On a Highland Shore (7 page)

“And if I chose the abbey?”

“Then Nell will marry Lachlan, and we’ll rarely see ye again. So ye choose, lass, and live with yer choice. Which of ye will marry Lachlan?”

The door closed behind him. Margaret and Nell exchanged a startled look.

It had been two days since she’d found Lachlan with Fiona, one day of Lachlan’s following her incessantly, pleading his cause, begging her forgiveness, then a morning of arguing. Two days of her father’s refusing to discuss it, and her mother’s bloodlessly giving only the most necessary commands, not one kind word or tender look. So be it. Margaret was beyond weary of the topic. Nothing had changed. She would not marry the man. But then she’d glance at Nell and sigh. If Lachlan was not a fit husband for her, how could he be any different for Nell? What were her responsibilities, to her clan and her family—and to her sister, just on the brink of womanhood? She had no doubt that their father would make good his threat and marry Nell to Lachlan in her stead.

How could she marry him? How could she not?

Lachlan left at last, assuming the demeanor of a disappointed man, his brows drawn together and mouth petulant. It was a fine act, but one that left her unconvinced. From her perch in her room she’d seen his head rise as soon as he cleared the gates of the courtyard, when he thought her father could no longer see him. And instead of turning to the left, to go through the inland gate and to the paths that would take him eventually to Stirling, he’d turned right. Toward the lower village and the harbor. Toward the weaver’s house. Toward Fiona. Fiona, who had had the guards deliver her pleas to talk. Margaret had sent them back with the message that there was nothing Fiona could say that she wanted to hear.

Today she and Rignor and Nell would leave as well, riding out with a handful of guards to the shielings, then to the abbey and to court. How many times had she stood at her window and wished she could choose her future? And now she could, but the choice brought little comfort. She closed her eyes and let the wind flow over her. Snapping wind, she thought, opening her eyes and turning from the window. That was what her brother Davey called the kind of wind sweeping in now from the sea, bringing havoc with it. It fit her mood perfectly.

She looked around the small room she shared with Nell, appointed with every comfort Somerstrath could provide: rugs on the floor from faraway places, silk coverings for the bed they shared, a chest in the corner that held clothing and small things. A candle so they did not have to fumble in the dark. And a small window, a luxury in itself, an arrow slot really, overlooking the courtyard below and village beyond, but affording a view of the trees that ringed the base of the mountains, then the mountains themselves. She and Nell knew when the sun came up, knew when it was raining or the wind blew as it did now. Could she live in a cell in the abbey with no vision of the outside world? Could she kneel and pray for the rest of her life? Never run along the beach again, never feel the sunshine on her bare head? Could she leave the world forever?

The wind swirled around her, lifting a lock of her dark hair and laying it across her face, bringing her back to the present. Today would be full, and that would distract her. Some of the shielings, the huts they would visit, were clustered together, some separated by a burn or even a glen, but the riding would be easy. The sky was clear, the air already warming, promising a bright day. She’d get to visit people she liked. It would be a long journey, but with Nell’s company, it should be a pleasant one, despite Rignor, who would no doubt still be bruised from last night’s argument with their father. She’d heard the shouting even here, in her room. The wind snapped the draperies of the bed, and Margaret’s mood lifted. She couldn’t wait to leave.

Her good-byes were perfunctory. Her mother put a hand on each of her shoulders and leaned toward Margaret, but her lips did not brush Margaret’s cheek, as they briefly did Nell’s, or as they did Rignor’s, lingering there while Mother whispered something to her eldest son. Margaret turned away, to meet her father’s gaze, surprised to see tears in his eyes. And was that regret she saw there as well, quickly suppressed? His embrace was solid, his kiss on her cheek comforting.

“Promise me ye’ll think long and hard on this, lassie mine,” he said softly.

She nodded, unable to speak.

“That’s all I ask of ye,” he said, and released her. “Safe journey, then.”

She thanked him and hurried to her pony, stopping only to hug each small brother, each laughing as he threw his arms around her. Fergus gave her a flower, grubby from his hand. Ewan and Cawley told her that they would drive Lachlan away so she could find someone else. She thanked them for the thought. Davey simply hugged her tightly, his dark eyes filled with shadow.

“What is it?” she whispered to him.

