Angel of Skye (22 page)

She remembered her room, an old woman waiting with her, the excitement of the anticipated visit. How quickly it all changed. “And then the men came. My mother told me they were bad people, that my father was innocent of this. I didn’t know what she was talking about. And then I was torn right out of my mother’s arms. For years, that was all I could remember. Her cries...her desperate, frantic cries.”

Fiona took a deep breath and bit her lip, recalling the dreadful events.

“I’d never seen those men before. They killed my mother’s knight. They carried me out into the night air. It was cold and wet and we rode for what seemed forever. We only traveled at night. Then one night we were fording a river. It was during a storm—the river was wild—the horses were swept away. The men were swept away with them. A large branch, it seemed like a tree, raced by and I grabbed for it. I held on for a long, long time. Even after it became entangled with the other debris floating in the river, I held on. Until Walter found me.”

Alec stared at her.

“I don’t know why those men took me, but I know that for a long time before they came, my mother was alone. She had people around her, but she...” Fiona placed both of her hands on the bough Alec was leaning against. “She had no husband. He was supposed to come to us that night. But he never did.”

Fiona turned toward Alec, her face set determinedly. “I didn’t understand it as a child, but it is clear to me now. I am a love-child, Alec. Illegitimate. A bastard. My mother never married. I know that. And that castle, where we were, I don’t know if it was ours. I think we were hidden away there, because nobody ever came to visit. There was never any family. No one. We were alone, and there was no one to protect us. I won’t let that happen again.”

Alec could not keep himself from her any longer. Reaching for her, he drew her into his arms, and she came. Holding her close, he cursed himself for letting her see any similarity between himself and some neglectful, philandering nobleman.

“No, Fiona. I won’t let that happen.” Alec pressed her to him. A wave of possessiveness swept through him. He would never let her go. He wanted her by his side forever. He was sure of that. More than ever. And he would earn her love. “Please give me a chance. Trust me. A relationship like the one your parents had will not make me happy. That is not for me. That is not for us, Fiona. I want you forever at my side.”

“No, can’t you see? I’m no one. I have no name.” She pulled back from his embrace, stepping away from him. “What kind of a life would that be? We belong to different classes. You are a nobleman; I am a nun. I was raised for the convent, and that is where I belong. You were born to govern, and that is what you will do.”

Alec’s protest was stilled by the sound of Sister Beatrice’s humming as she came into the orchard after them.

“We are not finished with this discussion, Fiona. We have much more to say.”

“Do you remember this, Fiona?”

The young woman eyed the jeweled cross that the prioress was dangling from an intricately wrought gold chain. It was beautiful in its workmanship, encrusted with the sparkling red and green of rubies and emeralds. Even in the dim light of the prioress’s workroom, the brilliance of the gems was dazzling.

Fiona’s heart skipped a beat, but not over the worldly value of the cross. In her mind she saw it hanging from the ivory neck of a loving and lonely woman.

“It…it is my mother’s,” she stammered, half rising from her chair. “She gave it to me. My father gave it to her.”

“Aye, lass.” The prioress nodded. “You were wearing the cross and a leather purse. They were tucked snug inside your clothes the night you came to us.”

Alec looked from one woman to the other. He was glad to be included in this meeting, even though he was not certain of the prioress’ reason for having him here. The nun had asked him to stay. She had said that what they were going to talk about would concern them both. The prioress had seen him here every day. His attentions, his interest in Fiona were clear, and Alec did not have any intention of letting her think otherwise.

This was a very private moment, and Alec knew it. But he wanted to know all about Fiona, all about her past. If it was a matter of staying at her side for every waking moment, he was prepared to do that. He would stay by her until she could see they belonged together. He would not let her go with the belief that class differences could keep them apart. Damn nobility and every other class difference! he cursed silently. He would be here for his woman.

When they’d been ushered into the workroom by Sister Beatrice, Fiona had headed for a chair on the far side of the room. But Alec’s long legs had covered the distance quicker, and before Fiona could sit down, he’d made a gracious show of carrying the chair to where two others sat before the fireplace. She was stubborn, but he was persistent. Wordlessly, Fiona had followed him and seated herself by the prioress.

