The Raven's Wish (9 page)

"Agreed," she said, stretching her fingers toward him. A tremulous cry emerged through the darkness as he took her hand and tugged her toward him. When she pressed something soft and slithery against his chest, he was startled, taking the squirmy little creature covered in muck.

It bleated, and Duncan blinked in surprise. "A lamb?"

"She was trapped in a thorn bush, and I freed her, but then she jumped away and scared the cattle, and I ran after her."

"Ah, and found yourself in the bog." With one arm, he curled the lamb against his chest and took Elspeth's arm. "Come, then—we must be out of this muck quickly and back to Glenran. You and your lamb and cousins have made enough noise this night to wake the dead." He waded through the bog, pulling Elspeth along with him.

"Hush," she said. "Do not speak of such things, even in jest." Then she stopped, while Duncan held the lamb and jiggled its scant weight awkwardly. "How is it you are here? Though I thank you for it," she added, and set a hand on his chest for balance.

Duncan smiled and shrugged. "Noisy walls, has Castle Glenran," he said.

"Oh," she said in a small voice.

At the edge of the bog, they rose out of it as horrible as any pair of water-monsters. Ewan and Callum came forward to take Elspeth from Duncan's grasp. He would rather have relinquished the lamb, which bleated, held in the crook of his arm.

Climbing the hill behind the Fraser cousins, he gathered up his discarded things, and Kenneth brought his horse forward. Duncan handed the lamb over to Ewan, then threw on this cloak and tossed his jack and boots up over the saddle.

Turning then to Elspeth, he took her by the waist and boosted her up onto his horse. Mounting behind her, he wrapped her with him inside the wide folds of his black cloak.

"I rode a garron here," she protested.

"You will feel the night's chill if you ride alone in that wet plaid. Your cousins will lead your garron back with them. Ewan," he said, "hand up that bothersome wee thing." Duncan gave the bleating bundle to Elspeth. "Here is your bog-beast, girl," he said. She cuddled it, wrapping it inside Duncan's cloak with her.

The momentum of the horse caused Elspeth to lean against Duncan's chest, warmth gathering in the damp stickiness between their bodies as they rode over the moonlit moor. The pounding rhythms of the horses surrounded them as her cousins followed.

She stifled a yawn, and rested against him. Despite his exhaustion and his irritation with these Frasers for their ill-thought raid, he felt strangely exhilarated. Even a reiving gone awry was an invigorating, thrilling thing.

Somehow he realized that the sweet press of the girl's head on his chest brought an excitement and a contentment unlike any he had ever felt before. Without quite knowing why, Duncan smiled to himself as they rode on through the night.

Chapter 6

And see not ye that braid, braid road,

That lies across yon lillie leven?

That is the path of wickedness,

Tho some call it the road to heaven.

~"Thomas the Rhymer"

"The Council has tossed me into a devil of a pit here." Duncan glanced at Alasdair as they sat sipping cool watered morning ale. "I hoped to convince these lads to sign the bond. The Earl of Moray and the Privy Council want the matter seen to quickly. And now—"

He poked a silver spoon into a steaming bowl of porridge that a serving girl had brought from the nearby kitchen. Such close proximity guaranteed hot food, but this was amazingly hot, and the girl had forgotten the cream to cool it.

Alasdair gingerly blew on his spoonful. "I leave for Dulsie Castle this morning," he said, slipping easily into Gaelic. "I have not seen my wife Mairi for three months and more." He took another mouthful and sipped quickly at his ale. "Be patient, man, and your bond will be signed."

"A few days more will see only more argument, and no signature but mine on that page."

"Truly, I did not think the MacShimi would refuse—he is an intelligent lad, but stubborn. You are a fine lawyer, and you will convince him of the need for the bond."

Duncan sighed. "I had planned to talk to him again this morning about the dire importance of this document. But he and his cousins went out hunting just after dawn."

