The Cursed Highlander

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Oh?” He frowned. “In what sense, stuck?”

  She laughed. “A barrel broke,” she explained. “We had to move it first, before we could bring the others up.”

  “Well, it seems you cured our problem fast.” he smiled, saluting her with his own tankard. “My thanks.”

  Joanna beamed. “Thank you.”

  She looked at her hands, feeling her cheeks redden.

  “A fine deed from which, I notice, you do not benefit. Here, have some ale.”

  Joanna smiled as he poured a measure for her from the stone flask before him. She took a tankard gratefully, and sipped it. Clear and dark, slightly bitter and potent, it was their brew-house's best. She resolved to drink it slowly.

  “I was thinking,” Dougal continued, “that when we're all more settled, perhaps next week, it would be fine to take a scouting party into the woods, make new riding paths there.”

  “Oh?” Joanna was instantly interested.

  “Yes. I like a good ride. And we could have hunting parties here, if we clear the paths in the woodlands.”

  “Yes,” Joanna nodded vigorously. “My mother remembers some fine hunting parties from when she was a lass. But we've not had a hunt here for nigh on twenty years.”

  “Oh!” Dougal looked surprised. “Well, then. We should change that. Do you accompany the hunt, my lady?”

  Joanna nodded. “Sometimes.” She laughed. The last time she had ridden on a hunt, she had resolved never to go again.

  He caught the look in her eyes. “What?”

  “It's a story from when I was a girl,” she said, blushing.

  His eyes were on her and they looked interested. “Tell me?”

  She felt her throat tighten. “I couldn't tell it here. Not to you – it's embarrassing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No!” she laughed.

  “Very well,” he said, pulling a sad face. “Well, then. I shall just have to tell you my embarrassing one.”

  “Oh?” Joanna felt her own heart glow with warmth. It would be nice to know a story about him.

  “Well, it was like this. When I was about...maybe thirteen? No. Fourteen. Alexander was twelve. That's right. We went on a hunt with my father. I was terribly excited. I was going to catch the boar, I knew it! Childish fantasy of course – a boy couldn't make a spear-strike strong enough. Anyhow. I was the first to reach the place where it was. Massive thing – would have stood to my shoulder. I was terrified, I tell you. But I waited for the other hunters, without letting my horse bolt. Which was brave, you understand. My father praised me, excessively, though his friend made the strike, of course, and I rode home puffed up with pride. Then Alexander...” he was giggling now, and Joanna felt her own heart dance with mirth.

  “What?”

  “Alexander, he was riding behind me. He took it into his head...no. You'll tease me. I can't tell you.” He looked at his hands, his own face flushed.

  “Tell me,” Joanna said, pretending to be cross.

  He laughed. “Very well. Alexander was behind me. He took it into his head to roar like a boar. I...I leaped into the air – nearly fell off my stallion, I tell you! And my poor horse – he took it into his head to bolt, then. We went sailing out into the woodlands, me clinging on like a tick on the saddle. I was shouting, calling to someone to stop. Eventually, my father caught us. But I was terrified by then. I thought we'd never stop. That I'd be stuck riding 'till we reached the ocean.” he was chuckling. “I all but swore I'd never hunt again. Serves me right for showing off,” he laughed.

  “No,” Joanna said kindly, patting his hand. He looked down at her hand and, slowly, patted hers. She flushed.

  “No?” he asked.

  “You were a boy. It was understandable. Your brother shouldn't have done what he did, to scare you. It wasn't fair.” She pouted.

  Dougal chuckled. “He's like that,” he said fondly. “A little lion. He should have been born older.”

  Joanna shook her head. “You're too kind.”

  “Probably,” he said with a self-deprecating grin. “Anyhow. You tell me your story.”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “Manners will get you everywhere. Very well.”

  Joanna, smiling, told her own story. It was similar to his, it turned out. Her cloak had caught the brambles and she, terrified, had all but fallen off, thinking something was mauling her from behind.

  Dougal grinned at her.

