Child of the Mist (2 page)

April, 1564
Castle Gregor, Western Perthshire, Scotland

Anne MacGregor paused on the castle parapet walk, gathering her long woman's plaid about her. Swirling vapors blanketed the winter-browned land, filling the low hollows and rills, curling restlessly about the trees, to spread ever onward in an eerie sea of fog. She smiled and turned to the man beside her.

" 'Tis fortunate the mists are heavy this day. 'Twill cover our going and, hopefully, my return as well."

Anne motioned toward the stout rope that dangled over the side. "Come, Donald. Lead on."

Wordlessly, the young, shabbily clad Scotsman scrambled over and down the wall, then held the rope taut as Anne nimbly followed. Without a backward glance, they hurried into the enshrouding whiteness. Until well out of earshot of the clansmen walking guard on the fortress battlements, their journey was swift and silent.

Grasping his long, gnarled walking stick, Donald plowed through the dense mists as if he saw through them, his steps sure and bold from years of traversing the beloved terrain. Anne, not quite so certain, kept close company, her large leather bag of herb powders, potions, and salves clutched tightly at her side.

Her thoughts raced ahead, planning the childbirth preparations. It was Fiona's first and Donald's young wife was frightened half to death. Only the promise that Anne would attend her had calmed the girl's fears.

Though barely eighteen, Anne MacGregor was already renowned for her skills in the healing arts. Both noble and poor alike called for her in their hour of need, and, unstintingly, she gave to one and all.
Aye, one and all,
Anne mused with a fleeting twinge of pain, and still the cruel tales about her persisted.

"I am grateful, ma'am," Donald said, slowing his steps to hers. I know yer father forbade ye to leave the castle. If 'twasn't my Fiona's time, I'd have never asked . . ."

A pang of guilt at so willfully disobeying her father shot through Anne. Alastair MacGregor, clan chieftain and doting sire, had always given her free rein. Though she well understood his motives for now forbidding her to leave the castle, it couldn't be helped. At least not this time.

She'd made a vow to Fiona, long before the cattle raids had started up again, and was honor bound to keep it. The word of a MacGregor was sacred. Marauding Campbell reivers or no, she would see it through. Her father would understand, if there were ever a need to tell him.

Anne smiled at her companion, her silver eyes warm and reassuring. "Don't worry, my friend. 'Tisn't your fault the savage Campbells roam our lands. Life must go on in spite o' them, though I fear they'll never let up until they've stolen every bit o' MacGregor holdingsthe thieving, heartless knaves!"

Donald's lips twitched at the mildness of Anne's censure. " 'Knaves'? Och, that's too kind a word for the likes o' them. And most especially for that young Campbell heir."

He shot her a worried glance. "I only wish ye'd worn yer short-sword. A bodice knife is nigh useless against an armed warrior. And they dinna call him the Wolf o'Cruachan without reason. Why, he's the most bloodthirsty, murderous"

"Don't speak o'him!"

A sudden chill coursed through Anne. Instinctively, she touched the small, sheathed dagger nestled between her breasts. Holy Mary, it was enough to be out, virtually defenseless in such dangerous times, and then to have Donald dwell on the most feared Campbell of all!

Her pace quickened. "Time is short and Fiona needs us. We've more important things to concern us than some churlish Campbells. Besides, they haven't raided MacGregor lands in over a fortnight. Surely we've naught to fear on such an early morn."

"Aye, ma'am," her sturdy companion agreed, uneasily glancing about him. "As ye say. There's naught to fear. Naught at all."

"That's it. That's my girl," Anne encouraged, gripping Fiona's hand in hers. "You're a brave, brave lassie and will soon have your sweet babe. Are the pains still strong? Then take a breath and push again."

Fiona glanced up, a weak, trusting smile lighting her face. "A-aye. A sweet babe," she whispered, then tensing, bore down with all her might. The pains soon passed and she fell back, exhausted.

Anne lifted a cup to the girl's lips. "Drink a bit more, lassie. 'Tis the raspberry leaf tea. 'Twill hasten your birthing."

The brew was obediently sipped before Fiona fell into a deep slumber. It wouldn't be long before the next pains came, that Anne knew, but until then rest was the best thing for a laboring mother. She looked about her. It was long past darkness, the day having come and gone.

