The Return of Black Douglas (19 page)

“My name is Isobella Douglas. Who are you?”

He remained silent, and she knew he was contemplating whether to answer or not. She was about to ask another question when he said, “Bradan Mackinnon.”

A Mackinnon? How could he be? She had seen other children about the castle dressed far, far better than this urchin. She had never felt such pity for a child in her life. That he should be a Mackinnon and dressed like a ragamuffin. It was beyond appalling. Why was this child an outcast? What had he done wrong, and for God’s sake, who were his parents? She had to look away for a moment to gain her composure, and she stared at the ocean to clear her mind. She did not want to scare him. He probably had enough troubles as it were.

The tide was going out, and the water lapped the shore in little wavelets that left curving ripples in the wet sand. Further offshore, she caught a glimpse of a white sail in the distance. It was peaceful here. She understood why he was drawn to this place.

“When the tide is oot, ye can gather a peck o’ shellfish.” His accent was thickly Gaelic, and his speech resembled that of the poorer Highlanders who worked at Màrrach, rather than that of the more educated Clan Mackinnon. Was he an orphan? But even an orphan with the Mackinnon name should be treated as well as the other children.

“Who is your father, Bradan?”

He was patting the sand into a turret, and he did not pause to answer. He went on working as he said, quite simply, “He doesna want me to say he is my father, so I dinna call him father and I canna tell ye who he is.”

Isobella was surprised at the strange answer, for why would any man not want to claim this adorable child? “May I help you with your castle, then?”

He shrugged.

She scooted closer until she was sitting with her backside plopped flat on the sand and her legs crossed, just as his were. She leaned forward and cupped her hands to scrape the sand and drag it toward her, so she could start a pile of her own to work with. Soon, she had a large mound of damp sand.

“I think I shall be your neighbor, and I will make another castle nearby… one with a loch beside it.”

He did not say anything, so she went to work on her castle. All went well until she tried to make a round tower, which kept collapsing. “Blast and double blast!”

Bradan looked at the fallen tower and then at her. “Ye canna make it so tall, or it willna stand.”

“Ahhh, so that is the secret,” she said and tried again. This time the tower stayed together.

They worked in silence for a while, and then Bradan dusted his hands against his breeks and took a piece of cloth out of his pocket that looked like a scrap from a well-worn plaid. He unwrapped two oatcakes and extended one to her. “Will ye have an oatcake now?”

“Only if you will take one of my scones,” she answered, and withdrew a kerchief from her pocket. She unwrapped a triangular-shaped scone made of honey and oats and baked on a stone. It was quite different from the scones at Starbucks in the twenty-first century, but then, scones had originated in Scotland only about ten years before.

They exchanged an oatcake for a scone, and she observed the way he turned it over and over in his little hand, observing it carefully in that curious way children have. He looked back at her, and she could tell he didn’t know what it was. Her heart cracked a little.

“Have you never had a scone before?”

“Nae, I dinna ken how I will like it.”

“Take a bite. I think you will like it better than an oatcake. In fact, I believe you will think you have never tasted anything so good.”

She could never remember such pleasure over watching somebody eat, for he truly relished it. When it was gone, she handed him the kerchief that contained three more. “Take these with you.”

He took the kerchief and looked down at it and then at her. He said nothing as he busied himself with tucking the kerchief into the doublet he wore.

“Who is your mother, Bradan?”

“I dinna remember my mother, but I know she is in France.”

Isobella decided to move the conversation away from his family and to concentrate on him. “Do you come here often?”

“Aye, ’tis a nice place to be and I dinna get into trouble when I am here.”

“And are you often in trouble, or does it just seem that way?”

“When I was little, I would get my ears boxed about when I displeased them. They said trouble followed me like a mangy dog, but not so much now, for I have learnt to be verra careful.”

She could not help smiling at the way he stressed the pronunciation of “verra,” but the overall message was heart wrenching. How could anyone be so unfeeling to a child? She was willing to bet they treated their horses and dogs better than this motherless child. She gave his black hair a tousling.

“Boys are supposed to get into a little trouble now and then,” she said, and decided to change the subject yet again. “Where do you live?”

“At Màrrach,” he replied

“Màrrach?” How odd, she thought, for she had never seen him about the castle. “In what part of the castle do you live? Where is your room?”

“In the tower.”

She thought the tower was an odd place to put a young child. “Who stays in the tower with you?”

“No one, but I am not afraid. I can look out my window and see the ocean, and sometimes I can see there is more land floating on top of it.”

“More land on top… oh, you mean the land looks like it is sitting on top of the water?” she asked, thinking that was a clever way to describe an island.

“Aye, it sits there, floating on top of the water, but I dinna always see it.”

“Have you ever been to any of the other islands?”

“Islands?” He cocked his head to the side and looked at her with a frown.

Lord, did he not know what an island was, even though he lived on one?

“Do you know what Scotland is?”

“Aye, ’tis where I sleep.”

“What is Mull?

“’Tis where Màrrach is.”

“And what is Màrrach?”

“’Tis where I live.”

“You do know Mull is an island and there are many other islands out there scattered in the water, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I dinna ken aboot that,” he said.

“What do you know about England?”

“’Tis where the bad soldiers live and sup with the deil.”

“Bradan, do you have a tutor… a teacher… a person who shows you how to write letters and read books?”

He went on perfecting his sand castle. “Nae, I havena learnt my letters or my numbers.”

“Do you have anyone who teaches you about history and geography?”

