Duet (14 page)

Would Malcolm take it with him when he left?

Malcolm sat in his usual place at the far end of the table with his students, eating very little and merely picking at a plate of fish, something once considered too common for the laird’s table. Several times he expelled a loud gasp. Rory’s tug on his sleeve garnered no reaction, and Niall’s comments went unanswered. Even the twin’s antics failed to bring a smile. Very odd. The high color on Malcolm’s pale cheeks and the listlessness in his normally lively green eyes slowly grew alarming. That was no mere blush, and was that a sheen of sweat on his brow? When Malcolm swayed in his seat, Aillil darted around the table, catching him before he hit the stone floor.

“Father!” Aillil shouted, forgetting his earlier vow never to speak to the man. “He’s burning with fever!”

Eoghan bolted from his chair. “Aillil, come away from him this instant! Niall, take your brothers to your chamber immediately! Do not come out until I tell you.”

Niall scooped his youngest brother into his arms and hastened from the table, the twins following behind.

“Masser By-lee!” Rory squealed, struggling against Niall’s hold.

“Shhh… Rory, not now,” Niall murmured. The youth spared a troubled glance for Aillil before rounding the corner and disappearing from sight.

“He’s ill!” Aillil cried. Behind him, a bowl hit the floor and shattered. He whirled to find a serving maid muttering frantic prayers and backing away.

“Aillil!” Eoghan bellowed, bringing his attention back to the head of the table. “Come away from him. There’s a fever in the nearby villages. He could be infected.”

Horrified, Aillil stared down into the face he loved so dearly. “No!” he screamed. “It’s something he ate. It can’t be….” He recalled the small, raised bumps he’d mistaken for extra freckles, the overheated skin. A tight fist gripped his insides and reality came crashing down. He’d experienced enough in his lifetime to recognize the truth.

“It’s too late,” Aillil mumbled. A sense of peace settled over him. He’d gladly join his fate with Malcolm’s, and if their days were numbered, at least they’d be together where none could ever tear them apart. “The rest of you stay away. I’ll take him to my quarters. Leave the necessary supplies outside the door. I’ll care for him.”

“No, son.” Eoghan stood at the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest. “You are far too important to risk yourself for this man.”

For the second time in a day, Aillil dared to defy his father. He’d made up his mind and there’d be no going back. “It’s too late. All my life I’ve listened to you. Now, you’ll listen to me. I will do this and let fate decide the outcome.”

Once more he questioned how he and his father could look alike and be completely dissimilar otherwise. His own face had never twisted into so cruel a snarl, and never would his back turn on someone in need.

“Do what you will.” For the first time in memory Eoghan conceded to Aillil. “I know you well enough to realize you’ll not be swayed. You’re on your own. If you change your mind, none will take your place.” He turned and fled the hall.

The choice had been made. If Aillil survived the coming days, he’d be exiled for standing against his laird. Right now he cared naught of Eoghan’s displeasure. He focused solely on getting Malcolm upstairs and nursing him through the illness.

He searched the hall for possible allies and found nothing but a few terrified servants who wouldn’t risk their lives for a foreigner and a disinherited son. At least he’d found a way to escape his father’s schemes, after all. Now to get Malcolm well and safely away from the castle before Eoghan sought revenge.

The maid stood motionless by the door with the others who’d borne witness to the exchange. They knew all too well the enemy in their midst, for the fever was no stranger to the Highlands. None barred the way when Aillil carried the moaning Englishman out of the hall and up the stone stairs to where his chamber lay. Passing the room his brothers shared, he stopped and pressed his ear to the door. Inside Niall uttered muffled prayers—not all of them to the English God. Good lad.

Niall learned what Malcolm taught of English ways to please their father—a clever ruse. At heart, Niall remained a patriotic Scotsman, even if he kept his tartans carefully hidden from the watchful eyes of their sire. He’d make a good laird.

Aillil entered his chamber and kicked the door shut with a boot heel before placing his precious burden on the bed. He removed his lover’s clothes for the second time in the space of a day, tossing them into a heap by the hearth. Malcolm didn’t seem to notice. A tap sounded at the door, followed by hushed instructions. Once certain the servant was safely gone, Aillil peered out into the hall. A pitcher of water draped with a cleaning cloth sat on the floor, along with a packet of herbs, a kettle, a mug, and the remainder of his meal.