Anne hunched her shoulders in an effort to ease the ache of the hours spent crouched beside Fiona, then tucked an errant strand of russet-colored hair behind her ear. Glancing down at the young peasant woman, she sighed. Dear, frightened, trusting Fiona.

Her gaze wearily scanned the shabby little croft house. Despite Fiona's untiring efforts, the thatch-and-clay dwelling was little more than a hovel.
What a life to bring a wee babe into,
Anne mused. The only bed was a mound of peat covered with a coarse blanket, and the air was so smoke-filled one could hardly draw a breath without choking.

If only there were more we could do for our people
. The thought stirred anew the old, angry frustration. Her father tried, but the years of endless feuding had worn him down. They were no match for the cursed Campbellsnever had beenand still their enemies persisted.

Her hands balled into tight little fists. How she hated them! Would they never cease until they'd stolen all her clan possessed? If there were but a way to stop them. . . .

Fiona stirred in Anne's arms, a sleepy grimace twisting her face.
The pains,
Anne thought.
They come again
.

A damp blast of air swirled through the tiny cottage. She glanced up. Donald walked in, his arms laden with squares of dried peat to stoke the small hearth fire. At that instant Fiona moaned, her eyes snapping open in sudden anguish.

"Blessed Mother!" she gasped. "I . . . I . . . The babe!"

Anne scooted down to check her, then looked up at Donald. " 'Tis time. Come. Help me."

She motioned toward Fiona's head. "Hold her, talk to her while I"

A scream of terror, followed quickly by others, pierced the night air. Rough, angry voices mingled with frantic cries and the staccato rhythm of hoofbeats pounding through the village. A hoarse shout of "Cruachan!" rose from the tumult of noise, slicing through the thin walls to the three people within.

At the dreaded war cry, Anne and Donald's eyes met in sickening realization. The Campbells. They were back and raiding the village.

Donald rose. I must go help defend our people."

"And what good would it do?" Anne bluntly demanded. "If they mean to murder us, we've no chance. Mayhap they'll be satisfied with the animals as with most times. Stay, Donald. You're more use here than outside, no matter what happens."

Indecision flickered in the young peasant's eyes, then he sighed his acquiescence. "Ye're right. If I'm to die, I want to see my wee one first."

The minutes passed as they worked, Donald encouraging his wife while Anne struggled with the slowly emerging infant. Her heart leaped to her throat when the head appeared with the cord tight about the neck. It couldn't be loosened and it was vital the babe be free of the choking noose as quickly as possible. But nothing Anne did hastened the emergence of the shoulders, which suddenly seemed too large for easy passage.

The sweat beaded her brow as she struggled with the difficult birth, praying to God to help her as she encouraged the straining mother. At last the shoulders slipped free. The babe was born.

The tiny girl child lay there, unmoving, her body blue and lifeless. Frantically, Anne worked to tie and cut the cord, then gently rubbed the infant dry. The babe remained silent.

Anne's gaze lifted to the two anxious parents. "I . . . I can't . . ." She stopped, mesmerized by their pleading expression. She was all they had.

In an instant slowed in time Anne harked back to the day Fiona had first revealed her pregnancy, of the look of utter joy and anticipation on her face, of the eager plans. They had so little, Fiona and Donald, but they were rich in love and giving. Of that, they had an abundance. So very, very much for each other . . . and for their babe.

She
had
to do something.

Anne turned back to the limp little form. Her gaze scanned the tiny, perfectly shaped girl. What could she do?

Breathe,
she silently implored.
I beg you. Breathe
.

Her lips moved. Anne's head slowly descended, her own breath wafting over the babe. Dared she share the life-sustaining air from her own body? Dare she even try? Yet, dare she not?

Gently, she lifted the little girl, and, before she realized it, Anne's mouth settled over hers. Tentatively at first, then more forcefully when she saw the tiny chest rise with each breath, Anne blew small puffs into the infant. At first nothing happened, the only sound her own panting breaths mingling with the ragged rasps of the two parents. Then, after what seemed an eternity, the babe gasped, then choked, finally uttering a strangled cry.

The cry, weak at first, grew in strength and intensity until it filled the small croft house. And, with each shuddering, indignant little breath, the joy, the immense satisfaction, grew within Anne. She raised her eyes to Fiona and Donald, eager to share their happiness. But their gazes, suddenly bright with terror, were no longer directed at her.

