Hope Forgotten III
GUARDIAN
Chapter 2
Michaelmas Eve, 1599
Dalkeith, five miles south of Edinburgh, Scotland
Cassandra looked across the dinner table as Connor drank his whisky. His eyes were closed, and he breathed in slightly through his nose, holding the liquor in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, then remaining very still as the taste and the flavor permeated his body. She waited until he had started breathing normally before she asked, "When are you leaving Scotland?"
Connor's eyes opened in surprise. "How did you know?"
She smiled and shrugged. Cassandra knew he liked the Highland whisky more than the Lowland variety; she brought him several bottles whenever she visited him, but he usually didn't drink it quite this way. And there were a hundred other little things: the hesitations in his words, the intensity of his love-making all this last week, the way he stared out at the distant hills from the window in their room at the inn, the look on his face when they had listened to a harpist in the common room last night. He was a man saying good-bye, a man who knew the tide was ebbing far beyond his reach. "Experience?" she said lightly.
A small joke between them. He snorted in amusement, then set down his cup. "It's time for me to go."
"Yes." She knew he was ready to move on. But he was still very quiet, very thoughtful. He had not spoken of leaving, perhaps he would not mention this either. But she knew he wanted to talk. "Have you told your lady friend?"
This time his eyes widened in shock. "How...?"
She merely looked at him. Five and a half years ago she had known immediately from his increased confidence that he had found a friend. A woman friend. He had been more secure, more comfortable, living in Edinburgh. Then, when she had visited him in the spring of 1596, it had been even more apparent to her that Connor and the woman had become lovers. Cassandra knew he hadn't been celibate for six months; he was much more relaxed. It was obviously more than visiting brothels, for he was contented, too. Cassandra was pleased Connor had a companion; she knew he was not happy when he was alone.
And his lady friend must indeed be a lady. His manners showed polish, and his English had improved. She had been very surprised one day to hear him speak French. He rode a fine horse now, and his clothing was of good quality. She knew his friend had not bought those things for him; Connor was not a man to be owned. He was doing very well for himself in several different ways.
"Experience," he said wryly and managed a smile. "Aye, Anne knows I'm leaving." He glanced up. "That's her name."
Cassandra nodded, needing no further details.
Connor continued, "We're going to London together. Anne asked me to help her with her business dealings there. She is considering buying shares in the new East India Company."
"London?" Cassandra pretended her surprise at the continuing alliance was surprise at the destination. Perhaps he was more serious about his friend than she had thought. Each time she had visited she had asked him if he wanted her to return; she did not want to interfere in his life. Each time he had said yes. So she had traveled from Donan Woods to the Lowlands twice a year, in the spring and in the fall. They had met in small villages outside of Edinburgh, different villages for the different visits. It was not wise to fall into a pattern when Roland might be watching.
Connor had never asked why they met in different villages; he had even seemed pleased by it. Cassandra knew he did not want Anne to find out about her. Immortals led two lives; it was not unusual for them to have two lovers as well. Anne was his mortal lover, cherished, cared for, perhaps even loved. Cassandra had been many things to Connor: teacher, mentor, sparring partner, lover, confidante. She was the only other Immortal he knew, the only one he could talk to about the secret part of his life. She could tell he wanted to talk to her now.
"How do I tell her?" He took a drink of his whisky and set it down with a thump. "About what I am?" He looked over at her. "What do you usually say?"
Cassandra never stayed anywhere long enough to have to worry about it. "It is hard to explain," she temporized. She thought about it for a moment, remembering things Ramirez had mentioned. "You do not have to tell her everything. You can tell her only that you were born this way, and you do not know why. You do not have to tell of the Game, or the Prize." Or beheadings. Or Immortal feuds. Or students and teachers. Or lovers. Or killing to survive. Or the agonizing and addicting thrill of the Quickenings. Or the centuries of blood. Or the loneliness. Immortality was a darkness in their lives. It did not stand scrutiny in the light of day. Cassandra folded her napkin neatly. "Why do you want to tell her?"
He shrugged and stared into his cup. "I'm not sure I do. But..." He shrugged again, then added, "Someday, I might."
"How long have you known her?" she asked.
"We met six years ago."
Cassandra gave a small shrug. "You have another five years at least, maybe ten, before she starts to wonder."
He nodded slowly, and Cassandra said softly, "Ah," not bothering to hide her surprise this time. He was considering staying with her for at least that long, perhaps longer. Apparently the alliance was more serious than she had realized. "Then you will have to tell her. Someday."
"Someday." Connor stared out the window again where the darkness was thickening.
Someday, Cassandra thought bitterly. "So," she said cheerfully, "you are off to London. It is a very large city."
"Aye, I've heard." He sounded somewhat dubious. "Anne was raised there."
