Island of the Swans (36 page)

The sure-footed Highland pony picked its way along a series of rocky precipices in the Monadhliath Mountains and down along the windswept ridge which melded into Kinveachy Forest. Thomas Fraser emerged from the dark woods and caught his first glimpse of the River Spey. Shafts of pale April sunlight sliced through the morning fog, which blanketed the glens branching out from the valley floor. After riding all night, the lieutenant had finally reached the district of Badenoch, most of it owned by the Duke of Gordon, and the rest by the chieftain of Clan Grant. He made his way to the solitary inn west of Loch Alvie to seek more specific directions to a place called Loch-an-Eilean.

“Aye, sir, there are swans at Loch Alvie,” said the grizzled proprietor of the Lynvuilg Inn. He cast a skeptical gaze at Thomas’s regimental kilt. Thomas sensed the old hotelier thought bird watching an inappropriate pastime for a member of His Majesty’s forces.

Thomas tossed a few coins on the table, which more than covered his tankard of ale.

“Since my recruiting mission took me through this district, I thought it worth half a day to see the birds,” Thomas lied, casually sipping his brew. “My godfather, Master of Lovat, told me these Swan Isles are a fine, fair sight in spring.”

“That they are,” agreed the innkeeper, the tone of his voice warming noticeably at the mention of one of the few heroes to survive the fiasco with Bonnie Prince Charlie. “In fact, some say that the word ’Alvie’ means Isle of Swans. But if it be sheer poetry your after, Loch-an-Eilean’s the spot. Now
there’s
an isle for you, and with swans too! ’Tis a bit out of your way and has fewer birds, but a glimpse of the old, abandoned castle’s well worth the trek.”

Thomas fingered the note from Jane he carried in a pocket of his red flannel coat. Her answer to his short missive congratulating her and the duke on their marriage had merely said:

Search for the swans at the lair of the Wolf of Badenoch… Friday.

His breath nearly caught in his throat as he asked, “Is that the ancient stronghold of the famous brigand?”

“The Wolf of Badenoch?” queried the innkeeper, squinting curiously at Thomas. “Aye, the very spot where that devil himself would retreat after doin’ his evil across the countryside. Some say ghosts still walk the parapets…”

Within a day of receiving Jane’s cryptic instructions to meet her at the abandoned castle, Thomas had set out for the district of Badenoch, pausing only for a few hours’ rest. He had been uncertain as to the exact location of his rendezvous, and now that Friday morning had finally dawned, he was filled with conflicting emotions as to its outcome.

“I suppose you’ve heard the tales of the notorious Wolf who lived here in this very glen four hundred years past?” the innkeeper asked, warming to a subject about which he felt himself an expert.

“Only a bit o’ lore my godfather has mentioned over the years,” Thomas replied, encouraging the garrulous old man.

The innkeeper described to Thomas a lake less than a mile in length, surrounded by pines and studded by a small, abandoned castle that nearly covered the little island on which it sat.

“The Wolf, who was the third son of the first Stuart King, badly needed such a refuge in the year thirteen hundred and ninety,” the innkeeper lectured, leaning his bulk against the wooden post supporting the low tavern roof. “Every Christian in the Highlands had been hoping to kill the ruthless laird to avenge his putting Elgin Cathedral, north o’ here, to the torch. He was engaged in a mighty struggle, you see, with his rival, the Bishop of Moray, who held sway over the land.” The innkeeper chuckled. “The Wolf pretty near burnt everything in his path. He was redheaded, like you are, but a wild, fiery orange color, they say, and he was mad as a hatter. The Bishop excommunicated him and the Wolf just
laughed
!” The innkeeper slapped his knee to emphasize his apparent admiration for such derring-do.

“To this day,” he went on, shaking his head, “the old women around here swear there’s spirits and sprites at Loch-an-Eilean. Not the Wolf of Badenoch, of course—he’s fryin’ in Hell—but all the innocents he killed, whose heads he put on pikes around the castle walls. Nasty lad, that one,” continued the innkeeper, savoring his tale. “Nowadays, the place’s as peaceful as a crypt. Few relish meetin’ a ghostie, if you take my meanin’. But the birds pay no mind. Swans mate for life, you know… the same pairs come back to Loch Alvie and Loch-an-Eilean every fall. If one of ’em dies, ’tis many moons before the other takes a new mate… and some never do. Not like us frail mortals, eh laddie!” his informant whooped, slapping an untidy barmaid on her rump as she passed by.

