The Highland Hero (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “She's...she's not herself at the moment. And she's angry with me. I feel it. And she wants to go off alone somewhere. For a pilgrimage, she says. I don't know...” he shook his head. He didn't like it. He was sure Duncan understood him. He was proved right a moment later, when he nodded.

  “She's been ill?” Duncan asked slowly.

  Blaine bit his lip. “Not as far as I know,” he said quietly. “I don't know if the pilgrimage is for her, or someone else, or...” he sighed, not wanting to say anything more, lest he guessed what he was suggesting there and was angry with him again.

  “You could ask her,” Duncan said gently. “Trust,” he added.

  “Sorry?” Blaine asked.

  “Trust. If you don't trust each other, you won't get far.”

  Blaine bit his lip, knowing it was true. “True,” he said.

  “Indeed. So,” Duncan sighed. “What I propose is that you take the morning off – after you've got that lot through some rudimentary archery tutorship – and go and find your lady. Take her on a ride in the woods. Take whatever you need from the kitchens to make her feel spoiled. Ask her what is going on. You'll certain be surprised by what you find out.”

  “Thanks, brother,” Blaine sighed. He felt as if Duncan was a brother sometimes, a wise, older brother, the sort he could have done with on many occasions in his life, he realized.

  “Of course,” Duncan grinned. “And thank you.”

  “Thank me?” Blaine was surprised.

  “For your concern. About Alina. I appreciate it. Truly I do. I just...” he sighed, a harsh out breath that made it clear how tormented he actually was. “It's so hard, Blaine. She's so ill, and I...I don't know what to do. Nothing I do can help her and...and it feels like it's my fault. I don't know why, it just does.” He covered his face, his elbows planted on the rail over the colonnade.

  Blaine sighed. He did not know what ailed Alina, but he was sure Duncan was not the cause. He patted his shoulder.

  “Listen, Duncan. It's not your fault,” he sighed. “All blaming yourself is going to do is make it impossible for you to see what's really happening. I know. Trust me.”

  Duncan blinked. They were silent for quite some time. Down in the courtyard, the men took turns taking swings at a straw sack on a pole. Blaine winced as he heard good blades grate on wood and decided he had to tell them a few things about caring for their blades.

  “Blaine?”

  “Mm?”

  “You know, sometimes I wonder where you come from. That was insightful. Truly. You are right.”

  Blaine blinked at him, and then grinned. “Dunno,” he said fondly. “Just my innate natural intelligence, sir.”

  Duncan blinked at him, a huge grin splitting his face.

  “Listen, you scoundrel! I'll not have you getting ahead of yourself...” he was still smiling, shaking his head, laughing. Blaine laughed too. “So. We're going down there and you can see if you can take me on with swords. Best of three strikes.”

  “Challenge accepted.”

  “And we can see if your innate intelligence can keep you upright against Silversteel,” he said, tapping his blade where it hung in the scabbard behind him.

  “Silversteel, eh?” Blaine said, brow raised.

  “What?”

  “Right silly name for a blade, that, I reckon.”

  “We'll see about that!” Duncan said hotly. “Silly name she might have, but her bite's as nasty as your sword's, whatever daft name you gave it.”

  Blaine grinned. “Rule number one: never fight angry. So you said to your men yesterday. Forgetful?”

  Duncan groaned and clenched his teeth, then swung his hand at Blaine's head. Blaine ducked.

  “I'll see you in the practice ground,” he shouted, racing towards the stairs.

  Duncan laughed and raced along behind him, the two of them like boys as they pelted to the practice ground, racing to be the first on the lines, where they could choose their position – facing the sun or with their backs to it, the place of great advantage.

  They fought, first with swords. Blaine won, if by a hand's breadth of steel. Then they wrestled. Duncan won, proving, as he said, the advantage of a few years' age and being tall. They raced to the stables, to the bemusement of their guardsmen, who were waiting for their own training to begin

  Blaine enjoyed the morning but, he found sadly, it did little to thaw the ice in his heart. Chrissie was angry with him and she was going away without a clear reason, and there was nothing he could do.