The older woman gently laid the cross in Fiona’s hands, and Fiona felt a knot tighten in her chest. As she looked down at it, a tear traced a path on her cheek, and the knot grew, threatening to choke her. Then she felt Alec’s great hand on her arm, and she felt his strength flow into her. She looked at him quickly and felt the warmth of his blue eyes supporting her.

“There was a letter in that purse, Fiona,” the prioress said, going back to her work table. She picked up a tattered and smeared scrap of parchment, and held it up for the two to see. “A letter from your mother.”

Fiona stared at the sheet as the prioress came back to her. She looked from the yellowed message to the older woman’s face and then back to the parchment. She could see where the folded edges were dark with stains—the purse had not kept all the water out. She wanted to ask. She wanted to grab the letter out of the prioress’ hand, but she could not. Her arms felt as if a terrible weight lay on them. She felt as if her tongue were swollen and incapable of speech. Her chest heaved with the effort to even breathe.

Inexplicably, her hand rose from her lap. She watched it as if it didn’t belong to her. She saw it take the paper, but it was someone else’s hand, and the fingers conveyed no sense of touch. The parchment traveled to a place where she could read it, but Fiona could see no words, only a tear that fell, splashing with extraordinary clarity and definition on a empty space at the bottom of the page.

And then she simply held them--her mother’s words--in a pale and shaking hand.

And then she read:

To Robert Henryson, Schoolmaster at the Abbey at Dunfermline.

I am sending you my daughter. Her life is in danger. Please, my good friend, keep her hidden and safe. Fiona is the daughter of the King, and His Majesty will come for her. Trust no one. God bless you.

Margaret Drummond.

Stunned, Fiona’s eyes read over the words again and again, trying to make sense of them. She could hear the prioress’ words coming from someplace far away, and she tried to understand them, as well.

“....a letter...Margaret Drummond...the daughter of King James.”

Alec stared at the prioress, and then at Fiona. He thought he’d always known her. Indeed, he had. She was the very image of her father. How could he have been so blind?

“My mother!” Fiona blurted out, the letter still clenched in her hands. “M’lady prioress, what happened to my mother?”

The prioress and Alec exchanged glances. They both knew what had happened to Margaret Drummond. All of Scotland knew.

“The night that you were taken away.” The prioress paused. She didn’t know how to soften the blow that Fiona was about to receive. “Word had it that Margaret Drummond took her own life. She poisoned herself and died that very same night.”

She was dead. Fiona stood up and walked to the window. She looked out into the grounds, but her eyes saw nothing. Dead. Her chest heaved once as she tried to fill her lungs with air. Dead. Somehow she had always known that. Somehow she’d always known that she was alone. Her mother was dead. Dead.

But now...poisoned? And by her own hand? Suicide?

“No! That’s not the truth,” Fiona asserted, looking down at the letter. They were going to hurt her mother. She remembered their threats. In fact, there was more coming back to her. A pouch...the hidden pouch...the evil man in the castle whom she never saw.

“Fiona,” the prioress called. “There are some things you should know.”

Fiona turned around and faced the old nun. “They murdered her. She never committed suicide.”

The room rang with the conviction in her words. The prioress and Alec were silent for a long moment as Fiona looked from one to the other.

“How do you know that?” Alec asked, standing and moving to the fireplace.

“Because she wouldn’t. She was their captive,” Fiona retorted. She tried to remember, still searching for details of that faraway night. “And those men...they said things.”

“What things?” Alec pressed. “Try to remember what was said.”

Fiona looked at Alec across the room. “I am trying! But I know they were going to hurt her.”

“Who do you mean, ‘they’?”

“The same men that took me away.”

“But you said earlier that your mother was alive then.”

“She was. But they did not all leave with us.” Fiona gnawed at her lip, wracking her brain for more clues to what happened that night. “The leader, he was a giant. His eyes were cruel. He was like some madman. He stayed behind with some of them.”

“What else do you remember?” Alec questioned.

“They were Highlanders.”

