The night was shrouded in black mist when Vincent cleared away a patch of nettles and spread his plaid behind a granite boulder on the bank of a fast-running stream. There he stretched out to sleep, removing only his heavy boots. Bunching one end of the plaid under his head, he closed his eyes, listening to the soft sound of rushing water as the stream laced between mossy stones. Insects scratched among the rocks, making their own tiny music. Some distance away, beyond a tangle of wild gooseberry bushes, Phemie snored with her head on a saddle, while Lady Catherine took the first watch, as she liked to do.

He drifted into sleep, and into a dream ... he was sailing through clouds on a winged horse, but its wings were green leaves... 'I'll go on, I won't go back,' the horse insisted...

A sudden noise woke him and he sat up, a growl already rumbling in his chest. Something was huddled beside the stream. It was Lady Catherine, looking like a ghost despite her dark clothing.

"I'm ill," she whispered. "Don't wake Phemie."

Panic kicked him in the chest. He knelt beside her on the stream bank, saying quietly, "I'll hold you." One strong arm circled her shoulder, his other hand pressed her forehead.

Her body convulsed and she retched violently. Only his support kept her from topping forward. "I hate this. It's so humiliating."

He didn't answer, but cupped water in his palm and bathed her hot face.

"That feels better," she murmured, but a moment later another convulsion bent her double. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, feeling hollow and weak.

Again he cupped water in his hand, saying, "Sip this and rinse your mouth." She sipped from his palm and spit into the reeds, grimacing as she did so.

Once again shaken by gagging, she muttered, "I'm sorry."

"You needn't be sorry." His voice was calm and so reassuring that she smiled faintly.

"Are you a healer?" she asked in jest.

"No, only a friend." He tore the cuff from his sleeve, dipped it in the stream and handed it to her. She sat back on her heels and wiped her face and neck.

"Phemie worries so. In the morning, please don't tell her."

She seemed to be recovering, but he watched her with deep anxiety, kept his voice calm. "Are you better?"

"Oh yes," she assured him, and got to her feet. "I must have eaten a handful of unripe berries. I never could resist them."

He rose too, bringing his plaid with him, and unfurled it under a wind-twisted beech whose leaves sounded like rain.

"I will take the first watch," he said. "The night wind is cold, this will warm you."

She protested. "If you insist, I will rest; but I won't accept your plaid."

He spoke almost roughly. "If you refuse it, I'll throw it over the cliff. While we have this, we have it together. When it's gone, we'll go without it together."

"You trap me with my own sentiments," she said, smiling. "Just this once, then."

She stretched out on the plaid and he folded the other end around her like a blanket, tucking it over her shoulders. Only the oval of her pale face showed against the dark woolen fabric.

He sat on the ground, put his back against the tree, and stretched his long legs out. There would be other nights to sleep. On this night, he would keep watch.

She snuggled deeper and murmured, "Since fleeing Ambermere I've learned to be grateful for a steady hand to hold and a steady heart to trust. You are becoming a good friend to me."

"Shhh... sleep now."

All was quiet, except for the stiff rustling of leaves and the bubble of water. Vincent leaned back against the tree trunk, perfectly content. He had been dreaming, he remembered now, something about freedom and wings of leaves. This night of quiet watchfulness was better than dreaming. She had faith in him, had come to him for help when she felt ill. She was trusting him now, allowing him to stay near while she slept. She had called him her friend.

In the quiet hours that passed, he thought about the woman who slept peacefully only an arm's length away. There was no deceit in her; emotions brightened and clouded her eyes like smoke on a breeze. She had a quicksilver intuition that saw through all falsity.

One small hand pillowed her cheek under a silken drift of hair that escaped from her braids. There was something spiritual and very tender in her expression. Her lips seemed to kiss each other in very sweetness. She seemed to be in tune with all the fresh things of nature; the flash of a bluebird's wing, the new moon's wistful crescent grace.

He rose and circled the campsite, for his thoughts were getting away from him. 'If I spoke with her she would never deceive me; if I depended on her she would never deny me. If I trusted her she would never betray me. If I remembered her she would never forget me.'

When he returned and stood again by the beech tree, he allowed himself to glance at her sleeping face. She stirred and sighed: awareness of her caught in his throat with a thought he hardly dared to form: 'If I cared for her she would never mock me.'
She sighed again, and her expression tightened into a frown. Caught in the grip of a nightmare, she twisted restlessly, muttering,"No, Uncle." Afraid of waking her, Vincent knelt and gently stroked her hair, brushing it back from her forehead. At once her frightened murmuring ceased, and she sank into peaceful rest.

