Chapter 23
Luck was with Lyall because de Hay had no clue he had changed his mind.
The man had only heard the end of his conversation with Glenna.
She stood before them in the dank hall at Kinnesswood Castle--the holding of one of de Hay’s men, Coll Frasyr, who was cousin to the king of Argyll and who Lyall had known through the tourneys and had, after Frasyr was awarded his own lands, once sought betrothal to Lyall's sister Mairi.
The thick candles guttered and smoked from mutton fat, and the wax spilled in long yellowish trails down the blackened walls to pool and congeal in the corners.
Light from the torches and candle pricks flickered over high walls covered in sooty tapestries, and glinted off Glenna’s dark hair, shiny at the crown and falling into one long thick braid down her back.
Her bedraggled peasant clothing was speckled with leaves and grass and her shoes were stained and crusted with dried mud.
A mangy grey cat with half a tail threaded itself in and out of her legs, rubbing against her calves before it sat abruptly, scratching vigorously at its fleas and nits.
Behind her, a couple of hunting hounds were busy gnawing on venison bones near a hearth that was stained with smoke and the rushes on the floor were old, infested, and smelled of grease and neglect.
From the condition of his household, one truth was clear: Frasyr still had not found himself a wife.
Lyall looked back to Glenna. He was acutely aware they were standing a short distance apart from each other and yet acting as if they were in different worlds: she was her father’s daughter to the bone and stood before a room filled with armed strangers looking misplaced in their midst; while he stood shoulder to shoulder with her father’s enemies, caught in the teeth of his own misdeeds.
De Hay studied Glenna for a long time before he said, “Interesting.” He moved closer and tilted her chin up so she had to look up at him.
To stand passively by and watch was not easy; he wanted to pull de Hay away from her.
“She has his look…without the fire. But one could expect little substance from a woman, even one with royal blood.” De Hay turned and stepped away, half-laughing. “Not that she looks like one.”
Glenna did not show any emotion, nor did her eyes appear to make contact with anyone in the room. After de Hay stepped away, she stared down at her clasped hands. Lyall could only admire her ability to not give an inch and to hide her feelings, something she never did with him.
What was she thinking now?
Did she long to stick a knife in his ribs?
Whatever was going on inside her head would only be inflamed as his father by marriage explained, rather cheerfully, her use as a pawn in the plot to overthrow her father.
“Woman!” de Hay barked. “I am speaking to you!”
She raised her face and looked past them all.
“Your father’s men sought to protect you, hiding you away for all these years. You are the eldest, I’m told,” de Hay said, casually.
Lyall caught Glenna’s blink, the only sign that she’d just received the news she was not the only child of the king.
His own decision to not tell her the truth had more to do with ease of his mission than protecting her.
And there was little that was true in what he had done.
Why, he thought bitterly, muck up all the lies with one truth?
For days the feeling haunted him that his life had changed forever. Once again he tried to summon up some kind of protection from what he felt for her, a wall to erect between them—like he had done before--but something warm like pride washed over him as he watched her unflinching strength.
To deny what was between the two of them was no longer possible, a bond the seeds of which had been there from the moment he held a knife at her throat in that stable, a bond he would have never thought possible with anyone who was not his blood.
Only his mother and Mairi touched him in the same intimate way.
But unlike Glenna, they were safe from his treacheries.
The deed was done. His fate was set. Her fate was truly no longer his concern.
Then he watched her knuckles slowly turn white and felt a deep and abiding regret and worse…shame.
“Sutherland, Douglas, and Ramsey foolishly bet on the secrecy of your existence to remain a secret. Fortunately for us,” de Hay put his hand on Lyall’s shoulder.
“ Roberston here wants Dunkeldon enough to give you over to us.” De Hay laughed with an ugliness that proved him to be an arrogant, manipulative bastard.
“Some persuasion on my part, the bribe of the lands, and here you are.”
Glenna did not look at him, but stayed stoic.
“At one time there were rumors the queen was with child, but they were put to rest after her death,” de Hay continued. “Until a few months ago, no one knew of your existence, Glenna Canmore…or that of your sisters.”