“Highlanders? What else? What clan did they belong to? Could you narrow it down?”

Fiona looked at him wide-eyed. “I was five years old, for God’s sake!”

Silence reigned momentarily as Fiona glared at Alec. She noticed his cool exterior. Something was different in his face. His compassionate and concerned look had been replaced by the businesslike demeanor of the warlord in search of answers.

“You were such a wee thing.” The prioress’ soft words broke into the silence. Fiona and Alec disengaged their gazes and turned to the older nun. Fiona walked to the prioress and sat beside her. The older woman looked into her eyes.

“I have to tell you why I kept you here.”

“Aye.” Fiona nodded, taking the prioress’ hand. “Why didn’t you send me to Dunfermline? You must have known you were risking your life keeping me here.”

“Hmmph!” The prioress grunted. “At first, you were so frail. So quiet and hurting inside. And I didn’t have anyone to whom I could entrust you.” She took the letter out of Fiona’s hand. “She said to trust no one. I considered waiting until I could send a message directly to the king.”

The prioress’ voice had a vagueness to it, as if her mind were on something else, on some other time. Her attention suddenly riveted again on the present, and her tone recovered its directness. “But I also thought that if I couldn’t get word to the king, then perhaps I should somehow send you to the Schoolmaster at Dunfermline, to the poet Robert Henryson.”

She placed a wrinkled hand against Fiona’s smooth silky cheek. “You were just a wee innocent bairn, Fiona. But the Lord had other ideas about that, lass. Henryson may have been a man of learning, a poet renowned as a makar, but he was still just a mortal man. Just before the winter set in, we got word that the great poet had died of the flux. So that road was closed to us.

“And then when spring arrived, David went to Sterling and brought back news that the king was going to marry the English King Henry VII’s daughter, Margaret Tudor. King James had resisted marrying for the sake of diplomacy, but after your mother died, some of his nobles convinced him that a marital union with England would be in Scotland’s best interest. David was not able to get anywhere near the king.”

“I can understand that he would not want an illegitimate daughter around when he was marrying a princess,” Fiona said, fighting to keep out the note of bitterness that was edging its way into her voice. All these years he had never come for her. He had never searched for her.

“Nay, Fiona. That’s not the truth,” the nun protested. “You see, they thought you dead. They all did. The nobles, the court, your mother’s family, even your father. We heard later that he was like a lost soul. That is, after your mother’s death. And he looked everywhere for you. But I suppose he never thought that your fate would bring you all the way to Skye, to our doorstep. And then, after that great storm, the king simply gave up.”

Fiona looked at her hands silently. There was a deepening emptiness in her chest. She never knew her father.

“After that,” the prioress continued, “I never had a clear opportunity to get you back to the court. You know that shortly after the king’s marriage, the Western Isles rebelled against the king. We couldn’t correspond with those who were allied with him. I certainly couldn’t go to him directly. But honestly, I wouldn’t have if it had been possible.”

Fiona looked up questioningly at the older woman.

“There were rumors circulating that substantiate what you’ve said, Fiona. The word was that Margaret Drummond had been killed to clear the way for the king to marry the English princess. With Margaret Tudor’s circle at court, I feared for your life.”

The prioress stopped and gazed at the red-haired beauty she’d come to see as a daughter. What comforts she had not dared provide for Fiona, she had made up for in another way. She had given her the best education she could give. It had been an education befitting a princess.

“What made you decide to tell me now, m’lady?” Fiona asked, taking the prioress’ hand in hers.

The old nun looked warmly at the young woman and then turned her gaze to the silent warlord who stood attentively by the hearth.

“I received my answer at last.”

Standing up, she went to her worktable. From beneath a ledger book, the prioress retrieved another folded missive. Holding it up, she turned to Alec.

“I believe there is a messenger waiting for you at Dunvegan Castle with a message, as well, m’lord.”

Alec looked at Fiona sitting expectantly on the chair. He savored this sight, but this was the last of her innocence. No, she was not yet aware of the impact of this news. Of the life that awaited her. An hour ago, he’d felt the love within him, felt his own strength. He had been ready to move mountains to make Fiona his forever.