When Fate Dictates (13 page)

“But he will be alright, won’t he?” I asked,
feeling as though I had just lost a best friend.

“Aye, Corran, Percy will be fine. Now, do you
see that print shop?” he said.

I nodded, turning my head slightly to get a
better look at the shop. A sign above the door read. ‘Their
Majesties’ Printer for the City of York and the Five Northern
Counties’. Well I guessed that was fairly impressive but hardly
worth the mention, given that this particular area seemed awash
with print shops, goldsmiths, glass painters and ale houses.

“What of it?” I asked.

“It’s run by a John White. He is a supporter
of the English King William. White risked his life printing
William’s manifesto. James had him imprisoned in Hull for his work
and he was awaiting execution when news came that James had fled to
France and William was the new King. Be careful what you say to
him, he is not a man to be trusted,” he paused, thoughtfully. “Be
careful of his wife too.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“I know of his work,” he said simply,
wrapping his arm protectively around me as we completed our short
journey through the alley.

“You want your key?” I asked, fumbling
clumsily in my skirt pocket, eventually holding it up for him.

“I gave it you to open the door with lass,”
he said.

“Well I thought you might like that honor,
seeing as how it is your house now,” I joked, handing the key to
him.

The door was heavy and creaked loudly as he
pushed his way into a room. It was as dark inside as a moonless
night and it smelled of damp wood and stale smoke.

“I can’t see a thing,” I said, reaching in
front of me for Simon.

“Nor can I. We need some candles, come on,
let’s give up on this and get something to eat and see if we can
find someone who sells candles around here.”

I held onto his hand as he led us out of the
house, pulling the large oak door closed behind us.

Movement through the city was much simpler
without the encumbrance of a horse. York was a small, compact city
and it was not long before we stumbled across a woman with a wicker
basket of layered beeswax and lard candles. Food and ale were not
difficult to find either, with inns and alehouses lining most
streets, along with stall sellers peddling every type of food
imaginable. We bought some cooked bacon, cheese, bread, whisky,
ale, kindling and peat blocks for a fire and two heavy woolen
blankets. Dusk was falling and the street lanterns were lit by the
time we reached the yard on Langton Lane. The wind was rising and
the sky threatened a night soaked with icy rain. A chill ran
through me as we reached the oak door of our new home. It creaked
once more as we pushed it open and entered the house.

“Remind me to get some grease on these hinges
tomorrow.”

Striking his flint, Simon lit one of our
newly acquired candles. I could see an inglenook fireplace to the
right of the front door in an alcove of the wall straight ahead of
us. Simon moved purposefully toward it. Through the dim light of
the candle I could see a cast-iron cauldron, suspended from a hook
above where Simon was sparking the fire.

“These walls are black with soot. They are in
desperate need of limewash,” said Simon, rising from the
fireplace.

“Why do we need to limewash the alcove?” I
asked, wondering what could be going through Simon’s mind.

“Because the fire will be more effective if I
do. The limewash will reflect the heat of the fire off the walls
and into the room.”

Perhaps he was right but I remained
unconvinced by his explanation.

“How old do you think this house is?” I
asked, surveying the oak paneling on the walls, the ancient-looking
floorboards and the thick, dark beams above our head.

“I don’t know exactly,” he said thoughtfully,
wiping his arm across his forehead. “It has had a lot of new
additions to it, like this fireplace, but I should think it’s a
good few hundred years old. This paneling is new though,” he said
running his hand over the smooth surface of the wood covered walls.
“The oak has not aged and is still light but I think the
floorboards and beams have been here much longer.”

The only furniture in the room was a large
scarred wooden table and four chairs neatly tucked underneath it.
Having established that it was as sturdy as its appearance
suggested, I put the jug of ale and the saddlebags neatly on its
top and turned to survey the whole of the room. It had two exit
points; the front door, through which we had come, and a staircase,
which stood immediately to the left of the front door. Having
decided that there was not much more to explore downstairs I
pointed toward the staircase. “Shall we have a look at what is up
there?”