He started a fire in the hearth, and when the coals glowed amber, he poured the herbs into the kettle with half the water and situated it over the flames. Their pungent scent stung his nostrils. Next, he took the rest of the water to the bed to clean his lover’s body, wincing at the telltale rash on Malcolm’s belly.

Malcolm pulled away from the cool cloth, shivering until wrapped securely in the bed covers. He fell asleep mumbling incoherent nonsense.

Many times Aillil had pictured Malcolm’s pale skin laid out upon his bed. Never in his dreams had his lover burned with fever. A sharp hissing brought his attention to the kettle. With a careful grip on the tongs, he swung the iron arm from the hearth, leaving the contents to cool.

Scuffling outside the door alerted him to a visitor. “Aillil? How is he?” While Aillil was warmed by his brother’s loyalty, the lad played a dangerous game.

“Niall, you mustn’t come here,” Aillil admonished, sounding more like Eoghan than he cared to admit. “If you sicken, who’ll take care of the others? You’ll also anger Father by speaking to me.”

“We’re worried,” Niall replied. “Rory wouldn’t be calmed until I brought your violin. He thinks it will heal Master Byerly.” He added in hushed tones, “And Father’s been angry with me before and it didn’t kill him. Doubtless this time he’ll survive, as well.”

Despite the danger the headstrong youth placed himself in, Aillil had to smile at the show of brotherly support. “Then my thanks are to you and Rory. Now be gone. I’ll do all I can.” Malcolm groaned, reminding Aillil of the gravity of the situation. “Niall? You will take good care of our brothers, won’t you?”

“Aye, Aillil.” Shuffling footsteps led away from the door.

Aillil crossed the stone floor and opened the door. His violin and bow sat upon a stool. He took them inside to begin his lonely vigil.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd Malcolm. When he put bow to strings, no particular song came to mind; his fingers traveled where they would. The music started, faltering and subdued, giving voice to fears too horrible to speak. He would be brave, carry this burden, and heal Malcolm through sheer force of will if need be.

The song took on a life of its own, and before he knew it, the notes became sweeter, speaking of the early spring day the unassuming redhead first entered the castle. A memory played behind Aillil’s closed eyelids: entering the hall to find his brothers bent over their studies, their teacher growing frustrated when one of the twins refused to speak any dialect resembling proper English.

Stirring on the bed caused him to glance up. “Aillil?” Malcolm rasped, squinted eyes searching the room. Creases formed on his brow. “Thirsty.”

Aillil checked the kettle and poured some of the tea into the mug. He held it to Malcolm’s lips, bracing his lover’s shoulders with an arm to help him sit.

Malcolm’s nose wrinkled and he sneezed before taking a few small sips. “Thank you.” He fell back into Aillil’s arms, clearly exhausted from even such a small effort.

“How do you feel?”

“Words cannot describe,” Malcolm replied in a husky whisper. He formed a halfhearted smile, quickly replaced by a frown. “I have the fever, don’t I?”

He was a smart man; lying would do no good. “Aye.”

Malcolm struggled to get up. “You mustn’t be here! You could fall ill too!”

Deciding actions spoke louder than words, Aillil lifted the edge of the covers and, fully clothed, slid beneath.

“No!” Malcolm’s weakened condition reduced what was probably intended as a yell to a faint rasp. “You must leave! I cannot risk you!”

Even while protesting, Malcolm didn’t put up much of a fight when Aillil wrapped both arms around him, pulling him close. “Shh, little fox. We’re together in this. Wherever you lead, I’ll gladly follow.”

“No,” Malcolm grumbled into Aillil’s chest, his words lacking conviction. He snuggled closer, his shivering body seeking out heat. Before he could say more, he fell asleep, the herbs working their magic. Aillil held tightly while his lover slept, vowing that if they both lived, neither his father nor any other force would come between them again.

He soon grew overheated and moved to the bedside chair to resume his restless playing. Four more times that night he fed Malcolm the herb tea, and four more times they chatted briefly before Malcolm fell back into slumber. Sleep didn’t come for Aillil, and he sat beside the bed, carrying on a one-sided conversation or quietly playing the violin.

