Chapter 3 #3
His brother nodded grimly. “The rest of the men are understandably unhappy. The deer are ours, in their minds. They want to fetch our kin back.”
“I’ll think on it. Udard says you’ve a tale to tell.”
Niall nodded. “The how and the wherefore are a wee complicated, but we found the queen’s necklace.”
A slow grin crept across Aiden’s face. “Truly?”
“Aye.”
“Bloody hell.” Aiden gave his brother a heartfelt pound on the back. “By God, I should never have doubted you.”
Niall threw him a grim look. “The news is not so fair as you would believe. Although I gained some sense of the path the necklace took to Duthes, I was unable to find evidence that would prove our innocence in its theft. All I know is that a traveling merchant delivered the necklace to Duthes a fortnight before Yule. Alas, without the name of the man who sold it to the merchant, we are no further ahead.”
Aiden let his hand drop. “And the merchant?”
“I’ve sent Bran and Conal in search of him.” Niall cocked his head at the woman standing beside him. “You’ve a tale of your own to tell, it would seem.”
Aiden tugged Isabail forward. “Lady Isabail Grant, my brother, Sir Niall MacCurran.”
“Lady Macintosh,” she corrected mildly. “I am the widow of Andrew Macintosh. And I believe this man’s knighthood was stripped from him after it was ascertained that he freed you from my brother’s dungeon.”
Niall shrugged. “A knighthood is of little consequence in the Highlands. All that matters here is my clan and the strength of my sword arm.”
“Aye, I can see how honor and fealty to your king would be inconvenient qualities.”
Aiden’s brother tossed her one of his icy stares. “Our loyalty to the king is unwavering.”
“Killing his courier and his justiciar and stealing his gift to his new bride are not disloyal? My, I must have been taught a different measure of trueness.”
Aiden yanked Isabail against his chest to silence her virulent words. It annoyed him that she was so easily able to speak her mind with his brother while he was treated to terrified silences. “I’ll settle her with Beathag. Then you can tell me the whole of your complicated tale.”
* * *
Beathag turned out to be a rather formidable woman. She reminded Isabail of the wife of Lochurkie’s seneschal—same big bosom, same deep laugh, same tendency to get right to the point.
“The MacCurran tells me you’re to get no supper,” Beathag said as she led Isabail and Muirne toward one of the thatch-roofed huts. “He didn’t say you couldn’t drink, though, so I’ll make you a spot of tea. This place is as damp and drafty as a dungeon.”
Isabail studied the six-foot-high wall that surrounded the camp. “What is this place?”
“According to legend, it’s the palace of an ancient Pictish king.” She swept aside a draped boar skin and ushered them into the roundhouse. “This will be your room. Your maid will sleep here with you, of course.”
A plump straw mattress sat directly on the hard-packed dirt floor, a woolen blanket folded near the bottom. It was better than sleeping in the mud, but only just. Isabail frowned. “Where’s the pallet for my maid?”
Beathag laughed, a great booming chuckle. “You’ll share that one and be happy about it. Many here have no pallet at all.” She pointed to a bucket of water. “We’ve drawn some water for you, but from now on, you’ll need to fetch your own from the stream.”
Isabail wrinkled her nose at that notion, but said nothing. “I will need the services of the laundress. I’ve been wearing these same clothes for two days.”
The big woman laughed again. She pointed a finger at Muirne and then at Isabail. “Meet the laundresses.” Still chuckling, she ducked under the lintel beam again and disappeared.
“This is ridiculous,” Isabail said.
“Have no fear, my lady,” Muirne said. “I’ll take care of things.”
Isabail took stock of the room. There wasn’t much to look at. Windowless walls of lichen-spotted stone, a heather roof, and the mattress. No chair, no chest, no table for a taper. Had she offered such accommodation to a guest at Lochurkie, she’d have squirmed with embarrassment.
“First things first. Let me check your ankle.” Isabail encouraged Muirne to sit on the mattress and unwrapped the linen strips that bound her maid’s foot.
