Chapter Nineteen

Aknot of fear tightened Gwendolyn’s throat as she looked at the Fairy Flag behind the protective glass in the castle’s drawing room. At the speed of a spider weaving its web, the thread woven to create the magical artifact slowly unravelled, leaving a fringe of yellow silk at the bottom of the flag and strands of thread at the bottom of the frame. What they once thought was protected was suddenly coming apart.

“That cannot be good,” Fiona said, frowning at the treasured flag. “What shall we do?”

“I sent for our fairy sisters,” Gwendolyn said. “Perhaps they can do something before the flag disappears before our eyes.”

At the mention of their names, the three women she had sent for entered the chamber. “What is it, Gwendolyn?” Aria asked as she, Pearl, and Gille rushed into the chamber. “The maid said you asked to—” Aria’s eyes went wide. “What is happening to the flag?”

“I do not know. That is why I called you.” Gwendolyn turned to Pearl. “Is this magic?”

She nodded. “Oberon’s, I fear.”

“Can you stop it?”

Pearl frowned and brought her hand up to the glass. “This is old magic. I fear I cannot stop it—only Oberon can do that. Though I can slow it down.”

“You must,” Aria said, anguish in her voice. “Graeme’s survival is linked to that flag. If it disappears from this realm, so will he.”

“Anything you can do,” Gwendolyn begged. “The honour and the very existence of the MacLeod clan rests in the fibres of that flag.”

Pearl closed her eyes, and let her magic flow from her hands, through the glass, and into the flag she had at one time given to the MacLeods. “My daughters, sing with me the MacLeod fairy lullaby to lull this magic to sleep.”

Aria and Gille stood beside their mother and in melodic voices sang the song that the fairies sang to the infant Iain Cair when Pearl had been forced to leave him in the human realm centuries ago. Slow and calming, the song wove through the chamber, expressing tenderness and protectiveness in the depth of melody. To Gwendolyn’s gratification, the song stopped the unravelling down to an imperceptible rate.

Gwendolyn’s tension eased. The Fairy Flag was safe for now even as so many other dangers loomed on the horizon.

As soon as the song stopped the flag from unravelling, Gwendolyn noted that Fiona’s features were pinched, and she kept fidgeting with her arm. Concerned something might be wrong with her or the child she carried, Gwendolyn moved to Fiona’s side. “Is anything wrong?”

Fiona drew a ragged breath. “My arm itches. It is almost unbearable.” She pulled the sleeve of her gown back to show the red welts that now dominated her wrist and forearm around her silver bracelet.

“Oh, my goodness,” Gwendolyn breathed as she reached for the bracelet, removing it from Fiona’s arm. “You are clearly having some sort of reaction to the metal.” Gwendolyn set the bracelet aside and with an arm about Fiona’s waist, ushered her from the chamber. “We must find Lottie and see if she has a tisane or an unguent to help with that swelling.”

*

Moments later, theclatter of hoofbeats sounded along the shoreline. Alastair moved to the sea gate, pleased to see a man in the MacLeod tartan riding towards the castle. It had to be the lad he’d sent earlier in the day to find William Gordon, the second Earl of Aberdeen. Alastair opened the sea gate, then followed the man up into the rear courtyard. The rider reined to a halt and handed Alastair a folded and sealed missive. “I rode as swiftly as I possibly could without endangering the horse.”

“Thank you, good sir,” Alastair replied, breaking the seal, then smiling. His friend had agreed to help the MacLeods in gaining a new commission for the lieutenant.

Finally, the tide was turning in their favour.

No sooner had the thought formed when a sharp crack and a slow whistling sound came from the front courtyard. Alastair tucked the missive into the top folds of his kilt, drew his sword and raced for the front courtyard just as a deafening boom, like a massive thunderclap, sounded.

He reached the front courtyard just as a giant crash sounded against the north curtain wall near the old keep, shattering the stone wall. Debris flew in all directions, causing the men in the courtyard to take cover from the projectiles. The sound of the explosion reverberated through the castle, bringing men rushing from inside, weapons at the ready. They raced through the dust and smoke to greet the roaring English soldiers pouring through the smouldering breach.

Keiran appeared beside Alastair. “Was that rider who I hoped it was?”

“Aye,” Alastair replied as they ran together towards the onslaught of men.

“Then you focus on wending your way through these men to reach the lieutenant,” Keiran said over the thunder of footsteps entering the castle grounds. Formations of red-coated soldiers approached like a red wave seeking the shore, rifles firing.

Some of the castle’s warriors fell to the ground, while others ran for cover. “The sooner you negotiate with the lieutenant, the better off we will all be,” Keiran shouted, surging ahead, providing cover for Alastair to reach what remained of the castle wall.