Cassandra reached for her cup of wine and sipped it, simply enjoying the sight of him this last time. She would miss him. His sark was of fine linen, ruffled at the wrists, with the lacing slightly open at the throat. His hair was neatly combed, its two narrow braids falling past his collarbone. His brooch was finely worked in copper, and he wore the MacLeod plaid now, no more plain gray. She knew he would never be accepted in London if he persisted in wearing his plaid. How best to say this?
Cassandra smiled a little. "Do you know," she began conversationally, "the second time I saw Ramirez, he was swearing because he could not arrange a toga to his satisfaction?"
He blinked. "A toga?"
"Yes, a toga. We were in Rome. He looked quite dashing in a toga. Although doublet and hose suited him as well." She took another sip and looked at him carefully. "I think you would look fine dressed that way, too."
Connor shrugged.
Cassandra saw the stubborn set to his mouth. "You will always be a Highlander, Connor, on the inside. What you look like on the outside does not matter so much. You will see many changes in your life, live in many places," she reminded him. She could tell that he was beginning to see her point. It was yet another part of his immortality he needed to become accustomed to.
She leaned forward earnestly. "We are different. In order to survive we need to hide, to blend in, to adapt. It does not change who we are." She knew that was not true. Hiding changed you. Pretending changed you. After centuries of pretending, it was hard to know what was real and what was not.
Connor nodded slowly and smoothed a pleat in his plaid.
"You look fine in your plaid," Cassandra said. She stood and walked over to him, then reached out a hand to gently lift up one of his braids. The tuft of hair at the end was like a fine brush. She drew it across the back of her hand, then used it to trace a line on his cheek. "And you will look fine in English dress, too, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." She saw how his eyes darkened at his name. "Very fine." She started twining the braid around her finger, pulling them closer together. "And even finer out of it," she whispered, just before she kissed him.
The next morning Connor woke first. He stretched his legs, careful not to wake Cassandra. He couldn't remember having seen her asleep before; they either woke together or he woke to see her watching him. Her long hair was strewn over the bedclothes and twined about his arm. He untangled his arm and rolled on his side, leaning his head on his hand and studying her. She looked peaceful and relaxed, her cheek pillowed on one hand, her lips slightly parted.
She looked very beautiful asleep. She always looked beautiful. She was exotic, intoxicating, very different from Anne. He cared about Anne a great deal; she made him feel cherished and needed. She was sweet and kind. But Anne was also demure and reserved, especially in bed.
Cassandra was none of those things. She had taught him things about his body that he had never suspected. She had taught him about hers as well. She had sung to him last night, as she always did on their last night together on these visits. She would not sing on the first night; she said she needed the time to learn about the man he was now, the man he had become since she had last seen him. He had changed over the years, and so had the song.
He wondered what else would change. He hadn't finished his first century; he hadn't even taken his first head. Not very many Immortals wandered the Highlands. He hadn't met any Immortals in Edinburgh either. Possibly there would be other Immortals in London. Probably. It was an exciting and frightening prospect. What would a Quickening be like? Perhaps he would ask her that later.
Or perhaps not. She was intimidating. She was at least two thousand years old, probably older. What was it like to live so long? He knew some of her life had been hard, but she had had such a long life. He wondered how old she was, how many men she had been with, how many heads she had taken. He knew he would never ask.
But there were many things he had asked. She knew so much; they had talked about the world and history and different places, different people. She was intriguing. She stirred in her sleep, then quieted. A lock of her hair fell over her face, and Connor lifted it gently, feeling the silk of it between his fingers. He would miss their conversations and their sparring matches, miss their week-long visits. He would miss her. But they were both Immortal; they had time. They would have other days together. And they still had today.
He laid the lock of her hair on her shoulder and roused her from her sleep.
The serving girl at the inn carried in their morning meal of porridge and beer and set it on the table with a thump. She added a block of peat to the fire and left without saying a word. Cassandra rose from the bed and dressed quickly. The small fire did little to dispel the morning chill. She moved her stool closer to the fire and started to eat hungrily.
Connor was still folding the pleats in his plaid. "You've a good appetite this morning."
Cassandra raised one eyebrow. "It was a busy night." She watched him as he wrapped the plaid around his waist and then put on his belt. Cassandra stopped eating for moment to watch him arrange the pleats, enjoying the sight of him. It was one of the few places she had lived where it took the man nearly as long to get dressed as the woman. She gave him an appreciative smile. "And a busy morning. You must be hungry, too."
"Aye," Connor said with a grin as he reached around behind his back to twist the rest of the plaid. "I am that." He pinned the corner of the breacan at his shoulder, then picked up his bowl and joined her in front of the fire.
"When do you leave for London?" she asked.
Connor stirred his porridge. "A month, maybe two. We sail on the ship Courage."
"A good trip to you," Cassandra said, smiling, though he did not seem at all enthusiastic about the idea.
He spooned up some porridge and looked at it, then set his spoon back down. "Do Immortals get seasick?" he asked abruptly.
Cassandra suppressed her smile. "Yes. But it won't kill you."
