Let Me Be Your Hero (3 page)

“’Tis not ladylike to run in the hall,” he remarked, “but I canna say I am sorry ye did, for if ye hadna, then I wouldna be holding a fire-haired lass with eyes o’ greenish-gold in my arms. ’Tis not a bad feeling. Pity ye are so young.”

“I am not
so
young. I am fifteen. And ye dinna look so verra old yerself. So, will ye be telling me yer age? Or are ye so ancient ye canna remember?”

“I have four more years than ye, Lady Claire…and soon to be five.”

“Then ye have no business calling me young. I am a woman full grown.”

“No need to tell me that, lass. ’Twas one o’ the first things I noticed aboot ye.”

Claire had been waiting for his retort, only now she found herself completely distracted by his closeness. His chin was square and proud, his cheekbones high, his face tanned enough to make his blue eyes so very, very blue.

She had already judged him to be a gentle man, but standing so close to him, with his arms around her, she realized there was nothing about him that was soft and gentle now, for he was tall, powerful and handsomely dark-haired, with a fine edge to him that could turn ruthless and dangerous when called upon. Several times tonight he had demonstrated he had a mind that was as quick and sharp as a razor’s edge.

“Where were ye going in such a hurry, lass? We’ ye rushing to give me a farewell kiss?” he asked, amused.

“I would sooner kiss a pig’s liver,” she said. “Ye ken I had no such thought, and ye are a devilish brute for saying such.”

“Aye, and ye have a devilish temper to go with it, so we are a matched pair, you and I.”

“I wouldna be matched with the likes of ye, Fraser Graham, for all the gold in King Solomon’s mines.”

“I could easily prove ye wrong on that account,” he said. He grinned cheerfully and said, “Och, ’tis a false face ye put on now, lass, for ye kept yer gaze on me a goodly part o’ the evening, and while I find it pleasing,
it doesna please me to think ye are the kind who willna own up to it.”

“Ye did a muckle amount o’ looking yerself,” she said.

“Aye, but I own up to it. ’Tis not so strange that a man would find it pleasurable to gaze upon a lass as bonnie as ye, for ye are a beautiful woman, Lady Claire Lennox, and ye have no’ seen the last o’ me.”

“’Tis folly to think I will be watching the loch pining for a sight o’ ye or yer boat,” she replied, looking disinterested.

“Ye will learn soon enough that I am not overly fond of resisting temptation, lass.”

He kissed her suddenly, quick and hard, but long enough that she felt the warmth of his tongue and the urge to put her arms around him and kiss him back, but he released her with a laugh. “’Tis sorry I am that I dinna have time to do that a wee bit longer, but that will have to hold ye until next time, when I will finish it properly.”

Her mouth dropped open in a sort of speechless wonderment. She was stunned, searching for something to say. “I only wanted to return yer gloves to ye,” she said, and thrust them toward him.

His hand cupped her chin and lifted her face, and the look he gave her was powerful and too overwhelming to resist. When he released her, she was trembling inside.

“My lass,” he said, and then he was gone.

She ran to the door and crossed the yard, then hurried down to where the boat and his brothers waited. She went to stand by her father, and his arm came around her. Secure and protected within her father’s embrace, she watched Fraser give the boat a mighty push, and then he jumped inside.

Together, she and her father watched the boat move toward the opposite shore, and she felt the power of Fraser Graham reaching out to her, even after darkness swallowed the sight of him.

Ye Highlands and ye Lawlands, O where hae ye been?

They hae slain the Earl of Murray, And hae laid him on the green.

He was a braw gallant, And he rid at the ring; And the bonny Earl of Murray, O he might hae been a king!

O lang will his Lady Look owre the Castle Downe, Ere she see the Earl of Murray Come sounding through the town!

“The Bonny Earl of Murray,” Anonymous

O
nly Kendrew was in the great hall when Claire came below stairs the next morning. She stopped when she saw the near-empty room and asked, “Where is everyone?”

