Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Tyra was slow to rise from her warm bed next morning. She luxuriated under the coverlets until a maid entered bearing a tray containing porridge, cream, honey, and bannocks with soft, white cheese, to break her fast.
Another maid tiptoed in bringing a steaming ewer of hot water for washing, and then set to preparing the fire. Once the room warmed, Tyra left her nest, flung on her warm robe and, seated herself near the fireplace at a small table. Lost in thought she dallied, taking her time over her meal.
After splashing herself with warm water and drying herself on the linen towel, she dressed.
Glancing at her reflection in the looking glass she was suddenly painfully aware that her attire – although warm and practical – was both dreary and unflattering.
She turned to and fro, disappointed by her appearance from every angle.
Fashion had always been one of her delights, especially, the designs from Italy with bright colors and rich fabrics which always captured her fancy.
She’d set aside her vanity when it was decided she was to spend the coming months among the nuns at Pluscarden.
Under her instruction, the seamstress at Scorrybreac had made her several gowns befitting her coming life of simplicity and contemplation among the nuns.
All finery was foregone, replaced by loose-fitting woolen garments in dull greys and browns.
Now she regarded herself as a drab little sparrow in comparison to Isla with her glossy dark hair, clad in the jewel-like blue gown she had worn the day before.
By the time Tyra had brushed out her hair and carefully braided it, she was prepared for the meeting with Laird Ewan. Her mind was made up to accept his proposal, yet she wished to discuss certain conditions with him before he sent a formal message to her brother.
When she heard the church bells ringing the ten o’clock Angelus she rose to her feet, her heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. Throwing on her plaid cloak, she made for the door.
She paused, eyes closed, fingering her rosary, to breathe a short prayer asking for strength to see her decision through and to face Laird Ewan with composure and determination.
Once outside her chamber she had no idea where to find the study and requested a passing chamber maid to direct her there. The lass, accompanied her to the Laird’s study, bobbing a quick curtsy before leaving her.
Tyra took three breaths to steady herself and rapped loudly on the heavy studded door.
In an instant it was flung wide and Ewan stood there, looking quite magnificent in his great kilt, his crisp white linen shirt and fur vest.
“Me greetings tae ye, lass.” He stood back, gesturing for her to enter.
She moved into the study, awed by the towering shelves lining the walls containing roll after roll of parchment and several huge tomes.
“Please sit.” He directed her to a timber chair beside a small table. Once she was settled there, he took the adjoining seat.
“I trust ye slept comfortably?”
She glanced up at him from beneath her long lashes, tempted to remark that she could hardly be expected to sleep well when there was a momentous decision swimming in her mind. Instead, she murmured, “Indeed. I enjoyed a peaceful sleep.”
He wasted no time in moving quickly to the issue at hand.
“And dae ye have an answer tae me proposal, lass?”
For an instant she could have sworn he looked anxious, a shadow passing across his face, his eyes flickering, and his lips tightened. But then he schooled his features into a warm smile, his blue eyes shining and any hint of discomfort vanished.
“Aye. I have thought long and hard about what ye’ve proposed.” She plucked nervously at her skirt, shaken by what she was saying. “I accept the proposal as long as me few conditions are met.”
He got to his feet and stepped to the hearth, stoking the logs, causing the flames to leap higher. Swiveling to face her, he went on. “Please continue.”
She straightened her spine and lifted her chin, summoning her confidence.
“Once it is agreed by me braither and yer Council that we are tae wed, I require from ye yer solemn word that ye will ne’er allow yerself tae be seen wi’ any lass other than meself, even if ours is a marriage in name only.
” She took a deep breath and huffed it out, looking him in the eye.
She saw nothing there but compassion and something that could have been admiration.
“Of course, ye have me word on that. Yet, forgive me curiosity, Lady Tyra, but has there been an occasion when ye were mistreated in some way?”
