by Sara Donati
Elizabeth rocked Lily to her, smoothing the skin of her face and thinking of Isabel who was someplace over their heads in the tower, seeking some consolation, some of the sense of herself that she had lost the night she ran away from this place. In the last few minutes of the journey she had had another crisis, this one much worse than the earlier one in the garden. It had come upon her there where the road to the castle turned suddenly and dipped around a great outcropping of stones. Will had spoken gentle words to her even in her extremity, and Elizabeth had sent her own prayers to whatever God was looking over Isabel. Give her just one more hour. Let her face Moncrieff and go easy to her grave.
Contrecoeur came in, his expression unreadable. He walked the length of the hall, his heels ticking against the flagstones like an overwound clock, to stop before Carryck.
“Dupuis has heard her confession and absolved her of her sins, but it took the last of his strength. She is asking for you, my lord Earl. The doctor says she is very close to death.”
All faces turned to Carryck, but he studied the bottom of his cup with unflinching concentration. Curiosity hummed low in her throat, a mournful sound.
It wasn’t until the horses came into the courtyard that Carryck raised his head. Contrecoeur still waited for his answer, but he looked past the priest as if he were invisible.
Moncrieff’s voice came to them, hoarse and angry, and then louder, an oath and a challenge to the armed men who had brought him. There was a scuffling as he was dragged down from his horse. Elizabeth’s heart raced and Lily, nursing greedily as if to make up for the hours away from her mother, coughed on the quickened flow of milk.
He strode into the Great Hall alone. At the sight of Hawkeye he came to a sudden stop. For a moment he stared, and then he turned to Carryck, his head up at a proud angle.
“My lord Earl,” he said, his voice ringing through the hall, unflinching. “Why have ye sent for me in sic a manner?”
Carryck closed his eyes and then opened them again slowly. “We have a visitor.”
“I see that, my lord.” Moncrieff pushed his chest forward. Bravado or courage, it was hard to tell what moved him. “I tolt ye he wad come, in the end.”
“We have a visitor fra’ Loudoun,” said Carryck evenly. “Lady Isabel is come hame.”
For a moment Moncrieff’s expression did not change. Then a small tic began at the corner of his eye and spread by degrees over his face until it reached his mouth, which opened and then shut before he turned, eyes blazing, to Hawkeye.
“This is your doing,” he said. “Ye’ve taken up wi’ Breadalbane.”
“Monsieur Contrecoeur,” Elizabeth said before Hawkeye could respond to Moncrieff. “Would you kindly ask Robbie MacLachlan to bring Lady Isabel here? She will want to speak directly to this man in her father’s presence.”
Moncrieff flung out both arms in a frustrated appeal. “My lord Earl. This is a devious plot tae discredit me for doin’ naethin’ mair than what ye bade me tae do—bring that man, yer bluid cousin, tae Carryckcastle. Can ye let a Breadalbane stan afore ye and believe even a word o’ what she has tae say?”
Carryck poured more whisky into his own cup. When he had drunk, he wiped his mouth.
He said, “I gave Daniel Bonner my word that I wad listen tae the charges against ye. His charges, and … hers, as weel. Ye’ll stand there and listen wi’ me, Angus. Unless ye have somethin’ tae fear fra’ her?”
Moncrieff held his gaze for a long moment, and then he nodded.
Carryck spoke to Contrecoeur without looking at him.
“Bring her,” he said.
Elizabeth watched Contrecoeur walk back to the tower, willing him to move faster, to run. And then he opened the door and the hall filled with the sound of Jean Hope’s weeping, a sound hardly human that washed over them like a fitful breeze. Robbie came down the tower stairs and through the door, his normally florid complexion ashen.
“She’s gone.”
“God have mercy on her soul,” said Will quietly.
“Amen,” added Curiosity.
Moncrieff started, turning first to Carryck and then back toward Contrecoeur, who stood still with his hand on the tower door.
He passed a hand over his face, and then he smiled. Isabel was dead, and Moncrieff could hardly contain his joy. Elizabeth shuddered in sorrow and a deep and absolute loathing for the man who stood there, smiling at them, blinking in confusion and relief so profound he could not hide it: a condemned man with a last-minute reprieve from the gallows.
