MacKinnons' Hope: A Highland Christmas Carol by Tanya Anne Crosby Page B
Authors: Tanya Anne Crosby
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twisted into a disheartened moue, though she did not cry.
Of course, Page never cried. He remembered that stoic expression all too well. Even now it left Hugh with a guilty pang.
Disgusted, as much with himself, but no less with the child for having given him a prick of guilt, FitzSimon stamped his foot at the girl, as though she were naught but vermin in his home.
The child turned and fled. Hugh made to chase her, but he stopped when her strange blue light extinguished amidst the dark hall. He stared down the corridor, not entirely relieved now that she was gone. Strange as it was he could still hear her little footsteps echo down a distant hall.
“Rats,” he muttered to himself. “”Tis naught but rats.”
God’s truth, he’d never touched a drop of vin this eve—not one drop. After all, what fun was there in drinking all alone?
Scratching his head, he reached for the parchment at his belt, and finding it still there, he patted it neatly and kept marching down the hall, all the more determined now to find his bed.
His feet felt fat tonight, his toes swollen in his boots. His eyes burned. His gut churned, and it felt much the same as though some fat boar were seated upon his chest.
Outside, the wind bellowed harder, the sound all the more unnerving for the uncanny silence now ringing through his halls—a silence that grew, piercing his eardrums, and making him wince with pain.
By the rood, he did not feel well tonight.
It must have been that greasy pheasant! Rubbing his ears with the palms of his hands, he massaged them to ease the ache. But then, after removing his hands from his ears, he heard a woman’s song in a faraway voice…
A las , my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you well and long,
Delighting in your company.
H ugh rubbed his ears again , peering around in confusion. By the bones of the saints, what devilry was this?
I have been ready at your hand,
To grant whatever thou wouldst crave;
I have both wagered life and land,
Your love and good will for to have.
I t was an auld song , one his wife used to sing quite a lot—in fact, right there, in that very solar. The chorus was such an annoying earworm. It went like this: Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold, and who but my lady Greensleeves. Hugh thoroughly despised the song.
Of course, at the time he’d loathed Eleanore all the more. And Page, she’d never had a prayer of a chance, for she’d looked precisely like her mother.
Listening closely, FitzSimon tried to determine where the voice was coming from. Surely not the solar, from whence he’d only just come? He spun about, a human compass veering north.
From inside the solar came a strange glow, and the sound of the woman’s voice grew clearer yet…
' T is I will pray to God on high,
That thou my constancy mayst see,
And that yet once before I die,
Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me.
T he solar itself seemed to glow with a strange blue incandescent light, and the light seemed to be expanding as the song and voice grew in clarity.
Like a moth drawn to the light of a flame, Hugh took a wary step toward the solar door. It occurred to him in that instant that he might well meet a moth’s fate, but he could not stop himself. One foot went after the other.
“Eleanore?” he called out.
No answer came from the singing woman, but her song continued as Hugh inched his way toward the solar, his footfalls echoing like claps of thunder along the empty hall. Only once he realized the clatter he was making, he took greater care to soften his step, lest he startle the woman and she flee. He tiptoed the last few feet.
He spied the singing woman the instant he poked his head into the room—seated before the hearth, right there, where Eleanore used to sit and rock their babe.
Stunned by the sight of his long-lost wife, Hugh’s hand clutched at his heart.
Nay, but there was no babe in
Of course, Page never cried. He remembered that stoic expression all too well. Even now it left Hugh with a guilty pang.
Disgusted, as much with himself, but no less with the child for having given him a prick of guilt, FitzSimon stamped his foot at the girl, as though she were naught but vermin in his home.
The child turned and fled. Hugh made to chase her, but he stopped when her strange blue light extinguished amidst the dark hall. He stared down the corridor, not entirely relieved now that she was gone. Strange as it was he could still hear her little footsteps echo down a distant hall.
“Rats,” he muttered to himself. “”Tis naught but rats.”
God’s truth, he’d never touched a drop of vin this eve—not one drop. After all, what fun was there in drinking all alone?
Scratching his head, he reached for the parchment at his belt, and finding it still there, he patted it neatly and kept marching down the hall, all the more determined now to find his bed.
His feet felt fat tonight, his toes swollen in his boots. His eyes burned. His gut churned, and it felt much the same as though some fat boar were seated upon his chest.
Outside, the wind bellowed harder, the sound all the more unnerving for the uncanny silence now ringing through his halls—a silence that grew, piercing his eardrums, and making him wince with pain.
By the rood, he did not feel well tonight.
It must have been that greasy pheasant! Rubbing his ears with the palms of his hands, he massaged them to ease the ache. But then, after removing his hands from his ears, he heard a woman’s song in a faraway voice…
A las , my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you well and long,
Delighting in your company.
H ugh rubbed his ears again , peering around in confusion. By the bones of the saints, what devilry was this?
I have been ready at your hand,
To grant whatever thou wouldst crave;
I have both wagered life and land,
Your love and good will for to have.
I t was an auld song , one his wife used to sing quite a lot—in fact, right there, in that very solar. The chorus was such an annoying earworm. It went like this: Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold, and who but my lady Greensleeves. Hugh thoroughly despised the song.
Of course, at the time he’d loathed Eleanore all the more. And Page, she’d never had a prayer of a chance, for she’d looked precisely like her mother.
Listening closely, FitzSimon tried to determine where the voice was coming from. Surely not the solar, from whence he’d only just come? He spun about, a human compass veering north.
From inside the solar came a strange glow, and the sound of the woman’s voice grew clearer yet…
' T is I will pray to God on high,
That thou my constancy mayst see,
And that yet once before I die,
Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me.
T he solar itself seemed to glow with a strange blue incandescent light, and the light seemed to be expanding as the song and voice grew in clarity.
Like a moth drawn to the light of a flame, Hugh took a wary step toward the solar door. It occurred to him in that instant that he might well meet a moth’s fate, but he could not stop himself. One foot went after the other.
“Eleanore?” he called out.
No answer came from the singing woman, but her song continued as Hugh inched his way toward the solar, his footfalls echoing like claps of thunder along the empty hall. Only once he realized the clatter he was making, he took greater care to soften his step, lest he startle the woman and she flee. He tiptoed the last few feet.
He spied the singing woman the instant he poked his head into the room—seated before the hearth, right there, where Eleanore used to sit and rock their babe.
Stunned by the sight of his long-lost wife, Hugh’s hand clutched at his heart.
Nay, but there was no babe in
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