Page 24 of Highland Spy

“I dinna. He’s lyin’.” Caleb scowled at his friend.

“There ye are,” came the booming voice of the clan’s chieftain, Storm. “I told Wren there was nothin’ to worry about, but she insisted I send the boys out to find ye since there was bad weather.”

“Welcome,” called out his wife, Wren, running to keep up with his long stride. “Bridget and Brigham, I am so glad you made it here before King Robert since he requested you record the competition in the Highland Chronicles.”

“We wouldna miss this for anythin’, Lady Wren,” said Bridget, stopping her horse. Like always, Caleb was right there to help her dismount.

“The king will be here soon, and there are still a lot of preparations to be made,” Storm told them. “Men, I am hopin’ ye will all pitch in, gettin’ the practice field ready for the events.”

“Of course,” said Logan. “We’d be happy to. Wouldna we, Caleb?”

“Aye, sure,” he said, seeming very distracted.

“Bridget, you and your father will be staying in the chamber right down from the great hall,” said Wren. “I thought it would be nice to be close to the great hall where there is always something going on. I’m sure you’ll want to start recording happenings in the Highland Chronicles right away.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, wondering how she was going to keep her father’s secret with so many people constantly watching. It wasn’t going to be easy. He’d been quiet this morning, but she still needed to talk to him and make sure he wasn’t having another memory lapse or talking nonsense again. This made her very nervous. Especially since the king would be here soon and they would be under his perusal at all times. “But if ye dinna mind, we are tired from our journey. We’d like to clean up and rest a bit first.”

“By all means,” said Wren. “I’m sorry for being so rude and not even considering how you feel. Let me show you to your room.”

“Faither, I had no idea there would be so many people here,” said Bridget as they unloaded their things into their chamber. “I’m afraid it is goin’ to be hard to keep our secret under the perusal of so many eyes.”

“Aye, ye’re right.” Brigham sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his hand. “I’m barely able to hold the quill anymore when I pretend to be writin’ in the chronicles.”

“Oh, about that. Ye may want to hold it in yer left hand.”

“But I canna write with my left hand,” he protested.

“What difference does it make?” she asked. “Ye are no’ really writin’ anythin’ anyway. Ye are only pretendin’ to write for show. I fill the pages in later.”

“Bridget, I’m afraid somethin’ is happenin’ to me and it scares me. I canna control it, but sometimes I feel as if I am goin’ mad.”

Bridget slowly put down her things and wandered over to the bed. She sat next to her father, covering his hand with hers.

“I ken,” she told him. “It is part of yer illness, I suppose. However, since it seems to come and go, it gives me hope that ye can be cured. I am goin’ to find a healer while we are here at the castle and see if there are some herbs ye can take to help ward off the effects.”

“Nay. No one can hear about this, it’s too risky.” He pulled his hand away and got to his feet and started to pace the floor. “The king is comin’, too. That will only make things more difficult.” He turned and looked at her with glassy eyes. “Bridget, I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake by deceivin’ the king these past few years. But I was only thinkin’ of yer welfare, I swear. I wanted to provide ye with a guid life. A man who canna fight has no chance to succeed. Bein’ chronicler was my only hope. But I dinna think I can do it anymore.”

“It’ll be all right,” she told him, trying to believe it was true.

“I’ll be hanged if the king finds out our secret. I dinna fear for my life. I am an auld man and my days are comin’ to an end either way. But I fear for what might happen to ye.”

“Nothin’ is goin’ to happen. To either of us,” she said, getting up and walking over to him, putting her arm around his shoulders. “We’ll just keep doin’ what we’ve been doin’. With so much goin’ on, no one will pay any mind to us at all.”

“I hope ye’re right,” he said, worry showing on his face. He put his hand to his head and moaned.

“What’s the matter, Da?” she asked in concern.

“It’s just an ache in my head. It’ll pass. It always does.”

“Mayhap ye should lay down and rest.”

“No’ yet,” he told her. “We need to make an appearance in the great hall or out on the practice field. Do ye have the chronicles and the fake bottle of ink?”

“Aye, I have it right here.” She hurried over to her bag, pulling out the book along with the quill and the bottle of real ink. “I’ll write some things in here about what we saw on our way in. Then you pretend to scribble them down in front of everyone. Just open the book to the page with the cloth marker in it.” When she flipped the pages to find the one with the cloth marker, she was surprised to see something already written there. “Da, did ye really write somethin’ in here?”

“Nay, of course no’,” he answered. “Bridget, ye ken that I canna see well enough anymore to write, nor can I properly grasp the quill. Ye are the only one who ever writes in that book.”

At first, she thought her father was truly going mad. That is, until she read the passage and gasped. Her jaw dropped open to read about Caleb’s rock-hard muscles and the way he protected simpering, helpless lassies from stupid things like the weather.