“Did ye forget, Claire? Lord Monleigh invited them
to come to Grahamstone today. They left early. Father said to tell ye goodbye. He said ye shouldna wait up for them, because it will be late when they return.”

“Did Breac and Ronaln accompany him?”

“Aye, and eager to go, too, they were.”

“Did anyone else go with them?”

“Aye, Duncan and Hugh.” He studied her face. “Ye look troubled, Claire. Are ye faring well?”

“Aye, I am faring well, but I am distressed that they left afore I awoke. I wanted to tell them goodbye.”

“Then ye should have gotten up earlier.”

“Aye,” she said, and wandered off to the kitchen to get a cup of tea, puzzled over the strange emptiness she felt inside.

The sun dropped behind the walls of the keep. Long shadows stretched over the figures of the Grahams as they made their last farewells to Alasdair, his sons and the two clansmen who accompanied them.

“Ye are certain ye do not wish to stay the night?” Jamie asked. “Think it not better to leave early tomorrow?”

“Nay,” Alasdair said, and swung into his saddle. “’Twill be pleasant riding in the cool o’ the evening, and we will be home before dawn.”

“Godspeed ye, then,” Jamie said, and he stood with his brothers and watched the Lennox men wheel their horses and ride at a canter through the gate. Once they were on the other side, they broke into a gallop, and the gates of Grahamstone Castle closed behind them.

Alasdair and his small party of five rode away from Grahamstone Castle and into the deepening shadows of the approaching night. He saw the moon rising, a
silver orb, that seemed to balance magically on the tops of the hills in the distance. He thought of the miles that lay between him and the shores of Loch Lomond, and wondered if Claire would prove faithful to his request that she not wait up for them, and with a smile and a shake of his head, he surmised that probably she would not.

She was so like her mother, loving, devoted, faithful, with a quick wit and an even quicker temper. She was both a blessing to remind him so much of the woman he loved, and a curse to remind him of the love that he lost.

He put his spurs to his horse, and under the bright light of the full moon, he and his sons and clansmen rode through the empty streets of a small town. When they passed through the outskirts on the other side, they rode noisily over a wooden bridge, hooves pounding the dry wood beneath them.

The moonlight guided them along the narrow track on the other side. Once, he thought he heard the sound of horses coming behind them, but when he checked his horse and told the others to “listen,” there was no sound, save the rushing water of the burn they had just crossed.

They continued on their way until the tall, spiked tops of the trees announced the woods were just ahead. The track curved around the slope of a hill and disappeared into the dark, huddling trees.

Once they entered the forest, they rode only a short way when they were suddenly overtaken by a warlike horde of at least three dozen men. Wielding drawn swords and hurling curses with furious voices, they sprang upon Lord Errick and his unsuspecting party.

At first the Lennox party was stunned, but when the attackers closed around them, swords drawn, they had no choice but to meet their challengers. The ensuing ring of the Lennox swords being drawn echoed through the trees, but by the time Alasdair drew first blood, with a stroke that cut deeply into the shoulder of his opponent, he knew they were outnumbered, hemmed in and surrounded. The reality of it only made him fight with a renewed energy, but soon he knew their fate was certain, and they would all be cut down like trees.

There, among the crannies of the rocks and whispering leaves of the trees, they struck against the enemy, beneath the cold, impersonal glimmer of stars overhead. The air rang with the clang of metal and the guttural utterances that followed a well placed cut from a sword. The smell of blood was strong; the smell of death even stronger.

He searched desperately for his sons, and saw Ronaln’s red head and was renewed to know his middle son still stood. Beyond him, Breac fought like the Highlanders of old, fierce and quick, defending himself with nimble agility against man after man who rushed him. Weapons flashing in the moonlight, Alasdair hacked his way through the diminishing ranks of the enemy in an effort to reach his sons, for he knew they would soon tire. When Ronaln was close enough that the earl could reach out and touch him, he saw the thrust of an enemy sword aim at him. Before Alasdair could move, he saw his son run through, until the bloody point exited his back.

