Page 8
Kathryn picked up the linens and straightened them in neat squares on the foot of the bed to transfer her thoughts from Gavyn and the night ahead of her.
She’d noticed that after helping her wash and change, Lhilidh had also changed the linen sheets on the bed. Her father had preferred wolf skins to sleep upon, and it had taken a muckle amount of them to cover the huge bed. That tradition wasn’t to her liking, except mayhap in the midst of winter when snow covered the mountains and icicles adorned the edges of the roofs.
She passed her palm over the linen cloths, stroking, smoothing, and immediately her mind sprang back to that second on the rim when she had let her arrow fly and, in the next moment, had wondered what her punishment would be.
The thought had barely formed when she lifted her gaze to her husband’s, felt his eyes burn into hers in a way that made her feel captured, unable to turn away. The scar that marred one side of his face was partially disguised by the roughly trimmed hair of a man who had tended to his self overlong, and the firm jaw she remembered hid behind a scraggly beard. No matter, naught could disguise the deep blue colour of his eyes or the heated gaze that travelled her person from top to toe.
Whilst she felt chained to the floor, Gavyn strode into the room like a predator—one of the mountain lynx mayhap—claiming its territory. Kathryn wasn’t the only person still as a statue. Lhilidh and the men carting the pails of water remained fixed in place, apart from the water that slopped o’er the pail’s edge at the sudden halt of movement.
All of them stared as he dipped the fingers of one hand into the tub. The water rippled and carried the reflection of the candles in widening rings of gold, but Gavyn was not a man interested in the little things that transformed a vision from dross into something precious and back again, simply saying, “That’ll do fine. Place one or two filled pails beside the tub for later, then leave.”
No one moved a muscle but every eye turned to her.
“Get out!” he barked and, though shadowed by his beard, his top lip curled.
His glance landed on Lhilidh whose reaction was to move closer to Kathryn’s side. An eloquent jerk of his head in the direction of the doorway would have been enough, but he added, “Aye that means you as well, bonnie lass. Your presence while I bathe is hardly necessary. A man with a wife capable of anything has no need of another’s help.”
So that was the way it was going to be?
“Hmmph,” she snorted, uncaring if her prodigal husband could hear. If Farquhar thought to hurt her with sarcasm, he could try. She had faced worse the first day she took his place at the high table to judge miscreants and settle disputes. That day she’d been a wee bit of a lassie, daring to meddle in men’s affairs.
They’d soon learned she wouldn’t be intimidated. Fear could roil in her belly, but she refused to be cowed or back down. Today their attitude had been the opposite. They hadn’t looked upon her as a mere woman, a wife; she’d been the head of the clan, if only a notional one.
“What happened to yon lad, your squire or whatever name they go by in France?” She bit out the words past the lump in her throat, as if all the ire she had felt on that long ago night when he’d wed her then rejected her had settled beneath her chin.
“The lad is what they call in France tres mort . Very dead. Slaughtered on the battlefield in a foreign land, and all for the sake of protecting Dun Bhuird.”
Her eyebrows rose, amazed at the daring of her servants as another two vessels of steaming water were set down on the floor beside a tub that had appeared huge before a scowling giant stood close by it. She might have known the blame for the Dun’s lack of defences would be hers, she thought, as the last straggle of water carriers’ eyes boggled in surprise as they scurried out of the chamber.
Kathryn wished someone would give her that option—a futile hope. For her there was no way out. Just as there was no answer to a statement like the one he had flung at her about the squire. To her ears, protecting the Dun had sounded like a pretext to go o’er the seas and spill blood. “I’ve nae doubt you enjoyed it none the less. Most men are born to fight, and a bit of blood probably adds to the thrill. I could see that part of your make-up the first time I laid eyes on you.”
The original notion that Dun Bhuird required mending had spilled from Gavyn’s mouth on her wedding day. As for herself, she had seen never seen the need. The Dun had stood solid, strong, through all the years of her father’s rule, as well as his father’s and his father’s father before him.
“Is that so? But what of women? What of the woman I saw on the rim dressed like a warrior? Shouldn’t she be better turning her hand to the welfare of her clansmen and concerning herself with housekeeping and the feeding of all the folk in Dun Bhuird?”
Deciding to place discretion before valour, she ignored Gavyn’s scorn and kept her voice pleasant, smooth as water in a still pool. Naught he said could hurt her, it simply floated for a moment then sank to the depths out of sight.
“You’ll be wanting a basin, and soap to shave with before climbing into the tub,” she said, hoping she sounded wifely. “It’s strange that the McArthurs didn’t offer you a wee skerrick of hot water and soap to clean yourself afore setting off for Dun Bhuird.”
