The Return of Black Douglas (30 page)

Chapter 32

Any solution to a problem

changes the problem.

—R. W. Johnson (b. 1916)
U.S. journalist, newspaper executive

Five days later, the Mackinnons were reunited with much laughter and celebration. Isobella was there to greet them the moment they entered the Great Hall, and she was quick to hug Grim and Gavin before she turned her attention to Artair and Margaret. She would have recognized them anywhere, for they had that remarkable Mackinnon stamp.

Artair was a miniature Ronan—tall, slender, and black haired, with a secure future as a heartbreaker, for he was positively saturated with charm. Margaret was a study in rosy hues, for everything about her was rose tinted—strawberry-blond hair tied back with bands of a rosy hue, blushing cheeks, and rose-petal lips, all offset by the darkest of dark blue eyes.

“Grim said ye like to visit caves and look for things left by the Picts and Celts,” Artair said.

“I do love it. Did he tell you I have a room where I store a lot of the interesting things I find? If you like, I will show you the cave and some of my artifacts.”

“I should like very much to see yer things. I ken I would like to see yer cave, for I havena been in one before,” Artair said.

As for Margaret, she was primarily focused on Isobella’s braided hair. Enraptured would have been a better word, for she did not understand how one managed to French braid and interweave it with ribbons. “Will ye braid my hair with ribbons like yers?”

Isobella hugged her and assured her she would.

Across the room, Alysandir watched with interest. He could not remember seeing Isobella so animated, for she seemed to bring the room to life, from the riot of fairy-tale tints to the ribbons braided into her hair to the radiant greenish-gold hues of her velvet gown. The exquisitely clinging fabric wrapped itself around her, as soft as silk draping a body pulsing with life.

Out of the shadows of his mind, out of the mystery of secrecy, appeared reality. Isobella, alive, warm, captivating, all wrapped up with a warm, calm competence rarely seen in one so young. She seemed relaxed and confident, and he marveled at the difference he saw in her. Aye, she was graceful and beautiful; yet underlying her beauty was something delicate and sad. Was this the bloom of motherhood he saw, tinged with the sadness of having lost a child?

He would have given a fortune to have a portrait of her just as she was tonight.

He left the hall to retreat to the inner sanctum of his library, where he caressed a goblet of wine, his brow furrowed and his mind awhirl with decisions. He could not remember being weary, drunk, upset, remorseful, and enamored with a woman all at the same time. It was pure hell.

An obstinate, wrong-headed woman, intractable to the end. She was worse than a broody hen sitting on a china egg, determined to prove it would hatch. There was no convincing her. He was certain the problem that existed between them was because she did not know what she wanted. To get what he wanted, he had to give her what she wanted—and therein lay the beating heart of the beast.

What did she expect him to do? He had rescued her. He had brought her to his home, made her a part of his family, and not lain with another woman since he met her. Didn’t he accept Bradan as his son because he knew she wanted him to? He had tried to console her after the loss of the babe, and he had taken Elisabeth’s advice and given her plenty of time to heal her body and her mind.

What more did she want?

A dark cloud gathered in Norway and crossed over the sea to give birth to a cold wind that rode great waves to Mull. The wind wrapped itself around the towers of Màrrach Castle, penetrating cracks and crannies as it climbed higher, howling and swirling. It encircled the tall spires and then went whistling down the chimney to make the fire crackle and glow as it sent a sweeping shower of sparks flying into the room.

Alysandir stared into the leaping flames, and as if by magic, he could see his lady mother walking across the stone floors of the solar in her gold brocade kirtle, her flaxen hair braided like the Crown of Denmark upon her head. His father appeared, went to his wife, and put his arms around her, folding his hands across her belly, great with child.

Alysandir could not take his eyes from her face, not because of her beauty, but because of the expression, serene and peaceful, he saw there. He saw himself as a young child and his older brother, Hugh, playing at their parents’ feet.

