Chapter Eleven
Annista should have known Robena lay close by. Indeed, she believed she had known and had been able to feel her nearness yesterday when they were in the chapel.
The tiny burying yard with its few graves—all family, no doubt—looked almost pretty in the sunlight. An iron fence surrounded it, and the yew tree stood there, a reminder of the ageless eternity into which all these souls had passed. Soft green turf covered every grave.
But one.
No one needed to tell Annista beneath which mound her sister lay, after all. It was bare still, a wound in that green turf that had not healed, just like the one in her heart.
Well, she told herself, to be fair, there had been a winter between and no fit time for tending a grave. Still and all, was there anyone who cared to tend this one? There was a marker set at the head of the dirt mound, looking stark and newly carved.
Emotions flooded over Annista as she approached the place. Her feelings seemed far too close to the surface since her arrival at Kallan, and she had less control of them. But she could think only one thing, “My poor lass is alone here in death as she was in life,” and her heart broke for it.
“Och,” she exclaimed and stood before the terrible spot, eyes finding the deeply carved letters on the stone.
Robena MacKallan. Twenty-two years of age. That was all. No birth date, though Annista knew it very well—the sixth of March. No death date. No words of comfort or repose. No Dearly loved or Dearly missed.
No one here had loved her. No one was missing her.
Annista did.
She fell to her knees.
“Annista!” Father cried. “Pray get up. This is nay place to make a scene.”
A scene? Did he—he who had sent his gentle daughter to her death—not recognize grief when he saw it? Did he not feel any grief?
“Och, well,” said Earl Neilan softly, “let the lass greet.”
“I am no’ greeting.” Though as Annista climbed back to her feet, her heart did weep. She looked at the earl. “Why is her grave in this state? Has no one cared for it?”
He looked taken aback. “Indeed, we scarce had the chance. There was bad weather—”
“She died in September. Could ye no’ do her justice then?”
“Annista!” Father exclaimed. “Ye will show some respect.”
“Nay,” Earl Neilan lifted a hand. “The lass is right to question me. We ha’ been remiss.”
“Remiss?” Annista hissed the word and narrowed her eyes.
“We were waiting for the stone,” Alan spoke quietly. “Then the bad weather did come. Ye remember, it came early this past year.”
“We will, aye, ready the grave now, wi’ the spring,” Earl Neilan began.
“Nay. I will. I will care for her grave. No one is to touch it, save me.”
I am sorry, dear one. Annista thought, fixing her gaze not on the cold grave stone but the mound of earth beneath. I am here now. I will look after ye.
No response came from beneath the quiet earth. Was Robena here? Or had her spirit fled the place of torment where it had suffered?
I will bring ye justice, Annista added, the grief and anger fair choking her.
She did not notice the tears in her eyes until Father took her arm and said, “Daughter, let us go from this sad place.”
All three men were respectfully silent as they walked away.
****
Earl Kallan provided a grand dinner that evening which Annista, still lost in her thoughts and emotions, was unable to enjoy.
She pushed her food about her plate until the others finished eating, her father and the earl exchanging elaborate and quite foolish compliments all the while.
The two men had got what they wanted, secured their alliance, and would henceforth have one another’s backs during these uncertain times.
No matter that Annista had, to all effects, been sold for the purpose.
Alan did not speak to her even though he sat beside her at the table and when, the meal being done, she excused herself to her chamber, it was only Mistress MacKallan who protested.
“Will ye no’ sit wi’ me in the solar, that we might grow better acquainted?”
She should. She truly should. Mistress MacKallan might prove an ally of sorts and she had few enough of those at hand. But what sort of ally had she been to Robena? Would she be willing to support Annista if she knew she wanted naught more than to end Evan’s life?
“Goodnight,” Father called when she made her excuses, admittedly lame, to Mistress MacKallan and headed out of the hall. “I will bid ye farewell in the morning.”
Farewell.
As Annista climbed the stairs to the gallery and thence to her chamber, she wondered what her life here would be.
Likely whatever she made of it.
These people hated scandal. They indulged in political intrigue even as they maneuvered to avoid it. If she killed Evan—provided him with what he deserved—would they conceal the deed rather than have it known far and wide what their eldest son and heir had been?