Anne whirled, steeling herself for the sight she knew must lie behind her. She could never prepare herself, however, for the look of unmitigated revulsion on the face of the tartan-clad man standing in the doorway. Gleaming with a half-mad light, the full force of his stare was riveted upon her.

"Witch! Vile, devil-whoring witch!"

Once more the man with the crazed eyes shoved Anne forward, sending her sprawling in the dirt outside the croft house. She tried climbing to her feet but, with her hands bound behind her and the hindrance of her long skirt, she tripped and fell again. Her thick hair tumbled loose, falling about her face and into her eyes.

Anne fought to catch her breath, striving to calm her pounding heart. The nightmare that dogged all her waking moments had finally come to pass. The vicious rumors, the unkind tales about her healing skills, had caught up with her at last.

She was to diecondemned as a witch.

Anne flung back her hair and stared up into a dozen hostile, torchlit faces. She scanned their plaids. Campbell men. Anne's breath caught in her throat. In their eyes gleamed superstitious fearand an absolute certainty of death.

The injustice of it all welled in her, mingling with her fierce MacGregor pride. From somewhere, from some place buried deep within, a blazing anger burst forth.

Anne's eyes flashed silver fire and, for an instant, she thought she saw the raiders quail. Good. If they feared her for the powers they imagined she possessed, so be it. She had nothing to lose.

"Be gone you cowardly, thieving knaves!"

She climbed to her feet, noting, out of the comer of her eye, a large formmother Campbell?edge into her line of vision. It was of little concern, one man more or less. She turned the full force of her gaze on the clansmen already facing her.

Anne threw back her shoulders and stood there, defiantly proud. ''You trespass at your risk, for this village is mine. Do you think binding my hands will stay my powers or save you from damnation? Think again, Campbells, fools and cowards that you are!"

A low, angry growl rumbled through the men. Anne knew she'd stung their fierce Highland pride by questioning their courage. It was a dangerous game, for their affronted dignity might yet override their witch fears, inciting them to attack her in a mindless rage. But to cower before them now was even more foolhardy.

"Come forward, any who dare face me," she challenged. "I grow impatient with your girlish fears."

Slowly, she surveyed each man. "Och now, my wee laddies, won't one o' you come forward?"

The Campbell with the strange look in his eyes took a hesitant step toward her. He withdrew his sword from its scabbard. All eyes, including Anne's, turned to him.

"Aye?" Anne's hands clenched until her nails scored her palms, but she managed to maintain her air of feigned indifference. "And what does this wee bairn think he can do against me?" She laughed. "Is he the best o' you then?"

"Aye, the best and your death giver, whoring witch!"

The man leaped forward, his eyes blazing in an insane rage. Before Anne could dodge him, he was upon her, roughly grabbing her by the hair to force her to her knees, his sword hand arcing high above his head.

Blessed Mother. I'm going to die
! The thought flashed through Anne's mind. A sharp, anguished pain twisted within her. Nevermore to see the beloved heath bloom on the hillsides. Nevermore to gaze upon the snow-capped peaks of MacGregor land. Nevermore to feel the warmth of her father's arms. . . .

"Enough, Hugh!" a deep-timbred voice cut through the air.

The man hesitated, his hand twisting painfully in Anne's hair. For an instant, she thought he'd strike her anyway. Then slowly, blessedly, his grip loosened. With one last, vicious kick that sent her sprawling into the dirt, he stepped away. She heard the rasp of metal as he resheathed his sword, then the tread of footsteps moving toward her.

Anne struggled to rise, but the sharp pain in her side kept her gasping on her knees. Tossing the hair out of her eyes, she satisfied herself with gazing up at the two men now standing before her.

His hand still gripping his sword hilt, Hugh glared at another tall Campbell, also wrapped in a belted plaid. The bulk of the fabric, forming both kilt and mantle, only added to the other man's imposing size and aura of power. As Anne's glance scathingly raked him, a realization flashed through her. He was the raiding party's leader.

He looked to be in his early thirties, with thick, gleaming black hair that just grazed his shoulders. His nose was straight, his jaw square and stubborn, and his full, firm lips had a cynical twist as he quietly listened to his compatriot's rantings. His eyes, when his glance briefly followed Hugh's gesture in her direction, flashed tawny-brown, intense, and coldly assessing.