Nathaniel pushed back his chair as he came to his feet. “Counting your blessings right about now, ain’t you, Angus? That she died before she could tell her father what you are.”
Moncrieff’s back straightened and he inclined his head, that artful tilt that Elizabeth had seen him use so many times when he was constructing a lie.
“Whatever complaints ye’ve got aboot me have naethin’ tae do wi’ Lady Isabel. May she rest in peace,” he added solemnly.
Carryck drew in a breath through his teeth and then let it out again. Slowly he leaned forward to rest his head on his hands. His shoulders heaved once, and then again—a terrible dry retching that Elizabeth could not bear to see. She bent her head over her daughter and drew in Lily’s smell, clean and sweet. Perhaps Carryck was thinking of Isabel when she was just as small, before she grew away from him; before he lost track of the woman she had become. Elizabeth had the power to give him back that daughter.
She stood, holding Lily to her breast. “My lord Earl, may I speak?”
Moncrieff made a small sound in his throat, but Carryck held up a hand to stop him. “Aye.”
“On the journey here, your daughter Isabel told us the story of the day she eloped. Will you hear what she had to say?”
The room was so quiet that Elizabeth thought she could hear the beat of her own heart. She waited, and finally Carryck nodded. Moncrieff’s face was vacant, waiting. Disbelieving.
“This is what Lady Isabel told us. After Lammas Fair five years ago, Angus Moncrieff confronted her on the road to the castle late in the night. Simon Hope was with her. He called Isabel a whore and Simon Hope a whoreson, and when she laughed at him for claiming that she had been promised to him in marriage, he told her of your alliance with Mrs. Hope. Then Angus Moncrieff assaulted and raped her there in the rain and dirt.”
Nothing changed on Carryck’s face, no acknowledgment or surprise. He said, “Angus. What say ye tae these charges?”
Flecks of color appeared high on Moncrieff’s cheeks, just below the tic at the corner of his eye, as frantic as a heartbeat.
“Lies. Ye ken verra weel, my lord, that yer dauchter was promised tae John Munro o’ Foulis on the verra day she ran aff.”
From the back of the hall Jean Hope stepped forward from the shadows. Her face was red and swollen with weeping, and she wound her hands in her apron. “But Isabel nivver was told about John Munro!”
Moncrieff was untouched by Jean’s sorrow and her logic. He shrugged. “Whether she knew or no’, the oath was given and I witnessed it. Why wad I ha’ tolt her anythin’ else, or claimed her for my own?” More sure of himself now, he cast a glance toward Elizabeth. “Ye’ve got only the word o’ a desperate woman. Elizabeth Bonner wad do anythin’ in her power tae get her revenge on me, for takin’ her bairns frae her in Canada. The bairns that ye see before ye, hale and hearty.”
How perfectly calm he was, Elizabeth thought. And why not? Isabel and Simon were dead, and unable to call him to account.
Carryck looked so very tired. “Is there any evidence for yer charges, Mrs. Bonner? Witnesses?”
“No doubt she’ll call Walter Campbell here tae swear the truth o’ it,” Moncrieff said angrily.
A voice rose up, high and clear. “Simon tolt me what happened. Does that make me a witness?” Jennet seemed as tiny and unsubstantial as a fairy as she came down the hall with Robbie MacLachlan, but her voice carried true.
“Come here, Jennet,” said Carr
yck. His tone still weary, but there was something warm in it now. “Come here, lass, and tell me what ye heard.”
Jennet stopped at the end of the table, and she looked at each of them in turn. When she reached Hannah, she smiled.
“Ye’ve got them aa taegither finally, yer kin.”
“Yes,” said Hannah.
“I’m glad for ye.”
Hannah left Hawkeye’s side and went to stand between Jennet and Robbie.
“What did Simon tell ye, lass?” Carryck asked.
She kept her eyes fixed on the earl, as if the sight of him alone could bring this story out of her. “Simon tolt me that the factor was fou’ drunk, and he foucht wi’ Lady Isabel on the road tae the village, and threw her doon and hurt her. He said, ‘She doesna want tae marry Moncrieff.’ He said that muny times.”
“The lad was fevered,” said Moncrieff, almost dully. “In a delirium.”
