by Pam Binder
In a dark corner Angus was already playing a solitary game of chess. Lachlan walked over to him.
“Chess is a game best played with two.”
His friend kept his head bent over the ivory pieces. “This way I always win. Rooms to accommodate all those you have brought with you are secured. It took a heavy purse, but the deed is done.” He paused. “My informants tell me that Subedei passed this way no more men a few days ago.”
Lachlan drew out a rough bench and set his tankard down on the table. A memory of the funeral fire that consumed the bodies of his father, brothers, and sisters before they were admitted to their watery grave blurred his vision. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Where did Subedei take residence?”
“At the inn on Doomsdale road.”
“The street leading to the gallows on Castle Hill. ‘Tis a fit place for my enemy.”
Angus picked up the knight. “This game grows tiresome as does the wait for Subedei. There is much at stake. Why does he wait so long?”
“I suspect he uses the time to hire as many mercenaries as he can before he attempts to storm Urquhart by land. Subedei was ill-prepared when last he attempted to take the castle. He will not make the same mistake twice. Spread the word that I shall double any purse Subedei offers.“
“It will be done. Do you think we shall become like the Mongol and your father: killing in order to feel alive?”
Lachlan tensed. The thought had come to his mind many times as well.
A few men at the bar began to clap to an ageless tune as the serving woman danced around and around to the lively rhythm. One by one those in the tavern joined in, shouting, laughing and stomping their feet. The sound vibrated through the tavern. He took a drink. The ale had lost its flavor and the tavern noises faded as events from a not-so-distant past flooded his mind.
The image of a small village in China, in the year 1500, filled his vision. He could hear the sound of metal striking metal. The smell of burning incense permeated the air beyond the garden walls of Subedei’s residence. Here, laws did not apply.
In the courtyard two men were fighting. Subedei’s head was shaved clean, his chest was bare, and he wore the loose-fitting trousers of the Mongols. The opponent was dressed similarly, but was a smaller man in both size and strength. Lachlan, an invited guest, watched them follow a series of steps, thrusts and parries calculated to penetrate the other’s defense.
Although Subedei was quicker to deflect any advance, and swifter still to attack, there was no urgency to the interchange, no passion, no violence. The sound of their blades rang through the enclosure and surged through Lachlan like the blood through his veins. The muscles in his arms tightened. He focused on the two who battled before him. It would be over soon. His turn would be next.
Subedei glanced briefly in his direction, and Lachlan felt the fingers of death curl around his soul. A smile creased Subedei’s normally expressionless face, before he turned his attention back to the man he fought. Something was wrong. Lachlan sensed the change. What had begun as a friendly diversion to fill the hours of the day had turned ominous. In less time than it took to draw blade from scabbard a laugh tore from the Mongol’s throat. Subedei knocked his opponent’s weapon to the ground and impaled his victim with his sword. Pulling his blade free, he pushed the man to the ground and turned toward Lachlan.
Subedei’s smile was predatory as he wiped the dying man’s blood from his blade. “Death is an elixir. There is no power that is equal to it.”
The smell of blood filled Lachlan’s senses and his heart thundered in his chest. He could feel his strength build until a red haze clouded his vision. A single purpose lay before him. Kill.
A scream shattered the insanity that held Lachlan prisoner. He saw the man Subedei had wounded choke on his own blood, and reach out toward him. The effort drained the last of what was left of the man’s life. His eyes remained open as his hand dropped to the battle-stained ground. Lachlan backed away, trying to push the sound of the man’s screams from his mind.
Subedei had killed for no other reason than the pleasure of it and Lachlan was about to do the same. He had to get away from this madness before it consumed him. His father had only to hold a sword in his hand, and the need to kill would overwhelm all reason; killing, for its own sake, regardless of who crossed his path. Toward the end, the castle dungeons had been filled with those who died a slow and torturous death at the hands of his father. No one was safe, even his own wife and children feared him when he held a sword; and for good reason.
While Lachlan stood watching the death scene before him, the blade in his hand grew heavy. It seemed to possess its own strength. It took all his will to force the sword into its scabbard.
“I will not fight you. I have no cause to battle to the death.”
Subedei shrugged and bowed slightly toward him. “One day you may have.” He smiled. “You stood absorbed in the battle I fought. Savoring each moment as it sped by, until death filled the air. I saw the look in your eyes. You were mad with the fever that affects a few of our kind. Treat it not as a curse, Lachlan, but relish it, embrace it. Let it grow within you.”
Lachlan clenched his fists. “We are not the same, you and I.”
Subedei laughed as he sheathed his sword. “True. I know what I am. Join me and together we could bring the world to its knees.”
Raucous laughter and the clanking of tankards brought him back to the present. The sound of Angus’ voice interrupted his thoughts and pulled him from the dark memories that had begun to haunt both his days and his nights. But, as always, he could not shake the feeling that had come over him when he saw Subedei plunge his sword into the man’s chest. Lachlan had enjoyed watching the man die. No, it was more than that. He needed to see the man die. And his only regret was that it had not been his sword that had dealt the killing blow. That was the madness and the curse of his people. It had been the same for his father, who had killed one of his own sons to satisfy his unquenchable thirst. His stomach churned and the taste of bile filled his mouth.
