The Return of Black Douglas (4 page)

Chapter 6

But he was not so fair that we

Should speak greatly of his beauty.

In visage was he somewhat grey,

And had black hair as I heard say;

But of limbs he was well made,

With bones long and shoulders broad.

When he was merry he was lovable,

And meek and sweet in company;

But who in battle might him see,

Another countenance had he.

—Description of Sir James, the Black Douglas
from the epic poem
The Brus
, 1375
John Barbour (1325?–1395), Scottish poet

A bitterly cold draft swirled around Isobella, a windy and destructive force that grew in strength. A glowing light surrounded by a shimmering green mist stood on one of the steps of the staircase a few feet away. There was something terribly exciting and horribly frightening about the swirling green mist, for in its center a solid shape had begun to take human form. If she’d had a lick of sense, she would have bolted. Paralyzed with awe, she murmured, “Oh, my God!”

From out of the mist a baritone voice boomed like thunder, “Mistress, I am not God. Ye hae only yerself to blame for my being so hastily summoned forthwith.”

Right before her eyes, a real, live former human being was assembling his ghostly self. It was one of the few times in her life that Isobella was completely speechless. She wanted to scream, but her vocal chords were frozen. Her feet felt like concrete blocks. She relaxed, completely mesmerized by the pleasing masculine face looking at her with an almost tender expression.

She blinked, yet he was still there, a man well built, strong and slim, with black hair, a stern countenance, and eyes that were darkly, deeply, beautifully blue. But, it was his suit of armor that identified him. While her heart pounded fearfully, she whispered, “I know who you are.”

His eyes twinkled merrily. “Do ye now?”

“You are Sir James, the Black Douglas. You returned as a ghost in 1759, when Robert Douglas owned this castle.”

His eyes shined brighter than before, “Ahhh, Meleri. Now, there was a lass!”

“That’s what I’ve always been told. She was my many times great-grandmother.” Isobella saw the amused way he was looking at her. She felt like such a dolt. Like he didn’t know that.

“I know you were Scotland’s bravest knight and greatest warrior. You fought beside Robert the Bruce, were feared by the English, were sung about in ballads… and I don’t have the faintest idea why you are standing here, or why I’m babbling like the village idiot when I should be fainting from fright.”

“Ye do have a way o’ talking overmuch,” he said.

“Yes, I know. Am I dreaming?”

“’Tis no dream, but reality, lass.”

Ye gods! I’m talking to the ghost of the Black Douglas.
She felt as if a bolt of lightning had flashed through her skull. Her mouth was dry, and Elisabeth was squeezing her hand so tightly that Isobella was certain all her blood had given up trying to get through and rushed back to the sanctuary of her heart. Even her eyeballs ached. And her brain! It ached like someone had used it for first base.

“You’re a real person, yet you’re a ghost.”

His brows rose in question. “I am not always an invisible nonentity. Why do ye look so stunned? Ye did summon me forthwith, did ye not?”

“Summon? Oh no, I would never. I don’t know how.”

“Aye, lass, ye did, for it was ye who touched my ancient heart with the warmth of yer tears shed over my effigy at St. Bride’s. No one has ever done that, ye ken—not once in the eight hundred years since my puir boiled bones were placed there. ’Twas yer words that awakened me and summoned me forth.”

“My words?” she said, sounding like a hoarse crow. “But I didn’t say anything.” Then suddenly, she remembered.
I’m so sorry.
“Oh, you mean you read my thoughts?”

Were his eyes twinkling? “Aye, ghosting doth have its privileges, ye ken.”

Isobella’s brows rose and she said, “What kind of privileges?”

“Mayhap I will show ye.”

She studied him with close scrutiny. “You didn’t happen to whip up a little surreptitious interlude for me last night, did you?”

With eyes as full of mischief as a four-year-old, he asked, “What do ye think?”

She gasped. Was her dream lover real? She was about to ask for a repeat performance, but Elisabeth was gouging her ribs. She turned toward Elisabeth and everything began to darken and spin, wobbling noisily with a great whirring sound. Isobella’s breath caught in her throat, and she felt as if the air was being sucked from her lungs. She heard a loud roaring—louder than a freight train flying by at great speed. She put her hands over her ears to stifle the sound but to no avail.

The earth beneath her feet vibrated wildly, and she feared she was being sucked upward into a tornado. Elisabeth’s face was bloodless, and her wild hair rivaled Medusa’s snakes, as she held Isobella’s hand in a death grip. Debris swirled, and trees were stripped of their leaves, laid almost flat from the force.

