On a Highland Shore (11 page)

In the quiet that followed, Margaret eventually found sleep, and the next day nothing of the conversation was mentioned. She never discovered which of the ladies had spoken.

The next day was a blur of faces as Margaret was introduced to apparently everyone at the castle. Dukes and earls and hangers-on and stray cousins—their names were all a muddle to her. She and Nell smiled and curtsied and tried to give sensible answers, but by midafternoon she longed for silence, and when Nell, safely seated at Uncle William’s side and listening attentively, smiled and waved her away, Margaret leapt at the chance for solitude. She found it, or something approaching it, in the kitchen gardens, where no one was working and Lachlan’s attendants would not think to seek her. She walked for several moments, lost in the comfort of the sun’s warmth and the silence of the garden, stopping with a heart suddenly pounding when she realized she was not alone.

Seated on a bench on the far side of the garden, half-hidden by a tree’s shadow, sat an old woman, her hands folded on her lap. She looked across the space at Margaret, her face unreadable in the dim light, but her manner expectant, as though she waited for someone. Margaret gave her a timid smile, then continued walking. But now she felt uncomfortable, for she felt the weight of the woman’s gaze with every step. At the far side of the garden she paused to look over the plain below, the marshland’s wet surface catching the sun, then releasing it, the glare blinding for a moment.

“I promised you my story.”

The woman’s voice, just behind her now, made Margaret freeze. She turned, slowly, half-expecting the gravel path to be empty, but there she was, looking no different than she had all those years ago.

“It canna be,” she whispered.

The old woman simply smiled.

N
o.”

Nell turned to see who was stopping her from entering the garden. At the far end Margaret talked with an old woman, their conversation far too quiet for Nell to hear a word. The hand on her arm belonged to the tall red-haired man she’d noticed last night. His dark eyes were locked with hers. He wore the dress of a Highlander today, a feileadh and long cloak fastened with a garnet brooch, not the Norman clothing he’d worn last evening. She moved her arm, wondering if he would simply release her, but he tightened his grip.

“Let them talk,” he said softly.

Nell raised her arm and her eyebrows, thinking that an imperious manner would intimidate him, but saw only amusement in his eyes. She turned away from him to watch her sister and the old woman. “Who is she?”

“Yer sister.”

Nell gave a huff of air and turned back to him, replying tartly when she saw his wide smile. “Really? She looks so much older than I’d remembered.”

He laughed softly and she looked more closely at him. He was younger than she’d thought him last night, his cleanly shaven face still unmarked by time, his lean body fit and well-defined. His eyes were a golden green, his hair, in the bright sunlight, far more blond than she’d earlier thought. A handsome man. She thought of all of Margaret’s warnings about talking to the men at court and wondered if she should be cautious. She frowned at him.

He loosened his grip but still kept his hand on her arm. “Aren’t ye a one, Nell MacDonald?”

“Aye, I am that,” she said. “And ye are?”

“A one as well,” he said, laughing again. “Liam Crawford, lass.”

“Ye have the name of a Lowlander and the accent of a Highlander, sir.”

He nodded. “That I do. Strange, is it not? But dinna fear, I’ve Highland blood enough to give me leave to wear the plaid. My mother’s a Stewart and I’ve Ross and MacDonald blood like ye.”

She tried to pull her arm free. His expression sobered immediately.

“Stay, Nell, please. Yer sister needs to talk to her.”

“Who is she?”

His mouth quirked but he answered her this time. “The king’s seer. She sees things…and they come true.”

“Why does Margaret need to talk to her?”

“They met long ago, and the seer gave yer sister a prediction. I’ll warrant Margaret’s a wee bit surprised to see her here.”

“How d’ye ken that?”

“She told me. The seer.”

“Ye, out of all the people here? She picked ye to tell that she needed to talk to my sister? And ye not kenning Margaret at all? That’s passing strange, sir.”

“Aye.” He let his gaze drift from her eyes to her hair, then down her body. “Ye’re a child yet, Nell, but she tells me ye and I…we’ll meet again another time. And we’ll ken each other verra well.”

Nell stared at him, openmouthed, not sure whether to be angry or to believe him. Or both. “I am not a child, sir.”

“Liam. And ye are. But that’s fine. I’m in no hurry. For a lass with such promise, I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

She snapped her mouth shut, ignoring her flushed cheeks. “Let me go, please, sir.”

“Liam.”

“Liam. Please.”

“Will ye stay here and let them talk?”

