The Chieftain's Curse Page 7

  “No,” she squealed, “I wouldn’t have him take you in dislike. Women are more tactful. I will reassure him that we will be safe here. It has been many months since we had a real home.”

  The word safe lingered in his thoughts. Cragenlaw was a long way from Roslyn. Had she and her brother been running from someone, a not unheard of event in these lawless times?

  He pulled his feathered bonnet over his thick ruffled hair, and with a quirk of his eyebrows, asked, “How is it?”

  “Let me,” she stood on tiptoe and twitched the bonnet to one side. “That’s better. Your eagle feathers stand proud now,” she said, smiling, a sly curve to her lips and a twinkle in her eye.

  Hellfire, this one was sauncy. If she kept glancing at him that way, more than his eagle feathers would be standing proud. A calming breath filled his lungs. It was time to welcome Comlyn to his hall. “I would have you fetch some food to my apartments and eat up here instead of the hall.”

  She touched the Celtic decoration on the hilt of his sword and said, “Mhairi thought there might be trouble.”

  “Only if Comlyn feels he has enough warriors to fend off our neighbours to the northwest by himself. No, it’s the amount of ale and wine they will consume that is sure to cause trouble. I had them leave their weapons at the gatehouse, much to Comlyn’s ire. But, knowing the kind of household Comlyn keeps, his men will expect the maids to be fair game. I’ll have someone sleep across the door.”

  Within minutes, Euan sprang down the tower steps to the hall, faster than he had this morning with the chopping up of the yew tree ahead of him. He hoped Astrid’s father wouldn’t prolong his visit once they had buried his daughter. One night, maybe two should be enough. Though Erik the Bear was known to be a man of large appetites, Euan would still be happier that the man didn’t hear of Morag warming his bed, at least, not whilst he was residing under the McArthur roof.

  It had been months since his own appetites had been satisfied; he could hardly recollect the last time he had filled a woman. Once Astrid discovered she was with child, she had worried that their coupling would harm the baby. Poor lass, she had been determined to give him a son, and he’d loved her for that, if for nothing else.

  The pity of it was that none of his wives had made his blood run hot, not the way it had when he held Morag. His heart had thundered in his chest as if he had run on foot from Stonehaven to Cragenlaw, uphill all the way. And he knew it wasn’t the long lack of a good ride that had made his insides tremble.

  The afternoon would pass at a snail’s pace. And over dinner, Comlyn would expect him to keep pace with his drinking. The trick was not to fill his cup overfull. He didn’t intend his first night with Morag to be spoiled by too many drunken toasts.

  Erik the Bear had arrived at the great hall when Euan entered. Now was the time to put away all thoughts of the ways he would take his satisfaction when he reached his apartments that night.

  Since she couldn’t find Nhaimeth, Morag covered her head with her plaid, huddled in its folds and made her way to the stables. Rob would help. Soon the McArthur and his guests would troop from the chapel across the causeway and climb the brae opposite the castle. There they would lay Astrid in the ground beside the McArthur’s first two wives.

  What had occurred between her and Euan in the bedchamber was of little account, except to confirm Mhairi’s assessment of men.

  It mattered naught. Euan had married to beget sons, and now three of them would lie on the brae below the tall cairn raised for his father—a sight that must surely draw a pang of remorse when he reached the brae’s rounded crown.

  How many times had he made this journey with Cragenlaw at his shoulder, a view of the North Sea ahead of him, and nothing but foaming waves on the horizon? In the outer bailey, the stables were busy. Bustling lads in strange colours brushed more destrier than she’d seen in one place since leaving her father’s hall.

  She tried not to think upon the Wolf too often. Although they had been estranged, he hadn’t cast her out. He had been her rock, and the Moor had smashed it with a callous fist.

  “Have you seen Rob of Roslyn?” she asked of an older man who was filling troughs with water.

  A jerk of his head sufficed for direction. His, “Above,” lifted her eyes to a straw filled loft where a ladder propped.

  She swiftly surveyed the stables, but everyone appeared intent on their own affairs. She climbed the ladder and espied Rob with Nhaimeth, sitting amongst the straw, chunks of bread in their hands. “So there you both are, Rob and Nhaimeth, filling their bellies when there’s work to be done.”

