Meanwhile Glenna bent down and picked up the flea-bitten cat, and Lyall was reminded how much she had lost in a matter of days: her beloved fool-faced hound, her home and brothers, her life as she had always known it.
Her face was placid as milk when she shrugged. “I care naught for the machinations and workings of men.” She scratched the cat’s flea-bitten ears and rocked slightly, cooing at it. “I have never known a throne, jewels, or fine gowns. Until this moment, I have never been inside a castle.
“And you expect me to be loyal to blood and bond and a name I have never known?” She laughed softly and looked evenly at all the men who stood before her. “I care not a flea on this cat for kings and crowns and the power plays of men…or what any of you do. I care only that I have a safe shelter, food, and a bed in which to sleep,” she paused, then said, “…covered with furs.”
One of the men snorted a laugh.
Glenna blinked twice, a performance the finest Lyall had ever witnessed, and she looked at them all wide-eyed. “Have I said something humorous?”
“Nay,” de Hay cut in, bored with her. “If what you say is true, your stay with us should be simple and uneventful.” He dismissed her for the meek, simple woman she was playing, andturned to one of his men at arms. “Lock her in the tower room.” He paused, then added, “And make certain she has her furs.”
Before the man led her away she looked directly at Lyall, and for the merest of moments her eyes narrowed when they met his, then she turned, cat still in her arms, and calmly followed the men up the stone stairs.
The mangygrey cat was perfectly happy in her arms as Glenna followed the guard passively, watching for the right moment. The stairs led up a thick side wall from the great hall and at the top, the guard turned and they passed by a small grouping of chambers, some with their doors open, and a wide open room with a huge hearth and pallets on the floors, clothing, armor and weapons strewn about, and the strong stench of male and animal sweat.
They continued down a hallway with little light, and up a narrow staircase that went round and round, seemingly forever, and at the landing at the top of the stairs, she took what she knew was her last chance. “Sir, please…I beg you. Stop. The stairs are so high… Why…why my head is swimming!” she cried out weakly and stumbled into him.
The cat screeched and leapt from her arms onto the guard, so he struggled to catch her and dislodge the flying cat, and suddenly the three of them were a knot of flying arms and claws, and her swooning knees.
Just the chaos she needed. She and the cat both fumbled over him as his arms clamped around her, and he dug in his footing and steadied her.
“There. I have you,” he said not unkindly.
“Thank you,” she said, wide-eyed, one hand behind her back. “ ‘Tis terribly high up here… like standing on a cliff, and so terribly dark.” She shivered for effect.
When he turned and moved toward a single door with aheavy iron bolt, she hid his dagger up her sleeve, and his slim purse up the other.
Weak candlelight dimly lit the tower room. The furnishings within were few, a long and narrow wooden table and a single small chair. Nearby a braiser provided a circle of warmth by a large wooden bed topped with an uneven straw mattress and rough woolen blanket. On the opposite wall an arch was shuttered closed with an iron bold and lock, but drafts of the wind outside still blew through the gaps in the wood and through the staggered arrow slits at opposite sides of the room.
“There is water in the ewer. And food,” the guard said, standing in front of the door.
On the table, a bowl of plums and figs sat by a loaf of bread and platter of cheese, a ewer of water, a small cup and laver flanked the rough hewn edges of the table. Fergus loved plums. She saw his silly, shaggy face. He used to toss them like a ball, then eat, jowls cavorting, and spit out the pit the way El taught him.
She felt a sinking feeling in her belly and placed her hand on it. But he was gone. El was gone. And look where she was.
The wind outside picked up and a gust blew in, swirling ‘round the room. One of the candles flickered out. Suddenly the room was all shadows.
“Good night, my lady.”
Her burning eyes adjusted and she wiped them and turned quickly. “Wait!”
The guard started to close the huge door.
She rushed forward. “My furs….and a flint and oil reed? To light the candles?”
He glanced at the candle pricks and nodded. The door closed and the bolt swung into place with a loud scrape, leaving her alone as the sound of his bootsteps disappeared down the tower stairs.
An empty feeling inside her, she stared at the closed door, confusion and despair fighting for control of her thoughts.Montrose? But he was not Montrose. She placed her hand on her belly as it turned over and she felt a sharp pang in her chest. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, and the image of him came into her mind, a man desperate and alone, standing before two graves in a burned out castle.
An image she understood. She knew desperation. The first time she had stolen from anyone it was for food. They were starving. Their stock was gone, except for their own mounts. They had nothing. Their father had been dead for four years and her poor brothers had struggled. So she stole first, and they got by.
Aye, she understood Lyall’s actions. Desperate people did desperate things. She did not believe for a moment he had been pretending to care for her anymore than she had been pretending. She loved him, and in spite of himself, she believed he loved her.
I cannot do thiswas what he had said. Now she understood.
Oh, Lyall, what shall we do?
She closed her eyes. Her mind was full.
