The English Ladye
He sits up straighter, "Bu' that's-"
"And don't you dare say impossible, James Fraser!" I say, sharply but jovially, "I've said or thought that I don't know how many dozens of times these past three months, about an incredible range of things, and every one of them has happened, Jamie. So don't talk to me about impossible things. Six before breakfast is light work."
"Alright," he half smiles, and shakes his head, "Bu' there's nevar going tae be any way tae tell, ken? No' for either of us. No' for sure. Who's tae say what an Auld One evan looks like in these days? Besides, every different storyteller has their own take on fairies an' the like. An' ye may ha' noticed that most Scots are storytellers."
"Oh really? Why no, I hadn't noticed."
"Ye wee plague," he kisses me, briefly, "Evan that story I told Fergus an' the lads on Story Night was half made up from my own heid, an' half cobbled taegether from bits half-remembered of auld stories told tae me the same way. There's nae consensus. Nevar has been."
"So why did you ever tell me you thought I was an Old One, then?"
"Christ, Sorcha, I never thought I'd be called upon tae prove such a thing! My girlfriend was havin' frightening visions. I did all I could tae help soothe her, from the things I believe are good an' true. Tha's all."
I turn in his arms, and sit up a little, "So. . . the Pale Lady and the Ghillie Dhu?"
He nods, slowly, "If nothing else, I'm heart-sure they arenae reincarnations of anyone. They're jus' ideas, really. Immortal, because they've nevar been real. Bu' they arenae made up, either. They exist in a sort of. . . liminal space. They are liminal space. That's what fairyland. . . means. They dinnae exist – but they are. There's nothing there tae be reincarnated."
"But what if we aren't talking about reincarnation, as such? Not as we usually think of it, anyway. What if it's just sort of. . . manifesting? Mirror imaging. . . Echoing."
He tilts his head, not quite in agreement, "If we're right about the Dunbonnet, it would have tae be somethin' like that. . . But I dinnae ken how that could help us."
"Well. . . if my life in the future was mirrored by a man's life in the past, maybe your life now was mirrored by a woman's life, somewhere in history?"
He shrugs, "So. . . a healer at Leoch, on the run from an English invasion force, an' allied tae a group workin' towards Culloden."
"And. . . married to the Dunbonnet."
He shakes his head, "Dinnae think I evar heard he was marrit."
"In 1745? I'd just like to bet you he was."
"Mebbe so, but we'el never find proof of it. There's scarce enough information about him, let alone his kin."
"Alright – let's go back to the woman. In all your time learning about the old Castle Leoch, did you ever hear that there was a woman healer?"
"Aye. Three or four, down the years. There's a Glenna Fitzgibbons mentioned in some auld records as a "beaton", but I dinnae think that's her. No' if-"
"Beaton? Like Davie Beaton?"
"Aye, it's an auld name for a healer in these parts. It's just a surname now. Like Ferrier, or Carter, or Cook."
"Oh."
"But if her life is tae mirror mine, then it couldnae be her. She lived all her life at Leoch, an' died there, from all I know. An' I ken she wasnae marrit. There'd ha' been a record of it if she had been."
"Do you know when she lived?"
"Sixteen eighties or nineties, if I'm rememberin' right."
"Then that lets out the Culloden connection too."
"Aye. . . probably."
He doesn't sound too sure, but I agree with him anyway, "Probably."
"An' there isnae anyone else I c'n think of who got anywheer close tae-" he pauses, visibly searching through his memories, ". . . weel. Mebbe."
"Maybe what?"
"The English Ladye. It's jus' a story. About a rumour. About another story."
"Well now I'm intrigued."
He half smiles, "Aye. Weel. There's a Sir Walter Scott poem - "It Was an English Ladye Bright". It's about a titled Englishwoman who married a Scottish knight. But her family didnae want her to, and she died tragic, sae he went for a Crusader, and died tragic."
Lightly, I snort, "How tragical."
"Aye, it's the sort ov thing poets like. Dinnae ken why. Annyway, there's a rumour that it was based on real events back in the Crusade times."
"Okay. But I don't see what that leads to."
"Weel then there's this other connected story – more a fragment than a story, really, but still. 'Round about the '45, there was a kind of prisoner at Leoch – an Englishwoman. They called her The English Ladye, 'cause apparently she'd had a husband who died tragic. Dinnae ken how they knew that, or evar found out, but there it is. I've nevar heard she was a healer – only that she ran off wi' a tinker, or was abducted by an outlaw – I cannae remember which, now. But she was nevar heard from again, in any case."
I blink. "But. . . is that it?"
"Aye. She's barely a footnote in Leoch's records."
"But Jamie, why do you think she was at all like you?"