Vincent's expression changed: the look in his eyes, no living person had ever seen. In that look, his whole heart, with its brave truthfulness, headlong loyalty, and awakening passions, was open before her. The urge to protect her was so strong that without thinking he moved a little nearer. Leaning over her, as if to shield her with his body, he thought that she must hear the beating of his heart. Until now he had never known how strong had become the power of the dream that possessed him. He was stricken powerless, blind and dizzy with a thousand new emotions.

She was his in these hours at least, in her need, in her solitude, in her jeopardy, in her flight. It was his arm alone that could shield her, his strength alone that could stand between Lady Catherine and her foes. In all the width of the world there was no one to fight for her and keep her safe except himself. In prosperity, many had crowded around her: in danger, he had no rival.

He wanted to bend lower and rest his face against her cloud of hair. Instead, he moved away a little and set his back against the tree once more. She was trusting him, and he would not betray that trust. She was near, and his whole life was transfigured: that was enough.

*

A sky of opalescent gray melted into the sea with tints of silver and pink. Mountains to the east were veiled in mist. Shielding her eyes, Lady Catherine spoke to Vincent, who was riding close by. "Bare blinding sunshine could never be as beautiful as a sky like this. How many colors of gray can you see -- pearl gray, dove-gray, dappled to the east, silver where the sun shines through."

He added, "And the gray of stone, like the granite rocks. And the sea reflects every hue and sets it rippling." He glanced at her and his brows lowered. "We should have waited a day before riding on. You look pale."

She shook her head briefly. It would take a great deal more than a handful of unripe berries to hold her back now. "I'm on fire with anticipation, thinking of the possibilities of adventures ahead." She swept an arm out, adding, "Chance lies before me, dangers lurk all around me, and expectancy sets my blood afire. There is something in me that wants to be doing, something strong and immense. I'm not going to wait for my happiness to come, I'm going to reach out and bring it to me, and maybe reach out and keep it from going away, too."

He guided his horse around a sandstone boulder, a rare thrust of rosy stone in a wilderness of gray. "Your courage will keep you safe, my lady. If in doubt, remember the war cry of the clan, 'Buaidh no Bàs,' Victory or Death."

Her smile flashed up. "Do you know ours? No Retreat, No Surrender!" She leaned from the saddle to speak to him quietly: his sense of a shared secret thrilled through him, though she only said lightly, "Still, I do thank you for the use of your plaid last night. I'm grateful I have you for a companion." She had awakened to find him still standing guard. He hadn't awakened Phemie, but had kept watch all night alone.

He looked out to sea, unwilling for her to see the hope that he could no longer suppress. She had so much to give, to Lord Alistair, or... to someone, if it happened that she did not care for Alistair after all. Rank and title might mean less to her than having a true friend.

He told himself that would be enough. To hope for more was difficult, even painful, like the opening of a dungeon door that had been sealed shut. How wildly he was hoping he would not admit even to himself. The voices behind that door were screaming in a language understood only by his body.

His answer was so low that she did not hear it. "Yes. Whatever happens, you have me."

The clouds turned to iron; at last rain began to spill from a sky that had been churning all day. Near an outcrop of stone they halted: Lady Catherine slipped easily to the ground: Vincent leaped from the horse's back.

"There is shelter under the outcropping," he said; and they ran for shelter.

It was dry there, though rain curtained the ledge above. Within the narrow shelter she seemed to huddle nearer, as if they were the only two people who existed on the earth. He stood so close to her that his soul caught alight.

"Why do you smile?" she asked.

"Absolute, complete, and utter happiness," he answered.

Her voice lowered to a whisper; he bent to hear it. "Before Phemie interrupts us, there is something I want to ask you. I couldn't ask anyone else, but I feel I know you, Vincent." She put a confiding hand on his arm.

The question in her eyes was answered in his own body with beats of living blood. He choked back wild words: 'You alone on earth know who I am. No one knows me like one, just one hand of yours.'

Her questions tumbled out. "You are a trusted messenger of Lord Alistair, I know. Tell me, I beg you, for I am longing to hear. What sort of man is he? As our lives are to be joined, I ask you to tell me truthfully -- is he brave -- gallant --chivalrous?"

The truth of his future rushed back upon him with a force that staggered him. He felt her eyes looking at him, asking and giving both at once, and he found it necessary to pull himself together with a strong effort. There was a tightness in his throat as he answered, "Lord Alistair is all those things. Brave -- he fought back half a dozen Norsemen to allow a woman to escape into the castle. Gallant -- the bards and poets sing praises of him. Chivalrous -- the woman he rescued was Norse herself, fleeing to him for protection."