Connor's eyes narrowed. "From the tales I've heard, you wish it would."
Cassandra did smile now. It was harder than she had thought it would be to see him go. She was not worried about his survival; she had seen him and Duncan together in her visions, but she knew it would be several decades at least before he came back to Scotland. She must stay in the Highlands until Duncan was grown, but she wanted to see Connor again. "Perhaps we might see each other again, when you come back to teach the lad," she said, reminding him of his promise to be Duncan's teacher.
"Oh, aye, Duncan," said Connor. "How old is he now? Four?"
"He would not thank you for saying that. He's near seven."
"Seven?" he asked, taken aback. "He'll not be ready for teaching for quite some time, in any case."
"It won't be more than twenty-five years or so," Cassandra said casually.
"Twenty-five years?" Connor asked. He looked at her intently. "How can you know when he will die?"
Cassandra's gaze slid from him to the fire.
"Ah," said Connor, nodding. "One of your visions?" He reached for his beer and gave a small laugh. "For a moment I thought you meant to kill him yourself."
That was precisely what she had meant, but she would not tell Connor that. Thirty would be a good age to die. Much better than forty or sixty. Duncan would need every advantage when the time came to fight Roland.
"Have you seen the lad?" Connor asked.
Cassandra was glad to change the subject. "Yes," she said brightly. "Near two months past, at the Lammas Fair." Cassandra tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. "I went to the village to trade for a few items and saw him then."
"Did you wear your habit, Sister Polycarp?"
Cassandra favored him with an ill glance. "Yes. I went as a nun."
Mid-morning, Lammas Fair, 1599
Glenfinnan, Scotland
The sunshine was hot on her back. Underneath the heavy gray wool of her habit, Cassandra could feel three individual drops of sweat rolling down between her shoulder blades, and more sweat in each armpit. The back of her neck was damp too, but she could not wipe it dry because of the veil which hung down her back. Her hair was plastered to her head underneath the large white wimple. She had forgotten how all-encompassing a nun's habit was designed to be.
Cassandra walked quickly, but not as quickly as she would have liked. Her hands were sedately folded within her sleeves, so she could not swing her arms as she walked. The basket handle in the crook of her elbow jabbed her in the ribs. The long full skirts swirled about her and tended to bind up between her legs. Several small pebbles had worked their way inside her sandals. Her rosary swung back and forth, and its heavy cross hit her precisely in the kneecap with every other step.
If she had been alone she would have tucked the rosary up over her rope belt and taken off the wimple and veil, but there were others on the road now, all traveling to the village for the Lammas fair. She must look a proper nun.
She muttered a phrase under her breath which was not to be found in any prayerbook. Why did it have to be hot today? The rest of the year she shivered in mist and fog and rain, and today it was bright and sunny and hot. A rare blue sky shone high and clear, with nary a cloud to be seen. She had never thought she would wish to see more clouds in the Highlands. The sunshine glittered on the water of the loch, which lay cool and inviting below. Cassandra turned her back on it and started up the steep hill to the village.
"Good day to you, Sister," called a stout woman, coming alongside her. The woman was red-faced with the climb and the unaccustomed heat, but she was barefoot, and her head was covered with only her kertch. Her plaid fell from the belt at her waist, instead of being over her shoulders as usual.
Cassandra inclined her head slowly, lest she set the wide wimple to swaying. "Good day," she murmured.
"Be you down from the priory, Sister? Come for the fair?"
Cassandra nodded again, turning her head slightly so that she could see the woman better, but being careful to keep her eyes downcast, as was fitting.
"Aye, 'tis a grand day for a fair!" the woman exclaimed happily. "Such a fine sunny day. Though I'm glad not to be taking a turn at the ovens, mind. Baked my bread last night, I did." She patted her large cloth-covered basket contentedly. "We've had good weather, and a good harvest this year, thanks be to the Blessed Virgin."
Cassandra turned towards her to comment, then stepped back quickly as a red-headed figure dashed between them.
"Here now!" The woman moved even more quickly than Cassandra had. She reached out a long arm and snagged the back of the runner's sark. "What be you thinking?" She turned the miscreant around. "So it's you, wee Debra!" She gave her a shake. "Are you daft, running so? Is it a fire you're off to?"
The girl was perhaps six, but already she held the promise of great beauty, with the blazing vitality and leggy grace of a young colt. Bright blue eyes above a sprinkling of freckles looked up innocently. "Oh, no, Goodwife Jeane. 'Tis a race, and I'm winning."
"A race, is it?" The woman gave her another shake. "You near knocked my basket from my arm, and you almost trod on the holy sister!"
"My pardon, Goodwife, Sister," she said contritely and ducked her head quickly. Her eyes widened as she looked past them. Apparently the other runners were gaining. Her whole body quivered, and her feet danced with impatience.