He shrugs, "Weel. I don't, exactly. But we were both. . . are both. . . trapped, in a way. At Leoch." He smiles at me, "An' ye might say I've run off wi' a tinker, eh?"
"I suppose one might say that. . ." my eyes drift to the bookshelf, "Sir Walter Scott, you said?"
"Aye."
I get up, and go over to where I found the bible, "I thought for sure I saw. . . here we are," I grab a book, look at the contents page, quickly turn to the spot indicated, and read aloud -
"It was an English ladye bright,
The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And she would marry a Scottish knight,
For Love will still be lord of all.
Blithely they saw the rising sun
When he shone fair on Carlisle wall,
But they were sad ere day was done,
Though Love was still the lord of all.
Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
Her brother gave but a flask of wine,
For ire that Love was lord of all.
For she had lands both meadow and lea,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And he swore her death, ere he would see
A Scottish knight the lord of all.
That wine she had not tasted well
The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell,
For Love was still the lord of all!
He pierced her brother to the heart,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
So perish all would true love part,
That Love may still be lord of all!
And then he took the cross divine,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And died for her sake in Palestine,
So Love was still the lord of all.
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,
The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
Pray for their souls who died for love,
For Love shall still be lord of all!"
I turn the book around and hand it to Jamie.
"Now that sounds more like a story that parallels yours, doesn't it?"
He takes it, and scans down the verses, "A bit. . . mebbe. But she died. They both died."
"Of course they did. You said yourself it's the kind of thing poets like to do. There's nothing to say the truth was like that."
"So. . ."
"So, what if she," I point at the poem, "Was the same she who ended up at Leoch about the time of the '45?"
"Ye'er sayin' she might'ha been a time traveler? That this medieval woman ended up in the eighteenth century, by the grace of Craigh na Dun?"
"It's a possibility, isn't it?"
"I suppose. . . but I'm no' a time traveler!"
"Except we don't know that, Jamie. And we aren't exactly likely to find out."
He shudders, "Nae fear."
I get back under the blanket, and cuddle up to him again.
"I suppose what I'm really saying is. . . well. . . remember Iona saying that soulmates meeting was a rare thing?"
"Aye."
"So. . . what if Leoch's English Ladye just. . . never met the Dunbonnet?"
"Or did meet him – an' that's who she ran off with."
A tiny, tense little something in the back of my mind is absurdly relieved by that thought. . .
"Maybe. . . I'm going to hope that was the way of it. But, either way, wouldn't you say that. . . well. . . things got left unfinished?"
"An' the purpose of soulmates is tae finish each other's work, ye mean?"
"Yes," I nod, "And that's why this cycle keeps repeating, all through history. There's something we have to do, Jamie. Something I think all of them were trying to do. And none of us have done it yet."
He's quiet a long time, thinking.
I think too.
Finally, I tell him,
"Lamb was here on Cold Island 12 researching Craigh na Dun, Jamie. Trying to send people into the past."
"Trying tae?"
"Yes. Trying to make a better past. . . so we could have a better future."
He looks at me for minute, then says, "Weel, after ye'ev seen Armageddon, and a whole 'nother world war into the bargain, I reckon that's a fair thing tae try an' accomplish."
"Yes," I nod, "And I was only able to go through the stones because he brought me in on the project."
"But. . . yer letters said t'was an accident!"
"It was. Or I thought it was. Until our wedding night, and I knew I loved you. Then. . . I thought. . . it was Fate."
I take him step by step through everything that happened during that ceremony at Craigh na Dun.
"And everything has been so. . . not exactly easy – no, far from easy – but so meant to be between us, Jamie. From the very first, we just fit. More than once I've caught myself thinking I've done something with you many, many, many times before. So what if it isn't reincarnation, what if it's a kind of. . . soulmate memory? Reflections. Echoes. Things we know without knowing why."
He shakes his head, "But how are we supposed tae even know that, Claire? How are we tae tell what's what? Or who is who, for that matter? All of it is sae vague and confusing. It makes a kind of pattern, I suppose, but there's patterns everywhere. We cannae start thinking trees are like rivars because they both have branches, or that brown chickens hatch from chocolate eggs!"
"That's not what I'm saying. I am saying that I think our souls know more than our brains."
"That's doubtless true. But what could either of us possibly do about it?"
I look down at my hands, then up into his eyes, "Well. . . I might be able to. . . have a vision. Use my Sight. Read. . . our minds."
He stares at me, "But. . . ye said. . . ye said ye couldnae do that, Sorcha."
"Jamie. . ."
I sigh. I really, really, really don't want to relive the memories of this.
But I'll do anything for this man. Anything at all.
"How much did Dougal tell you about my confrontation with Jack?"