The Return of Black Douglas (5 page)

Chapter 8

The time is out of joint;

O cursèd spite,

That ever I was born

to set it right!

—
Hamlet
, Act I, Scene 5
William Shakespeare (1564–1616)
English dramatist and poet

Isle of Mull

Scotland, 1515

Isobella floated in a painless world, thinking she was dead and expecting her first peek of Heaven. Until she caught a glimpse of Elisabeth. Isobella frowned, feeling a bit fuzzy-headed and not certain about anything other than the fact that she did not appear to be dead. Well, that was something positive, at least. After enduring Elisabeth’s fierce glare for a few seconds, Isobella did manage a weak, “What?”

Elisabeth’s green eyes were full of fire. “What happened? I feel like I’ve been thrown out of a rocket traveling a million miles an hour.” With a bewildered expression, she paused to look around.

“Are we in hell?”

“Try again,” Elisabeth said.

Isobella looked around. “I’d say we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Good guess, but we might get a better answer from that specter of malevolence hovering over there.”

Isobella turned her head and saw a vaporous, glowing light taking solid shape. She recognized the emerging human figure immediately. “Did you send us through a vacuum that sucked us up and dropped us here?” she asked angrily, though still a little awed that she was talking to the greatest warrior in Scottish history. “Are we still in Scotland, and if so, where?”

“Aye, ye are in Scotland, on the Isle of Mull.”

“And you brought us here for a reason?”

“Aye,” he said with a nod. “As bidden.”

“But we didn’t.” Bidden? A nice, Middle English word, she thought, but not often used in the present time. “Ah, you mean because I cried back at St. Bride’s when we visited your crypt?”

“Aye, yer tears reached out across the centuries to summon me. I might have been a mighty knight in the service of my king, but a woman’s tears were ere my undoing.”

Isobella could well believe that, but she didn’t get to think upon it further, due to Elisabeth’s persistent rib jabbing, which she ignored. How could she explain that this was truly the archaeological opportunity of a lifetime? Instead of digging through ruins for answers, she had her own personal history book in the flesh, so to speak.

There he stood, a bona fide knight-errant, right out of medieval Scotland’s romantic past and wearing the clothes of his knighthood: chausses and a mail tunic called a hauberk and a light blue tunic, belted low about the hips. He was a handsome man, not overly tall by twenty-first century standards, but tall for the fourteenth-century male, slender with well-developed muscles, dark blue eyes, and hair of the blackest black. The legendary Black Douglas was a medieval heartbreaker if she had ever seen one.

It was all so terribly romantic, at least to Isobella, and she thought it divine good fortune that she was there. For a moment, her mind wandered off to think about what her contemporaries would give for an opportunity like this. Her sister, on the other hand, could not be charmed if Jude Law and Orlando Bloom were standing in front of them, with Patrick Dempsey and Johnny Depp as backup.

Elisabeth suddenly found her voice. “Are you really the Black Douglas? No, never mind. Don’t answer that. It isn’t possible,” she said, her tone one of pure disbelief. “You cannot be a ghost because ghosts don’t exist.” She put her hand to her forehead and looked around, as if searching for help. “I don’t believe this is happening. It’s impossible. When people die, they stay dead.”

“And yet I am here. Do ye have a better explanation?”

“All right, if you are a ghost, then undo this mischief. Take us back to our car.”

Isobella took a deep breath and glanced tentatively around the narrow glen. The level stretch of ground rose to a slope at one end, rocky and choked with boulders, before dropping away to a ravine or gorge, or whatever they called it in these parts, for she could see the dark brown ridge of a mountain rising some distance beyond it. The rest of the glen was lined with a thin stand of larch trees and a thick tangle of briars that gradually thinned behind them to reveal an open moor.

“Thank you for this little excursion to Mull, but we really need to go now. We must find a town to rent another car. We are flying home in a few days and have many places to see, but Mull isn’t one of them.”

“We have no cars, buses, or airplanes.”

Slack-jawed, the twins stared at each other and then at him. Elisabeth threw up her arms in exasperation. “So send us to Beloyn so we can get our car.”

“I canna do that today,” Douglas said.