For a mere heartbeat Lyall dropped his head back and silently cursed, but Glenna appeared calm as a rock when she looked at de Hay blankly. He could only imagine what it took for her to remain passive, given the Glenna he knew and what she’d just been told.
“I am no fool and have heard you speak, girl.” de Hay goaded. “You are not an idiot. Do not pretend to be one. Have you nothing to say?”
“Aye. I have something to say.”
Lyall almost winced, expecting her to fling de Hay’s words back in his face.
“I do not know my father anymore than I know you, sir.” She lowered her eyes. “I am but a woman raised simply to be nothing close to what I was born into.”
Lyall choked on his spittle and began to cough so long and hard that Frasyr thumped him on the back a few times.
Meanwhile Glenna bent down and picked up the flea-bitten cat, and Lyall was reminded how much she had lost in a matter of days: her beloved fool-faced hound, her home and brothers, her life as she had always known it.
Her face was placid as milk when she shrugged. “I care naught for the machinations and workings of men.” She scratched the cat’s flea-bitten ears and rocked slightly, cooing at it. “I have never known a throne, jewels, or fine gowns. Until this moment, I have never been inside a castle.
“And you expect me to be loyal to blood and bond and a name I have never known?” She laughed softly and looked evenly at all the men who stood before her.
“I care not a flea on this cat for kings and crowns and the power plays of men…or what any of you do. I care only that I have a safe shelter, food, and a bed in which to sleep,” she paused, then said, “…covered with furs.”
One of the men snorted a laugh.
Glenna blinked twice, a performance the finest Lyall had ever witnessed, and she looked at them all wide-eyed. “Have I said something humorous?”
“Nay,” de Hay cut in, bored with her. “If what you say is true, your stay with us should be simple and uneventful.” He dismissed her for the meek, simple woman she was playing, and turned to one of his men at arms. “Lock her in the tower room.” He paused, then added, “And make certain she has her furs.”
Before the man led her away she looked directly at Lyall, and for the merest of moments her eyes narrowed when they met his, then she turned, cat still in her arms, and calmly followed the men up the stone stairs.
The mangy grey cat was perfectly happy in her arms as Glenna followed the guard passively, watching for the right moment.
The stairs led up a thick side wall from the great hall and at the top, the guard turned and they passed by a small grouping of chambers, some with their doors open, and a wide open room with a huge hearth and pallets on the floors, clothing, armor and weapons strewn about, and the strong stench of male and animal sweat.
They continued down a hallway with little light, and up a narrow staircase that went round and round, seemingly forever, and at the landing at the top of the stairs, she took what she knew was her last chance.
“Sir, please…I beg you. Stop. The stairs are so high… Why…why my head is swimming!” she cried out weakly and stumbled into him.
The cat screeched and leapt from her arms onto the guard, so he struggled to catch her and dislodge the flying cat, and suddenly the three of them were a knot of flying arms and claws, and her swooning knees.
Just the chaos she needed. She and the cat both fumbled over him as his arms clamped around her, and he dug in his footing and steadied her.
“There. I have you,” he said not unkindly.
“Thank you,” she said, wide-eyed, one hand behind her back. “ ‘Tis terribly high up here… like standing on a cliff, and so terribly dark.” She shivered for effect.
When he turned and moved toward a single door with a heavy iron bolt, she hid his dagger up her sleeve, and his slim purse up the other.
Weak candlelight dimly lit the tower room.
The furnishings within were few, a long and narrow wooden table and a single small chair.
Nearby a braiser provided a circle of warmth by a large wooden bed topped with an uneven straw mattress and rough woolen blanket.
On the opposite wall an arch was shuttered closed with an iron bold and lock, but drafts of the wind outside still blew through the gaps in the wood and through the staggered arrow slits at opposite sides of the room.
“There is water in the ewer. And food,” the guard said, standing in front of the door.
On the table, a bowl of plums and figs sat by a loaf of bread and platter of cheese, a ewer of water, a small cup and laver flanked the rough hewn edges of the table.
Fergus loved plums. She saw his silly, shaggy face.
He used to toss them like a ball, then eat, jowls cavorting, and spit out the pit the way El taught him.
She felt a sinking feeling in her belly and placed her hand on it. But he was gone. El was gone. And look where she was.