Chapter 24
A guardian angel o’er
His life presiding,
Doubling his pleasures,
and his cares dividing.
—“Human Life,” 1819
Samuel Rogers (1763–1855)
English poet
Isobella decided to pay a visit to the tower in search of Bradan. Once there, she was surrounded by nothing but the cold, stone walls of the hallway, and a stout wooden door with iron hinges barred her way. She knew the unsurpassed strength of this mighty castle, for inner doors were almost as strongly fortified as those facing the outside. She remembered Alysandir once having mentioned that each of the towers had two upper floors reached by spiraling stairs, so she searched until she finally found one of them.
The door opened easily enough, for which she was thankful, and soon she was climbing the narrow, circling staircase until she reached a door on the first floor. She knocked and then tried the door but found it locked. On the second level, the door opened. The room was small with a narrow bed along one wall. A pail of cold ashes stood beside the fireplace, where fresh kindling had been laid in the grate.
She picked up the tinderbox sitting nearby and smiled. She imagined Bradan giving his patient attention to the ten or fifteen minutes of painstaking work needed to light a fire and then coaxing the first, timid tongues of flames to life. The chimney was still warm, so he had not been gone long.
She noticed a square of muslin cloth and the crumbs of what she supposed was an oatcake. Breakfast. She considered the bed, and her heart turned as she imagined the small hands that smoothed the bedding and folded the change of clothes lying on the chair near the wash bowl.
A clatter of hooves in the courtyard drew her to the window, but it was difficult to see more than mounted horsemen and Grim standing near the two riders. She caught sight of Alysandir framed like a painting in the slim rectangle of an open door, and her heart pounded at the sight of him, tall and slim hipped, waiting on the groomsman to bring his horse. Mistress MacMorran had mentioned to her earlier that the Mackinnon would be away from Màrrach to meet with the chief of Clan Macquarrie. Isobella was actually glad to see him go, for it would give her time to become better acquainted with Bradan.
Just as she turned away from the window, she noticed two speckled gull eggs sitting on a small table. They were placed next to a small bird’s nest that contained a pinecone. A crude knife lay near a piece of greying driftwood that he was carving, but it was too early to tell what the end result would be. She touched another of Bradan’s treasures, a small clay deer, and spotted a broken chessboard and two crudely carved knights and then a small wooden whistle. Leaning next to the table was a Celtic short sword, carved from driftwood, its handle tightly wound with brown yarn.
She thought of the other children in the castle, blessed with their loving parents and siblings, playmates, tutors, clean clothing. The unfairness of Bradan’s circumstances broke her heart and made her more determined than ever to put things right.
She was on her way toward the beach when she caught sight of Grim walking across the courtyard, and she called out, “Grim! Wait up!” She was a bit breathless by the time she caught up to him, still not accustomed to the weight of petticoats and long skirts—not to mention the clodhopper shoes—while dodging horse droppings.
Grim turned around.
“Ah, a lass with a bright face to rival the sun, and she seeks my companionship,” he said as he gave her a sweeping and much exaggerated, bow.
She laughed. “I need your help.”
“Weel, I can give ye my help, but it might cost ye a favor one day,” he said, with a mischievous smile rivaled by the teasing gleam in his eye.
She smiled. “Fair enough,” she said and fell in step beside him. “Where are you going?”
“I am off to the stables to see a newborn foal of great size.”
“I take it that it is larger than any of your other horses.”
“’Tis no’ so large now, but ’twill be when grown, for it is the much awaited foal sired by an English war-horse.”
Isobella was intrigued. She knew from her studies that the Scots’ horses, known for their endurance and sturdiness, were of small stature of about twelve to fourteen hands tall. It was extremely rare for a Scot to own one of the war-horses ridden by medieval knights, which were no more than fifteen hands.
“Ahhh, yes… English war-horses are difficult to come by, are they not?”