“Nooooo,” Alasdair cried, and reached for Ronaln before his son’s slumping body fell from his horse.
Someone from behind him took aim, and Alasdair felt a blinding pain as the sword cut deep into his shoulder and his own sword fell from his useless hand.

His horse reared as the swing that nearly severed Alasdair’s arm also sliced into the flank of his mount. Alasdair fell, and landed near the place where his son’s lifeless body lay. With his good arm, he grabbed Ronaln’s sword and turned, frantically searching for Breac, and found him just in time to see the slicing arc of the sword that completely severed Breac’s head.

“Kill me!” Alasdair shouted, and rose to his feet. Holding his sword firmly, he attacked, cutting his way through man after man, barely feeling the wounds he collected, until at last, he was set upon.

“Do not kill him,” one of them said. “The honor goes to Lord Walter.”

“And an honor it will be.”

Alasdair, bleeding mortally, felt his life ebbing away with each heartbeat. “Lord Walter,” he whispered, the sound faint and papery. “I curse ye in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. May yer days be numbered, and may yer death bring ye thrice the suffering ye bequeathed to my sons and me.”

“’Tis what I would expect of ye, Alasdair. Ye always were so verra brave. ’Tis a pity ye didna accept the forgery as real,” he said, “and now, to save yer wealth, ye have lost yer sons.”

“Ye willna get away with this.”

“Correction. I have already gotten away with it. A few dead cows have been scattered about, and since ye and yer party were on yer way home after a meeting regarding the theft of cattle, it will seem perfectly
clear that ye came upon a party o’ cattle thieves and found yerselves outnumbered. Of course, yer name will be glorified and stories will circulate about the bravery of yer party, and the tragic deaths of ye and yer sons. The tragedy will spread when a few miserable cattle thieves will forfeit their lives in retribution, but in the end, no one will ever come close to imagining the truth. So, ye see, it is as I said—I have already gotten away with it.”

“Ye will pay for what ye have done this day.”

Lord Walter and his men laughed. “Aye, and ye think yer daughters will do the job ye and yer sons could not do? Do ye see Lady Claire taking up the sword and running me through? Surely ’tis not yer twelve-year-old heir that ye expect to avenge his father’s death. Aahh, I can see by yer face that ye are concerned for your young heir, who will be, in a short matter of minutes, the new Earl of Errick and Mains. ’Tis a pity it has to end this way, but tonight ye will die, Lord Errick, and before ye draw yer last breath, ye will know that at this very moment, Isobel is on her way to London to seek the right of the new earl’s ward, which will hand her control of him until he reaches his majority, and that of yer castles, yer land and yer daughters.”

“Kendrew willna be young and under yer thumb forever,” Alasdair said.

“Alas, I hate to tell ye this, coming as it is on the heels of the other misfortunes ye have suffered this day, but unfortunately, Kendrew willna reach his age of majority. ’Tis a pity that he will have to join ye and yer sons, for we have other plans for yer title.”

“Ye canna gain control of the title, even if ye do
murder Kendrew, for in the event of his death, the title will pass to one o’ my daughters.”

“Aye, and yer daughters, I think, will be much more malleable by the time they reach their age of majority.”

“My daughters will never bend to yer will. Never.”

“Weel, ye willna know the answer to that, but ye will know this. Before the month is out, I will be sleeping in yer bed.”

“Ye may sleep there, but ye willna die there. Be forewarned. Ye will make a mistake, and when ye do, ye will be hunted down like the dog that ye are. The only pleasure I will see this day is to know I will soon be with my sons, and that ye will, ere long, suffer a far worse fate, and that afterward, ye will burn eternally in hell.”

Lord Walter turned to one of the men. “Put his son’s head on a pike, and let the high and mighty Earl of Errick and Mains have, as his last sight, what his greed has wrought for him this night.”

“Finish me,” Alasdair said, and turned his head away from the display of Breac’s head as it was thrust in his face. “End it now, ye spineless bastard.”

“With pleasure.”

Alasdair never felt the blow that ended his life.

Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair, The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar; Invades the sacred hour of silent rest And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast.

