But the clay was weak because of the moisture and cold, and it gave way easily. Tossing the stones onto the floor, Lucius eagerly ran his hands along the gap their removal had created. He put the sword in to see if it would fit; it did, but barely. Joy filled him.
“It will fit,” he said. “See? There is enough room.”
Quintus knelt down beside him, inspecting the dark crevice. “It will fit,” he agreed,” but when we replace the stones, they will stick out more than others. It will be a sure sign that something is here.”
Lucius shook his head. “Only a Roman would notice that stones are out of alignment,” he said. “The barbarians from the north build with wood and mud and rocks, sloppy abodes that are not fit to house my dog. They will not notice that a few stones are askew.”
It was then that Quintus notice silver moonbeams streaming in from the slender, highly-placed window at the top of the barrack’s wall. The sun had set completely and the moon was now rising. He looked at Lucius and could tell by the man’s expression that he was thinking the same thing. The moon is rising. The Otadini would soon be coming for them. Seized with urgency, Lucius shoved his sword into the gap and together, he and Quintus replaced the stones, shoving them in as far as they would go.
By the time they were fitted, they didn’t stick out as far as Quintus feared they would. It was surprisingly seamless with the rest of the wall. Lucius even took dirt from the floor of the barracks and shoved it into the cracks, trying to mimic the clay mortar. As he and Quintus worked furiously to seal up the stone, they could hear shouts and howls outside.
Their worked stopped and they stood up, slowly, listening carefully to the noise that was starting to penetrate the barracks. It was evident that something was happening and they were compelled to prepare, compelled to face what they must. Calmly, Quintus went to his bed and collected his gladius. Holding the weapon in his hand, the one that had belonged to his father, his manner was wrought with resignation.
“It is time,” he said quietly. “They come.”
Lucius nodded stoically. “I know.”
Quintus glanced at him. “I will do what needs to be done with our commander and with the men,” he said softly. “I will give no savage the satisfaction of killing a Roman.”
Lucius couldn’t disagree. “I shall be near my wife when the time comes,” he said. Then, he nodded at Quintus as if giving him permission to do what needed to be done. “Victoriam et honorem, my friend.”
Quintus smiled faintly at the pledge each legionary from the Valeria Victrix gave one another, either as a salutation or a farewell. It was their code. Victory and honor. The words sounded sweetly tragic at the moment.
“Victoriam et honorem,” he repeated softly. “I will see you soon.”
Lucius saluted him, as a fellow soldier, before returning to the wall where he had so recently buried his sword. He plopped wearily onto the ground next to the stones that had been moved, putting a hand on the cold, gray rocks as he leaned back against them. The sounds of the Otadini were closer now, calling to each other in their terrible language, becoming Death as they approached.
But Lucius shut out the sounds. He ignored Quintus as the man went about his business, inevitably hearing the weak protests of the other legionaries before their voices were swiftly cut short. Lucius knew it was only a matter of seconds now before he joined that deathly silence and he pushed his face into the stone, closing his eyes as he envisioned the woman he loved more than all the glories in all the world. He could see her, clearly, before him in her soft white garments as they draped elegantly off her slender shoulders. She was smiling at him. He smiled back.
“My beloved,” he murmured, his lips against the stone that held his sword close and dark. “Forgive me for not returning to you. Forgive me that I should not hold you again, as I had promised to do. The gods have chosen a different destiny for me. But know that I await you in Elysium, for no man has loved his wife more than I love you. With dreams only of you do I sleep now. With dreams only of….”
He was cut short as a blade carved into his chest, entering from the right armpit and plunging into his heart. As Quintus had promised, his death was quick and relatively painless, and Lucius soon found himself in fields of soft grass, surrounded by splendid mountains and blissful streams.
The last words upon his lips were the first that came to mind as he gazed at the golden sky above, more brilliant than the sun, but still feeling the longing for the woman he lived and breathed for. He would see her again, soon, he was sure. Not even death could separate them. There would come a time when their love would unite them for all eternity and he wait impatiently for that moment.
With dreams only of you….
Prologue
Spring, 1365, Highlands of Scotland
The wasting disease was a horrible way for anyone to die. Just as the name implied, it ravages a person’s body, eating it from the inside out.
Marielle de Reyne MacAdams, a once beautiful and vibrant woman, lay in her bed, wasting away from the hideous disease. Her once gleaming black hair was now a dull blend of black and gray. The green eyes that used to twinkle with merriment and sweetness were now cloudy and yellow. Skin that had once been the color of cream, and just as smooth, was now splotchy and covered with large, red sores. A once melodic voice was now nothing more than a harsh, scratchy whisper. No one could say she was even a shadow of her former self. A shadow had more depth.
Her husband had said his goodbyes to her days ago. He made no final declarations of love, did not leave her with promises they both knew he would not keep. Delmer MacAdams shed no tears. He didn’t even pat his once beautiful wife’s hand. His only parting words were, “At least ye tried.” They both knew what that meant, but ’twas a secret Marielle would take to her grave.
