Duet (15 page)

Aillil stood in the center of the circle of trees, his and Malcolm’s trysting place, peaceful in the evening hours. With their drooping branches, the yews appeared to be mourning, making him feel less alone. When an owl’s desolate cry split the silence, Aillil agreed wholeheartedly.

Some form of prayer should be said, but he didn’t know any, having attended few church services since becoming a man. Thinking back to Grandfather Fionan’s burial, he murmured a few words a Druid had uttered, hoping they’d hurry Malcolm on to another life where the two of them might possibly meet again. He pulled his bagpipe from the sack and played the same tune he’d heard the night his grandfather died, giving Malcolm a parting gift of forbidden music.

The sun sank below the trees when Aillil made his way back home. He was on the verge of entering the great hall when the bells tolled again. Did that make ten? Eleven? Fearing for the people down in the villages and what they suffered gave him new direction. Already at risk of taking the fever, he’d nothing to lose. His thoughts with his clansmen, he hid his bagpipe in the eaves of the barn, took his father’s best horse, and rode to the nearest village to offer assistance.

What he found there horrified him. The effects of the fever were devastating, especially among the elderly and very young. He dismounted to tie the horse by a watering trough, and spying a wizened man struggling to carry the body of an elderly woman, silently approached, taking the burden. The woman was the first of many bodies he carried to a field now littered with fresh graves. While the wealthy and privileged hid, hoping to escape the fever’s wrath, he, the laird’s son, worked tirelessly to bury the dead.

On Aillil’s second day away from the castle, Angus approached. “Maeve says come,” he said.

Aillil wound through the village to the thatched cottage he’d visited regularly over the years. The door opened on a dimly lit room, and he stood for a moment, eyes adjusting to the gloom.

Old Maeve stepped from the shadows. “Yon lassie brung them.” She indicated a pale young woman, obviously quite ill, huddled beside the door. The serving maid from the castle.

The healer’s modest home held the dead and dying, the sick assembled under her roof to receive what care she could offer. His eyes searched the unfortunate souls there, falling on two small bodies curled together on the floor. No! Dughlas and Dughall lay on a pallet near the hearth. Shrugging off Angus’s restraining hand, he dropped to his knees by their sides, burying his face in his hands. The selfishness of wanting to sicken and die when these two fought to live condemned him. Were their lost lives to be his punishment?

“Aillil?” a weak voice asked.

“Aye, lad?” Aillil fought back tears, meeting the glassy-eyed stare of Dughlas.

“Will Master Byerly be there?”

“Be where?” The raging fever must be robbing the poor lad of his wits.

“When we die, will Master Byerly be there?”

The words, spoken with such certainty of death, ripped Aillil’s heart in two. He started to make denials, to promise false hope, when a hand fell to his shoulder. “Aye, Dughlas,” Old Maeve replied. “Aye.”

Dughlas smiled, snuggling back into his brother’s side. “Then we don’t have to be afraid. He’ll look after us.”

“Mother will be there too,” Dughall muttered sleepily.

“Aye, lad, she will,” Aillil agreed, realizing Maeve’s goal to reassure the lads the best possible way. They didn’t need lies or half-truths; they needed to believe that whatever happened, they wouldn’t be alone.

Aillil remained by their sides throughout the night. He and Maeve did all they could, to no avail. In the wee hours of morning, Dughall slipped away, followed shortly thereafter by Dughlas, together in death as in life.

A
LL
day Aillil did whatever required in a daze, working shoulder to shoulder with the villagers. A messenger from the castle appeared at noon. Eoghan refused to help bury the children or to have a funeral, citing fears for Rory and Niall’s safety. Aillil knew better. It was himself alone his father protected. How could the man evict those poor children from their home because they’d taken the fever?

Without a word Aillil trudged back to the castle, heartened when three other men fell into step beside him. Several times faces peeked from windows while they dug graves in the family plot. The figures always retreated before he could make them out. He kept a watchful eye during his labors, hoping his two remaining brothers would stay away and not risk exposure to the illness laying waste to the countryside. Having slept in the same room with Dughall and Dughlas put them at risk enough.

