True Highland Spirit (3 page)

Morrigan gave herself a slap, wiped away her tears, and kicked a mouse, who had succumbed to the tempting smell of leather, off her boot. She pushed the emotions back down where they belonged, buried somewhere under her spleen. To cheer herself, she engaged in a rousing game of mentally listing her elder brother’s many faults. His deficiencies being many in her estimation, she warmed to her task and successfully chased away any remnants of emotional vulnerability with the comforting chill of cynicism.

So wrapped in her internal musing, she failed to hear footsteps on the stair. The door swung open, and Morrigan vaulted to her feet, drawing her sword. She froze at the sight. In the doorway stood the minstrel, the tip of her sword at his throat.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I am disturbing you. I shall take my leave.” The wide-eyed minstrel took a step away from her blade.

“What are ye doing here, minstrel?” Morrigan growled, but she lowered her sword as he posed no threat. “Are ye lost?”

“It is clear I must be, for I was told this tower was not in use.”

“’Tis not. Why do ye seek it?”

“I wish only for a place to rest before I leave on the morrow.”

“But why here? Did McNab no’ offer ye a place to sleep by the fire? If that dinna suit ye, I am sure ye had no lack of offers for a warm bed.”

The minstrel gave a slight smile and a shrug. “I confess I have received several of the offers most charming, but of some charms a little is more than enough. I found I wished to withdraw to a quiet place for some peace.”

Morrigan snorted. “Tired of being haggled over like the last good mackerel at a fish market?”

The minstrel laughed. “It is true what you say. If you have decided not to run me through, I will indulge my most terrible curiosity and ask why you, too, are in this abandoned place.”

Morrigan sheathed her sword and motioned to the pitch blackness of the open window. “I was enjoying the view.”

“The view?” The minstrel strode to the window and gazed out into the inky darkness. “Ah yes, the view. It is an uncommon sight, no?”

Morrigan’s lips twitched upward into a half smile, half smirk. The more she tried not to smile, the more she failed at the endeavor.

“Banished are you, or running away?” asked the minstrel with a smile.

“Something like that,” said Morrigan.

“Should I take my leave? I saw you leave the great hall and thought perhaps you had an appointment of a charming nature.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. He saw her leave? He was observant. Of course he assumed her to be a lad, so his eyes were not all that sharp. “Nay, I came to be alone.”

“My choice of ballads was not to your liking?”

Morrigan shook her head and searched for a safer topic. “I enjoy a livelier tune.”

The minstrel leaned against the wall and put up one foot against the stones. He swung around his lyre and plucked a jaunty tune, singing bawdy lyrics. Morrigan smiled in spite of herself. As long as he kept his musical selections to risqué tavern songs, she was on solid ground.

“Ye are skilled, minstrel. Where did ye learn?”

“The monastery where I was raised,” said Jacques with a gleam in his eye.

“Yer French monasteries must take a more liberal view toward their hymns. I have yet to hear an English monk perform a tune as ye just played.”

“Perhaps I should not have left, but I have found an enlightening repertoire of musical delights in my travels.”

Morrigan sat back down on her stool. “I am sure ye have.” Her eyes ran down the polished wood lyre in his hands. It had clearly seen some travel, but underneath was a beautiful instrument, its tone clear and sure. “I used to play, years ago it was.”

“Did you now? Here, let us see what you can do.” Jacques handed over the instrument with a smile.

Though she wished to touch it, Morrigan accepted it slowly. She had played long ago, back when her father taught her. Back in a time best forgotten.

“I doubt I remember anything.”

Jacques grabbed the crate and sat next to her. “Give it but a try,” he encouraged.

Morrigan plucked each string, the notes clear and pure. It was indeed a fine instrument. Finding the position for her left hand was difficult. She had grown since the last time she held a lyre and the position she remembered was off. The note she played was flat and sour.

“Ugh. I dinna remember.”

“Your fingering is off is all.” Jacques reached around her with his left hand and demonstrated the correct fingering.

Morrigan flushed at the weight of his arm on her shoulders. He was warm and smelled of woodsmoke from standing near the hearth. She stole a glance at the minstrel who leaned close to her. His hair was black and straight, with a tendency to fall over one eye. He was clean shaven, and despite his itinerant lifestyle, he obviously took care of himself. His eyes were a clear, deep blue, so bright she had never seen the like.

“…and those are the main chords,” Jacques finished.

Had he been talking? Heat raced up Morrigan’s spine. What had he said? Something about chords?

“Try the first one,” he prompted.

“Um…” Morrigan took a wild guess and grimaced at the sour tone.

“Here, let me show you again.” The minstrel leaned closer, moving her fingers into the correct positions.

Morrigan ignored the tingling sensation his touch put on her hand and focused on the lyre. She would not make a fool of herself. Plucking the strings, she thrilled in having found the right note. Slowly the memories of her past lessons came back and she played a halting tune. She stopped the moment she realized what she was doing. It was the same damn love song.

“You are doing well,” encouraged Jacques.

Morrigan turned her face toward him. He was close. So close she could see faint flecks of silver in his blue eyes. Her heart did an odd flutter and skipped along merrily. His lips were full and drew her closer. She leaned toward him without thinking.

“Ah, well…” Jacques stood abruptly and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. “I… you…” He narrowed his eyes and stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Who are you?”

Morrigan stood and took pity on him. She removed her cap, letting her dark brown hair fall down to her waist.

“
Mademoiselle!
” His eyes went wide, gleaming blue.

Morrigan simply nodded, her lips twitching at his reaction.

The minstrel looked up at the heavens. “
Merci!
” He shook his head and gave her a wry grin. “It becomes clear now to me. No lad could be so pretty.”

