Page 8 of Highlander’s Ancient Vengeance

She drank a cup of Valerian tea and crushed lavender leaves on her pillow, then fell asleep straight away, but her last thought before sleep claimed her was of Craig.

5

The Secret Room

When she woke the next morning Malle looked out the window and groaned. It was not just raining, it was coming down so hard that nothing was visible for more than twenty yards. There would be no riding, walking, or picnicking today. It was on days like this that Malle loved to bury herself in a book, but there was nothing in the library that took her fancy that day, and she did not want to sit with her mother; all she ever talked about was who was getting married, what her dress was like, and when was it going to be Malle’s turn?

Although she loved her mother dearly, the thought of listening to that drivel all day made her feel quite sick. Malle’s agile mind needed constant stimulation, and she had recently discovered one part of the castle that she was certain no one else knew about.

She had found it a few months previously when she was browsing for something to read. Having pulled out a perfectly ordinary looking book, she was astounded when all of a sudden a whole section of the bookcase swiveled out, almost knocking her down. She had a brief, tantalizing glimpse of an impenetrably dark space, but unfortunately her mother had come in, and she had not had a proper chance to explore it since. Not until now.

Now she pulled the book out and the door opened as it had before. She had a candelabra with six candles to illuminate her way, so she had more than enough light to see by. The walls of the passage were made of big blocks of sandstone, and the air was stuffy and smelled musty, with cobwebs decorating the corners of the roof and brushing against Malle’s face. About ten yards past the entrance she saw a stout wooden door on her left, and wondered what was inside. She was half expecting to see a pile of skeletons, but the only things in the room were shelves and shelves of rolled parchment. Little did Malle know then that she had stumbled on a treasure trove.

She pulled out a few documents from the shelves randomly then sat on the floor with her back against the wall to read them. They were all dated, so she had a vague idea of the generation she was dealing with. She decided to try to put them into some sort of order when she had time, and for once she was hoping that the rain would bucket down for days.

She picked up a document dated about fifty years before and began to read. The letter was obviously the answer to a man who had written to his father complaining about the price of wool falling so much that soon he would be bankrupt, and Malle quickly put that one down.

Perhaps I should keep it, she thought, in case I cannot sleep and run out of Valerian tea. She chuckled at the thought.

She went through many more such letters before she came to something a bit more interesting.

There were many letters from different members of the family, all addressed to Laird Hugh MacEwan, Malle’s great-great grandfather, and they all had one thing in common: the Dunbars, who were the wealthiest family in the area at that time and thought they could lord it over everyone else.

They treated their neighbors with great disrespect, grazing animals on their land and taking fields beyond their boundaries, but they were too powerful to oppose. The MacEwans were protected to a certain extent by the fact that a stream ran on the border between their two estates, and they had friendly relations with all of their neighbors, even the Dunbars, although they kept a watchful eye on them. Other lairds with smaller estates looked to the MacEwans for support, but without fomenting war, little could be done.

She went on until she found a big leather-bound book with hundreds of pages in it. The volume was so old that their edges had been eaten into tatters by moths. Hmmm… she thought, this may be the start of my journey.

It was the journal of a woman called Saundra MacEwan, who, judging by the date, was Malle’s great-great-great grandmother. She dug a little deeper and found another. It was the diary of Bettina Munro, Saundra’s sister. Malle decided to keep both of these and take them upstairs with her; she had a feeling that they would be fascinating enough to keep her going until bedtime at least.

Then she began to put the rest of the correspondence in the order of their dates, so that she could put her hand on them more easily the next day, and after that she put the two journals in her room and went for lunch. When she had finished she stood by the window contemplating the depressing prospect of hours of more rain, so she fetched some spiced ale and went to her bedroom. It was freezing, and she got into bed, drew the covers under her chin, and made a lectern for her book by bending her knees upward.

