A DISCOVERY IS MADE
Dougal felt strangely wistful as he rode down the hill from Dunkeld. He was sorry, he realized, to be leaving it.
The place is more homely than anywhere I've ever been in my life.
It was an odd realization. He had come to like her family, too – though none of them was like Joanna, not exactly, since he was sure there was no one in the world as wonderful – they all had a trace of that generous quality which characterized her.
I've come to like it here.
He sighed. The woodlands were cold and as he rode below the tall, forbidding pine trees, he found that his joy evaporated, giving way to his worries about the future.
He could love Joanna as much as he liked. However, his father would still not agree to a marriage with her.
Or would he?
As he rode back, he found that some of the optimistic views he had seen in Dunkeld were still with him. He had not actually asked his father anything.
It's about time I did.
He knew his own mind. He knew he wanted Joanna. He also knew he wanted her as his wife as much as he wanted to continue drawing breath.
His father might even say yes. If he didn't, though? Well, then. He had another son. Let Alexander manage things; marry whom he was ordered to. He might end up father to a king one day! However, Dougal did not want that. He wanted to be free.
Free to follow his heart.
As the day wore on, the sun starting to filter through the mists, he found himself changing his plans. It was perfectly allowable for him to go to Buccleigh. Why shouldn't he?
He ought to report to his father in any case, to tell him of his troubles with the management of Lochlann. If nothing else, perhaps his father had masons who could help him mend the rear wall of the fortress. As well as some men to supplement the guardsmen, and some provisions to help them that winter.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized it was a good idea. Lochlann would benefit.
His motive, of course, was to see his father. Ask him if he was free to wed whom he would wed.
And if I'm not? Well, then. France seems a fair prospect.
He felt a sudden bright flash of hope as he thought of it. Rather a beggar in France than an earl or duke here, where he could not be married to his Joanna.
The ride through the forest took six hours. At the edge, he stopped. Here he had to choose whether to go on to Lochlann, or whether to stop at an outpost, leave a message for his steward and perhaps change horses, heading on to Buccleigh.
“I'm going to Buccleigh.” He said aloud, sure of it now. It was a long ride – three days at most – but it was worth the trip. It was the rest of his life.
At the outpost, he reined in his horse.
“Good evening!” he shouted, surprised that no one had spotted him.
A guard appeared in the window. “What're you...? Oh!” He snapped to attention, recognizing Dougal, and suddenly blanching with fear. “Sir!”
“Yes,” Dougal said lightly. “It's me. And I expect guardsmen to be more attentive than that.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, nodding crisply. “Absolutely.”
Dougal wanted to laugh. He could, if he was feeling harsh, have the man dismissed or suspended from his duties. However, right now he was in a strangely good mood. He was happy to be resolving this finally. Facing the future he truly wanted, with all its wonderful unknowns.
“Well, don't stand about,” he said gruffly to the guard. “I'll want a message taken up to Lochlann. Tell them I'll be away a week.”
A week ought to do the trick – three days either way on the road, and one day at Buccleigh. He could afford no more time away from his duties at Lochlann.
If they would be his duties that much longer.
The thought filled him with a wild sense of wonder. This was the first time in his life that he would truly be doing as he chose to.
The guard looked oddly at him, and Dougal realized he must look unsuitably happy. He wiped any trace of smiling from his countenance, and gave him a suitably baleful look.
The guard headed up the hill with the message, and the other two stabled his horse and found a fresh mount for him, a bay stallion with a restless temperament.
At this rate, I'll be in Buccleigh in two days' time, Douglas thought to himself as he headed up the hill.
All he has to do was cross the moors, pass through two or three towns and reach the main road. From there it would be a short and easy journey into his father's lands.
The journey took three days.
After two days, the rain started. Dougal, traveling across the countryside, soaked to the skin, his tunic plastered to his back and his wounds stinging as the cold and rainwater touched them, decided it would be more sensible to stay in the village of Tynbrook than carry on and risk further injury.
On the afternoon of the third day, he found himself riding up to the gates of his father's castle.
“My lord!”
The guards here greeted him like a long-lost friend, and Dougal felt his heart soar at their friendly welcome. He had not realized how being unwelcome had distressed him so.
“Bronn. Is my father in?”
“He's out riding with Alexander. Your uncle stayed on.”
“Oh?” Dougal blinked in surprise. He had not known his uncle Fergal was here at all.
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” Dougal called as someone led his horse away. Unencumbered by luggage, he headed up the steps to the great hall. The place was as rigidly ordered, as scrupulously maintained, as he remembered. Guards saluted and he nodded back, the recognition making him smile.
