When Fate Dictates (16 page)

And then I saw the crumpled, lifeless body of
my husband as it lay in a pool of blood. Attempting to force myself
from the sickening haze of fear I became dimly aware that our son
was still frantically struggling to escape my hold. “Dadda,
dadda.... I want dadda,” he sobbed hysterically, pointing toward
his father’s body. Shaking violently I lowered Duncan to the floor.
He toddled unsteadily toward his father’s body, throwing his chubby
tear-stained little face onto Simon’s bloody chest. I fell to the
floor beside my precious husband and child and gently ran my hand
over Simon’s pale face. Slowly, I ran my fingers through the soft
curls of his bloody hair and thought how peaceful and rested he
looked, as though he were in a deep sleep. I turned the palm of my
hand over and stared at the sticky red blood that covered it. I
wished silently to die with him, to lie down here and now to sleep
in peace with him forever.

“Dear God why have you taken him from me?” I
wailed mournfully as grief tore mercilessly at my soul. I lay my
head next to Duncan’s, on Simon’s chest. The room swayed and
darkness swam around me. As I closed my eyes a bubble of warmth
encircled us and like a breeze on a summer’s evening, it swam
gently around us. I reached across and found Duncan’s soft, plump
little hand and as I did I felt the gentle rise of Simon’s chest,
the first breath of new life. He choked, coughed and then his chest
rose again and I knew he had lived. The darkness faded and I slowly
opened my eyes to the sight of the silver antlers of the mountain
stag. It turned its head and met my eyes and in that moment we were
one. I felt its power; understood its purpose and knew the secret
of what it had made us.

******

As mysteriously as it had arrived, the stag
disappeared before my eyes in a cloud of silver smoke. I looked
down at my husband and met his eyes. His beautiful dark eyes were
clouded with confusion and fear. He stared at me, unblinking, and
raised his arm around our son. I bent down to kiss Simon’s forehead
and whispered, “It’s alright, don’t be scared, I can explain it to
you... I understand it now.”

“I saw it, Corran... The mountain stag,” he
stuttered in a whisper.

I nodded, calmly. “I know you did.”

“What is it?” he demanded, sitting up
unsteadily and reaching cautiously for his son. He hugged him hard.
The little boy threw his arms around his daddy’s neck and clung
fiercely to him.

“It’s what saved your life,” I answered.

He scowled and I knew he did not understand.
I sighed and settled myself next to him on the floor, reaching
across to hold his hand.

“Simon, there is something I need to tell
you.” His face was blank, his mind concealed from me and I knew
that what I had to tell him would be difficult, if not impossible
for him to understand.

“It is the stag that saved... both of us,” I
said, stumbling slightly over my words in my race to get the
explanation over. “For me, it came the first time when I was on the
mountain in Glen Coe,” I continued, “It came and it saved me. I
thought for sure I had died, but then I understood that I had not
died and I didn’t know what had happened.” I paused, not sure how
to carry on. He just sat there, watching me, wordlessly staring at
me and I feared he believed that I had gone mad.

Breathing deeply and deciding that the direct
approach was the only one realistically available, I tried again.
“It came for you today Simon and it has saved you and you will live
now, as I have, safe from death,” I paused again, meeting his eyes
I held his stare. “But Simon, you must know. When you die it will
be from a bullet, for the stag can’t save you twice from the manner
of your first death,” I concluded, still staring intently into his
eyes. There was an awkward silence as I wondered if he would
believe me; wondered if he would accept my words. He lifted Duncan
off his knee and placed him firmly on the floor and brushing his
trousers, he pushed himself up. Standing above me, he reached down
and pulled me to my feet.

“Right then Corran!” he said with an air of
authority. “If I am to avoid taking another bullet, I think it’s
time we fixed that there door and made a plan to get out of
York.”

I sighed gratefully, realizing that even if
Simon had not totally bought into my explanation of events, he did
not seem to believe me mad and certainly appeared happy enough to
avoid being shot again. He began to move toward the broken door,
realizing as he did that Duncan had attached himself to his leg.
The tension was broken as we both laughed at the little boy
dangling alongside his father, hanging for dear life onto the cloth
of his trousers.