“You mean we have to wait until tomorrow?” Isobella asked.

Douglas shrugged. “’Twill be no different tomorrow.”

“Then when can we go back?” Elisabeth asked.

“Who knows? Mayhap never. Mayhap when the spirit moves me.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“Never mind that,” Elisabeth said, turning back to the Black Douglas. “I did not ask to come here. Why did you bring me? Isobella put her hand on your effigy, not I! You had no right to drag me along.”

“’Tis no fault of mine that ye managed to stick like a leech to yer sister and now ye are here.”

“Stick like a… listen, you vacuous vapor, I had nothing to do with this. I only came on this trip to keep her company. It seems to me you are the one at fault here. So tell us how we get out of here.”

He looked around. “Weel, you could go that way,” he said, pointing to his right. “Or you might try that way,” he said, pointing to his left. “Or mayhap ye should go both ways,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and pointing in both directions.

Elisabeth threw up her hands. “I would like a straight answer for a change. One that makes sense.”

“Let’s back up for a minute,” Isobella said. “Where can we rent a car or catch a bus?”

“Ye willna find those things here,” he said.

“Why not?” Isobella asked.

His expression was rather mischievous. Isobella thought that finally they were getting somewhere. Then he said, “Ye are in sixteenth-century Scotland, and we havena such things.”

Isobella gasped. “You mean
the
sixteenth century? The Early Renaissance period? Oh, Lord! What are we going to do?” She turned to Elisabeth. “Do you realize what this means? We have traveled back five hundred years to the beginning of the Renaissance.”

“All I am thinking right now is how much I would love to punch you, flat out.”

Isobella ignored her and turned back to Douglas. “Is Henry VIII King of England?”

“Aye.”

“I knew it!” Isobella fairly jumped around, thrilled and dumbfounded at the same time. One rational thought managed to slip through and she smiled. “I guess that’s one way to get rid of Jackson. He hasn’t even been born yet.”

Elisabeth was not looking very happy and obviously didn’t give a flip whether Jackson had been born or not. “You’re jesting, right? This really isn’t the sixteenth century, is it?”

“Aye, ’tis the year 1515.”

“Who is the king of Scotland?” Elisabeth asked, her brows knit with serious intensity. Isobella gave her an astonished look. Elisabeth wouldn’t know the correct answer if it was written down on a piece of paper and handed to her. Isobella had to think hard for a moment before deciding that was when King James V was just a babe.

“’Tis the infant King James,” he replied.

“Why did you bring us to Mull?” Isobella asked.

“Ye are here because ye asked to be.”

Isobella shook her head. “I never asked to come here. Why would you say that?”

She saw a spark of amusement in the blue depths of his eyes. “Ye will understand when the time is ripe.”

They were interrupted by the animated sounds of rolling chaos that suddenly filled the air around them. They listened to the clamor of clanging swords and the shouts of warring men. “I think we better stop talking and start praying,” Isobella said, looking over Elisabeth’s shoulder to stare at the warring knights.

“I hope they are friends of yours,” Elisabeth said, turning toward the Black Douglas, “Could they be English?”

“English!” Isobella almost spat the words out. “You can’t leave us to the mercy of those English bastards!”

A smile curved across the fine mouth of the Black Douglas. “That’s a lass!”

“We need more than compliments,” Isobella said. “This isn’t looking good for any of us. Well, not you perhaps, since they can’t run you through, but it’s something we need to worry about.”

Elisabeth agreed. “You’re already dead. They can’t hurt you. But our predicament is a bit different. Are you going to take us back or just hand us over to the enemy?”

They had only a brief glimpse of his broad smile before his image began to lighten and grow dim, before it faded completely away.

Chapter 9

In trouble to be troubled

Is to have your trouble doubled.

—
The Further Adventures of Robinson Crusoe
, 1719
Daniel Defoe (1660–1731)
English novelist and journalist

Morning arrived. An uneasy wind stirred, brisk and chilling. The horses were restless as the Mackinnons rode on, caution their constant companion. They welcomed the full force of the warm morning sun as they left the heather-clad moorland to ride through the shadows of deep glens, surrounded by thick woodlands. A golden eagle soared, lazily gliding overhead. A large flock of skylarks flapped out of the trees in announcing their arrival. The feeling was stronger now: Alysandir felt the presence of something evil-intentioned, a treacherous presence moving about furtively, waiting in a shadowy corner, ready to pounce.