  “Pooh,” Rob’s nose curled in disdain. “I’ve been working hard since before sun up, but the squires with Erik the Bear think that no one but them can care for a fine destrier.”

  “All to the good,” Morag nodded. “Nhaimeth and I have a task to take care of, and a strong lad who can wield a shovel is just what we need.”

  The Fool’s eyes narrowed as he tossed a sideways glance at Rob. “Do you think…?” he began, until she shushed him.

  “I do think,” she reassured Nhaimeth. “What we three shall do this day is fitting. You have secrets tucked away in your breast, as do we. Not to be shared, but something in common to make us allies.”

  Nhaimeth nodded his agreement. “But let us wait until Comlyn and his company depart to bury my Lady. Believe me; the Bear will thank nae one for a sight of my ugly face.”

  “As you will. Both of you meet me in the brewery once they have gone.” She bobbed down the ladder then popped up again, until she viewed two pair of feet, large and small, sticking out of the straw. “Rob, don’t forget the spade.”

  The priest fawned. He was still there because not even God’s representative had been able to get out of the castle until they’d removed the yew. Did Comlyn even notice that the priest chosen to tend to his daughter’s eternal soul, grovelled on bent knees as he and Comlyn entered the chapel, shoulder to shoulder?

  Euan wondered how many hours the so-called servant of God spent praying that the McArthur would not report his abject failure as a priest, a man, a human being?

  Astrid’s shrouded body lay on a litter to the left of the Altar, waiting to take one last journey with both husband and father. For knowing that, as a man, he had moved on so soon, Euan could hardly forgive himself. Midway down the aisle’s stone flags, Comlyn grabbed his arm, jerking him to a sudden stop, saying, “We must talk.”

  Euan’s hand reached for his sword hilt. Had the Bear noticed? God’s blood, not content with killing Erik’s daughter, he was prepared to murder her father, and in the chapel no less.

  Behind them, the trailing entourage came to shuddering halt, toes scraping the backs of heels till the vaulted ceiling echoed with gabbling complaints, out of place in a house of worship, until Comlyn turned his head and growled, “Leave us.”

  “Easier said than achieved,” Euan muttered under his breath as Comlyn’s lieutenants, and those of Comlyn’s company for whom sitting above the salt gave them grandiose ideas, juggled places, tangling gemstone-studded scabbards, lightened by the loss of their blades, an ungainly warrior herd that added naught to Comlyn’s safety or dignity.

  Man for man, they’d stand little chance if faced with Euan’s housecarls—which begged the question: Why had Euan ever thought this alliance with Comlyn was in his favour? Disgust blanketed Comlyn’s features. “I said, leave us,” he repeated, then roared, “Get out, I say!”

  No one disobeyed, they didn’t dare. The priest, however, was trapped near the bier, visibly shivering, at Comlyn’s mercy, until the Bear saw him. “You, too. Get out!”

  The priest ran, and for all Euan cared, he could be through the gatehouse by now and scurrying across down the spit in the direction of Stonehaven. Astrid didn’t need a sham of a priest to say words over her. Better her father spoke up for her. He at least had loved her.

  “Now we talk.” Comlyn reached the Altar without taking time to cross himself or kneel in obeisa
nce. Instead he looked troubled. “I want to see Astrid.”

  Euan frowned. “What! Don’t you believe it’s her?”

  “Nae, why would I doubt ye?” He looked away, looked to where Astrid lay, clearly distracted. “She was my eldest child, aye and the bonniest, though my other lassie is fine looking she’s not the jewel that Astrid was … or their mother. Did ye ken that?”

  With a shake of his head, Euan refuted something every man in the northeast knew. Comlyn’s wife had been a jewel. Now he supposed Comlyn was about to shift responsibility, or at least his share of it, and Euan couldn’t blame him. He merely wished he could have loved Astrid so well.

  “Come with me.” He slung an arm round Erik the Bear and gave him a manly clap on the shoulder. There was no other way to say he felt heartsore for the Bear.