Jeane saw this and relented. "Well, run then, lass! Don't let those two lads catch you!" A sudden blazing smile, and Debra was off up the hill, her long legs flashing. Jeane chuckled and shook her head as she turned to watch two other figures racing across the field. "She'll beat them too, I shouldn't wonder." She clucked her tongue. "The three of them get into more trouble, and it's usually her that gets them into it."
Cassandra watched the other two figures intently, one dark-headed, the other light. They chased after the girl, but could not gain on her.
"She leads them a merry chase, right enough," said Jeane as they continued walking. "It's a different kind of chase she'll be leading in another few years. Though, of course, she's already promised."
"Promised to wed?" asked Cassandra in some surprise. Arranged marriages at such a young age were uncommon.
"Aye, 'twill be a double wedding to tie the clans together. The girls will be fostered out with the families, you ken. Debra Campbell will be fostered here, in another few years, and little Mary MacLeod is to be fostered with the Campbells. Debra and her mother be just visiting for the time now. Debra is to wed little Mary's brother Robert, him that was chasing her, and Mary will wed Debra's brother Aidan. It won't be for some years, of course, as Debra is only six, and young Mary barely five. I don't know as they've even told them yet."
"And who was the other lad chasing her?" Cassandra asked, careful to hide any unusual interest.
"To be sure, that's Robert's cousin, Duncan MacLeod. He's the son of the village chief."
So it was indeed the Highland foundling. She had not been certain; he had been too far away for her to sense his faint pre-Immortal hum. Cassandra felt a surge of fierce elation. He was old enough now to begin the training. Finally, after centuries of waiting, she could begin.
Jeane chuckled again. "Quite the pair the two lads were, and now with her about these last few weeks, they're even worse. Climbing trees, falling into burns, snatching oatcakes. But brave they are, and sweet with it."
"You know quite a bit about the village then," observed Cassandra.
"Aye, and I should, Sister, seeing as how I was born a Campbell and married a MacLeod, same as young Debra will. I married a Robert MacLeod too, but my Robbie was second cousin to Malcolm, him that's young Robert's father. But my Robbie's mother now, she was a MacDonald."
Cassandra listened patiently while the woman recounted the various branches of the MacDonald, the MacLeod, and the Campbell family trees, all the while thinking of young Duncan, son of the village chieftain. He would come with her today; she would see to that.
As Goodwife Jeane waved farewell, Cassandra contented herself with a dignified inclination of her head. Nuns did not wave or call out. She walked over to the large beech tree and sank gratefully onto a rough bench. The shade felt wonderful, and she murmured the small prayer of thanksgiving which the Mother Superior had recommended for such times.
The tree, she realized, was the same one she had stood next to on that cold and windy night nearly seven years ago. There was no cold wind now, of course, and the village was certainly not deserted. The sheepfold was full of bleating, running sheep, made nervous by the strange dogs and the noise of many people. Small booths of lashed wood had been set up here and there between the stone cots, and the colored banners tied to the poles hung limply in the hot still air. A group of men stood about the base of the tall stone pillar, arguing fiercely and enjoying it immensely.
Children and dogs ran everywhere, frightening the chickens. Unseen cattle bellowed. Women walked from booth to booth, examining the wares and haggling over the prices. The smell of hot food, sour ale, various types of manure, and rancid wool rose in a great steamy cloud. After years of solitude in the cool green forest, Cassandra felt overwhelmed. She closed her eyes and hoped she wouldn't faint.
"Sister?" A hand tugged at her sleeve, and she opened her eyes abruptly as her hand went automatically to the hilt of her sword, hidden thoroughly if inconveniently in the many folds of her habit.
It was the young girl Debra. "Goodwife Jeane asked me to bring this to you." She held out a mug filled with a foamy brew.
Cassandra reached for it eagerly and took a long comforting swallow. "My thanks, young Debra. I was indeed thirsty." Debra smiled and bobbed her head. Cassandra took another swallow and looked up to find Debra staring at her with frank interest.
"Is there something you wish of me?" Cassandra asked her.
Debra blushed a little, the red of her cheeks matching her hair, then asked in a rush, "What is it like, to be a nun?"
Cassandra thought back to her days as a nun. "It is much like life in the village. We work, spinning and weaving, preparing food. In the priory, we sing and pray every day. Though, of course, there are no men or children there."
Debra nodded, but the answer did not seem to satisfy her. She dug the toe of her foot into the dust and tilted her head to one side. "Do you have to be good, all the time?"
Cassandra suppressed a smile. "Is not everyone supposed to be good, all the time?"
Debra rolled her eyes and nodded, then said candidly, "I don't think I'd make a very good nun."
Cassandra did smile then, and reached out a hand and tilted the girl's chin up. Debra's hair curled wildly and freely, her eyes were direct and unafraid, the sensitive mouth gave promise of a future sensuality, and the chin and jaw line showed a definite stubbornness. "No," agreed Cassandra, "you would not." She smiled gently at her and dropped her hand. "Are your friends near by?"
