Courage Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  In the solar, she found her mother. She was sitting alone, a bannock on the plate before her. She frowned and looked up when Rubina came in.

  “Mother?”

  “Daughter. I am surprised to see you so early awake. You need rest.”

  “I have rested enough,” Rubina said, taking out a chair and sitting down lightly on it. She reached for a bannock too, frowning at her mother. Ever since her return, she had felt a gulf between them.

  If I could only tell her about what happened, that gulf would heal. However, she didn't know what her mother would think, how she would view her, if she knew. She couldn't share those memories, couldn't risk them living on every time her mother gazed at her.

  “You should rest more, my daughter,” her mother said, reaching for the butter and cutting off a small piece, buttering a crumbling sector of bannock with it. “You need to sleep.”

  Rubina chuckled mirthlessly. “I'm well. Mother?”

  “Yes, my daughter?”

  “Lord Camden, uh...my husband. He was here earlier?”

  She nodded tranquilly. “He must have been. He's gone back North now.”

  “What?” Rubina stared at her mother. She laid down her knife silently beside her plate.

  “I said he left already, earlier.” her mother said. She looked offended.

  “What?” Rubina said again.

  Without thinking about it, she pushed in her chair and headed, heart thumping, into the hall.

  Thank the Heavens I gave him my tapestry earlier! She sniffed. At least I know he rides with it as a gift from me. May it keep him safe.

  Arms shivering with gooseflesh, though it was not that cold, she headed onto the ramparts.

  “No!”

  There was no sign of any horse, however distant. She could see the gate guards, milling about on the wall far below her. The stables were already busy and if she strained her eyes, she could actually see that Whisper-swift was missing from his stall.

  He had gone.

  “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.” She bit her lip and clenched her hands tight. She was not going to think about it. She was not going to remember. Memory would drive her quite mad.

  He might never return.

  She stared out over the forest. The mist was low over the trees and they emerged one by one out of it, tall gray-clad sentinels in a world turned suddenly cruel.

  The men who had taken her prisoner all those weeks ago flashed back into her mind. Their cruelty, their unthinking barbarism. They would show no quarter to the soldiers, not even to knights.

  “Please,” she murmured under her breath. “Keep him safe.”

  Out there over the forest, dawn was breaking. She could hear the birds start to sing.

  Turning away, unable to bear it, she headed back inside.

  The day presented her with many opportunities to forget her distraction.

  “Come and help us with the tapestry,” her mother said as she passed the turret room on her way to the courtyard. “I'm busy planning a new one for the hall. You're so good at measuring the linen out.”

  Rubina sighed. “Yes, Mother.”

  After the linen was measured, there were a hundred other things that needed doing. Fabrics that must be aired. Silverware to be counted. Her horse to be shod and someone to talk to her to calm her. A visit from Father Brogan, seeking alms. The charitable rounds to the sick cottagers.

  So much to do.

  Rubina threw herself into all her duties with a feverish zeal. She was shaking on her feet, exhausted and weary, when one of the older servants approached her in the hallway.

  “Milady?”

  “What?” she asked. The basket of medicines and fresh eggs hung over her arm, remnants of her trip to the cottager's homes. Some bunches of herbs and a posy of daisies were also there, given in thanks. She looked wearily at the maidservant.

  “Milady, I beg your pardon. But it's Barra. She's taken poorly.”

  She frowned. “How so? Is my mother here?” Barra was the daughter of her mother's lady's maid. They all knew how Frances, the maid, doted on her. They also knew that Lady Amabel was the healer. Rubina was usually sought after only if her mother was otherwise engaged.

  “She is, milady. She's upstairs with his lordship. Please? It's not that she's sick. Not really.”

  Rubina frowned. That sounded bothering.

  “Not really?”

  The maidservant nodded. “She's poorly, just. Please, see her?”

  Rubina nodded. “Of course.” She let the older woman lead her up the stairs toward the topmost rooms, which were used mainly by the servants or for storing things.