“They did, and I refused. I felt the need to reach Dun Bhuird without delay.” His voice rumbled, a sound not unlike the noise of water tumbling at the foot of the waterfall as it scoured the gravel at its base—uneven, rough in a way that drowned out the calm she had been reaching for and pulled on her senses. She fought back. “Ach aye, I suppose you would have had the treasure to think on.”
She would swear a smile flickered on Gavyn’s mouth as he reached for her.
Kathryn looked down. The skin on the back of his hand glowed dark gold in the candlelight, as he stroked the blue weave of her kirtle o’er shoulder, breast, and hip, making her heart still and the breath leave her. “Wrong,” he said. “What drove me on was thoughts of my wife.” And as if nae other words were needed, he re-crossed the chamber and closed the iron bound door while she sought her next breath without avail.
At first glance, Dun Bhuird was just as Nhaimeth had left the place when Astrid took him to Cragenlaw. Arriving in the vanguard of Gavyn Farquhar’s mercenaries, he’d raised his eyes to the Dun and felt it glower down at him from the rim.
Around Nhaimeth, the mercenaries’ resentment growled and cursed at the form of Farquhar’s greeting. A bigger band of cutthroats he had yet to meet, yet all of them loyal to the man his half-sister Kathryn had wed—albeit with little choice in the matter. All these mercenaries ready to fight, to die … to get rich.
Though Nhaimeth was but half the size of a man, he had seen more, recognised more, knew more than anyone gave him credit for, and that knowledge told him not all of them followed Farquhar for the silver on the ox-drawn wagons. Among them were warriors who had who had staunchly followed Farquhar long afore he became a laird.
Inside the palisade, Nhaimeth cocked an ear and listened intently. It only wanted Erik the Bear’s bellow to echo off the ring of mountains and everything would seem normal.
Aye, but yon days were over for Nhaimeth. It was himself who’d changed. He had left Bienn á Bhuird a Fool—yin with bell and cap—and he had come back a man.
There was muckle difference—vast—frae capering around at Astrid’s heels to marching into the Great Hall accompanied by two lads twice as tall as he—lads who showed him respect and today had warmly welcomed being let into the secrets of the hall frae one who for most of his early life had scuttled around it, hiding in corners, trying no’ to be seen by the Bear.
Jamie had acted reluctant to join them at first—intimidated more like—for Dun Bhuird had that way about it, a darkness left behind by all yon men who had fought and died for the Dun. As if his ancestors, the Comlyns, would never leave nae matter who invaded its heights. In times past, they had gone to war with the Norse, Northumbrians and Angles, been a part of the Pictish clans until the McAlpine had gathered them into one nation and called them all Scots; and still they fought, mainly amongst themselves, had always done so until the day Erik Comlyn, through being throng, had lost everything he had cherished.
At least Nhaimeth hadn’t inherited that trait frae the man who had fathered him and cast him aside because he was misshapen.
“I’m sure the brute’s thrown a splint,” muttered Jamie, worrying about the mount he had ridden all the way frae Cragenlaw to Dun Bhuird.
Rob, the youngest of the three, grumbled at him, “Leave it be, Jamie. The groom will see to your horse. You have to stop trying to do every wee chore yourself. Act like the Chieftain of Clan Ruthven that you’re going to be one of these days.”
Nhaimeth could tell Rob was excited, that he hadnae wanted to be hanging about in the stables when he could be exploring. It didn’t seem so long ago since all three of them had watched the army Comlyn had gathered around him frae the battlements of Cragenlaw, had seen the lines of men march down the brae, half of them frae Dun Bhuird and the rest frae Wolfsdale, led by Gavyn Farquhar’s brother.
Families…
Sometimes Nhaimeth thought he was better off having been brought up by a woman who’d done it for the money … aye and for love of Erik the Bear.
Folk were scurrying around, making up boards and laying out chargers of baked bread to take the stew that would be served to the common folk. Nhaimeth was hungry enough to eat one of the oxen that had pulled the wagons, but that kind of feast took preparation. None the less, the ale would flow free to make up for that lack.
The three of them reached the gold-studded shield that Nhaimeth had last seen in the chapel at Cragenlaw as the man who had hated him for surviving his birth lay dying. ‘Twas the only time the Bear had spoken to him voluntarily, and then it was only to slap him down with Erik Comlyn’s version of the truth, which in nae way coincided with Nhaimeth’s memories. In Nhaimeth’s opinion, dying men facing the gates of heaven were likely to say anything to gain entry, make up any excuse. The Bear’s had been that by tossing Nhaimeth aside he had saved his life, and if he wanted to go on living he shouldn’t tell anyone who his father was. Thinking about himself to the last, about the shame of having fathered a dwarf.