  “So, it seems, we have our own reasons not to hunt?”

  “Yes!” Joanna laughed.

  “Well, we can hold parties. The rest can hunt. Saves one having too many people in the castle.”

  Joanna smiled. It was only a few moments later that she realized that he was speaking of the future as if they would both live here.

  She moved her hand towards his. He covered it with his own. They sat like that, silent, lost in the bitter-sweetness of their love, wishing it would always be like this, that their love could be expressed as it should be and his father would agree to what they wanted.

  Joanna cleared her throat.

  “My lord?”

  “Yes?” he asked, blinking.

  “I suppose we should make a speech or something. Our guests are almost finished with their dinner. Look – Bet's ladies are bringing out the last course.”

  Dougal stared about him, seemingly surprised to find himself in the great hall. “Oh. Yes. Quite so.”

  Joanna smiled. She glanced up guiltily, suddenly remembering the priest, but he had left.

  Dougal grinned at her, then schooled his face to careful neutrality and stood.

  “My lords and ladies. Tenants. Friends,” he began.

  Joanna sat back, listening to him give his speech. He had a fine speaking voice, and was well-schooled in oratory. She enjoyed listening to him. He gave a rousing speech, thanking them all for their support, commending them for their loyalty to Lord Brien, and acknowledging that they had transferred this loyalty to him.

  The last part of the speech was clever, Joanna thought. Had they thought of turning their backs on the agreements Lord Brien had made in his lifetime, they would think twice. Lord Brien, whatever anyone thought of him, was a fine statesman.

  Her great-great uncle had managed the place as if it were his own small kingdom, forging alliances, making treaties, gaining interest of dukes and even some of the monarch's own kin. No, whatever anyone said of Lord Brien, he had been a fine man.

  Joanna sighed and joined the rest of the hall in a toast to Lord Brien's memory.

  As they shouted the words, she felt as if something stirred, a whisper of the air above their heads. Perhaps Lord Brien's soul had truly been adrift, and was now set free to continue on its heavenly journey. She felt a peace descend on her and sensed it flow through the guests in the hall below.

  When Dougal finished and returned to his seat beside her, he looked tired.

  “Well done,” she whispered.

  Her hand touched his gently and he smiled. She smiled back.

  “At least that went off smoothly,” he nodded.

  Joanna smiled. “Indeed.”

  They did not say it, but they both thought it, as the hall stood and people started to say their farewells. Perhaps, now, things could return to normal.

  Later, after they had said farewell to the last guest, Joanna's eyelids dropping over her eyes with weariness, they faced each other alone.

  “Joanna,” he said. His voice was ragged.

  “Dougal.”

  Joanna looked up into the dark pools of his eyes. He looked down into hers. She felt her heart thud.

  His hand stroked the side of her head. She reached up to touch it.

  They did not kiss. However, the glance they shared was just as intimate, as moving as if they had done so.

  “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  When she left the hall, Joanna stared after him, feeling her heart ache with all she felt for him.

&
nbsp; Dougal, she thought sadly. I do not understand any of this. But I think I am falling in love.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DANGER IN THE DARKNESS

  DANGER IN THE DARKNESS

  Dougal, hearing his own footsteps in the darkness, breathed out sharply. Footsteps always sounded louder in the upper hallway. If there was a ghost now, following the wake was the most unlikely time for it to be present.

  Even so, he wished he had gone upstairs earlier instead of lingering in the hall to check everything was set back in order. It was truly dark up here.

  He heard a scuffling noise and jumped, heart pounding in his chest.

  An echo. For heaven's sake, man, stop being so jumpy.

  He shook his head at himself, glad none of his new men-at-arms was there to see him. The unrest was starting to get to him, clearly. He had never been scared of the sound of footsteps before.

  If this wake worked, and this ghost has finally gone, everything might be wonderful.

  The thought made him sigh. He had a home of his own, vast lands, and he had just met a woman he was fast learning to love. His life was as close to perfect as the earth could allow.

  Now surely everything can get back to normal?