Thomas’s genial storyteller tugged on the wench’s skirts, signaling her to pour them each another ale. As soon as Thomas had finished his second tankard, he set out from the inn, anxious to be on his way. He threaded a path among the tall stands of birch, larch, and Caledonian pines that blanketed the valley of the Spey. The towering trees flung deep shadows across the trail. The woods grew even more dense near the river, cloaked in the damp fog, which boiled along the ground. After fording the stream at a crossing, he made his way in the direction pointed out by the innkeeper, glancing above the treetops at a thinning mist that flung a gauzy veil across the azure sky arching overhead. The unpredictable mist continued to hover close to the ground, obscuring the landscape except for a few ghostly trees flanking the trail on either side of him.

Within a half hour, the haze began to thin out once again as the sun, rising high above the forested landscape, burned through the moist air.

Emerging from the thicket of pines, Thomas halted his pony and stared in wonder at Loch-an-Eilean. There before him lay a body of water in the shape of a perfect oval sapphire. A small green island on which stood a miniature, vine-covered fortress, studded its center like a precious emerald jewel. Sun poured down on the center of the loch, leaving the gravel beaches at its edge shrouded in billowing mist. It appeared as if a virgin lake had just bubbled up from Creation. Thomas had the uncanny feeling that if he blinked, the magical sight might suddenly vanish.

Two bateaux were tied to a stake at a spot where the water was narrowest between the shore and the deserted castle. Thomas dismounted and led his pony back into the forest, securing it out of sight. As he emerged from the shadows, he hesitated, spellbound by the sight before him. Two large white swans, their necks arching proudly, swam in a stately procession from behind a thicket of reeds encircling the castle walls. Trailing the male swan glided five gray cygnets, newly hatched. Bringing up the rear, the mother followed her mate and their brood at a discreet distance. The male suddenly cocked his head in Thomas’s direction and trumpeted a warning
Ko-hoh… ko-hoh
as the regal birds circled away from the edge of the shore, ruffling their feathers in alarm.

The innkeeper had described to Thomas how this mother and father swan would soon teach their young the art of flying in preparation for their annual summer pilgrimage north. But each fall, this same pair would return to Loch-an-Eilean to build its nest, produce and hatch the eggs, and raise its young in graceful harmony with nature and the sumptuous beauty that surrounded the lake.

Thomas skulled his boat around the sheer stone walls of the castle’s base, keeping a safe distance from the wary family of swans. The mother and father were paddling like sentries a few yards from the castle’s small granite pier. All was silent, except for the lapping of the water against the stones. Thomas pulled himself onto the boat landing and vaulted a low wall that formed the ancient entrance to the crumbling stronghold. A small courtyard led into a roofless chamber, which Thomas guessed had once been the great hall. Ahead of him, a spiral stone staircase led to the tower.

Cautiously, Thomas ascended the dank passageway. The walls felt slightly spongy to his touch from the lichen feasting on the weeping stones. Recalling the innkeeper’s tales of the barbarous Wolf of Badenoch, he wondered what bloodcurdling screams had echoed up this passage in eons past.

Thomas felt smothered by the deathly silence in the stairwell to the tower. All he could hear was the slapping sound of his boots against the time-worn granite steps. The mists he had seen earlier, clinging to the trees at the water’s edge, had blown to the far end of the loch, and brilliant spring sunshine blinded him momentarily as he emerged from the arched doorway into the light flooding the roofless turret.

An osprey nest sat twenty feet above him on the only remaining section of the castle tower that hadn’t succumbed to the ravages of four hundred Scottish winters. Gazing back at the shore, his breath caught at the sight of a small, gray palfrey just disappearing into the forest near the remaining boat. He had only a second’s glimpse of the rider seated sidesaddle on the little mare, but he knew instantly that the cloaked figure was Jane.

Leaning against the stone side of the tower, Thomas watched as she emerged from the forest where she had apparently tethered her horse next to his. Her face was hidden by the hood of her cloak as she untied the bateau and quickly pushed off across the glassy surface of the loch.