“Lachlan.”
He raised his head and looked at Angus. There was a worried expression on his friend’s face. “Lachlan, has the dream returned?”
“Aye.”
Angus nodded slowly. “You are not your father.”
Lachlan was not so sure. For some time he had felt powerless to fight the blood lust that had consumed his father and Subedei. Words of the legend floated through his mind like a soothing balm: Through the mist-shrouded waters of an enchanted sea, the Guardian will be summoned. The seasons will alter their natural course, the barriers of time will be broken, and a woman, with hair of burnished gold, will be -pulled from the depths of Loch Ness.
If it were true, and Amber were indeed the woman mentioned, he might be spared. But he knew not how she could reverse the effects of what he believed had already infected his blood.
He raised his tankard and took a drink of the cool ale. “What think you of the legend of the Lady of the Loch?”
Angus shrugged. “I believe the ancients created the story to offer false hope. Our path is predestined. Those who believe otherwise are fools. Why is it that you ask?”
His friend’s words rang clear with their logic.
“ ‘Tis only the appearance of Amber in Loch Ness and warm weather in October. I but wondered at the coincidence.”
“That is all it is, laddie.”
Lachlan felt a dark gloom settle over him. “Aye.” He motioned for his friend to follow him toward the door.
Angus put his hand on Lachlan’s shoulder. “Believe me when I say you are not your father. The insanity will pass you by.”
Lachlan took a deep breath. “I pray it will be as you say.”
Bright sunlight greeted him as he stepped into the narrow street. The notes of a fiddle in a nearby alley bounced off the stone building. The sound began as soft as a breeze, but the urgent tempo increased with each sweep of the man’s bow, until the tune was a fra
ntic blur. Instead of the music soothing him, it called to his mind the face of the man Subedei had killed. A boy’s shout could be heard above the din. Thomas. So, the lad was still here. With his enemy on the march, it would be more merciful to leave Thomas in Inverness. At least here he had a chance for survival. At Urquhart, if Subedei’s mercenaries prevailed, the lad would be cut down with the rest of the castle’s inhabitants.
Angus nudged him in the ribs. “You cannot be glum on such a warm afternoon. You are in need of a distraction, before your expression grows as dark as the depths of the loch. The games have started. This time you will not be the only Highlander to best all challengers. I intend to enter as well.”
Lachlan allowed his friend to guide him toward the center of the celebrations, but he could not shake the dark foreboding that claimed him. There was a difference between his father and himself. There had to be.
The midday sun seemed to shimmer off the bolts of silk, brocade, and velvet rolled and stacked on tables. The goods were crowded together with others being hawked by the merchants. Amber wove through the crush of people whose conversations hummed like bees around a honeycomb. There were booths filled with cinnamon sticks, ostrich feathers, vegetables, fresh breads, pastries, and ready-made clothes. It was the marketplace she’d been told existed when Inverness was an important trading city. Behind her was the bridge over the River Ness and on the hill was Inverness Castle. By her calculations she was standing on the spot where the Town House would be one day.
Four dirt-smudged boys raced past her, laughing and pushing each other in their excitement to reach one of the tables piled high with sweets. She smiled. The warm sun felt good against her face. The mood of the children was infectious.
She could hear the fast pace of a fiddler’s music. The people around her appeared to be heading in the direction of the sound. She allowed herself to be buoyed forward on a wave of people dressed in faded tartans and worn dresses. Their faces were bright with anticipation. Conversations mixed with the laughter of small children as the young ones darted through the crowd toward the center of the clearing.
The easy laughter of the townspeople turned to whispers as the soft notes of a flute rose in the air to add its music to that of the fiddle. The crowds formed a semicircle around a crate-sized box covered in black velvet on three sides and resting on pole-like stilts.
The side that faced the audience was open, exposing painted castle turrets and a meadow in the background. Ribbons, the colors of a rainbow, shimmered from the corners and fluttered in the warm breeze. It was the Punch-and-Judy show she’d seen earlier. Amber paused, breathing in the excitement drenched moment, wanting to hold it as she did her breath. She noticed Lachlan standing on the perimeter of the crowd. His expression reflected the anticipation she felt. He seemed content to enjoy the entertainment alone. She started toward him, but at that moment the crowd surged forward again.
A trumpet sounded. A man dressed as a court jester in yellow and purple satin announced the play was about to begin. It was like the time she’d been on a roller-coaster ride at the amusement park. All the people had screamed, laughed, and shut their eyes. They’d shared a combination of anticipation and exhilaration. Amber noticed Elaenor working her way through the crowd. When the young woman stood beside Amber she nudged her.
“Having a good time?”
Elaenor smiled.
The man beat slowly on a drum, increasing the tempo until the air seemed to vibrate around them. He came to an abrupt stop. As he did two hand puppets popped into view. One was dressed as a king, the other a knight. Their faces were painted in vivid colors, their noses long and exaggerated. Each took a bow and then they began to chase each other around the stage, engaging in mock fights to resounding cheers.