Their son, Helmert MacAdams was only slightly more emotional about losing his mother. He was too much like his father, even at the ripe old age of twelve, to feel any kind of emotion, let alone openly show it. Love was an elusive emotion, something neither father nor son could quite understand, no matter how hard Marielle had tried to show it or explain it. Whether it be from the blood that ran through his veins or something far darker and more sinister, Marielle could not say. He’d been a sweet boy once, long ago. But too much time spent with his father and not enough with his mother had changed him. The closest thing to an I love you, she heard was when he said he would miss her.
Their daughter, Josephine, however, was far removed from her father and brother. Where Helmert was dark and brooding, moody, and quick to anger, Josephine was light and bright, a sweet child who laughed and smiled easily and, in general, possessed the most tender of hearts. She was but nine years of age and every bit the image of who her mother had once been.
They sat alone now, just the two of them, as they had done every day since Josephine’s birth. Josephine tried not to cry, but ’twas an impossible task. Tears flowed down her cheeks and ran from her chin. She lay in the bed with Marielle, holding her hand and silently wishing God wouldn’t take her mother away.
When it was just the two of them, Josephine — or Joie as her mother liked to call her — did not have to hide her feelings, did not have to pretend she was something she wasn’t. She and Marielle could speak in French and not worry about being smacked about by Delmer for not using the Gaelic.
“Joie, do you remember your duty?” Marielle asked in a voice that was weak and low.
“Yes, Mamma, I do.” She didn’t want to talk about her duty or the secret or anything else at the moment. What she sincerely wanted to do was scream and beg God not to take away her sweet mamma.
“Tell me, Joie,” Marielle said. “I want to make certain you remember it exactly.”
Josephine wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her dress. How could she forget? She’d only been told the story her whole life and knew it all by heart. Still, she did not want to disappoint her mamma. Between soft tears she repeated everything as she knew it to be. �
��I am to keep the sword hidden. I cannot tell Papa or Helmert about it, lest they steal it away.”
“And what else, Joie?” Marielle asked, her voice growing weaker as one moment blended into another.
“I can only give the sword to my husband if he proves to be worthy.”
Marielle smiled weakly and took Josephine’s hand in hers. “And how will you know if he is worthy?”
Though Josephine knew the words, she was not quite certain that she understood what they meant. Still, she repeated them, to make her mamma happy. “He must be honorable, kind, and just. Above all else, I must be able to trust him with my heart, my life, and my love.”
Marielle closed her eyes and nodded. Josephine could tell her mother was proud of her. “That is right, my daughter. Trust is the most important thing between husband and wife. If you cannot trust your husband with your heart, your life, or your love, nothing else matters.”
Josephine closed her eyes and snuggled against her mother, placing her hand on Marielle’s chest. She could only hope that someday, when she was much older, she would understand more clearly what her mother meant.
1
Graeme MacAulay could remember with vivid clarity the first time he met his betrothed. Of course, she wasn’t his betrothed back then. Nay, she was just a little girl of eight, no bigger than a whisper. ’Twas more than ten summers ago when Graeme, two of his five brothers, and his father had gone to Inverness and stopped at the MacAdams’ on their way back to Lewis.
He’d been waiting out of doors whilst his father and brothers discussed the matter of cattle with Delmer MacAdams. The MacAdams raised some of the best cattle in all of Scotia. Being a boy of fourteen and more interested in bookish pursuits than bartering, haggling, or business, Graeme had stepped outside.
He had just rounded the corner of the MacAdams keep when he saw a rustling in the tree ahead of him. ’Twas a massive old oak that he reckoned to be at least one hundred years old, judging by the size of it. As he walked toward it, he caught a glimpse of burgundy rising up the trunk and into the branches.
While his mother had taught him to keep his nose out of other peoples business and not to go snooping hither and yon, his father was quite the opposite. Marcum MacAulay strongly encouraged such behavior, at least the snooping hither and yon. That’s not to say he taught his six sons how to be spies or sneaks. On the contrary. Marcum encouraged his sons to question everything, for he believed that was one of the best ways to learn.
From inside the keep, he’d heard someone yelling — someone around his own age, mayhap. But he could not make out the words. As he drew nearer to the tree, the burgundy continued its upward ascent. Graeme’s curiosity was piqued.
He stood under the tree and casually looked up. There, hiding amongst the thick branches and leaves, was a dark-headed little girl in a burgundy dress. He couldn’t see her face, just a thick brown braid, a burgundy dress, and little boots. From his vantage point, he estimated her to be no more than six years old. He was about to inquire as to what she was doing up there, when a very angry looking lad rounded the same corner Graeme had just taken. The lad had light brown hair, a skinny face and a body to match. He very much resembled a stick wearing a fancy tunic and trews.
“Have ye seen her?” the lad called out angrily as he stomped toward Graeme.
“Seen who?” Graeme asked.
“An ugly little girl with dark hair and the eyes of the devil!” the lad spat.
“Nay,” Graeme said. “I’ve nae seen anyone who looks like that.” As far as he was concerned, he hadn’t. He had yet to see the little girl’s face or eyes. Therefore, he couldn’t say if she was ugly or possessed the eyes of the devil. Never assume anythin’, his father had taught him.
