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Maiden of Inverness

Page 14

by Arnette Lamb

She did not hear; the nightmare had her in its grip. “Mother, please! William, where are you!” She grew frantic again. “Robert, help me! William!”

  She called out for her brothers, men Revas knew, men he had wenched with and later faced in battle. Although older than Meridene, they had been youths at the time she’d been taken away and unable to help her. Did they mourn the loss of the sister as much as they despaired the loss of the Maiden of Inverness? He suspected they had put the event behind them, while Meridene was forced to live it again and again.

  She’d been only eight and still in the nursery. Would that those men could see her now and witness the cruelty their father’s lust for power had wrought.

  “Oh, please, someone help me!”

  A tear trickled down Revas’s cheek, and his soul ached for her. No wonder she hated Scotland and everyone in it; they had banished her to England with only demons for companions. “I’m here, Meridene. No one will hurt you. No one will take you away.”

  Praise God, she grew still. But in the next moment she drew up her knees and curled into a ball. She felt small in his arms, too small to carry so great a burden of fear.

  He heard another voice crying quietly. Serena stood beside the bed, a candle wavering unsteadily in one hand, a tankard in the other. “Oh, Revas. How awful for her.”

  His own throat was thick with sorrow, and he managed a quiet “Aye.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ll protect her with my life.”

  She put the tankard on the table by the bed. “What else can I do?”

  “Stand at the door and let no one enter.”

  He saw her leave, but his attention was focused on the woman in his arms. He thought of his daughter and the times he had comforted her—when she’d lost her front teeth, when her puppy had broken a leg. But Gibby’s life, aside from a few slights regarding her bastardy, had been a May Fair compared to Meridene’s.

  The weight of his responsibility pressed in on Revas. The law gave him the right and the duty to claim his wife, even against her will. Morally, he questioned his decision. She had good cause to despise Scotland and its people, yet he had good reason to change her mind.

  But how much of his determination stemmed from ambition? The better portion, he was forced to admit, and at times like this, he wished he had taken up his father’s occupation. As a butcher, he wouldn’t worry about alliances between clans, about Scottish unity, about the safety of those in his keeping.

  What if dear Meridene had refused to drink from that poisoned cup so long ago? Left here with Revas, she surely would have grown to love the people and cherish the legend that was her destiny.

  Don’t fret over a dull blade. Sharpen it, his father had often said.

  How much more Scottish blood would be spilled before Cutberth Macgillivray yielded the sword of Chapling and joined the Community of the Realm? Revas hadn’t a guess; only the woman in his arms could make it so.

  But how could she when ambitious men ruled her days, and demons ravaged her nights? How could he help her when she thought him the blackest villain of all?

  Sometime later she slipped into restful sleep. Revas unfolded her arms and legs, and holding her against his chest, pulled up the covers.

  She’d feel ashamed when she awakened and found him here. What would she say, and how could he reply?

  CHAPTER

  8

  A pounding head awakened Meridene. Her joints ached, as if she’d been beaten, and her sleeping gown felt damp.

  The nightmare.

  Limp with exhaustion, she stared up at the scenic canopy. Faint light seeped through the closed bed hangings. The tapestry overhead depicted a family of roe deer in a moonlit clearing. Angels hovered in the starry sky.

  No guardian angel watched over Meridene Macgillivray.

  The maudlin thought disgusted her. She had survived the dream again, and with less damage than on some occasions. No scratches irritated her skin, and her jaw did not cramp. She hadn’t even kicked off the covers. Yet her head throbbed and her eyes burned with dryness.

  Rolling onto her side, she parted the drape, but closed it immediately when a shaft of sunlight blinded her. What time was it? She felt as if she’d slept for days. Where was Ellen? Lisabeth? Serena?

  Had Revas again sent them on errands?

  Revas. He governed her actions, but more and more, he occupied her thoughts. She couldn’t pass one hour to the next without thinking of him. His distinctive smell seemed to linger with her even now.

  On that ridiculous notion, she threw back the covers and sat on the side of the bed. A tankard rested on the lamp table. Ellen’s thoughtfulness, no doubt.