“He wasna fevered,” Jennet replied indignantly. “He wasna, no’ when he tolt me. And he swore me tae secrecy and made me put my hand on the Holy Bible, and noo I’m forsworn and must burn in hell, but I canna keep still no langer.” Her voice wavered, but she pushed on, her anger rising hot now as she turned to face Moncrieff. “Simon thoucht it was his fault for no’ protectin’ her, and my mither thoucht it was her Isabel was runnin’ from, but it was you. Ye couldna ha’ the laird’s dauchter and sae ye hurt her, and noo she’s deid and ye’ll burn in hell, too, for what ye did tae her and tae my brither.”
“My lord Earl,” Moncrieff said stiffly. “Can ye take the word o’ a hysterical child ower my own?”
Carryck rose up to his full height. “She’s my own flesh and bluid, Angus.”
“She’s your bastard, my lord.”
Carryck said, “I’ve lost one dauchter. I willna lose anither. I’ll marry Jean and make Jennet my heir.”
Perspiration was beading on Moncrieff’s upper lip and brow as he struggled for his composure. “Breadalbane will challenge ye in the courts.”
“Aye. What of it?”
“My lord,” said Moncrieff, his voice cracking. “Will ye gamble everythin’ for a whore?”
The word seemed to echo down the hall. The color drained from Carryck’s face to be replaced by a cold fury, the kind of rage that drives men to murder. Moncrieff saw it, too, and he drew in a hitching breath and let it go again as Carryck began to speak.
He said, “I find ye guilty o’ rape on my dauchter. I find mysel’ guilty o’ puttin’ my trust in a coward and a traitor. It is my punishment tae live knowin’ tha’ I let ye drive my dauchter awa’, but ye’ll hang on the morrow.”
Moncrieff moved so fast that later Elizabeth would never be clear on exactly how it had all come to pass. His arm came up from his side with a glint of flashing metal and Elizabeth bent over in her chair to cover Lily, seeing Curiosity do the same with Daniel and taking with her a single glimpse of Jennet’s blond head in the line of fire, with Hannah beside her. Oh, God, Hannah beside her. The men were scrambling, Nathaniel throwing himself across the table at Moncrieff but too late: the shot rang through the room and somebody screamed. Me, thought Elizabeth, I screamed. A second shot from the other end of the hall and a soft sound of surprise, a rush of breath followed by ringing silence. Elizabeth looked up from where she cowered on the floor, and she watched Angus Moncrieff fall, his throat opening like a flower, bright red petals cascading all around him.
Hannah was keening, a high, sorrowful sound. Curiosity grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and pulled her to her feet to thrust Daniel at her. “Take your son,” she said firmly. “Take him, now.” And she climbed over Moncrieff’s body—still twitching, Elizabeth saw, and drew away—in her rush toward the girls.
“Elizabeth.” Nathaniel and Will together at her side, trying to lead her away. Both the babies wailing, but Nathaniel whispered to them, wheest, and wheest, and then he was leading her to a chair near the door. “Come, come. Sit here. Sit down.”
“Is she dead? Is Jennet dead? Is Hannah—”
He put his hands on her face. She had rarely seen him so pale, except when he was gun-shot himself.
“No,” he said. “Neither of them hurt, not Jennet, not Hannah.”
“But listen to her.” She said this calmly, to make him hear what she could hear: Hannah’s heart breaking and Hawkeye singing, very softly. A melody she knew; one she did not want to hear.
“Who?” she asked. “Whose death song?”
“Robbie’s,” Nathaniel said. “He stepped in front of the girls and the bullet caught him in the chest.”
“But—” She looked over her shoulder at Moncrieff, curled like a newborn in his own blood. His brother had come to pray over him. He made the sign of the cross.
“Jean Hope,” said Will. “It was Jean Hope who shot him.”
Nathaniel said, “She took her revenge, and Isabel’s. And ours, too.”
“Good,” said Elizabeth, more calmly than she felt. And then: “Let me go to Robbie. Let me say good-bye. Please.”
He lay on the bloody flagstones, his head in Hannah’s lap. The Hakim and Curiosity were bent over him, talking quietly together, no urgency now at all. Will had taken the babies out into the courtyard, where the maids fussed over them, bore them away to a safer place. And now Jennet wept in her mother’s arms while behind them Contrecoeur murmured to his brother in Latin.