"Friends?" asked Debra, confused. "Oh, you mean Duncan and Robert. They no' my friends, they are my cousins." She motioned with her head to a nearby cot. "They're eating over there."
Cassandra could see a glimpse of the two boys through the shifting crowd. The lads sat in the shade of the cot with their legs outstretched, leaning their backs against the cool stone wall. Large pasties were in their hands, and they took huge bites, laughing and showing the gaps where their front teeth had been. "They'd best save one for me, the great goobs," commented Debra darkly.
"Debra," Cassandra said intently. She waited until the girl looked at her, then used the Voice of command. "You will take your cousin Duncan for a walk in the pine grove when the clan gathering starts at mid-day."
Debra nodded, the bright animation gone from her face, her eyes slack and dull.
"Go now, and join your cousins," Cassandra instructed. As Debra turned to go, Cassandra added in her normal voice, "And my thanks again, to you and Goodwife Jeane, for the drink."
Debra smiled happily and gave a small curtsy. "Good day to you!" she called.
Cassandra watched her go as she threaded her way between bustling women and dogs and chickens. She was a happy child, well-loved and cared for from birth. Not all children were so lucky.
Cassandra sat quietly and finished her drink, listening carefully to the voices around her. They were loud and boisterous, but happily so. The harvest had been good; the sheep and the kine were healthy and fat; there had been no sicknesses in the villages and crofts.
Refreshed by her drink, Cassandra rose and made her way through the crowd. The nun's habit commanded respect, and people moved aside for her. The animals, of course, showed no such courtesy, and Cassandra nearly tripped over a chicken which ran squawking in front of her.
When she reached the fuller's booth, she breathed a sigh of relief to be free from the chickens. The wool at the booth was smoothly woven and of a good thickness, almost like felt. It would do nicely for a new dress after she had dyed it. Gray, perhaps, with crimson edgings. She had already collected the dark lichen to make the crimson dye, and she had seen yellow water-flag growing in a pond on her way to the fair today. The roots of the water-flag made a good gray dye.
"Fulled it ourselves, we did, me and my sisters," said the woman in the booth. "After we spun the wool and wove it. Feel that," she said as she rubbed the wool between her fingers. "Not a drop o' water come through there."
"It is fine work," Cassandra agreed. She looked at it a moment more, then calmly stated her price.
The woman in the booth nodded and grinned widely, showing a wide gap between her front teeth. "Aye, Sister, that'll do handsomely." Cassandra counted out the money and handed it to her. "Do you need thread?" asked the fuller. "We carry that, too."
"No," replied Cassandra, "but perhaps some ribbons and lace, if you have those." At the woman's scandalized look she added blandly, "For the altar cloths." The woman nodded in relief, and pulled out a basket full of ribbons and a small selection of lace. Cassandra chose ribbons of dark blue and cream, but left the lace. She could do tatting better than that. She offered another coin.
The woman shook her head and smiled. "Nay, Sister, 'tis enough, what you have given already."
Cassandra smiled in return and murmured, "Pax vobiscum." She turned and nearly bumped into a woman who was struggling with a large basket and the imploring hands of a chubby two-year old.
"Up, up!" wailed the child.
"Not now, Malcolm!" came the sharp reply.
Cassandra moved away quickly, her eyes downcast. She knew that voice.
The woman knelt next to the little boy and took a deep breath. Her voice was calmer when she spoke. "It's very hot today, isn't it?" The boy nodded. "We'll go find your brother Robert, and have a bit to eat." She rose to her feet and took his hand. "Come along."
Cassandra stared intently at her feet as Aileen and her young son walked past her.
"Good day, Sister," came the greeting.
Cassandra bowed her head in silent reply. After a moment she looked up briefly to see Aileen and the toddler moving toward Debra and the boys. Duncan had moved away from the shade of the cot and lay full length in the grass, the sunlight glinting off his dark hair. Debra and Robert sat side by side against the wall, their faces shadowed. Wee Malcolm joined them there in the shade while Aileen went inside the house.
A woman walked over to the children and apparently said something, for Duncan jumped to his feet and Robert and Debra straightened up. The woman reached out and lovingly brushed a lock of dark hair away from Duncan's forehead. Duncan tossed his head and spoke, and Cassandra could tell even from a distance that he had said "Mother." He laughed then, and ran his fingers through his hair. Cassandra saw clearly the affection on his face.
Duncan waved to Debra and Robert, then walked with his mother over to the sheepfold where his father Ian was looking at the sheep. Other clansmen were gathering at the pillar. Ian casually reached out and put an arm about his son's shoulders. Duncan stood tall and proud beside his father, with his mother next to him on the other side.
A cloud of dust rose around two men, who were shouting and sweating as they drove four cows through the village to the field. The kine meandered past, lowing and bellowing, and scattered more chickens and dogs. Cassandra blinked her eyes to clear the dust from them, then turned to finish her shopping. Debra would bring the boy soon.