  “Barra?”

  She paused in the doorway. Frances was with her daughter, who was pale. She had been crying, because traces of tears were silvery on her face. A lovely girl perhaps five years Rubina's junior, she felt sorry for her instantly.

  “What is it, Barra?” she asked.

  The girl bit her lip. “They don't believe me.”

  Rubina frowned. “Don't believe you?” She noticed the girl looking behind her and turned, noticing Frances there. She inclined her head. “Leave us a moment. Please, Frances? This is best heard by me.”

  The girl shot Rubina a relieved gaze as the two older women left. They were alone in the plain, sparsely furnished place.

  “Right,” Rubina said gently. “Now. Sit down there,” she indicated a stool by the window, “And tell me what's happening here. Who doesn't believe what? Your mother?”

  “Mother and...and...everyone.” She sniffed. “I say it's haunted. But they don't believe me. They won't.”

  Rubina tensed as the girl began to sob again. “It's well, now,” she said gently. “It's well. I believe you. What's haunted?”

  The North turret was sometimes said to be haunted, and sometimes the armory or the brewery. Rubina privately thought there was a logical explanation for all three cases. She herself had never been in any rooms more peaceful and less likely to seem haunted. However, she wasn't about to dismiss another woman's fear.

  “It's the voices, milady. I heard them. I dinnae ken their language. But...” she sniffed. “I do hear them talking. Please, tell them it's true.”

  Rubina felt her stomach tighten, sickening her. “Where? Whose speech?”

  “In the woods,” she sniffed. “I heard it in the woods. In the cottage. The haunted cottage. It's haunted, I do swear it is. Mama doesn't believe me. She said it's merely fancies. Oh!”

  The girl began to sob again. Regardless of her being the servant and Rubina the mistress, she stood and enfolded her in her arms. Rank meant little when someone was sad. As she had found out in reverse.

  “Now, then,” Rubina said when the girl had finished crying. “Show me this place.”

  Barra stared at her. Rubina could see the white of her eyes all round the dark centers. She shook her head.

  “No. Please, milady. I don't mean to...to defy ye. But I cannae.”

  Rubina nodded. “Very well, Barra,” she said gently. “Whatever duties you have that take you near the cottage – collecting mushrooms, I imagine, or flavoring herbs for the stews, or plants – are suspended.”

  The girl's relief was palpable. She smiled up at Rubina in thanks. “Oh! Thank 'ee, milady! Thank 'ee grand.”

  Rubina nodded, swallowing hard. “Well, then,” she said brightly. “Mayhap you can tell me the whereabouts of this place. Then I can have the men investigate it.”

  The girl's eyes blinked. “You'd do that?”

  Rubina nodded grimly. “I would indeed.”

  At the back of her mind was the thought that, if it was not ghostly inhabitants, who was it?

  Some vagabonds or vagrants, come down from the hills, most like. Or refugees from the first skirmishes of war.

  If they were refugees, they can be housed here. If they were vagabonds, best if they were cleared on out of the woods before they started to prey on the innocent of the castle residents.

  “Well, then, mil
ady. I can tell ye that it's in the woods, perhaps fifty paces in from the west tower. Over there by the kitchens. I were there to fetch mushrooms when I heard it.”

  Rubina nodded as the girl shuddered once more.

  “Well, then,” she said. “I will have the men take horses there tomorrow. Never fear.”

  She saw Barra sniff and smile and gently used her handkerchief to wipe away the girl's tears.

  “Thank 'ee, milady!” she said, sniffing, her face radiant with happiness. She curtsied extravagantly as she left the room, looking happier.

  “Not at all,” Rubina murmured. “It's the least I can do.”

  At least being able to combat someone's fears and dread made her feel useful. As well as good. She sighed. It was enough joy and relief - enough to hold away the pain and sorrow, the hollowness of his absence.

