“His ancestor, mistress?”
“Aye, Duncan. Surely ye ken that he is descended from Mican MacGillean.”
“Who?”
“Did ye no’ listen to the bard Finlay’s stories when he was here to tell them? He told o’ Mican MacGillean and his treachery.”
They exchanged yet another glance as if they thought she had indeed lost her senses.
“Aye, mistress, everyone listened to Finlay’s wonderful stories. But those were just that—stories. Tales meant to entertain.”
“Were they?” Or had they been direct appeals to her, to remember?
“Even if the bard’s tales were true,” Dougal objected, “the quarrels o’ which he told were ancient ones, almost fro’ the beginning o’ time, and have nay bearing on the present day.”
“So ye would ha’ me wed wi’ a man whose forebears had nay honor, would ye? Who might well ha’ treachery at his heart?”
“Mistress,” Dougal said, “I would at least ha’ ye answer his missive that we might ha’ nay quarrel wi’ him now.”
“Fine.” Katrin tossed her head. “I will answer him. Send his messenger back saying my answer is nay.”
Her advisors shifted around her uneasily. “Ye canna do that,” ventured one. “Ye maun send a letter right and proper—polite—in reply. Ye may no’ realize it, mistress, but wi’ the country in the present perilous state—”
“I understand precisely what state the country is in.” Near broken. Even its leaders, such as Robert Stewart, held in ignominy.
“Then ye will comprehend ’tis wise and politic to keep a neighbor like MacGill sweet, since we may one day ha’ need o’ him.”
Katrin lifted her chin and looked the old man in the eye. “Would ye ha’ me lie to him then? I will no’ wed wi’ him. Best to be honest about it.”
“But then—wha’ will become o’ us? Wi’out an heir—”
“I canna think on that now. Gi’ me some room to breathe, for heaven’s sake.”
She fair shouted it at them, and they backed off, Dougal lifting a hand to warn his fellows.
“To be sure, Mistress Katrin, ye be still grieving yer father and all the others lost in the south.”
Aye, she still grieved. No end to her grief.
“Shall I write to Chief MacGill,” Dougal suggested, “and advise ye require more time to consider his offer?”
“Nay. Ha’ I no’ said I refuse to lie to the man?” Katrin thought of MacGill, whom she well remembered. At least twice her age, aye. He was loud and bluff and opinionated, and as far the opposite of Finlay as a man could be. Och, after so many generations, he might well have little in common with his treacherous ancestor.
Katrin was in no frame of mind to take the chance.
“I will write to him,” she decided. “And I will be courteous.”
She sweated over that letter. She did not read or write easily, and in the end kept her reply as simple as she could, thanking Oran MacGill for being a strong ally to her father in the past, saying that she hoped he would be the same to her in the future if the need arose, but stating with certainty she could not accept his offer of a marriage alliance—for she had no illusions it was anything else.
She gave no reason.
Then she walked up to her da’s grave, there, where so many of her blood lay sleeping, and told him what she had done. Asked his forgiveness. For in the welter of doubt and confusion that was her mind, she very much feared making another mistake.
Trust,he seemed to tell her in return.Trust in the turning of the wheel. In the ancient promise.
Or maybe what she heard was only her own heart.
Chapter Forty-Seven