Funny how I missed that.
Upstairs, he washed the grime of the journey from his face and hands, changed into a fresh tunic and headed down to the solar.
“Uncle?”
“Ah! Nephew! Dougal!”
Dougal's uncle was a tall man with white hair and a lined face. He smiled at him fondly, arms squashing him in a bear hug.
“How is my favorite nephew? Going up in the world.” His uncle chuckled. “An earl, now, soon to be duke and Heaven knows where next! You'll be looking down at your poor uncle soon.”
Dougal smiled fondly at the old man. He was a fearsome warrior, a scar bisecting one cheek where a sword cut had almost taken his eye. He was an earl himself, ruling at his home in Albraith.
“I never could,” he protested, and the old man chuckled.
“You wouldn't, nephew, though maybe one day you could if you were so inclined.” He lowered himself into a seat, wincing as his back hurt. Dougal sat down opposite him.
“Father is out riding?”
“Aye,” Uncle Fergal nodded, smiling. “Your father's always off somewhere. Busy with some schemes. The place is never quiet,” he said, wincing as if his ears still suffered from the sound of many people.
Dougal grinned sympathetically. “I know.”
“All these people, all fancy, all showing off like so many roosters,” his uncle laughed. “And your father, lording it over the lot of 'em.”
Dougal nodded. “That's him,” he said.
They both chuckled fondly. His father's ambitious nature was something they both regarded with some fondness. He was a good man, if a determined one, and neither of them had ever seen his ambition make him harmful.
“That brother of yours, now, he's another like him.”
“Yes,” Dougal said quietly. Alexander was ambitious, it was true. He was far more like their father, which made him outgoing, always after admiration, sparkling at gatherings, and trying to draw the eye.
“An' not too fussy about who he offends, either,” Uncle commented. Douglas nodded.
“Yes,” he said again, more softly.
Alexander was not like their father in temperament – volatile and flippant, he had seen him thrash a servant for splashing mud on his cloak, and he knew his uncle had probably come in for Alexander's blunt manners on occasion.
“I don't know where he'll end up. Brilliant boy, awful character,” his uncle mused. “Could go any direction at all. Throne or vagabond's cavern. No idea which one'll be his home.” he laughed.
Dougal nodded. He ran a hand down his face, feeling tired. He loved his brother, but had never really understood him. Thinking about his future made him suddenly feel weary.
“Has it rained here?” he asked after a long pause between the two of them. He was pleased to be able to change the subject.
“Not more than it always does,” his uncle said, taking a swig of his ale. He noticed his nephew had no tankard, and gestured to a servant to bring one.
“I should go and rest, uncle,” Dougal demurred. “I need to see Father and I want to be fresh when I do.”
“No harm in sitting a while,” his uncle said hopefully. “I've missed good company. What with all the people who've been in and out, you'd think I'd have plenty of people to have a good old talk to. But not bloody likely,” he grumbled.
Dougal laughed. “What sort of people?” he asked, intrigued. A man appeared with his ale and he took it, deciding a single tankard with his uncle would do no real harm.
“Oh, the usual, mostly. Alexander had his lot around as well,” he commented. “All swaggering about in velvet, lordling's sons the lot of them. Though he had some tatty fellows with him, too, I recall. Unusual for him,” he sniffed.
“Tatty in what way?” Dougal was interested.
“Oh, odd sorts. I recall one,” his uncle said, taking another drink of ale before carrying on, “tall fellow. Black eyes. Curly hair. Looked about as if he owned the place. I didn't like him.”
“Oh?”
“Yes! He looked like a knight, or some thane's younger son. Dangerous sort of fellow, a bit like your brother. Ambition and anger mixed and curdled up inside him. Spoke good French, mind. That I remember. Not so many nowadays as do.”
“What?” Dougal spluttered. His heart suddenly pulsed in his chest. “Sorry, uncle,” he demurred.
His uncle looked affronted. “I said he spoke French,” he retorted. “Why're you looking at me like that? I didn't say he was Satan on two legs, now, did I?”
Dougal would have laughed, except that the news was so grave. The description had sounded familiar at first. Now he was almost certain.
“This fellow,” he asked slowly. “When was he here?”
“Oh, about ten days ago. Left after a day or so here. So did a lot of them, mind. That's the trouble with parties. No one stays about to get to know anyone properly, or have a decent chat.” He smiled at his nephew.
“True,” Dougal said quietly. His thoughts raced.
Could it be...?
The man sounded exactly like the minstrel who had arrived at the castle a week ago, on the day of the wake. The timing was right. The description was right. He spoke French as well.
Alexander. My brother. What have you gone and done?