by Kris Tualla
He hugged her close and tried to reconcile the fecund and womanly form in his arms with the gangly eleven-year-old he last saw.
Maggie pushed herself away from him. She looked up, her wet cheeks shining and mottled. Her brow gathered. Her hands fisted. Her lips pressed together until they lost all color.
And then she walloped him.
Drew saw it coming. But he didn’t deflect the blow. Whether he truly deserved it was debatable in his mind, but probably not in hers. His face stung and he wiggled his jaw back into alignment.
“Ye bastard!” Maggie screeched. Her fists pummeled his chest with startling strength and rapidity. “How could ye just leave? I hate ye!”
Drew thought it best not to argue with the berserk pregnant woman. He stepped backward, but Maggie followed, continuing her loud and bruising abuses.
“Ye selfish ass! I hate ye! I hate ye! I hate ye!”
Something needed doing. “Margaret Helen!” Drew barked and grabbed her wrists. “Enough!”
“Enough?” she yelped, her arms tensed against his grip. “We did no’ ken where ye were! Or even if ye yet lived!”
Maggie tried to pull her wrists from Drew’s grasp, but he held tight. “Will ye stop beating on me?” he growled.
She stilled. Her eyes blazed angrily. “Ye deserve far more than I can give ye!”
Drew jerked a nod. “Ye may be right at that.”
He felt her arms relax a bit at his conciliatory words. He loosened his fingers and she pulled her arms down to her sides. Her eyes traveled slowly over him from hair to heels, evaluating him for the first time.
“Ye got bigger,” she observed.
He pointed at her belly. “Ye got married.”
Maggie’s hands moved over her womb. “Aye.”
“Did ye marry well?” Drew asked.
“I married the stable master.”
He frowned at that. The Drummonds were a proud and ancient family, and noble marriages were expected. Maggie spoke before he could ask aught. “No one else would have me.”
Drew attributed that to the only debacle he knew of. “After the Death, then?”
“No…” She shook her head and gazed up at him as if he was a simpleton. “After the things that happened that day.”
Drew kent well which day she referred to. “Is he a good husband?” he asked to change the direction of their words.
“Aye. And the best horse breeder in Scotland.” Maggie turned and crossed to a small table. She rang a little brass bell that rested there. “There’s too much more to be asked and heard than can be accomplished standing here. Are ye alone?”
Drew waved toward the front of the manor. “My man is outside with our horses.”
The steward who let Drew in walked into the Hall. Maggie spoke quietly to him for a few moments then sent him off on his assignment. Drew watched his little sister, now so composed and ladylike. So thoroughly grown into womanhood. Competent and in control.
She returned to stand before him, and he needed to ask the question that had his innards twisted. “Is Da here?”
She shook her head. “Plague.”
Drew didn’t feel even the slightest guilt when relief sagged through his body. Facing the murderer was what kept him away all these years. If his father had even hinted that Danny deserved his fate, Drew would have drawn his sword and beheaded the man before the words evaporated in the air.
Expecting the same answer, he asked, “And Mother?”
A deep sadness washed over Maggie then, a reaction missing when Drew asked about their father. “She hasn’t been right since that day. Something broke in her mind.”
Drew was confused. “She’s alive, yet?”
“Her body is,” Maggie said cryptically. “Tomorrow, I’ll take ye to see her.”
“Aye…” he exhaled.
“You’ll be meeting Marcas at supper, and I’ll tell ye all that’s transpired since ye left us. Until then make yourself comfortable.” Maggie walked toward the Hall door and Drew followed. “I can no’ give ye your old room. My two boys stay there now.”
“This is yer third child?” Drew asked, shocked that he was already an uncle unaware.
“Fifth.” She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “But I think it’s twins. Again.”
Drew walked the grounds of the Drummond estate for what remained of that frigid afternoon. He examined the state of the outbuildings, the stores of hay and grains, the meat in the smokehouse. The manor house itself looked solid, though fifteen winters had done their best to stain the stones and loosen the slate shingles. He avoided the stables, preferring to meet his brother-in-law later, on neutral ground.
In the fenced yard beside the family’s little chapel, Drew found his father’s grave. He was unhappy to see him buried next to Danny. Was that to torment his brother throughout eternity? Or had the man—Drew refused to call him ‘father’ in his mind—repented of his rash actions, before the Black Death gave him the miserable ending he deserved?
When he followed Maggie up the stairs earlier, he was introduced to his nephews and niece: the twin boys Ceard and Cauley had eight years, Quinn had five. Apparently they always spent the bulk of their days crawling around in the stables with their father, even as toddlers. The only girl, Beathas, was two. She stared up at Drew with enormous blue eyes, her thumb plugged busily into her mouth.
“Marcas was named after the Roman god of fertility,” Maggie grumbled. She rested a palm over her belly and smoothed Beathas’ bright orange curls. Her loving actions belied her ironic tone. “But they are all a blessing after so much dying…”
“So none of ye were touched?” Drew asked.
Maggie looked at him oddly again, as though he lacked intelligence. “Da.”
Of course.
Now he stepped over that grave and pulled a weed from Danny’s winter-brown plot.