She shook her head, having no intention of revealing to him the many occasions when Harris MacDonald had shown her disrespect and the humiliation he’d heaped upon her with his callous and unfeeling manner.
“’Tis nae something I wish tae discuss, Laird Mackenzie.”
Ewan nodded.
“Me Council have been called tae meet later in the day. Once I have secured their approval, I shall write tae yer braither, Laird Edmund, appraising him of yer present circumstances. I will request his permission fer our marriage and tae negotiate a rèiteach tae formalize our betrothal. Meanwhile, as me guest, while we await an answer from yer braither, please feel free tae treat this place as ye would yer own home on the Isle of Skye.”
“Thank ye.” She rose to her feet. “I shall take me leave and await yer further advice.”
He stood and accompanied her to the door.
“Please.” He placed a hand on her arm. She turned to him and their eyes met for the briefest instant.
And there it was, that instantaneous connection flashing between them.
“If ye have a change of heart while we await news from Laird Edmund and decide that ye have nae wish tae wed, I will accept yer decision without demurring.”
He reached for her hand and took it to his lips, brushing it with the lightest of kisses. Once again, their eyes met, and, once again she experienced the now familiar, fleeting rush of fire in her veins that seemed to sink somewhere low in her belly, leaving a sensation of heat between her thighs.
Tyra was making her way along the passageway, heading toward the solar, still somewhat dazed from her meeting with Ewan, when she rounded a corner and almost collided with Isla.
“Where have ye been?” The younger lass was out of breath, as if she’d been running. “I was looking fer ye.”
“I was wi’ yer braither, in his study.”
“Oh?” Isla gave Tyra a penetrating look and giggled. “Why, now that I look closely, I can tell.”
Tyra laughed. “And what, pray, would that be.”
Isla smiled knowingly. “Yer cheeks are pink and yer green eyes are sparkling. Ye’ve a glow about ye that was nowhere in sight yesterday.”
Tyra flicked one of her braids over her shoulder, shaking her head. “I dae believe ye’re imagining it.”
“Well,” said Isla, imagining or not, I dinnae believe that gown is helping. Ye’re glowing despite that miserable gray.”
Tyra could only nod. “I agree, it is nae me usual choice. But it seemed most suitable fer the unworldly life I was meant tae lead at the Priory.”
Isla took in that information with a look of surprise. “Ye were to be a nun?”
Tyra smiled at that. “Nay. That was ne’er the life I pictured fer meself. It was tae be me home fer a short while.”
“Hm. Dressing fer a nunnery daesnae suit ye at all.” Isla looked her up and down disapprovingly. Then her face brightened. “I have an idea. Come wi’ me.”
Tyra followed Isla through a maze of passageways until they finally arrived at their destination. Isla pushed open to the door to what was a long narrow room where numerous robes, cloaks, gowns and other items of clothing jostled for space.
“What is this?”
“This is where discarded clothing is kept. Some of it was never worn.” She pulled out two gowns on hangers, both of them in somewhat out-of-date styles, but made of fine velvet and wool. The velvet was a striking shade of burgundy, the other, palest blue.
“D’ye think these would suit ye?”
Tyra fingered the cloth. “They are very fine, yet I believe they were made fer someone of much greater girth than meself, and mayhap nae as tall.”
Isla clucked her tongue. “That someone was me late maither’s cousin.
She ordered these made when she stayed here some years ago, but she quarreled with me maither and left in high dudgeon.
Cousin Agnes returned tae her home before the gowns were delivered.
” She chuckled. “Of course, they’re nae stylish, but at least nae one has ever worn them. ”
Tyra let her fingers drift over the rich fabrics as she admired the colors and the gold embroidery on the skirts. “The fabric is beautifully soft and the colors are luscious, but I dinnae think they would suit me any more than this loose barley-sack I have on now.”