  The wake had been held. Lord Brien's ghost had been sent on its way. Who knew, though, if it would reassure them?

  People see things in shadows when they are already scared.

  He thought of himself, too, in that. He was unusually nervous. Someone had forgotten to light the torch at the head of the stairs, and the whole place was pitch black.

  Something scuffled somewhere in the dark corridor up ahead.

  Probably rats.

  He was as bad as the rest of them! If he found the place eerie, he could hardly be surprised that people were leaving by the handful. Although, it was eerie. His own shadow loomed ahead, thrown onto the wall by the light of the candle. It would have been easy, at this hour, in this darkness, to believe in ghosts.

  He sighed. The lower hallway had its arched windows that let in starlight even in the darkest hour of night. Here there was no light besides what a person carried with them.

  “Trust me to get the bedroom right at the end,” Dougal grumbled. His own voice was reassuring in the darkness. After the wake, the ale, and the eating, he was sleepy, too. Just getting up to the uppermost floor was tiring. The long, cold march to the last bedroom, in the dark, was an added annoyance. He stopped to catch his breath, hand cupped to shield the flame he carried from any breezes. He was almost at his chamber. Not too long now, before he could sink into a warm and comfortable bedchamber.

  Footsteps.

  This time, they really were someone else's. Dougal was sure of it. He himself wasn't moving.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Who goes there?”

  Feet ran towards him. Flame flashed on silver. Then a searing pain sawed through him from a blow high on his arm. Dougal shouted. He was unarmed.

  He lashed out with his fist, and at the same time grabbed with his other hand, trying to halt the man who had already twisted away, a shadow moving in darker shadows.

  They grappled. Dougal gripped the man's sleeve, finally gaining a hold. The man raised the knife again.

  “Guards!” Dougal shouted, and brought his knee up at the same time.

  The man gasped in pain and the blade slid sideways, grazing down across Dougal's torso where it would have stabbed him. The pain was a dull ache, forgotten in the moment's urgency.

  “Guards!” Dougal roared. He had the man's shoulder in his grasp, and he let him struggle, then abruptly let go, letting the man's weight carry him forward against the wall.

  The man fell, but scrambled to his feet. He set off at a run.

  Dougal ran after him, shouting.

  “Shame on you! Scoundrel! Stop!”

  The pain in his shoulder was starting to grow, a throbbing ache that made him hiss. However, he could not stop. He had to catch that man!

  The man reached the head of the stairs as the guards did. They grabbed him.

  Dougal, blood sheeting down his front and his left arm, stopped at the arched door, panting. He held his hand to his shoulder, feeling the warm stickiness of blood.

  “Sir?” the first guard shouted.

  “Stop that!” The second yelled, striking at the man whose shirt he had in his grasp.

  Dougal winced, frowning to clear his head. He was tired. So tired. He just wanted to stop...

  His legs collapsed from under him. He fell to kneeling, feeling his head clouding with tiredness as he did so.

  “Sir!” The first guard exclaimed, sounding horrified.

  “Take the man downstairs,” Dougal commanded. He grunted, and then drew himself to his height, clawing his way along the wall for support.

  “Yes, sir,” the first guard said.

  “Sir, you need a physician,” the second man said, frowning.

  “I need a bandage and a lie down,” Dougal countered acidly. “Take him downstairs and wait for me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Both men headed off smartly. Dougal stayed where he was a moment, holding the balustrade for support.

  He heard footsteps behind him. These were soft, slight, and hesitant.

  “Dougal?”

  He turned round, feeling a sudden flush of pleasure. “Joanna!” he said gently. “It is...good to see you.” He winced.

  Joanna was there, anxious frown suddenly replaced by a wide grin. “Good?”

  He nodded, and then leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.

  “Dougal! What...” Joanna frowned. She had a lamp and raised it. “You're bleeding!”

  “Yes. A lot, actually. Could you...” he coughed, “help me to my room?”

  “Of course,” Joanna said briskly. “Lean on me.”

