Highland Portrait (28 page)

Silently he looked at the beautifully detailed drawing, recognizing his garden, his work, on this piece of paper.  He had never seen anything like what he held in his hand and was sure that this beautiful woman before him was an angel.  He looked at her and she smiled at him, touching his cheek, watching the grey-blue eyes water.

“This is the most beautiful garden I have ever been in.  You are amazing.”  She pushed his hair out of his eyes, letting her fingers linger, her thumb rubbing his cheek.

“He nay can talk, but he understands ye,” Stella turned quickly to see Elinor standing at the small door in the corner.  She seemed surprised to see Stella here sitting next to the young man, smiling sweetly, her hand on his deformed shoulder.

Stella looked up at Elinor, “Good morning, Miss Elinor, I hope I’m not intruding, I was enjoying this wonderful garden and this young man came in to work.  He is the gardener, is he not?”  She looked around her, “He is quite gifted.”

Elinor came hesitantly toward them, astonished that this woman was not only sitting in the garden, but that she was touching the gardener’s crooked shoulder.

“What is your name, sir?” asked Stella, looking at the young man.

“His name is Gregor,” Elinor said and then added hesitantly, “he is my son,” and waited for the look of sympathy that often accompanied the admission of her failure to deliver a perfectly formed heir.  But it did not come.  Stella nodded at Elinor and turned back to Gregor.

“Gregor, where I come from in Texas we have very special people called Master Gardeners that can grow anything and are very skilled with the soil and seeds.  You are like them, Gregor.  A Master Gardener.”

Elinor approached her son, standing next to his kneeling, twisted body, running her fingers gently through his hair. “Thank ye for your kindness to my son.  Nay many people have treated him as tenderly as ye.  Are ye not affrighted of him?” she asked softly.

“Why would I be frightened?” asked Stella, cocking her head to one side looking at Elinor, trying to understand how the gentle sweet spirit beside her, so lost in the drawing she had given him, could cause her to be afraid.

“What is this?”  Elinor reached for the drawing and taking it gently out of Gregor’s hand looked at it, astounded at the likeness of her son’s garden.  “Where did ye come by this, Gregor?”  Elinor looked at Stella with questioning eyes.

“I drew it, Elinor.  It’s his garden.  I wanted him to have it.”  Gregor quickly took the picture away from his mother and held it closely to his chest, looking at Stella.

“Ye are a great artist, Stella.  This is a treasure that ye have given him.”

“It’s my pleasure,” said Stella, wishing she had been able to render the drawing with rich watercolors, giving the drawing the same life that Gregor had given to the flowers,

“She is the greatest of artists.” Stella turned to the familiar voice coming in through the large wooden gate.  Albert carefully closed the door behind him and smiled at his daughter.

“Good morning, Daddy,” said Stella cheerfully, getting up and running to her father, giving him a hug. 

“Good morning, princess. I see you’ve met Gregor.  Quite the gardener isn’t he?”  Albert and Stella returned to the thistle bed and Albert extended his hand to Gregor, patting him on the shoulder. “Good morning, Gregor, your garden is looking wonderful this morning.  Morning, Elinor,” he nodded in her direction.

Gregor did not have many days when people came into his garden and even fewer when people were kind or approving.  To have two of them at once, plus a gift of indescribable beauty was unheard of in his small sheltered world and he was overcome with a joy that could only manifest itself in quiet, unheard laughter.  He held the drawing to his cheek and touched Stella’s hand, a brazen action for he was fearful of touch.  Stella, in turn, reached for his hand and held it tightly.

“Albert, your daughter is an artist of unequaled skill!  Gregor show Albert the drawing,” Elinor said, but Gregor was unwilling to part with it once again and grunting shook his head and held it tighter.

“No matter, Elinor, I have seen what my daughter can do and I know that it is a fine treasure for Gregor.”  He smiled at his daughter and then turned to Elinor again.

“Elinor, will you excuse us, I haven’t seen my daughter in awhile and have need to talk with her this morning.  I want her to see the bay, so we’ll be riding out for a couple of hours.”

