Page 7
“Welcome hame, Farquhar, welcome,” the words of greeting accompanied outstretched hands, and judging by the vigour of their clasps, Magnus and Abelard, the men he’d left in charge still saw him as the laird of Dun Bhuird.
Whether or not his wife did was a different kettle of fish.
The two older men had waited inside the palisade to greet him the moment the huge double gates swung wide then were fastened against log towers the height of four men. He measured with his eyes. Not high enough. Tall they may be, but these wooden walls would have to be removed after the stone curtain wall was constructed—part of his plans the future.
All well and good, for the now.
Here he was, finally—Chieftain, by the king’s command—yet nobody cheered. Nobody smiled. The glances cast his way were not quite disappointment, more bewilderment that he was actually alive. The wagons filled to the brim with iron-bound chests were looked upon more favourably—a mix of speculation and avarice.
He raised his gaze to the high rim, but of Kathryn there was no sign.
If her aim had been true, what then?
War? Anarchy?
If that had occurred and he survived? God’s blood, even if he had died, the king would have had his hide. Gavyn drew a breath up the length of his nose, sharpened it with the narrowing of his nostrils until its force made his eyes water.
Did his men still envy him? The impudent scoundrels among them men had jested back and forth about the woman waiting in his bed. Though they chuckled behind his back, they well aware that speculating might be the nearest they came to a woman of their own.
Gavyn had always known Kathryn for wilful, and that hadn’t changed. A less patient, less careful man might have reclaimed his power with a heavy hand. Fine, if what he wanted was a sullen wife in his bed. Or if what he desired was a woman more likely to slide a dirk between his ribs than pucker her lips for a kiss. Nae, he left that sort of risk to fools who had never imagined fitting between her white thighs, never coveted that long tight thrust into the warmth he’d thought of often over two celibate years.
For that reason and no other, he had yet to lay eyes on Kathryn since they arrived, preferring to send his young wife instructions by Abelard’s hand of the duties he expected from the woman he had married. He could easily picture the expression on her face when she received them. It wouldn’t be happy. However, the second-hand delivery was no less than she deserved after her demonstration as she looked down on him from the Dun’s rim.
He had taken good note that both his deputy and seneschal had aged considerably since he left, and that Magnus was hampered by a limp he was attempting to hide. No wonder his wife had felt able to turn her mind to men’s affairs, take the reins of Dun Bhuird into her own white hands.
Meanwhile in the darkness of a tunnel hewn aeons ago from the hard rock lying beneath the mountain, Gavyn personally directed the caching of his bounty—a bigger treasure than any Comlyn clansman had ever seen or was likely to see. No mercenary, no lieutenant, not even the man who stood in place to take over should anything happen to him, knew the true value of the proceeds of their journey to France—a sum that few but the king of Scotland himself had ever beheld, and he still would be, even after his men received their share.
“Dolt! Have a care.”
Gavyn swung around as one of his lieutenants rebuked the men tasked with easing the last of the chests down wooden planks into a tapered cavern. His eyes narrowed as he recognised them as a pair of those who had viewed their compatriot’s deaths in terms of more silver in their own hands.
But the lieutenant wasn’t done with them. “Any lessening of value through your carelessness will lighten your purses.”
“It was a mistake. We’re tired,” said one. “And hungry,” moaned the other.
“You’ll feel worse afore it gets better.” The lieutenant told them. “Slide down the last chest; then, when the oxen are led away, clean up every last skerrick of their droppings. It stinks in here.”
“And do it well,” Gavyn added his might to their discomfort. Their faces crumpled, part exhaustion, the rest from being caught out by the laird—a notion which made Gavyn’s lips curve, realising that at last he thought of himself as the Laird. Slanting his glance away from the men on the wagon towards the lieutenant, he issued an order, “Make sure those idiots wash afore they come up to the hall to sup. There will be no feasting in the hall this e’en for any lout smelling like shit nor any boasting about what is hidden here unless you’ve a mind to receive less than your due.”
The rest of their tasks progressed apace under Gavyn’s watchful eyes. Over his years in the King’s service, Gavyn had learned to be a canny soul, aware that the less said about something such as the fortune he had secured beneath Dun Bhuird the better.
He had no use for the aggravation that flaunting a huge amount of silver under King Malcolm’s nose was bound to bring. No need to give Canmore any reason to question Gavyn’s ambitions. He was loyal to Malcolm Canmore; truth be known he was grateful, and would do as the king expected—protect the lands south of the Highlands from the Norsemen who had long claimed Caithness and Orkney as their own.