She looked into his eyes. He did not look like a madman, although she was not sure what a madman would look like, but was quite sure a madman’s gaze would not be so steady as it met hers, or his touch so confident, as if he did indeed know what he’d said to be the truth.

“Will ye let them talk, Nell?”

“Aye,” she said softly.

He released her arm, but stood close enough to grab her, which she was certain he would if she moved. She looked across the garden, to where Margaret and the old woman now walked down a path, their heads leaning together. She wished she could see Margaret’s expression, but her sister seemed unafraid. She turned back to Liam Crawford, who had followed her gaze and now met her eyes.

She meant her voice to be stronger, but it was barely a whisper. “What did she tell ye of me? The seer, what did she say?”

He was silent for a long moment, his expression distant, then gave her a rueful smile. “She told me that both of us would see much before we met again, and that…” The slightest hint of color stained his cheeks. “And that we would be…verra well acquainted. She told me yer Christian name, but not yer family name. I’ve met several Nells and wondered each time, but when I saw ye last night…I kent it was ye.”

“How?”

“By yer eyes. I looked into them, and I saw ye.”

She stared at him, searching for a hint of amusement now, or mockery, but saw neither. For a moment they stared at each other until, her cheeks scarlet, she turned away. “And if it’s not true?”

His voice was hushed. “Then I would be sorry that it wasna.”

She looked into his eyes for a moment longer, then away yet again, her mind tumbling. They were silent then, side by side, watching Margaret and the old woman, while the wind freshened and clouds scudded across the sky. He moved suddenly, leaning to put his mouth next to her ear.

“I will await ye, lass,” he whispered.

She was not sure what to say, but he was already walking quickly away. She watched him leave, watched the swing of his shoulders and his long strides, the confident way in which he moved. He was several years older than she, young, but still a man. Hadn’t her father been talking to the Stewarts? That was it, she decided. He was one of the candidates her father was considering. All the rest of it, the prophecy by the seer, that he would wait for her—that was nonsense. No doubt he was laughing at her now.

He looked over his shoulder just before he turned a corner, and raised a hand to wave, his movements reluctant. She felt a chill of premonition, then chided herself. He had to be one of her father’s candidates. Otherwise…she wrapped her arms around herself and watched Margaret and the old woman.

Margaret had heard stories like this one before, but never from someone who professed to have lived such a life. It was difficult, looking at the small, wizened woman before her, to imagine her as a young girl. But still, there it was, the sparkle in her brown eyes, the lift of her chin. She had been a beauty once, before age had bent her back and curled her hands.

The old woman told her of her childhood in a desert land, surrounded by her family and her parents’ families, in a small village near a wide river, not one person of the village of any importance to the world. And the men who had ridden in one day, a brilliant spring day, the old woman said, her wrinkled face wrapped in memory. The riders killed all the men of the village and most of the boys. Her father and brothers were among the first murdered. The fate of the women was simple; the young ones were rounded up and tied together in a long line. The older ones…did not live. None were left untouched.

She’d been taken to Greece, sold to a merchant who in turn sold her to a man from Rome, who had treated her well, had tried to convert her to his religion, had even professed his love for her before his death. After he was gone, his wife had turned her out of the lodgings he’d rented for her, and the wandering years began. She’d lived in Madrid. In Lisbon. In London. In York. In Edinburgh. And now wherever King Alexander and Queen Margaret lived. She was, she told Margaret with a wry smile, as important to the court as any jester or musician. There were, she said, few choices for women then, fewer still for a woman who had never been a wife, who had no family and not even a religion here to shelter her.

She’d been very young when she realized her gift for “seeing.” She’d seen her village’s destruction in a vision years before it had happened, had known that she would never have her own home, that one day she would be here, at the edge of the world.

“And I knew I would meet you again. Do you remember me telling you?”

Margaret nodded, still astonished that the woman was here and had not aged in the years since she’d been at Somerstrath. That she’d remembered Margaret. “I remember every word ye told me.”

The woman smiled serenely. “As I do. Ye have grown well, Margaret of Somerstrath. Strong. You’ll have need of that strength.”

“Oh, aye. Dragons,” Margaret said.

The woman smiled again but said nothing.

“What can ye tell me now of the future?”

“That it is almost here.”

Margaret stared at the woman, trying to suppress the sharp rejoinder that had come to mind. “Aye,” she said. “And?”

“That yer life will change in ways ye cannot imagine. That you and I will meet once again before I die. And that Judith at Brenmargon does not do well to mock me. I do not mock her faith.”

Margaret stared at her. Nell, she decided. Somehow Nell had talked to her.

“It was not Nell,” the woman said now. “Nor your brother.”

