Heart of the Highlander Page 2

  Somewhere in her mind, Freya’s words registered as a whisper, but in the throes of her affliction, she could have been on a battlefield commanding an army.

  The latch on her door clicked, and it would have been just as well Freya had taken a maul to her. “Please,” she whispered, not knowing if she could hear her or not.

  “Ronan, you must leave. It’s happening again.”

  “Can’t you do anything about it? The Douglas wants to meet her.”

  “Hush, come outside,” Freya whispered.

  The door opened, and the latch clicked so loud Muren was certain it and the voices would steal her consciousness.

  “There’s nothing I can do about it!” Her brother’s voice pierced the heavy chamber door, pinning her to the bed as though he’d launched an arrow in her direction.

  Muren tried to steady her breathing to help her relax, but the pain was too intense. Blackness inched toward her, tugging her downward to a place she had been before; a place she did not belong, but was beckoned time and again. A loud noise she could not discern was her breaking point. She fell backwards into the abyss.

  Muren blinked her eyes open as the contents of her belly turned over and spewed from her lips. Kneeling up, she waited until the last waves of her sickness passed. All sound was muffled, like that time she fell into the loch and could not make out what her mother screamed at her, though she could see her plain enough from the stony bottom.

  The next time she woke, she was on her back underneath the quilts with a cool cloth on her forehead. She slowly opened her eyes and was relieved that Freya sat beside her.

  “How long was I out this time?”

  “Hours. You thrashed around more this time than I’ve ever seen you, and I don’t even want to talk about what you vomited.” Freya pressed a cup to her lips and bade her drink.

  Muren sipped the mead-based drink called metheglin. It likely contained valeria to help her relax and dull the ache in her head. It also likely tasted like horse dung. Not that she knew what that tasted like, but she could imagine.

  Muren tried to smile, but her whole body was tender. “Is the hour late or have you drawn the drapes?”

  “ ’Tis nearing the midnight hour.”

  Muren sensed hesitation in Freya’s voice. “What is it?”

  Freya shook her head as she reached for Muren’s hand. “Muren. You spoke words this time. As though you were speaking another language. I shudder to think what some might assume if they had overheard.”

  Muren tried to sit up, but her body refused to comply. This was a conversation she was not prepared to have with anyone right now…maybe not ever. The things she saw when the pain came to her were not anything that could be discussed. As she lay back down, flashes of scenes from the great hall earlier reminded her of her situation.

  “Is the Douglas still here?”

  “Aye, that he is, and none too pleased to be kept waiting. I tell you, the only thing that kept my spirits up was the look on your brother’s face when the Douglas toppled a table in his anger.”

  “Was Ronan displeased?”

  “That’s one way to put it. I think it finally dawned on him just how serious this situation really is.”

  “But he is still here.”

  “Aye.”

  “Freya, I cannot stay here. I cannot go with him. What if this happens on the road to his home?”

  “My thoughts exactly. I have an idea that might just work, but we would have to move you this night. Do you think you could walk with my help?”

  “Aye, I believe so.”

  Freya helped her sit up. She brought Muren’s leather-soled shoes over and slipped them on her feet, then pulled her to a standing position. “Can you manage while I get your cloak?”

  Muren wobbled a little but steadied herself. If she were going to escape this madness, she would have to pull strength from the very depths of her soul. Taking a deep breath, she planted her feet as the room spun a little less.

  Freya returned from the wardrobe and wrapped Muren in her cloak. “If we leave now, even with your slowed gait, we should make it before dawn.”

  “To where?” Muren asked.

  “Do you recall another time we became invisible in this castle?”

  Muren did. Some years ago, the threat to Freya had been very real from Ronan’s uncle; not hers, thankfully. She thanked God every day she and her brother only shared a mother. Were it not for aid from the Bishop of Caithness, they may have never survived the carnage Alexander Sutherland had intended.