  Wincing, rolling his shoulder from where Duncan had hit it hard with his blade and then again, later, in the wrestling, he limped towards the kitchens to follow his friend's advice.

  Perhaps all Chrissie needed was time to herself, to think. Think and trust. To trust him and to know he trusted her. It was worth a try.

  They went riding. Chrissie was coolly courteous.

  “The hills look pretty, don't they?” Blaine asked, reaching for some topic – anything – to break the frosty silence that had grown between them.

  “Very pretty,” Chrissie agreed quietly.

  They were riding side by side, he on his new battle-mount and her on her horse. She wore yellow brocade and her hair was in blue ribbons, the scent of roses reaching him even here where he rode beside her. He breathed in, feeling like a man on the wrong side of the gates of some enchanted place.

  “Chrissie?”

  “Yes?”

  She turned to face him, blue eyes guileless. She was so beautiful, he thought wistfully, like a carving, or a figurine of porcelain in a church somewhere. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her everywhere.

  “I'm sorry,” he sighed.

  “Don't be,” she said quietly. “You were in your rights to say that.” Her voice was tight.

  “In my rights..? Chrissie!” he protested. “You know we're not like that. You know I would never think of you like that.”

  “You did,” she said in a small voice. “Oh, look! Is that Joanna and her nurse there?” She pointed to where a woman and a child walked on the grassy hillside. Blaine bit his lip as she rode towards the pair. She was willfully avoiding him, still angry.

  He waited while Chrissie dismounted, sharing kind words with the nurse and lifting the child, laughing merrily, into the air. She looked so well thus, he thought. Chrissie would be a lovely mother.

  “Oh, there you are,” she said lightly. She came back to her horse a few minutes later. Blaine had dismounted and held both the bridles, waiting for her to return. He had raided the kitchens for cold ham and all the things he knew she liked best, packed into a bag tied to his saddle.

  “Chrissie,” he said urgently. “Could we...”

  “I think perhaps we should return now,” she said, her voice casual. “I told Gylas that I'd spend some time with the child before her bedtime. And I'm a little tired myself, now that I think of it.”

  Blaine swallowed hard. “But, Chrissie! You said we could go riding!” he said, frustrated. “Now you're changing your mind again...”

  Chrissie looked hard at him. “As you are my husband, I suppose I should obey you,” she said quietly. She looked at the ground and then up at him. Her eyes were sapphires, cold and hard. He felt something in his chest wither.

  “We should go back to the house,” he said, his voice bitter.

  “Very well,” Chrissie agreed.

  They rode back in silence with nothing resolved, and when they were in their chamber, she ignored him as well.

  That night, when he came up to bed later than her, he found her already tucked beneath the covers.

  “I think I will leave for my journey in the morning,” she said in a small voice.

  Blaine felt his heart sink.

  “As you wish, dear,” he said.

  The bed was very wide, he found, when she had her back to him. He could take up as much room as he liked. He rolled up on his side, his heart aching, and tried, valiantly, to find some rest.

  That morning, sh
e woke early and he did, too, hoping to be able to make some reconciliation. She summoned Ambeal and dressed, then packed some gowns. He dressed himself and, wretchedly, waited to see if she would say something, anything, to bring them solace.

  “Goodbye, dear,” she said at the door. Her eyes met his briefly, then slid quickly away.

  “Goodbye,” he whispered.

  She turned very quickly and hurried from the room, leaving him standing behind her, bereft, his fingers gripping the lintel. He did not think he had ever felt so lost.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  NEWS NOT TOLD

  NEWS NOT TOLD

  “Lady Chrissie?”

  Chrissie groaned. Opened sleep-weary eyes and tried to remember where she was. Memory filtered through to her slowly. She was in the carriage, heading to Lochlann. She must have fallen asleep sometime during the ride: she had slept badly the previous night.

  “Milady?”

  “Yes?” she asked Ambeal, her maid, who sat opposite in the coach.

  “Milady, we're almost there.”

  “Oh!” Chrissie blinked in surprise. She had not known she had slept for that long. She sighed. Stretching, she looked out of the window and saw that Ambeal was quite right – they were facing the bare, wind-scoured slope topped with the gray edifice of Lochlann.