As all three stood silently, each lost in thought, staring at the gigantic chair, the gold shield mounted behind its elaborate carvings. The irony of his position was not lost on Nhaimeth.
That chair should have been his by right of birth, of blood. The King handed it to Gavyn Farquhar, a man frae the borders and a Scot by choice rather than heritage, but then he wouldn’t be the first. Scotland had been invaded by all sorts of folk and had a way of gathering them into her borders and making them her own.
Nhaimeth was soon cognisant of Jamie’s meandering thoughts. Instead of being awed by the size of the shield and the strength it would take to wield its weight, his mind was on his mount. Jamie’s horse, Faraday, was a big chestnut with a likeable, almost sweet nature, until he faced a fight. Rob chuckled, uncaring that Jamie heard him. “ Daisy will be all right. Like you Jamie, there’s no’ many can resist her big brown eyes and long lashes.”
“God’s teeth, don’t call the brute that here amongst strangers. He’s a gelding and well able to take care of me on the field of battle … aye and you as well, if my memory serves me right.” Jamie cast the insult back at him with a smirk, alluding to a day when Faraday had struck down a cateran with one of his big pale-feathered hooves before the outlaw could lay Rob low with a spear.
Jamie and Rob’s days at Cragenlaw had been well spent. The McArthur had taught them both to survive, Nhaimeth an’ all. His short stature should have been a hindrance, but Euan McArthur had shown them ways to make the best of what they had together and turned it into an advantage. ‘Warcraft’ the McArthur called the games and exercises he’d had them practice. Nhaimeth had nae doubt that one day they would all be thankful for the lessons to keep each other safe.
Nhaimeth looked at the shield for a moment longer then turned away. That was the past. His future had done an about face since he left Dun Bhuird for Cragenlaw.
A moment later a voice from that self-same past called his name.
He heard, “Nhaimeth,” said soft with surprise, a whisper he recognised and turned his head.
“Nhaimeth,” Lhilidh repeated. “Is that truly you?” She approached them, her step light, her smile delighted.
Ach, how the lass had grown, not what one would call tall, yet she topped him by head and shoulders. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Four and a bit years ago, he’d left Dun Bhuird in Astrid’s cortège, a Fool with bells a-jingle, believing himself lucky to have at least that—to be alive and away frae his ferocious father, to whom, contrarily, death was a way of life.
He’d hated the man then and, dead or not, he hated him still.
As Lhilidh reached him, she bent her head to buss him on the cheek. “Welcome home, wee brother. I’d thought never to see ye again. It’s like a miracle.”
He felt his face redden, surprised by the flush of heat that rushed into inappropriate places. Lhilidh’s mother had been his wet nurse, feeding two bairns at once with her ample bosoms—both him and his aulder half-brother Murdoch—sons of Erik Comlyn but only one, by his true wife. He supposed he’d been lucky that Geala had shown a fondness for him because of his father, though not as much as she’d shown her lover’s son.
Lhilidh had always been like a sister to Nhaimeth, though not by any means blood kin. Now, as she bent close, he could smell her sweet perfume as she kissed his cheek, reminding him she wasn’t his sister and that he was more than a dwarf, he was a man.
Nhaimeth quickly tamped desire back where it had come from. He’d been taught since a child that such things as love and marriage were not for him. Geala and Astrid had reminded him of the fact often enough, and for years he’d never had ambitions to be more than the plaything, the toy, Astrid had made him. His three-and-a-half years of friendship with Rob had shown he could be more, have more.
But never that.
Lhilidh straightened, looked at the other lads then back at him, expectantly. And who could blame her? Rob and Jamie, they were everything a bonnie lass could hope for, but she wasn’t for them. A lot was expected of the sons of Chieftains like McArthur and Ruthven, and marrying a serving maid wasn’t the future their fathers had planned for them. No, like Comlyn, the other two would be keeping their eyes peeled for a daughter of some Laird they could come to terms with, to form an alliance.
By the looks in their eyes, neither Rob nor Jamie was keeping that in mind, and he didn’t blame them. Friendship or not, he would keep a weather eye on them and make certain Lhilidh didn’t get hurt.
Lhilidh had an innocence that shone like one of yon beacons that had been lit to signal their arrival at Dun Bhuird. He knew for a fact that the other lads had nae real knowledge of where a bonnie lass, a lad and a flirtation could lead to. They kept nae secrets where that was concerned. As for himself, he only knew second hand, for hadn’t he slept outside Astrid’s then Morag’s chamber. He wasn’t deaf, and some nights, pulling the bedding o’er his ears wasn’t enough.
“Lhilidh, let me make introductions. Yon two handsome lads are my friends, Rob McArthur and Jamie Ruthven. I’m showing them around the hall,” he said by way of explanation, then let nature have its sway.