“Then how…?”

“You might as well ask me how I feel the wind, child. I cannot tell you, only that I know what I know. Judith fears what she does not understand. There is great comfort in a life without questions. She is told what to believe, and she helps others to believe the same. Still, her faith is real, and I will not mock it.”

Margaret began a heated reply, then swallowed it. How could this woman know Judith? Had Uncle William talked with her?

“Still a skeptic, I see.” The woman smiled. “I will tell you this, Margaret, and it will have to do. We will meet at a court that is not a court, and you will be with a man who is not yours, but who is only yours. Yours will be a life unlike others’, but like so many others through the ages, women who are born at a turning point in time. May you be wise enough to see the path.”

“Can I change it?”

The old woman laughed softly, her eyes merry now. “Of course. But then, the change will have been predetermined, will it not?”

“By…?”

“Call it God. Or the Fates. Or Destiny. Or whatever you choose. If God is all-powerful, then He has planned this, has He not? And if the Fates determine your fate, then are the Fates not truly God by another name? Does it matter what the force is that moves our lives forward?”

“Yes.”

“No, it does not. Know this, child. You must choose in the dark. And may God protect you.”

“How can you believe in God?”

“How can I not when the evidence of Him is all around us?”

The old woman began to move away. Margaret hurried after her, catching sight of Nell waiting by the gate to the garden. “Please,” she said. “Please tell me. Will I marry Lachlan?”

The woman looked into the distance, then at Margaret. “Yes. And no.”

“That makes no sense.”

“You scoff, child. The next time we meet you will understand.”

“But how can the answer be yes and no? Will the king help me?”

“He will listen.”

“But will he help?”

“The decision is yours alone. But every choice has a price.”

Margaret shook her head in frustration. Every answer was a riddle. “And what of the golden man?”

“He waits.”

“Is he Jesus? Is he here?”

“Choose wisely, child. See what is there, not what you wish to see.”

“What about the dragons?”

“You will face them.”

“Where? When?”

“As it is ordained.”

The woman waved her hand in farewell and left Margaret staring after her.
He waits
. She stood for the longest time, her mind spinning, watching first the old woman disappear through the gate, then Nell slowly approach, her steps slow and her expression thoughtful. Behind Nell were two of the Comyn women, not the nicest two, who giggled behind their hands as they strolled through the garden. Margaret did not want to talk with them, to pretend that her mood was unruffled. She whirled around, to stare over the land far below, at the river winding through the marshland, a thin mist hanging over the water. That was her life, she thought, a course already determined but not visible. She forced back her tears. In the last fortnight she’d lost her betrothed and her dearest friend. Now she was apparently losing her mind as well. She let her head fall back and stared into the clouds. What was she to do? How would she know what was right? Did she have a choice in any of it, or was it, as the woman had said, already ordained and she only a pawn of the Fates? Were all people simply that?

“Margaret?” Nell’s voice held a new note. “Are ye a’right?”

“No. I am not. And I dinna have the slightest idea how to change that.”

“Nor am I,” Nell said softly. “I have to tell ye what just happened.”

Five days passed as one, the events of each melding together into an undifferentiable mix. Margaret talked to Uncle William about her dilemma, but found no help there.

“He has wealth and the ear of the king,” her uncle said, his voice full of affection. “In time ye’ll understand how important both are. Ye need to look past small concerns. Surely, Margaret, ye’ve realized that any children ye and Lachlan have will be cousins to the king and to his children.”

When she told Rignor what William said, he nodded.

“What he says makes sense,” her brother said. “Ye may not like it, but we both should listen. When I am Somerstrath I’ll need allies at court, Margaret.”

“I see ye’ve decided for me then.”

Rignor shook his head slowly. “I canna, nor would I. And I understand yer anger. But…” He shrugged. “We’ve been naive. No one here marries for anything but gain. Perhaps we should do the same. Look around.”

Margaret did look around. She watched the men at court, studying them to see if a golden man were among them, but so many were richly dressed, so many wore as much gold as Lachlan, rings and brooches at their shoulders, that it was impossible to pick one. Some of the men paid outrageous attention to her, offering eternal love and asking for an hour alone, as though it were a game and she the prize. An hour, she knew, in which she would trade her body for flattering phrases. She laughed with them, flirted and pretended to consider their requests, then left them without another thought. There were other men, some older, some widowed with children about whom they spoke, their quest for a wife and mother obvious. She spoke kindly with them, seeing sometimes lust, sometimes simply loneliness, in their eyes. There was not one she would marry.