The Legend of Lady MacLaoch (5 page)

“No,” I said, glaring at him. “I’m not going back down that cliff, and you’re insane for suggesting it. And how can you say I’m trespassing—this trail is in the guidebook I have. Who are you to say I can’t be here?” I said, hearing my voice rise.

“Tha’ public trail? It’s about a mile tha’ way.” He stabbed a finger uphill.

Now I got worried. I could be making a really gigantic ass out of myself. Which in general is no big deal, but as it is said, entire nations are judged by the people from them. So there I was, the stereotypically arrogant and self-righteous American.

“Hold on.” I pulled the book from Carol’s place out of my pocket. It confirmed the trail followed the cliff side, just as I had.

“It says so right here.” I held the book out to him.

He was out of arm’s reach and for a moment he just looked at it, then to me, then back to it. Finally he strode forward and took it from me. He turned it to the front. “Mmmph,” he said. “Bloody fucking bastards.”

“What?” I said.

He handed me the book back and strode past me.

“I take it I’m right,” I said and started walking swiftly behind him, tucking the book back in my pocket. I glanced again out at the ocean and the dark squall.

He stopped and turned around. “Ye do know the castle is closed today, aye?”

“Well, yes. But, I’m sure they have informational placards outside. I was also hoping that the legend was printed somewhere out there.” The excitement of conducting research returned to me, bowling over any other feelings or concerns in its way.

“Legend?”

“The Minory legend,” I said.

“Aye, right. Tha’ one. You can look it up on the Internet.” He made a point of looking at me and then to the trail behind me.

“What?” I asked disbelievingly, “You really want me to go back down that nasty cliff face and nearly kill myself all over again? And with the castle this close?” I gestured to it. “And again, who do you think you are to tell me to leave a public trail?”

“Why would a woman walk all the way here, alone, to a castle tha’ is closed just to read about a legend? What are
ye
really doing out here?”

I fumed more because I was asking myself the same question than because he was. “For starters, I’m Nicole Baker, and I’m trying to find more about my ancestors—who once
owned
this land.”
Liar, liar pants on fire,
I thought, a little disgusted with myself. But I really felt the need to get a leg up on this guy.

This got an eyebrow lift. He stood there looking at me like I was a puzzle and the pieces weren’t fitting.

“Baker? No sassenach has ever owned this land,” he said with flat truth.

Sassenach,
I thought. That one was a new word for me, but I would bet my plane ticket home that it didn’t mean “awesome person” or “lovely tourist.” Pronounced aloud, it was similar to what a snake emits before it bites—sass-en-ock, an extra something from the back of the throat at the end. It was like a big red button, and somehow I knew that this guy was pushing it on purpose—he was calling me out.

My eyebrows crammed together. “Listen, buddy, I’m not sure what you just said to me but I can tell that it wasn’t nice, so don’t flip me that sassen-crap just because I have an American accent. And furthermore, the reason I came all the way out here, even though the castle is closed, to read
a legend that I could read online with the nonexistent Wi-Fi in this town is because I have an ancestor who very well could be the descendant of the man in that legend!”

He turned on his heel and began walking back toward the castle, tossing over his shoulder, “Everyone feels tha’ way, Ms. Baker.”

“Everyone?” I had to jog to keep up with him. “Everyone has an ancestor named Iain Eliphlet Minory?” I said, pronouncing the last name to my gain, with an
o
.

He stopped suddenly and I slammed into the back of him. The man was like a wall.

“Oof!”

“What did ye say tha’ man’s name was?” He’d turned around and was looking intently into my eyes, pinning me to the earth with his glare as if he were about to bore a hole into my core in search of any truth in what I had just said. Which apparently was of some extraordinary importance to him. I was very aware of how close he was and that we were two people alone on a carpet of green pasture in the middle of nowhere.

“Iain Eliphlet Minory was
my
relative’s name.” I stood a bit straighter, tossing back at him, “And
you
are?”

His jaw muscle clenched. “I’m a MacLaoch, and tha’ castle ye are going to is my home.”

My belly flip-flopped. He turned and strode toward the castle. I stood still for a few minutes, processing that nugget of information, and then with mild reluctance, I followed. He might be my best lead of the day.

I assumed that most castles were in a state of disrepair, with administrative offices off-site to manage estate matters. Did he really mean that the castle was his home? Who lived in a run-down castle that was over eight hundred years old and part of a public tour? And probably haunted, to boot. My mind decided that for this guy to be living at a castle, he most certainly was a groundskeeper or site manager. It was nice that the clan employed family members. Maybe he lived there for free?

The next hill put things in perspective.

The castle of clan MacLaoch, Castle Laoch, rose up before me in all its great glory. Walls, gardens, everything intact, probably looking better than it had the day it was built. Its boxy shape broke at the corners into Renaissance turrets and Victorian spires. It was a work of multiple ages, complete with breathtaking stonework.

My resident jerk was already at the base of the hill and striding to the gate at an alarming pace. I realized at that point that he most likely would keep me on the outside, if I weren’t there to shove my way in along with him.

I made it down the hill in record time. I liked to think the sheep were impressed with my agility. Lucky for me, the gate was rusty, and I got to it just before it slowly latched shut and locked.

My resident jerk was a true gem.