  Taking care, Euan pulled aside the furs to reveal Comlyn’s daughter. The older man brushed his palm across the soft fur. “Wolf skin.” he stroked his hand across it again, fingertips skimming Astrid’s face as if by accident. “From your own forests, I expect?”

  Euan wondered when he was actually going to look at Astrid instead of the sly touch he had given his daughter as if to make sure she really was dead. Euan chose ignore what was obviously an aberration on the bluff laird’s part, and said, “Aye, there’s still a few left.”

  “Ye always did well by her, I’ll give ye that.” At last, he glanced down at his daughter’s face. “The baby, I want to see her baby.”

  Euan was taken aback by the sudden change of face. “But … but why,” he gasped. “It’s not right, he—”

  “I have to see him,” as Comlyn’s voice rose, the bear roared. “I must!” His teeth showed in the semblance of a smile and, softer now, he begged, “I must.”

  “Very well, but it’s against nature to unwrap him from his shroud.” Tears clouded Euan’s vision as he held his son once more, something he’d never thought to do. He may not have loved Astrid, but her son, his son, he’d loved before the baby was born and it wasn’t fair of Comlyn to ask this of him.

  “Can I hold him?”

  Euan had an urge to hold the baby tight, to refuse Comlyn—if only he could think up a good enough excuse—but this was his son’s grandfather. He held the baby, his son, out to the Bear.

  He’d thought he could perceive a hint of gentleness in the Bear as he spoke of his wife, but he showed none to the baby. Comlyn patted him all over, even lifting his gown to peer under it. Euan’s hackles rose. “Enough. It’s time to give him back to his mother and lay them both to rest under the sod.”

  Anger made his fingers fumble as he righted the shroud, touching his son’s face a last time before he covered them both with the furs. “It will take two to carry the litter. I was thinking Astrid’s father and me.”

  Shorter than Euan, Comlyn appeared stronger. Yet looks could be deceiving. He had a notion the older man had been living off his reputation for some time now. Still, he didn’t hesitate to grip the handles at the far end of the litter, telling Euan, “Ye were right about the lad, he was a braw baby.”

  Walking to the front of the litter, Euan looked over his shoulder. “I told you so, and I’ve given you reason to doubt my word.”

  “That I didn’t. There was just something I had to know. Nae need to mention it to anyone else.”

  “Right, let’s be off.”

  “I think you should marry Astrid’s sister, Kathryn.”

  The bald comment hit Euan square in the chest above his heart, winding him. It was a wonder Euan didn’t let go his end of the litter and drop his wife and baby.

  Chapter 7

  The brewery was in the lowest level of the keep, cold even in mid-summer. It was said that the brewers had seen the Green Lady down here, and Nhaimeth could understand why. The brewery smelled of growing things, barley, hops, and gave off an aroma that made his mouth water, the way it did when the cook baked bread. In this cool place, his new friend Morag had hidden the afterbirth.

  Until now, no man had called him friend. That’s why the warmth invading his chest as he thought of Morag and Rob felt strange—a sensation he had never known before.

  He heard them coming, Rob first with the shovel lazily bumping its edge on the flagstones. For all he would soon be a man, Rob hadn’t lost his childlike eagerness. It was there when he walked, or gave voice to his love of the war horses he looked after—something, Nhaimeth hadn’t much experience with. Even the little ponies he rode seemed a long way from the ground, but he didn’t have much liking for the alternative: walking. But then, the young lad was in much the same case, having little experience with Fools.

  Rob didn’t expect him to continually be spouting rhymes to mock his betters—or, those who believed they were better.

  A wide flash of teeth split Rob’s face as he confronted him. “Aye, time to go, Nhaimeth, they are carrying McArthur’s lady from the chapel. Did you know Erik the Bear chased everyone but the McArthur out of the chapel? You should have seen them, made me laugh out loud. To be sure it’s hard to stay pompous while shuffling backward, bumping into all those following. There will be complaints over skinned heels and toes tomorrow—and, perhaps, a few sore heads.” He clapped the side of a barrel. “And not only through drinking this stuff. “

  Rob sounded full of cheer, but then he lacked the ties that bound Nhaimeth to Astrid. The lad didn’t suffer the depth of sorrow roiling in Nhaimeth’s little fat gut.