“I dinna want ye to go,” he said.

“I ha’ no choice, Davey.”

“Aye.” He nodded, his lips pressed together.

“I must go,” she whispered. “But I’ll be back. I swear it.”

“Dinna go, Margaret. It’ll be so long until I see ye again.”

She smiled, touched by his affection, then kissed his cheek, his skin smooth under her lips. In a few years he’d not allow her this familiarity.

“Be careful,” he said.

“I will. And ye in my absence,” she said, smiling into his eyes.

“I’ll miss ye.”

“And I ye,” she said, suddenly struck that no one else had said he would miss her. No one. She threw her arms around him again and kissed the top of his head, releasing him before he could protest. “God keep ye safe until we meet again,” she said, using the old phrase of parting.

“And ye,” he answered.

She’d almost escaped the village when Fiona caught her, running alongside her pony, clasping Margaret’s ankle and asking her to stop.

“I never meant to hurt ye, Margaret! Surely ye ken that!”

Margaret did not look at her.

Fiona tightened her hold. “I never meant to hurt ye!”

“What did ye think would happen when I found out?”

“I dinna think ye’d find out.”

“And when we went to Lachlan’s? What then? How did ye think I’d not ken?”

Fiona’s face twisted. “Lachlan told me…he said we would be discreet.”

“When he would be married to me? The two of ye thought ye could continue this? How could ye do this to me, Fiona? How could ye attend me during the day, then slink away to share my husband’s bed? How could ye?”

“I dinna think ye’d discover us, Margaret!”

“And that makes it all right? Ye’d betray me and tell yerselves that what I dinna ken cannot harm me? Is that it?”

Fiona’s face flushed. “Ye dinna ken what it’s like for the rest of us. All yer life ye’ve been cared for and cosseted. Ye kent from yer earliest day that ye’d marry a wealthy man. What did I ken, Margaret? That I’d marry some Somerstrath man and bear his children and be fortunate to live through it. Ye dinna ken what it’s like to dream of a life like yers, to have a man like Lachlan give ye things. He’s been kind to me. He loves me.”

Margaret blinked, trying to reconcile this new Fiona with the girl she’d known all her life. “Do ye love him?”

Fiona’s voice was hushed, but her words were clear. “Love? No. That’s for the likes of ye. He was my way into the world.”

Margaret pulled her ankle from her friend’s grasp. “Not anymore. Ye’ll die here in Somerstrath, Fiona.”

Fiona’s eyes hardened. “We’ll see.”

“Mark my words, Fiona. Ye’ll never leave this place. Ye’ll die here.” Margaret kicked her pony forward. She guided it through the upper half of the village and through the inland gate, following Rignor and the guards up the narrow path to the ledge, which was wide and flat and afforded a view of all of Somerstrath. They paused there, but Margaret did not look into the village, did not want to see Fiona again. She kept her eyes on the sun’s rays lighting the top of the keep, wondering if this would ever be her home again. She would not think of the future; she’d think no further than this lovely summer day just beginning. She turned her pony and rode into the trees.

She’d gone just a few feet when her pony shied, and she herself ducked out of the way of a raven that flew directly at them, croaking its message before disappearing into the pines. She calmed the pony, but had a harder time with herself. Everyone knew that to see a raven flying at one or to hear it croak at the start of a journey was among the most ill-starred omens. She shook off her sense of foreboding. How ridiculous to believe the old superstitions. Next thing she knew she’d be throwing salt over her left shoulder.

Rignor was, as she’d predicted, both sullen and silent, but Nell, blissfully unaware of last night’s argument and wisely not mentioning the one with Fiona, chattered to him all the way up the steep hill that led inland. Rignor, to his credit, neither complained nor moved away from his young sister, but he did give Margaret several baleful glances, which she pretended not to see. They would ride for two hours before reaching the first shieling, and she was content to let Nell spend all of it talking to him.

The wind kept them company all day. Above them the sunlit mountains, blanketed with purple heather, kept the clouds from passing too quickly overhead, then reluctantly allowed them to continue on their way east. They were warmly welcomed by those who were already inland, and ate their midday meal on the edge of a meadow high in the foothills. While Rignor told the clanspeople all the latest happenings in Somerstrath, Margaret let her gaze and her mind wander. She watched the shadow of the clouds move quickly across the hillsides, deepening the colors, then releasing them into the sunshine again. In a few weeks this meadow would be dotted with russet Highland cattle. By autumn they’d be fat and quite contented, and those who summered up here in the hills would come home browned and cheerful.