“We will get this door back on its hinges and
then when the city sleeps and the moon rises we will head north,”
he said, lifting the boy gently off his trousers and passing him to
me. “We won’t be able to take everything with us,” he paused
thoughtfully. “Corran, will you repack the saddlebags with nothing
but the essentials. Once I have fixed this door I will see if I can
find us a horse.”

I stared in horror at the thought of Simon
leaving the house. “You cannot! You can’t leave the house Simon.
What about the Red Coats?” I demanded, thinking he did not seem to
be doing much to avoid meeting with another bullet.

“We have no choice Corran. What do you expect
me to do?” I considered his question for a moment and then realized
the wisdom of his thinking.

“We can’t leave on foot, not with Duncan, he
won’t manage the trip,” I nodded, he was right and I knew it.

“Simon, I can get the horse,” I suggested,
expecting him to argue at the idea, but he did not. Rubbing his
hand across his chin, he furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “You know,
Corran, I think that idea just might work,” he replied.

“Do you want me to go now?” I asked, reaching
for my cloak, but he shook his head.

“No lass, wait until it is dark outside and
then I will tell you who to look for and where you will find a
horse. It doesn’t matter too much if the Red Coats see you, they
will not be expecting you to stay in York now, but you will be
safer in the dark of night rather than in the broad light of
day.”

I nodded, seeing the sense of his words. “Why
do you think they let me live?” I asked, recalling that moment when
I stared into their eyes and willed the man with the copper hair to
pull his trigger.

“I would say so, because it was me he was
after,” Simon replied simply.

“Do you mean the man with the copper hair? He
was the same man I saw in Dundee. I thought he had been killed in
Dundee?” I paused, watching Simon who shifted uneasily. “What is
going on Simon? Who is he and why is he still alive?” I continued
accusingly.

Simon nodded his head slowly. “I thought he
had died Corran. His throat was cut. I don’t know how he survived
or how he found me.” We were silent for a few minutes, both
considering the past and how events had brought us to this day.

“Why does this man hate you so much?” I
asked.

Simon’s face was grave, his brow furrowed in
a frown. “Because he is my cousin and a Campbell.”

I stared unbelievingly into his eyes,
wondered how it could be possible to kill your own flesh and blood
and then recalled that Simon had shown a similar indifference to
family loyalty when we had thought the man dead in Dundee.

“Simon do you hate him too?” I asked.

“Aye, Corran, that I do,” he replied
bluntly.

I pursed my lips and shook my head in
disapproval. “How can you hate your own flesh and blood?” He did
not reply immediately and I watched him as he stared mindlessly
past me. “How, Simon?” I accused. “How can you wish your family
dead?”

“It is a long story,” he said, pausing as if
considering what to say next, “and it’s one I don’t want to go into
today,” he finished, turning his attention back to the heavy oak
door on the floor. “I am going to mend this door and I would be
much obliged if you would re-pack our travel bags into something
suitable for travel on a horse,” he paused, bending toward the
door. He slipped his hands underneath it and with a degree of
customary grunting and groaning I watched as it rose slowly from
the ground. Heaving it upright, he leant it against the wall beside
the empty door frame before turning his attention back to our
conversation. “I was thinking,” he started, pausing briefly as if
to allow time to format his sentence correctly. “If we are lucky,
you may be able to get us a rough cart. That would make travel with
our wee lad much easier and we would be able to take much more with
us.”

I nodded, feeling a momentary burst of
enthusiasm at the idea of having a cart to travel with instead of
having to rely on just a horse. “Where can I find a cart?” I
asked.

“It won’t be easy for you but I have a cart
at the warehouse and it would do very nicely.”

“But I thought you had sold everything from
the warehouse?” I asked, surprised.

“It is true that there is not much left in
there but the cart was a bit too rough to sell so I didn’t
bother.”

He met my eyes with a look of worry. “It
won’t be easy for you to get the cart and a horse through the city
without being seen. I am not sure you will be able to do that on
your own Corran.”

