Tales of the Executioners

Chapter 6: Jamie - Blood of Betrayal, Part 6

"Jamie? Jamie? Come ta bed, my love. 'Tis our wedding night, and ye would leave me alone on it?"

Jamie looked up from his cup to see his pretty wife standing before him, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, waiting for a consummation they'd practiced many times before.

His father laughed and slapped the table. "Aye lad, get ye to it. Dinnae leave a woman waiting."

Jamie hadn't realized the late hour, time lost to mead and revelry, the celebration of their union. "Aye, I believe I've had enough o'you. Ta bed!"

A chorus of laughter followed him, the gruff sound of drunken friends and family. Margaret chuckled as she led him away, toward their chambers. In the bedroom he stumbled against the bed and felt remorse.

"I'm sorry, love. 'Tis yer wedding night and here is your husband, too sopping drunk ta make use of it. I lost meself ta cup and company and-"

She caught him and laid a finger to his lips. "Hush, love. Drunk ye may be, but not too drunk ta be of use still. Mark." She reached low and touched him. "See? Come, do not apologize fer your reveling. 'Tis a night ta celebrate, ta drink and be merry, ta sing and dance. And now, ta make love ta yer wife."

Jamie reached for her, reached for her mouth with his, but he found only darkness, emptiness.

With a groan, he blinked, then opened his eyes. Through a red haze he saw the ruined room, saw Eagan standing over him.

"Yer awake. Good."

Awake. As if he would ever be awake again. He'd left behind the dreams of heaven for the nightmare of hell. Neither were real now.

Regardless, he'd made a vow, sworn on his honor. Dream or nightmare, his honor was all he had left. With a grunt, he struggled to pull himself up.

Eagan chortled. "Surely ye've had enough, lad? Come, ye cannae even stand."

Jamie ignored him and pulled up to one knee, bowing before him as he'd told himself he would never do to any except Charles II, who should be their king. Slowly, he raised his head, holding his broken jaw with one hand to mutter through the mess, "Aye, enough. I swore, on my honor, and on my honor I will remain yer servant, 'til ye release me from yer debt of blood."

Then ye will never see me again.

***

Though Jamie had to stay, he didn't have to see his sister, or her traitorous husband. In the evening he reached the kitchen before they did, to discover four carafes waiting. He took his back to his room, and left it outside the door where someone retrieved it, though he had no idea who. Just as he had no idea who took care of any of the day to day things, or how they were done. He'd never been too involved; the steward handled the other servants and oversaw the menial tasks, and the steward reported to the laird, which had always been his father. Now, of course, it was Androu.

Androu.

His name tasted bitter on Jamie's tongue, still he spoke it aloud to the darkness. The shadows gave no reproach for the curses, but neither did they agree, only clung to the corners in silence.

Jamie had taken a new apartment at the expense of his old bedchambers. The memory of Margaret hung in every stone, every brick. The warmth of her laugh, the light in her eyes, the way she languidly brushed her long red hair. In future, he told himself, he'd want to revisit such ghosts, but at the moment they were too painful, like salt in an open wound.

And so he hid away, blocked off in the upper rooms of the east wing, watching nights crawl past. Eagan visited him, to try to tempt him from his self-imposed isolation. After a month had gone, he tried a new tactic.

"Ye may not wish ta see yer sister, but yer nephews long for ye, lad. Would ye deny them? Ye cannae have children of yer own any longer, save for passing on yer blood ta another, as has been done ta ye. Those bairns are the only lineage ye or yer father will have. And they love ye."

"They dinnae know me," Jamie muttered darkly. Though even he knew it was a lie. "Fine. They may come now an' again."

Eagan brought them the very next night, a game board under his arm. Now and again became a monthly visit that, by early spring, turned weekly. The boys learned not to mention their parents, for one word about Caitrin, or Androu, and Jamie immediately sent them away. Instead, their conversations turned to their lessons, to their old memories, a longing to relive them.

"Will ye take us riding again?"

"No," Jamie said gruffly. He'd visited the stables once, to find Margaret's horse missing. That his own was gone, he knew keenly, but his wife'sHad it also died of a mysterious fever, as she had?

Simon, the younger child, frowned. "Why won't ye leave the castle anymore? Mum says that ye are wallowin', and 'tis not good fer ye. She says ye mourn them but haven' even seen ta their graves. 'Tis been six months."

His older brother clapped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late. The reminder of their lineage was there, and Jamie ordered them out for the night. Alone, Jamie watched the candle melt and realized they were right. Caitrin was right. He'd never once visited their graves, never asked for their forgiveness.

If only I'd been here, I'd have slipped a knife between Androu's ribs at the first sign of his cowardice.

