Jennifer Shaw

This piece is a companion novelette to Elspeth and the Fairy. If you missed my May 13th post, you can read a little about this story’s context here.

You can also find Chapter One here, posted on May 15th.

Part I: RESTORATION

Chapter Two

Through the blessedly empty kitchen Ian barreled, Saltire bumping awkwardly against his thigh. Over the threshold he went, where he’d first crossed on that chilly, smoky night ten years ago, though outside no deadened leaves crunched beneath his boots. He strode instead over dewy new grass, through the courtyard hazy with gold in the rising sun, and out toward the stable. It was early enough to hope he might slip in undetected, and the sweet, balsamic scents of Scots pine urged him on.     

But, no. Coming toward him was the old groom. That wizened man, blinking as though still waking, stopped short. His watery eyes bulged.

“I need a horse, Boyd.”

Dumb-founded, the old man nodded his head. Then, “Sire?” Nearly toothless, it came out as a lisp: “Thire… thire?”

“Yes, I am he; I will explain.” Ian slowed his words as his hand found Saltire’s hilt. But there was no need to be defensive; no one would be cruel to him now, least of all old Boyd. He clasped his hands together instead. “But first, I need a horse. Is the roan well?”

“Went lame juth yetherday.”

“The chestnut?”

“Fine ath alwayth. Och!” The old man gripped his breeches. His two grey teeth poked up from behind shriveled lips.

“I will take him,” said Ian. “Tell Lord Aitken I am taking him, and I will be back as quick as God allows.”  

The poor old bodach continued to nod dumbly, but just as Ian strode past him, he shrieked.

“My lordth! Lord Aitken! Lord Alithair!! Come quick! QUICK!!” Boyd’s screeches were loud enough to stir all the spirits, even the peaceful dead.   

Ian halted, pivoted. More servants peeked out the kitchen door.

“Me thinkth ye be thome triflin’ wraith!” the old man cried. “Me thinkth ye be not real!”

“Are we on the doorstep of Samhain, man?!” Ian flung a gesture at the surrounding greenery. “You spout nonsense!” Though impatience gnawed at him, he held out his hand. “I am as real as you, that chestnut, or Lord Aitken. Come!” He waved the old man toward him. The groom crept forward, pressing the offered palm with a shy old forefinger.

“Och! Ye feel real!” Then: “Yer Majethy!” The man dropped to both knees, surprisingly agile. He bowed his head against gripped palms.

The action took Ian aback. No one had kneeled to him in so very long, and it struck him as ridiculous, even as the sun’s final rays cleared the mountain tops, and the sunlight illuminated the old man’s chest. Ian forced himself to stand taller, to feel the warmth on his own back. To sympathize with the old groom’s shock and awe.

He must act as his subject needed him to.  

From the kitchen doorway, the household’s nobles appeared, pulled away from their breakfast. Alistair led in long, flexible strides, cape billowing behind him. He too reached for his sword. Fiona, Elspeth’s sister, followed, scurrying beneath her lifted train, the veil on her conical hat bouncing. Gouty Lord Aitken hobbled behind her, his full face rubied.

Alistair, with those cerulean eyes and creamy jaw molded as if by angels, halted just yards from Ian. The younger man’s hand rested on his hilt, and he squinted—once, twice, three times as his eyes roved over his king. They needled Ian, who felt the weight of his relative homeliness.  

Alistair ought to know him. Though, he had not seen his king since he was an impetuous laddie at court, and he had only recently begun to trust his own senses again, as Ian had overheard him say.

Unless, Ian’s human form had greatly changed. Aged, perhaps, beyond easy recognition. The idea sparked a new fear.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” Alistair finally whispered. “King Ian?”

The boy’s frightful questions tugged at Ian. “Yes, Son. I am he.” 

Fiona, likewise, looked like a baffled seraph. Though he’d lived with her for many years, Ian still blinked at the sublimity of her beauty, the way he blinked at a sharp crescent moon suspended in the night sky, too cool and perfect to believe.

It was Lord Aitken who confirmed Ian’s identity for them all. Lumbering up, the middle-aged nobleman stepped around his promised son-in-law. Winded and pained, he bent over, palms on his thick thighs, and stared at Ian.  

“My king?” he panted.

Standing, he squinted only once.

That faithful lord did not require confirmation. He only clasped beefy hands over his heart, gaping. “Your Majesty!”

Then, grinning—”Thanks be to the gods!” He checked himself, though he began to guffaw, his astute eyes glistening. “Praise be to Jehovah, One and Only! To God above! To the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!”

He’d always been so trusting, so open. So obedient and good. A steadfast friend.

Much like his younger daughter.

Ian’s own eyes threatened to fill.

“It is alright, Aitken,” he said. “I will not scold you for blasphemy.”

Bellowing joyfully, Aitken shambled down on one knee. He bowed his head. Alistair followed suit, and Fiona gave a deep, graceful curtsy.           

