Chapter Five
Helene awoke with a start. Semi-darkness prevailed, and for a moment she didn’t recognise her surrounds.
Memory returned, grounding her inside a bedchamber at Drumocher Castle in the Scottish Highlands.
She yawned and stretched both arms above her head while gently rolling her hips from side to side, content and sated from a good night’s sleep.
Reality dawned and with it, guilt. Always the guilt.
Here she lay, safe and comfortable in a warm, soft bed, knowing a meal of substance awaited her at her leisure.
Not so for her sister, Prudence, confined to a cold, dank room with a hard bed on which to sleep.
How hellish it must be to suffer the noise of insanity all around and the chink and clatter of sets of keys locking and unlocking cells. Meals were no better than pigswill.
Entitlement held no joy for Helene. With every waking moment, she despaired for poor, wretched Prudence. How could Father and her brother have agreed to lock her up with lunatics? What would Mother say if she were still alive? Prudence was neither mad nor mentally unstable.
Helene flung back the covers and padded on bare feet across the rug-covered floor to the window.
She pushed the curtain aside to see the loch bathed in a pre-dawn silvery glow.
Mist hovered above the water’s surface, and fog hugged wooded slopes on mountains beyond.
The stillness presented a picture of peace and stirred hope for her atonement and better things to come.
Being here in the Highlands was all part of her plan to make right that which she’d done wrong by her sister all those years ago.
Already the courtyard below buzzed with a flurry of activity. Women drew water from the well, and several young lads scurried towards the kitchen tower with armfuls of brushwood.
The sun would soon rise, and what better vantage point to greet the day than from the castle’s curtain wall? There’d be time to explore the castle and wander at will before joining Agnes and her family for the morning meal.
A basin provided a splash of water to her face, after she made use of the privy stool. No need to summon the attentions of a lady’s maid. Helene preferred to dress herself. From the mahogany wardrobe she fetched and donned her woollen skirts, bodice, and shawl and pinned her hair with minimal fuss.
Servants were already afoot, evidenced by a lit wall sconce illuminating the corridor outside her chamber.
Helene trod carefully up the ascending stairwell, its stone steps worn, steep, and uneven.
One hand supported her on the wall to the left, the other on the central stone newel.
At its summit she entered a small enclosed landing with a bench to one side.
A cross breeze through two narrow slits kept the area well ventilated.
The door opened directly onto a narrow pathway behind a crenelated wall. She stepped outside, closed the door, and imbibed a lungful of cool, crisp air. A short stroll to one corner of the wall presented a view to snatch away one’s breath.
Fingers of sunlight broke the horizon, and treetops sprouted through shifting fog.
Birdsong emerged with the gradual light of day, and a horse whinnied from stables below.
The sun rose gradually higher, its rays dissolving the mist and transforming the loch into a glittering pool of yellow-gold under what promised to be a cloudless sky.
Helene wrapped tight the shawl around her, tipped her head to the sun’s glow, and welcomed its warmth on her face.
The early hour heralded a good start to the day, and there, on the east-facing wall, she stayed until the sun broke free of the horizon. The rugged landscape took on a plethora of colour, with hues and shades of purple, green, and yellow reflected on the loch’s calm surface.
Prudence. If only she too could witness this savage beauty. Despondent, Helene walked the perimeter of the wall where it led to the kitchen tower to the west.
She pushed through another solid door and breathed in the scent of freshly baked bread. It triggered her hunger, and her mouth watered. Locating the kitchen was easy enough. All she had to do was descend another turnpike stairwell and follow the smell and sounds of a frantic castle kitchen.
Never would she have thought to set foot in any of the servants’ quarters in her father’s manor, so it was not surprising that her presence here in Drumocher’s kitchen raised more than a questionable brow.
Natural curiosity had her stand to one side as silent observer, intrigued with the intonation of Gaelic shouts, commands, and conversation.
A small army of staff worked around one long central table, each with a dedicated task to scrape and chop vegetables, pluck lifeless fowl, scale fish, and cleaver joints of meat.
Two large hearths blazed, one with a cauldron slung on a hook over the open fire and another being prepared with a long pole on which a servant skewered meat for roasting.
