The Return of Black Douglas (17 page)

Isobella nodded weakly. “Thank you, Grim.”

She was asleep before he was out the door.

***

Two days later, she was feeling good as new and wanted nothing more than to be outside. She yearned to feel the sun upon her skin and to inhale the fresh air blowing in from the Atlantic.

After a breakfast of smoked haddock and a poached egg, she walked toward a wild grey-blue sea beneath the rosy fingers of a grey-blue dawn spreading above her. She was accompanied by the sound of a narrow waterfall spilling out the rocky crag of old, moss-covered stones at the base of Màrrach. She paused to study the wide crescent beach of white sand that began at the base of rocky outcroppings and extended as far as her eye could see. Until it seemed to melt into mist and tall beach grass.

The sky was growing lighter now, and her feet sank into sandy heather. Shorebirds, angry at her intrusion, cried out and flapped away, swallowed by the sky. She watched them go, as she recalled a story of how the ancients had believed that when one’s parents died, there was nothing between the child and the sky.

She felt as if she had been hurled back to a time when the earth was new and unspoiled. She felt peaceful and at home, as if it was a place she had once known and left behind. Were her ancient Celtic ancestors calling her home?

She was filled with a wild sort of freedom, and had it not been for her caution over her newly healed ankle, she would have left the grass and run down the beach, searching for the throbbing heart of this magical place. Perhaps, like Alice, she would fall down the rabbit hole, down, down, down to the beginning of time.

Had she entered another dream?

She stood on a hill and looked out over the sea, and spotting a boat, she thought of how Odysseus must have felt, so enchanted that he did not return to Ithaca for ten years. Here she stood—the sentinel, with one foot in the past and one in the present. How like a book life is, she thought, where one turns the pages that turn into chapters, and the preceding pages hold clues to all the ones that follow.

Quite by accident, she stumbled upon an ancient burial site and something stirred deep within her soul. She paused and looked around, seeing how the sun cast a mellow glow upon the weathered, blackened stones, the cairns covered with lichen and moss. Something strong and powerful rose up within her, and she was filled with reverence and awe at the reality of walking upon the same ground where the Celts had walked.

She was about to turn back when she saw a low, stone fence around some of the standing stones and what appeared to be more recent burial slabs. The plot was terribly overgrown, and feeling the need for exercise, she began to pull weeds.

It was almost dark by the time she returned to the castle, too tired to join the others at supper in the Great Hall. As she made her way up to her room, she thought of all that had happened in the ten days since she arrived. In many ways it seemed much longer.

Later, when she went to bed, she decided that she had overdid it, for her back ached abominably and her knees, too. And her hands—she should have worn gloves. But her soul stirred with joy over the things she learned that day. She closed her eyes, and the damp breath of the Atlantic blew into her bedchamber, the past calling to her, deep, dark, and mysterious.

Chapter 22

An axe is sharp on soft wood.

—African proverb

Grim was right. Alysandir returned on the third day, and most of those who had been ill were over their illness, like Isobella. While the others saw to the game the hunters had killed, Alysandir went in search of Isobella. He checked her room and spoke to the servants. No one had any idea where she was, but Grim did tell him to go easy on her.

“Any special reason why I should?”

“Aye, she has been verra sick with the fever. I imagine she wanted to be away from Màrrach, where the air is fresh and clean.”

“Did you know she was going and you allowed it?”

“Nae, I didna ken what she was aboot. Had she asked, I would have taken her myself.”

“Ye have a lot to learn aboot the wiles of a woman, so dinna allow one to persuade ye to do that which ye shouldna.”

“I dinna think Isobella has any wiles. She is gentle, kind, honest, unselfish, and principled.”

“It seems she has clapped a padlock on yer mind and clouded yer judgment.”

“Are ye going to look for her? Can I come with ye?”

“I can handle Isobella.”

“Aye, ye ken and that is why I am worrit.”

“I willna be too hard on the lass,” Alysandir said, and turned away. He wondered how she had managed to disappear in a castle full of people without at least one of them seeing her.

He returned to the courtyard and mounted Gallagher, anxious to find her. He had advised her, more than once, not to wander beyond the castle walls unescorted. She did not seem to understand the danger. When he found her, he would make certain she understood.

He rode along the beach, checking the sand for footprints. He was about to turn back when he heard the musical chime of her laughter coming from the direction of the castle burial grounds. He reined Gallagher into a tight turn and rode until he saw the ancient standing stones of his ancestors jutting up from the ground not far from a burial cairn. He dismounted near an old coffin slab, marked with an ornamental cross so old that no one had any idea just who was buried there.