“I pray ye are at peace, brother,” he whispered. He rested his hand on the ice-cold stone. The day blew softly, expelling the breath it had been holding and sending a chill up Drew’s cloak. More than fifteen years later, he still deeply missed his older sibling.
Eryn worked her way into his thoughts then. She had no siblings. She never kent her mother and—until he returned with the letter from Norway—had not the slightest knowledge of her father. Drew still didn’t understand why she was so angry with him; but standing on his lands he felt the grief of her isolation. Might it be that which made her hard?
Drew wandered back toward the house, thinking to wash and change his clothes before supper. He had to consider what he would say to Maggie about the estate. This was Drew’s property after all, as the oldest surviving male. But Maggie was the one who stayed on and kept it running.
Walking across the frozen expanse of dead brown yard, he wondered if he should simply leave.
Supper was served an hour after the early winter sunset.
Marcas stood when Drew entered the dining hall. His shock of red hair was expected after meeting little Beathas, but his height was not. Drew had to look up to meet his bright blue eyes.
“Welcome, brother,” Marcas said. He extended his hand.
Drew clasped Marcas’ forearm. He chose his greeting carefully; he wasn’t a guest here and he didn’t wish to sound like one. “It’s good to meet ye.”
“Sit and eat afore the food grows cold,” Maggie admonished.
Drew sat on Marcas’ right. Maggie was on her husband’s left and faced Drew over the platters of food. If victuals were a true indication, the Drummond estate was in good hands.
As soon as the blessing was said, Maggie began her inquisition. “Where did ye go? That day ye left?”
Drew saw no reason to be contrary; there was much at stake and remaining civil would ease the path for all of them. “Stirling Castle. I became a squire to the knights and entered training.”
“How old were ye?” Marcas asked.
It occurred to Drew then that n
o one spoke of him once he left. That idea halted him for a moment. Maggie said they didn’t know if he yet lived—had they acted like he died? Or had they shunned his memory? The pain which his own actions caused his family began to grow in his understanding; both of their sons were lost that day.
“Fourteen,” he said, pulling his attention back to the meal. “And I became a knight at eighteen.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “So quickly?”
“I was big and strong and skilled. And I was determined.” He thought it best not to mention his lack of family connections—and their resultant loyalties—at that point in his life.
“Our steward said ye called yerself a courtier and ye were here on behalf of the king.” Marcas carefully cut his venison before he looked up. “What is yer business, specifically?”
Drew took a long draught from his wine goblet before he spoke. “Ye’ll ken that King David was taken prisoner and locked in the Tower, aye?”
Marcas glanced at Maggie. “Aye.”
“And he’s been there for eight years thus far. He was there throughout the Death.” Drew paused to let them absorb the obvious information. “So two years ago he set me on the task of assessing Scotland in the aftermath.”
“All of Scotland?” Maggie looked skeptical. “Ye have been traveling through all of Scotland?”
Drew pinned her with his sternest knightly stare. “Aye. I have.”
“Well, ye did no’ come here!” she snapped.
“I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Is that why ye’ve come? To ‘assess’ us?” Anger and hurt argued over her features.
“No!” Drew barked. “I came because it was time.”
Her chin lifted and he saw himself in her defiance. “Past time, I’d say.”
“Ye do no’ ken what I have been through these past years, sister. Do no’ judge me,” he growled.
“And whose fault is that, then?” she countered.
Drew’s fist hit the table with such force that his empty goblet fell over. “Do ye wish me to ‘assess’ ye, then? Do ye wish me to press the issue of whose estate this truly is?”
Maggie paled at that. Her hand flew to her throat.
“I’ve come as yer brother. I’ve come to mend the rift.” Drew’s jaw clenched, and then loosened. “I understand that ye are angry with me… I can no’ fault ye for that.”
Marcas reached over and laid his hand over Maggie’s. Her livid eyes shifted to his, her jaw still set.
“Hear him out, love,” Marcas murmured. “Think of the bairns.”
Drew watched, thoroughly fascinated, as the fury seeped from Maggie’ countenance. She nodded, but did not look at Drew. Her gaze fell to her shrinking lap.
“I made a choice out of anger and grief when I was but fourteen. In case ye are no’ aware, adolescents are no’ always wise,” he grumbled. “But they can be very stubborn.”
One corner of Maggie’s mouth twitched. “Aye,” she whispered.
“And once choices are made, directions are shifted. Paths must be followed.” Drew watched his sister carefully. Did she understand anything about him? Or was she too young to remember aught about the man he was destined to be?
“We do no’ always have a say,” he concluded.
Marcas leaned over and set Drew’s goblet aright. Then he lifted the pitcher of wine and refilled the pewter cup.
“We are glad to have ye here, Lord Andrew,” he said, his calming tone sincere. “We are glad ye are safe, hearty, and doing so well for yerself.”
“Thank ye.” Drew lifted the filled goblet. “To ye, Marcas, to my sister Maggie, and to my three nephews and niece.”
Maggie looked at him then. Drew added, “And to safe deliverance of the new ones.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She lifted her own cup just enough that it hovered over the tabletop. “Thank ye.”
Marcas raised his goblet high. “To family.”