  “To Dornoch then? Do you think the bishop will be able to help us this time?” He’d already extended his influence once in order to help Ronan and Freya, but this situation was different. In order for the bishop to help, he would have to defy the king and Ronan.

  “I do not know, but I cannot turn my mind to any alternative. He had said he’d served the Sutherlands once and, since Ronan became earl and secured your lady’s title from the king, Bishop de Strathbrook seems like the only logical choice.”

  “Freya, you do not need to come with me. I know the way very well. You have responsibilities here that require you more than I.”

  “I will not let you go alone. Not recovering as you are.”

  “Freya, I will be much less likely discovered if I go alone. Ronan has guards posted everywhere these days, and I have no intention of being spotted, but it is more likely if there are two of us. You know I am right.”

  “Aye, I do, but I wish it were not. What if you have another attack?”

  “Then I will find a place to hide until it passes. I have been afflicted thusly all my life, Freya. I can do this.” Her mother called it a magryme; Muren called it hellfire in her head.

  She had no choice. Though the after-effects of her affliction sometimes felt the same as if she had drunk ten tankards of ale, she would find her way to Dornoch.

  Freya’s expression grew grim. “Very well, but you must find a way to get word to me as soon as you have been received. I shall not share what I know with anyone for as long as I can.”

  “Thank you, Freya. Make sure it looks like I’m still covered under those quilts, and I will get word to you as soon as I can.”

  On wobbly legs, Muren walked to the door and listened for signs of movement outside. When she was sure no one was about, she lifted the latch and pulled the door open. Turning once to nod at Freya, Muren slipped out into the darkness of the hallway and crossed it quickly so as to find her way to the hidden entrance before her chamber door closed and consumed the only available light.

  Once outside, Muren stood perfectly still so her eyes could adjust to her surroundings. She’d come this way a few times before when running late for mass, so she knew the path to the chapel like the back of her hand.

  Only once or twice did she need to pause so that a guard may pass by without detecting her. Soon she was on the road leading south to Dornoch and the bishop. Muren did not like the dark normally, it reminded her too much of the images left with her after her magrymes, but the lack of moon and cloud cover this night aided her in her plight.

  Still weak from earlier, Muren stopped to rest regularly, but still made good time. As the first streaks of dawn crossed the sky, she lightly tapped on the priest’s entrance to the chapel.

  If God was kind, she would be granted sanctuary.

  * * *

  Approaching Eilean Donan Castle, Rorie slowed to a trot. While Kinellen was well located when he and his clansmen went hunting, Eilean Donan was where all important clan business was held. And at this moment, he needed his best people around him to sort this mess out. Upon crossing the arched bridge, Rorie looked out to where three sea lochs met and kissed the shores of Eilean Donan.

  While not overly large, this was his home and provided a strategic position should his enemies get it in their heads they wanted to attack. God knew, he’d known plenty of those.

  Rorie entered the keep and made his way to the great hall. “Where is my brother?” he asked his st
eward, Iverson.

  “In the armory, m’lord.”

  “Tell him he’s needed. Now.”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  Rorie filled a goblet with ale and paced. Since his father’s passing six months ago, it seemed he’d had nothing but trouble to contend with. Though there was no contest in him assuming his rightful place as clan chief, it seemed many of the decisions his father had made in his last year were a reflection of his failing health, both in body and mind. Rorie had settled more tenant disputes and squabbles over cattle than he thought possible. Unfortunately, he’d never realized just how taxing the chief’s position really was until it was too late to tell his father so.

  “Who’s doing what to whose sheep now?” Ewen MacKenzie asked, leaning against the doorway.

  His younger brother by two summers was just about the best war chief he could have imagined, though the man did have an odd sense of humour now and again.

  “I wish it were that simple,” Rorie said.

  “Are you telling me you returned without Muren?”

  Rorie took a long draught of his ale. “Aye, that’s what I’m telling you. The Douglas was there, and Sutherland would not relent.”