He stepped through the gate and saw the familiar Pictish stone with cup-and-ring engravings, but he hardly recognized it. Someone had cleared away all the lichen and wild vines growing over it, along with the weeds that had clumped around the base. He continued on and paused for a moment beside the grave of his mother, where he saw flowers had recently been planted.

H
ERE LYES
J
OANNA
M
ACKINNON
WHO DYED IN THE YEAR OF
G
OD, 1507

He spotted Isobella on her knees, just as she laughed again. She was watching the clownish antics of a puffin, with its gaudy rainbow-colored beak, looking as clumsy as a whale trying to fly. He stood quietly, captivated by the slender hands pulling weeds at the base of another Pictish stone. He also saw her black satchel lying nearby.

She seemed sadly alone. It had struck him that she was alone, but the idea had never seemed as real to him as it did now. Was there something about her loneliness that drew her to the graves? Did she find some kind of solace here?

He watched her wind her hand around a clump of grass, and he thought of the way she had wound herself around him in a very short time. He continued on his way unnoticed until his boot struck a rock and she turned toward him. Her eyes widened, her expression expectant, as if she knew he would berate her for disobeying him. He wondered what she would do if he pulled her into his arms and kissed her with all the wildness of this place.

“So you are back from the hunt,” she said.

“Aye. I have returned to find ye were disobedient. I told ye not to leave the castle unescorted.”

She turned her head to gaze out over the water. “Everyone has been sick with the fever, so I came alone. The flowers needed watering.”

“Grim told me ye were ill.”

She smiled. “He was being kind. Three days ago, I was certain I was dying. He assured me that I was not. And, as you can see, he was right.”

She was still holding the clump of grass she’d pulled from beneath a stone that had been carved with a rimmed mirror and a cross-shaft. She pointed at the inscription: MAQQ
OI
TALLUORRH
.

“It is thought that the Ogham inscription ‘MAQQ’ may mean son of or descendant of. It is believed that the Picts learned Ogham from the Gaelic-speaking Scots in the eighth century.”

She drew in a breath and added hastily, “That is… it is something trivial I read in a book once. I’m not sure if it is true.”

She was hiding something, but he let it pass for now. He opened his mouth to question her further, but she pointed toward his mother’s grave.

“Your mother’s name, Joanna…”

He cut her off. “You planted the flowers?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Why? You never met her.”

“Joanna is a lovely name. I thought she deserved to have colorful flowers instead of weeds. Women are intuitive creatures, you know. We feel things. Who is to say that some of these feelings did not come from those who came before us? I know your mother must have been a remarkable woman. It matters not that we never met. I feel her presence. I think she is not opposed to my being here.”

She looked at the name carved in cold, hard stone, but the name Joanna itself was soft and warm, like a baby’s breath. “Joanna means ‘God is gracious.’ It’s a beautiful name, and I know she was a beautiful woman.”

The muscle in his jaw worked. He did not want to discuss his mother. “And how would ye know that?”

“By looking at her beautiful daughters.”

“Aye. She was a beautiful woman,” he said, keeping his tone cold and indifferent. “My father never recovered from her loss.”

“I did not find a grave for your father.” She glanced about. “Isn’t he buried here?”

“No, he is buried at Iona, although he would have wanted to be buried here next to her.”

“Then why wasn’t he?”

“Our uncle intervened, and it was decided that as the clan chief, my father should be buried at the priory where our uncle is the abbot. It was the only time I have disagreed with our uncle.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and he caught the sadness in her voice.

She was an easy woman to be around, gentle… He paused a moment and almost smiled as he finished the thought. Gentle, kind, honest, unselfish, and principled, just as Grim said.

She was watching him now, frowning slightly against the glare from the sun. He was distracted by the sight of her, with her skirts billowing around her with each gust of wind, and he wanted to trust her. He dropped down to sit on his haunches beside her.

When she looked up, he held her trapped with his gaze. She remained still and quiet until he picked up the hand that had held the grass only moments before. He noticed the stains and scratches, several of which bled slightly.

“These are not the hands of a lady. Ye should have worn gloves.”

“I don’t have any gloves. Besides the cuts will heal.” She tried to jerk her hand back, but he held it fast. He brought it up to his lips to press a kiss upon it.

“I am not a lady of rank or title, and I like to work with my hands,” she said, anger lacing her voice. “Why did you come here looking for me? I don’t need your protection, as you can see.”

“That is for me to decide. Ye disobeyed me, and if you disobey me and suffer no consequences, others will think it permissible to do so.”

“So have me flogged.”

“Or confined to yer room.”

