Doom’s Door
Doom’s Door
Sorcha stirred the cauldron suspended over the fire with a wooden spoon and gave the pleasant combination of garlic, mutton, and oats a critical sniff.
“A pinch of rosemary,” she stated her opinion, glancing up at Lady Helen hovering at her side.
Over the weeks, the two had become fast friends, and on this particularly dreary morning, they’d grown weary of watching the raindrops trail long, crooked lines down the diamond-paned windows and had joined Meg in the kitchen instead.
The three of them clustered around the glowing hearth to experiment with various mutton recipes, and in that cozy setting, Lady Helen had shyly begun to share her tragic tale in whole.
“A pinch,” Lady Helen said, dropping the dried rosemary into the pot before switching back to the previous conversation, her words tinged with a slight French accent.
“Four years of age, and Taran was nine the day our parents betrothed us. I must have met him then, but I truly cannot recall it. I was bundled off to Abbaye-aux-Bois that year.”
Sorcha sent the woman a sympathetic smile. Whenever she mentioned the Bernadine convent in France, her features glowed and her voice turned outright wistful.
“I long for the cloistered life,” she confessed for the twentieth time, taking the wooden spoon back from Sorcha to stir the pot herself. “Last year, Taran decided our wedding had been delayed long enough. He sent his clansmen to fetch me.” She heaved a sigh.
The maid maneuvered behind Lady Helen and shook her head mournfully, the exaggerated motions warning Sorcha not to probe further.
“I can see you behind me, Meg,” Lady Helen intervened, facing her maid with a wry smile.
“And I’ve made my peace with my folly this past year.
I was ignorant, and more than foolish.” Turning back to Sorcha she explained, “His name was David—the leader of the men who fetched me. I fell in love with him with all my heart. It was a torrid, passionate affair, and one that lasted the entire journey from France to the Highlands, and even after my arrival. Of it, I am most ashamed to admit.”
“Aye,” Sorcha murmured, having guessed as much.
“Two weeks before the day that was to be my wedding to Taran, I confessed my sin to him,” Lady Helen reminisced with another sigh, a very sad one this time.
“Only because I foolishly thought to wed my true love instead, but Taran cut my heart to the quick. He informed me that David was wed already and expecting his third bairn that very summer.”
Sorcha blinked, taken aback. “The cur!” she gasped.
Lady Helen’s blue eyes glimmered in bitter humor.
“Truly, and he is,” she agreed, a shadow crossing her face.
“My trust in all men shattered that day. I still sought to break my betrothal, but Taran … above all, is a man of duty and pride, and his bond with my brother is a deep one. He exiled David from the clan that very day, and informed me that our union would proceed. He told me he’s not one to believe in love, nor does he think such a thing is required in a marriage.
He said that love and contempt are very much the same thing. ”
The three women in the kitchen snorted in derogatory laughter.
“And what amuses ye lasses so?” Ravenscraig’s voice queried from behind them. “Ye look like three old witches cackling over a pot.”
As one, they whirled to face him.
Ravenscraig strolled into the kitchen, clad in a dark green hunting plaid, with his long, blond hair flowing loose over his wide shoulders.
He lifted an elegant brow and speculatively tilted his head to one side.
“Aye, but the lot of ye look fair guilty,” he judged.
“’Tis clear ye speak of unseemly matters, aye? ”
Sorcha smiled. The young man was so much like his twin sister, elegant, refined, with a barbed sense of humor and a heart of gold.
“Away now!” Lady Helen laughed, tossing a bulb of garlic at him. “We speak of womanly matters.”
His blue eyes lit. “Aye, but women’s gossip ‘tis a sight more entertaining than that of my own company,” he drawled, folding his arms and crossing his ankles as he leaned against the door.
“Tell me, is it matters of the court? Affairs of the heart? Which lady has lost her slender, willowy figure now? Surely, it canna be Elizabeth? Nay, nay, it must be Anna now.”
Meg snorted as Lady Helen threatened her brother with a basin of water. It took some doing before he finally parted company, but he left them as he usually did—with a smile upon their lips.
After he’d gone, Lady Helen continued her tale.
“Aye, Taran’s father raised him as a wolf.
