Two castle guards came running past with buckets of water from the castle well, so he grabbed one and doused the fire in sizzling burst of smoke and steam. All turned in unison to look at him, and the shed was suddenly silent, while they stood staring at each other, smoke swirling, the taste of burnt wood in the air.
One of the lads averted his wide eyes, but Ramsey caught his expression--so fearful and pale he was on the edge of bursting into tears, probably at the image of hanging from the east tower by his neck.
“No one will hang from my towers,” he said in a suddenly calm and quiet voice. Except perhaps Lyall, he thought, glancing over at the cook, a wiry man with a thick thatch of coal black hair who had cooked at the castle for more years than Donnald cared to count and had the priceless skill to make plain mutton stew taste tender and spicy and like no other. “And were I to cut off your thumbs, man, how in God’s name would you prepare my meals?”
The man set a jug down and then laughed and said, "Thank you, my lord, my thumbs are quite necessary for butchering spring lamb..
“Where is Lady Beitris?”
“In the buttery, milord,” the lad volunteered quickly, his color returning.
Ramsey decided he needed to have harness made for his wife. As he walked across the bailey yard, he realized he was more tired and disappointed than angry. Between the island and Rossie he had stewed in his anger until it turned into a highly cooked rage and he thought his head would blow off by the time he approached the castle gates with a few of his men. Now, he was resigned. Lyall had chosen his path. What was done, was done.
Inside the buttery, barrels of ale and a few hogsheads of winestamped with winery marks were stacked in straight rows along the freshly limewashed stone walls and Beitris stood inside, directing workmen in the restocking of recently delivered Angevin wines. She demanded precision in all things-- the position of stored goods, the perfectly aligned rows in the castle gardens, the table settings in the great hall, the exact placement of a carpet upon the stone floors, the tapestries on Rossi’s wall, even their clothing on the rods and in the coffers of their bedchamber; and he wondered if that perfection was all there only to compensate for what she felt when she touched her face or looked at her reflection in the polished surface of a metal mirror
“Beitris,” he said quietly, his voice sounding as strained as he felt.
She turned quickly and her hood slipped down. Her hand went to her face and she quickly pulled up the hood, turning away so she stood in profile, the unflawed side of her face all he could see. Over the years she had learned to judge—also with precision-- the exact angle to hide the scarred side of her face.
But he had known her since she was ten and three and barely betrothed to Ewan, who she had wed three years later. From first sight of her, Donnald was smitten. She became part of him; she haunted his secret dreams and was what made his nightmares. Ewane was his friend, yet that did not stop him from coveting his friend’s wife. Time and their destinies had changed all and she was now his wife, her beauty had naught to do with anything. She was his heart. He cared not about the appearance of her face and would give all he had, including his soul, to take away the shame she felt.
Had he known what their future held could he have controlled his own deep desires? All thought him to be an honorable man, yet he knew the truth.
“I did not expect you for days.” She paused. “What is wrong?”
What was wrong? So much, including the fact that he washer husband and she need not hide from him. He had seen her face despite the darkness she begged for. He turned to the workers. “Leave us.”
When they were alone he sat down on a ale keg, hands hanging down almost uselessly between his legs, him staring at them and searching for the words to tell her what her son had done. His mind found a fine use for his hands…he wished to strangle Lyall. “Tis about Lyall.”
“Is he dead?”
“Nay,” he said, and told her all. His words were crushing her, he knew, for Lyall’s actions were treasonous. Whether Ewane had betrayed the king or not no longer mattered. Because her son had.
She stood there for a long time without saying a word, battling the demons of motherhood.
“Did he say anything to you?” Donnald asked. “Did he meet with anyone recently?”
“He said naught to me.” Her words were terse and she looked thoughtful. “We should send for Mairi. Perhaps she will have some knowledge.” She shook her head and stared off at the wall for a long time. He could hear the choked tears in her voice when she said, “Is there naught you can do, Donnald? Can you not find him and stop him before all is lost to him?”
“I sent men in all directions looking for them, and I rode straight here.”
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and said, “You must be exhausted. Come inside where you can bathe and have some wine.”
“Wait.” He pulled her into his lap and she quickly maneuvered so his face was next to her unscarred side. Leaning against her soft skin, he closed his eyes, took in the weak, sweet scent from the rose petals she used to store her linen underclothing, and deep in his heart he wished she loved him enough to let him lean his brow upon her scarred skin.
15
“Applecross, Dingwall, Suddy, Cromarty, Plockton, Garve, Kyle, Avoch, Knockbain, and Wester,” Glenna recited. Places to avoid. She led Skye not in the southern direction she believed Montrose had been taking her, but due east from Beauly, where at first she had gone through the woods in a southerly direction, then guided Skye along a stream and doubled back, twice and in two different directions, covering her tracks, and leaving false ones.
He would never know she was headed for Inverness.
For half the day she had crossed through the long, wooded grounds of the Great Glen, riding through streams of water and away from, or skirting around, villages and hamlets she and her brothers had plundered.
Her brothers’ sweet faces came flooding into her mind and she wondered what they were doing this day, and did they miss her as sorely as she missed them, as if she had left part of herself with them, an arm, a leg, a piece of her heart. She lost herself in thought for a few memories, ones that stole some of the life from her.
The silence stretched onward, until she heard nothing but the crush of Skye’s hooves on the leaves and pine needlesbeneath her, and then her heart beating loudly in her ears. The realization hit her that she was more alone than she was comfortable. On the island, the quiet had always felt peaceful, soft, and not empty like it did now. She had sought out time by herself. She was quickly becoming a stranger, she thought, and rode onward.
At the place where the stream turned to falls, tumbling down to a river below, she stopped to refill her flask and remounted. As she moved on, the song of a lark made her look up through the trees, but it stopped singing when a devilish black rook shrieked loudly and flapped its wings, diving like a spear and scaring the lilt and bird music before it flew away.
