Her ankle now neatly bound, Muirne hobbled out of the room to do as she was bade.
The blanket on the bed was actually three blankets of a good size. The weaving was of excellent quality, and the colors of the wool were vivid and bright. A weaver among the MacCurrans had a true talent.
Isabail dipped her hand into the bucket. The water was so cold, it sent a shiver up her arm, but she splashed a little on her face anyway. It felt good to wipe the grime of two days’ travel from her skin.
Muirne returned a few moments later with the broom and a bright spot of color on each cheek. “A problem, my lady.”
“What is it?”
“There’s none of your belongings to be had,” the maid said, not meeting her gaze.
“That’s not possible. I saw that man Graeme pick up several of my gowns and my tortoiseshell comb.”
Muirne sighed. “Aye, but they’ve been given to other women in the camp. MacCurran women.”
Isabail felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. “My serge blue cotehardie? And the chemise with pink lilies embroidered on the sleeves?” Two of her favorite items.
“Aye,” the other woman verified, her voice little more than a whisper.
“And what am I expected to wear?” wailed Isabail. The pale blue gown she had chosen as a travel dress had not fared well. The soft wool had wrinkled badly, especially at the elbows and underarms. Mud had stained the hem a permanent shade of brown, and a large smear of soot had sullied the cord-trimmed bodice. That was in addition to the general wear caused by her primitive travel conditions.
“Beathag says that’s what the extra blanket is for. To wear while you wait for your dress to dry.”
Isabail’s legs went numb. She sank onto the mattress, absolutely shocked. She couldn’t even imagine letting the scratchy wool touch her bare skin. Who knew where those blankets had last been? They could be home to vermin.
“What did I do to cause God to punish me so?” she asked. “I don’t think I can endure this.”
Muirne bustled into the room, sweeping the cobwebs from the corners. “Of course you can. You survived all those years with your da, didn’t you? This is not nearly as challenging.”
Isabail blinked away the tears in her eyes. She’d never spoken about her father with anyone except her brother, John. “What do you know of my father?”
Muirne stopped sweeping and met her gaze. “What everyone knew. That he was a drunken abuser of women.”
Isabail’s jaw dropped. “Who told you that?”
“We’re not fools. His drunken rages may have taken place behind closed doors, but sounds carry very well inside a castle.”
“But no one said anything.”
Muirne shrugged. “He was the earl. What was there to say?”
“Did you know—” Nay, she couldn’t ask about her mother. Not out loud. Doing so would make that horrible night a reality... and she preferred to pretend that it wasn’t. She’d never even shared the truth with John. He’d had suspicions and had made broad hints that he knew what their father had done, but the words were never spoken. And it was better that way. “Never mind. This is hardly the same situation.”
Muirne arched a brow. “Are we not at the mercy of an angry madman?”
That coaxed a faint smile to Isabail’s lips. “True enough.”
“Then there is no one better suited to dealing with this MacCurran fiend than you.” Muirne pointed the twig end of the broom at Isabail. “So, how did you handle your da?”
“Well,” said Isabail dryly, “the first thing was to stay out of his way as much as possible. Unfortunately, I have little control over that here.”
“What else?”
“Ensured the castle ran as smoothly as possible, so he had less reason to be angry.” Isabail shook her head. “Plenty of things here to anger a man.”
Muirne nodded. “That’s where you begin, then.”
“This place is in shambles,” Isabel agreed. “If no one else will see to my comforts, then I suppose I’ll have to arrange it myself.”