Alasdair nodded. "They will be gone most of the day, if they come back at all before tomorrow. Your bond will wait yet again."

Duncan nodded. He had expected the bond to be signed without fuss, had expected to deliver the documents to the Council and return to his quiet house near Edinburgh. The Council would have other legal cases that would require his attention.

He was unaccustomed to frustration and delay, and s far the Frasers had shown him nothing else, and had sorely tried his temper. He was long on patience, having learned to keep a careful rein on his emotions. His temper had nearly ruined him in his youth, and he would never again let it overtake him.

Yet these Fraser lads—and the lass—made him want to shout, to wave that cursed document in their faces, and get those signatures if he had to use the dirk to do it.

"These lads have a strong disregard for the law, and for lawyers," he muttered.

"Highlanders," Alasdair remarked, pouring cold ale into his porridge and stirring it.

"True, Highlanders will ever ignore the rule of the law. That raid the other night went against the letter of caution, and the Frasers show no remorse. They just regret losing the cattle they had cut out of the herd."

"My kinsmen do not trouble themselves with rules. They leave that for the long-robes and the Lowlanders."

"Am I to slap their hands like babes, and put the pen in their fingers to get the bond into effect? I have no desire to send for the sheriff's men at Inverness."

"
Ach
, no need for sheriffs or for forcing the lads. They will sign when they trust you."

Duncan groaned. "A lawyer who acted like a wild Scot would better gain their signatures, I think," he grumbled, stirring his porridge.

"Do that, then."

Duncan slid him a wry look and tasted the thick cooked oats. Hot, but hearty and good. He ate a few mouthfuls and considered Alasdair's words.

"You are a Highland man," Alasdair said. "They trust their own kind. You come from a clan that has fought MacDonalds for longer than the Frasers have done. Macrae is not just the name you bear, it is your legacy as well."

Duncan ate another mouthful. "You may have a point."

"You take a challenge well, Duncan, and always did. Here is one for you. See these lads on their own ground. Hunt with them, or fish with them—"

"Or raid with them." Duncan smiled. The idea taking shape in his mind had a pleasing irony. "They are a bit inept at the raiding, from what I saw."

Alasdair lifted a shaggy brow. "You would know a poor raid if you saw one."

"I would."

"And you might know the way to improve the raids."

"I might."

"Until the bond is signed, the raids will continue."

"They will," Duncan agreed. "So if they will ride out, they may as well do it proper."

Alasdair grinned. "I pity the MacDonalds by the time this bond is signed."

"A displeased MacDonald has never kept me awake at night. I do not wish to see the Fraser lads killed trying to take the cattle by their own unique methods."

Alasdair laughed as he poured ale into both cups. "The law and the Lowlands have not made you stale all through just yet. That wild Macrae is still in there."

"Only enough to light a fire under the Frasers so they will sign that cursed document."

"You will get your bond made, and amuse yourself a bit in the process. Your own father could not have thought up a better scheme."

Duncan glanced away. "He would have enjoyed this scheme. He was a good man."

"He was that. Well," Alasdair said. "I must leave within the hour—and I will ask you once again to come to Dulsie Castle when you finish here."

Duncan shook his head. "Give my grandmother and my sisters my greetings."

"No other message?"

A muscle jumped in Duncan's cheek. "None other."

* * *

Climbing into the hills that rose behind the castle, Elspeth turned to whistle softly to the leggy lamb that cantered behind her. She laughed as the lamb bleated, as if asking her to wait.

Her own stride was quick and strong, though she moved carefully through deep grasses and over rocks slippery with mist. Her leather brogues were protection enough from the wet ground, though she had not pulled on woolen stockings or full trews. Even for a damp day in late summer, the moderate weather required no extra layers beneath her plaid.

She sang as she walked, her clear voice and steady steps creating a pleasing rhythm. Clearing the last hill, she descended toward the moor, hastening her stride now, aware that Bethoc was expecting her. For several years, Elspeth had gone nearly each week to Bethoc MacGruer's home, only missing a visit when severe weather prevented travel.

