Chapter 9
Dunrobin Castle
ELSPET TASTES IT BEFORE SHE sees it and, despite everything, smiles. The tang of salt on her tongue, a briny freshness in the air – lightness floods her body. Then the swaa is in her ears, the quiet noise of the sea heard from a distance away.
By unspoken agreement, it’s been a silent morning. They resumed their journey after a few hours of restless sleep and Elspet’s thoughts have been swarming. The events of the previous day unsettled her – her seidhr visions and the hooded figures in the kirkyard at Lairg.
The nearness of the sea eases her crowded mind, though, as if Orkneyjar has come to meet her in this place far from home.
It’s only as the worry subsides that she realises how frightened she’s been, separated from everything she knows.
As they round a craggy hillside, she sees it – the shifting, roiling grey expanse stretching away to the horizon where the water meets the cloudy white lift, whitemaas swooping and crying overhead.
‘The Moray Firth,’ Beatrix says with a triumphant grin, ‘and there on the horizon is Dunrobin Castle.’
Elspet follows Beatrix’s gaze. The castle grows out of the rock on which it stands, an extension of the rough-hewn coastline.
A tall keep reaches far up into the lift next to a wider square building with walls the same sandy brown colour as the stone of the cliffs.
Dunrobin is at least the equal in grandness of the Earl of Orkney’s palace, but there’s something welcoming in its shape.
The mismatch of the round tower and square keep is comforting; she feels this is not a place to be afraid of.
They urge their horses onward and make their way down a path into thick forest; both Dunrobin and the sea are obscured from view again.
The spae changes immediately: under the trees is an enclosed world teeming with life.
The canopy overhead concentrates the energy of so much life, ancient and new.
It’s overpowering, but as she softens her shoulders and neck and allows the woods to make their way into her body, she feels it welcoming her.
Trees don’t grow in large number on Orkney: the merciless wind means there are no forests to speak of in her homeland.
She wishes she could stop and spend some time here, start to understand it better.
Beatrix has ridden impatiently ahead into the woods, but Margaret rides more slowly next to Elspet. Neither of them is in a hurry to reach the castle.
The path rounds past the twisted trunks of a knot of alders and there’s a rustle in the undergrowth to the left – Elspet looks up and brings her horse to a sudden standstill.
‘What . . .’ Margaret begins, but then sees it too.
A creature, stocky and tall as a man’s waist, stands between the cracked brown tree trunks. Its yellow eyes are set close together at the top of a long grey nose, and muckle ears stand up from its head. She is face to face with a creature she’s never seen before.
‘It’s a wolf,’ Margaret whispers, fear in her voice.
Fascinated, Elspet holds her breath. She feels something like reverence as she locks eyes with the beast. The animal twitches its ears but otherwise remains perfectly still; they’re connected in silent mutual scrutiny.
The throaty coughs of ravens drift down from the upper branches of the trees and, in the distance, human voices can be heard.
But here, in this clearing between the tall alders, there is no movement.
Even the horses understand this is a moment of stillness and stand motionless.
The wolf looks into her thoughts; sees her fear that she doesn’t belong here and never can. Its jaws part, revealing sharp white teeth. Beatrix’s words return to her – there are some in these parts who believe the Devil himself may take the form of a wolf. But she knows it won’t hurt her.
Behind them, through the trees, bursts a woman on foot, with bow raised and an arrow in position, trained on the wolf.
‘Hold still, I have it in my sights,’ she commands, moving slowly around their horses and towards the wolf.
Elspet doesn’t speak or move but looks in panic at the beast. Move! Escape! she wills it. There’s no doubt where her sympathy lies in this stand-off. There are some who would believe her spae-craft makes her an ally of the Devil too.
The beast looks calmly from Elspet to the woman with the bow, then turns and breaks into a run. The woman lets her arrow fly at the animal’s receding back, but it spears one of the alders and the wolf escapes.
Elspet stifles a sigh of relief as the stranger turns to look accusingly at her and Margaret.
‘What on earth are you doing travelling through this forest at wolf-hunting season with no protection?’ The woman is furious. ‘If the wolves don’t get you, one of the hunters might. You’re not even armed.’
As she speaks, she peers more closely at Margaret and her face cracks into an unpleasant smile. ‘Lady Margaret Livingston? Is that you?’
Margaret shifts uncomfortably in her saddle. ‘Lady Mary, how nice to see you.’