The radiance that shone in her face hurt him in some secret part of himself.

She said, "When I am the Lady of Raven's Rock, ask of me what you will, Vincent. For your kindness and protection, I am most grateful."

Phemie ducked under the ledge then; he walked out alone into the rain. As he walked, he crossed his arms, holding himself in, and wondered whether he lived or dreamed. Though not intentionally cruel, her words had fallen on him with crushing, sickening force. He knew once again that his future was without hope -- that he was a captive of his fate as surely as any prisoner locked away in darkness, silence, and solitude.

He reminded himself that he had no claim, no hold on her. It was true; but there was no escape from the desolation that seized him.

"I'm a fool," he said, half out loud. He knew it was useless to try to rebuild the inner barriers that had kept pain away from him.

When she took his enormous furred hands within her own, and blessed them, those walls had crumbled forever. As he strode on blindly through the rain, he spoke once more. "I have seen her. I have spoken to her. I have known her touch. Whatever happens, I've had this."

*

The beach sand was so soft that they dismounted and led their horses. The evening tide was out: shells of pink and cream scattered the sand between tidepools thick with seaweed. A sun like a coin of gold was sinking in the sea.

Though he never failed in courtesy, Vincent kept his distance, grieving Lady Catherine with his silence. The companionship forged over the past days was broken: he had withdrawn back into himself.

She glanced at his profile, which was stern and remote. This was not the companion with whom she had shared danger and hardship. This man was a stranger.

'I hoped for a friend,' she thought sadly. 'But he is remembering our ranks of life -- soon I shall be the mistress of the castle, and he will be once again a servingman of Lord Alistair.'

Thoughts of her high station did not console her, somehow. She would be a stranger in Raven's Rock, without anyone's hand to guide her.

She had her own pride, and knew her position was far above Vincent's; but for the sake of all they had gone through together she laid her superior rank aside. Feeling oddly timid, she began, "In a better world that was based on truth rather than delusion, differences of station would not be an obstacle to friendship. Could we not make a beginning toward that better world?"

The offer was meant kindly, he knew; but it was an illusion, like the splash of colors on the horizon. She imagined that when she was the Lady of Raven's Rock, he would be occupied with his duties in the castle. She did not realize that their two worlds would never touch again.

He was angry with himself, and it made his voice harsh. "A little farther, and we shall come to a harbor where Norse fishermen moor their small boats. If fortune is with you, my lady, this very night you will be safe in Raven's Rock."

"Ah!"

He heard the small sound, and clenched his fist until the sharp nails stung his palm. To her it meant all happiness, to him the end of all.

And yet Lady Catherine did not seem happy. Her light step slowed, and her voice became so low that he could barely hear it over the roar of the tide. "Do you -- do you think' Lord Alistair will feel it is unmaidenly of me to fly to him in such a way? What do you feel, Vincent?"

He stared blindly out over the ocean and said, "I know Lord Alistair very well indeed. He will honor your courage as I do. As I told you, he is noble, courageous, and chivalrous. He will give his whole heart to you, as... as he is pledged to do."

"You know him very well," she echoed, wondering at his averted face and rough tone of voice. "You have been his servingman for a good many years?"

The change in his face startled her. He seemed to be bracing himself to bear pain. "My lady, I am not..." He choked and lost his voice. There was something the two women had to be told, but he could not speak the words. Lady Catherine was walking beside him; her head came only to his shoulder. A wave of protective instinct swept over him -- she was so young, and had known so little happiness. Every dream she had treasured in her secret thoughts was bound up with Raven's Rock. It was so important that she achieve her heart's desire at last.

His stride lengthened and soon he was far ahead of the two women. After a time he realized that he could not elude the truth forever, and halted, staring out to sea.

When they at last caught up with him, Lady Catherine saw with concern that he held himself as rigidly as a sentry.

She said, "You guard a secret, Vincent; I do not ask to know it. Keep it safe in your own heart -- and keep my trust there, too."

Her words were kind -- more than kind -- but there was no reprieve from the truth. Already he had postponed it too long; whether to avoid giving pain to her or to himself, he could not say. She had to be told. "My lady, I…"

She interrupted with a gesture. "Tell me nothing against yourself, for I will not believe anything to your discredit, even if the tale comes from you."

Every word she spoke was a knife in him. He grated, "I am not Lord Alistair's servingman."

He was torn by indecision, she knew, but she could not help except by listening quietly, ready to accept the revelation that was causing him so much pain to impart.

Without looking at her, he forced the words out one by one. "You have to know the truth. I am Lord Alistair's brother."