“Whatever you feel is necessary. I do not mind. It would be easier if you gave me permission to leave the castle. I don’t like being caged. I will only do it again.”

“And I will come after ye.”

She shrugged and looked off, gazing out over the water. “I saw a whale earlier, and I envied its freedom to go when and wherever it pleased.”

“Ye feel trapped here?”

Her laugh was soft but mocking. “I
am
trapped here.”

“How did this happen? How did ye come to be here? Ye gave yer word to tell me yer story. I want to hear it now.”

“You won’t believe me, I assure you, and you will probably toss me in the dungeon anyway.”

“I will put ye in the dungeon if ye dinna tell me yer story. The time for excuses is past.”

She sighed and continued to stare at the ocean. “I am not certain exactly how it happened. My sister and I came to Scotland to visit the ancestral homes of the Douglases. We visited St. Bride’s Kirk, and I cried when I put my hand on the effigy of Sir James, the Black Douglas.

“A day or so later, we visited Beloyn Castle to view the painting of Sir James. I was so captivated by the portrait of him that I reached out and touched it… just his boot…and I said something like, ‘I can’t believe it is really you,’ and everything went black.”

“What mean ye, it went black?”

She turned to look at him, wanting him to see the truth in her eyes. “It was like being in a cave where there was no light. I couldn’t see anything. I don’t know how long it was dark. It seemed only a second, and then a freezing wind blew over us. A green vapor that was nothing more than a mist began to take shape. The light returned. I glanced at the painting, but the image of the Black Douglas was no longer there.

“Suddenly, the mist began to swirl. It took on a human shape, and I recognized it as the Black Douglas. I remember I said, ‘Oh, dear God,’ and he answered me.”

“Ye mean the ghost spoke to ye?”

“Yes, with a deep, baritone voice that said, ‘Mistress, I am not God, but ye hae only yerself to blame for my being so hastily summoned forthwith.’”

Alysandir rose to his feet, yanked her up by her arm, and spun her around to face him, gripping her shoulders and giving her several good shakes. “Ye mock me with yer lies.”

She sighed, and all the breath seemed to go out of her. She looked him directly in the eyes, and he saw the weariness there, the defeat. “And so you have the truth that you asked for. Only you do not believe it. Now you see why I wanted to postpone telling you.” She shook her head.

“Do what you will with me. I don’t really care. I just want it to be over. It is as I expected. I told you that you would not believe me. But it is the truth, and I am so tired of worrying about your reaction. Take me to the dungeon. Put me in irons. At least I will be able to have peace there.”

He decided not to respond. He wanted the rest of her story first. “And yer sister experienced this with ye?”

“Yes. You saw her in the glen with me that day. We were talking to the Black Douglas.”

“He came with ye?”

“He brought us back with him. He didn’t send us alone, although for all the help he’s been, we might as well have been alone.” She sighed wearily, and her voice grew fainter. “He was there for a short time.”

She explained how they did not know they were in sixteenth-century Scotland until the Black Douglas told them and said they could not go home.

“That was when I noticed we were in the midst of a battle. Elisabeth was furious and told Sir James, ‘It was all Isobella’s fault!’ Then she told me, ‘All I am thinking right now is how much I would love to punch you, flat out.’”

He found that humorous and said that he did not know what to think. Her story was impossible, and yet she told it with sincerity and rather wearily, as if she accepted her fate as well as the fact that he would not believe her. He had seen this type of behavior in men dying on the battlefield, resigned to their death.

“Why did he bring ye here?”

She shrugged. “I asked him that, and he spoke in riddles. One moment, he seems to be my dearest friend, and the next he seems to enjoy throwing stumbling blocks in my way. ‘Ye are here because ye asked to be.’ I disagreed, but all he said was, ‘Ye will understand, lass, when the time is ripe.’”

She looked at Alysandir and hoped he did not see that she was fighting back tears. “The time must not be ripe, for I do not understand why he brought us here or why he allowed us to be separated.”

“Ye told me yer home was America.”

“Yes, it is, but not the America you know of. I am from the America of the future.”

“What mean ye, the future?”

“What year is it?” she asked.

“’Tis the year 1515.”

“My sister and I are from the twenty-first century, in the year 2011.”

“’Tis blasphemy.”

“No, it isn’t. Of course you are free to call it what you will. But believe me, it gets worse.”

“Ye canna be from the future. ’Tis no’ possible.”

“And yet I am here. I have kept my word and told you my story. You can believe it or not. If I am ever reunited with my sister, you can ask Elisabeth before I have a chance to speak to her. She will tell you the same.”

“Mayhap I willna believe her either. The two of ye could have made up this story in advance.”