I canna blame the man for his rough ways,” she said.
“And he has only treated me kindly, more than any other might in the same position.” She wandered to the kitchen wall and trailed her finger over the rough stones.
“I fled the highlands and came here to the abandoned priory with Meg, but my brother and Taran found me soon after. Taran was gentleman enough to grant me time to make peace with our union.”
“And did ye find it?” Sorcha asked, curious.
Lady Helen closed her eyes. “I found peace here. ‘Tis where I belong, a nunnery.”
“Aye,” Sorcha murmured. She could only agree. It was in the woman’s every word, her every gesture.
Lady Helen opened her eyes. “And Taran deserves to know love,” she said softly. “He’d never find it with me. I know where I belong. I told him I’d made my decision the night he left with your Alec.”
Her Alec. Sorcha couldn’t stop the smile from tugging her lips.
Aye, her Alec. It was impossible to hear the rest of the woman’s words after that.
She missed Alec, his strong arms, the prickly soft stubble of his lean jaw, and the way his shirt stretched tight over his chest. His pleasant rumble of a laugh and the teasing spark in his green eyes warmed her toes.
But she’d been sore angry upon discovering he’d left without one word of farewell, and even though she wanting nothing more than his solid arms circled around her, she planned to make him pay for the grievous affront.
“The face of love,” Lady Helen’s smile along with Meg’s appeared before her.
Sorcha started at the two women who watched her with amused expressions. “Forgive me,” she said, clearing her throat and blushing a little.
“Alec will return soon,” Lady Helen promised. “And soon, I will leave for Abbaye-aux-Bois. I will never leave it again.”
“Leave?” Sorcha asked, surprised. “What did Taran say to that?”
Meg snorted. “What does the man ever say but ‘Aye’?”
All three women laughed again.
“Nay, that time, he said, ‘Aye’ and ‘Godspeed’,” Lady Helen teased lightly.
After another round of laughter, she added in a more serious tone, “Nay, he acted honorably, offering me the protection of his clansmen for my return journey, and asking only for any prayers I might see fit to pray on his behalf.
Under his gruff exterior lies a gentle heart, but ‘tis not mine to uncover.”
Talk turned to other things then, and by noon, the sun pierced the clouds in a welcome respite from the weeks of rain.
From the window, Sorcha spied Ravenscraig galloping away, under the trees, and suddenly desiring fresh air herself, offered to search for winter savory or other culinary herbs that might prove useful.
Promising to return soon, she slipped a basket over her arm and headed down the winding stretch of road leading to the town and cliffs and sea beyond. Crows cawed in the trees around her and as she stepped out from under them, she spied hawks drifting lazily through the air in the blue skies above.
The town of North Berwick sparkled, the recent rains making the cobblestones glisten as she hurried down the lane, past the kirk and to the path leading to the seaside.
She loved the water and, finding the fine spray of sea mist invigorating, pushed her hood back to allow the wind to caress her face.
As was her wont, her thoughts and worries turned to Alec.
He’d sent two letters in the weeks since he’d gone—he’d refrained from sending more, lest she be discovered by those who would use her against him. But she knew that only Hugh Cunningham remained unpunished. She shivered, blowing on her icy fingertips and praying it would all end soon.
Drawing her heavy plaid closer, she breathed the comforting, homey scent of wet wool and scanned the rocks for herbs to spice Lady Helen’s pottages.
Time passed pleasantly, and all too soon, her basket overflowed.
With a sigh, she rose to her feet and trudged up the windy path back towards the town.
Various residents tipped their heads in greeting as she made her way down the cobblestones, shifting her laden basket from arm to arm. Distracted with her thoughts, she rounded the corner of the stone-walled kirk and ran straight into another lass, losing her balance.
They both slipped, falling to their knees.
A cabbage rolled in front of her. “Ach, forgive me,” Sorcha apologized, catching the thing and turning to face her victim.
“Sorcha?” a familiar voice gasped.
Sorcha glanced over to see Gellie Duncan, wearing a coarse plaid over a dark red dress, tendrils of her raven hair blowing over her apple cheeks.
“Gellie!” Sorcha cried, rising to give the lass a warm hug. “What are ye doing here?”