Isobella’s long hair whipped about her face, tangled as seaweed. She feared her clothes were being ripped asunder as she was drawn into a whirling, swirling mass of debris. Even the light of the sun dimmed and, for a time, went out like a snuffed candle.

Surrounded by an inky blackness, Isobella knew the world they loved was lost to them. Then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.

Light returned. Grey and smoky at first, but then infused with pale, soft color. The world grew still and eerily quiet. For a shimmering moment, Isobella saw the Black Douglas’s majestic figure as it had been in life, and then it began to fade. Somewhere, in the maze of her mind, his voice spoke to her and she felt comforted by the words, clear and sharp, with their lilting burr.

Fear na ye…

Chapter 7

From ghoulies and ghosties

And long-leggedy beasties

And things that go bump in the night,

Good Lord deliver us!

—Scottish prayer

Isle of Mull

Scotland, 1515

It was dark when Alysandir and Drust stepped into their small boat and rowed the short distance across the Sound of Iona to Mull, where their brother Colin waited with their horses. The night was inky and black. A furtive moon slid between slow-moving clouds to illuminate everything below, including the boat that navigated a labyrinth of craggy rocks, dim in the moonlight. With a yank of the reins, Colin led the horses closer, anxious to hear if their sister Barbara was safely tucked away in the nunnery.

The boat rocked as Drust stood and steadied himself. The current lapped against the hull as he searched the rocky shore for a sign of his brother and spotted Colin’s fiery hair. “Troth, brother! ’Tis good to see ye.”

“Did ye have trouble finding me?” Colin called back.

“Aye, ’tis as difficult to see ye as the flame of a stick of resinous wood.”

Colin grumbled, and Drust chuckled loudly enough for Colin to hear. It always set Colin’s temper on edge to be teased about his red hair, and teasing his brother was something Drust rarely resisted.

Tonight, Colin ignored his brother’s taunt and quietly stood guard while Alysandir heaved himself over the side of the boat and landed with a gentle splash. The hull scraped against rocks as Drust pulled the boat ashore. Eager horses pawed at the sand, tossing their heads with impatience. Colin extended his hand, and with a toss, threw the reins toward his oldest brother.

Alysandir caught them in one hand and spoke a few soothing words. Gently stroking Gallagher’s neck, he mounted. The moment he was in the saddle, the sturdy hobbler broke into a canter along a sandy stretch of sand, splashing through the shallow water and throwing up clumps of wet sand. As Alysandir turned his mount toward higher ground and broke into a gallop, he fleetingly thought of the Macleans and how old Angus must be raising their clannish ire. That did not bother Alysandir, for he preferred Angus’s anger to his cunning, for an angry man was ever a stupid one.

However, it did rankle to be spending so much time on a gnat like Angus Maclean when more important matters needed to be dealt with. Besides his troubles with the clan elders who wanted to see him married, Alysandir had to deal with Scotland being trapped in the middle of a power struggle between England and France. It was like crossing a vast chasm on a rope bridge burning behind them, while all manner of poisonous vipers waited at the bottom.

Behind him, his brothers quickly mounted and rode after him, accompanied by the muffled sound of horses’ hooves against the boggy soil. “Did all go well with ye?” Colin asked when he slowed his horse to ride next to Drust.

Drust gazed at the leather bag tied to Colin’s saddle and asked, rather good-naturedly, “What have ye there in those bags, Colin?”

Colin shrugged. “I like to be prepared. Did all go well?”

“Aye, Barbara is comfortably settled in with the nuns, cozy as can be, and our uncle said to give ye his blessing.”

Colin nodded. “Our uncle… did ye warn him that there could be trouble with the Macleans if they learn Barbara is in hiding there?”

“He knows, but he is no’ too worrit aboot it. He thinks Angus Maclean is too smart to risk the wrath of the church in Rome just to snatch a prospective bride from the nunnery so he can marry her off to his son. Angus knows our uncle is the abbot and that the church would soon learn of such a rash act.”

“Ye do seem a mite delighted at the prospect,” Colin said.

Drust grinned widely. “Aye, ’tis true enough that it is a source of delight to rankle the old dog by pulling his tail.”

“There never was any love lost between Lachlan Mackinnon and Angus Maclean,” Colin said. “I heard they both had their eye on the same lass at one time, and Angus lost out. There has been bad blood between them ever since.”