Ah, Elspet thinks, this is the sister Beatrix wasn’t looking forward to seeing. She notices the resemblance now: Lady Mary Ruthven is taller than Beatrix but has the same piercing green eyes. But where Beatrix’s expression conveys openness and good humour, Mary’s is curled in contempt.
‘Where have you been?’ Mary continues with a mocking laugh as she looks Margaret up and down. ‘You look like you’ve crawled out from under a rock. The Queen has been secrecy itself about where you and my wayward sister have been. Is she with you?’
‘Yes, Beatrix is here,’ Margaret says stiffly, smoothing down her skirts with her free hand, ‘but if the Queen has not seen fit to tell you where we’ve been, I hardly can.’
Mary visibly bristles at this, and turns to Elspet, who’s suddenly aware of her dishevelled state and simple wadmell dress. But Lady Mary’s eyes pass over her quickly.
She takes me for a servant, Elspet thinks with relief, pleased to find herself beneath notice. At the sound of approaching hooves, they turn to see Beatrix, whose face falls at the sight of her sister.
‘Mary.’ She comes to a standstill. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Saving your companions from a wolf. Fancy leaving the wealthiest woman in Scotland to navigate this forest alone.’ There is open envy in Mary’s description of Margaret. ‘And look at the state of you, Beatrix. You look less civilised than an animal yourself, head uncovered, plastered in filth.’
Before Beatrix can reply, more folk approach on foot.
In the lead are a peedie older woman and a man in a deep-green velvet doublet, followed by a retinue of servants.
She takes a long, slow breath. And so it begins.
She wishes she’d had the opportunity to at least change her clothes before meeting anyone.
Beatrix dismounts and limps quickly towards the woman, sprained ankle forgotten. ‘Mother!’ she exclaims, throwing her arms around her.
The older woman returns the embrace then holds Beatrix at arm’s length, looking her daughter up and down.
‘It seems all this gallivanting about the country agrees with you, Beatrix. Despite the state of you, you look well. Although the worry has been giving me palpitations.’ Her affection turns to surprise as she examines the state of her daughter.
‘You must have some kind of bath at the earliest opportunity, though.’
There is none of Mary’s sneering in her tone, only relief. Elspet looks at Beatrix’s mother. So, this is Lady Dorothea Ruthven. Despite her peedie stature, this is a woman with an imposing presence.
Dorothea looks around. ‘Good morning, Lady Margaret, it is nice to see you.’ Her eyes move appraisingly to Elspet. ‘And I’m pleased to meet your new acquaintance. Your letter said you’d be visiting Dunrobin, but offered a frustrating lack of detail, my dear – I am all curiosity.’
‘What letter?’ Mary barks. ‘What is going on?’
The man in the green doublet steps forward. Wiry, with narrow eyes, he observes his surroundings in nervous waves. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, this is why we shouldn’t have women on the hunt,’ he snaps. ‘All this distraction and chatting – the animals will be miles away by now.’
Beatrix openly rolls her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much – if I remember correctly, you can’t hit anything even if it’s right under your nose.’
Mary rounds on her younger sister. ‘Watch your tone, Beatrix. Have some respect.’
Beatrix laughs lightly and Mary takes a deep, furious breath as if to continue her tirade.
But the man in green puts a hand on his wife’s arm.
‘Come, I see we shall have to split parties if we wish to get any hunting done today.’ He gestures to the servants to follow them.
‘Marshal, call the wolves to us – I want to make a kill before the day is out.’
Beatrix scoffs as her brother-in-law strides away, followed by Mary, who looks back at her sister with a frown.
The man with Atholl – the marshal – lets out a long, low howl as they depart. Elspet jumps in surprise; the man sounds just like an orcn from home, calling to its family.
‘The marshal of the hunt howls to draw the wolves nearer, so they can be shot,’ Beatrix explains. ‘Not that it will do any good where Atholl is concerned. I told you they were awful.’
‘Oh, Beatrix,’ Dorothea sighs. ‘They’re not awful. And she is your sister – do try and get along. It’s not easy being a married woman.’
‘Not easy!’ Beatrix exclaims. ‘Lady Margaret and I have just travelled to the northern isles, ruled by the most dreadful man, to find Mistress Balfour and bring her to Scotland. Don’t talk to me about not easy, Mother.’
Dorothea smiles at her daughter but there is concern in her eyes. ‘Your letter was very cryptic. What is happening?’
Dorothea holds out her hands and Beatrix takes them. ‘There is so much to tell you, I barely know where to begin.’