  Ewen’s head had turned the moment Heather, the voluptuous kitchen maid, entered the room to place a large pitcher on the table. When focused, he was a brilliant strategist, but put a beautiful woman in the room with him and the walls could fall down around them.

  “And then Sutherland sprouted dragon’s wings and flew about Dunrobin until we shot him down with a golden arrow tipped with a bright blue diamond.”

  Ewen turned back to him once Heather left the hall. “Well, that’s that then. What is your plan?”

  “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”

  “Aye, I heard it all; Sutherland won’t relent and something about a dragon,” Ewen said with a grin.

  “Ewen, I need your focus here with me.”

  Ewen smiled. “My head is always in the game, Rorie. You’ve no need to worry about that. Tell me about this Douglas.”

  Rorie pulled out a chair as Heather and another of the kitchen maids entered, this time with two trenchers filled with meat, bread, and cheese. He waited until they finished their task and noted they both glanced at Ewen and smiled once they caught his eye. Ewen’s hand, midway to his mouth, stopped in mid-air as the lasses smiled at him. The scene got Rorie thinking. Perhaps what they needed was a diversion; something to draw Douglas’s attention away from Muren so he could get her safely away.

  Ewen turned to him when they were alone again. “So. You were telling me about Douglas.”

  “Aye, I do not know much, only that he is wealthier than the Stewart King and considered one of the cruelest men in Scotland. He’s funded a portion of the king’s palace at Linlithgow, and as such, the king is in his debt.”

  Ewen’s brows drew in tight. “Cruel? How?”

  “There are those who would suggest that lasses are not well treated under his care and that his first wife went mad from his beatings. The poor lass died just last year from the red fever. Many say Douglas poisoned her to get rid of her so he could begin anew with another young lass.”

  Ewen cocked his head to the side. “Rorie, ‘tis not like you to give credence to idle gossip. Many such rumours have abounded about people we know, and each and every time they’ve turned out to be falsehoods. Why do you believe the rumours this time?”

  “Because this time they involve Muren. Her countenance is gentle, and I fear for her more than I have ever feared for anyone. We cannot let the Douglas take her to Lancashire.”

  “Put it this way, if you wanted to strike fear into your enemies, would it not behoove you to allow such rumours to exist? Think of all Douglas gains from us fearing him. And what about these lands the king offers as compensation? Will you accept them?”

  “No, I will not. I have no interest in warring with MacDonald at a time when our forces are down. We’ve secured Fergus’s aid, and now we just need to unravel this knot to find all the ends.”

  “’Twill not be an easy task, Rorie. We have no allies in the Lowlands.”

  “We have few here in the Highlands now as well. Sinclair and Ross have offered their support to Sutherland, clearly wanting to stay on the good side of the king. Whatever happened to the clans sticking together in our time of need?”

  Rorie sat back and took in the tapestries around the great hall. The stories they told were of many past victories, including the force of five hundred MacKenzies who fought under chief Ian MacKenzie at Bannockburn. But his favourite by far was of their ships sailing out to sea from Loch Alsh. Rorie loved the ships creaking, the smell of the salt air, and the brisk north wind that would cut you through if you were not mindful. Aye, the sea commanded respect. She could take everything from you or give you bounty, as she pleased.

  Rorie sat up straight.

  “What is it?”

  “The Douglases are Lowlanders.”

  “Aye, that they are.”

  “Not seafarers.”

  “Do you know this for certain?”

  “I know every ship builder in the High and Lowlands. None have ever mentioned a commission for a Douglas.”

  “What are you thinking? We put Muren on a ship? To go where?”

  “We don’t need to put her on a ship. We just need Douglas to think so.”

  “And you don’t think he’ll just pay someone to go find her?”

  “Who among those of us who own ships up here do you know who will accept money from a Lowlander in order to let him ravage a wee lass from the Highlands?”

  “Good point. Now, how do we get her out of Dunrobin?”