Nell stretched her arms high above her head. “I may stay here forever.”

“Would that we could.”

Nell threw Margaret a sidelong glance. “Are ye still angry with Lachlan?”

Margaret paused. Angry? There was not a word strong enough to describe what she felt for Lachlan. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Aye, I am still angry, Nell. I keep growing more angry.”

“What will ye do?”

“What would I like to do? I’d like to string him up by his toes and leave him to rot in the cellar. And bring Fiona in to join him.”

“He’s apologized.”

“Oh, aye. Words.”

“What about the abbey?”

“I dinna think I was meant for that life. No, I have to find a way to make Father and Mother change their minds. Or, failing that, find a way to have the contract revoked.” Margaret grinned. “What I’m going to have to do at court is find a man who will marry me and be an even better alliance than Lachlan. And then find one for ye.”

“How will ye do that?”

Margaret laughed. “I dinna ken yet. It’ll come to me.”

Nell gave a whoop of delight. “Ye can do it!”

“I will do it. Watch me and learn!”

Margaret watched the sun rise from her perch outside the small shieling in which they’d spent the night, the dawn filling the sky with flaming color. She sighed as she watched it. They’d have rain before sunset. Could not this one day have dawned gray so their weather would be clear? She’d not slept well, tossing on the tiny cot she’d shared with Nell, then rising in the dark to sit outside, her cloak wrapped around her, while she thought. There was no solution but the ridiculous one she’d already come up with—of finding two men, of appropriate families and character, to whom she and Nell could be wed. She’d have a very short time in which to find them, for their visit was to last less than a fortnight. Her chances of success were poor. If she married Lachlan, she would fulfill her responsibility to the clan and to her family, but she’d never be happy. And she was afraid that she would be no happier if she lived her life in the abbey. And if Nell married Lachlan in her stead, she’d blame herself forever.

She sighed again. She’d talk it over with Judith, the abbess at Brenmargon, whom she knew well. She’d been to the abbey before, had spent the night there several times while traveling and always enjoyed her visits. Judith, of English descent, was the cousin of one of Margaret’s father’s most trusted tacksmen, Rufus, who lived in the glen just south of Somerstrath. Rufus was a steadfast man, honorable, slow to anger, quick to ignore the exploits of his only child, Dagmar of the easy virtue and insatiable appetites. His cousin Judith was quiet, devout, and shrewd as they came.

Judith and Rufus’s family had come north when the Normans invaded England a hundred years before, mixing their blood with the Scots but keeping their own names, and bringing with them a fierce priest who had, by his relentless efforts, done more to drive out the ways of the old Celtic Christian church than anyone in this part of Scotland. By the time he’d died priests were not allowed to marry and their sons did not inherit the post; bishops came from Glasgow and Edinburgh and Stirling and the ancient ways, the old religion that predated Christianity, had to be practiced secretly, or melded into the Christian tradition. Springs and burns that had had their own gods became wells of St. Bridget; banshees had become a form of Satan, or simply the wind. Trees were a manifestation of the divinity rather than spirits to be worshipped. Stories of giants who ruled the north were replaced with tales of Columba’s missionary works.

And yet the old ways were not gone, despite all the efforts of the Church. The people still believed, and many of their habits had ancient roots. The pain of a woman in labor would be cut by placing a dirk under the bed. Herbs were sprinkled over the doorway to dissuade evil spirits from entering. A new father ran three times, following the sun’s path, around his home to protect his family. Witch’s brooms were always made of birch twigs, but a birch tree near one’s home offered protection from the Evil Eye, or from barrenness. Everyone knew that a rowan tree planted by one’s door could protect from witchcraft, and that one never sat under a hawthorn tree on May Day or Midsummer’s Eve, or All Souls’ Eve, when fairies were known to be abroad. Simple things. A guttering candle meant death would soon threaten the household. Spells and chants offered protection; charms were even more potent protection. Not to recognize the forces of nature meant one risked becoming their prey.