“Bloody hell,” the lad said gruffly as he stomped away. “Josephine! When I catch ye, I’m goin’ to peel yer skin off yer hide!”
Though he’d been taught never to assume anything, he felt confident in his assessment that the angry lad and the girl in the tree were brother and sister. Only a sibling could induce the level of anger the lad had just displayed. Having five brothers, Graeme was quite familiar with the threats siblings often made to one another, especially in the heat of battle. He and his brothers had often fought over one thing or another over the years, sometimes to the point of drawing blood. Mayhap ’twas no different between a brother and sister.
He waited until the angry brother had rounded the corner and was out of earshot before he said anything to the sprite in the tree. “I take it ye’re Josephine?” he asked as he leaned against the massive trunk.
The sprite was silent for a long time, no doubt trying to assess the situation and Graeme’s role in it.
“You won’t tell him, will you?”
Graeme noted a distinct accent, a combination of French and Scots. “Nay, I’ll nae tell him.”
More silence from the tree sprite.
“Pray tell, why be yer brother so upset with ye?”
“You promise you will not tell?” Josephine asked.
Graeme nodded as he kept a close eye out for the tree sprite’s brother.
“I hid his pup.”
“Ye hid his pup? But why?” he asked, resisting the urge to chuckle.
“Well, actually, I gave his pup to a good family. Helmert was too mean to him. He kicked Jasper when he piddled on his bedchamber floor,” she explained. “I tried to explain that Jasper is just a pup and does not know better. If Helmert would just let him out more often and encourage him not to pee on the floor, then he would not pee on the floor. But Helmert will not listen to me. So I gave Jasper to the tinker.”
’Twas getting more difficult not to chuckle. The tree sprite sounded so sincere in her conviction that she had done the right thing. “How auld are ye, lass?” Graeme asked, nearly certain he knew the answer.
“Eight,” she told him.
He was very surprised by that. From where he stood, she looked very tiny, like a wood elf. “And how auld be yer brother?”
“He just turned two and ten,” she told him.
Graeme believed this was nothing more than a normal spat between brother and sister. How many times had he tormented his older brothers and they him? “How about I take ye to yer mum? I be certain she’ll protect ye from yer ferocious older brother.”
“She is the only one who does,” she told him.
At the time, he hadn’t thought her statement peculiar.
Three years later he had another opportunity to see the little girl.
Helmert had been tearing through the keep, bellowing like a mad bull as he searched for his sister. “Josephine, I swear I’ll rip yer head off when I find ye!” ’Twas eerily similar to Graeme’s first visit.
Remembering his first encounter with the tree sprite, Graeme went in search of Josephine. The first place he looked was the auld oak tree, but she was not there. After a careful search out of doors, he went inside. She was not in the larder or the kitchen. It took more than half an hour before he finally located her in her father’s study, hiding under the large desk.
Graeme crouched low so he could see her better. It didn’t appear she had grown much in three years, though she had lost the cherubic face. This time she wore a dark green dress and matching slippers. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been quite terrified of her brother. Now, she looked quite angry.
“I’ll nae tell, Josephine,” he whispered, offering her a kind smile.
A scrunched brow said she didn’t believe him.
“Pray tell, what did ye hide this time?” he asked, hoping his amused tone would help lighten the mood.
Reluctantly, she finally confessed. “His strop.”
Graeme raised a confused brow. “Why would ye hide his strop?”
The little girl looked at him as though he were quite daft. “So he will not beat me with it.”
He supposed that was as good a reason as any, but he was still quite confused. While the fisticuffs between him and his brothers had decreas
ed in frequency these past few years, he could still remember well the times they had fought with one another over the oddest of things. But never in all his years could he remember any of them using a weapon or a strop. Mayhap ’twas simply different between a brother and sister. Since he hadn’t been blessed with one, he couldn’t rightly say. Mayhap this was an argument best settled with the aid of her mother.
“Mayhap we should go to yer mum again,” he said as he offered her his hand.
Her fierce scowl was immediately replaced with a look of sadness. “My mum passed away more than two years ago,” she told him. The angry edge in her voice was gone.
Graeme was about to suggest she seek out her father’s assistance when he heard his auldest brother Traigh calling for him in the hallway. “Graeme! We be leavin’ now, with or without ye!”
Unfortunately, he knew his brother bespoke the truth. Graeme smiled down at the little girl. “Do nae worry, lass. I’ll nae tell anyone where ye be.” He didn’t bother waiting for a response. Instead, he stood to his full height, slid the chair back into place and quickly left the room.
Graeme hadn’t given the child another thought. He had left for France not long afterward, to study with his uncle, Samuel MacAulay, a most learned man, and one Graeme held in high esteem. He and his uncle had stayed in France for nearly four years.
Upon their return to Scotland, Graeme’s father and two of his brothers met them in Edinburgh. ’Twas a happy reunion, though Graeme had thoroughly enjoyed his time in France, he had also missed his family.
With Love from the Highlands : A Highlander Love Story Duet, One Page 2
