Lord of the Black Isle (28 page)

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

—Robert Frost (1874–1963)

U.S. poet

Freskin Castle

Moray, Scotland, 1535

“
Cuimhnichibh
air
na
daoine
bho'n d'thainig sibh
.” Remember the people from whom you have come…

Over the years, many things haunted Elisabeth, but one of the most haunting was the memory of this phrase in Gaelic that her father taught her. This set her to thinking about a legacy they could leave behind, and she decided on a portrait of the Murrays and the Mackinnons that her parents might one day see.

And today she would see the realization of it. After two weeks of rain, everyone in Freskin Castle had awakened to greet a gloriously sunny day. Lady Elisabeth Murray, Countess of Kinloss, was thinking it was about time. The end of the rain meant Robert Davidson could finish painting the family portrait, and they could all return home to Aisling Castle.

It had been over a year ago when Elisabeth first spoke to Isobella about the idea of each of them having a family portrait painted, with their names listed on the back, along with the last verse from Robert Frost's poem, “The Road Not Taken.” The portraits were to remain in their respective castles, for one day, six hundred years in the future, they were certain their parents would travel to Scotland to find out what happened to their twin daughters who simply vanished. It was the sisters' greatest hope that their parents would discover the portraits hanging in the ancient castles of the Mackinnons and the Murrays, and they would know what truly happened to the twin daughters the day they disappeared.

They knew their mother would recognize Frost's poem, for it was one of her favorites, and she would know the Elisabeth and Isobella in the paintings were her daughters, for no one in sixteenth-century Scotland could possibly recite a verse of Robert Frost poetry written in the twenty-first century.

The day finally arrived when the rain was gone, and now the Murrays were all gathered outside the walls of Freskin Castle, in Moray, Scotland, just across the firth from the Black Isle. They all loved to spend time at Freskin because it had been in the Murray family for centuries and was actually older than Aisling. But Freskin would never be held with the same fondness they held for their beloved home, Aisling Castle, and the hospital there.

Once the six children were in their places, the hard part began, for they had to remain perfectly still, or as reasonably close to it as possible, which was difficult with three boys and three girls, ranging in age from their eighteen-year-old son down to the youngest son, age eight. But, miracles do occur, and the last of the children were miraculously where they should be and Robert Davidson picked up his palette and began to paint. These final strokes would complete the painting that would tell the tale of Elisabeth Douglas, who left Texas in the twenty-first century and found her husband in sixteenth-century Scotland.

Fortunately, the weather lasted until the portrait was finished at last, and all the children seemed to vanish. Elisabeth watched them race toward the castle and shook her head. “I forgot to remind the girls that they were supposed to act like ladies in those dresses.”

“I believe the correct phrase is, ‘
A
lady
glides
in
a
smooth, effortless manner, like a swan upon water… not a clumsy puffin taking off or landing.
'”

She laughed and the Lord of Kinloss put his arm around her shoulders, as the two of them watched their children disappear into the castle keep. “I dinna ken why ye expect them to exercise restraint, when their mother is bound by the motto: Exuberance in all things is best.”

She thought about that for a moment, for exuberance took one many places. It was the gift of joie de vivre, the delight of being alive, and its gift was the pleasure of adventure, enjoyment its reward. She cocked her head to one side and studied his face. “I don't seem to remember that motto. Did you just make it up?”

He laughed and turned her to face him. “What do ye think?”

“I think you made it up.”

He smiled and said, “Aye, I did, but it fit the occasion.”

“Perhaps it is good to be that way, for if Isobella and I weren't so exuberant, we wouldn't have come back in time, and you would have never known I existed.”

He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her close so he could look into her eyes. “My love, if you did not exist, all the fame, fortune, and possessions in the world would have no meaning.”

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Why, so can I, or so can any man;

But will they come when you do call for them?