When the men lowered the bodies of the twins into the earth, wrapped in the clan’s plaid, Aillil clearly saw Niall standing in the doorway. He didn’t speak or approach, only observed the proceedings, occasionally reaching up a hand to brush his cheek. Finally Angus tamped down the earth over Dughall and Dughlas and Niall stepped back inside. Aillil caught a glimpse of Rory, hiding behind Niall’s leg, before the door closed.

That night, in a fitful sleep on the hard earth floor of Maeve’s cottage, Aillil heard pipes from the direction of the yew grove. Too tired and disheartened to seek them out, he appreciated the clansmen who so honored his brothers nonetheless. Not only their mother and Malcolm awaited Dughall and Dughlas in the hereafter, their grandparents and many generations of Callaghans did, as well. The twins were in good company.

A
FTER
the death of his brothers, Aillil pushed himself daily to the breaking point. Old Maeve figured out his true motives. “Ye courts it lak ay mistress, ye dae,” the nearly toothless crone mumbled, handing him a cup of water.

He gulped the offering, accepting more to pour over his head, washing away some of the sweat and grime. Weary beyond reasoning, he raised his head, gazing at her through bleary eyes. “What are ye talkin’ about, Auld Mammy?” Hard-won lessons in proper English gave way to fatigue.

She peered intently, searching his face. “Yer courtin’ Death, ye are. Aye, ye may fool some, but nae me.” Her gaze turned questioning, her voice full of genuine concern. “’Tis more than yer brithers ye mourn. Who wha she?”

Aillil sighed. As if he’d ever known a woman who could send him into such depths of despair. If he mourned a woman, he could speak openly instead of hiding the misery deep inside, pretending he hadn’t lost his everything. Not knowing what to say, he chose to ignore the healer and turned to leave. A surprisingly strong grip prevented his escape.

Maeve’s eyes shifted right and left. She waited until two village men passed to hiss, “Did th’ fever tak her?”

Aillil stared at the woman in panic, desperate to get away. Before he formed a reply, her eyes flew wide and darted to where her hand rested on his arm. “Och,” she said, expression pensive. “Sae, thas th’ way o’ it.” She nodded her head sagely. “Th’ bonnie
Sassenach
wit hair lak flame?”

How did she know? Too weary to voice a denial, Aillil nodded.

Instead of the expected denouncement, she asked, “Dae ye love him?”

Aillil tried to pull away. For all her years, the woman was ox-strong, refusing to let go. “Nay, I’m nae judgin’ ye!” Eyes filled with understanding penetrated his, and he felt it: an ancient power, the power of the ancestors his grandfather had told him about.

“You’re a Druid,” he whispered in amazement.

“Aye,” she replied. “An’ I hep ye.”

Anyone who held to outlawed ways risked the English king’s wrath, and who knew which of the Scottish lairds were in the man’s favor? Maeve exposed herself to a terrible danger revealing such a secret, even to a man she’d known since birth.
Especially if I were a traitor like my father
, he thought bitterly. “Why?” he asked. “You take dire chances for speaking of such things. Why would you help me?”

Her hard, weathered features softened. “Ah doesna matter why ye did, ye behaves lak ay true Scotsman.” She turned her head and spat on the ground. “Yer father hides, but canna hide frae Death. Nae ye! Yer with yer fowk, lak ye should be, lak ay Scotsman.” One side of her mouth lifted in a gentle smile. “B’side, yer brammer
Sassenach
play me ay tune, sang fer me bairns. ’E loves ye tae, I ken.”

Torn between believing she could help and facing the harsh reality of Malcolm’s death, added to the guilt of living when his brothers had died, was nearly more than Aillil could bear. Something deep within wanted an end to misery, some measure of peace. He’d readily take any chance, no matter how small. “How can you help me?”

She may have spoken with the thick accent of a peasant, but she held her head high and her voice brimmed with confidence. “Gaun bury yer ain dead. Een th’ moon be full come tae th’ grove tae meet yer lover.”

Old Maeve released her hold on his arm and turned to leave. “Me price be ay tune—fetch yer fiddle.”

He still pondered her words when the messenger arrived with more news from the castle. Like the healer predicted, hiding hadn’t prevented the fever from finding his father. A chill ran up Aillil’s spine. How had she known?