“Let me check the stairs first, I don’t know
how safe they are,” he said, furrowing his brow in concern.
Tentatively, he put his foot on the first step, pushing with the
ball of his foot against the wooden slat. It held firm. “Perhaps
it’s not as bad as it looks. Let me go up first, just in case...
you can follow when I am up.”

The staircase was little more than an old
wooden ladder, hanging precariously from an opening in the ceiling
so it was not without trepidation that I followed Simon through the
hole in the ceiling. Having successfully made the journey up the
stairs I had to concede that it had been very much worth the
effort. To our delight we discovered a large, beautifully furnished
room boasting a wooden window of six rectangular panels, glazed
with horn. The furnishings consisted of a bed, wardrobe, round
table and two chairs and an exquisitely carved oak chest, which
appeared on initial glance to be at least a few hundred years old.
Simon had also spotted the chest. Wasting no time he made his way
toward it and lifted the heavy oak lid to examine its content.
Amongst the treasures we found buried in the chest was a fine bed
sheet, four bone-handled eating knives, four pewter spoons, two
turned wooden bowls and two embroidered, green-dyed cushions.

“Should we put this sheet on the bed then?”
he asked, lifting it triumphantly out of the chest.

I smiled and nodded fervently, not bothering
to hide my delight. “Aye, it will make for a comfortable bed and
those cushions look very nice too,” I replied, bending to retrieve
them from the chest. “You do the bed sheet and I will fetch
blankets from the saddlebags downstairs,” I said, tossing the
cushions at him and making my way toward the precarious looking
staircase. “We could do with lighting the fire up here as well as
the one downstairs,” I said thoughtfully. “Do you think we will
have enough peat for both?”

Simon frowned and shook his head. “No Corran,
I don’t think we do but if you want to finish this bed I will go
and see if I can find us some wood.”

“You may have recalled, Simon, that we are in
a city now and not on the road,” I said playfully, smiling across
the room at him. “I am not so sure you can just pop out and forage
for a few sticks and some kindling around here.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he grinned
back at me. “Is that a challenge wee Corran?” He chuckled.

“If you wish it to be,” I baited.

“Right then,” he said, abandoning the sheet
and cushions, he turned and made his way toward me.

“A challenge it is lass!” he said, raising
his eyebrow in question and planting a kiss on my cheek.

“You have something ready for me to eat when
I get back, and I will return with some fuel for a fire in this
room.” He disappeared through the hole in the floor, down the
stairs and out through the front door.

Suddenly, I felt the need to make this place
a home, a place where we could live, without the ghosts of the
past, and a place where no one would know us or what our pasts
held. I sighed deeply as I looked across the room to the oak chest
and thanked God for the gift of this new life and the tools with
which to survive it. I unpacked the chest and the saddlebags, made
up the bed and prepared a meal and knew that tonight I would sleep
as normal folk do, in a normal place with a future that was not
scarred and bloodied by the past.

Simon had returned as promised, with the
wood. Both fires now blazed comfortingly, fueled by blocks of dark,
slow, burning, peat and sweet smelling dried wood. Although I had
no idea where he had found the wood, I was more than impressed and
grateful for his resourcefulness.

As promised, in his absence, I had unpacked
the saddlebags and chest, and set out some cheese and ham on the
table downstairs for a meal. After only a few hours the house
already felt like a home and I smiled contently to myself as I
thought of the comfortable, clean, warm bed that was waiting
upstairs.

“Do you want some cheese?” I asked, reaching
for the large creamy block of cheese on the table.

He smiled, clearing his throat, and reached
across the table for the jug of ale. “I would prefer this,” he
said, swigging a mouthful from the bottle.

His hand brushed mine as he moved the jug. I
shivered at his touch and the hairs of my arm stood on end. “Are
you cold?” he asked.

“A little,” I lied.

He smiled teasingly, drawing his lips to one
side in feigned contemplation.