Thus, it would slip into legend: that there in the courtyard of a rather obscure old castle on the outskirts of his kingdom, in a place relatively untouched by the fear and chaos that had plagued the land, the long-lost and much-mourned King Ian finally returned to his people.

But now, impatience clawed at him.

He drew a deep breath. “I have a story to tell,” he began, his phrasing falling into an old pattern. “It is a long one, and meaningful, and full of joy though first it is fraught with struggle.”

Fiona’s head shot up.

“And I have much to commend about your household, Lord Aitken,” Ian added.

Fiona drew her brows together.

“But, I must command that it wait.”

“Please, your Majesty!” Aitken heaved himself back on two feet. “You must come, sit at my table! Let us call for viands and send for Alistair’s father! Your council!” He clapped twice, excited as a little boy. “There is much to hear and do! To celebrate!”

 “No.” Ian’s voice cut sharper than he intended. “There is something I must do first. I must find someone.”

“Your words are familiar, Your Majesty.” Though accustomed to being pampered and thus willfully obtuse, Fiona now spoke with audacious clarity. “They are an introduction I remember well from my girlhood, words spoken at the start of many stories…”

Something lurched inside him. He stared at her.

Ian had echoed his own words. Muir’s words. He had fallen back on the preliminaries he’d employed when, in the evenings, he’d told morality tales to the little lassie sisters. 

Oh, God. How would she respond?

“Whom do you seek, your Majesty?” Fiona continued, a knowing look in her sapphire eye. “My sister?”

He swallowed. “Indeed.”

Fiona gasped.

“I must find her.” Ian tilted his head, signaling the urgency.

Fiona nodded.

“I have something important to tell her.”

“I see,” she whispered. A quiet smile tugged at her lips.

Warmth flooded him. “You understand, my lady?”

“I think so.” Her hand came to her breast. Alistair and her father stared at her, and her betrothed reached out tenderly.  

“Where is she?” Ian asked.

“Walking, I presume.” 

“Where?”

“Perhaps the western meadow down in the glen, out toward Loch Neary. More likely, though, she’s on the path up Capercaillies’ Hill.”

“That high hill? The one with the old woodcutter’s trail?”

“Yes.” Fiona’s face clouded, and Ian thought he read in it regret. “That trek up and down fills her day. She does not like to be at home now.”

Ian’s eyes drifted to Alistair. “I know.”

Alistair dropped his gaze.

“Go to her,” Fiona urged.

“What is going on?” Lord Aitken cut in, still grinning. “I do not follow.”

But Fiona smiled again, wider this time. “It’s alright, Father.” She kept her eyes on Ian. “All is well. Be patient.”

“Thank you, dear maiden.” Ian stepped forward to place a brotherly hand on the young woman’s cheek. “God bless you both.” He moved his hand to Alistair’s shoulder.

Then, most tenderly, he touched Aitken’s arm. “And you too, my dear good sir.”  

Aitken bowed his head again.

“Go now, Your Majesty,” urged Fiona.

“And take that horth!” added Boyd. “Me Lord’th Ruadh will carry ye well!”

“Wait!” Alistair cried. “Ought I to summon at least my father, the regent? That way, once you return, counsel might commence immediately? And what security ought we to implement? What exactly do you wish us to do, Your Majesty?”

There was a barb in the boy’s tone, and Ian’s cheeks heated scarlet. Of course. In this moment, he was overlooking things most pressing. This situation must be handled with care, especially right now—he did not want rumors to fly, or any kind of strange, destructive ecstasy to ensue. Or any violent snatch at power.

He must take up the scepter again with a steady, strategic hand.

“Yes, Lord Alistair.” He said it evenly, though he nodded with vigor. “Go yourself, but seal your lips. Bring only your father here, and Sirs Angus and Ewan. Swear them all likewise to silence. We will convene when I return. And Aitken—”

The lord lifted his chin like a happy hound.

“Put your guards in place. This day, let no one aside from Alistair leave your premises. Everyone here is likewise forbidden from speaking of this, for now. Am I clear?”

Aitken bowed once more. “Perfectly, Your Majesty.”

Turning his back on Aitken’s manor and heading again for the stable, unmolested, relief coursed through Ian. A powerful, promising sense of freedom, and something else, spurred him on, though now the heat from his cheeks fevered the back of his neck.

He wondered how long they all stood there, watching his retreating form.  

He kept his eyes ahead. On horseback, he’d certainly find Elspeth within the hour.

His large body vibrated with conviction; he was so much larger than he was used to, his strides long though awkward compared to Muir’s or even Alistair’s. They ate the ground beneath him.

Finding Elspeth would be simple. She had only just left; it was early. She could not be far.

Prithee, yes?

Gun teagamh.

No doubt.     

***

Thanks for reading!

You can find Chapter Three here.

XOXO,

Jenn