“Of course, Albert.  We’ll see you again this evening for supper then.” 

Stella bent and placed a kiss on Gregor’s cheek, smiled at him, waving good-bye, and walked with her father out of the garden and into the crowded bailey. 

She did not see the quiet tears of joy that fell from grey-blue eyes.

Chapter Fourteen

When Robbie walked into his uncle’s study the MacDougall was seated at his desk, a white quill in his hand, his castle steward standing at his left leaning over pointing to the book and moving his finger down columns of numbers.  Robbie was immediately interested in what was happening for he liked nothing better than tallying up a line of numbers or figuring out a mathematical solution to a complex problem.  He cleared his throat and his uncle looked up from his ledgers.

“Ah, Robbie, lad, come in, come in.”  He nodded to the steward and closed the books, “we’ll go over this later, David, thank ye.”

“Aye, Laird.”  The steward nodded at Robbie, offering his hand, “’Tis good to see ye again, Robbie.  Welcome back.”  Robbie shook his hand and nodded back.

“My thanks, Dave, I see yer keeping the old man from spendin’ too much o’ his money on whiskey.”  David laughed heartily at that.

“No need fer me t’ be watchin’ him when Lady Elinor keeps her eyes on him and the books.  Like a hawk she is, and fair with numbers, too.”

“Hmmph,“ was the only comment that the MacDougall made while putting the ledgers away.

The steward excused himself and Robbie sat in front of his uncles desk watching him.  Everything about this room was different now than it was several weeks ago when he had left on his trip to London.  He had left reluctantly, not wanting to spend time with the English, but had understood the importance of his being at court even for such a short time.  He thought about how his world had changed since then, how a brief stop to wash himself clean had altered everything about him and everything about his world.  He sat in his chair and looked around at this room and saw a future here that promised a good deal of happiness.  He saw children climbing on his lap as he talked with his clan members, he saw a wife that welcomed him with loving, open arms each time he left and returned.  His world was brighter now, in more colors than it had ever been.  He was content, happy, looking forward to whatever came.

“Now there’s a look I ha’e nay seen a’fore, lad,” said the MacDougall, as he looked at Robbie.  “I take it that this lass will do fer ye?”  he winked.

Robbie laughed, “Aye, Uncle, she will do.”  Robbie sat up straighter, bringing himself to attention, stepping away, reluctantly, from thoughts of Stella.

“Was the king’s answer t’ yer liking, Uncle?” asked Robbie.  The MacDougall snorted and shook his head.

“Lad, what we speak o’ here never leaves this room,” when Robbie nodded, MacDougall continued. “He guaranteed we have naught t’ worry about, that his aid will be with us.  Between ye and me and the cat sitting on yon window sill I think ye know that is worth less than the parchment it was written on.  James will comport himself for himself, not fer his countrymen.”

“Aye, Uncle, I think ye have the right o’ it.  James is not a Scottish king, he is just a king and a kings first allegiance is always to himself, and we can nay count on any of his promises any more than his predecessors.”

Robbie thought of the tumultuous history of the Scottish people and their relationship with England.  James calling for a Union of the Crowns, extolling the case of true brotherhood between England and Scotland, a family with common interests, common ancestors, and a common economy was well spoken, but in truth would never work.  England and Scotland may have been brothers, but they were jealous brothers, full of angry resentment and given to violent fights.  Robbie could never discover the reason why it was so but when
you forget why you started doing something it becomes progressively harder to stop doing it so you carry on doing it anyway.  Tradition was and always would be stronger than truth.

For the nonce this uneasy peace would do, although the undercurrent of brotherly bitterness and centuries of spite could not be erased by one unpopular monarch.

“So, ‘tis not the English that we must guard against now, lad, but our own king.  His thoughts on witchcraft have burdened our people.  They now seek opportunities t’ curry his favor by burning women they accuse of witchcraft.”