Then he watched as the flames became the ghostly figure of a knight. He recognized the three white stars on the tunic as those worn by Sir James Douglas. Alysandir opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. They were not needed, for he knew what the Black Douglas had come to tell him, and the words danced in his head.

She wants what all women want, a husband to love her and babes playing at her feet.

The moment the thought penetrated his consciousness, the vision faded. The flames in the fireplace vanished, and his mind was blank for a moment. When it cleared, he doubted that he had seen a vision at all. He glanced downward, and he saw his clothes were covered with ash.

Marriage…

That dastardly word. That deadly, dreaded union of misery, betrayal, and pain. He did not need the ghostly Douglas floating and hovering about, directing his life and leading him down a path he had walked before. He would never again pledge his troth and commit himself to the agony that came with it. His heart was beyond hardened. He would not, could not, force himself to marry again.

Hell and damnation. Was there anything that he could do or give her, besides love and marriage, that would please her? Wasn’t there anything else she wanted that he could do to prove how much he cared for her?

Only Elisabeth…

It wouldn’t be easy to steal Elisabeth from under old Angus’s nose and bring her back to Màrrach. That would mean putting Duart Castle under attack and he, his brothers, and his soldiers at great risk. And Duart had never fallen, even against the bombardment of kings.

If they laid siege successfully, they had to get back out, once in, and more than likely many Mackinnons would die. If only he could come up with a plan to get them inside the castle without a fight or without being seen. The thought clung to him as cold and bleak as a wintry landscape, robbing him of his peace of mind and leaving his heart heavy.

***

Isobella heard the ring of spurs echo against the turret walls, but she went back to sleep without much thought. It was not until morning when she went down to breakfast that she discovered to whom the spurs belonged and where they were going.

“Good morning,” she said, greeting Alysandir’s sisters, who were scattered about the long table. She looked around. “Where is everyone else?”

“The men broke their fast early,” Sybilla replied. “Didn’t you hear them?”

“Alysandir, Drust, and Ronan left before daylight with a small band of soldiers,” Barbara said, when Isobella sat down beside her.

Isobella felt her heart drop and her appetite wither away. “Where were they going?”

Barbara said, “I wish I had more to tell ye, but all I know is that Ronan said Colin was in charge while they were gone.” Barbara buttered a breakfast scone and drizzled it with honey. “’Tisn’t the first time we’ve had to wait until they returned to learn what they were up to.”

Sybilla stirred her tea. “If ye are thinking about asking Colin, dinna, for it willna do ye any good. We tried, and he clamped his jaw tighter than a mussel shell.”

“It had to be something out of the ordinary,” Marion said, as she finished the last bite of oatmeal, “for they were accompanied by Mackinnon soldiers.”

***

After the evening meal, Alysandir and his brothers sat around a roughly hewn table with their uncle, Lachlan Mackinnon. They had arrived at the monastery on Iona earlier in the day.

“God’s blood, Alysandir, I canna give ye the monks’ robes. Ye ken old Angus Maclean would be angry enough to go to Rome to complain to the Pope. He will say that I was taking sides between two of ye and favoring my kin.”

He paused and looked at Alysandir, then poured him another goblet of wine. “Faith! I would give ye anything ye ask, if it were in my power, but as abbot, I must serve all my sheep, not just the hard-headed rams that I am related to. Ye should have known that when ye decided to come here.”

“It is more as if I was hoping ye might be off the island on business. Then, unbeknownst to ye, a thief would have absconded with some of yer robes.”

Up went Lachlan’s brows. “I am glad ye reminded me, for I suddenly remember that I need to go to the Abbey at Paisley to attend to some matters there with Robert Shaw, the Cluniac abbot.”

“We will be sorry to have missed ye when we arrive to borrow yer monk’s robes.”

Lachlan grinned at Alysandir and pushed aside his wooden trencher, reaching for his tankard. “There is a slight problem. We havena received a shipment of new robes from Rome for some time, so there are only the robes the monks are now wearing. Be not disheartened, though, for there are ample numbers of nun’s habits that ye may pilfer.”