Drust replied, “Weel, that may be, but I ken there’s never been any love lost between the Macleans and the Mackinnons since the beginning of time. Bitter as gall and wormwood it is to Angus, knowing the Mackinnons belong to the kindred of St. Columba and that many have been abbots at the monastery he started. ’Twas always as damp as water on the aspirations of ole Angus.”

“The two of ye are overly confident on the eve of strife. Ye should be preparing yer mind for battle and filling yer soul with iron will,” Alysandir said, cutting into their conversation. He remembered when things had been that way between him and his older brother, Hugh, and how it had wounded him to be the one sent to bring Hugh’s body back from where it had fallen at the Battle of Flodden Field.

He remembered, too, how he had not wanted to take the mantle of tribal chief from the shoulders of his dead brother. In the end, Alysandir had assumed a role he had never asked for and never really wanted, and at times like this he envied his younger brothers the freedom of their carefree ways and lighthearted banter, for heavy hung the mantle of responsibility upon his shoulders.

His brothers fell silent and rode on, while Alysandir contemplated how he had been only twelve years old—a peace-loving lad and a bit of a scholar—when his father had sent him to school in France. He recalled how confusing and disorienting he had found being in a foreign country, with Parisian culture so far removed from a Highlander’s life.

But he had been a happy lad, hardworking and resilient, and he had taken to his studies like a duck to water. Soon he had settled in happily enough, making friends, doing well in his studies, and getting into trouble on occasion, never knowing that one day he would call upon all those experiences, trouble included, to lead the Mackinnons as their chief.

His father had wanted him to learn to interpret official documents, both public and private, most of which were couched in Latin—and learn them, he did. In addition to Latin, he also became fluent in English and French. Although Gaelic was spoken in the Highlands, Lowlanders and those of the noble classes usually conversed in Norman French, and most of them also spoke English. Years later, his knowledge of languages did open doors, as his father had said it would.

Alysandir learned to play the lute and to sing, neither of which he enjoyed. He was tutored in literature and writing, even though it was expected that he would always have clerks at his disposal. He excelled at horsemanship and the use and care of arms, as well as being educated in the behavior, skills, and qualities befitting the second son of the Mackinnon chief.

He often wondered if his father had had some sort of premonition that his second son might one day be called upon to lead and guide the Mackinnons, for if he had not had the education afforded him, he would have been ill prepared to lead and would have fallen woefully short of being the kind of leader the ancient tribe deserved. Yet, there were times like today when Alysandir doubted he was good enough, wise enough, and strong enough to be the leader his father and brother had been. So many memories; so many deaths, so much pain. Life goes on.

His face was as cold and imperturbable as his thoughts, which he knew should be directed toward more important matters, like keeping a sharp eye out for signs of trouble. In spite of the moon, the world seemed to have closed in on them, and the wind blew a little bit stronger, while the air grew a wee bit colder. There was definitely something afoot this night and he had a strong sense of foreboding.

He had never wanted more to feel the walls of Caisteal Màrrach closing around him. He longed for his brothers to be safe and out of harm’s way, to know again the warm and comfortable feeling of belonging. Once inside the castle he would feel the heat of a fire drawing the seawater from his boots and hear the sound of Duff’s tail thumping against his chair.

“’Tis a serious face ye be wearing.” Drust said, after riding silently beside Alysandir for several minutes. “Ye have the look of a haunted man.”

“We need to pick up the pace, lads,” Alysandir said. He spurred Gallagher into a fast lope, not bothering to look back to see if his brothers followed. He knew they did.

A faster pace did not outrun the apprehension that had captured and held his thoughts since they left Barbara at the nunnery. He worried for her safety but for his brothers’ more. It would make no sense for Angus Maclean to harm Barbara when his son fancied himself in love with her. Angus would not be so kind toward her brothers.

At daybreak, Colin stood in the stirrups and searched the horizon for a glimpse of Alysandir. Seeing none, he said, “Sometimes I wonder why he wants us to ride with him, for he canna stay be with us verra long without riding off alone.”

“’Tis a part of who he is,” Drust said. “Part of it comes from the role he inherited. Since he became chief, there has been a change in him. It is as if he was touched in some magical way by the same passions that touched our ancestors. So, dinna worrit if ye canna see him. He is close enough that he can see us.”

“So, what are ye trying to tell me, Drust?”

“That we canna criticize that which we dinna understand.”