For aye, she might pay the price for his death, but first she would cry his guilt from the rooftops.
When she entered her chamber, Bonnie was waiting. The little maid, laying out Annista’s night rail, looked nervous and distracted.
“Mistress,” she whispered.
“Bonnie, is all well?”
“Mistress, I wish I could say. This place takes on a different feel once it grows dark, does it no’?”
A perceptive thing to say, but true for all that. Annista shot the maid a close look. Pale of cheek, and her hands visibly trembled.
“The floors and walls do creak,” Bonnie went on, “like footsteps, as if there’s somebody standing behind ye.”
Annista glanced over her shoulder. An uncomfortable thought. “No matter. I expect we will get used to it. Are ye being treated well downstairs?”
“Aye, so, Miss. The servants here are no’ unfriendly, and I was welcomed to eat wi’ them in their hall but—well, ’tis no’ home, is it?”
It certainly was not.
Bonnie unlaced the bodice of the blue gown and drew it from Annista’s shoulders. Annista caught her gaze. “Ye will let me know at once if ye meet wi’ any cruelty or mistreatment. Master Robert leaves tomorrow morning. We will be on our own.”
Bonnie nodded vigorously. They would have to look after one another.
After Bonnie prepared her for bed and returned to her own closet, leaving a fire burning in the grate, Annista discovered how correct the little maid had been. The chamber did creak, perhaps because it grew colder outside. The old stones and wooden beams protested.
She had not slept well for several nights and hoped she might find slumber as soon as her head hit the bolster. And indeed, she did fall deeply asleep for a time, only to wake as abruptly as if someone had called her name.
What was that?
She lay, emerged from a troubling dream, and stretched her ears. Was someone here in the room with her?
“Bonnie?”
No reply. She turned in the bed and peered through the gap in the bed hangings. The fire had died to embers and shadows held sway. Beyond the draperies anything might lurk.
Anyone.
The room had ceased its creaking. Silence met her searching ears.
And yet—
Not for a king’s ransom might she lie back down to sleep. She sat up straight and swung her feet over the side of the bed.
“Bonnie?” she whispered again.
No reply. Barefoot, she tiptoed to the door of the little alcove where the maid lodged, which stood ajar. Even in the near-dark she could see that Bonnie slept soundly.
Next she tried the door that connected her chamber to Alan’s. Securely locked and not a sound came from beyond it.
What had wakened her?
She found her cloak in the clothespress and put it on. Went out onto the gallery and immediately wished she hadn’t.
The entryway below was a sea of darkness. Twelve murderers and ten demons might lurk there and she wouldn’t know.
Or one Evan MacKallan.
She went back into her chamber, found the knife Mother had given her, and lit a candle.
Madness to venture out into the dark house. All buttoned up for the night, it was. With her feet in soft slippers, they made no sound on the stairs or the flagstones at the bottom.
What was she doing? What did she expect to find? Nothing stirred around her save a few stray wisps of air. The great hall was pitch black, and when she reached the kitchen she found it a place of horror, all looming shadows.
The bar on the back door lifted to her touch and she stepped outside.
She later told herself she was lured out by the moonlight, so much healthier than the close dark inside. The full moon sailed through a nearly clear sky, mere ribbons of cloud flicking across its face. The world was turned silver.
Thus illuminated, the humble kitchen garden seemed an enchanted place, the herbs and kale glittering as if forged from metal. The courtyard lay empty. To her left, at the end of the house, lay the chapel.
Robena’s grave.
She might almost believe her sister walked on such a night as this.
But she saw no one, not even when she stepped out through the garden. Against the silvered sky, the bulk of the house stood out when she glanced back at it, all twisted chimneys and black stone, the darkened windows like eyes, watching her.
What was she doing out here?
Suddenly it seemed the height of madness. She wanted nothing more than to be back in her chamber. Placing her hand into the pocket of her cloak, she felt for the knife there.
Reassurance.
She must go nowhere without it, in this new life she’d entered, this place she now lived. But meanwhile, she should flee back to bed.
And contemplate her courage.