*

Before the Englishmencould advance any farther, a cry from the tower above erupted out of the chaos. The cath-ghairm, the blood-curdling call of the Highlanders was followed by “Attack!”

As he ran, Keiran looked up to see Aria and her archers. They rained down volley after volley of arrows, until the enemy was so rattled as they searched for cover that they momentarily stopping their gunfire, giving the MacLeod warriors a chance to move in closer, where English firepower would no longer be effective. The English would be forced to use either bayonets or swords, putting the two sides on more equal ground.

Behind Keiran the skirl of a bagpipe filled the air, the sound fierce and threatening. As were the hundred men dressed in the MacLeod colours. Their faces wore looks of determination. Keiran smiled. In that moment, he and his people looked like the barbarians Rosalyn had been told to fear. He pushed thoughts of her aside as he and the warriors swept across the rubble-strewn courtyard, surging with all their power towards Lieutenant Long’s regiment.

Everywhere, battle ensued. Arrows continued to reach targets in the distance, while bladed warriors engaged those already in the breach. All around them came the clangour of steel against steel and the cries of men and horses.

Keiran fought his way through the melee until he came to a large English soldier who sneered at Keiran as he approached. Usually before a battle in Fairyland, Keiran had always felt alone. It was him against death—a human in a magical realm, surrounded by magical creatures who were long-lived and hard to kill. And even though he had been given the gift of healing, a mortal wound would have taken him, as he doubted any fairy would care enough to heal him.

In the human realm, he was the one with the advantage, although if he was badly wounded, he would die like all other men. And he was at peace with that. There were things in this world worth fighting for and dying for. His thoughts turned to Rosalyn, and suddenly with utter clarity, he knew the path his life must take after this battle was through. He needed peace, security, and most of all love.

The last word brought a hitch to his breath. Did he love Rosalyn? Before he could savour the emotions he felt in answer to that question, the Englishman advanced. As soon as this conflict was through, he would find Rosalyn and tell her his true feelings. But for now, he had a job to do. Keiran quickly forced all thoughts of his bride into the back of his mind. “Leave this land in peace,” Keiran said as the man dropped into position. “Go back to England and never darken Scottish lands again.”

As they circled each other, taking measure of the other, the Englishman laughed. “It is our destiny to conquer the Scots. I’ll not walk away from this fight to cleanse the land of all of you.” The man lunged.

Keiran parried and spun to the right. The Englishman brought his sword around in a sideways sweep, but Keiran was ready. His blade arched up and back, stopping the man’s slice. As the swords collided, Keiran kicked, catching his opponent in the stomach, sending him staggering backwards.

The Englishman regained his feet. He grinned at Keiran. “A worthy opponent at last.”

As the two men sized each other up once more, another sharp crack sounded, followed by a slow whistling. Men around them scrambled left and right as a cannonball hit the castle to the right of the drawbridge with a terrific bang and then an explosion.

Keiran relegated the larger chaos to wait for a bigger slice of his attention until after the present acute skirmish with the Englishman was through. He kept his body low as he watched the Englishman’s body for his next move. He did not have to wait long. The man’s blade arched towards Keiran in a disembowelling sweep, the blood grooves on the blade whistling their deadly melody. To no avail, as Keiran had dropped back and let the blade swing through the empty space where his body had just been.

The Englishman was mighty, but Keiran was quick. And most of all, his opponent was arrogant, and too confident. Superior weaponry was not all in battle. Speed, wit, and skill could never be taken away. Arrogance, however, could be exploited.

Testing his theory, Keiran stumbled, and watched the man’s eyes gleam at his own superiority. Yet with that arrogance came Keiran’s opportunity. His opponent swung his sword wide. Keiran jumped inside the opening and drove his elbow into the Englishman’s face. With a half turn, the razor edge of his sword slid past the Englishman’s arm and into his side.

The invader’s eyes flared in pain, but still his sword slashed in retaliation, clipping Keiran’s thigh, then coming up to slash at his arm. Keiran blocked the strike with the silver bracelet at his wrist. The metal had protected him from injury, but the band had been cleaved in half.

He fell to the ground on both knees. His silver bracelet landed in two pieces beside him. Despite the Englishman’s own bleeding wound, he brought his sword up, clearly preparing to sever his Scottish foe’s head from his neck.

Keiran concentrated all his strength into his good leg, and tried to force himself to stand, but before he could a familiar grey mist preceded the appearance of the Grey Lady at his side. The Englishman, so brave in the heat of battle, shrieked and ran away.

Keiran stood, ignoring the pain in his thigh, turning to his mother with a welcoming smile. “Never did I think I would use you as a weapon during battle. My thanks.”