  In truth, he was alone now—more alone than he had ever been his life, without her.

  Self-pity was a curse that might blight his life, yet he couldn’t help but ponder what would happen to him now. Would the McArthur toss him away like so much rubbish, the way his father had soon after his birth, disgusted by the monster he had sired? He wondered, as he often did, whether his life might have been different had his mother lived.

  Morag came up quickly behind her brother and placed a hand on his arm. “Hush now, we don’t want to attract attention, they’ll be coming in here soon enough to fetch ale. The trestles and boards are being assembled for the meal; we need to be done before then.”

  Her eyes were kind when she smiled at him. Like Rob, Morag never treated Nhaimeth as something less, something to look down on, which would be all too easy from her superior height. “Where will be the best place?” she asked. “Do you know of a nice tree?”

  He felt a swift stab of pleasure that she should ask his advice. Astrid was the only one who had ever done that. “There’s a little garden in the nor-east corner of the bailey, where Astrid grew herbs. And there’s a tree she enjoyed sitting under, for it was sheltered from the wind. She loved to speak of the baby, about the son she was certain she would give the McArthur. The poor wee lassie was aye certain that she could succeed where Euan’s other wives had failed him.”

  With a nod of understanding, Morag told him, “I wish she had. We would still have fulfilled this task, but it would have been with lighter hearts.”

  Releasing a long slow sigh between his teeth, Nhaimeth felt the heaviness that had invaded his body dissolve, making him feel less weighty than he had for a long time. “Morag of Roslyn,” he said. “I’m right glad ye came to Cragenlaw, and it’s to be hoped that you and your brother stay. Now, both of ye follow me. I’ll lead the way.”

  “Fetch the pail, Rob,” she ordered, “You’ll find it over in that far corner, behind the barrels.”

  Soon the deed was done, and the afterbirth with essences of both mother and son resided in its own shallow grave between the roots of the tree. Then the three stood, heads bowed, while Morag whispered a prayer. As she spoke, Nhaimeth felt a sense of having done something good by burying this part of both Astrid and the baby, giving it up to the Lady. Lifting her arms high, as if to cup the green of the tree in her hands, Morag gazed into its branches and said, “This tree will be flowering soon, a blessing on what we have done this day.”

  Nhaimeth placed a hand on the trunk, eyes staring into the greenery above until they blurred
with unshed tears. The leaves twisted in the breeze, flickering in sunlight and shadow as his breath caught in his gullet, trapped by his Adam’s apple as a face looked down at him.

  He blinked, and it was gone.

  Was it only imagination, or had the Green Lady thanked them for their offering?

  Aye, Morag had been wise to keep their intentions to herself. There were those, like the priest, who would look askance at the old ways and beliefs. He rocked back on his heels, tiny bells jingling on the hem of his tunic. Then Morag stood between them. Holding out a hand to Rob, she drew him toward the bench where Astrid used to sit. “Come, Nhaimeth.” Her fingers motioned him to join them on the bench. “There is something I must tell you both, and I don’t expect it will bring either of you much joy.”

  He’d an inkling her news wasn’t the kind to make her leap about in the way of a lamb in spring. “Out with it, lass. Put us out of our misery.”

  “Euan … I mean the McArthur, has asked me to be his leman.”

  A growl burred Rob’s words. “Asked or demanded?”

  She patted her brother’s hand, soothing. “A bit of both; however, having thought it through, I’ve decided it suits me fine. Soon it will become obvious I’ve little experience as a maid of all work.”

  True, Nhaimeth thought. For certain, she and Rob didn’t speak with the rough accent, a difference he’d put down to Roslyn practically being in Lothian.

  Rob pouted. “Why does he want you?”

  “He wanted to know why the curse didn’t scare me like it did the others. So, I told him the truth.” She bit her bottom lip till tears welled. She explained to Nhaimeth, “I’m barren. It’s not an attribute a man seeks in a wife, but in a leman it is surely of benefit.”

  “But—”

  Morag read his mind. “No, I’ve never been wed.” A knowing smile lurked around her lips. “Did no one tell you it isn’t necessary for procreation?”

  Nhaimeth replied with a rueful shake of his head.