—
Henry IV, Part 1
: Act III, Scene 1

William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

English poet and playwright

St. Bride's Church

Douglas, Lanarkshire, Scotland

In the year 1515

The Lanarkshire hills of Scotland lack the sharp and ridgy majesty of the rugged Highland mountains, for they resemble rounded loaves of bread fresh from the oven, all huddled together. The lonely hills are somehow irresistibly attractive, with their pasture-covered slopes and fairylike meadows, where clear streams murmur through rolling undulations of thick woodlands, and the wood mouse and roe deer reside. Here, the sterner features of the north give way to a grace of forest and tenderness of landscape, where the gentle Douglas Water flows.

Alysandir Mackinnon thought it a good day as he rode across the rolling hills, accompanied by the rhythmic clang of his sword tapping against his spur, while larks, hidden among the leathery leaves of trees, broke into song as he passed beneath the heavy branches. A glance skyward told him the sun had passed its zenith, as it dipped behind a cloud to begin its slow descent into afternoon. Just ahead, spangles on the river danced and sparkled their way downstream.

Alysandir pushed back his mail coif. Sunlight brought out the rich darkness of his black hair and the vivid blue of his eyes. He turned toward his brother Drust. “We will follow the river until we find a place to ford.”

Drust followed Alysandir's lead and pushed back his own coif, the shiny links of mail almost matching his silvery, blue-grey eyes. He wiped the sweat from his face and gave a silent nod. They continued and drew rein at a point where the terrain sloped gently downward toward the river, before it narrowed to make a meandering turn.

“This looks like as good a place as we have seen,” Alysandir said, and he spurred his mount forward and plunged into the water. His horse staggered with the first splash and the water washed over his hocks, but Gallagher was a hobbler, a sturdy Highland pony known for its stamina and ability to cover great distances over boggy and hilly land at high speed. Alysandir only had to spur the horse lightly as he urged him slowly forward until Gallagher gained his footing as the water rose over the stirrups.

When they reached a point where the water became deeper than they expected, Alysandir was about to turn back, but Gallagher leaped ahead with a mighty splash, and they began the climb upward toward the opposite bank.

Wet and dripping, they rode into town and attracted a great many curious stares from villagers who gawked as if they rode into town to slay a dragon or two. Although a small town, Douglas was large enough to have a two-story tavern with a stable out back and streets that were fairly busy at this time of day. They rode between uneven rows of buildings stacked on each side of curving streets that had been laid out more than three hundred years before.

They passed a steep cobbled path that ran through an archway to a small, walled garden next to a house in ruins, and as they threaded their way among carts, wagons, barking dogs, clucking chickens, and the occasional darting child, they observed the slow progress of a lone rider coming toward them. He was leading a prisoner riding a hobbler, the unfortunate wretch bruised and blindfolded, with his hands bound behind his back. Alysandir wondered what the Highlander's crime had been—probably no more than trying to eke out a living in a harsh and unforgiving land.

Just ahead, near the center of town, stood St. Bride's Kirk, where mail-clad heroes of yesteryear lay entombed within, most of them with the surname Douglas. But Alysandir's fiery thoughts centered not upon the long-dead knights but upon his own desire to be away from the Lowlands, Douglas, and Lanarkshire, and back in the Highlands and his home on the Isle of Mull.

Drust, meanwhile, was giving his attention to a young lassie with copper-colored hair who was standing in the kirkyard and holding a bonnet full of eggs. Alysandir caught a glimpse of her standing beneath the graceful branches of an old tree and felt a strange yearning tug at him, but he hardened his heart and dismissed her. Aye, she was a beauty and his body stirred at the sight of her, but he still wasn't interested. The sound of Drust's voice cut into his thoughts.

“That lassie with the russet ringlets is a beauty, and she has taken a fancy to ye, Alysandir, for already she has wrapped ye in her tender gaze.”

“I am leery of any lass standing under a wych elm,” Alysandir replied.