Samuel Johnson (1709-84),

English author, lexicographer.

London

C
laire was in the solar with Aggie and her sisters. As they had been doing for the past three years, they worked over their embroidery frames, diligently completing an embroidered tapestry that depicted scenes from the history of Scotland, much in the same manner as the Bayeux Tapestry, although theirs was on a much smaller scale.

“Ye would think that Father would send word if he decided to remain at Grahamstone Castle until today,” Kenna said.

“Aye,” Claire agreed, “ye would think so, for he surely does ken how we will worry aboot them.”

Greer looked nervously around the solar, then
sighed deeply. “It is midafternoon. Ye would think they would be home by now.”

“I hope nothing has happened,” Briana said.

The needle jabbed into Claire’s finger, and she turned angrily toward Briana. “Dinna say something like that…not ever! Do ye ken? Never, ever let me even think ye could harbor such a horrible thought.”

Tears welled in Briana’s eyes. “I didna mean anything bad, Claire. Truly.”

Claire did not say anything. She sucked the blood from her finger and picked up her needle when she noticed a drop of blood had fallen on the tapestry she was working on. It was a replica of Lennox Castle, and the blood dropped in front of the door.

At the sound of her indrawn breath, her sisters all looked up and stared at her anxiously.

“What ails ye, child?” Aggie asked. “Yer as pale as milk.”

Kenna left her seat and went to Claire’s side. “Claire, dinna ye feel well?” She was about to say more when she saw the drop of blood. Her hands flew to her mouth, as if she wanted to stop the words that cried out to be said.

Briana started crying, and Greer looked helplessly from Claire and Kenna, to Aggie.

“My lambs, dinna fash yerselves so. ’Tis naught but the stomach flutters, brought on when ye let yer fears get the best o’ ye.”

In the midst of this most trying of moments, Dermot walked into the room. “The Earl of Monleigh and his brothers would like to see all of ye in the library.”

Claire’s heart seemed to stop beating at that moment. No one, not even Lord Monleigh, had to tell her
why the Grahams were here. She knew the moment she saw Dermot’s face that her worst fears were now true.
Oh, Father, what have ye done? Where are ye? What has happened to ye and my brothers? Please, God, dinna let them be harmed. Ye have blessed Heaven with our mother, dinna leave us with no one.

She stood calmly, yet with weak knees and an even weaker constitution. She did not want to be strong right now. She wanted to run, crying and screaming below stairs, but she could not. No matter her fear, no matter her grief; she was her father’s daughter. She would not cry; she would not lose her composure. Yet, there was nothing her iron will could do to prevent her heart from crying out,
Let it not be true. Please let it not be true…

Her voice trembled, then grew stronger with each word she spoke. “Our father and brothers have accompanied Lord Monleigh, have they not?”

With an agonized look and a broken voice, Dermot said, “Aye, Lady Claire, yer loved ones…they have come home.”

She turned to her sisters. “Wait here.”

“We want to go down with ye,” Kenna said.

Claire’s eyes flashed fire when she flicked a quick glance at Aggie, who was already moving to where the three of them stood. She spoke softly and put her arms around Kenna’s and Greer’s shoulders, while Briana clutched Aggie tightly around the waist. “I will remain here with yer sisters, Lady Claire. Ye go and see to the rest o’ yer family.”

Dermot waited until Claire passed, then followed her from the room. No word was spoken, for words could offer no comfort any more than they could change what waited for Claire below stairs.

When she reached the library, Claire paused a moment to take a deep breath. Ye are a Lennox, she reminded herself, and ye will get through this. She released the breath she held, lifted her chin with all the pride of family her father had instilled within her, and stepped inside the silent room where the Grahams waited.

She was greeted by the grave faces of Lord Monleigh, Fraser and Niall. “Where are they?” she asked. “And who did the despicable deed?”

Jamie came to her. “Do ye wish to sit doon?”

Claire shook her head. “I want to see them.”