The King’s armies cost a ransom, such as the one he’d hidden away to keep them marching, but his silver would serve a more practical purpose—to afford a curtain wall and, with God’s help, a tower next to the long hall astride the rim and, mayhap, another kind of barrier—solid gates—on the rise up to the Dun. To that end, he had sent the King the more exquisite pieces from their haul. Fancy jewelled and carved statuary taken from men who had stolen them in lands on the far side of the Mediterranean. Aye, he’d sent yon bits and pieces made by Moorish artisans containing less silver and more art.
Apart from his young wife’s audacity, everything had gone to plan. Orders he had given Abelard for a safe place had been carried out, and strong doors built to hide all the chests—more than even he had anticipated—and all would be bound in iron and sealed with padlocks he had acquired from Saxony. He had no intention of making stealing from him an easy task.
For years he’d had a position many envied. Gavyn and his men had performed duties for Malcolm that the king would rather not become common knowledge. Dun Bhuird was his reward—a mountain stronghold and a wife. Neither had come with enough silver to fix the problems he had immediately perceived on the day of his first visit to Dun Bhuird. Never one to put aside problems, he had realised that quickest solution to his difficulties was to be found in fighting for Phillip the First of France in the tug-o-war over who should own the strip of land by the Seine called the Vexin—the Franks, or the Normans.
He had gone at it with a will.
Aye, one of the requisites needed by a leader of men was confidence and foresight.
Gavyn had those in abundance as well as—inexplicably—optimism.
A faculty he would need this night.
He remembered one convivial evening when the king had confided, “A wise man marries to gain power and, if he’s lucky, he’ll also find a wife who makes his rod stand at the slightest provocation.”
The proof of his king’s insight was part of history. He had fought and killed his cousin Macbeth in single combat and soon afterwards taken his opponent’s Lady to wife. Aye, her family had had as much right to rule as Canmore’s—power by the barrelful. The kingdom of Fife had been a grand prize. As for Margaret, his second wife, the observant Raven in Gavyn had always thought the King’s second alliance had love at its core.
Kathryn, on the other hand, had brought him the power and land amassed by Erik the Bear during his years as head of Clan Comlyn and, through her, Gavyn had gained more than just authority, for it was true his young wife made his cock harden in an insistent manner. As for love, it wasn’t for the likes of him.
For a man called the Raven.
Candles flickered in tall holders set either side of the hearth where a low fire burned ready to be stirred up once Farquhar arrived. Even so, the chamber was dark, hung with tapestries her father had acquired the way he had obtained many of the beautiful things in the apartment, death and plunder.
In that, her husband wasn’t so different from the Bear—but only in that.
She had heard early on, through Brodwyn’s gleeful aegis, that her husband wasn’t truly a Scot. Did that explain his treatment of her a few hours after their wedding? Or had it been her refusal to bed a stranger, husband not withstanding? Not much had changed except her notion of how her dearest wish might be achieved. It had become clear that, being a woman, her power was a transient thing, hers only through her husband’s favour.
Until he had returned, Kathryn’s outlook had been ever hopeful; now, because of her actions on the rim, despondent was a better word for it.
How could she ever succeed in making him love her now?
Last surviving offspring of Erik Comlyn, mayhap, yet her only value was as a wife.
As if in tune with her thoughts, outside the wind rose. She heard it ruffle in and out of the carved buttresses that supported the roof’s overhang, though it surprised her when it whooped and howled sending a swirl of smoke and sparks onto the stone hearth.
An omen? Unlikely.
She refused to imbue her husband with that kind of power.
A spark leapt out of the fire, darted cross the stone flags to land on the fur rug she had spread there for her own comfort. She stamped it out with quick flash of anger, then drew a slow breath, aware this had best be her last show of temper. She picked up the rug and shook it out in case any heat lingered, wondering what comfort would there be for her now.
Her feelings locked deep inside, she supervised the men tipping pails of water into the large wooden tub. Drifts of steam caressed the water’s surface, much like the mists that would tumble down the mountainside onto the lochan in autumn; but that season was months away. God willing, her husband would have forgiven her by then.
Gavyn could be here within minutes, and already she wished him gone from this place where he’d disparaged her—where they had disparaged each other. Her eyes glanced towards the entrance to her chamber more often than she would have wished. The Chieftain’s apartments were the largest private space in the hall. Her father had been a giant of a man, and whilst he’d occupied the apartment, it hadn’t seemed enormous the way it did with only Brodwyn sharing it with her.