  “I'm sorry to have to wake you, milady.”

  Chrissie smiled. She was distracted and miserable, it was true. However, she had no quarrel with Ambeal.

  “It is well. I should be awake. I'll need to get out soon, and I should make myself presentable.”

  Ambeal smiled. “You look lovely, milady.”

  Chrissie rolled her eyes ironically. She felt terrible and she was sure she likely looked as bad – her head ached, her belly was sore, and she felt wretched.

  “We've about two minutes before we arrive. If you could pass me...”

  She didn't get the rest of the words out. They went over a bump in the coach and her stomach twisted painfully, making her retch.

  “Milady!” Her maidservant looked horrified, and Chrissie gulped, trying not to be sick. Her stomach was not about to co-operate now, however, and she beat on the partition to ask Sam, the coachman, to stop. She was quietly sick out of the door. Then she leaned back in the chair, panting and exhausted by the efforts of being sick.

  “Milady!” Ambeal said again, reaching over and patting her hand. “Are you well?”

  “Yes,” Chrissie groaned. “At least, I think so...”

  She leaned back, closing her eyes. Her whole body was sore and she felt nauseous. Was it something she ate? They partook of the same meal the previous night at the White Gate Inn, so it wasn't possible, or she would be sick, too. Was it simply lack of sleep?

  “Milady, you should be in bed,” Ambeal said, patting her hand.

  “I hope to be soon,” Chrissie agreed, smiling weakly. She wished she could do more – after all, she was here to try and help Alina. However, she was clearly ill herself.

  They reached the gates, and Ambeal climbed down first and then helped Chrissie inside. The moment she crossed the threshold into the great hall, she felt her legs giving way.

  “Adair!” her maid snapped at one of the guardsmen – a serious-looking man Chrissie vaguely remembered – “we need help to carry Lady Chrissie upstairs.”

  Chrissie sighed and accepted their help. Soon she was upstairs in the bedchamber she once had shared with Alina.

  Home. It was an odd feeling. She and Blaine had been away for perhaps a fortnight, mayhap less. However, now it seemed as if the place was strange to her, a foreign country into which she had never stepped. It had changed while she was gone, had become colder, more remote. She could not believe her footsteps had once echoed on the stairs, her laugh once filled this cold, sepulchral chamber.

  “Milady?”

  “Yes?” Chrissie asked weakly. She was lying back in bed, propped up on the pillows. Ambeal came in carrying a tray.

  “Milady, Cook sent up some gruel for you. You should try to eat. Keep up your strength.”

  “Yes,” Chrissie said in a small voice. She let Ambeal set the broth down on a table by her side and lifted the spoon to show willing, though even the scent of it tugged at her stomach, making the nausea rise once again. What was wrong with her? She felt as weak as a newborn. This was frustrating!

  Later, Chrissie closed her eyes, trying to sleep. Ambeal was somewhere in the castle, no doubt chatting to her friends, left behind when she followed her lady to Dunkeld. Downstairs, far away, Chrissie could hear the clatter of weapons in the yard, and, somewhere, someone drawing water at the well. The sounds were familiar and comforting, the sounds of home.

  It is good to be back.

  Being here made her notice how things had become strained between her and Blaine. The move to Dunkeld, and the added responsibilities, had changed him. He was not the cheeky, life-loving man she had married, and nor was she the carefree, happy girl.

  I have lived through many things.

  The thought brought with it a chilling one. I was violated by that man. I am feeling sick now. Is it possible that...

  Was it possible that she bore his child?

  Her mind stopped, refusing to consider that. It was not possible. It couldn't be! But...but it was a month ago, and she should have her courses.

  It was not possible. She would not let it be possible. She couldn't be pregnant. Not by him. No. That was unthinkable. She could not let her mind accept that thought. It could not be.

  “It could be Blaine,” she said to herself. Why not? They had only been married just over a week, but no one said it was impossible to conceive in the first week of a union. It seemed unlikely, but maybe it could be. She needed to know. There was only one person who could tell her for certain. That was Aunt Aili.

