Isabella knew a tug of guilt. She had never spared a thought for what her family might be going through in these last days. Her nephew had always been a hale and hearty child, but even the strongest boy could weaken and die in the perilous years of childhood. She pulled her cloak further over her shoulders. “How is Lucan now?”
“Praise God, the fever has broken.” Morwenna gave her a small smile. “Although darling Mirrie has now taken ill, perchance with exhaustion and worry as much as anything else.”
Isabella gulped. Ahead of her stood the mighty keep of Wolvesley Castle. Built on a scale to intimidate and impress, its defenses had never once been breached. Inside these walls, she had believed her family to always be safe.
“I’m sorry,” Isabella whispered.
“You were not to know.” Morwenna took a breath. “I cannot answer for aught else. Speak to Tristan in the morn, when you have slept and bathed and become more yourself.”
Isabella’s thoughts spun around in a tight circle. She hugged her arms about herself and looked down at her scuffed boots on the immaculately cleared path. “I am not the woman I was,” she began.
“Aye, you have learned something new about yourself. I can see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice,” Morwenna interrupted. “But you are still Isabella de Neville. Still the Rose of England. It will do no harm to remind people of that. Especially when you are petitioning for their help.”
Isabella thought back to her days at Westchester, and how she would don a pretty dress as if it was a suit of armor, readying herself for battle. Back then, ’twas as if her gowns and jewels were the mainstay of her days. Now she knew there was so much more to life. But she recognized that her mother was right; there was still a sort of power to appearance.
Power which she could channel to Hamish’s cause.
The prospect of a warm bed was most alluring. Up above, the bright lights of the keep beckoned her home.
Immediately, she was flooded with guilt, like a drenching from a pail of water. “I cannot go inside and rest in comfort whilst Hanish languishes in the dungeon. He is injured and had only me to tend to his wound.” She closed her eyes at the memory of the deep and jagged cut up on the cold and lonely moors. “He needs a healer, Mother. As well as food and drink.”
Morwenna eyed her speculatively. “And if I promise to provide all of this, you will go into the keep and do as I ask?”
Isabella wanted to protest that she should visit Hamish and personally oversee what care was provided for him. But she could see it was a battle she had no hope of winning.
“I will,” she said.
“You will eat?” Morwenna raised her eyebrows.
Isabella’s stomach rumbled traitorously. “If you promise to take food to Hamish.”
Morwenna put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Do not doubt me, child. You are home now. All shall be well.”
With that, Morwenna turned and walked gracefully back toward the courtyard, leaving Isabella to complete the journey to the keep alone. As she climbed the wide stone steps, she thought of her mother’s words, taking comfort from the knowledge that these castle walls housed the people she loved and trusted most in all the world.
She paused by a stone lion, made villainous by the flickering shadows created by torchlight overhead. The lion was cold to her touch and she stepped away, irrationally afraid. Behind her, the famous Wolvesley fountain was silent and unmoving; the deep water in the pool still half frozen. Isabella took a deep, ragged breath.
Even Wolvesley Castle was not invulnerable to change.
And on the morrow, she would have to face Lord Gaunt.
Chapter Seventeen
Hamish snuggled furtherdown into the blankets and turned his face from the weak shaft of sunlight that had disturbed his repose. With his eyes still closed, his sluggish brain calculated that it must be past dawn. The long hours of the night were behind him. Against all the odds, he had slept deeply and he could already tell that his aching body was much recovered.
Hamish frowned, stretched his long limbs on the comfortable straw pallet, and slowly opened his eyes.
Nay, he was not dreaming, he still lay in the cell where de Neville’s men had thrown him the day before. In front of him was the iron-studded oak door, bolted from the outside, no doubt. The cell was dimly-lit by an air shaft above his head. The stone floor was bare and the granite walls ran with damp. But Hamish was warm.
Am I feverish?
He sat up and his blankets fell away. Someone had come here in the night and tucked them around him. Someone with a soft voice and ministering hands. A face snagged the edges of his memory. A woman, fair-haired, slender and strong.
Isabella?
Nay, this woman was a sight older than Isabella. She had dressed his wound and held wine to his lips. Unless his mind was playing tricks on him, she had even insisted the guards bring in a second straw pallet to sit atop the first. No wonder he had slept so well.
Hamish swung his legs to the floor, moving cautiously in case his arm put out a painful protest. All was as he remembered, from the double pallet to the flask of wine in the corner. Beside it was a cloth-covered basket. He shuffled over, squatted down and found bread.