To her right lay the long loch, like a shard of a dark mirror reflecting the hills and sky. The lamb scampered ahead, its fleece only a shade or two lighter than its dark face. Elspeth and Flora had scrubbed the lamb's soft pelt with soft wet cloths and even a bit of precious Flemish soap, but the peat had stained the lamb's fleece to a muted gray-brown.

"Bog-beast indeed," she said, thinking again of that ride home from the raid, leaning secure and warm against Duncan Macrae. She had fallen asleep as they rode, and he had held her in his arms, the feeling so pleasant—and she even let him carry her into the castle.

She had seen him in the hall the next day with his hair still wet from a bath, dark as raven's wings, his freshly-shaved face lean and handsome. He had handed over to her, silently and discreetly, the little
sgian dhu
that she had lost in his bed. When she had blushed, he only smiled before turning away to speak to Hugh.

She had seen little of him since then, though he spent his days with her cousins, riding with them, walking out over the hills, and discussing the queen's legal document, sometimes with calm dispute, from what she overheard.

Shoving her fingers through her unruly hair, she followed the lamb. Fine mist dampened her plaid and coaxed her curls into a frothy halo. She loved the washes of mist and rain that rinsed the land, loved cool fresh billows of air, and the soft green and heather tones. Feeling content, aware how much she loved the Highlands, she walked on, singing softly.

Soon Bethoc's croft lay just below, close against the foot of the hill. Elspeth halted her step, cut her song short in mid-phrase, and frowned. Smoke curled, cosy and dark, from the chimney-hole set in a roof of heather thatch. Vines climbed up a stone wall. A white goat nibbled on a block of turf that also served as an outside bench, and several chickens pecked in erratic circles. The front door stood open, and all was quiet and apparently peaceful.

Yet a heavy dread gripped Elspeth's insides like a fist. She began to run.

Reaching the doorway, she peered into the shadowed interior. The open door admitted a wedge of cool daylight. Scant light was provided by a little window in the back wall.

"Bethoc?" she called, stepping inside. Her brogues shushed over the well-swept dirt floor. In the hearth, a circle of fitted stones in the middle of the floor, a peat fire crackled. The sweet, musty fragrance of dried herbs hanging in bunches from the rafters mingled with the peat smoke. Elspeth turned. "Bethoc?" she called.

Across the room, behind a woven cloth hung for a curtain, lay a snug box bed. Crossing the room, Elspeth drew aside the curtain, and looked down at Magnus's little daughter.

Eiric slept soundly, curled on top of the fur covering, a tiny form in a rumpled white shift, her black curls gleaming in the faint light, one thumb disappeared into her little mouth. Though dark as her mother had been, her eyes, when open, had Magnus's deep blue color.

Eiric's mother, Bethoc's daughter, had happily handfasted with Magnus. But before the year and day of their arrangement drew to an end, the girl had died bearing their daughter. Not even Bethoc's considerable skill could save her.

Magnus had been making plans to marry her in front of a priest. Instead, he had buried her, and had given his infant daughter Eiric into Bethoc's hands for raising. He knew that Eiric would be cared for with great love here. And Elspeth knew that in the two years since, he had secured his heart against hurt, making no attempt to find another wife.

Elspeth reached out to tuck a woolen blanket securely around the sleeping child. "Eiric
gràdhan
, little dear, where is your grandmother?" she murmured. Bethoc, she knew, would not have gone far when the child napped.

The second room of the house, formed by a half-wall made of a wattle screen, held Bethoc's sturdy, wide loom and little else. She saw that Bethoc was not in the weaving room.

Leaving the cottage, Elspeth walked around the side of the house, past the turf-bench and the goat, her strides parting the cluster of chickens. The kail-yard, a small garden behind the house, was deserted, its rows of herbs and vegetable plants lush and still in the damp, silent air.