Pretty? No man had ever called her pretty, at least none who had the courage to make it known to her. She was the laird’s sister… who dressed as a man and carried a sword. People feared her. There was power in that.

This was a different kind of power. The air crackled around her; she was in control. She took a step toward him. He looked delicious and smelled intoxicating. She was light-headed, like she had hit the whiskey a bit too hard. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, demanding to be set free. She paused, unsure what to do next. Surely this moment called for bold action. But what?

He took a step toward her. His eyes seemed to glow brighter. He reached for the lyre she still held in her hand and took it from her, setting it on the crate. His eyes never left hers.

“Am I to know your name?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Morrigan, McNab’s sister.” She took another step toward him so that their boots touched at the toe. She was slightly surprised to find she had to look up at him. He was a tall man, this minstrel.

“Morrigan,” Jacques repeated.

“I was named after a horrible warrior she-demon. My mother almost died in the birthing.”

“Morrigan the warrior,” he whispered.

They stood close, neither moving. Even the wind that whistled through the tower seemed to hold its breath.

Without thinking, she pounced on the minstrel like a bird of prey on a hapless rabbit. She jumped up on tiptoe and grabbed his face with both hands, planting a firm kiss on his full lips. He stood frozen for a moment, and then started to put his arms around her. Morrigan broke free and stepped back. Her mind spun. Her brain sizzled. What had she just done?

Morrigan bolted for the door, but Jacques caught her hand in the doorway.

“I… I have offended you?” His face was concerned.

“Ye—” Morrigan wanted to give him a scathing rebuke. The best defense against embarrassment and shame was to come out swinging. “I’ve ne’er enjoyed anything more.” Morrigan ran down the stairs wondering why in the name of St. Andrew she had told him the truth. What power did he hold over her?

Beware minstrels.

Six months later…

“Ye ne’er paid me, ye horse thief!”

“Ye gave me a lame horse, ye cheat!”

“Thief!”

“Swindler!”

Morrigan rolled her eyes at the bickering men before her. Since her brothers were away from the castle, she was left to lead the clan until their return. It was not an honor.

At least one role had been relieved from her. Archie had finally found a lass willing to marry him, so his bride, the cheerful Alys McNab, was the chatelaine of the castle. Not that it helped Morrigan with the matter at hand.

“Put ’im in chains fer stealing!” demanded one of the men, glaring at his adversary with his one good eye.

“Throw ’im in the dungeon fer being a damn cheat!” demanded the other, alternating between leaning on his walking stick and using it to point at his enemy.

It was the day when the laird, Morrigan because there was no other, settled disputes from amongst the clan. Judging from the line of angry people behind the squabbling men, the McNab clan was full of malcontents. Morrigan counted herself foremost among them.

“Give him back the horse and be done wi’ it,” Morrigan said, stating the obvious solution.

“Nay!” both men shouted. They agreed on that at least.

“He made the horse lame. I dinna want back a worthless nag,” said One Eye.

“I already gave him my best hunter, and now me poor dog’s done been killed,” whined Stick Man.

Morrigan had always mocked how her elder brother Archie had resolved the clan’s problems. She had laughed at the petty matters brought before him, and his often-imaginative solutions. She was not laughing now. For the first time in years she wished to see Archie walking through the main door.

At that moment a figure did run through the door. Could it be?

“Fire! Come quick, the fields are burning!” screamed a lad, covered black in soot.

The hall erupted into chaos. Some ran away from the door, some toward it. Mothers scrambled to pick up their children as men ran for the main door, heedless of those around them.

“Halt!” hollered Morrigan, standing on the seat of judgment. Almost to her surprise, her clansmen slowed down and turned toward her. “Mothers, take yer bairns to the side. All able-bodied folk follow the lad to the fields. Dinna trample each other to the door, ye daft fools. Bring yer cloaks!”

Once she had herded her clan outside without anyone killing each other, Morrigan broke into a run out the main gate. She did not need a guide, the rising smoke was clear enough. She ran toward the blaze, the smoke stinging her eyes as she drew closer. With a fluid motion, she unpinned her cloak and began beating at the flames, trying to smother and stomp it out. The men and women who had followed her did the same, whipping up a thick haze of smoke, dust, and ash.

“My child! My wee bairn is still in there!”

Morrigan turned toward the woman’s frantic cry. A crofter’s hut was almost fully engulfed in fire. Flames licked up the side and the thatch roof was ablaze. A few men were holding back the frantic woman, tears streaking paths down her soot-covered face.

Morrigan raced toward the hut, but it was too late; it was almost completely engulfed and would collapse any moment.

“My bairn!” the woman cried.

A baby. Everything Morrigan wanted but would never have. She threw her cloak around her head and dove inside. Even on her knees, smoke choked her lungs, her eyes watered at the stinging assault. She could see nothing but flaming bits of thatch falling from the roof. It could cave in any second. The heat was unbearable.

Forcing herself forward, Morrigan searched frantically for the child, her lungs screaming for air. Feeling with her hands in the hut filled with black smoke she found the wooden cradle. Morrigan grabbed the wrapped bundle from the cradle and ran for the door. Acrid smoke smothered her, as if it was physically pulling her back into the flames.

Morrigan stumbled outside as the thatch roof collapsed with a giant rush of scorching heat. She fell to the ground, her lungs burning for air, her arms still protecting the squirming bundle.

“My child! Och, my wee bairn!” The mother took the bundle from Morrigan’s hands. Morrigan tried to witness the reunion, but her eyes could not find focus. Someone grabbed her shoulders and dragged her away from the blazing hut.