Fraser moved to stand next to Jamie and spoke with heartrending gentleness that bespoke great pain. He searched Claire’s face and started to speak.

When her lips trembled, he took her in his arms with a comforting embrace. “Oh, lass, one look at yer face is enough to tear the heart oot o’ the strongest man.”

She pressed her face against his fine wool jacket, as if she got close enough to him, some of his strength would flow into her. He stroked her hair and spoke soft, gentling words audible only to her.

It was so quiet that she could hear the great clock ticking all the way from the gallery. After some time, he pulled back enough to get his hand under her chin. He lifted her face and looked into her eyes. “Are ye certain ye want to do this? Ye have the right to do as ye wish, ye ken, and we are not telling ye that ye canna, but ye must remember if ye choose to see with yer own eyes what the night hath wrought, it will be something ye will see over and over again for the rest of yer life. Ye will always remember them the way
they looked the last time ye saw them. Would it not be better if ye remember them the way they were the night before, when we were all gathered in the hall—loving family and the dearest of friends?”

Claire could maintain her composure. She could stifle the sobs and screams that wanted to tear at her throat. But the tears that rolled silently down her face, she could not manage, for they had a power all their own. “I ken yer words are to soften the agony and to spare me the reality of what happened, but they are my flesh and bluid, and I canna leave them alone, and I canna leave what must be done to someone else. My sisters and I will prepare their bodies. I will need someone to ride to kirk and inform the minister.”

“I have already dispatched one o’ my clansmen to bring the minister,” Jamie said.

Claire turned and put her hand on Dermot’s arm. “Dearest Dermot, it pains my heart to ask this o’ ye, but will ye see to the coffins? I ken my father would have asked this of ye, if it had been my sisters an’ myself instead of them.”

Dermot nodded and left the room without saying a word. He did not mean to be disrespectful by not giving her a verbal reply. Claire understood it was not rudeness. He simply could not find the words that lay buried beneath the weight of so much sorrow.

She put her hand to her head and tried to sort through the vague order of thoughts jumbled in her brain. She put her hand on Jamie’s arm and asked, “Where are they?”

“In the great hall,” Lord Monleigh replied.

She took a step toward the door and paused, long
enough to ask, “Fraser, would ye be kind enough to give me yer arm?”

Fraser complied, and she slipped her arm through his.

She had made the journey between the library and the great hall many times since the days when she first learned to walk. Never had it taken so much time to traverse the short distance as it did at this moment in time. She tried to take preparatory measures by telling herself she was about to see something more horrible than anything her gaze had ever touched, although she knew no amount of self-counsel could soften the blow she was about to receive.

Her father’s glorious reddish-gold beard was the first thing she saw upon entering the great hall. She stopped just inside the doorway, feeling as if she had only this moment awakened from a long, long sleep. Benumbed, and with trembling hands, Claire tightened the hand that held on to Fraser’s arm so tightly, not aware that her fingers were digging into the fabric of his jacket.

How agonizing to see the bodies of the three beloved members of her family lying so still upon the table where they had laughed and dined only two nights ago. She turned to Fraser. “Why is the cloth over Breac’s body?”

“Do not ask, so I willna have to answer ye. Some things are better left unsaid.”

“It matters naught whether ye tell me or I remove the cloth and see for myself. My sisters and I shall prepare their bodies. We will have to see what you have sought to hide at some point.”

“He was beheaded, Claire. We hoped to spare ye this.”

Her bottom lip trembled and she caught it between her teeth—pain was preferable to any display of weakness. Anger, born of fear, gripped her heart. “Breac was not spared. Why should we be?”

She swallowed back the tears. They were dead. Whatever pain and horror they suffered, it was finished. They would suffer no more the pain and indignities men inflict upon one another. Nothing would bring them back any more than she could change the manner in which they were taken from her.

She would have chosen another way for it to happen—to die in your sleep seemed a peaceful way. It was not their way. Not one of them would have chosen it. They died defending themselves, against what, she knew not. The only thing she could do was to bear up under this in a manner befitting her family and her clan. Yet, she could not ignore the cold fingers of fear that skimmed lightly down her spine. What will happen now, she wondered, when her brother Kendrew inherited the title, too young and unprepared to bear being mantled under the weight of certain responsibility.