  She needed more guidance than the others, Revas had said.

  Will you swoon at my feet? he had asked.

  Will you sing? she had replied.

  Will you faff in love with me?

  Like lifelong companions, they traded quips and discussed servants, but beneath the friendly banter lay unspoken demands and silent refusals.

  Dismayed, Meridene took a drink and almost choked. It was ale, of the kind Revas had drunk yesterday. She had smelled the pleasant honey aroma on his breath. The taste was deceptively refreshing, and she now understood why he had cautioned Summerlad about partaking too much of the spirit.

  But how had the tankard come to be here—beside her bed? He must have left it yesterday afternoon, and in the excitement of Randolph Macqueen’s arrival, Ellen had overlooked it.

  As she dressed, Meridene counted off the day’s tasks. She must meet with Sim to approve his tally of the household account. Using some of the money Revas had given her, she would buy another loom and thread for the new tapestry. She would also order a bridal chest for Serena.

  Meridene would be gone by the time the girl spoke her vows. Willingly, for Serena wanted Summerlad. No political agenda dictated their love and guided their future.

  Meridene had attended only one wedding: her own, and it had been a lonely, sad day. But later, when the pain of exile had eased, she found freedom in England. She would have it again.

  The Leslie lad had left for the Vatican. Randolph Macqueen would take her message to Sister Margaret. Help was on the way.

  On the desk she found a note from Serena.

  Lisabeth and I are spreading the word of the handmaiden’s drawing on Saturday. Ellen plays shadow to Randolph M.

  In the dining hall, Meridene heard Ellen’s voice. Looking through the hearth and into the common room, she saw the girl perched atop the table. Randolph Macqueen sat on a bench nearby. He wore spurs, chain mail, and his battle sword. His traveling bag and tartan cape rested on the floor at his feet.

  Ellen turned pleading eyes to him. “Is it true that you were chained in an enemy’s dungeon, beaten, and starving for the sight of your beloved? And Elizabeth Gordon braved great peril to rescue you. Does her love for you know no earthly bounds?”

  “Aye, lass. Only her service to the king delays our vows.”

  Ellen wilted in a fake swoon. “I knew ’twas true. Lost love found is so very romantic.”

  Meridene walked through the hearth. “As I’m sure you will discover in five or six years, Ellen. Now bid Lord Randolph farewell and fetch the tankard Revas left by my bed.”

  Ellen’s eyes bulged. “Revas came to your bed last night!”

  “Of course not. He left it there yesterday afternoon.”

  “In the light of day!” Ellen squeaked.

  Randolph choked back laughter and twisted his war bracelets.

  He had played the gallant last night. Today he’d lost his charm. Meridene glowered at him. “You know precisely what I meant.”

  “Aye,” he said. “Revas will keep to the letter of the Covenant.”

  The tenets of the Maiden dictated that she must be a virgin to demand the sword of Chapling from her father. Everyone knew Revas wanted her only for the power she could gain him. They certainly weren’t timid in voicing their opinions, either.

  B
etter that, she thought, than rumors about him visiting her bed. “Ellen, you are to tell no one where you found the tankard.”

  “I swear. I will tell everyone he worships you from afar.”

  “Should you tell anyone my business, I will order you to count the peas in the pantry.”

  Her country-fresh face contorted into a fearful frown. “I will speak only of trivialities.”

  “Then you may work on the tapestry if you like.”

  “Thank you.” She dashed through the hearth and down the hall.

  Meridene turned to Randolph. “My thanks to you for offering to deliver my message to Sister Margaret.”

  “I did not offer. Revas asked me to do it. I shall tell the good sister that you are hale and happy. Although I doubt ’tis true.”

  Meridene stepped back. “Have you been gossiping about me?”

  “Nay. I watched you with Revas last night.” He scratched his thick black beard. “Women are usually more attentive to the man who united the Highlands and will one day wear the crown.”

  Of course they were. Twenty women. Twenty-one, were anyone counting. “Let him boast where he may, but he cannot claim the title, for he hasn’t the sword of Chapling.”

