“Nothing.” Hazel managed a tight smile. “Safe travels back to Oban.”
The woman, Beth, flashed her a grin. “Och, we’ll be glad to be home.” She glanced toward the merchant’s cart a few yards away in the barmkin. A grizzled man was tidying up after a busy day. However, the wagon was nearly empty now, following a summer of trading across Mull. “My Gordon has been itching to get back. We leave at dawn tomorrow, God willing.”
“I shall wish ye good day then,” Hazel replied before turning away, her basket of herbs heavy on her arm. The wind gusted through the courtyard. Lads were carrying bags of grain from one of the storehouses to the kitchen. Warriors were sparring with their fists, bare knuckles bound with linen, not far from the pit, their shouts and grunts echoing off stone. The smell of roasting mutton drifted from the kitchens. They were normal sights, smells, and sounds in a castle’s barmkin.
But nothing felt normal.
The sense of wrongness that had descended upon Hazel after Craeg’s departure was now an oppressive weight upon her shoulders.
She climbed the tower steps, each one an effort. Her body ached with weariness that had nothing to do with physical labor. It had been a wretched day—whispers following her everywhere, sidelong glances, conversations that stopped when she approached.
Besom. Strumpet. Quean.
Aye, she’d heard all the murmured insults. Initially, she’d let them wash over her. But after a day of it, she felt tender. Bruised. All she wanted was the sanctuary of her bedchamber, to close the door on the world for a while.
Aye, she’d had a fighting spirit earlier in the day, but her armor had cracks in it now—fissures where doubt was starting to take root.
“Hazel.”
A voice roused her, and she halted on the landing, one hand on the wall. Liza stood in the doorway to the lady’s solar. Her expression was veiled.
“Can I have a word?”
Hazel swallowed. It was phrased as a question, yet it wasn’t. “Of course, Lady Liza.”
Pulse skittering, she followed Craeg’s mother into the chamber. It was much smaller than the chieftain’s solar, yet a more intimate and feminine space. A large tapestry, depicting a rural scene, hung from the longest wall opposite a narrow window where the late afternoon light filtered in, along with a strong draft. The sacking was still rolled up. Embroidered cushions decorated every seat, and bunches of dried lavender hung from the heavy beams crisscrossing the ceiling. A guttering hearth burned at one end of the room, its glow illuminating Liza’s serious face as she lowered herself into one of the high-backed chairs.
“Hazel!” Lena looked up when she entered, flashing her a warm smile. The lass sat upon a bench seat at the window, embroidering. The wind stirred her dark hair. “I haven’t seen ye all day.”
No, she hadn’t. Hazel had deliberately avoided Craeg’s family.
“Lena, would ye give us a moment?” Liza’s voice was gentle but firm.
The lass’s gaze flickered between her mother and Hazel, her smile fading. “Aye, Ma.” Setting aside her needlework, she slipped past Hazel with an apologetic glance.
The door whispered shut behind her.
Silence followed, heavy and uncomfortable.
Liza gestured to the chair opposite. “Sit … please.”
Hazel did as bid, although she found herself perched there, like a nervous sparrow.
Meanwhile, Liza settled back in her chair.However, she didn’t pick up the embroidery project she’d been working on. Instead, she observed her with a gaze that was both frank and assessing.
“Ye are a good woman, Hazel … and a skilled herb-wife. I’m grateful for how ye help others … and how ye helped me.” She paused then, a muscle flickering in her jaw. “But this … what’s happening between ye and my son … it troubles me.”
Warmth crept up her neck. “Lady Liza,” she began. “I—”
“Please… let me finish.” The real concern in Liza’s eyes made her chest clench. “Craeg is young. Passionate. He feels things deeply and acts on those feelings without thinking through the consequences.”
“He’s old enough to know his own mind, Lady Liza.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended. Defensive.
In response, Liza favored her with a tight smile.
Tension crackled between them, and Hazel fought the urge to drop her gaze to her lap, to where her fingers had knotted together.
“Ye are older than Craeg,” Liza continued, her tone still gentle. “Old enough to understand what this will cost him. The broken betrothal. The dishonor. The political ramifications.”