She put her hand to her head. She felt faint. Nausea churned her stomach.

Later, she would wish she had listened to Fraser, for if she had not seen the dreadful reality, perhaps she could have convinced herself that it was not true. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared her for the sight of her father, Alasdair, and her two eldest brothers, Breac and Ronaln, their bloody bodies laid out in the great hall, their beautiful eyes closed forever.

“I would like to see them now,” she said softly.

“Ye are certain?”

“Aye, but will ye stay with me?”

“Aye, I will stay with ye, Claire. For as long as ye wish.”

She gazed upon the beloved face of her father, unable to believe the laughing giant of a man who rode off with her brothers two days ago had come home for the last time; his face a deathly pallor, the eyes that always looked at her with love, closed, and the lips that told her stories of the Scotland of old, silenced forever.

She touched the deep slash across his forehead. The blood was cold and crusted. She did not try to staunch the flow of tears that gushed forth when she saw the deep gash in his shoulder and the badly mangled arm that was hardly connected to the rest of his body.

She leaned forward and kissed his cold lips. She brushed the hair back from his face. “I am sorry, Father. Sorry that I was not born a boy, so that I might avenge yer deaths. Sorry that I didna wake in time to see ye off. Sorry I am a weakling now, who tries to pretend she is strong. Sorry that I not have the knowledge to give to Kendrew to help him to stand in yer shoes at his tender age. I take my only comfort in the knowledge that ye are with our mother and that she will be alone no more.”

She started to move to her brothers when she thought she felt her father’s hand grip her arm. She saw the sadness and grief in his eyes, and when his lips moved, she heard naught, but the words formed in her mind.

Be strong, Claire….

She was frozen in a crystal of silence as anguish
gripped her throat and tears fell from her face. She wanted to tear her clothing and take up arms against those who did this cowardly deed. She waited to hear more from him, but the hand released her and the crystal of silence shattered. She could hear the wails of her sisters coming from the solar above.

She did not mention to Fraser what happened, or what she thought happened, for she knew it was only her distraught imagination doing its best to bolster her flagging courage, yet it was also the exact thing her father would have said to her:
Be strong, Claire….
It did not matter if it was real, or not real, for it did not have to be one or the other, for her to find comfort in them.

Ronaln’s handsome face was marred not. She found it odd that it disturbed her more than her father’s face, with the story of what he suffered written there. Ronaln’s face spoke naught, for he was only sleeping. It was not until she saw the circle of blood upon his chest that she realized he had been cowardly killed with a blade through his back.
“A fhleasgaich oig is ceanalta,”
she whispered in Gaelic.
Oh, lad, so young and gentle…

It was not until she stopped beside the cloth that covered Breac’s body that she doubted herself.
Can I do this? Can I see the horror of that which my father fought to shield from his daughters? Will I be able to endure this, or will I go the way of weakened constitution, and faint? God, help me. Grant me courage. Make me strong.

She reached for the cloth, but Fraser’s hand closed gently over her wrist. “Are ye certain this is the way ye wish it to be, Claire? Once ye have done it, ye willna ever forget what ye saw.”

“It is not what I wish, but what I must do,” she said.

He released her hand and stayed by her side. She drew the cloth back and gasped at the sight of his head lying where it should be, with the bloodied and bruised evidence of his dreadful death, so painful for her to see. The purple, swollen neck, crusted with blood, seemed to cry out to be joined once again to the bloodied stump from which it had been split asunder.

His hair was as it had always been, thick, beautiful and brown, spiced with ginger-red. She touched his hair. It was silky and cold. It was somehow fitting that today the mournful words in her heart came not in Scots, but in Gaelic,
“Fhiranleadain thlath,” lad of lovely hair.

She could not staunch the flow of tears that seemed cursed to flow eternally, and splash one after the other upon her outstretched hand.