“Scold o’ a wife!” the old woman echoed.
“—and I was set to handfast wi’ Roisin when we had notice fro’ the king.” He scowled from beneath his brows. “His letter was quite specific and left little room for argument.”
“Yes,” Father said. “Still and all, if you are otherwise pledged, perhaps we should apply to the king.” He sighed. “Though I have just come away from Forteviot.”
“Nay, it will no’ do a bit o’ good. Naught to be done, but I’ll tak’ the lass off your hands.”
Darlei nearly fell down where she stood, her despair worse for the glint of hope that had preceded it.
Father, bless him, seemed to ponder it and said, “I am not so certain.”
Darlei turned to him and spoke low in their own tongue. “Father, please. Do not leave me here. I do not want—”
“Daughter, I can no longer tell what you want. You did not want to travel to Murtray. You did not want to wed with Rohr. You did not want to wed with that young man, his brother, who came after us seeking you. Now you do not want to be here either. Can I take such a complaint back to King Kenneth?”
“Yes,” she beseeched him. “Please.”
Slowly, even as her gaze clung to his, he shook his head. “Nay, daughter, let it be done. You chose your path back there along the trail.”
Darlei nearly fell down. She had chosen her path, yes, merely to spare Deathan.
She was lost.
Father turned back to MacNabh. “Forgive us,” he said, again in Gaelic. “I wanted to be certain of our intentions. When is the wedding to take place?”
MacNabh eyed Darlei unhappily before turning back to Father. “Will ye stay for it, King Caerdoc?”
“I will. But I must get home and back to my own affairs. This has all stretched out hideously long.”
“I shall fetch the priest and the weddin’ can take place in the morning. Ye can leave directly after, if it suits ye.”
For one more moment, Father hesitated before he nodded briskly. “Yes. Let it be done.”
He would leave her here in this dark and terrible place. Alone, save for Orle.
Less a wife than a captive, by order of the king.
Chapter Forty-Three
MacNabh’s keep, morea fortified house than aught else, proved a poor sort of place. Darlei was given a room to share with Orle that was small, cold, and, quite frankly, filthy. As they settled their belongings and tried to prepare for dinner—all their clothing being damp—even Orle fell silent, as if shocked out of her usual attempts at comforting optimism.
Darlei spoke to herself steadily. This was worse, far worse even than she’d imagined. MacNabh was worse, as was his terrible old mother—and the other, Roisin, that he kept at his side. How could she survive in this grim and comfortless place?
She would surely die by bits, body and spirit.
Yet Father was right. She had chosen this. Oh, not being sent away to wed by order of the king. But she had chosen to continue the journey here, to stop the combat between Deathan and Urfet that might have freed her.
She had chosen her fate. She must now be strong enough, woman enough to endure it—for his sake. But oh, she did not know how.
Dinner proved a poor meal served in a hall that was malodorous, barren, and cold. Dusty webs hung in the rafters. The food was meager, the meat stringy and, so Darlei feared, turned bad.
She could not eat and pushed her portion away. No one seemed to notice, or if they did, they ignored it. Conversation languished. The Caledonians sat on one side of the chamberand the clan members on the other, staring as if, indeed, they expected the blue men to draw swords and attack them.
If only they would.
Father’s attempts to talk with their host fell flat. MacNabh ate like a ravenous boar, which Darlei concluded he fairly resembled. Mercifully, the ordeal did not last long, the courses being few, and ended when MacNabh said, “I ha’ sent for the priest. He will be here by morning.”
“I have my own holy man,” Father put in. “If you want it done tonight.”