“Keep a good vigil, lads,” he said to his brothers. “I have a uneasy feeling we are being watched.”

“Aye, I can almost smell the Macleans.” Colin looked around anxiously as he spoke the words.

They splashed across a narrow, swiftly running burn. When they reached the other side, Colin’s horse began to dance and shy away, nervously chomping the bit. The damp, salty tang of the sea hung heavy in the air. Alysandir cautiously took note of the silence in the glen as they approached.

It was suddenly still.

The birds were quiet.

Nothing stirred.

He glanced at his brothers and saw the tension in their faces and in the way they gripped the reins. He brushed away a few flecks of foam thrown from Colin’s horse that had landed on his tunic. His own horse tossed his head and pranced sideways, snorting, the bit clanging against his teeth, as if anxious to be away from this place. Alysandir gave Gallagher a calming stroke and slowly moved his arm closer to his sword.

The faces of his brothers were set, grim and hard. They were ready for whatever lay ahead. Colin said, with nervous dryness, “’Twould seem the Macleans are aware that we have taken Barbara to Iona.”

“Aye, they probably knew the moment we rode away with her,” Alysandir said. “They were certain of it when we arrived back on Mull without her. ’Tis sorry I am that I couldna see the face of Fergus when he realized we outwitted them.”

Fergus bragged oft enough that Barbara Mackinnon would be his wife, one way or another. One way was to ask the Mackinnon chief, Alysandir, for Barbara’s hand in marriage, which Fergus did.

When Alysandir made the request known to Barbara, she almost spat back the words of her response, “Fergus Maclean! Troth! I would sooner marry the devil or drown myself in the Firth of Lorne than spend one day with him!”

Angus took offense at Barbara’s refusal of Fergus’s offer and gave his blessing to Fergus, should he decide he wanted her enough to seize her and force her into marriage. Now, Barbara was tucked safely away in the nunnery at Iona and Alysandir hoped that Fergus Maclean’s desire would soon be transferred to some other bonnie lass before Barbara started to complain and make demands to return home.

“I will wager that the Macleans will have every member of their clan out to take revenge,” Drust said. “We can expect to find them lurking behind every tree we pass.”

“I have a feeling it willna be long afore we find just what tree that is,” Colin said.

Alysandir paid them no mind. Revenge was certain because it was the Macleans’ nature to settle everything with a fight. Angus was easily roused to anger and liked to incite and provoke those who did not act according to his wants and desires. Alysandir was slow to anger, and it was his way not to set himself against anyone needlessly but simply to let the varlets go on with their play undisturbed. He did not want trouble, but he would not run from it if put in his path. He protected his clan and his kin, and if the Macleans wanted a fight, they would get one, no matter how outnumbered the Mackinnons were.

He looked down at the scar on his right hand—a badge of honor, his father called it—a reminder of his first encounter with a Maclean sword. He was ten years old when the Macleans attacked as the Mackinnons returned from a visit to their uncle. During the battle, a Maclean, with sword drawn, charged Hugh. Without thinking, Alysandir guided his horse against the Maclean, causing the Maclean’s thrust to miss its mark. Furious, the Maclean had turned on Alysandir and sliced his hand in retribution. Their father had evened the score by running his sword through the Maclean.

Alysandir did not anticipate such a large number of warriors as there had been that day. Old Angus was too proud to take a large party of Macleans to deal with three Mackinnons—and one of them a novice. Alysandir and his brothers rode on, following no track and leaving no signs that they had passed. Before long, they left the cloak of trees and rode into the clearing of a glen.

Ahead of them, the peaks of Ben More rose up. The mountain’s shoulders were bare now, all traces of snow having melted away. Alysandir wondered if his brothers remembered how their father had taken them to climb Ben More when they were young. He caught a flash of movement in the screen of trees just ahead.