The fair was still busy and the day very hot when Cassandra left the village, though distant thunder promised a welcome relief from the heat. She swung her basket in irritation as she walked under the welcome shade of the tall pine trees. Her basket was heavy now, filled with the ribbon, the cloth, and two fine needles; a cake of salt; a piece of rennet to make cheese; and two loaves of fresh-baked bread, given to her freely by Jeane in honor of the day. Her neck was stiff from the wimple. Her head ached and her arm hurt; she was tired and hot.
The girl should bring Duncan to the forest soon, Cassandra thought. The clanfolk had been assembling for the gathering when she had left. She set her basket down near a fallen log and paced back and forth.
She sensed him before she saw him. Cassandra turned to see the two children walking toward her. She waited until they reached they grove, then spoke to the girl. "Leave us," she commanded, and Debra nodded blankly and started away.
"Debra!" Duncan called, confused and uncertain. Debra did not turn. "Debra! Where are you going?" He turned back to Cassandra. "Who are you?" he demanded, looking at her nun's habit.
"A friend," she reassured him, using the Voice. "I would speak with you." She sat down on the log and looked at him carefully. He would be tall, she could see that already. And quite handsome. "Do you like horses, Duncan?" she asked casually. She wanted him to talk more so that she could learn exactly how to control him with the Voice. He showed no surprise that she knew his name.
"Aye," he said. "My father said he would teach me to ride soon. On a horse, not a pony."
"Will you learn with your cousin Robert?"
He scowled. "Robert's already started. He's older than me; he's already seven. Father said I must wait until I'm seven as well." His scowl became a smile. "But even though he is older, I can beat Robert in a race."
The eternal tiresome competition between males. "Yes," Cassandra said pleasantly. "I saw the two of you running earlier today." She had enough to register him now. Once Duncan was at her cottage, she could make sure he did not leave. The prophecy had spoken of the child and the man; she would begin training the child in the Voice now, to help him in his fight against Roland when he was a man. It would be different this time; she would not make the same mistakes she had made when she taught Roland. It would be different. It should only take a year for the basic training; then Duncan could return to his family. She would finish the training when he was an Immortal. It would be hard on his parents not to know where the boy was, but better a year separation now than for Duncan to die at Roland's hand later.
"You were watching?" Duncan asked.
"Yes, I saw you and Debra and Robert running earlier this morning."
He nodded, then suddenly remembered something. "I promised Robert I would meet him at the horse paddock. He's probably waiting for me. I must go."
"No!" Cassandra's command was strong and immediate. It stopped Duncan's feet, but another scowl appeared on his face. Perhaps she did not have him registered fully after all. She regretted speaking so harshly to him and reached out a hand to smooth Duncan's hair.
Duncan pulled back quickly, knocking her hand away. "You're not my mother," he said fiercely, resenting her familiarity.
Her fingers clenched in sudden rage, and Cassandra lifted her hand to strike. He flinched back from her, his scowl of irritation becoming one of fear and anger, and she froze.
She had lifted her hand to Roland once.
Feast of Marduk, 1298 BCE
By the Rivers of Babylon
"Where have you been?" Cassandra demanded as Roland sauntered into the house near mid-day.
Roland did not answer, but sat down at the table and picked up a bunch of grapes. He leaned back against the wall and plucked a grape, then looked at her as he chewed. "Out."
"For three days? With who?"
"Friends."
Cassandra did not like his friends. "Where?" He did not answer. "Where were you?" she repeated.
"Why should you care? Why shouldn't I go out?"
"Roland," she began, "you're only seventeen."
"So?" He popped another grape into his mouth. When he was finished eating it he said, "Do you really want to know where we were?" He smiled at her sunnily. "We were with some girls. They weren't very happy at first, but I convinced them to be. After that, they had fun." He grinned. "And so did we."
Cassandra swallowed hard. "You didn't...," she whispered. "You didn't use the Voice on them. Not for that."
"It wasn't the full Voice. I just talked to them a little at first. They didn't mind after that."
She shook her head in horror. To use any form of the Voice so was rape, was blasphemy. "Roland, you cannot...!" She tried to explain. "It's a violation, it's..."
"It's just talk, like a lot of my friends talk to girls."
She shook her head again. It was more than talk when Roland spoke. Perhaps he didn't yet realize how much more. Cassandra hoped he would never realize. "You shouldn't-"
Roland dropped the grapes on the table and stood up. "You go out at night, too. You aren't here."
Cassandra flushed at that.
Roland asked belligerently, "Who are you to care what I do?" He walked over to her. "I've heard the stories about you in the marketplace, on the street."
Stories were always told about women who lived without a man. She did not answer, but her anger was evident in her steady stare. She was faintly surprised to have to look up at him. He had grown a great deal this last year.
Roland glared back. "Are you out at night with one man?" He made a rude gesture with his hands. "Or maybe two?"