He took a large knife in hand, engaged Helene in eye contact, and sharpened the utensil on the solid stone wall. A shiver ran the length of her spine.
A slosh of water drew her attention to a servant scrubbing pots and plates in an oversized barrel. Another man poured away what looked to be dirty water through a sink built into an outside wall.
‘Are ye lost, my lady?’
Startled by the matter-of-fact question, Helene turned to see a woman well into her years, hands on hips, standing behind her. ‘You speak English?’
The woman looked taken aback. ‘We’re not as backward as ye might think, my lady. Aye,’ she said with a half-hearted smile. ‘I ken English. As do most of us.’
Helene was embarrassed for having shown such ignorance.
The cook wiped her perspiring brow with the back of one hand and added, ‘Only when required of us, mind.’ Her tone suggested speaking English was as much of an inconvenience for these Highlanders as it was to have Helene in their kitchen.
‘I’m not lost,’ said Helene. ‘I merely wish to better acquaint myself with Drumocher.’
The woman raised greying eyebrows. ‘Aye. Weel then.’ She spread her arms wide. ‘Here ye are amidst our humble preparations for the midday meal.’ She dusted floured hands on her apron. ‘Are ye hungry? Because if ye are, best eat yersel’ something now. The morning meal is done and over with.’
‘Already?’ It was still early morning.
‘Aye. The great hall is in use for other matters.’
Helene’s confusion must have shown on her face.
‘Our laird has a list of grievances between clansmen to deal wi’ and settle before the midday meal.’ The cook gathered a selection of bread and pastries on a plate. ‘Do ye wish to be served in the privacy of yer bedchamber, or the lord’s hall, my lady?’
Helene quite enjoyed these simple surrounds. ‘Here will do.’
A pastry fell from the cook’s hand to the floor. ‘Here? In the kitchen?’
‘Unless I’m in your way.’
‘Nae,’ said the cook, stooping to retrieve and replace the pastry with another. ‘As ye wish.’
The cook spouted a string of words in Gaelic to an underling, who cleared space on a separate benchtop and fetched a stool for Helene. There she ate the freshly baked fare, thinking about Lachlan acting as judge and jury and presiding over what sounded like a court of petty sessions.
Before long she noticed the conversation between servants had died, and though each diligent worker went about their duty, Helene caught their wary, surreptitious glances.
Again, her father and brother came to mind.
They’d be horrified to see her eating in the company of servants.
Strange, she felt oddly at peace here in the culinary hub of Drumocher.
At the same time, she remained ever mindful of the confronting disapproval. She finished her mouthful and stood to leave, aware her presence made these good people uneasy.
‘Thank you,’ Helene said to the cook. ‘Which is the quickest way to the great hall?’
‘By way of the servery, my lady, but ’tis for servants. I dinnae expect ye to—’
‘Through the servery is fine.’
Chatter flared at her back the moment she left the kitchen, leaving Helene more than a little intrigued as to the content of their conversation. It mattered not, for she’d soon be a forgotten memory in this castle.
From the servery she entered a door at the back of the great hall, surprised to find it packed with people standing stock-still. Trestle tables and all seating had been removed to the perimeter of the walls. All was quiet, save for the strong Gaelic voice of one man.
Lachlan.
Helene threaded her way along one side of the wall and stood on a stool to gain a better view of the proceedings.
At the head of the hall, Lachlan occupied a heavily carved, dark wooden chair set upon a dais.
He cut a striking figure dressed in full clan kilted regalia, complete with plaid draped over one shoulder and fastened with a brooch.
Sunlight caught the sparkle of a green jewel at its centre, like the one in the portrait of his father hanging in the castle’s entrance.
To his left stood two men, and two on his right, clothed in similar attire. Helene recognised each man whom Lachlan had pointed out last night as his inner circle of advisers.
Another man of senior years and with a thick head of silver hair sat straight-backed at a desk not unlike her father’s French provincial writing table.
He dipped a long, feathered quill into an inkpot and scratched the nib across parchment.
It seemed to Helene that he documented Lachlan’s diatribe to a clansman standing at the foot of the dais.
The clansman nodded, replied demurely, and slunk away through a side door.