The Mysterious Graves (The Ravensmire Chronicles #3)

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In Scotland

The Castle

Summer 1594

Duncan’s Return.

Aye... though I longed for the hearth’s warmth and the embrace of familiar stone, returning home proved heavier than I’d dared imagine. What should have been a season of jubilance was instead shadowed by grief.

When word reached me that Ceit had taken her own life, the marrow in my bones chilled with guilt.

I was not prepared.

Though her threats came often, like storm winds battering the walls, I never believed she would leap from fury into finality.

I, a Lord well-versed in death—who’s stood where blood pools thick beneath fallen men and comrades—wept not for the dead in battle, but for what was left behind in silence.

The cruelty of her act lies not only in its sharp end, but in what she abandoned. Our son, barely weeks old, left in the care of servants and a wet nurse, without mother’s arms or milk, without lullaby or love.

Her act of rage struck me in surprise—not to pierce, but to punish.

And punish she did.

The summons came as dawn broke over the crest—the rider’s silhouette not bearing war’s echo, but something far more personal. The truth of what was to come was mine. The pain it carried, also mine.

In that moment, my thoughts did not run to Ceit, but to my son.

Had he survived?

Had fate robbed me before I’d ever held him close?

I feared the worst of his fate, for power breeds enemies, and enemies seek the easiest target.

But the news cleaved two ways—grief for Ceit, yes, but light for Callum, who lived still.

I will not feign purity of heart. Ceit's death was an easing of burden.

The boy mattered more.

She had been wife in name, not in soul. What love I bore her was weathered and thin—tolerable, but never transcendent.

The letter from the castle spoke plainly as it told that she ended her life upon hearing that our union would dissolve, that she was to return to Ireland.

And though part of me grieves for the madness that consumed her, another part—a quieter, shameful part—is grateful.

Grateful that Callum was spared. Grateful that I had not lost the child who now bears my name, my legacy, my heart.

Yet even as I rode to my estate, burial rites awaited, and with them—Oison Darragh, Ceit’s father, demanding recompense through marriage to another daughter.

It was grotesque, his request. That he would barter another child so swiftly told me all I needed that he is a creature of ambition, not affection.

The lineage is cracked.

Ceit's death speaks of deeper illness. To wed into that again... is a risk I dare not shoulder, but if it is to protect us from the church, I may have no choice.

For my truth can no longer wear disguise.

My heart lies not with women born to bear heirs, but with the man who’s stood beside me in battle and in peace.

My man-at-arms.

My true love.

Bought, aye—but never owned. His soul is mine, as mine is his. Since the days of my father’s house, he’s been my solace and strength.

No more masks.

No more pretending.

We have been bound for many seasons, Ciarán and I, and the wife I took was but a veil—woven to conceal truth in a world blind to love between men.

The church would damn me, for the flesh I choose is not their ordained path. But I chose willingly, chose wholly, and I chose him.

Ciarán Begbie is my heart’s desire, and I will not soil the sanctity of our bond with false affections for another. Though I be no saint, I made my covenant—not before clergy, but beneath the heavens—in the courtyard of my own keep.

There, I vowed to him that in life, and in death, we are one.

The marriage to Ceit was a cloak, fashioned to shield us and bear an heir to the Granndach line. My duty demanded it.

That duty… is complete.

And that, my soul cries, is all I am required to do.

The union served the church’s watchful gaze.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

I bore love for Ceit, aye, but not the kind that nourishes. When I named her task—an heir and appearances—her fury was swift.

I understood it, in truth.

Yet let us not forget that she rose in station through me.

Her clan, Darragh, was nothing more than a house mired in debt. Through her dowry, her father’s burdens were lifted. Oison sold me a golden egg, and both sides profited.

She gained silks, halls, and heraldry. I gave her dominion she’d never claim alone. My lineage was earned—from my father, and his father before him.

Not bought like Oison’s.

She was granted the role of Lady—palatial grounds, noble title, and a life beyond her birth.

And yet… her final act shattered the very illusion we crafted.

Her fall from the tower became a spectacle. A selfish exclamation from one whose story was never hers alone.

Had my heart not lain elsewhere—had I not yearned for the embrace of a man—perhaps she might have flourished. But Ceit was still young, unready for the storm she waded into.

When Oison offered Catherine first, a child barely ten, I recoiled. Such things of foulness were not for me the mingling of blood and innocence. I took Ceit, older, sixteen—a compromise of necessity, not desire.

To soften the insult, I gave her land, coin, and safety. She thrived on the edge of my sword’s success.

Her death—supposedly for being cast aside for Ciarán—rings hollow. She knew from the start what we were.

A pact, not a passion.

Perhaps I should have revealed my truth sooner… but I feared her wrath.

Feared betrayal.

Feared the gallows where men like me perish for loving rightly.

I could not risk the death of the man I cherished.

Not for honesty.

Not for pity.

And so, when word came of Ceit’s end, Ciarán and I returned. Not for mourning—but to mend what was left undone.

Oison greeted us with tears, then thrust Catherine at me as recompense. A child, offered like a prize. I refused him.

My stomach turned.

Enraged, he threatened revelation. And with that, I knew the truth.

Ceit had spoken of my true nature in bed.

Cornered, I acted. I sheltered Catherine—not as bride, but as ward. She would live under my roof, not beneath my body.

That, and nothing more.

What does one do with a girl so young she must still be raised herself?

As before, I paid for the daughter, bought her silence, and bid her father vanish.

To my surprise, he obeyed.

I never saw him again.

If he came round, his daughter met him outside the castle for he was not welcomed here.

Let him think what he will.

All that matters is his daughter lives here, safe, and with purpose.

She mothers my son.

And in truth, Catherine excels.

Where Ceit burned hot and wild, Catherine holds steady. She tempers her anger, learns restraint—a grace her sister never possessed.

She plays Lady when abroad, safeguarding us with performance and poise. She knows her role, and keeps it well.

For this, I would shield her, just as I shield Ciarán, and just as I shield Callum.

If not for my disdain of such unions, I might say Catherine would’ve made the finer wife—age aside.

She carries gentleness.

Compassion.

A soul fit to nurture.

Now, my halls echo with warmth, not warfare. The tumult Ceit brought has vanished.

Callum has a mother, and two fathers forged in fire and blade.

My wee one will carry my name.

My blood.

With eyes of sky and hair like dusk, he is the future I fought for.

My pride swells with each breath he takes.

The heart once torn by battle now beats steadily. The lands I guard rest beneath my feet.

Peace, at last, reigns.

There is no greater joy—for me, for Ciarán, for Catherine.

Lord Granndach has returned.

Here, within Ravensmire, the hearth is kindled, the memories stitched into the tapestries above the fire.

This nest is mine.

And long shall I dwell within it.

Duncan.

In the year of our Lord,

1594