"Gracious powers!" shrieked Phemie, and crossed herself devoutly. "There are more of ye? Do ye no feel black burnin' shame to deceive her in such a way? God save my lady-lass from such an evil bargain!"

Though he stood in the open, he had the look of a man backed against a cliff, with a ring of swordpoints at his throat. "I entreat you not to be alarmed, my lady. I am the only one of my clansfolk to be so stricken. Lord Alistair does not resemble me in any way whatsoever."

She thought deeply as she stroked her horse's neck. Her thoughts dwelt not on Lord Alistair, but on Vincent. In the past days she had come to realize that everything she said and did affected him, as if their souls were strings of the same harp, vibrating in sympathetic harmony. There were depths of pain in him she could not fathom -- she sensed one of those depths now. Her quick intuition told her that she had the power to wound him almost mortally.

At last she said, "I would be very sorry if that were true, Vincent. I pray with all my heart that Lord Alistair Eoghain na h-Oitrich possesses the nobility and courage and chivalry of his younger brother."

He was so touched that tears blurred his eyes. A gasp of horror, a cry of disgust, would have finished him. He could not speak, but he could look at her, and she saw in his eyes an infinity of gratefulness. She had saved his life with those simple words of kindness, as truly as she had saved him from the fire.

*

In companionable silence they walked the white beach. His expression when she glanced up was unreadable, but the strain and distance had lessened. Their souls had touched, and she hoped again that they would remain friends when the journey ended.
Night sifted in; Vincent halted and pointed far out to sea. "Look for that one red star, and just below it a dark speck of land on the horizon. That is Fraoch Eilean, the Heathery Isle."

"Almost home," Lady Catherine breathed. "Journey's end."

Phemie, tramping along behind, muttered, "Maybe. But every may be has a may not be." She caught the sleeve of her mistress and hissed, "I havena a doubt there's a whole tribe o' them on that island, half man, half wild cat o' the woods. They'll rue theday they played ye this trick, or my name is no Euphemia-mc-Muintircasduff."

Lady Catherine spoke quietly so that Vincent would not hear. "If Lord Alistair intended trickery, he would have concealed Vincent, not sent him to meet us. My lord means to have no secrets from me, and I honor him even more deeply for that honesty."

A jut of stone narrowed the beach; beyond it, half a dozen single-masted fishing boats rode at anchor. Their square sails identified them as Norse. She remembered that when they were not pillaging, the raiders fished and traded amicably, and even settled their families into farming villages. It seemed so odd that such ferocious marauders could have a peaceful side. Then she glanced at Vincent, and decided perhaps it was not so odd.

One warrior stood with his back to them, guarding the boats. Metal cones like horns jutted from his helmet, and he carried a double-headed axe.

She felt Vincent grow tense beside her, and knew he was readying himself for a struggle. She whispered, "Don't kill him."

As always, every part of himself reacted to her words. Little by little, the tension shuddered out of him. He gestured for the two women to remain behind. Soundlessly he climbed the rock, crouched, and leaped. The collision hurled the warrior face down in the sand, with Vincent on top of him. A strong arm locked around the man's neck, cutting off his air. Madly he plucked at the arm that was strangling him. The sounds he made were ghastly.

"Follow me," murmured Lady Catherine to Phemie. "We'll leave the three horses here -- perhaps that will repay them for the boat."

"Ah, no," whispered Phemie, struck to the heart. "No Donnchadh - you wouldna part me from the Brown Warrior!"

"Now!" Lady Catherine waded through the shallows and leaped lightly into the wooden fishing boat. Weeping, Phemie embraced the neck of her pony and followed, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

Vincent glanced up, then released the half-throttled warrior, who sprawled face down in the sand. As he ran toward the boat he whirled the battleaxe over his head and threw it into the ocean.

The boat was slim, clinker-built, and reeked of fish. Vincent touched warily the four ropes that controlled the furled sail.

"Have you sailed before?" she asked him.

"No," he admitted. "But we have come this far -- perhaps destiny will watch over us one more time."

"Oh! I'll manage that fine," exclaimed Phemie. "My father was one o' the independent, wouldna-be-beholdin' to nobody kind o' fishermen, an' wouldna let anybody but us do a hand's turn in his boat." She took one last mournful look at her shaggy pony, heaved a sigh, and then took charge. She pulled up the anchor and took the helm, and the small boat was free, moving sluggishly in the swells. Vincent and Lady Catherine settled themselves to the oars.

"Give way, together!" Phemie called. The boat turned and began to roll out into the sea. A little later she shouted, "Raise the sail!" Her two crewmen hesitated, unsure of what to do, and so she worked the rigging herself, grumbling all the while. The diamond patterns on the sail filled out and caught the wind.