“God’s teeth, uncle. Ye expect us to enter Duart as an order of nuns riding on the horses of knights?”

“Or ye could ride in on the back of an ass, as did our Lord and Savior when he entered Jerusalem.”

Alysandir did not have a reply to that one, so Lachlan went on to say, “Ye could be an order of Augustinian nuns bound for Iona whose ship sank in the Sound of Mull. They wouldna expect ye to come from the sea garbed in nun’s habits. Or ye could be set ashore by pirates who absconded with yer ship.” The old man chuckled.

“Ye do look mighty pleased with yerself, Uncle,” Alysandir said.

“Aye, I am at that. And now, if ye dinna mind my leaving ye here, I find ’tis time fer me to make my departure for Paisley. Ye do ken how to find the nunnery, do ye not?”

“Aye,” Alysandir said, grinning, “’tis where Barbara stayed.”

“One and the same,” Lachlan said. “God’s bones, Alysandir! Ye make me wish I were a younger lad and not yet given over to a life in the church, and I would join ye!” With another hearty laugh, he gathered his robes and quit the room.

Two days later, the Mackinnons waited until after dark and then sailed into the Sound of Mull. They traveled in a small boat that was well hidden under the starless sky, rendezvousing with the rest of the Mackinnon’s men on the rocky shore.

Alysandir glanced at the men around him and said a short prayer for their safety, the successful rescue of Elisabeth, and a grateful Isobella to greet him with a kiss, and hopefully more, when he returned home. He was about to add wishes that his clansmen would arrive soon when Simon McLeish suddenly appeared out of nowhere to greet them.

“’Tis good to see ye, Simon,” Alysandir said, “for I was close to cursing ye for leaving us stranded and at the mercy of the Maclean.”

“Ye willna see Angus, for ’tis good and bad news I have to tell ye. Angus and about four hundred of his men left at dawn for Ardnamurchan. It seems there are troubles brewing between the MacDonalds and the McLains.”

“What kind o’ trouble?” Alexander asked.

“We intercepted a messenger leaving Duart day before yesterday. He brought word that MacDonald of Lochalsh was attempting to lay claim to the lordship of the Isles and is now laying siege to Mingary Castle.”

A frown made two deep furrows between Alysandir’s brows. If this wasn’t handled properly, the entire Western Isles could end up fighting over control of the Sound. “Is this related to McLain murdering MacDonald’s father two years ago or a new matter?”

Simon stroked his chin and said, “It seems MacDonald still festers over his father’s death not being avenged.”

“God’s bones!” Alysandir said. “Does he not understand what he is starting? The Duke of Albany sanctions whatever McLain does.”

“Aye, but McLain’s loyalty has earned him the vengeance of nearly all his tenants. When ordered under the Privy Seal to support him, they refused and MacDonald attacked. So Angus and his Macleans have gone to support MacDonald and lay siege to Mingary Castle, after hearing that Argyll was on his way to Ardnamurchan with an army of men.”

Alysandir’s face was unreadable. “I am certain Argyll has his own plans to take advantage of the turmoil and thereby seize Ardnamurchan and Mingary for himself, and gaining control of the gateway to the Sound of Mull.”

“Does this change yer plan to rescue the lass?” Simon asked, “Or do we involve ourselves with Argyll and Ardnamurchan?”

Alysandir did not have to think about his response. His plan had not changed, and the news that the Maclean and his men were away afforded an even greater possibility of success. Alysandir had the advantage of time and place, and that was half the victory. He would seize the moment to rescue Elisabeth. He would return to Màrrach and keep his nose out the troubles brewing across the Sound of Mull. Whenever Argyll was involved in something, it did not bode well for the others.

Alysandir’s reply was firm and spoken with conviction. “We will trick them with our ruse and rescue the lass as planned,” he replied, “and then we shall return to Màrrach and leave Maclean and Argyll to themselves to settle the dispute with McLain over Ardnamurchan. ’Tis of no concern of ours, at least not for the present.”