Somehow, after two long years, she still couldn’t stop remembering how small, how intimate it had felt with only her and Gavyn in it together—so small she could hardly breathe, remembering.
The curt message Abelard had delivered from her husband echoed in her ears as she watched the level of the water rise towards the tub’s rim and pondered the circumstances that made it possible to be caught betwixt two such contradictory emotions: antagonism and apprehension.
With a fingertip, Lhilidh tested that the water was hot, as the Laird had requested—ordered—instead of drawn straight from the ice cold well, which might have cooled his temper. Her every move was delicate, pretty, and for that reason Kathryn had kept her close by, aye and untouched. After Geala had spilled her secrets this morning, Kathryn had felt a sudden surge of optimism, been glad of it. Glad to look on Lhilidh as the wee sister she’d never had. Glad to no longer feel so alone.
She laid a hand on the young lass’s the arm to attract her attention, leaning close to murmur, “Best fetch out a few of yon linen cloths laid by in the auld wooden kist. The laird’s a big man and he’ll expect more than one length to dry himself.” As she looked toward the kist, a stray thought brought a smile to her lips. “And when yer done, Lhilidh, have someone bundle up Brodwyn’s things and move her bedding into the hall.”
Kathryn heard a gurgle of laughter escape Lhilidh’s mouth. “Tis nae surprise that she has escaped moving it herself. That besom likes to pretend she’s a lady, but I’m pleased ye nae longer have to put up with her presence.”
Young though she was, Lhilidh had gradually begun inserting herself between Kathryn and her cousin, as if to protect her mistress. Brodwyn, being older, oten thought it fell to her to point out how Kathryn should order the affairs of Dun Bhuird. “As a wee treat, Lhilidh, I’ll let you inform her where her bedding has gone.” They both grinned.
“My Maw was never taken in by her; she warned me about Brodwyn afore I moved into the hall to tend to ye. Mayhap, the Laird will show that one her rightful place and save us a lot of grief.” Lhilidh quirked a dark, arched eyebrow as she spoke. Usually Lhilidh never had anything but good to say about folk and always appeared happy, but then again, Lhilidh had no inkling of the real situation between her and Gavyn.
For two years, her husband had pretended she didn’t exist. And today, the best she could say about his return was that at least she could rid herself of Brodwyn’s company.
No matter. She hadn’t the time to take any pleasure in that, no’ when Farquhar might be upon them at any moment, so Kathryn ignored the thought and instead told Lhilidh, “I’m sorry to burden ye with all these extra tasks. As soon as we’re done I want you to go and make sure Geala’s all right and have her taken back home.”
“That’s kind of ye. I’ll be sure to tell Maw. I wonder if she’s heard about the all the gold and silver the Laird brought hame with him—a king’s ransom. They say he’s brought yon big ugly dogs wi’ him to guard it all.”
Lhilidh’s lips formed a sweet smile as if even big ugly dogs didn’t fash her. “They’ll be fierce, I’ll be bound. Something else he’ll have found in France for they’ve likely got all sorts of weird things o’er there. Even so, I’ll feel sorry for them chained up in the dark under the mountain.” Lhilidh chattered on, remarking on the news she had gathered out in the hall.
Striding through the great hall, he heard an inquisitive murmur rising from those preparing the feast meant to celebrate his return. At the far end of the hall, the Bear’s gold shield still hung and Gavyn wondered if it were his imagination that the last red rays of the setting sun were caught in its carvings, dancing like flames that spun off its surface to lick at huge beams supporting the roof. Too well he remembered the last time he’d watched Erik the Bear use the shield like a weapon. That had been the day Comlyn died.
He threw a swift glance over his shoulder and cast his eyes o’er the assembled maids and servants as the last flash of sunset blinked out, leaving naught but pitch-tipped torches to light the huge hall. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, to turn back in the direction of the Chieftain’s chamber, his heart thumping at the knowledge his wife awaited.
Of those going about their business, only a few brave souls nodded, recognising him with a “Guid e’en, Laird” that he appreciated as he walked with a measured stride.
Laird wasn’t a title he’d ever expected to wear—a name he’d seldom been called since leaving Bienn á Bhuird. The big surprise was how easily it fitted him, like a comfortable old robe that had grown into his shape. Not that the clansfolk were aware of the fact. With every fibre of his being, he could sense their eyes on his back as he neared the chieftain’s apartments. Practically every member of his household had seen Kathryn launch an arrow at him. Now they avidly awaited the outcome, and only a seer could predict what that might be.