“Have care, lads,” he said, speaking softly. He said a quick prayer as six Macleans poured over the hilltop and thundered toward them. The Mackinnons drew swords, with the ringing sound of metal against metal, as they spurred their horses forward crying out the Mackinnon battle cry,
“Cuimhnich bas Alpein!”
“Remember the death of Alpin.”

The Macleans, their crests clearly visible and their swords already drawn, charged into the center of the opposing threesome. Like the Mackinnons, they were in light armor—surcoat and leggings and a chain-mail byrnie over their tunics to cover the head and shoulders.

“Hold fast,” Alysandir said.

The words were barely spoken, when one of the Macleans charged and rode at full gallop to crash into Colin’s horse. Colin fell to the ground, somewhat stunned by the blow. Then, with a spring like a grimalkin faëry cat shooting out of the woods, Colin leapt up. He didn’t have time to draw back his arm for thrust or parry, so Alysandir raised his sword, slashing his blade to meet Colin’s attacker. His blow missed the chain-mail byrnie that covered the Maclean’s head and drove deeply between it and the man’s chin, where it pierced him just below the collarbone, sending him to the ground.

That left five Macleans still mounted.

Another rider charged Colin, who seemed to be holding his own even without a horse. Alysandir saw him deftly swing his sword to the left to push aside a blade that struck his helmet. The blow glanced against his steel mesh shirt before it slid harmlessly down his arm, where it made a slicing cut at his wrist. Colin, like Alysandir, would have, for the rest of his life, a reminder of his first encounter with a Maclean sword.

Drust was charged by one of the more skilled Macleans. A moment before the rider struck, Drust’s horse made a quick turn and leap to the side, which caused the Maclean to inaccurately thrust his sword, and he hit nothing but air. Drust, meanwhile, rode toward the Maclean, fast as a young colt turned out to grass, and managed a deep, slashing cut that laid open the man’s leg, causing considerable damage to the bone.

The wounded rider swayed in the saddle and rode for a few feet, barely managing to hold on while leaning heavily to the left, before he fell to the ground and landed on his back. With a quick yank on the reins, Alysandir pulled his horse into a tight turn and charged after the fallen Maclean, driving the point of his sword through the mail-covered chest. He yanked the blade free and turned back to join his brothers, never seeing the blood that spurted red. Four Macleans now. The odds were improving.

Alysandir deflected the blow from a Maclean and glanced toward his brothers to see how they fared. Stunned, he could not believe what he was seeing, for his brothers and the Macleans had ceased fighting. Not a sound could be heard on what had been, a moment before, a place of battle. The Macleans remained on one side of the glen and his brothers on the other, separated by some ten feet or so. All of them were stuck dumb, staring bewildered at something behind him.

He sheathed the mighty sword to the hilt in its scabbard and swore. Women?

He blinked to clear his vision, but there they were. Two women near a field of battle. One of them was almost naked, with her bare arms and shapely legs gleaming, slender and pale, in the morning light, while the other wore what looked like a man’s light blue chausses. Why were they dressed so strangely? Where did they come from? Where were they going? Who were they?

More importantly, what were the Mackinnons going to do about them? They couldn’t very well ride off and leave the women to the mercy of the Macleans. From the looks of things, the fighting was over. Alysandir glanced at his brothers, and without so much as a nod, the three of them spurred their mounts and rushed the Macleans, waving their swords and shouting the Mackinnon battle cry. The Macleans didn’t wait around to see what they would do next, but quickly turned their horses around and fled back up the hill and into the trees.

Alysandir watched them leave. His victorious mood quickly turned to irritation. What was he going to do with two strumpets? He couldn’t ride off and leave them to a fate that could easily end with their deaths. He looked them over, trying to decide what to do. He was bothered in a way he did not like, especially by the half-naked one with little inhibition and even fewer clothes. Who or what was she?

He had not a glimmer of an idea what to do about them. Where there was a woman, danger was not far behind. And near-naked ones were worse than slings and arrows. A near-naked woman spread the wildfires of desire, and when it came to lust, Alysandir had learned that unsatisfied was best.

As he turned his horse away, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing again toward the delicate white flesh and shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. He set his spurs to his horse and wished thoughts of the near-naked lass away. Women were better left to his dreams, for the real ones were nothing but a sea of trouble.