Cassandra went white, and her hand started to come up to strike him. She froze, suddenly aware of what she was doing. She let her hand drop.
But Roland had seen the aborted movement. "Are you going to hit me now?" he taunted.
"No," she whispered. She would not strike him in anger. She said more firmly, "What I do is no concern of yours."
"And what I do is no concern of yours." He looked her up and down. "You are not my mother."
"I do not want to be!" Cassandra snapped at him in a flash of rage. Too late, she saw the pain in his eyes, the abandonment, the hurt. She should not have said that to Roland, an orphan. He had been raised without family for much of his early childhood, as were many Immortals. He had been enslaved and abused as a young child. She should never have said that. "Roland...," she began.
But the pain in his eyes was hidden already, buried behind cool irritation and arrogance. "Fine," he said calmly, "I'll leave then."
"Roland!" she called again, desperately.
He ignored her and walked out the door.
Mid-day, Lammas, 1599
Outside the village of Glenfinnan, Scotland
Cassandra's hand fell to her side and her mouth went dry as she looked into Duncan's young face, stubborn and angry and not a little frightened. She remembered the obscene joy and naked hatred on Roland's face, and the pain in Connor's eyes. She could see the beginnings of those feelings in Duncan now. She knew then that she would never teach an Immortal again.
She knelt in front of him, bringing her face level with his. "Forget you saw me," she commanded, using the Voice. "You have been alone in the pine grove, save for Debra. You do not know me," she continued desperately. Perhaps she could still salvage something from this. "Forget." She watched him walk away.
At least she had seen the boy, she tried to console herself, as she walked through Donan Woods. He was growing up strong and tall. He had parents and cousins, aunts and uncles, a home and a clan. She could not take him away from his home, to bring him into a world of ancient hate and sudden death, a world he would have to enter all too soon. She must trust to others to watch over him; she must watch and wait, as she had waited all these years. He would have to find some other way to defeat Roland. She could not teach Duncan the Voice. She could see now that she should never even have thought of it, but she was so tired of doing nothing. She hated doing nothing; she hated always waiting for others, always depending on others. She hated it.
When she was well into the forest and away from the village, she set down the basket and walked over to a small pine tree, perhaps twice her height. It was stunted by the lack of sunshine this deep in the forest, and only the top part of the tree carried branches. She wrapped her hands around the trunk, her fingers interlacing on the far side of the tree. She leaned her forehead against the rough bark, breathing deeply, inhaling the clean pine scent.
She gripped the tree harder, feeling the grating of the bark against the palms of her hands. She started knocking her head against the tree, slowly at first, then faster. Dry, brown needles fell about her and landed on the wide-spread wimple as she shook the tree. Her clenched fists pounded the trunk of the tree, splitting open the skin of her knuckles.
The wimple slipped down over her eyes; she ripped it and the veil off and threw them on the ground. The tree stood there, indifferent. With a cry of frustration, Cassandra drew her sword and started slashing at the trunk. The sharp blade cut deep gouges in the trunk, the pale white inner flesh of the tree laid bare in long strips.
Thunder rumbled nearer, and the first heavy drops of rain began to fall as the wind-tossed leaves showed silver and gray. Cassandra ignored the water that ran into her eyes and continued to attack the tree. This side! and that side! Her hair hung in long wet snakelike strands down her face, and her clothes clung to her. Lightning cracked nearby, and the thunder rolled long and loud as the rain poured down. Cassandra did not hear. Hacking and slicing, she methodically destroyed the tree, until finally it toppled slowly toward her.
She moved away, but not quickly enough, and the tree smashed into her shoulder, numbing her entire arm. Cassandra sat down suddenly atop a pile of ragged pine branches, amidst a shower of pine cones and needles and rain.
An indignant squirrel chattered at her from a tall oak tree, and a half-grown white wolf sat on his haunches and regarded her quizzically with amber eyes, his tongue hanging out. Cassandra flushed, suddenly aware of what she had done and what she looked like. Her nun's habit was soaked and filthy, her fingernails broken and bleeding, and her hair full of pine needles. Her sword was sticky with pine sap, and dirt and small chips of wood stuck to her where the sap had spattered.
She sighed deeply and looked at the ruin of the tree scattered about her, the destruction she had caused. She stood shakily and plunged her sword into the ground, then stood next to the white jagged stump. A sudden crack of thunder shook the forest and lightning split the sky. She laid her hands on the broken trunk of the tree and breathed a silent prayer of apology, her tears mingling with the rain.
Cassandra stripped off her nun's habit and stood naked, feeling the water slide over her skin and down her throat. She lifted both arms high over her head and stretched, then shivered at the coolness of the water. The water ran in rivulets off the tips of her breasts and followed the meandering path of her hair.
The wolf bounded over to her, and she looked down and caressed the great head. He was Sela's last pup, and Cassandra had raised him after his mother had died the winter before.
