cautiously, she moved alongside him towards the table their host had indicated.

  The table was broken, propped up on one side with stones where the legs were missing. Even so, it still leaned dangerously and there were two benches butted up against one side of it. The benches didn’t look too sturdy, either, and Jamison pulled one out and tested it with his significant weight before allowing Havilland to sit on it. She did, gingerly, as the host pulled two wooden cups off the mantel and plopped them on the table.

  “Please,” he said, “remove your wet clothing and dry it by the fire. You are dripping all over my floors and even though I do not present a fine home, I should not like to slip on your drippings.”

  Havilland immediately stood up, staggering a little because she was so exhausted, and proceeded to pull off her sopping cloak. Jamison helped his wife remove her drenched clothing, including the gloves and another surcoat she had over a lighter-weight woolen dress. Jamison dutifully shuttled all of it over to the hearth that their host had just stoked, bringing forth an array of flames that brightened up the room.

  All the while, Jamison hacked and coughed, even as he removed his own cloak and outer clothing, nearly everything he could that was wet and uncomfortable. The wet held against his skin, causing him to shiver, which only made his cough worse. He knew he had a fever. Still, he worked silently and efficiently as their host poked at the fire.

  “You are ill,” the host observed.

  Jamison was trying very hard not to cough his lungs up. He didn’t want to show any weakness in front of this odd man. “It will pass,” he said.

  It was clear that Jamison was in no mood for a conversation. More than that, with his cough, it was probably difficult for him to have one. The host watched Jamison lumber back to his wife, who was sitting back on the bench, and pull her to her feet again. He guided the woman over to the fire and encouraged her to warm herself. She did so with reluctance, too close to their host to be of comfort, but the lure of heat was great. She sank to her knees in front of the flames, holding up her cold and chapped hands.

  It was heavenly, this bit of warmth as the storm raged outside. Steam rose up from the damp dress Havilland was wearing as the fire went to work drying her out. Jamison, ever concerned for his wife, even went so far as to unbraid her hair for her, shaking it out so that it would dry in the heat.

  Cascades of dark hair glistened before the fire, which did not go unnoticed by their host. His dark, blood-shot eyes lingered on her beautiful head.

  “You have hair the color of a raven’s wing,” he muttered, causing Jamison to move closer to his wife. “My own wife had blonde hair, like spun gold.”

  Jamison didn’t like the way the man was looking at Havilland. “Where is yer wife?” he asked.

  The host’s gaze lingered on Havilland a moment longer before turning to the flames. “Gone,” he said. Then, he lifted his voice loudly. “Pallas!”

  It was a roar that caused Havilland to jump, startled at the booming voice. She looked at Jamison for reassurance, for comfort, noting that he was looking at their host with a mixture of mistrust and hostility. Jamison was clear in that he didn’t like their host in the least and although Havilland was rather intimidated by the man, she didn’t want their host to find offense in Jamison’s stance and throw them out into the elements. Jamison had a habit of making enemies easily because he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, a very big Scotsman with a very big opinion on most things. Havilland was afraid that this was about to be one of those moments.

  “We are grateful for your hospitality, my lord,” she said politely. “You were correct when you said that my husband is ill; he is quite ill. He has been sick for two weeks. Would it be too much trouble to have some hot wine for him to drink?”

  The host didn’t acknowledge her other than to look at her again. Then he yelled once more. “Pallas!”

  Havilland wasn’t sure who, or what, Pallas was and she was unnerved by the fact that their host didn’t seem willing to be hospitable beyond offering a warm fire. He had ignored her question outright. She was about to ask again on the hot wine, perhaps in a nicer way, when they heard that odd flapping sound again, like bird’s wings, and shuffling could be heard off in the shadows.

  Sword still in hand, Jamison turned defensively towards the sound of the shuffling only to be met by a very old man with a big black bird upon his shoulder. The old man shuffled along the packed earth floor, dressed in the same smelly rags that the host was dressed in. He had long white hair, dirty, and a filthy bandage around his head that covered up one eye. He was nearly as decrepit as the castle he lived in. When the host caught sight of the old man with the raven on his shoulder, he pointed to Havilland and Jamison.