Instead of smiling in return, her face remained taut, worried. Keiran, you must come with me. It is urgent.

“You found Rosalyn?”

I did, and what I found is not good. Come. We must hurry.

Keiran followed, limping as fast as he could. Then he stopped. He could go much faster if he took a moment to heal his wound. Lady Janet continued on. Gathering his energy, he placed his hand on his wounded thigh and allowed the light from his hands to soak into his leg, knitting muscle, mending flesh until all that remained of his injury was torn fabric and a scar that would continue to fade with time.

Making up for lost time, he raced as fast as he could towards the old keep where his mother stood waiting. Keiran skidded to a stop and gaped at the entirely new and vast vines covering the walls of the castle. Another crack sounded, followed by a low whistling. Keiran turned to see a cannonball headed straight for the old keep.

“Mother! Take heed!” He reached for her on instinct, only to have his hand pass through her. He made to seek cover, when one of the vines detached itself from the keep and rose up like a giant arm, smacking the cannonball back at the English to defend itself from harm. It exploded with a deafening crack, taking out the very cannon that had sent it towards Dunvegan.

“Are you controlling the vines, Mother?” Keiran asked, baffled at what had just happened.

Nay, my son. I believe the vines are defending themselves.As if to prove her point, the giant vine shifted over the Englishmen and came down with a splintering smack on the second cannon, toppling the weapon, and sending several Englishmen flying, while others scattered into the woods. The Grey Lady, deliberately using her ghostliness to scare the enemy, flitted after them, looking more fearful than she usually did around her family, making certain the men did not return anytime soon.

When she floated back to Keiran, it was with a smile. I have never actually frightened anyone but your father until today. I rather enjoyed it. And, best of all, the Englishmen paused in their flight to take the cases of whisky you boys set in the woods for them to find.

“That is good.” Keiran turned back to the vine-covered doorway. He drew his sword and raised his blade to strike.

Stop!his mother warned, her smile vanishing. Based on what happened with the cannon fire, we know these vines are enchanted and will protect themselves when provoked.

Keiran sheathed his sword. “Then how will I reach Rosalyn? She is inside, is she not?”

Aye. She is there. I can pass through the stone, though you cannot.Lady Janet pursed her lips. Plants like sunlight, water, and rich soil. Perhaps we can tempt the vines away from the doorway with water, long enough for you to get inside the keep.

Keiran nodded. “I shall return.” He raced for the well in the rear courtyard and drew a bucket of water before returning to the front courtyard. He dipped his hand in the pail and brought his fingers to dangle over the thick vine, sprinkling water on the surface. When the vine shifted, Keiran repeated the drops, until the vine let loose its hold, searching for more water.

He set the pail at a distance, then watched as the vine released its hold on the doorway even more, as though sensing a larger quantity of water. While the vine was distracted, Keiran slipped through the entrance. Lady Janet followed behind.

Keiran’s throat was tight as he raced up the stairs. He took each step more swiftly than the last, until he came into the chamber with an odd blue light. From below, the cries of men and the billowing of bagpipes cut through the silence of the old keep, telling Keiran the tides of battle had turned in their favour. Yet it was not joy that gripped him as he raced into the secret passageway his mother indicated before, but despair as he came to a halt in front of Rosalyn. She was as still as a statue, and as grey as death.

He reached out to gently stroke her cheek. Her skin was as cold as ice. “How am I supposed to help her, Mother?”

I do not know. I had hoped you would know how to save her.

Keiran felt his despair give way to anger. He balled his hands, letting his anger build, when suddenly a voice inside him whispered the words he and Rosalyn had read from the Book of Corinthians the other day: Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. And heals all things, Keiran added.

He relaxed his hands and turned up his palms. From the moment they met, he and Rosalyn had shared a spark, a special connection, which defied understanding. His magic should not have had such a strong response from a human, but it had.

He studied the curve of her cheeks and the set of her chin, defiant even in the face of danger. She was so fragile, and yet also strong. The thought brought a splash of warmth back into his soul. He could use the connection they shared to try to help her, heal her.

He closed his eyes and gathered all his strength, then opening his eyes, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight as he splayed his hands across her back. Warmth flowed from his hands into her body. He would give her everything inside himself—his strength, his determination, his healing warmth, and his love.

The word came back to him. Love.

Joy cascaded through Keiran, intensifying the warmth that flowed from his hands. He had no idea what darkness Oberon threatened her with or where he had taken the cognisant part of the woman in his arms. But he would stay with her, helping her defy whatever torment Oberon had concocted. She was the one who would have to fight, but she would know—even through the veil that separated them—that she was not alone.