  Sitting up in bed, stiff with resolve, Chrissie decided she had to go and see her aunt now. Before she was too nervous to hear the truth, whatever it might be. She was here for Alina, and she would find out about her, too. However, she needed to know this, for herself.

  Chrissie slipped out of bed and gathered up her new cream linen gown from the trunk. She fumbled with the buttons, struggling into it alone and unaided. Then she rinsed her face, checked her hair in the battered mirror over the nightstand and hurried from the room.

  The east wing was still Aunt Aili's domain. Chrissie hated coming here. She had visited only once before, when Alina persuaded her to do so, taking a basket of fresh blackcurrants as a surprise.

  “Aunt Aili?” she called, reaching the door. She hesitated to knock, for some odd reason always feeling as if something dire would happen. A chill wind hissed down the hallway, rustling her skirts. The place was like a tomb. Chrissie shivered.

  “Enter.”

  She jumped as the commanding voice filled the hallway. Bit her lip and took the door handle. The door swung open as she touched it. Closed again behind her. She was inside.

  “Chrissie! Well! A surprise. What brings my dear niece here to visit?”

  The sweet tones of Aunt Aili's voice were nothing like the death knell one heard from outside. Chrissie shivered, recalling her earlier fears. She waited a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden change in place.

  Inside was, as she recalled suddenly from her last visit, nothing like without. Here, the place was furnace warm, bathed in light from torches in sconces, lamps, and a big fire. The walls were clad with tapestries and the floor covered with precious Oriental rugs – Heaven alone knew where Aili had found them, but she had. The place was warm, merry, and glowing with life.

  “Aunt!” she beamed. The woman who crossed the floor was, as always, shorter than Chrissie remembered her – she had such stature and authority that one did not recall her natural compact frame.

  “Chrissie,” Aili said kindly. She kissed her cheek, patted her hand. “You're freezing! Come, sit by the fire. Where it's warm. Stella!”

  “Yes?” The smiling face of the maidservant who had
worked here since as long as anyone could recall, appeared in the doorway. She winked at Chrissie as if her appearance there was nothing unusual. Chrissie shivered, wondering if the woman shared something of Aili's uncanny powers.

  “What does a person need to do to get a drink of some warm broth around here? Are we barbarians, that we leave our guests so unfurnished?” she opined.

  Stella grinned and disappeared into the nether reaches of the apartments. Chrissie smiled and followed Aili to the table.

  “Now, lass,” Aili said, facing her. “You're worried. You came here with a question. One for you, and one for her. Yes?”

  Chrissie swallowed. The best part, or perhaps the most disconcerting, of consulting Aili was that she always knew what you wanted to ask, before you asked it. She swallowed and began.

  “I wanted to ask you about...”

  “Here we are!”

  Stella had appeared with broth and a plate of some bread which smelled richly of spices. Chrissie felt her mouth water and noticed, surprised, that she felt well. The nausea of earlier had vanished. She thanked her aunt and reached eagerly for a slice.

  “Well, then,” Aili said, swallowing some broth. “Now that we're furnished with some refreshments, tell me what is worrying you.”

  “I came here for Alina,” Chrissie confided. “She's ill.”

  “That one!” Aili said, with exasperated fondness. “I know.” Her face was grave. “Tell her she'll no' get well if she keeps all that anger inside. All her grief. And tell her to drink black broth. Twice a day. And eat what's green. She's in sore need of fresh foods.”

  Chrissie nodded, feeling her nausea recur at the thought of black broth, a stew made primarily of blood from the slaughter-house. Glad it was not on her prescription, Chrissie made a mental note to pass it on. Then she sat back in her chair, feeling suddenly nervous. Now it was her turn.

  “You want to ask for yourself?” Aili asked, taking a sip of broth from the bowl.

  “Yes,” Chrissie nodded, swallowing her mouthful of spiced bread.

  “Well, then. Ask.”

  “Aunt, I was feeling very sick today, and I've been out of sorts lately, and I think...I wonder...if...” She could not even bring herself to say it. It was so horrible, so shaming. She could not voice it. Not here. Not yet.