  “Food and wine for our guests, Pallas,” he said. “And prepare a place for them to bed down tonight.”

  Pallas looked at Havilland and Jamison with his one good eye. There was something cold in the depth of his eye, something unsettling and unclear. His mouth worked, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came forth. The bird, however, screeched and flapped its wings. Then, Pallas looked at the host.

  “Nay, m’lord,” he said, finding his tongue. “Not… not… nay, m’lord!”

  The host stiffed in rage. “Bring hot wine and food,” he boomed. “Do it before I throw you to the waves!”

  The old man turned and fled, so quickly that the big raven lost its balance and flew up into the shadows of the room, perching somewhere out of sight. They couldn’t see him but they could hear him. Frightened and upset, Havilland stood up from where she had been kneeling by the fire.

  “Truly, my lord, you needn’t become upset,” she said, brushing the dust off of her knees. “I could just as easily fetch the wine and warm it, if you will only tell me where I can find some. We do not mean to be any trouble.”

  The rage drained from the host’s face. He cooled himself with unusual speed, his expression once again calm. He simply stared at Havilland a moment, his gaze drifting over her dark head.

  “You are my guests,” he said, looking between Havilland and Jamison. “I do not mean that you should fetch your own food. Please, continue to warm yourself by the fire and let us speak. It is rare that I have guests to enjoy. Tell me where you are going.”

  Jamison was increasingly on his guard as Havilland sank to her knees again. He stood next to her, between her and the host, in fact, in case the man should make a move. Truth be told, he would much rather be lying down because his illness made standing more of an effort than he could bear. But this entire situation was vastly strange to him, and growing stranger by the moment, and he wouldn’t show weakness in front of a Northman.

  In front of their very odd host.

  “We are returning tae me home, north of Inverness,” he said after a moment.

  The host was looking at him. “Where did you come from?”

  “Wales.”

  The host nodded faintly. “That is a very long journey.”

  “It ’tis.”

  “How long have you been about?”

  “A little over a month.”

  The host turned his attention to the flames,
seemingly pensive. “I have never traveled further south than Carlisle,” he said. “Through great and rolling hills I have traveled and on great and rolling seas. You know that I was not born here.”

  “I know.”

  The host turned to look at Jamison again as the man stood like a massive sentinel next to his kneeling wife. “Have you come to take this castle back for your kinsmen?” he asked.

  Jamison shook his head at the unexpected question. “I am not,” he said. “Why do ye ask?”

  The host shrugged, weakly. “Because the Scots have been trying for years to reclaim that which we possess,” he said. “They no longer come. I thought mayhap you were a fresh warrior come to claim my fortress.”

  Jamison eyed the man. “I told ye that me wife and I are traveling north,” he said. “Ye truly think that I would be lying? It is just the two of us. I hardly think that constitutes an army.”

  The host snorted softly. “It is just me and my servant,” he said. “I believe it would be a fair statement to say that the two of you could wrest this place from me if you wanted to.”

  Havilland had been listening to the conversation carefully. There seemed to be a good deal of defeat in his tone. “If you were not born here, why can you not go home?” she dared to speak up. “Do you not have kin you can return to if you do not wish to stay?”

  The host’s gaze moved to her. “I have spent more of my life here than in my homeland,” he said. “I came to these shores as a very young man and I served the man that the Scots call the garrison commander. Aidrick the Just, they called him. But my comrades have long since left me. It is just me living within these walls old walls, a sad shadow of what once was. Soon I will be forgotten lore.”

  Havilland was becoming curious about the host. “And Lenore?” she asked. “Was she born in your homeland, too?”

  The host nodded, his features softening somewhat. “The lovely Lenore,” he murmured. “She was strong, my wife. She came with me over the dark seas and we found a new life here, together. A beautiful woman with hair of gold, she was fond of this new world. She made friends with the local Scots even though I told her to remain within the fortress. She would not listen to me. Lenore saw all the word as something to explore and she would wander these shores, dreaming and singing. My lovely, lovely Lenore.”