Robbie felt a cold shiver of fear fly up his spine and send a dart of pain through his eyes.  He sat up straighter and looked with real intent at his uncle.  His heartbeat quickened as memories of a small croft and a blackened pyre, still vivid in his mind brought forth a pain and anger that soured his feelings of elation.  He thought of his Stella, her language, her ‘magic’, her clothes.  He felt an insanity of protective fear surge through him.  He had to keep her from those that would hurt her.

The MacDougall continued, “Malcolm is a serious threat, Robbie.  Keep yer eye upon him, for he carries a madness in him.  He calls himself a priest, but he is more inclined to deviltry then priestly duties.  He has never forgiven ye or his clan for electing ye tanist instead of him.”

Robbie said nothing, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped, looking at the floor frowning.

The door burst open at that moment and as if his name had been summoned from the very bottom of hell, Malcolm strode in, and he was in a fury, disapproval in every line of his face.  It was Robbie’s base urge to run a sword through his uncle, but he held back, and giving the elder man some small respect, he stood.

“Uncle,” he nodded. Malcolm ignored Robbie, delivering his full attention to the MacDougall instead.

“Malcolm,” the MacDougall, irritated once again that his brother thought little of the propriety of knocking or having himself announced, scowled and steepled his fingers waiting for yet another barrage of complaints and accusations against his people. “What is it this, time, brother, do you bring me good news or are you here to witness against yet another of our clan.”

Malcolm, a vessel once filled with hope, now empty but for the vapor of anger, gave Robbie a scathing look, one meant to bring the younger man to his knees, but Robbie did not bend and gave his Uncle a look that spoke of strength and candor, rather than fear and servility. Malcolm, his hatred of the young tanist barely concealed, gritted his teeth and turning his attention to the MacDougall he approached the desk as a bat in the night, his filthy, ragged robes flowing, his lips curled, his fists flailing the air.  He pounded on the MacDougall’s desk.

“Sacrilege!  How can ye allow sacrilege at our tables.  Ye allow this man to bring his whore into this castle…”  Robbie grabbed Malcolm by the collar of his robes and the thud of Malcolm being pushed against the wall, caused the window panes, Elinor’s pride and joy, to rattle.  Robbie seethed with anger, his eyes deadly, his fists curled white around Malcolm’s neck.

“Dinna ever call her such, ye bastard, fer I will nay hesitate to kill ye, Malcolm.” 

The MacDougall calmly got up from his seat walked around the desk, pointing at Malcolm.

“Are ye insane, Malcolm?  Ye offer this man insult to speak so.  His betrothed is an honored guest in this house and ye will treat her as such.”  He looked at Robbie, “Let him breathe, lad.”

Robbie, shaking with rage, his hands squeezing his uncles neck, watching with pleasure as fear fill Malcolm’s face, let go just enough for him to draw breath.  Not completely done with him Robbie pulled him forward and slammed him against the wall again, harder this time, leaving the false priest with the indelible impression that Robbie would brook no slander against Stella.  Robbie let go and his uncle slid to the floor, taking deep gulps of air.  Undaunted by the retribution, pleasured by the pain, Malcolm looked to the MacDougall.

“She be no wife, but a hand fast.  There were no banns, no priest to speak them husband and wife.  ‘Tis ungodly and should she not be cast out she will bring down wrath upon this house.”  Once again Robbie reached for his uncle’s collar and with strength borne of anger and passion, pulled the priest up against the wall, his hands locked around his neck.

“Ye touch her, uncle, ye shall meet my wrath first, and then the god ye mock w’ yer mischief.”  Malcolm, choking and eyes bulging, looked at the MacDougall who seemed not at all distressed at this display.

“Ye allow this, brother?” sputtered Malcolm.  The MacDougall, heaved a sigh.

“Malcolm, ye have been a harbinger of evil tidings for years.  Perhaps spending time at the English court would cause ye to see things differently.  It would be good to have a representative of our clan to be at James’ side.”

Malcolm’s hatred of Robbie, was overshadowed by his hatred of all things English and the thought of setting foot at James’ court caused palpitations that even the ecstasy of pain could not.  He sobered quickly, his breathing still labored for the strong hands around his neck.