  “Get it for him. ’Tis your duty to the people of the Highlands.”

  “Duty. Have you a duty to me?”

  “Aye. To protect the Maiden of Inverness with my life.”

  “The Maiden is no more, but you may take my message to Drummond Macqueen.” Bother the clans and the Macqueens. None of them knew her well enough to judge her reasons for avoiding Scottish affairs. “Tell your brother that if ill comes of my sojourn in Scotland, the sin rests with him.”

  “With Drummond?”

  “Yes. He told Revas where to find me.”

  He pointed to the shields on the wall. “As would any of those Highlanders did they come by the knowledge. Old Edward had no right to take the Maiden from us.”

  She recognized his loyalty; a woman’s desires were subject to the concerns of men. “I will not be a pawn in your wars.”

  His expression stiff with consternation, he moved closer. “Then your namesake should have wed a Dane instead of a Scotsman. That would have saved us centuries’ worth of meddling Maidens of Inverness!”

  “How dare you!”

  “Because this is my homeland. You are the Maiden of our time, Meridene Macgillivray. Although we should have expected as little from the loins of your sire.”

  A chill passed through Meridene at the mention of her father.

  “Ask her pardon, Randolph.” Garbed in chain mail and war boots, his sword belt slung over his shoulder, Revas stepped through the hearth. He carried a heavy sack. “She’s not to blame for her father’s ill deeds.”

  Randolph stared at the wall, his face tight with anger. “Ill deeds? Putting Nairn to the torch again is foul beyond that. ’Tis the blackest of sins.”

  “Aye, but your anger stems not from my beloved, but from your own, estranged as you are from the Lady Elizabeth.”

  As quickly, Randolph’s anger fled. “You speak the truth, my friend.” He smiled at Meridene. “I meant no offense to you, Maiden. Too much of my own brew and a Gordon woman are to blame.”

  “Those things,” Revas said, “and ignoring your own advice. I told you Meridene was too clever for you—especially since you are straining at the bit to say your wedding vows.”

  Her father had attacked a village with families; yet these men chatted about personal matters. She looked from one to the other. “When was Nairn set afire?”

  “ ’Twas at the close of Vespers last,” Revas said. “The city was well armed and manned, so all was not lost.”

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  His calm expression told her no more than his silence. “You will not retaliate?” she said.

  He handed Randolph the sack. “Montfichet has prepared a feast for your journey to Fairhope Tower. Give my best to Lord Drummond, and tell Lady Clare we wish her a swift and successful delivery. Now, if you both will excuse me.”

  She didn’t know this distracted, stern Revas Macduff. “Where are you going?”

  “To take provisions to Nairn.”

  “You’re leaving her here?” Randolph said.

  Revas paused at the hearth. “Much as I’d like to take my wife with me, the accommodations will be lacking.”

  Randolph put down the sack. “I’ll stay until you return.”

  Revas looked pointedly at his friend. “Thank you, but ’tis not necessary. Brodie and Summerlad will be here, as well as a company of Forbes.”

  They discussed her protection, but spoke as if she were a child to be tended. And kept uninformed. “Does my father come? Does he know that I am here?”

  “The gates of Auldcairn Castle are open to one and all. People come and go at will. Tis possible that someone has told him you have come home,” said Revas. “But I assure you he visits his evil closer to his own.”

  Pray God he stayed there until she could flee Scotland. “When will you return?”

  Irony tinged his smile. “So soon that I doubt you will even miss me. But if I do not return tonight, Summerlad will escort you to table.”

  Each of her childhood excursions had included an armed guard. Soldiers had even followed her and her mother to church. But her father always had enemies at the gate. “Why must I have Summerlad for a guard?”

  “I had hoped you would keep an eye on him. Not the other way ’round.”

  The lighthearted comment sounded forced. He was leaving, and suddenly she wanted him to stay. Impossible. His absence would afford her freedom. He was privy to the state of affairs in Scotland, and if he thought her safe, why should she worry? She would not. “Have a care on your journey, Revas.”

  He smiled. “I shall, Meridene.”