Amber leaned closer with the crowd toward the performance. The puppet that was dressed like King Henry VIII stabbed the knight over and over. The regal figure faced them. “He will not die. He will not die.” The puppet appeared more frustrated than surprised. The tale reminded her of one her aunt used to talk about. This was probably where the legend had started, with the imagination of a skilled storyteller and the enthusiastic response of his audience.
The violence of the scene seemed surreal when acted out by the puppets and reminded her of the Road Runner cartoons. She felt herself being caught up in the make-believe world that was created. The shrill words of the puppet and the laughter surrounding the performance echoed over the grass fields. She found herself joining in until her sides ached. It felt wonderful.
Amber felt someone touch her on the shoulder. She turned. Lachlan’s expression, a somber contrast to the rest of the people, hit her like a cold shower.
He leaned closer. “I would talk with you.”
“Okay, I think it’s almost over.” She turned back to the performance, trying to concentrate on what the puppets were saying. Something about living forever.
“I would speak with you, now.”
Elaenor poked her in the ribs and whispered. “Remember your promise?”
Amber felt a twinge of guilt. She looked at Lachlan. “What did you want to talk about? Any chance my horse ran away?”
He shook his head, putting his hand on her waist as he guided her from tike crowd. Amber decided that tall men in kilts did not have a sense of humor, after all.
She followed him to a table heaped with breads and fruit pastries. Behind her the crowd roared. Turning she saw water being thrown on those nearest the stage.
Lachlan handed the round-faced woman behind the mound of pastries a coin and picked up a juicy turnover. He nodded toward the Punch-and-Judy show. “It is the story of Jonah and the Whale.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad you saved me from that performance. It would be terrible if I had too much fun at the festival.”
She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but actually it felt pretty good to voice her disappointment. He probably didn’t understand the concept of sarcasm, anyway.
He shrugged and took a bite of his dessert. “The performance will repeat itself on the morrow.”
She could smell fruit, sugar and flour. If she couldn’t watch the performance, she could at least eat. She held out her hand, palm up. “How about a loan?”
He raised his eyebrow.
This was embarrassing. Her attempt at humor had failed miserably and she was still faced with the dilemma of having no money, something she hated. The last time she remembered asking anyone for money was when she was sixteen. Dependency on a man was irritating. If she ever returned to the twentieth century, and her students talked about how wonderfully romantic the middle ages were, she’d flunk them.
She cleared her throat and decide to swallow her pride. After all, there weren’t a lot of job opportunities in this century. “Could I have money to buy a pie?” Ugh, that sounded awkward.
He hesitated, and then removed a leather pouch from his belt and handed it to her. “I was thoughtless.
You are in need of coin and I should have remembered. This is yours; spend it however you see fit. More will be available to you whenever you desire it.“ He nodded to the woman. ”Sara’s pies are the best in the Highlands.“
It was as though he had sensed her embarrassment. But she still couldn’t shake the uneasiness she felt at taking his money. She put her hand on his arm. “It’s hard for me. I don’t want you to feel obligated to give me things.”
He smiled. “What is the difficulty? You are my betrothed. It is my responsibility to see that you have all you desire.”
A vision of the oversized bed in her room entered her thoughts uninvited. Her face warmed considerably. She reminded herself that the arrangement was in name only, but the image remained. Amber could feel the muscles on his arms tense beneath her fingers and wondered if he was having the same thoughts. She decided that touching him was probably not such a good idea and backed away.
“As I was saying. If I thought I earned the money, it would be easier to take it. I’m Gavin’s school
master. What if you paid me a certain amount each month?” She was babbling out of control and hoped he hadn’t noticed.
His eyes crinkled in a smile. “Agreed.”
Okay, so he had noticed. She reached for one of the pies. It was warm and stuffed with some kind of red berry. She licked the crumbs from her finger. “By the way, how did the first Punch-and-Judy story end?”
“It is of no consequence. The motioneers and minstrels keep the legend of an immortal clan alive. The tale is best forgotten.”
“Personally, I believe in unicorns, mermaids and…” She stopped herself from saying “men from outer space” and took a bite of the pastry instead.
Lachlan finished his pie. “Myths are for children. The more the legend of the immortal knight is told, the more people will think of it as based in truth.”
“No, they won’t. Not really. People just like to dream.”
She had tried to bury her dreams, but they were still there, just waiting for the time when they were needed. Lachlan was too serious and wound tighter than the grandfather clock in her aunt’s front room. It was as though he consciously tried to put barriers up around himself. She leaned forward.
“Without the fantasies, life is sometimes too real. There has to be some fantasy or legend you believe in.”
He straightened and his expression darkened. “Even if what you say is true, believing in it would change nothing.” He dusted the crumbs from his hands and headed toward two men who wrestled to the cheers of a small crowd of people.
Amber watched him walk slowly away. She doubted he took time to notice rainbows or the first flowers of spring. Those things had not been important to her… until now. The juice from the pastry oozed through her fingers. She thought of an idea. A longstanding tradition of graduating seniors came to mind. It was hard to look on the doom-and-gloom side of life when food was flying through the air.