  Dougal leaned on her, an arm around her shoulders. At any other time, he would have been transported with wonder, being this close to her. He could smell a spicy scent in her hair, and the floral sweetness of something she used to scent her clothes. He could feel her warm body.

  Right now, though, he could barely manage to squeeze her fingers with his hand.

  “I regret...meeting...in such...a way,” he said weakly. He gave a chuckle.

  “Let's get you sitting down,” Joanna said. Her voice was brisk and businesslike. Dougal was relieved to have her to command him. He sat down on the bed.

  “Thanks,” he said gruffly.

  “Don't be,” Joanna said briskly. “Or at least, wait until I've got this off. It'll hurt.”

  She lit a lamp at the grate. The bright light flared, showing him his face in the mirror. It looked haggard. It also showed him a slick dark mess on the sleeve of his tunic, high up near the shoulder. The other wound was lower down on his chest. He looked down on it, suddenly worried.

  “Joanna. This...”

  “Yes, it's a mess,” Joanna said firmly. “Not fatal, though. Or you wouldn't be sitting talking to me, would you?”

  He smiled. He felt lightheaded, and knew he had already lost a lot of blood. “No,” he agreed.

  “Right. So. If you'll let me, I'm afraid I must disrobe you.”

  “Oh.” He felt a soft smile drift across his face. She saw it and grinned.

  “And you can get that look off your face, Dougal Blackheath.” She laughed. “It's my obligation as a physician. Nothing more.”

  “Yes, physician.”

  She scowled at him, though her eyes shone. Then she tugged his tunic over his head.

  It did hurt. A lot.

  “Ow!”

  She frowned, a look of focused concentration. “Well, then. What we have here on your arm is a bit worse than the one on your front...”

  She had taken the liberty of cutting a piece out of the linen coverlet, and now, with a small frown, she began to wind it round the gash in his arm. He twisted to see, wincing as he saw the depth of it, the black blood welling up in the tattered gap.

  “Nasty, but if we keep it c
lean, I think you'll mend,” Joanna said. She wound the strip tight, and then frowned. “I should tie the ends to a broomstick and twist it properly.”

  “What?” Dougal laughed in disbelief.

  “It's a well-known method of fastening a bandage, you skeptically-minded man,” she said archly. As it was, she seemed to decide it was tight enough, and moved her attentions to the cut on his chest.

  “There,” she said, holding another piece of linen over it firmly. “You press that on. Tightly, mind you.”

  “Ow,” Dougal said, laughing with the almost funny aspect of some pains. Joanna had taken a seat on the bed opposite him. She smiled, but she was very pale. When he looked more closely, he noticed that she was shaking.

  “Joanna?”

  “I'm sorry,” she said in an almost whisper. “I'm just very tired. I...”

  As he watched, she covered her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Feeling like a brute, he shuffled forward and, very gently, his other hand still on his chest wound, embraced her with his right arm.

  She sat very still.

  “Oh, Dougal,” she said. She turned and laid her head on his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. The tears on her face were silvery in firelight. Dougal leaned across and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  She went very still. Her breath shook.

  “We can't,” she said softly. She looked up at him, her gray eyes very sad. “We won't be able to wed, will we?”

  Dougal said nothing. He had no idea. He closed his eyes, too, for a moment, the pain in his heart making the ache in his wounds suddenly trivial.

  “I don't know.”

  She sighed. “I wish we...” she stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me?”

  She made a small sound, somewhere between laughing and sobbing. “Oh, you infuriating...”

  He smiled. “Tell me.” His fingers touched her jaw, raising her face toward his again.

  She looked at the beams where they ran across the roof. “I wish we could leave,” she said in a small voice. “Go far away. Just choose for ourselves, for once.”

  She laughed. It wasn't a merry laugh.

  Dougal sighed. “I know,” he said. He shifted on the bed, turned to face her. Took her hands in his hands. “My dear,” he said, more sincere than he had ever felt. “If I could, I would forget all of this. Walk away. Just be with you. All I want from life is in your arms.”