The flap of swans’ wings beating against the water and the caw of birds jolted him out of his temporary paralysis. He hurtled down the winding stone staircase, round and round the central support, until he was dizzy. When he arrived at the floor of the great hall, he paused, transfixed, staring through the open doorway that led to the boat landing.

Suddenly, Jane was running toward him. Her tartan hood flew back and settled on her cloaked shoulders, revealing her dark chestnut hair and the face he had dreamt about for two long years. She didn’t throw herself in his arms, as he expected, but clasped his hands, while tears streamed down her cheeks.

She gazed at his face wordlessly and he could feel her absorb the changes their separation had wrought: the tiny scars marring his upper lip and the longer one that slashed across his left cheekbone. She lifted her fingertips, tracing the slightly raised surfaces that gave silent evidence of the ordeal he’d endured since last they’d met.

Jane raised her hands to her own face and wept, turning away from him to lean against a stone wall for support.

“Jenny… Jenny, I…”

The sobs wracking Jane’s body emanated from the same raw grief filling his own chest. He watched her, unable to offer comfort, because he had no hidden source from which to provide it.

“I can’t even think how to begin…” She choked out the words, turning away from him once more. Thomas continued to stare at her, heedless of the tears moistening his own cheeks. Her voice was muffled. “’Tis no one’s evil doing… yet look what hell we’ve all been through!” she wept. “My dreams of you never stopped, Thomas… even after—”

“After your marriage to the duke,” Thomas finished her sentence for her, his voice cracking despite a herculean effort to control his emotions.

“Aye,” Jane acknowledged, turning toward him, her eyes revealing her pain.

Thomas abruptly walked over to a section in the wall of the great hall whose windows overlooked the loch. He slammed his fist against the stones, bruising the edge of his hand.

“For all you knew, I was hardly in the ground
half a year
, Jenny, before you forsook our promises!”

“But Captain MacEwan said he
saw
the blow that felled you… he
buried
your dismembered body, he told us… you’d been scalped and pulled apart limb from limb! How could I not think you dead!”

“I understand that part of the puzzle,” Thomas replied in a low voice, whirling to face her with pent-up anger, “but you married your duke a mite fast for a lass who swore she’d love another man the rest of her life!”

“I’ll
always
love you, Thomas Fraser…
that will be my curse!
” she cried, her face contorted with misery. “But everyone badgered me to accept the duke… pushed me into a position I couldn’t escape… and…” Jane hesitated, searching for words as if she, herself, needed an explanation of how she’d arrived at this terrible crossroad. “Alexander is a good man. He understood how wild with grief I was over the loss of you. He’d suffered a similar loss, and, at first, he merely offered friendship.”

Jane approached Thomas and put a gloved hand on his arm. Before he jerked his hand away, he observed that the soft leather was exquisitely tooled with Gordon’s stag’s head crest on its edge. He winced to see it was similar to the Fraser Crest—which was also a proud stag, though etched in profile.

“Later, when Alexander did everything he could to make me love him, I reached out to him as a drowning swimmer lunges for a tether!” Jane said, her eyes pleading for forgiveness. “It had become impossible to live in a world bereft of your kindness or affection…”

“Aye,” Thomas replied, his eyes narrowing grimly, “I imagine m’lord heartily enjoyed bestowing such
affection
on you these past months.” He felt his gorge rise at the thought of the young duke and Jane together… together in bed.

Jane almost seemed to wince at his bitter sarcasm.

“And
you
!” he asked, scanning her tear-streaked face. “Have you found such affection much to your liking? Perhaps His Grace, with his wealth and power and the pleasant luxuries that accompany a duchess’s state, have persuaded you that your love for me was… but a childish fancy?”

“Stop it, Thomas!” Jane responded, stiffening in sudden anger. “This nightmare doesn’t turn on the question of who controls my affections more firmly!” she cried. “You and Alex are not two stags butting heads over a fawn! No one—
ever
—will replace what you are to me! But I cannot
stand
you to cast what has happened to all of us in this jealous, canting fashion!”

Thomas felt ashamed. He was aware for the first time how much Jane had changed—and how much she had suffered. She was as beautiful as he remembered, but there was a darkness in her eyes that was new.

“Ah, Jenny, love… forgive me… ’tis just… if only you’d
believed
in the miracle that brought me back… if only you’d waited, even a year before you’d given me up for lost,” he blurted, reaching for her.