“I seem to recall we have played this game
before, Corran.” His eyes twinkled and I knew I had been rumbled.
“But if you are cold then perhaps I should add some more peat to
that fire,” he teased.

I felt the color rise in my face and I hoped
he would not notice my blush.

“Come here,” he said, raising his eyebrows. I
did not move. We sat across the table, our eyes locked on each
other. Then, unexpectedly he rose from his chair and made his way
toward me and took me by the hand. I let him lift me gently to my
feet, my eyes staring up at him as he pulled me toward him,
crushing me fiercely against his chest. I could feel his heart
pounding against me. I raised my hand to his chest, resting my palm
lightly against his heart.

“You want me as much I want you. There is no
need to pretend otherwise,” he whispered into my ear.

I wrapped my arms around him and he kissed me
hard. I could feel the muscles of his thighs, quivering against me
and the smell of ale on his warm breath. He bent and scooped one
arm under my knees, lifting me effortlessly off the floor.

“I mean to make love to you, here in this
very room and then again in our own soft bed,” he moaned, his voice
thick and hoarse with desire. “But first,” he said, “I have
something to ask you.” He set me gently onto the floorboards in
front the fire. Kneeling in front of me; he raised my left hand in
his. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife wee Corran?”

A gentle orange light from the fire cast an
illuminating glow over the corner of the room. The long dark curls
of his hair shone brightly in the firelight as they loosely hung
around his face. I met his eyes, staring at him in shocked silence,
scanning his face for the truth in his heart and I found what I was
looking for.

“Yes,” I whispered eventually, “I will marry
you Simon.”

His eyes never left mine as he gently slid a
silver band; set with a tiny gray stone flecked with gold, on to my
finger, then lifted my fingers to his lips and gently kissed
them.

“I had this made for you in Dundee,” he said
softly. “Do you see the gray setting?” I nodded, running my finger
over the top of the ring. “It is a chip of slate from Ballachulish,
to remind you always of home,” he said, wiping a tear from my face.
“I love you Corran and don’t you ever forget it.”

“And I you Simon,” I choked, “but, are you
sure this is what you want to do... I mean, after what you saw in
Newcastle?” I ran my hand absently over the scar at my throat. It
had faded to little more than a faint shadow but the memory of it
and what it meant would always be with me. I lifted my eyes to meet
his, desperately searching for the truth behind them.

“Can you truly love me Simon? We neither of
us know how I came to live that day or how I survived the mountains
of Glen Coe. I don’t understand who I am myself.”

He took my hand in his and held it firmly
against his chest.

“I swear to you Corran that I love you and I
that I will always love you, no matter what you are,” he paused,
his eyes dark and shadowed.

“It is true that I don’t understand what you
are or how you came to survive that slash, but I have thanked God
each day since we left Newcastle for the fact that you did
survive.”

His words and eyes were honest and sincere
and I knew that whatever I was or whatever life held for me, I
could not live without him in my world, not now, not ever.

******

April 1696

The evening air was warm as we made our way
over the bridge, occasionally casting a wandering glance at the
boats as they went about their business.

“Do you want to go down to the river? It
shouldn’t be too noisy this time of the evening.”

He was right, most of the warehouses would be
closed now and the banks of the river fairly deserted.

I nodded. “That would be nice, aye Simon,
let’s,” I said, sliding my hand into his.

We turned to our left at the end of the
bridge and headed down the steep steps to the banks of the river
flanked by the mighty warehouses of the merchants of York.

The ducks scurried toward us, hopeful of a
treat. Simon scowled impatiently at the birds.

“Shoo, go away you greedy creatures,” he
yelled, waving his arms in annoyance at them.

I giggled, thinking how silly he looked.
“They can’t understand you Simon and it wouldn’t do you any harm to
throw them some stale bread, if you had any on you that is.”

He frowned, grumpily. “They get food aplenty
around here lass, no need to bother folk for more.”