  He spoke her name with ease, as if they were boon companions or something more. Too aware of herself, she stared at the kettle simmering on the hearth fire.

  “I’ll ride with you to Elgin’s End.” Randolph moved to Revas’s side. “Farewell, Lady Meridene.”

  “To you,” she murmured, struggling to get her mind off Revas’s departure.

  She walked to the window and watched them mount. Revas rode a dappled gray warhorse, his shield and helmet fastened to the saddle. Macpherson, the Grant lad, and several others flanked him. At least a score of mounted soldiers followed. Behind them, three overburdened wagons rumbled down the lane.

  At the gate, he drew rein and hailed Summerlad Macqueen, who patrolled the wall. The youth raced down the steps and halted beside Revas. Leaning in the saddle, he spoke briefly.

  Summerlad straightened, and Meridene could almost hear him say, “Aye, sir.”

  Bracing his hand on the horse’s rump, Revas turned back to the castle. His gaze moved to the window where Meridene stood. He nodded, smiling, then kicked the horse into motion.

  How had he known she watched him? Did he now trust her? Curiosity drove her to his chamber, which she found unlocked. The Covenant rested on the pedestal, and like a siren, the book called to her. She found her place and turned the page.

  I am Margaret, the first Maiden of that name, and the last, I fear, to wear the crown of rowans.

  Spellbound, Meridene read the account of a woman who had borne six healthy sons and three daughters, all with hair as pale as sunbeams. At eight and twenty, Margaret despaired of conceiving a dark-haired girl to carry on the legend.

  Superstition dictated Margaret’s every move. The priest counseled her to wear only black. The chambermaid anointed her mattress with salt water. The midwife advised against conceiving again at her advanced age. When she did blossom with child, King William’s surgeon ordered her hair shorn and the black tresses placed in the awaiting cradle. The cook dusted her food with soot from the hearth.

  At the hour her labor began, Margaret was moved to the dungeon so that no light would taint the coloring of her child.

  She died in that dark place, a sm
ile on her face, a raven-haired daughter in her arms.

  Her husband had been so aggrieved that he had ordered the felling of every rowan tree in sight.

  I am Angus, he had written in the book, and I loved well the Maiden Margaret. Would it bring her back, I would gladly cast the sword of Chapling into the sea.

  Heartbroken and confused, Meridene closed the book. She’d read no more stories of women who gave their lives for a legend. Not when her father waged war a few hours’ ride away.

  She thought of her own older siblings. Like her father, they were fair. Had her mother prayed for a dark-haired girl during those births? By turning to the last page, Meridene could read her mother’s account. But she preferred to read the entries in the order they were written. In light of the great sacrifices revealed thus far in the book, anticipation was a small concession.

  And she had to admit that she rather liked seeing the story unfold in stages. She knew she would open the book again, but not today.

  Other concerns intruded, and as she went in search of Sim, Meridene questioned whether Revas told the truth when he said he was going to Nairn. What if he was now planning a siege of her father’s castle? He rode north toward the port city of Elgin’s End, not west to Kilbarton Castle, her father’s home. Once out of sight, Revas could easily change directions.

  What if her father slew him in battle? The answer made her tremble, for she would be returned to Kilbarton Castle and married to the man of her father’s choosing.

  As she made her way down the lane to the carpenter’s shop, she couldn’t stop wondering if Revas had ridden into danger. What would become of these people should ill befall him?

  She surveyed the castle wall and counted only ten guards on patrol. The gates stood open. In the tiltyard, Brodie observed the swordplay of Summerlad and one of the lanky Macphersons.

  If her father posed a threat, no one here took it seriously.

  Neither would she. She had business in the village, and she’d dallied too long in her unsuccessful search for the steward, Sim.

  With squealing pigs and honking geese for accompaniment, the people of Elginshire conducted their affairs. Smoke hung in the air over the thatched roofs of the houses that lined the hay-strewn lane. A broom boy hawked his hardiest sweepers. A woodsman peddled peat from a cart. A red-haired lad and his younger sister tugged on the leading rein of a braying ass.

 

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