Isla laughed. “Dinnae ye worry. Our seamstress in the village, Maeve will reshape and redo them in any style ye wish. She keeps picture books of all the latest fashions from Italy and France.” Her blue eyes, which Tyra noted were a shade lighter than Ewan’s, were sparkling.
After re-hanging the gowns, Isla turned to Tyra. “Come, let us go in search of Joseph. I will ask him tae dispatch one of the servants tae the village without delay and bring Maeve tae fit them fer ye.”
Once Joseph had been located and had hastened off to do Isla’s bidding, Isla and Tyra adjourned to the solar, where they were served refreshments by one of the kitchen-maids. A platter of shortbread, honey cakes and bowls of cranachan with lashings of whipped cream.
“I saw some of the Council members earlier, when I was searching fer ye.” Isla said, between mouthfuls of delicious sweets, a little rim of cream on her shapely top lip.
“Did me braither happen tae mention what they are here fer? It is most unusual at this time of year and in this dreadful weather fer them tae journey tae the castle.” She ran her tongue around the cream on her lip.
Tyra shook her head. “Mayhap he is reporting on me presence here. I believe it is usual fer the Council tae be made aware when the kin of another clan’s laird is visiting.”
Thinking of the Council meeting, her stomach lurched. If the plan did not please them, she would be back on the road, plodding toward Pluscarden, as soon as the weather brightened.
The prospect filled her with dread, however her answer seemed to meet with Isla’s approval and she asked no further questions.
Am I truly so desperate fer escape that I’m binding meself tae a stranger?
No time passed before Joseph was at the door to announce Mistress Maeve. A welcome distraction.
“We shall be in me bedchamber Joseph. If ye could direct her there I should be grateful.”
The seamstress was a lass not many years older than Tyra herself, short and sturdy, with wild red curls, a bridge of freckles on her pert nose, a wide smile and nimble fingers.
It turned out she had lived in Dumbarton and sewed for the royal ladies who visited the castle there.
After her husband died, she returned to Kintail with her two children and had found great success.
They went over the picture-books Maeve had brought with her.
Tyra pointed to a sumptuous gown in the book of Italian fashions. “Could ye transform the burgundy-colored velvet into this confection?”
Maeve nodded. “Of course, Lady Tyra. I’ve made several similar gowns fer the ladies.”
This brought a wide smile of approval from Tyra.
Tyra tried on each of the gowns in turn. First the burgundy velvet.
Isla couldn’t contain her mirth at the sight of Tyra in the dress meant for Cousin Agnes.
It billowed where it should have clung; the neckline – clearly meant for a pouter-pigeon of some considerable girth – sagged horribly.
The gown was short in the hem, displaying far too much of Tyra’s ankles and long, slender legs.
And, most ridiculous of all, the sleeves seemed to have been tailored for a giant.
They hung loose at Tyra’s sides, giving her an altogether out of kilter demeanor.
One glance in the looking glass and Tyra joined in the laughter.
Tears streamed down Isla’s face. “I dae declare our poor maither’s cousin must have been a pudding of a lass. Round in the wrong places, short where she should have been long and long where she should have been short.”
Laughing, Tyra shook her head. “Oh dear, I think the task of re-making these gowns might test even the skills of the Queen’s seamstress.”
Maeve, who’d been doing her best not to laugh, could not suppress a giggle.
“Dinnae fash Lady Tyra. I’ve been more sorely tested on many an occasion. I’ll have them ready fer ye this time tomorrow, good as new.” She measured and pinned and measured again. “Send yer man to collect them any time after the bells ring fer noon.”
When Maeve finally departed, she took three, not two, gowns with her for alteration after Isla found a third one which she’d first overlooked.
The little seamstress was escorted back to the village by one of the men-at-arms from Eilean Donan.
It seemed Laird Ewan was taking no chances with the safety of visitors to and from the castle.
Tyra stood with Isla at the entrance to the keep, watching them ride off.
So, the Laird Mackenzie is, after all, wary of another attack.