The flesh had turned a nasty shade of purple, but the swelling had subsided.
She rewound the linen, ensured a snug fit, and sat back on her heels.
“So long as you walk with care, it should be fine. MacCurran’s men gathered some of my belongings from the carriage.
Go see if you can find them. And have someone fetch me a broom.
I’ll not sleep under a cobweb that size, else I’ll be swallowing spiders in my dreams.”
Her ankle now neatly bound, Muirne hobbled out of the room to do as she was bade.
The blanket on the bed was actually three blankets of a good size. The weaving was of excellent quality, and the colors of the wool were vivid and bright. A weaver among the MacCurrans had a true talent.
Isabail dipped her hand into the bucket. The water was so cold, it sent a shiver up her arm, but she splashed a little on her face anyway. It felt good to wipe the grime of two days’ travel from her skin.
Muirne returned a few moments later with the broom and a bright spot of color on each cheek. “A problem, my lady.”
“What is it?”
“There’s none of your belongings to be had,” the maid said, not meeting her gaze.
“That’s not possible. I saw that man Graeme pick up several of my gowns and my tortoiseshell comb.”
Muirne sighed. “Aye, but they’ve been given to other women in the camp. MacCurran women.”
Isabail felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. “My serge blue cotehardie? And the chemise with pink lilies embroidered on the sleeves?” Two of her favorite items.
“Aye,” the other woman verified, her voice little more than a whisper.
“And what am I expected to wear?” wailed Isabail.
The pale blue gown she had chosen as a travel dress had not fared well.
The soft wool had wrinkled badly, especially at the elbows and underarms. Mud had stained the hem a permanent shade of brown, and a large smear of soot had sullied the cord-trimmed bodice.
That was in addition to the general wear caused by her primitive travel conditions.
“Beathag says that’s what the extra blanket is for. To wear while you wait for your dress to dry.”
Isabail’s legs went numb. She sank onto the mattress, absolutely shocked. She couldn’t even imagine letting the scratchy wool touch her bare skin. Who knew where those blankets had last been? They could be home to vermin.
“What did I do to cause God to punish me so?” she asked. “I don’t think I can endure this.”
Muirne bustled into the room, sweeping the cobwebs from the corners. “Of course you can. You survived all those years with your da, didn’t you? This is not nearly as challenging.”
Isabail blinked away the tears in her eyes. She’d never spoken about her father with anyone except her brother, John. “What do you know of my father?”
Muirne stopped sweeping and met her gaze. “What everyone knew. That he was a drunken abuser of women.”
Isabail’s jaw dropped. “Who told you that?”
“We’re not fools. His drunken rages may have taken place behind closed doors, but sounds carry very well inside a castle.”
“But no one said anything.”
Muirne shrugged. “He was the earl. What was there to say?”
“Did you know—” Nay, she couldn’t ask about her mother.
Not out loud. Doing so would make that horrible night a reality .
. . and she preferred to pretend that it wasn’t.
She’d never even shared the truth with John.
He’d had suspicions and had made broad hints that he knew what their father had done, but the words were never spoken.
And it was better that way. “Never mind. This is hardly the same situation.”
Muirne arched a brow. “Are we not at the mercy of an angry madman?”
That coaxed a faint smile to Isabail’s lips. “True enough.”
“Then there is no one better suited to dealing with this MacCurran fiend than you.” Muirne pointed the twig end of the broom at Isabail. “So, how did you handle your da?”
“Well,” said Isabail dryly, “the first thing was to stay out of his way as much as possible. Unfortunately, I have little control over that here.”
“What else?”
“Ensured the castle ran as smoothly as possible, so he had less reason to be angry.” Isabail shook her head. “Plenty of things here to anger a man.”
Muirne nodded. “That’s where you begin, then.”
“This place is in shambles,” Isabel agreed. “If no one else will see to my comforts, then I suppose I’ll have to arrange it myself.”
“There’s a lass,” Muirne said encouragingly.
“Let’s start here,” Isabail said. “Give me that broom.”