I could see the dangers in what he was
suggesting but after considering the benefits I decided its
retrieval was worth the risk. “I will do it,” I said defiantly,
raising my hands to my hips in a show of determination.

“Be careful, this won’t be a simple task,” he
said, his worry clearly evident in the dark shadows of his
eyes.

“I will be careful Simon, I promise,” I said,
forcing a smile into my words.

I noticed that Duncan had settled himself
under the stairs and was playing contently with some wooden blocks
Simon had made him the previous week. It never failed to amaze me
how quickly a child could recover from trauma and this occasion was
no exception. My thoughts returned to the practical issues of our
safe escape and I passed a calculating eye over the bags and chests
we had packed for our trip to London.

“Simon, if I can get this cart from the
warehouse, we should be able to take most of the things we had
planned to take to London,” I paused, hopeful that he would agree
with my suggestion.

Much to my relief, he nodded. “I would
suggest that we still exercise some degree of sense in what we
take. A heavily loaded cart will tire a horse more easily and slow
our journey significantly. We take only what we need and leave what
we don’t have use for.”

“Shall I put the portrait in the chest?” I
asked sadly.

“Aye, Corran. We can’t take it but perhaps we
can come back for it one day.”

There was nothing I minded leaving as much as
the portrait of us all together. But Simon was right; there was no
place in our future for sentiment.

******

That afternoon I watched as the sun set in
the evening sky over York and the dim light from the street
lanterns cast a gentle orange glow over the city. Simon had
repaired the broken door and it now stood firmly closed, although I
knew that very soon I would have to leave the house through that
door.

We had spent the afternoon sorting through
the chests and bags that we had previously packed in readiness for
our journey to London and removed many items to lighten the load.
Our provisions were kept to a basic minimum with an emphasis on the
needs of warmth and food for Duncan. As I glanced at the packed
chest by the front door and the saddlebags piled neatly beside it,
I prayed that I would return safely with the cart and a horse so
that we could escape the city before the Red Coats realized that
Simon was still alive.

He cradled a sleeping Duncan in his arms as
he gently touched my hand one last time. I closed the door and made
my way down the alley and out onto Stonegate. I fumbled clumsily
with the key to the warehouse in my pocket as I cast a nervous
glance across the street at the post house where Simon had said I
would find a man called Taylor, from whom I could buy a good horse.
My lungs stung as I gasped and gulped heavy breaths of the freezing
air. A rowdy noise came from inside the post house. I lifted my
head, glancing up toward the windows and looked longingly at the
orange glow from the fire within. After one final deep breath for
courage I headed toward the back of the courtyard in the direction
of the stables and well. It didn’t take me long to locate the man
Taylor. He was sitting, ale jug balanced on his wide girth, on a
bale of hay staring mindlessly into the dark night. His eyes
scanned me as he heard me approach and I smiled nervously. “Good
evening to you Sir,” I said. He did not move, but regained his
earlier pose of blank boredom. “I was wondering if you could tell
me where I might find a Mr. Taylor,” I continued, unperturbed by
his obvious attempts to ignore my existence.

His head moved slightly to the right,
affording him the chance to stare directly at me. “And who wants to
know?” he slurred, obviously very drunk. I watched him, trying to
decide if he could be trusted. He swayed helplessly and I resisted
the urge to put my hands out and steady him. Concluding that I had
little option but to trust him, I straightened my shoulders and met
his eyes squarely.

“My name is Corran Lamont, the wife of Simon
Lamont. I have need to leave the city tonight,” I said, pausing for
a moment in hope of catching his reaction, but he had none. “To do
this I will need a horse. A good, strong horse and I will pay very
well for the privilege of owning such a creature,” I concluded. My
heart began to race as I feared he did not know this Mr. Taylor, or
that he was perhaps too drunk to understand what I was asking. His
features did not change as he took a hearty gulp from the jug in
his hands. I watched as his Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. He
raised his arm at an angle and I instinctively took a step back,
but his only purpose was to wipe his hand across his mouth.