‘I see your pride in flames. I see a snake uncoiling, a sign of treachery, and I see you humbled to your knees.’ Her blackened nails dug into his hand. ‘Ah. And I see love many times denied.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It is not clear. But your path out of loneliness is dark and twisted with blood and pain. I see a doe, soft she is, and of pure heart, and you, the hunter. As you reach for her with a greedy hand, she runs from you, for your heart is a stone.’
Jasper shook her free. ‘You are no good to me. Folk say you are a healer, but what salve are you?’ Criedne’s wizened face repelled him – the steely glint in her eyes, the skin hanging in folds down a skeletal jaw.
‘Your wound is to your soul, Laird, which roils with guilt, and it is beyond my skill to repair,’ she hissed. ‘You’ll find no happiness until you mend your ways. But I offer this. Go and see the bairn. ‘Twill bring comfort, and ‘tis the first step on your journey.’
Her grey gaze held his with a flame of defiance, and as if under some spell, he turned and left the hall. Jasper was drawn upwards by the sound of a bairn’s wail. He followed it to a chamber and found a young lass seated on a stool by the fireplace, clucking over a wriggling little bundle in her arms. She stood when he entered, tipping the stool over with a clatter. Allhis servants knew to jump when he entered, for he demanded obedience.
‘Why does she cry?’ he said, suddenly fearful. ‘Does she ail?’
The lass reddened. ‘No, Laird. The wet nurse has not come yet. The storm, you see. The bairn is hearty but hungry, that is all, and so I cannot soothe her.’
‘Go and send men to find the wet nurse and bring her here at once. Tell them it is an order, and there shall be no delay.’
‘But, the storm, Laird.’
‘Tell them they can face the storm’s wrath or mine. Now give her to me,’ he said, beckoning with his hand.
The servant hesitated and swallowed hard. ‘You’ll want to sit, Laird. It is easier to hold bairns that way. They wriggle, and ‘tis easy to drop them.’ She pulled the stool upright and bid him sit, then leaned over and placed the bundle in his outstretched arms. ‘Keep the head supported by your arm, for their necks are soft as butter when first born.’
A shock of dark blonde hair was all that was visible, and then the servant took the edge of the blanket and pulled it back, and Jasper saw his daughter’s face. There was a rush of tenderness which brought tears with it, and Jasper struggled to master himself. The bairn’s eyes were squeezed shut. She opened her pink cavern of a mouth. Her hands formed little fists, like pale flowers in bud. Suddenly, she emitted a wail fit to raise the dead. Her cry was so strong that it bound iron coils about Jasper’s heart and instantly mastered him.
Jasper’s world spun and fell, for his daughter was so perfect and beautiful.
‘Go, lass, and fetch the wet nurse,’ he said gently. ‘My daughter is hungry, and I swear she shall want for nothing in this world.’
Chapter Four
It had been two weeks since Wymon Caruther’s visit and yet Cecily’s outrage showed no signs of abating as she paced furiously. ‘Hell will freeze over before I do it, Rowenna.’
‘Cecily, you must calm down.’
‘I will not countenance it. You can’t let Father marry me off to a repulsive man, old enough to be my grandfather.’
‘Well said, lass,’ offered Morag, who had been put to work replacing the old rushes in the hall with fresh ones.
Rowenna had seen snails move faster about their business. She gave the woman a glare and turned back to her sister. ‘Calm yourself while I think of a way to divert our father’s attention elsewhere. I must delay him.’
‘You had better, for I swear I will throw myself from the top of Fallstairs before I wed that old scrotum, Wymon Carruthers, no matter how rich he is.’
‘You will do no such thing, and no good will come of all your screeching.’
Cecily’s temperament had always leaned toward the dramatic. She was far too selfish to end her life for honour’s sake or to marry and thus save the family from ruin, but she was also as stubborn as a donkey. And since the awful Laird Carruthers had offered for her hand, she had taken to leaving Fallstairs and walking about the moors for hours. She had always loved toroam, but of late, it was too much. Cecily would come to grief. It was as if she no longer cared what happened to her.
Once the confusion had been cleared up, and Wymon had clapped eyes on his actual intended – the radiant Cecily - he had been determined to have her as a bride, and now it was as if Rowenna did not exist. Yet their father had not hastened the matter forward, no doubt trying to up his price for selling his eldest daughter into purgatory.
‘I would rather end a shrivelled old maid that let that lecher put a hand on me,’ whined Cecily. ‘The way he looks at me, Rowenna, like he wants to gobble me up.’ She shuddered delicately. ‘I will never do it.’
‘Twould be crying shame, her being so bonnie and all, and even I would baulk at such a creature as Laird Carruthers, though the riches would be nice,’ said Morag, who had always taken Cecily’s side in any argument.
They all fell into silent misery until it was broken by the crunch of an apple.
‘Maybe none of you bitches will be wedding Wymon,’ came a scornful voice from the doorway. Their older brother and long-time tormentor, Bran, leant against it, smirking.
‘Why not?’ said Rowenna, sensing a barb about to be hurled as Bran took another leisurely bite out of the apple.