The rain continued slow and steady as the thunder and lightning moved across the loch. "Come, Tulan," she said, calling to the wolf. She put the ruined habit in her basket and picked up her sword, then they headed for home.
Michaelmas, 1599
Dalkeith, Scotland
Connor served himself another bowl of porridge. "How does the lad, is he well?"
"Well, and happy," Cassandra answered cheerfully. "He grows tall. He had no front teeth when I saw him." Such details should help make Connor feel more like a father to him. "He has a good appetite, too," she commented, looking at Connor's full bowl as he sat down again. "A busy day it was, at the fair. There was a crowd of men discussing something very earnestly, and chickens and dogs running everywhere. There were peddlers, and a herd of kine went through the town."
"And how many fights were there?" Connor asked with interest.
"Only two that I saw. But I left early; it was very hot that day." Cassandra ate the final bite of porridge from her bowl. "Duncan was most anxious to learn to ride. He said that his father was to start teaching him."
"Then you spoke to him?"
"Yes. I spoke to him," Cassandra said easily. "For a short time. He was anxious to get back to his friends."
Connor nodded. "Not many lads wish to spend time conversing with a nun when there's a fair going on." He finished off his porridge and leaned back in his chair, then swallowed the last of his beer. "A good thing you saw him, is it not? And you had a fine day at the fair."
"Yes," Cassandra agreed, as she rose and set her bowl on the tray. "A fine day indeed."
Connor stood and came over to her. "I near forgot to tell you. This last summer I passed through the village where Ould Margaret settled."
"Oh?" said Cassandra, reaching to take Connor's empty bowl from him. She really did not want to know.
He handed the bowl to her and continued, "I spoke with a man who remembered her. The ould Highland witch, he called her." Connor shook his head regretfully, but without surprise. "Said she didn't last out the first winter. They found her frozen in her cot, an empty jug of whisky by her side."
The bowl dropped from Cassandra's nerveless fingers and hit the edge of the table, then broke in half when it landed on the floor. "How clumsy of me," she said lightly. "The bowl was slippery." She bent to pick up the broken pieces.
Connor took the pieces from her hands and set them on the tray, then enfolded her gently in his arms. Cassandra closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder, holding tight to the solid strength of him. She had not meant for this to happen when she had forced Ian to accept Duncan as his son. She had not meant to hurt Margaret, but she had to protect the Highland child. There was nothing else she could have done, but she knew she had caused yet another slow and painful death.
Connor stroked her hair. "There was nothing more we could have done, Cassandra," he said consolingly. "The chieftain is the one who banished her, and he knew full well what that meant. Banishment is often a death sentence, especially for the old. It wasn't our fault."
Cassandra forced herself not to stiffen at his words. She pulled back a little from him and nodded. "Yes," she agreed, "it wasn't our fault." She had had no choice, she thought in despair; it wasn't really her fault. She gave his hands a final squeeze and picked up the tray. "I'll take this to the kitchen now," she said, as she walked gracefully from the room. In the hallway, she stopped and leaned her head against the wall. She had not wanted to know.
The day was fine, sunny and cool, and Connor and Cassandra rode away from the inn together. She knew he wanted to be back in Edinburgh before dark, but they had enough time. "Ride with me a ways," she asked, and Connor followed her to a thick stand of birch trees.
She dismounted and tethered her horse to a tree, and Connor did likewise. Green grass grew thick underfoot, spangled with late blooming wildflowers. The horses were content to graze. She beckoned to Connor, and together they walked between the trees to the hidden grove within. She had found the grove last week when she had stopped to rest on her way to the inn.
"A bonny spot." Connor looked about him approvingly.
The grove was nearly perfectly circular, perhaps five paces across; the ground soft with grass. There were no wildflowers here, but a dusting of fallen gold leaves shone bright against the green. The brown-speckled white trunks of the birch trees formed a living wall around the grove, and the leaves overhead were touched with sunshine.
"It is," Cassandra agreed. "It is a place of beauty." She rested her hand on the trunk of the birch tree near her and closed her eyes.
"What are you doing?" Connor asked, when he saw her so quiet.
"Listening," she said, her eyes still closed, "listening to the beat of its heart." She opened her eyes and came to stand in front of him. She knew she would not see him again for a very long time, and she knew she would miss him. More than she should. She laid her hands on his chest and smiled. "As now I am listening to yours."
Connor tucked a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear and smiled back at her.
Cassandra said softly, "I want to be with you here, Connor, with the grass beneath us and the sky above, and the touch of the air on our skin." This was a sacred place, a place holy to the Goddess, and she wanted to sanctify their love. "I want to remember you thus, in the years to come."
Connor placed one hand over her two and pressed them tight against him. With his other hand he gently traced the curve of her cheek. "Aye, Cassandra," he said softly, "and so shall I remember you."
Continued in Chapter 3, wherein young Duncan sees Cassandra bathing in the pool