Beyond the Highland Myst(328)

Besseta snatched her hand from his and gathered her sticks defensively. "These are far more than simple sticks. I bid you, accord them proper respect. He must be stopped."

"What do your sticks tell you the laird will do that is so terrible?" Curiosity trumped his resolve to end this conversation as neatly as possible. He couldn't hope to curtail the dark wanderings of her mind if he didn't know what they were.

"He will soon take a lady, and she will do you harm. I think she will kill you.

Nevin's mouth opened and closed like a trout stranded on the riverbank. Although he knew there was no truth to her ominous prediction, the fact that she entertained such wicked thoughts confirmed his fears that her tenuous grasp on reality was slipping. "Why would anyone kill me? I'm a priest, for heaven's sake."

"I can't see the why of it. Mayhap his new lady will take a fancy to you, and evil doings will come of it."

"Now you truly are imagining things. A fancy to me, over Drustan MacKeltar?"

Besseta glanced at him, then quickly away. "You are a fine-looking lad, Nevin," she lied with motherly aplomb.

Nevin laughed. Of Besseta's five sons, only he had been born slender of build, with fine bones and a quietude that served God well but king and country poorly. He knew what he looked like. He had not been fashioned—as had Drustan MacKeltar—for warring, conquering, and seducing women and had long ago accepted his physical shortcomings. God had purpose for him, and while spiritual purpose might seem insignificant to others, for Nevin Alexander it was more than enough.

"Put those sticks away, Mother, and I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense. You needn't fret on my behalf. God watches over—" He stopped midsentence. What he'd nearly said would encourage an entirely new, and at the same time very old and very lengthy, discussion.

Besseta's eyes narrowed. "Ah, yes. Your God certainly watched over all of my sons, didn't He?"

Her bitterness was palpable and made him heartsick. Of all his flock, he'd failed most surely with his own mother. "I might remind you that quite recently He was your God, when I was granted this position and you were well-pleased with my promotion," Nevin said lightly. "And you will not harm the MacKeltar, Mother."

Besseta smoothed her coarse gray hair and angled her nose toward the thatched roof. "Don't you have confessions to hear, Nevin?"

"You must not jeopardize our position here, Mother," he said gently. "We have a solid home among fine people, and I hope to make it permanent. Give me your word."

Besseta kept her eyes fixed on the roof in stubborn silence.

"Look at me, Mother. You must promise." When he refused to retract his demand or avert his steady gaze, she finally gave a shrug and nodded.

"I will not harm the MacKeltar, Nevin. Now, go on with you," she said brusquely. "This old woman has things to do."

Satisfied that his mother wouldn't trouble the laird with her pagan foolishness, Nevin departed for the castle. God willing, his mother would forget her latest delusion by dinner. God willing.

* * * * *

Over the next few days, Besseta tried to make Nevin understand the danger he was in, to no avail. He chided her gently, he rebuked her less gently, and he got those sad lines around his mouth she so hated to see.

Lines that clearly pronounced: My mother's going mad.

Despair settled into her weary bones, and she knew that it was up to her to do something. She would not lose her only remaining son. It wasn't fair that a mother should outlive all her children, and trusting God to protect them was what had gotten her into this bind to begin with. She refused to believe she'd been given the ability to foresee events only to sit back and do nothing about them.

When shortly after her alarming vision a band of wandering Rom arrived in the village of Balanoch, Besseta struck upon a solution.

It took time to barter with the proper people; although proper was hardly a word she'd use to describe the people with whom she was forced to deal. Besseta might read yew sticks, but simple scrying paled in comparison to the practices of the wild gypsies who wandered the Highlands, selling spells and enchantments cheek by jowl with their more-ordinary wares. Worse still, she'd had to steal Nevin's precious gold-leafed Bible, which he used only on the holiest of days, to trade for the services she purchased, and when he discovered the loss come Yuletide he would be heartbroken.

But he would be alive, by the yew!

Although Besseta suffered many sleepless nights over her decision, she knew her sticks had never failed her. If she didn't do something to prevent it, Drustan MacKeltar would take a wife and that woman would kill her son. That much her sticks had made dear. If her sticks had told her more—mayhap how the woman would do it, when, or why—she might not have been seized by such desperation. How would she survive if Nevin were gone? Who would succor an old and useless woman? Alone, the great yawning darkness with its great greedy maw would swallow her whole. She had no choice but to get rid of Drustan MacKeltar.