For a man usually comfortable in his own skin, the knowledge that they speculated on tonight’s outcome merely served to make his tough hide shrink around his bones until every step felt like an effort. At the forefront of his mind, he had a notion they fancied seeing a battle royal played out between two strong-minded natures—by a man who had fought, won, and returned with a treasure beyond anything the clan had ever seen and a woman who, more than likely, believed herself the equal of any man. Folk who had a clear memory of her father, Erik the Bear, expected a hasty temper from her.
Gavyn had nae interest in satisfying their curiosity.
Whatever kind of tussle ensued between him and Kathryn it would take place in privacy, well behind the closed door of the chieftain’s apartments.
Kathryn’s chest tightened as out the corner of her eye she caught sight of a tall figure entering the chamber. A sigh escaped her at the shape of a pail he carried by his side—a sigh she felt rise through the soles of her feet to squeeze at her heart. It made her realise she was far from ready to face her recalcitrant husband naked.
She recalled that moment when she released the arrow, the feel of the bowstring vibrating as it grazed her cheek. She had known in that instant there would be a reckoning, that there would be no avoiding it, and that time was drawing close.
Lhilidh returned, her arms full of the rough lengths of linen Gavyn would use to dry off his big, tall, muscular, bare —Kathryn blinked away the image—something she had avoided thinking of since the day he had left her behind—left her a virgin—and led his men to the wilds of France.
Upon occasion she watched the maids flirt with the men, coy. Brodwyn was a mistress of the art. But not her. Not Kathryn Comlyn.
She had to be above such trivial concerns.
She’d had no other choice. Responsibilities. Aye, she had grasped them with both hands, relished the thought of holding the reins of Dun Bhuird. The sudden change from daughter into Lady of the house meant there had been no chance to learn to play.
After Astrid’s death, her father had taken one look at her and envisaged his youngest daughter as Astrid’s replacement. Even she, who had loved her father more than any living soul, had baulked at offering herself to the McArthur on the night of Astrid’s funeral. It wasn’t that she blamed him for rejecting her so soon after her sister’s tragic end. No. She blamed him for rejecting her because he’d already formed the intention of taking Morag Farquhar—Gavyn’s sister—to his bed.
Erik, her father, wasn’t a man to let sense get in the way of what he considered a rebuff. When he had arranged for Astrid and the McArthur to wed, he’d known of the curse, known of the disasters that had befallen the McArthur’s first two wives. However, it seemed the Bear had had plans for Cragenlaw and wasn’t about to let a little thing like a curse get in his road. He’d sacrificed Astrid and would have done the same to her. As head of the Comlyn clan, he had sent a priest with Astrid to see to her spiritual comforts, but Kathryn now knew the truth. Her father’s God hadn’t been found in a chapel. The deity Erik the Bear worshipped resided on a battlefield. Like all men, he’d revered power.
Aye, as her husband did, and had proved it by rushing off to France with a sword in his hand. Gavyn Farquhar was little different from her father. He’d told her that when she had son’s they would be Farquhars—another insult. Kathryn Comlyn had no reason to love that name. First she had been rejected for Morag, a Farquhar. Next, her father had arranged to marry her off in an alliance with Gavyn’s brother, Doughall, another one of them.
Brodwyn had taken great delight in telling the young, na?ve Kathryn what kind of man he had been. A catamite. To her father’s credit, he had done her the favour of killing the toad and saved her the trouble. It hadn’t taken long for Kathryn to be aware that the ill-favoured union would have come to the same end.
Fated, like her father and Doughal, to kill one another.
Her final, crushing rejection by that family had been on her wedding night.
Ach, so what did it matter if she’d rejected him first. She had been angry at losing everything she’d come to know and love and, worse yet, lost it all to a Farquhar.
Kathryn seldom made excuses for her actions, and only she was cognisant of the whole reason. Combine her anger with the truth of her mother dying before Kathryn had reached the age of puberty and it all made sense—to Kathryn. She had been left without another soul but Brodwyn to ask. Her cousin had whispered the unconceivable truths about men and women in Kathryn’s unguarded ear, with a warning that it wasn’t maidenly to appear eager to consummate the vows.
Vows made in front of a Bishop sent by the King.
Was it any wonder she had felt some trepidation when she’d been wed to Gavyn Farquhar by the King’s command, only to be rejected once again?