Night gave way to morning and he began to despair. That despair escaped through music, creating melancholy refrains to match the darkness in his soul.

Over the next three days he played a steadily increasing repertoire of songs that emanated from a slowly breaking heart. Sometimes the violin sang alone, sometimes his voice joined in, and far too often, the tolling of village bells, announcing another death, accompanied him.

On the third day, Malcolm stopped talking, refusing to take in any more tea or weak broth. His sleep now too fitful to bring much rest, he appeared worn out, much like Aillil himself.

On the fourth day, Aillil awakened to find Malcolm no longer thrashing and delirious, lying peacefully amid the blankets. Filled with hope for the first time in days, he jumped to his feet. The fever had broken! His love would recover!

When he rushed to the bed, elation turned to agony and misery wrapped around him like a fist, squeezing out his breath. Malcolm was pale, far too pale. Aillil extended one trembling hand, used to overly heated flesh, and pulled it back in alarm at the chill of white skin. Sometime during the night, his love had slipped from the world, and he hadn’t been awake to ease the passing.

He howled his anguish like a wild beast, keening loneliness and pain. His breath came in ragged sobs. “Why?” he screamed. “Why?” How could the only man he’d ever loved, could ever love, be taken from him? Had his father somehow appealed to the fates to steal Malcolm away and eliminate the “problem”?

Rage swept through him like a roaring blaze. His own image in a mirror, healthy and whole, added fuel to the fire. He picked up the first object at hand, the mug, and smashed it against the shining silver surface. The pottery shattered, leaving a large dent in the mirror. On a destructive rampage, he hurled every breakable item, reveling in the chaos. How dare he live when Malcolm died? Many caught the fever, why couldn’t he?

Anger gave way to grief. Collapsing onto the bed, he pulled his lover’s lifeless body against his own and wept bitterly. How long he stayed there, he didn’t know, rocking Malcolm’s still, cold form. Those agonizing moments birthed an idea. He rose and stripped off clothes that hadn’t been changed since the night Malcolm fell ill.

After bathing with water the servants brought, he donned his best shirt, the one reserved for special occasions. He fastened his belt and began folding the yards of woolen plaid of his clothing, pinning his kilt at the shoulder with his grandfather’s brooch.

Once finished with his own preparations, he took great care in washing his lover, wrapping the Englishman’s body in Callaghan plaid. Clumsy stitches sealed the edges together; a prism of tears blurring Aillil’s sight. When finished with his task, he left his chambers for the first time since the fever began, Malcolm’s body secured in his arms. The sack containing his bagpipe hung from his back.

When he placed his foot upon the stairs, the village bells began to toll as if to mark Malcolm’s passing. Aillil met no one on the way through the castle or when he stepped from the great hall and into the brisk autumn day. Somewhere within the thick walls, his father, brothers, and the servants hid.

A screeching door hinge broke the quiet, and he turned to find Niall peering out from the doorway. Neither said anything. Niall’s sympathetic eyes traveled from Aillil’s face to the burden he carried, silently gauging the truth. He pulled a spade from behind his back, placing it by the door before going back inside.

The lad had somehow known. The unspoken message of support meant the world to Aillil.

He waited a moment to ensure his brother’s safety before retrieving the spade, slipping the handle into his belt while considering a suitable location for a grave. At first, he’d intended to bury Malcolm in the family plot, uncaring of what his father might think. Instead, his feet found the wooded path leading to the grove. He had no trouble selecting the perfect spot, and the soft earth gave way easily to his digging. Hours passed until Aillil paused in his labors, enjoying the cool breeze brushing against his sweat-sheened skin. He wondered what the fever would feel like, if and when he succumbed.

The morning gave way to afternoon. He finished digging and sank to the ground, pulling his shrouded lover against his chest. He rocked to and fro, singing the songs they’d once sung together, pouring out his feelings one final time. There would never be another, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into the earth with Malcolm and stay there, together forever. While he desperately wished to, he couldn’t. Malcolm wouldn’t want that.

Unable to put off the inevitable any longer, Aillil laid his little fox in the grave, his sobs mixing with the soft swishing of dirt returning to the hole from which it came. Finally, a mound of fresh earth marked the final resting place of the kind-hearted, gentle Englishman.