“Usually impossible, ye ken, because for centuries the English have thwarted attempts to smuggle war-horses from not only England, but France and Spain, although a few were smuggled across the Borders.”
“And smuggling is preferable to buying them?”
“Buying is not a choice we have. ’Tis a felony in England to sell horses to the Scots, for fear that we will improve our stock.”
They stepped into the stables and made their way to a large stall where a sturdy grey mare gave suckle to a long-legged foal of a chestnut color. Isobella crossed her arms over the stall door and leaned forward as far as she could to observe.
“It would seem this leggy little creature is destined to father many foals, for he seems to be in perfect health and nurses well.”
Grim turned to look at her. “Ye surprise me, mistress, for ye are a woman with a breeder’s knowledge. How came ye by it?”
She shrugged. “I have been around horses all my life.”
“Then we shall go riding one day soon. Mayhap ye would enjoy a gallop down by the sea.”
“I would love that,” she said, and left a soon after. She walked along the beach a short while later, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine, her thoughts upon the horses she had at home and how her father taught her and Elisabeth to ride.
She thought about Bradan, reminded of just how little she knew about children, and then thought of how she would like to thump Alysandir Mackinnon on his stubborn head for ignoring his son.
She caught a glimpse of Bradan just ahead, with the sun glinting off ebony hair that was badly in need of a good trimming. She saw him running at the water’s edge, his shadow keeping pace with him, and when he saw her, he changed direction and ran toward her. His smile reached her before he did, as if hanging in the air like that of a Cheshire cat.
“Hello, Bradan. I was hoping I would find you here.”
“Ye were looking for me, then?
“Yes, I was. We cannot become good friends unless we spend some time together, now can we?”
A frown parked itself between his brows. “I do not know if the chief will let me have a friend.”
“You let me worry about the chief,” she said. “He’s not here, so there is no need to worry. I am new at the castle and very much in need of a friend.”
His nose crinkled adorably as he stared into the sun to look at her. “What do I have to do?”
She smiled. “Why, nothing other than be my friend, and I will be your friend.”
“I have not had a friend before.”
“Well, don’t worry. Being a friend is the easiest thing you will ever do,” she said, and then asked, “Have you seen the new foal in the stable?”
His eyes brightened. “Ye have seen it, then?”
“Aye, I have seen it standing on wobbly legs beside its mother.”
“Have they named it?”
“I don’t think they have. What would you name it, if the foal was yours?”
“Cahir!” he said without thinking.
“Cahir… it’s a Gaelic word I don’t know, but then, I know very few Gaelic words. What does it mean?”
“Warrior,” he said proudly. “Mayhap I would call it Cahir Mor.”
“Big Warrior, a perfect name for such a fine foal. He will breed fine foals to improve Mackinnon stock,” she said, wondering if she was speaking over the boy’s head.
But his face lit up, and he replied quickly, “Aye, I ken this is true, for I heard the men speak of it.”
“You are a very smart young man,” she replied.
“Aboot things I hear others say, but I have no book-learning.”
“Would you like to study with the other children?”
He looked down at his hands. “I am not allowed. ’Tis against the rules.”
“What happens if you break the rules?”
“I dinna ken, for I have never broken one.”
She leaned forward and gave his black hair a gentle tousling. This darling boy had been deprived of a mother’s love and devotion for so long. Isobella was determined, if not to make up for it, at least to see that he received it from now on. In spite of everything, he had done a remarkable job of raising himself.
“If I arranged for you could study with the other children, would you like to?”
“Nay, they are verra smart, and they would tease me more than they do now.”
“And if I could change that, so they would not make fun of you, would you enjoy having studies with them?”
“Ye canna change it, for I am not allowed with them.”
“You will be,” she said with a positive air.
His dark blue eyes measured her in a way that only a child could do, with hope, trust, and just a little bit of uncertainty.
She smiled at him and said in a light-hearted tone, “But, enough of that right now. Come along with me, and we will go look at Cahir Mor.”