  “With a well-crafted diversion.”

  Chapter Three

  Teeth chattering, Muren rapped a little louder on the abbey’s rear entrance. She’d made good time, and thankfully, the fresh air and exercise had helped her recovery, though she did hope a bed would be available in the near future.

  She’d had much time to ponder her predicament over the hours it took her to walk to Dornoch. More than anything, she could not fathom why Rorie had left. He had always promised her he would protect her. But instead, he’d left. Her eyes burned from the tears she had shed along the road, though they were washed away by the rain as fast as they dropped from her eyes.

  She tried hard to push thoughts of him aside while she waited for someone to answer the door. Never in her life had she been more alone than at that moment. Who in this world could she possibly rely on now?

  The door opened a crack, and a pale blue eye shrouded in heavy wrinkles peeped out.

  “Who is there?”

  “Bishop de Strathbrook? I am Lady Muren. Do you remember me?”

  The door opened a little wider, revealing a very plump, grey-haired Robert de Strathbrook. He’d gained much weight since Muren last saw him. Despite the weight, he appeared in much stronger countenance.

  “Aye, lass. I remember you. Though I cannot fathom what would bring you to my door at this hour and away from the protection of your most noble brother.”

  “I seek sanctuary, Your Grace. I wish you to grant me entry and then I will explain everything.”

  The bishop’s jaw slackened, and his eyes grew wide. And then they narrowed. “You request sanctuary here? From whom?”

  “From my brother.”

  “But why?”

  “If you will but allow me entry, I will explain it all. I have taken great pains to remain undetected. However I fear the longer I stand in the drizzle on your doorstep, the more likely I will be seen.”

  The bishop, as if only just realizing where they were, looked around quickly, then ushered Muren inside. He closed the door behind her then bolted it.

  “This way, my child,” he said, as he led her to an inner chamber housing a small bunk, table, and hearth. “I keep to myself in this chamber these days.”

  Muren dare not ask why. It was not her business what a bishop did, and she did not want to appear im
pertinent, especially considering she was asking an enormous service. However, it was most unusual for a bishop to live in such humble conditions.

  Bishop de Strathbrook took a seat by the fire and pointed to one directly across from him. Muren rushed to it and stretched her arms out to the fire to warm her hands. She had not realized just how much dampness had seeped into her bones. She pulled her cloak off and let it fall behind her to dry. Her hair was wet, so she spread it out, hoping the heat would dry it before she caught a chill.

  “You are frozen to the bone, my child,” he said, as he got up to put some more wood on the fire. He then collected two silver goblets and a pitcher from the table. “Did you walk here from Dunrobin?”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” she said as she accepted the goblet. The crimson liquid was sweet with a tangy aftertaste. Wine. She’d heard of it but had never tried it before. Ronan only served ale and mead at his table.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, moving back to the table to lift a cloth from a trencher. “I have some bread and cheese left from my evening meal. The lady from the village will not be here with the morning meal for a couple of hours yet.”

  Muren accepted some bread and chewed slowly while she thought about what to say to him. Only now did she realize the delicate situation in which she placed him. There was no way she expected Freya to remain quiet forever regarding her whereabouts, so at some point, Ronan would come hammering on the bishop’s door. What did she expect him to do? Her thoughts briefly returned to Rorie abandoning her, but she shut them down.

  “I thank you, Your Grace. I am quite troubled and did not know where else to turn.” She wrung her hands and gulped air as she tried to collect her thoughts.

  “Take your time, Muren. You are safe here and have my protection. Whatever you tell me will remain between God and us.”

  Muren let out a sob of relief. If he had turned her away, she truly did not know what she would do. And he still might yet, once he learned of her plight and the inherent danger to himself and his priests for harbouring her.

  Drawing a deep breath, she sat up a little straighter hoping she might find courage. “You may recall some time ago, I was betrothed to Rorie MacKenzie.”