He tugged on his cloak and made his silent way through the castle, then out into the night. Like a ghost drifting down once accustomed paths, the way to the kirkyard felt not quite familiar, but not quite changed.

Late snowflakes fell around him and made the grass slick. Alone, save the moan of the wind, he wound between the stones, looking for Margaret's resting place, for his father's.

He found neither.

Though he did not hear her approach, he sensed the presence of his sister a moment before she spoke. "Margaret was buried on our grounds."

Jamie looked to her sharply. "Why? Would the church not have her?"

Caitrin walked to him, her cloak billowing behind her in the wind. "I thought ye'd like ta have her near. She's under the tree, in the middle of the courtyard. Ye ken how she liked ta sit there in the spring."

"Aye, she did, but would not the kirkyard be better? Near her kin?" Though Jamie couldn't explain it, he sensed the lie. There was more to it than her excuse. Still, something held him back from pushing it, as if he knew the answer would take what sanity he had left. "And our father?"

Caitrin sucked air between her teeth. "They took his body."

Jamie clenched his fists and tried to hold back his fury. "An' they were allowed to? Did no one try ta stop them?"

"Androu couldn't, lest they lose their sympathy fer him, and Eaganhis opinion meant little to them."

Jamie stiffened. "He was here then? When" he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

"Aye. But there was naught he could do. He was a visitor, and one who could not be seen in sunlight."

"And could he not have done something else? Killed those who came? Eagan's strength is that of ten men!"

"Aye, it is, but he could not risk giving himself away."

Jamie spun on her. "Giving himself away ta whom? Ta you? Androu? Everyone in the castle? But he did. He changed ye both, and does not everyone ken what ye are now? What we are? Who did he need ta keep the secret from?"

She wrung her hands. "Jamie-"

"Was he here when Margaret died?" His sister looked at the ground, refusing to meet his eyes and he demanded again, "Was he?"

"Jamie, what has passed, has passed."

"'Tis not an answer, Caitrin. Tell me also, how long after Margaret died did they come fer Da? I was gone fer six months, April ta September. When did they die? What month? What day? When did Eagan come ta ye? When?" He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her in time to his words. "When?"

"'Twas the difference of three weeks!" she cried and pulled away. "Margaret died the first of June and, by the end o' the month, Father"

"June!" Jamie roared. "She died o'fever in June? What fever took her, besides the one called Androu's knife? That's it, isn't it? Three weeks afore they hung our father, means his plan was already in action, the inquisitors from England may have been here, even." He stopped when he saw her face flicker. "They were, weren't they? They were already here, perchance had already made their charges, and Margaret she refused ta go along with the farce, didn't she? So Androu killed her in her sleep and blamed it on a fever! That's why she's buried in the garden and not the church. Ye couldn't risk them seeing her body; seein' that she was mortally wounded. Tell me different!"

"I've already told ye different. She was sick, she died of fever. There is no more ta it, no conspiracy. Ye seek fer a way to avenge it, ta make restitution fer her death, and so ye need someone ta blame that ye may take your revenge against, but it was not Androu's doing."

"Can you say the same fer Father?"

"Yes!" she shouted. "If anythin' it was yer fault, yers and Father's. Ye chose ta rebel, ta meddle in things better left ta greater men, ter cause problems when ye shoulda been home with yer wife. Did ye learn nothin' from Ma? She died alone! Waitin' fer Da' ta come home."

"I was gone fightin' fer her, and fer you. Fer yer freedom."

"Ye package it as freedom, but it ain't freedom ye wanted; ye were fightin' ta force everyone ta be Presbyterian, ta think, and believe as ye do, and now yer angry that yer cause took som'in from ye! But all causes must. Our lives, our faith, have ta cost us something; otherwise what are they worth? I say as I did, what has passed, has passed. Ye can no more bring back the dead, than ye can change what has happened." She took his arm and gazed into his face, eyes pleading. "All there is ta do is put it behind us, ta move forward with what we have now."

"And what is that? Servitude ta a man we barely know? A cold bed, and colder days, devoid of sunlight or warmth?"

"'Tis yer own fault ye barely know Eagan. Can ye really say the yoke ye wear is so harsh as ta make ye a servant? Ye do not wait upon 'im, nor cater ta his whims. Ye do as ye please, except-"

"I'm forced ta stay here."

"Aye, as I was sayin', except ye cannae leave. Is that so terrible a thing?"

He held her gaze. "Aye."

With a sigh she let him go and stepped back. "I'm sorry that ye feel that way still. I had hoped that time would heal ye some. Perhaps in a year."

He turned away, eyes on the heavy sky and the falling flakes. "All the years in the world will not be enough, Caitrin."

Her answer was nearly lost to the wind. "I hope yer wrong."