Up a set of stone stairs, out into an open courtyard. The perfectly mowed grass was the only living thing there: cannons lined the walls, their snouts still pushed through holes in the stone; stone benches and sculptures dotted the grounds. A single door led into the castle—apparently this was where my faux tour guide had gone, as he was nowhere to be seen. Fine by me, as the walls were loaded with plaques of stories I wanted to read. Diligently, I started with the plaque closest to the door and worked my way around to the ones on the balcony. Halfway through, my heart leapt with excitement: The Legendary Lady MacLaoch. The plaque read:

In the days of old, it was in the loch below that the Lady MacLaoch of Castle Laoch was taken. Legend says that she had come down from the sea gate and was in the midst of bartering with traders for food for the castle when she was taken. The seafarer of the name Minory grasped her from the docks and made haste by the sea toward his trading port on the isle across the loch that is still here today. The small island directly across from this point was where the Minory kept her captive, despite the pleas from her clan to return her home. Her strong hand and wild spirit were feared to be broken if she was not rescued from the Minory tyrant. An army of MacLaoch clansmen rowed across the ocean and rescued the Lady MacLaoch from her fearsome captor. The river that runs through the MacLaoch estate was said to have flowed with the tears of joy she shed upon her return.

I read it again to myself. And again.

This version was very different from the one that the MacDonagh brothers had told, and the part where Lady MacLaoch shed tears of joy over her rescue ran sour in my mind. I knew joy, and I knew grief. Tears of joy are fast and fleeting, even in the midst of the deepest belly laugh. Nothing to make a river. But grief? Those were the tears that could go on for days.

As I snapped pictures of the placard and of the castle, I felt a few large drops of rain hit my head. Tucking the camera back into my jacket pocket, I found the squall I’d forgotten all about right on top of me. In seconds, all things uncovered, including me, went from bone-dry to soaked. I ran for the door that led into the castle and prayed it was open. The knob turned, and I pushed—only to feel it stick at a quarter of the way open. Rain running down my back, I rammed my shoulder into the door and stumbled into the hall when it gave. I showed it no mercy when I closed it with a slam that echoed loudly in the stone hallway.

The peace and quiet of ancient stone is quite eerie. I stood in a lower hallway of the castle; pictures lined the far walls, and windows behind me ran the length of the hall and looked back out into the courtyard. Two doors off to my right had signs for Gift Shop and Restrooms. To my left was a wide set of stairs that led up to the next floor. I shook the rainwater off my jacket and squeezed out my hair indelicately on the stone floor, then slowly made my way up the stairs.

The next floor up was right out of a more modern world. One moment I was in an eleventh-century castle, and the next, I was standing on hardwood floors and staring at wallpapered walls. It was as if the money for refurbishing the interior of the castle had run out before the lower floors could be modernized.

The cherry and mahogany furniture with gracefully curved Queen Anne legs were tastefully arranged, and farther down the hall I could see offices and sitting rooms, all open and airy.

“Hello? Anyone here?” I called, softly, rubbing my arms against the wet chill that had settled on me from the rain, but the soaring ceilings amplified my voice. An odd resonance to the left drew my attention to an open door leading into a stone chamber.

I read the sign on the door: Dungeons.

That in itself should have had me walking in the other direction. I suffer from a small thing called claustrophobia. But I suffer more from being a tad too curious for my own good.

I took a peek into the void. It was a very small room that was still the original stone of the castle. There was no way that that little chamber was a dungeon. Either the people of yesteryear Scotland were miniature or the MacLaochs didn’t have very many enemies. Neither seemed likely.

I could see a plaque on the far wall, and could make out part of the first sentence: “In this room, Lady MacLaoch . . . ”

I was joyous at finding another lead so soon. This place would be packed with visitors the next day. I wouldn’t have to go in very far. Just a few steps.

The stone made the closet-dungeon—there was maybe room for five or six people to stand shoulder to shoulder—cooler than the hallway I stepped from. The plaque said:

In this room Lady MacLaoch’s power prevailed. Lady Abby MacLaoch, an astute historian of the nineteenth century, felt that to refurbish this room in the styling of her modern era would diffuse its historical significance. Thus this room has not changed since the day it was created and still stands as the entrance to the dungeons, which are through the hole below the iron grate in the floor. When the grate was placed over the thirteen-foot drop to the dungeon below, prisoners were forgotten. Forever.

Oh,
I thought,
wrong Lady MacLaoch
. And then:
Hole?
I looked down.

I was standing on the lid to the dungeons. I stood frozen, looking into the dark pit below me, the first trickles of vertigo unbalancing the world and the walls suddenly feeling suffocatingly close.

I should leave,
I thought, only my feet didn’t move. Phobia took the driver’s seat while my rational mind took the back. The walls pushed in on my mind, shoving the oxygen out, along with my ability to reason. Then—before I could crawl, claw, walk, or jump—the light from the doorway went out, plunging me into darkness.

The thrum of blood in my ears mimicked the sound of skin against stone, and I dove into the murky depths of my claustrophobia. The claustrophobia combined with the effects of hiking for miles, nearly falling from a cliff to my death, then getting soaked and chilled to the bone with torrential rain. It grabbed ahold of me and I succumbed to it as I never had before.

I barely recognized the din of a human voice. Blackness surrounded me and I felt a hum of energy within me before I felt the pressure on my shoulder. Then I felt nothing more.