“I could ask ye the same!” Gellie laughed, holding her at arm’s length and cocking a brow at Sorcha’s waistline. “I’d think ye should be expecting a bairn by now, aye? Tell me, when is our wee lord or lassie due?”
Sorcha blushed. “Ach, you’re such a heathen-minded lass,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Aye, not yet then?” Gellie lifted a teasing brow, but then her lips formed an ‘o’. “But look at your dress! ‘Tis so fine. Aye, he treats ye well.”
“Aye,” Sorcha could only agree. “But ye, Gellie? What of ye?”
Gellie glanced away. “Nay, I dinna wish to see Hugh again, if that is what ye’re asking now.
I should’ve listened to the lot of ye.” Her face brightened, and she waved at her own basket on the cobblestones filled with herbs.
“I’ve been keen on learning the arts of healing and herblore, and I’ve found work. I’ve no cause to complain.”
“In North Berwick? Which house?” Sorcha asked as they bent to retrieve their belongings.
“Nay, I’m staying in Tranent,” the apple-cheeked lass replied. “At Seton’s house, the Royal George.”
Sorcha jerked, nearly dropping her basket as the words sent an ominous chill down her spine. “Seton?” she queried cautiously.
“Aye, David Seton,” Gellie smiled blithely, bending down to retrieve another wayward cabbage. “Ye recall him, aye? We met him at the peatcutter’s. He’s deputy bailiff in Tranent now—”
A shudder of horror seized Sorcha. Her dream. Heaven help her—nay, heaven help them both. She hadn’t prevented the dream at all.
Grabbing Gellie’s arm, she squeezed it tight, interrupting urgently, “Ye have to leave, Gellie. Without delay. That man canna be trusted!”
“Ach, what man can?” Gellie shrugged, eyeing her curiously.
“Nay, this is different, I swear,” Sorcha choked, her gaze falling to the basket in Gellie’s hands. “And with ye learning the arts of healing, ach, this canna be good. Do ye not recall how he accused me of witchcraft over brewing Tinker a simple tea of angelica?” She began to shake.
Gellie’s brows knotted. “’Twas the leech—” she began, but fell silent as a party of galloping horsemen bore down upon them.
Quickly, they stepped against the kirk, but as the men drew abreast, Sorcha gasped.
Hugh Cunningham.
The man rode at the forefront, replete with a dark blue doublet and a brown, fur-trimmed velvet cloak clasped with an intricately engraved silver brooch.
As if in a dream, she watched Gellie run out into the street, shrieking, “Hugh! Hugh!”
The man reigned in, the sound of horses snorting and bits jingling filled the air as the men in his party did the same.
“Hugh!” Gellie cried again, catching his stirrup. “Where have ye been? Have ye come looking for me?”
Hugh Cunningham.
Sorcha hugged the kirk wall, numb.
Ignoring Gellie entirely, Hugh’s caustic gaze locked on Sorcha instead.
“Sorcha Cunningham, Brogan’s daughter,” he observed in outright scorn, his mouth thinning in contempt.
“Talk around the fireside claims ye are the Montgomery’s woman.
I see ye as a lass who betrayed her clan.
Aye, not only are you whoring yourself to our enemy but ‘twas ye who forced my own sister to flee to Ireland.” Rage lit his eyes.
Sorcha gulped in sudden fear.
“I’ve missed ye, Hugh,” Gellie cried, so overcome with emotion that she’d not heard his words.
“Come with me, Gellie,” Sorcha whispered hoarsely, knowing with full certainty that she had to run. Now. Before it was too late.
But Gellie ignored her, running her hand up Hugh’s knee instead. “Ye came,” she said. “I knew ye would.”
“Run, Gellie!” Sorcha gasped and, knowing she could wait no longer, dashed away.
She was quick on her feet, but they were faster.
Fleeing as fast as she could, she darted down a narrow alley and jumped over a low stone wall, seeking to evade the horses, but the man after her had wings on his feet. She didn’t stop to look, but she could hear his booted feet gaining.
Suddenly, someone tackled her from behind, and she went down.
Something struck her on the back of the head, and her world went dark.