‘I’ve brought a few things you might need over the next days and will send some of the servants to help you when his body arrives. My husband said to expect that to be later this day.’
Cat could not find words to speak. Gowan dying was simply not possible. He was older than her, but as strong a man as any around. He never lingered abed and was never ill. He could not be dead. She shook her head, denying the lady’s claim.
‘Here now,’ she said, putting her arm around Cat’s shoulders. ‘’Tis hard to think of anything at this time. The news is such a shock to my husband as well. Gowan always served him well. But you must gather your wits and do what is expected. We must do what is expected of us at times like this.’
‘Aye, my lady,’ she mumbled, unsure of exactly what she should be doing now.
All she wanted to do was curl up on the floor and die with him. He’d saved her life and had asked for little or nothing in return. Now...now...all was black before her. Lady MacLerie helped her to her feet and pushed open the door.
‘Some fresh air will help clear your head,’ she advised. ‘Do you have kin here? Or some friend I can summon?’ As they stepped out of the door, Cat dragged in a breath and felt her vision clear a bit.
‘Muireall,’ she whispered.
‘Gair’s sister?’
‘Aye, my lady.’
‘Peggy, go and seek out Gair’s sister. Bring her here,’ she said to the waiting maid. ‘Know you the way?’
With a nod, the girl ran off. After a few minutes in the cold air, she let go of Lady MacLerie and stood on her own. Looking around, she saw some of the villagers were noticing them now. Shivering from the shock of the news, Cat went back inside and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.
If Gowan was dead, she should....
Glancing around the small cottage that had been her world for two years since they’d moved to Lairig Dubh, Cat realised that none of this was hers. It was Gowan’s. She stood in the centre of the small world and knew nothing could be the same again. Gowan was dead.
‘Cat?’
She looked up, surprised to find Muireall standing before her now. She’d not heard her friend arrive or noticed the lady’s departure, but both had happened.
‘Cat, we must get ready now,’ her friend advised. She just could not work out what the words meant. ‘Come, we need to put water on to heat.’
She must have followed her friend’s directions, but she later had no memory of it. Soon, she watched the large cauldron heating over the fire. A pile of cloths sat alongside a large jar of soap. A clean shirt and a length of tartan. A large, plain burial cloth that would wrap around his body.
Gowan was dead.
The tears came then, the sorrow poured out of her. Muireall sat with her, holding her and rocking her, and Cat held on to the only person other than Gowan to ever be her friend. Her grief stabbed deep, worse now for knowing that he thought her unfaithful in his moment of death.
* * *
By the time the commotion outside her door told her of his body’s arrival and need for preparation for burial, Cat knew that she could not fail him in his death as she had in his life. She pushed all the pain and grief aside and stood to receive his body back into the cottage they’d shared here.
Her only glimpse of Munro was just then, as the men carried Gowan inside and placed him on a large, flat piece of wood. His friends stood beside and behind him, watching. And the earl was there as well, for both father and son served him.
Muireall and two servants from the keep stayed with her, but only she cleaned and washed him, preparing him for burial in the morning. The strange thing was that he looked as though he slept. No marks marred his body to tell her how he had died. No signs of recent injuries. Cat stared at his face, willing him to open his eyes and tell her this was all just a mistake.
But he did not.
As she touched the cloth to his jaw, she remembered the first time this lumbering giant of a man stood before her. The scar that ran in a jagged line down his cheek had terrified her, but not more than facing the fate her father had planned for her. She smiled now, cleaning that mark of a previous battle as she thought on how he staged another battle that day—this time for her.
Married once against her will to a brutal man who had died the way he’d lived, she ended up back in her father’s control and faced whatever fate could help to fulfil her father’s ambitions. Still recovering from the beatings that ended not only a pregnancy, but also her ability to bear children, her father auctioned her to the highest bidder though not for a marriage this time. This time she would simply be whored out to pay for her father’s whims and wishes.
Lifting up his hand, she washed between his fingers and up his arm. His sword arm. The tears flowed freely now as she went about this intimate task.
He’d been travelling through the edges of MacKenzie lands, where the chief’s power thinned and waned, and witnessed some of it, He learned more by questioning her neighbours and kin. Then he walked into the middle of the haggling, tossed a sack of coins at her father and drew his sword and dagger, daring anyone to stop him from taking her.
Cat traced the cloth down the length of his leg, washing off the dirt and then drying his skin. The other women stood silent witness to her ablutions and none tried to speak as she moved around her husband’s body. They handed her a clean, hot cloth when she needed one and she continued this task. She washed his other leg and dried it.
His long strides had covered the distance between them and she half-expected her life to end when she glimpsed the fury in his gaze. He dragged and carried her out of the clearing and back to his horse. They did not stop until they’d reached the rest of his group of MacLerie warriors. There he’d offered her a meal and a choice—marriage to him or she could go wherever she wanted.
