Page 44 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
Part Two
The dreary, deadly hour….
Findlater Castle (Also known as Whitecliff)
Scottish Highlands, near Banff
December, 1290 A.D.
The winds howledand the waves crashed as the storm raged above the Firth of Moray, a tempest the likes of which mankind had rarely seen. The sky, the land, and the sea were all of one color, something deep into darkness that could hardly be seen. The only things that were visible on this hellish night were the swirls of rain when the lightning burst and the dark and dreary castle hanging on a cliff overlooking the churning ocean.
Against the dark and lonely landscape, two travelers could be seen heading in the direction of the castle. They were struggling through the wind and rain, clearly in distress, the horses moving slowly and stiffly due to the cold temperatures and buffeting winds. But they labored on, across the chill, black earth, moving for the castle of solitude perched above the roiling sea.
There was a road, not particularly well-traveled, that led to the drawbridge that had been lowered to bridge the gap between a tall, narrow gatehouse and the road beyond. With the heavy rains and wind, the road had become a rocky swamp and the horses labored across the road and onto the wooden drawbridge that spanned a deep gap that, down below, saw the swirling ocean. Waves clawed at the rocks as if trying to climb them, ever higher and higher against the cliffs.
The horses were nervous and weary, moving quickly across the wet wood of the drawbridge, sliding on more than one occasion. The horse in the lead was a leggy gelding while the one behind, a heavy-boned warhorse, seemed to move more slowly. Once the leggy gelding reaching the other side, the rider leapt off and grabbed the reins of the warhorse.
The rider of the first horse was small and lithe, but strong. As the storm blew her cloak about, it was clear that she was a woman. She pulled the horses behind her as she trudged beneath the gatehouse, which was unattended, and into the small bailey beyond. The wind whipped around her cloak, nearly blowing it off. It revealed a heavy woolen traveling dress which was now soaked with mud on the bottom as well as water from the rain. The woman was beaten and wet, but still, she refused to give up.
But she also gave up trying to keep her cloak wrapped around her slender body. That was impossible in this weather, and she had long since given up trying to keep her hood on. She simply couldn’t keep herself wrapped up against the storm and pull the horses along at the same time. The elements beat down on her pale, lovely face, revealing black, wet hair as she gazed up at the keep of Whitecliff Castle. She knew the name of this place because her husband, on the warhorse behind her, had told her the name. He was from Scotland, after all, and knew the area. He was the one who had known this castle was here, the only outpost in a desolate land for miles and miles. Water hit her in the eyes, in the mouth, and she blinked rapidly, trying to see through the deluge.
The sight of the keep seemed to spur her forward, feeding the strength in her that she thought was gone. They had traveled so very far and she was spent, but she had to dig in, deep down, to find that inherent power in her that burned hot and quiet when all else was lost. Her entire family had that inner strength and she fought hard to claim it now.
She had little choice if they were both to survive.
There was a small, pitched-roof structure off to her right, across the courtyard, but to her left was the big, two-storied keep. It was built on the edge of the cliff, and a rather long building for a keep. She saw no glow from the windows to indicate anyone was inside. In fact, the entire place seemed abandoned– there had been no guards at the gatehouse even though the drawbridge had been lowered. The woman was coming to think that she, the horses, and her husband were perhaps the only ones at the castle. Pulling the drenched horses up to the keep entry, she tried to move them into a sheltered position against the nearly-horizontal rain.
“Jamison?” she said to the slumped figure on the big-boned warhorse. “Can you hear me, my love?”
The hunched figure, wrapped in drenched woolen fabric with the crisscross pattern so indigenous to the Scottish people, moved slightly. “I am awake,” he said in a heavy Scots brogue. He sounded quite ill with a hoarse voice, dull and deep. “Help me tae dismount and we shall find the master o’ the keep together.”
The woman put her hand on his leg. “Nay,” she said. “Save your strength. I will see if anyone is inside and if there is, I will ask them to come out and help you inside.”
A big hand shot out from beneath the cloak, grasping her slender wrist. “Help me dismount, Havilland,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I will not let a stranger see me weakened. I will meet him standing on my feet.”
Lady Havilland de Llion Munro sighed faintly at her husband. A proud, strong man from a proud and strong clan, he did not like to be seen any other way.
“But you are ill,” she insisted softly. “You must save your strength.”
Jamison Munro lifted his head, gazing down at the woman he loved. And what a love it was; something that breathed the fires of passion from the depths of his very soul. Everything about her consumed him. He had been serving aSassenachwarlord on the Welsh Marches, a man who was a friend of his father, and Havilland was the daughter of the warlord’s ally. He’d met her quite by accident whilst defending her castle.
And then, he could think of nothing else.
Havilland’s father was a great knight from a long line of great knights, but the man had no sons, only three daughters, yet the daughters were quite fearsome. After a rough beginning, their courtship had been a great adventure that he hoped to tell their children someday.
If he lived that long.
“Help me, sweetling,” he said as he tossed back the wet tartan, coughing so deeply and so violently that he nearly fell from the horse. But he caught himself, struggling now to dismount. “Just a little help is all I need.”
Havilland gave him much more than a little help; she grabbed hold of him, holding tight as the man laboriously dismounted from his sopping horse. On his feet, he nearly stumbled but she held him firm, directing him over to a dry part of the keep entry where the rain couldn’t get to him. As he sagged against the wall, she lovingly wiped the water from his face.
“I must get the horses into a shelter,” she said. “Let me find someplace dry for them and I shall return as quickly as I can. Will you be well enough while I am gone?”
Jamison waved her off. “Go,” he said. “Take care of the beasts.”
She did. Scampering out into the storm, she took hold of the horses and dragged them back into the courtyard where she found a broken-down stable that was more rubble than structure. But there was a part of it that was dry and she tucked the horses back into that section, pulling off the wet saddles and saddlebags, trying to dry them off.
In a corner, she saw sacks of something that she hoped was grain. Upon closer inspection, it was, in fact, some kind of grain but a good portion of it had sprouted and molded. She pulled out clumps of moldy grain to find that, underneath, there seemed to be a portion that was free of growth. It was barley and it would have to suffice, for she had nothing else for the animals. Making sure they had some water in a bucket, she put the grain in a trough in front of them. It wasn’t much, but they fed on it eagerly.