“I know ye have no desire ever to have a woman in yer life again, but just suppose ye did find yerself in a position where ye were forced to take another wife. What virtues would ye seek?”

“Ye ken I have no desire to marry again. Not ever.”

“So make up a list just to keep me happy. We've naught else to do right now.”

Alysandir did not know why his brother insisted on having high discourse with him. Of late, Drust had been making too many inquiries as to Alysandir's unmarried state. “Ye are becoming a great deal of trouble, Drust. Next time, I will let Ronan or Colin ride with me.”

“Fair enough,” Drust replied as a wide smile settled across his face. “I will start the list. Loyalty would be one, am I right?”

Loyalty. The word evoked pain. “Aye.”

“Ye canna stop there,” Drust said with a teasing tone. “Give me the rest.”

“I will give ye the virtues that any man should want in a woman, but only if ye promise to keep quiet the rest of our journey.”

“Aye, I agree. Now, give me the virtues.”

“Chastity, loyalty, honesty, wisdom, strength, courage, honor, intelligence, confidence, and a strong mind. A woman who knows when to yield as readily as she knows when to take a stand. A woman equal to the man in question, not in might but in nature, virtue, and soul. She would possess a true and steadfast love for him, and in return, she would have his undying love, respect, and honor.”

“What aboot silence and obedience?”

“If a man had a woman's love in the truest sense of the word—which I have yet to see any proof of—then he would have all the others for they are but parts that make up the whole.”

“I hand it to ye, brother. I didna think ye could give me one virtue, yet ye named many. Surely ye miss having such a woman.”

Alysandir pinned him with a cold stare. “I never had such a woman, so how could I miss her?”

“Ye changed once. Perhaps ye can change again.”

“Changed? In what way?”

“I remember when ye would as soon tryst in the kirkyard as in a hayloft. How is it that knowing what ye or any man would want in a woman, ye refuse to find her?”

“'Tis easy enough to answer, for such a woman does not exist.”

The words were barely uttered when the faintest echo of a man's laughter reached their ears. The sound of it seemed to break into a thousand pieces and fall like tinkling glass. Alysandir and Drust exchanged glances as the laughter faded and a slight wind stirred the heavy branches of the old wych elm.

As they rode on past St. Bride's Kirk, a tossing and rustling of the leaves sent a chill wafting down upon them. Across the way, a startled flock of sheep bolted, running across the meadow and up the hill to the pasture on the other side. The hair on Alysandir's neck stood, and his scalp felt as if it were shrinking. “Did ye hear the laughter?”

“Aye, I heard it and felt the cold wind that blew through the trees. Unless my senses deceive me, there is an oddity aboot.”

“What oddity is that?” Alysandir asked.

“We are riding by the crypts of the ancients. Perhaps they wish us to pass by quickly and not linger.”

Alysandir laughed. “Perhaps ye are letting yer imagination take the lead. The Mackinnons never had a quarrel with any Douglas, living or dead.”

“What aboot the laughter? Ye heard it as well as me,” said Drust.

Alysandir's face looked drawn as he replied, “Mayhap it was the bleating of a winded sheep.”

“Aye, and mayhap it was not.” Drust gazed at the river.

Alysandir knew his brother was thinking about the Douglas Water that flowed through the village of Douglas, past the ruins of Douglas Castle. The name Douglas Water came from the Gaelic
dubh-glas
, which meant black water. The Norman Douglases took their surname from the river in the twelfth century. Superstitious Drust was probably searching for some connection between the laughter they heard and the Douglases. Let Drust think what he would, especially if that would keep him quiet for a while.

The brothers rode on in silence, taking no notice of a dark shadow that came out of nowhere to pass overhead, mysterious and foreboding as the cry of a raven as it darkened the sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance, yet there was no scent of rain in the air. Engrossed as they were with their own thoughts, they did not turn back for one last look at St. Bride's Kirk. If they had, they would have seen a pale mist, of a greenish tint, that bubbled up from beneath the old kirk door.