Page 47 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

T he knock at the chamber door caused both Darlei and Orle to jump violently. For days uncounted they had been left alone. That was, a maid brought their food and drink. A lad brought fuel for their meager fire and took away the soiled chamber pot. A furtive-looking woman did some minimal cleaning.

When the knock sounded, it was the wrong time of day for any of them.

She and Orle looked at each other. Dread clenched Darlei’s belly, enough to turn her sick.

“I must answer it,” Orle said.

Oh, and what would she have done all this while without the brave Orle? Loyal and steadfast she was, even while sharing this dreadful imprisonment.

“If it is him,” Darlei said, “pray, do not leave me.” They spoke in their native tongue so they did not fear being overheard.

Orle nodded and hauled open the door.

It was not MacNabh but his aged mother.

The old woman came pushing into the chamber wrapped in her ragged shawl, already squawking. Of all the Gaels Darlei had met so far, she found this woman most difficult to understand.

The old woman tottered past Orle and half mumbled, half screeched something at Darlei.

Darlei shook her head. “I am sorry?”

“Are ye deaf, wench?”

Even a deaf person would be able to catch that penetrating whine.

“I said my son sent me.”

Apprehension tightened Darlei’s stomach still farther.

“He wants to ken, are ye bleedin’?”

“What?”

“Ha’ ye had yer monthly! Daft bitch,” Mistress MacNabh added, not quite under her breath. “He needs tae ken.”

Darlei exchanged a desperate look with Orle. She had indeed been visited by her round and had herself washed the cloths, hoping to keep it secret.

She dared not let MacNabh know.

“Not yet,” she said with what dignity she could muster.

“Ye’re lyin’! The woman what cleans in here says she saw the blood.”

“That was me.” Orle stepped forward bravely. “Mine.”

Mistress MacNabh turned a fierce gaze on Orle. She had the same pale-blue eyes as her son, stark in her impossibly wrinkled face.

“Liar,” she said again. “There was blood in yon bed.”

“We share the bed, my servant and me.” Orle was so much more than a servant. But Darlei had to speak what this old woman would understand.

Mistress MacNabh snorted. “Is that wha’ ye Caledonians do? Women sleep together?”

“When we need comfort.” The words went over the crone’s head.

“I will tell my son. I will tell him I think ye be lyin’. He will come to see for himsel’.”

See for himself? How, by stripping her down? Darlei shuddered.

“Meanwhile, ye are to come out to supper.”

“Me?” Darlei laid a hand upon her breast. “Why?”

“How should I know? Ye be his wife. Ye will do as he commands.”

The crone went out. Orle hurried to shut the door behind her, giving them a glimpse of the guard who stood beyond.

Darlei and Orle stared at one another in horror.

“She did not believe us,” Darlei said.

“Nay.”

“Oh, what am I to do?”

*

Darlei had forgotten how badly the hall stank. Her chamber did not smell fresh either, having two women shut in with a chamber pot and precious little water for washing.

She had never in her life lived so, and these people called hers savages. But MacNabh’s hall smelled of spoiled meat, and the rotted straw on the floor, and the urine of dogs—of sheer filth.

It smelled of MacNabh himself, and when the wave of it hit Darlei, it took her immediately back to her first day of marriage. MacNabh pushing her face down on the bed.

She’d been wrapped in a cloud of his stink while he did what he did.

It made her falter as she entered the chamber, caused her hard-held dignity to waver. She did not know what she’d expected when summoned to dinner. That there would be company, mayhap. That Father and his party might have returned to take her away again.

The room, though, contained but a single board. The few attendees were MacNabh himself, his mother, Roisin, and assorted servants.

“Come, sit,” MacNabh called to her.

The day had seemed more like late than early autumn, the air coming through Darlei’s slit window cool. The hall felt cold, and the fire struggled to burn, filling the space once more with smoke. A meager meal already lay spread out.

The three sat ranged on one side. A single bench faced them. Darlei seated herself there.

MacNabh eyed her with a conspicuous lack of welcome, Roisin with open hatred. The old woman—well, she quite frankly appeared mad.

A servant came and began passing the platters.

“How are ye finding your stay?” MacNabh asked.

Darlei stared. She said nothing.

“How d’ye find your room now ye’ve had time to settle?”

“Small. We find it small.” And cold. And barren.

“’Tis no’ a grand house,” the old woman whined. “No’ big at all. My own husband raised it, ye ken.”

“You may send your woman to the servants’ hall, if ye will,” MacNabh suggested.

“Nay, I want her with me,” Darlei replied.

“There is no larger chamber. Save mine.” His pale-blue eyes met Darlei’s for an instant. Her stomach turned over.

“Nay. We are well enough.”

“I will no’ have it,” Roisin wailed. “I will no’ ha’ that in your chamber. She should be housed out in the stables.” She bared her teeth at Darlei. “Animal.”

“Are you afraid of me? Like a wild beast?” Darlei fixed the woman with an unwavering stare.

“Afraid? Nay, bitch, why should I be?”

“Enough o’ this. I had hoped ”—MacNabh accompanied the words with a stare of disapproval—“we could get along. Ye be my wife and canna be shut awa’ forever.”

“Should the king come,” the old woman said, wagging her finger at Darlei, “he will need to see ye.”

“ Is the king coming?” Darlei asked, startled.

“He may be, he may be. ’Tis rumored he will do a tour this autumn wi’ his new wife. He will want to see ye.” MacNabh fixed her with a stare. “He will want to see ye with child.”

“Oh.” So that was it. No kindness, this, no concern. Only the fear of accountability to a higher power.

“I ha’ sent word to him by messenger,” MacNabh said dutifully, “that his decree has been carried out, and we are wed. Should he decide to come and see…”

MacNabh did not finish the thought. He did not need to. Should the king include this place in his tour, all must appear well. And he would want to assure his liege that she carried his child.

She pushed her platter away. “If the king comes, I shall tell him how you have mistreated me.”

“Wha’?” MacNabh roared, and his old mother squealed.

“I will tell him I am naught more than a prisoner here. That you shut me away from the daylight and half starve me.”

“Wicked wench!” Roisin breathed. “Dunstoch, ye should do awa’ wi’ her.”

MacNabh swiveled to look at his mistress. “Do awa’ wi’ her? With the king on his way?”

Roisin’s eyes gleamed with malice. “Ye can say she suffered some mishap. Fell down the well, mayhap, and that ye be a widower—again. Ye will ha’ obeyed him all the same, aye?”

Darlei pushed to her feet. The same end for her that Caragh had suggested. The very same. “You will keep away from us, from my servant and me. Else I will tell the king how you mistreat a Caledonian princess. How you forced me and starve me.”

MacNabh rose to his feet also, though he made no move to come around the table. “Ye mad bitch.”

“Aye, she is mad!” Roisin agreed. “Ye do no’ want a child out o’ that.”

Nay, he did not. So Darlei hoped.

Her legs trembled beneath her as she left the chamber. And she had to remind herself again that she was strong. She was angry. She was a wild woman.

And even though her heart had been torn from her chest, she would fight to survive.