  I will need to fill my days with good works, she thought grimly. That might keep my mind of my own sadness.

  She headed downstairs to the great hall. Dinner was there – her father had visitors from court.

  “Mother?” she asked, finding her there overseeing the preparations carefully.

  “Mm?”

  “I think I might need to send some men into the woods tomorrow?”

  “Oh? A problem with the hunting paths?”

  “In a sense,” Rubina said dubiously. She was reluctant to explain more. She felt a little silly expressing her fears to her mother. The cottage in the woods had once been the chief woodsman's. They were far out of the way here in Buccleigh – who would be here?

  It must be vagrants or people fleeing the threat from the south.

  It absolutely couldn't be the English. All the same, Rubina shuddered. It might be them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  IN DANGER

  IN DANGER

  Camden blinked and woke. His head ached. His body ached. Every part of him, in fact, ached. He coughed and spat bile. Someone laughed.

  He smelled of damp, woodlands, and cold. Memory returned.

  “I can't believe it.”

  How was it possible that, not two hundred yards from the castle, he had been captured. It wasn't possible. Yet it must be.

  Voices flowed round him. Camden shut his eyes and tried to discern some of them. Why was he so ill-educated? He wanted to scream at his father. How was he supposed to face English enemies when he couldn't understand them?

  Squinting, he dredged his mind for Lowland Scots words and found them. Those would help – there were some similarities. All the same, the words were largely meaningless to him.

  “Stop,” he said in Lowland Scots.

  The group paused. He frowned. Maybe it was the same word. He shouted it again.

  “Stop!”

  Someone laughed. Something hard hit him on the head from behind and his world turned black and flowing. He shook his head. He was not going to become unconscious.

  “You are English?” he yelled.

  “Hit him,” someone said. They spoke Lowland Scots. Camden wanted to laugh. The only words he understood so far were useless ones. Someone did in fact hit him and the world went dark.

  Next time he woke, he was in a forest clearing. He could see sky. Smell smoke. It was evening.

  “...reckon we kill him.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  Camden sighed. The similarities between the two languages let him understand just enough to let him know they discussed his fate. He wanted to laugh.

  “I agree,” he shouted.

  Someone chuckled.

  “What was that?”

  “He said not to kill him,” the man who spoke Scots explained. He said something else that Camden didn't understand. Then the other man laughed. Said something.

  Camden found himself face-to-face with a cold-eyed, lean-faced man. He shuddered. Those slate colored eyes ate his warmth, draining him from within. He felt a wrongness about them.

  Why do I feel like I know that man?

  He blinked. That made no sense. The man was English. Why would he know him? His addled mind tickled, seeming to want to bring some new information to his notice. However, it hovered on the edge of his awareness and didn't quite reach him.

  “Ask him something,” someone suggested.

  Camden felt someone take his shoulder and haul him round. He found himself looking into a broad, high face. The man had pale hair and wide, blue eyes and a humorless expression.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I'm the king of England,” Camden said. The man spat.

  “Hit him, Ulric.”

  “Fine,” the man said defiantly.

  “No, wait,” another voice said. “Bring him here.”

  The blue-eyed man – Camden knew now his name was Ulric, and that he was the Scots speaker of the group – took his shoulder. Hauled him round.

  “Hey, Jack,” he said. “Have a look at him, then.”

  Camden blinked, trying to see past the sudden dazzle of the firelight. He was looking at the face he'd seen before. The one he thought he recognized.

  “Well?” his Scots-speaker asked. “Know him?”

  Narrow-face spat expressively. “Not really.”

  Camden could see that the man was thinking – his pale eyes were slit in appraisal – and he had the sense that the man, too, knew him from somewhere.

  “Ask him something else.”

  “Fine.” Ulric pulled him round to face himself again.

  Camden wanted to laugh. He had been hit on the head, hard, three times in the last few hours. The first two blows had rendered him unconscious. At the present juncture, it was enough for him to know his own name and that he was in the forest. That he had been riding alone earlier. He remembered precious else.

