The Red Plaid
Lady Margaret of Eglinton, wife of Robert Montgomery, daughter to the Cunningham of Aiket, and niece to the Cunningham earl of Glencairn, sat primly in a high-back, carved chair placed next to the fire.
The play of light cast shadows over her young face, emphasizing a receding chin, pointed nose, and dark eyes with nearly invisible lashes and brows tucked under a crown of mud-brown hair.
Her full, plump lips could have been her saving grace, but from the frown lines carved deep into her forehead, it appeared she seldom smiled.
“I’ll not have a strumpet in my household,” she grated, sweeping Sorcha with a gaze hovering somewhere between disdain and indifference.
“’Tis chaste ye’ll be. Chaste. And a God-fearing woman or else I’ll toss ye on the streets, I will.
” She wagged a finger to underscore the point as her green, pearl-studded sleeves slipped back to reveal thin, bony arms.
Sorcha deepened her curtsey.
The Cunningham lady’s reception was proving quite unexpected.
Upon arriving at the monastery, the monks had sent Sorcha on to close relations of the Cunningham earl, the Grahams of nearby Mugdock Castle.
She’d spent an exhausting day in the drizzling rain, perched on crates of dried cod in the back of a cart as it lurched down rutted roads and up slippery hills before reaching the stronghold.
She’d arrived cold, wet, and smelling like a fish herself.
However, the initial welcome had been warm.
The elderly Graham chieftain had remembered her father at once, but he’d been unable to recall any living relations.
He’d shared a fond tale or two from her father’s younger days, suggested she speak to the Aiket Cunningham clan elders for any word of near kin, and then bundled her off to Lady Margaret.
A fortuitous event, he’d said, that Lady Margaret, the daughter of the Cunningham of Aiket himself, had sought lodging in his castle that very night—but Sorcha suspected ‘twas rather a convenient solution for him more than anything else. And even as she wondered if the Aiket Cunninghams truly knew anything of her family, she curtseyed her thanks to the man. The Graham had patted her on the head, wished her good fortune, and then sent her promptly to Lady Margaret’s chamber, but from the moment Sorcha had entered, she suspected she’d made a mistake.
“Rise,” the lady ordered imperiously. “Rise, I said. Rise! Ach, but ye smell like a fishwife’s hovel.” Her fine nostrils splayed in distaste.
Sorcha straightened, acutely conscious of the fishy fragrance eddying about her. “Forgive me, my lady, but—” she began in her defense.
“Did I say ye could speak?” Lady Margaret’s sharp voice cut her short.
Sorcha snapped her mouth shut.
“Aye, fit only for a chambermaid,” the woman judged sourly, shaking her head.
“And not to be seen any more than heard, do ye hear? You’re not to be roaming about nor tossing your skirts up for the lads.
No come-hither looks from the likes of ye.
I dinna care a whit who your father was.
He may have been a Cunningham, but he was no real relation of mine.
And his low origins will be no excuse for your lewd behavior.
If ye dinna heed my words, ye’ll have no place in my house.
Do ye understand?” The lady cocked a faint eyebrow as she waited for a response.
Forcing another curtsey, Sorcha murmured as contritely as she could, “Aye, my lady.”
If Lady Margaret noticed her chilly tone, she didn’t show it. With a disparaging sigh, she added, “If ye do your tasks well, I’ll never hear nor lay eyes on ye again—nor smell ye, either.”
“Aye, my lady,” Sorcha dutifully repeated, though she felt the tips of her ears turning pink.
“Then go. On the morrow, ye’ll pack my household items and travel on to Lainshaw with Gellie and the tinker, and dinna dawdle on the way.
I’ll expect my bed ready afore I arrive.
” She paused, waving her hand at the massive four-poster bed behind her.
It was finely carved, and its black velvet, gold-trimmed curtains swept to the floor.
Clearly, it was her pride and joy, and it almost made her smile.
Almost. With a hardening expression, she addressed Sorcha again, “Go find Gellie now, and dinna forget that I’ll only lay eyes on ye when I call ye. Now, be gone!”
Sorcha was only too willing to oblige. With her enthusiasm over meeting kith and kin quickly evaporating, she marched out of the chamber, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste to leave.
And after Lady Margaret’s grim-faced maid gave her directions to Gellie’s whereabouts—down the newel stair to the bottom and fifth door to the left—she headed for the castle laundry below, clutching her leather satchel tightly.
At the head of the steep newel stair, Sorcha paused to peer through an arrow-slit window at its head.