“Nae, I dinna, but I have been taught to groom a horse and skin a hare, and I can write my name. I can make arrows and shoot a crossbow, too.” He stopped long enough to write his name in the sand.

“Bradan,” he said proudly. “And I can muck out the stables, and I sometimes get to help with minding the sheep.” He stopped suddenly, and she was puzzled by the fearful expression that came over his face.

“What are ye doing doon here?”

Isobella gave a start. She turned and held up her hand to shield the sun from her eyes, puzzled that Alysandir had returned so soon. Why had he ridden Gallagher down here? She wondered if he often did that, or was it because he was searching for her.

“You gave us a start,” she said. “I thought you were not coming back until tomorrow.”

“A change of plans,” he said curtly. “I dinna want ye roaming around out here like this. It could be dangerous. I have told ye before that ye are na to leave the castle unescorted. Hie yerself back to Màrrach. Now.”

“This is Bradan,” she said as she came to her feet. “We are building castles. Do you want to join us?”

“I know who he is,” he said, his voice as cold as ice.

Isobella noticed how Bradan seemed to shrink away then, and how he kept his head down as he crawled sideways, like a crab, until he was several feet away. Then he snatched his too-large shoes, stood up, and ran down the beach.

“Bradan!” she called, but he did not stop.

She stood and started to go after him.

“Leave him be!”

She stopped. “What’s wrong? He is such a beautiful little boy. It saddens me to think…”

“Stay away from him.”

She was shocked. “What?”

“I said stay away from him. I dinna want ye to have anything to do with him.”

She was aghast. “For the love of God, Alysandir, why? Why are you being callous toward him? He is not old enough to have done anything. He is only a child.”

“He is the spawn of the deil,” he said, with intense hostility that struck her a bitter blow.

“What are—”

“Leave him be. I forbid ye to have anything to do with him.”

Forbid ye… Oh, he had said the wrong thing that time. She bristled, and the hair at the back of her neck stood up. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I like him. In fact, I intend to teach him to read and write.”

“I warn ye… dinna have anything to do with him.”

“Why?”

“It is time to go. It will be dark soon.”

She turned away, giving him her back as she tried to still her pounding heart. She sought to gain control of her runaway emotions, for two angry, unreasonable people would solve nothing. “I will be there later.”

He dismounted, and she hardly knew what was happening before he swept her into his arms and plopped her in the saddle. He mounted swiftly behind her so she barely had time to grab the pommel before he spurred Gallagher into a gallop. They did not slow down until they were almost through the gates of Màrrach.

By the time he lifted her down, Isobella was seething. If he noticed, he did not let on as he said, “I will not tell ye again, mistress. Leave the boy be. He is the black-haired spawn of Satan.”

“His black hair is the same color of yours, and his eyes…” Oh, my God! It struck her then… those beautiful blue eyes, the black hair. Alysandir was Bradan’s father. But what could have happened that caused him to hate and despise his own child? “He’s your child, isn’t he? Bradan is your son,” she said, surprised at the calm control she possessed.

“He is a bastard.”

“A lot like his father, but whether you admit it or not, his face speaks the truth. He favors you too much for you to deny him.”

“Dinna mention him again to me.”

“Refuse and reject him all you wish, but you are wrong to blame him for the spilling of your seed. From a bitter seed a beautiful flower has grown. You punish yourself by not knowing him. He is as innocent as a babe.” She saw that her arrow had hit its intended mark. She would give it time to fester.

She realized this was not the time to stand here and bandy words with him, but she knew what was right. Alysandir was as hard and craggy as the granite mountains of the Morvern Peninsula, and just as easy to move. She was not stronger than he, but she was softer, and not every obstacle had to be overpowered with brute strength. It was amazing, really, what strong defenses one could bring down with persistent softness, like water that turns mountains into sand.

They had arrived back at the keep, and when they stepped through the door, he said, “I will see ye at supper.”

“Not if I see you first. And to be certain I don’t catch even a glimpse of you, I will take a tray in my room.”

He paused, and the hardness of his face subsided. “It was not my objective to raise yer ire.”

“Whether it was your objective or not, you raised it. A tyrant’s plea does not excuse his offense.”

“I was not angry with ye,” he said.

“I know and that makes it all the worse. To be angry to that degree with a child over the misfortune of his birth, I find abhorrent. I am disappointed in you, Alysandir.” He started to speak, but she held up her hand. “I have nothing more to say on the subject, for you are behaving like a brute and I don’t want to be around you.”

She did not join him and the others in the hall for the evening meal that night but took a tray in her room as she said. When he came later and knocked on her door, she did not answer. After he left and Mistress MacMorran came to take her tray, Isobella said, “I met Bradan when I walked along the sea today. He would not tell me who his father is, but I suspect he is Alysandir’s child. Is he?”

“I canna speak of the child, mistress.”

“Why?”

“Dinna ask me anything aboot it, please, for I canna discuss it. None of us can. If ye canna get yer answers from the Mackinnon, then ye willna have an answer.”

Sybilla and Grim came by not long after Mistress MacMorran left. “We missed ye at supper and wanted to make certain you were not feeling poorly,” Sybilla said.

“I feel fine, but I am so angry at your brother that I dared not go to supper for fear I would say something I should not. But never mind that. Come, let us sit and visit.”

The three of them sat in a solar off the main part of Isobella’s room. “As you can see, I am the picture of health,” she said, touched at their concern.

“We are glad to hear that,” Sybilla said, “for we were afraid ye might have fallen ill again.”