As the three of them drank the toast, Drew could not help but think of Eryn and—in spite of his familiar surroundings—how empty he felt without her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Did ye never marry?” Maggie ventured. She swiped her tears away and focused on her plate.
That question stabbed Drew in the sorest of spots; he felt as if he truly bled. “No. No’ yet.”
Maggie’s head popped up. “Yet?”
Drew schooled his expression into line. “I hope to, some day. How did your marriage come about?”
Maggie blushed and looked adoringly at Marcas. “He came to work here about a month—after. Da needed the help, ye ken?”
“When ye were but eleven?” Drew asked. He turned to Marcas. “And how old were ye?”
“Seventeen. But I already kent horses well. I had been studying breeding techniques for all of my life,” he answered.
“What’s your family?”
“Stuart.”
“But ye had no lands of yer own?”
“No.” No other explanation was offered.
“Have ye considered that ye might, now the plague is past?” Drew suggested.
Marcas shrugged. “I did no’ feel the need.”
“Marcas took our name,” Maggie said warily. “He is Laird Marcas Stuart Drummond.”
“I see.” Even in my own family. He wagged his head in defeat. “When did ye marry?”
“When I turned sixteen,” Maggie said. “I lost a bairn when I was seventeen—it came too early. But the boys came when I was nineteen, and they have no’ stopped coming since.”
Marcas blushed this time. “She’s a bonny mither to the weans.”
“I am happy for ye, Maggie. And for ye, Marcas.” Drew hoped he sounded sincere and his own longing didn’t temper his tone.
“Thank ye,” they replied in tandem.
“So… on the subject of mothers,” Drew probed.
Maggie’s expression saddened again. “Ye’ll be wanting to know about ours.”
“Aye.”
Maggie leaned into his gaze. “Ye must hear what I must say. But I do no’ want it all to rest on ye, do ye ken? Because it was no’ yer actions alone that broke her.”
Drew nodded his apprehension. “Aye.”
She leaned back. “One day, our mither lost her eldest son. And he was kilt by her husband. Can ye even imagine such a thing?”
“No. No’ then, and no’ now,” Drew murmured.
“How could she forgive the man she loved for slaying her firstborn? And a son?” A visible shiver shook through her. “She lost them both with one vicious swing of his hand.”
“I was there,” he whispered.
“And then, her other son disappeared without a word.”
Guilt pounded fiercely in Drew’s chest. If any of what Maggie said had ever occurred to him, he silenced the tale with swordplay. Or ale. Or whores. Before the Death, that was. Since the dying began, he concentrated on staying alive.
“I could no’ stay, or I would end up killing him,” he said softly. “I lost my whole family that day as well.”
Maggie tilted her head. “I always imagined that ye got away free.”
Drew snorted. “As free as a penniless orphan.”
“I had no’ considered your circumstance,” she admitted.
“Where is our mother now?” He had not seen any trace of her in the manor.
“She stays in a croft in the woods, where she can no’ see the house.”
“She gets unsettled and confused when she does. We think it’s then that she remembers,” Marcas explained.
“So we provided her a maid and a manservant to see to her needs, and we leave her in peace.” Maggie paused, then added, “Ye should be warned, she calls him Danny.”
“Oh, Lord,” Drew groaned. “Does she ken who ye are?”
“Aye, and Marcas as well, which is odd. We guess that he arrived afore she broke completely. But she does no’ ever remember that we are married.”
“And she’s never seen the children,” Marcus said.
“The twins know of her, but we are afeared of what might happen to her if she saw any of them.”
“And when Da died?” Drew asked.
Maggie gave him a resolute grimace. “She grew hysterical when I tried to tell her, saying she did no’ ken the man.”
“It’s probably just as well,” Drew conceded. “Do ye think she will know me?”
Maggie and Marcas exchanged worried glances.
“Best be prepared for anything,” she cautioned.
February 7, 1355
The old woman by the fire bore no resemblance to Drew’s recollection of his mother. Last he saw her, she was tall and sturdy. She had shriveled, like fruit does in the sun; drying and wrinkling, halving in size. Her hands worked constantly in her lap, useless in their mindless industry.
She looked up, curious, when Maggie entered the croft.
“Hello, Mither.”
“Maggie. Ye are getting so big, child,” the woman said. Her voice was stronger than Drew expected. Some of her sturdiness remained.
“I have brought ye a visitor.” She stepped aside and motioned Drew forward. “Do ye ken who he is?”
The eyes narrowed. Her gaze moved over his frame. They rested on his face. “He’s so big.”
“Who, Mither?” Maggie pressed.
She tipped her head to the side. “Drew.”
“Do ye know me, Mother?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “But ye remind me of a son I lost.”
Maggie looked up at him. “It’s the best ye’ll get. At least she’s no’ screaming at ye.”
Drew knelt in front of her chair. He smiled gently. “If I find him, is there aught I can say to him on your behalf?”
Maggie shook his shoulder, but he ignored her. Something in his mother’s demeanor told him he might get an answer.
“Aye. Tell him it’s safe to come home now. I loved him best, ye ken. He was always my favorite…” The words faded as her head turned toward the fire.