  Ulric was speaking to him. He squinted, seeing the squarish face blur and re-focus, over and over.

  “Huh?”

  He sighed. “I said where did you come from?”

  Camden laughed. “No idea.”

  Ulric looked at him. “You're lying, wretch,” he spat.

  Camden laughed. This time he noticed someone cross themselves furtively and realized that he was probably being very convincing as a madman. Not a bad idea, that.

  “It's winter!” he yelled, and struggled in the grip of the man who held him. “We'll all freeze! Get in, get in! Before you freeze. Run inside now.”

  He tried to stand and felt Ulric's grip tighten.

  “You're not mad,” he said. “So don't try.”

  Camden let out a long sigh. “Fine,” he said wearily. “Ask me things. How do you think I'm going to remember anything? You hit me on the head!”

  Ulric grinned. He translated for his companions. Camden heard them laugh.

  “I think you remember,” Ulric said vehemently. “I don't know, though. Best thing to do is ask Jack.”

  “Jack.”

  “Yes. He has a bad feeling about you,” Ulric confided.

  Camden laughed. “I have a bad feeling about him.”

  Ulric snorted. “Not the same bad feeling. You're scared. He thinks he remembers you from something.”

  Camden wanted to laugh, but it was too serious. Too peculiar as well. “I think I know Jack too,” he said.

  Ulric snorted eloquently again. This time the sound conveyed arrant disbelief. “How would you?”

  “I don't know,” Camden mused. “I don't remember.”

  Ulric squinted at him. He seemed to decide Camden was truthful, because he shouted something to the other men. Camden felt his shoulder released and then, abruptly, a rope bound his arms.

  “Oh, for...” he rolled his eyes.

  Ulric glared at him. “You think we're born yesterday? Hey? Well, I tell you. We're English and we're here to show you something. You'll wish you never had been born, after it.”

  Some of the other men seemed to get the general idea of the words exchanged, because they chuckled. Camden heard them. He didn't care. One word among all the others stood out absolutely in his mind.

&nb
sp; English.

  These were, as he had suspected, some English scouts.

  English scouts. In the woods. Watching the paths.

  Suddenly, he was back in the woods, fighting a man, then leading other men to an encampment. There was a woman. A man. Dogs too.

  His heart clenched and he felt a cold sweat on his brow. Jack. He had been there. He wasn't the man who had hurt Rubina, but he'd been with him. He was part of the same group.

  And he knows I killed their headman. At least, I set the dogs on him and did not set them off.

  He swallowed hard. If the man recalled his face even slightly, there was a chance he would know him fully. If he knew him fully, there was no way Camden was getting out of here alive.

  It wasn't so much the death that bothered him – though he doubted that these men would be particularly kind in their manner of it. It was also the thought that the woman in the vision – the woman with the clouds of red hair and the pale skin and the big brown eyes – was more important to him than anything. That she was his heart and that, if he died, his chief regret would be that he would not see her again.

  He shook his head to clear it. Memories of her were memories of sadness and of hope. He knew he couldn't remember much – who she was, where he knew her, what her name was – but he did know one thing absolutely.

  He knew he loved her.

  He knew he had to see her again.

  Of all the things in his world, there was little else that mattered quite that much.

  The men who had captured him settled slowly down around the fire. He heard someone laugh, someone relax, the sound of leaf-litter crackling under his weight as he shifted about, getting comfortable against the tree behind. Heard someone open a pack and take out cooking pots.

  It seemed they had decided to let him live. Even, Camden thought, as they handed him a little bread and broth, that they had decided he was useful with his wits intact. Why though?

  At that moment, weary, confused and hungered, he didn't particularly care.

  Only two things mattered. Surviving, and seeing her again. The world was very simple after a blow to the head had made it so. He loved her. He always had. It was so ridiculous that he should come to know it now, in the middle of a forest, when he didn't recall her name.