She opened Saundra’s diary and noticed one peculiarity at once. She spoke to it as though it were a person. Malle laughed; she must have been quite a character! For the first few pages the only entries were complaints about some of the other lairds’ wives. Then there were accounts of ceilidhs, christenings, weddings, and in quite a few of these she mentioned her granddaughter Isobell, who was obviously her favorite, judging by the indulgent way she talked about her. She seemed to be able to do no wrong.

Just before Easter, when everyone was in the doleful period of Lent, Isobell had gone out to pick her grandmother a bunch of spring and hothouse flowers to mark her birthday. They could not celebrate openly, since the eating and drinking of rich foods was prohibited, as was the consumption of wine and whisky; most ordinary people could not afford those anyway. However, all celebration was frowned upon during this period which was meant to be cleansing for the soul and body before the glorious feast of Easter. Saundra had read the letter and Malle could practically hear her chuckling.

She paged on through a few more days of ordinary happenings until she came to a period of great excitement.

It is Isobell’s first Ceilidh tonight, Dear Journal! Her friend Elisaid is celebrating her sixteenth birthday and Isobell has been invited. She is in the first flower of womanhood—her blue eyes are shining like the sky on a sunny day, there are roses in her lovely cheeks, and her hair is flowing like a river of gold. She wears no jewelry, but then she needs none. Indeed, she looks like a princess in her velvet dress, which is the color of pale coral. The neckline gives just a hint of the delights underneath which will become more generous as she matures. You understand what I mean, do you not, Dear Journal? Some young laird is going to be a very fortunate man soon!

Malle laughed at this, remembering her first celebration. She had been bored witless, and had excused herself by pleading a bad headache, then disappeared upstairs to go to sleep. However, her best friend Allie had come to see her and they had spent the rest of the night giggling and gossiping. They had drunk a little too much wine and became very tipsy, then fell asleep. They were only found in the morning, then both of them were confined in their respective castles for a month as punishment.

She went back to the diary. At the beginning of May, the tone changed, and it became one of deep disapproval.

It seemed that a handsome young laird had seen Isobell and had become instantly smitten. She had taken one look at him and fallen in love at first sight. They danced with each other for the rest of the evening and arranged to meet for a ride along the Cut the next day. That day he had asked Isobell to marry him and she had accepted without hesitation.

Malle read through a torrent of abuse hurled at the poor young man, but after that Saundra finished her entries for the day and it was another week before either of them was mentioned again. In between there was nothing but the usual banalities of life, and she skipped past them to the interesting parts because she was greedy for news of Isobell and her swain.

They were written with heavy strokes of the quill which almost pierced the parchment in some places, and there were tiny sprays of ink around some of the letters where it had splashed onto the page with the quill’s pressure. She had even forgotten to address the diary.

May God have mercy on her soul! That silly young wench Isobell says she is still determined to marry the boy whom she apparently fell in love with at first sight. Her parents have tried to find out who it is, but she will not tell them, but they think it is a childish infatuation that will die naturally, and they are not too worried. I am not so sure, having almost made the same mistake myself. I talked to my daughter-in-law about it but she says that Isobell is utterly determined. I am shocked beyond measure. Nothing like this has ever happened in our family before. I will be going to have a stern word with Isobell tomorrow and see if I can get her to reveal the identity of this reprobate! God help us all!

Malle wondered what the young lovers would do. They were not free agents; no one of nobility was.

She decided to go downstairs and take a look at some of the other letters; the second diary could wait until later. She had to find out the circumstances that had led to the feud between the MacEwans and the Dunbars. If she could find out exactly what had happened, then perhaps they could put an end to it.

It was easier to find the letters that she was looking for now that she had put them in order, and she laid her hands on the ones between Isobell and Donnan, took them up to her room, then stood by the window looking down on the green landscape, peaceful now in the gloaming, when night and day were evenly balanced. Could there be men among the trees who wanted to do them harm? She shuddered, then the unbidden thought came to her that Craig would protect her. But why should he? He was not her friend.

She sighed and shook her head to banish the unwelcome thoughts, then she began to read the first letter written to Isobell from Donnan.