After living at Heather House, the sheer size of Mugdock Castle was stimulating, awakening a sense of adventure she hadn’t known she’d possessed.
The sun had set hours ago, but a break in the clouds allowed the moonlight to illuminate the castle which was nestled on the shore of the loch.
From its position on a massive mound of rock, the central keep’s great height afforded a view over the high curtain wall and into the inky darkness beyond.
Somewhere out there lay Heather House. She sighed, unable to believe she’d truly left. As of yet, she still felt caught in a dream.
For a time, she stayed where she was, watching the torches bob along the ramparts, carried by men patrolling the walls. When the last one vanished into the gray-stoned, corbelled towers positioned on the wall, she turned back to the stair and descended to the very bottom.
A dark passage yawed in front of her, and the occasional spitting candle ensconced on the wall did little to dispel the shadows.
Nervous, she shielded her face with her hand and pressed forward in search of the laundry, counting the doors along the way.
At the fifth one on the left, she paused, hand hovering over the iron-studded oak.
“Gellie?” she called out in a hoarse whisper, hoping she’d found the right door. She raised her hand to knock, but as her knuckles brushed the rough oak, the door swung open in silent invitation. Leaning forward, she whispered again, “Gellie? I’m looking for Gellie Duncan? Lady Margaret sent me.”
A muffled voice responded. The words were inaudible, but thinking that one closely resembled the word ‘come’, she warily stepped inside.
Moonlight filtered through an open window, the only source of light in the place, but with her eyes already adjusted to the dark, it was enough to assure that she’d found the laundry.
Baskets of clothing and linens covered several trestle tables in the center of the room.
Washtubs lined one wall with a long rope spanning the other, the wet garments hanging from it dripping water onto the flagstone floor.
The rustle of cloth drew her attention to the corner. It took a moment to register what she was seeing: a woman’s white skin standing out in sharp relief to the shadowed man caressing her from behind.
A man’s voice chuckled, deeply.
With an astonished, “Forgive me!” Sorcha turned to run but nearly collided with a fleshy, middle-aged matron with protuberant eyes and lank blonde hair, bustling in from the outer passage.
“Bless me, but you’re not Gellie now, are ye?” the woman clucked, holding her candle aloft. Scanning the dark laundry, she called out, “Gellie? Gellie?”
The dim flickering light penetrated the corner, revealing a raven-haired lass with apple cheeks fumbling with the laces of her gown. A man with brown, slicked-back hair lounged behind her against a large wooden tub. He was thin, almost gaunt, and his shirt was open. He made no effort to button it.
With a single look, the matron dropped into curtsey. “My lord,” she murmured in a monotone, quickly averting her eyes.
The man ignored her. Instead, his chilling gaze latched onto Sorcha, and his brow lifted. “And who might ye be?” he asked.
His voice was deep, dominant, and unnerving, and it made her flesh crawl. Forcing her head to bob politely, she replied, “Sorcha Cunningham, my lord.”
He stood there for a time, viewing her from under hooded eyes. “Brogan’s daughter,” he finally said, his lip curling with hidden amusement. “The Graham told me of ye.”
Sorcha waited, expecting him to continue, but he merely yawned and with a flick of his hand—a contemptuous gesture clearly stating he considered them all beneath his notice—he heaved himself off the tub and casually strolled through the door, exiting the laundry without even so much as a glance in their direction.
The moment he’d gone, the matron tossed a glance of mild disgust at his back before rounding angrily on the raven-haired lass.
“Ach, Gellie! What can ye be thinking? Lady Margaret will have your head when she discovers you’re tupping her own brother now,” she spat.
“When that man offers friendship or aught else, ye dinna lift your skirts, ye foolish lass, ‘tis time to run!”
Gellie rolled her eyes. “Dinna place your nose where ‘tis not wanted, aye?” she snapped, combing her fingers through her hair and beginning to braid it. “Ye dinna understand him. He’ll put his sister in her place, he will. He’s telling her shortly. Ye’ll see then.”
“And you’re fool enough to believe him?” The matron exhaled in disbelief. “Do ye really think he’ll wed the likes of ye? Away and boil your head, lass!”
Gellie tossed her head and both women huffed, and then apparently recalling Sorcha’s presence at the same time, both pairs of eyes riveted upon her with open curiosity.
In an attempt to dispel the awkwardness, Sorcha hurried to introduce herself with a bright smile, “Sorcha Cunningham. Lady Margaret sent me to find Gellie. I’m to be a chambermaid.”