In the new quiet, Hawkeye sang a death song, telling the story of Robbie’s life as he made his way through the shadowlands.
Elizabeth knelt in the blood and put her hands on him. Smoothed his hair. “Robbie,” Elizabeth called to him, and then again, louder. “Robbie?”
Hannah’s eyes were bright with tears. “We must let him go,” she said to Elizabeth in Kahnyen’kehàka. “It is his time.”
31
They buried Robbie MacLachlan and Lady Isabel the next day, and that evening Nathaniel went looking for his father. He found him in the wood behind the paddocks, perched high in an oak, deep in conversation with Jennet and Hannah.
“When Simon died,” Jennet was saying, “I thoucht perhaps it was just the fairies had stolen him awa’, and that he wad come back one day. Did you feel like that when your brother Uncas died?”
Hawkeye said, “I still do.” And then: “Here’s your father, Squirrel, come to call us to table. Why don’t you girls go along now. I’ve been trying to have a word with him all day.”
When they had run off ahead, Nathaniel said, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you climbing trees.”
“You can see a good ways from up here,” said Hawkeye, dropping down as easy as a man half his age. “And that Jennet has got a story or two worth taking home.”
“Squirrel will be sorry to leave her behind tomorrow.”
Hawkeye nodded. His thoughts were someplace else, and Nathaniel waited for him to gather them together.
“I don’t think Robbie ever expected to get back to New-York,” he said finally. “Long ago some wise woman told him that he would be buried on Scottish soil. He said that to me the day we set foot on land. Said that he felt the truth of it in his gut.”
Hawkeye looked around himself, at the sunset against the hills, deep gold and tawny, and he sighed. “This was the right place for him to come to die, but it ain’t my place, no matter how I look at it. Ain’t yours, either, from what I can tell.”
In his surprise, Nathaniel stopped. “Did you think it might be?”
His father shrugged. “Don’t know what I thought. I was sure before I got here how I’d feel about Carryck, but now I’ve seen him and it’s not that simple. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so tore up inside.”
“It’s a hard price he’s paying for his mistakes,” Nathaniel admitted. “But I don’t see there’s anything we can do for him. The Catholics and the Protestants have been at each other’s throats for almost two hundred years. Even if we wanted to stay here there’s nothing we could do to fix that.”
Hawkeye was silent, and Nathaniel had
an unsettled feeling, as if something was coming his way he couldn’t predict or control. He said, “You’re putting a fright into me.”
“I know I am,” said Hawkeye. “And with some cause. I thought about just letting what I know go to the grave with Robbie, but I couldn’t live with it. I got no choice but to lay it out for you and let you make your own decisions. You and Elizabeth.”
“What’s this about?” Nathaniel asked.
His father put a hand on his shoulder. “Giselle Somerville,” he said. “And the son she bore you the winter after you left her in Montréal those many years ago.”
While his father talked, Nathaniel stood in the shadows of the forest and felt the truth of what he was saying crawl up through him and settle in his bones, word by word.
He said, “She never told me. Never said a word when I took leave from her, never sent for me.”
Hawkeye pushed out a heavy breath. “I know that.”
“But you believed her?”
“Not at first. Not until Robbie told me what he knew.”
“Iona could have let me know.” The first anger pushing up now, to be swallowed down again.
“She could have,” Hawkeye said. “But then she would have had another child taken away from her. Do you think she gave Giselle up to Somerville of her own accord?”
Somerville. All the time he had been sitting in the Montréal gaol, the boy had been nearby and Somerville had kept it from him.
“All these years, Giselle thought he was in France, being raised by her mother.”
“It looks that way.”
“Christ,” Nathaniel muttered. “Now what? Do I go looking for him, or do I leave him be? Maybe he won’t want anything to do with me, or with his mother. I wish I had had more of a look at him that night in Montréal.”
An ache swelled up deep inside him, like discovering a slowly seeping battle wound hours after the last shot had been fired.
Hawkeye rubbed a thumb over his chin. “You’ll have to work that out with Elizabeth, son. And I expect Giselle will have something to say about it—she won’t give up until she finds the boy.”
