There were no hints of what was to come on that perfect summer morning, no sign that in a few hours her life would be forever changed. But then, Iseabal was later to realize, momentous events are often heralded not by a thunderclap but by a sigh.
She bent over the neck of her horse, flying over the ground so fast that the grass was a green blur. A brilliant blue sky, cloudless and clear, was a backdrop for the craggy hills in the distance. To her left was Loch Euliss shining gold in the morning sun, and ahead was her destination, the ruins of Gilmuir. The ancestral home of the MacRae clan sat perched on a cliff-faced promontory overlooking Loch Euliss and connected by a strip of land to the glen.
The wind, brushing against her cheeks almost abrasively, made her feel free and brave. But the feeling was short-lived and edged with caution. Each time she'd engaged in secret rebellion, the act had been accompanied by a sour taste in her mouth. Even now as she slowed, her fingers began to tremble on the reins.
Her father and his entourage had left for Inverness not an hour earlier, but Iseabal knew better than to believe herself completely safe. Hesitating at the land bridge, she turned in the saddle, watching as the sheep behind her were being moved. The shepherd was not, blessedly, looking in her direction.
Dismounting, she tied the reins of her horse to a piece of iron bar, all that remained of the front door. Stepping between two leaning columns, Iseabal entered Gilmuir. Although the slate floor was covered in brick dust, the hallway connecting the main part of the castle to the priory was surprisingly intact. The curved roof still held and sunlight spilled through the trellis-like pattern of bricks on one side. Walking through the corridor, Iseabal stretched out her hand, touching the sun-warmed bricks in greeting or petition.
After all, she was a Drummond and a trespasser.
"It's the spawning site of our enemies," her father had once said about Gilmuir. "Just as well there are no more MacRaes about," he'd added grimly. "I'd have to kill them all."
Yet she could not find it in her heart to feel anger toward people she'd never known.
Reaching an opening in the corridor, Iseabal turned to her left, facing the ruins of the clan hall.
Summer had come to the Highlands, sending the warm wind soughing around corners and darting in playful gusts around the rubble. Gilmuir seemed saddest in this season, as if knowing that the world blossomed around it and life would never come again to this once grand place.
There was no sign of grandeur now. All of Gilmuir's walls had fallen but for one short section, and it leaned at an angle toward the cavernous space below the ruin, a framework of piers and vaults that had once supported the floorboards.
Her imagination, however, sketched in details long gone. Across the ceiling and against the walls, the banners of the MacRaes would have been hung. Below her feet, polished boards would have gleamed from a treatment of heated oil. At night, lamplight and the glow from candles would illuminate the painted walls and embrasures.
The wind swirled around her, brushing a tendril of hair onto her cheek as if admonishing her for this moment of pretense. Smiling, she thought that the breeze, too, would have been different back then, filled not with the scent of dust but with the smells of fresh herbs and flowers.
Her fascination with the old castle had begun as a child, watching as her father directed the removal of stone and bricks from both Gilmuir and the adjoining Fort William. From that moment on, the fortress and the promontory on which it stood had been a lure. Perhaps in some way, her fascination with Gilmuir had also...
Karen Ranney began writing when she was five. Her first published work was The Maple Leaf, read over the school intercom when she was in the first grade. In addition to wanting to be a violinist (her parents had a special violin crafted for her when she was seven), she wanted to be a lawyer, a teacher, and, most of all, a writer. The violin discarded early, she still admits to a fascination with the law, and she volunteers as a teacher whenever needed. Writing, however, has remained an overwhelming love of hers.
She loves to hear from her readers-please write to her at karen@karenranney.com or visit her website at www.karenranney.com.
Karen Ranney lives in Texas.
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