H
IS
father lay wide-eyed and staring sightlessly upon the bed, the servants too afraid to tend him. Regardless of harsh words or evil deeds, Eoghan was still the laird, and Aillil regretted not being there to act as nurse as he’d done for Malcolm or offer comfort when the man breathed a final breath as he had for Dughlas and Dughall.

With steadily rising numbers of the newly dead, sending to the village for help wasn’t an option. There’d be no wooden casket, no grand funeral. What Aillil could do, he would on his own. In a chilling reminder of days gone by when he’d prepared Malcolm for burial, and later, his brothers, he bathed his father’s body and sewed Eoghan into a blanket, believing that even in death his father wouldn’t wear plaid.

He carried the body to the family plot. Surprisingly, a hole awaited. Niall stood at the head, dressed in traditional Highlander dress from before the rebellion, looking so much like their grandfather that for a moment Aillil feared the fever truly had come, bringing apparitions. A few of the servants hovered behind the lad, the cook holding a sleeping Rory. None save Niall met Aillil’s eyes. They traded commiserating glances while Niall read from the scriptures in lieu of a priest’s words.

Aillil couldn’t have been prouder of his brother. Not quite a man full grown, he’d taken charge of the situation admirably, showing all the makings of a fine leader.

“Many in the surrounding villages have lost their lives,” Aillil said, maintaining a safe distance.

The cook’s eyes filled with terror. Doubtless she had kin nearby.

“Aye,” Niall replied, appearing far older than his ten and five years. “We’ve said prayers nightly for their souls. What can I do for you, my brother?”

“Add me to your prayers.” Aillil left what remained of his family to return to the dead and dying.

Once fairly certain the threat had passed, he returned to the castle with a village craftsman who, with Aillil’s help, carved a stone for Eoghan’s grave with the deceased’s name and birth and death dates. Next, they prepared a shared stone for Dughall and Dughlas. After leaving the Callaghan family plot, Aillil led the villager to the stream where he and Malcolm once swam, and helped to pry up a piece of the white rock upon which they’d first kissed. It took quite some time and a pony cart, but they relocated the slab to the grave in the grove. “Whit dae ye want tae say?” the workman asked.

No longer caring what would be said, Aillil answered, “Forever.”

The stone carver never batted an eye. “Aye, good.” Aillil traced the word upon the stone for the man to chisel, in both Gaelic and English.

Aillil returned to the castle as Laird Callaghan, a title borne with great reluctance.

His father may have disowned him, but the clan had not. He avoided close contact with his remaining brothers for a few more days, to be safe, and publicly named Niall his heir in the yew grove, with several local men bearing witness.

He’d forgotten Old Maeve’s words in the aftermath of the tragedies until a boy from the village arrived unexpectedly one evening. “T’night in th’ grove. Auld Mammy says ye tae brin’ somethin’ o’ his.”

Aillil had always trusted the healer before; however, now he questioned her ability to help. Out of respect, he prepared himself very carefully. He bathed and donned his tartan, pinning on the heirloom brooch worn by at least four Laird Callaghans.

He’d nearly stepped out of the castle before recalling the named price and returning for his violin. While removing the instrument from its shelf by the mantel in the great hall, he also remembered what else the lad requested—something of Malcolm’s. He drew a deep breath and ventured to the place he’d avoided until now—the room at the top of the tower stairs.

Leaving the new wing that had been added to the original keep by an ancestor, Aillil entered the older part of the castle, constructed in the time of Robert the Bruce. Climbing the turnpike stair built into the thick tower walls, he paused and peered out of an arrow slit at the night sky, clear and full of stars. He’d played there years before, shooting imaginary arrows at the English. How simple life had been back then. He blew out a heavy sigh and trudged up the last few stairs to the room he’d forever consider Malcolm’s. Aillil eased the door open, raising a candle to eye level to peer inside. The room smelled musty and unused. Perhaps the servants were too afraid to come here.

Agony swept through him anew upon stepping into his lover’s sanctuary. The bed sat unmade, and a book lay open upon it, face down, as though Malcolm would return, tuck himself in, and wander in some faraway land found within the book’s pages. Various items of clothing hung on wall pegs, and Aillil petted a spare waistcoat. He pulled the garment from the peg and held it to his nose, breathing in Malcolm’s scent. A memory surfaced of the red-haired Englishman, head thrown back in laughter at something one of the boys had said, eyes crinkled at the corners in humor.