Rob bent the knee first, “Greetings, bonnie lass. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Jamie stepped forward. His bow had more flourish, but then he could give Rob two years in age, nae bother. Today, Jamie was making the most of what he had learned when his father took him south to the King’s court, one of the times when the King and Queen had resided in Dunfermline. ”’Twas well known that Canmore had lands a-plenty in Fife—properties that had come to him through his first wife—Macbeth’s widow, Gruoch of Fife—whom Canmore had taken to wife within days of killing her husband.
Jamie, trying to outdo Rob said, “I’ve seldom seen a more beautiful lass in all my travels.”
Rob butted in with, “You need to be aware that the compliment comes frae a lad who hasn’t journeyed any farther than Dunfermline.”
Nhaimeth could see that Lhilidh felt flustered. She stammered, “So … so you lads did nae gang tae France with the Laird? They say he’s brought back enough treasure to make one of what they call Arabian potentates jealous.”
All of them laughed, she sounded so serious. “And where did you hear about potentates, Lhilidh? Dun Bhuird is nae the sort of place for yon fancy kind of folk.”
Obviously, it had been too long since he had seen Lhilidh. She took instant offence at their laughter. “Frae a travelling minstrel, a storyteller.” She looked at their faces, satisfied she held their attention and continued, “And we had one here at Dun Bhuird. He paid a visit afore I became my lady’s serving maid. I was standing by the gatehouse and saw them all arrive. I only got a peek at the man, just enough to see he had skin as dark as a walnut. He wore cloth of gold around the neck and sleeves of a bright robe more full of colour than the leaves turn in autumn. He came to Dun Bhuird along with yon laird that my lady was supposed to wed before Laird Farquhar killed him.”
Nhaimeth immediately caught Rob’s scowl and felt nae surprise at his friend’s reaction. Kalem, the one Lhilidh spoke of, had been the reason Rob and his mother, Morag, had fled Wolfsdale to escape death at the hands of Doughall Farquhar, acting at Kalem’s instigation. A pederast, Kalem had thought to add Rob to his list of victims and had killed Morag’s father to prevent her frae reporting him to the auld Baron.
Rob had trusted Nhaimeth with his story on a dark, dreadful night when a foul man had attacked Nhaimeth and frightened him. That night, both he and Rob had exchanged their secrets and fears and, because of that sharing, became fast friends. Some might think it an unlikely comradeship—a lad of fourteen years, already bigger than most men, and a dwarf with almost twenty years under his belt—but then few folk were aware of the bond they shared, both victims of persecution.
At that moment, there was nae way he could set Lhilidh straight by sharing, and he was astounded when Rob did it for him, “Be glad a wee peek was all you had of him, Lhilidh. Yon was a terrible bad man, an abomination. And as for the Baron of Wolfsdale, Kathryn’s erstwhile bride’s-groom, the Laird didn’t kill him, the Bear did. And, aye, he was the Laird’s brother and my uncle, but he needed killing. If I’d been of an age to do it, I would have without a second thought. Scotland’s a better place without the likes of them.”
The conversation had become too deep for Nhaimeth’s liking, spoiling the convivial air that had accompanied their entrance to the hall. So he made an attempt to turn their thoughts in another direction. “Well, Lhilidh, if you are the Lady’s maid, why are ye no’ helping her into her finery for the feast that’s being prepared?”
Lhilidh covered her mouth to hide a gurgle of laughter, but she couldn’t disguise the blush suffusing her fair skin by looking down at the floor and letting long black hair swing forward. Her dark lashes threw shadows on her cheekbones as she hid blue eyes brighter because of her confusion. Nhaimeth felt certain he was not the only one of the three struck by her beauty.
“The Laird sent us off. We were all helping to prepare a tub of hot water, as he ordered. The men fetched water and I fetched linen for the Laird to dry with when he was done.” If anything, the colour flushing Lhilidh’s skin grew deeper as she told them. “He said he needed naught but Lady Kathryn to assist him, then shooed us frae the Chieftain’s apartments.”
Jamie and Rob chuckled knowingly—a male version of Lhilidh’s blushes.
“Ach well, ye’ll be free to help me show the lads around the hall, though I doubt much has changed in the years since I left.”
“I have other duties. Kathryn says I must make certain Geala got back hame. She was brought inside the palisade when we thought ye were cateran attacking the Dun. I’ll walk down the hall with ye on my way out,” she said as Nhaimeth changed direction away from the high table and the glowing shield that had been made for his great-grandfather.
Lhilidh’s next words rang a toll around their heads, “Lady Kathryn has made many improvements. I think she felt entitled, since few folk expected the Laird to come hame.”