Who had the sheer audacity to kill their leader? That thought was seen by the murderous expressions on the faces of the men that had been comrades with the Baron. In their eyes, it would have been better to have slain the King than the Baron.
The very day he had died, scouts had been sent out, ordered to search far and wide and fetter out the blackguard who had dared such a crime. Knights were aching to drag his black-hearted person back to the barony to be drawn and quartered. While the scouts were doing their duty, the body of her father had been sent to be prepared for his burial.
Magdalene had been inconsolable from that day, only a week and a half ago. But now, staring at the man piling dirt over her father’s coffin already lowered into the ground, she felt weak. Magdalene leaned on her mother, who though as devastated as she, was still a bit stronger than she was.
Weak tears, springing from eyes that had gone dry days ago, began to drip down her cheeks. The handkerchief in her hand was sodden and twisted nearly to the point of the cloth unraveling. The question that kept running through her—and everyone's—mind came back again.
Why would someone kill my father by poison?
Thank God, Uncle John had come back from the capital city of Winchester after he had gotten word of his brother’s death, and had taken on the brunt of the family responsibilities when all were at a loss. He was the one who had organized the funeral and he was the one who had sent out more scouts to find out where the poisoned basket had come from and more importantly, who had sent it. He was the sudden backbone that she and her mother had dearly needed.
Magdalene knew her father and her uncle had differences when it came to many things, politics mainly, but that did not stop Uncle John from supporting them when they needed him most.
The parish priest, clad in his funeral garb of surplice and black stole, was standing aside the grave while the burial dirge was being recited. A warm hand rested on her shoulder and Magdalene swiftly met the soft, sorrowful eyes of Uncle John as he was on her other side. His grief was not as distinct as hers and her mother’s, but there was some, as he had lost his only brother.
Her father’s advisors were a circle of drab grey clothes and coats, and his fighting men in all black and leather armor with their swords strapped on their sides and shields at their feet in respect. The graveyard was quiet, not so much because the church frowned on exaggerated outbursts, but more because disbelief over the Baron’s death was still lingering among them.
Lady Larie’s lips were thin under her black veil and her arms were clasped while the priest droned on. Magdalene wished she had half the composure her mother had as tears, again, begun to fall. She counted her breaths, gritting her jaw tight and her eyes closed as the ceremony dragged on.
When the burial was done, Magdalene sucked in a deep breath and began walking back to the house with her mother beside her. Instead of participating in the funeral banquet, Magdalene begged off and retired to her rooms, the image of her dying father still fresh in her mind. She sank onto the bed, still fully clothed.
It’s a dream. It has to be…a night terror. My father is not truly dead…I cannot afford to think so.
She had not planned to drift off, but grief and disbelief, added to fear, pain, and exhaustion, dragged her into a deep sleep, blessedly without dreams or memories of her father dying in the dining hall. It was Mrs. Croft who woke her with a soft touch to her face.
Magdalene resisted at first, a part of her knowing that if she woke up bad memories would overcome her and sorrow would blanket her soul again. But Mrs. Croft was insistent and she sat up with a grimace, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
“What is it?”
“Lord Keswick needs you and your Mother in the antechamber the late Lord Keswick used for his meetings,” Mrs. Croft said, lips pursed. “I can only bring you there as I am excluded from this meeting.”
“Why?” That was the first question out of her mouth. Excluding Mrs. Croft was senseless. The woman had been there from before her birth. Mrs. Croft was family.
“I cannot tell you,” Mrs. Croft said. “Now, please, straighten your gown while I fix your hair.”
Setting her gown to rights, Magdalene spotted darkness out of her window. How long have I slept for?
The funeral had ended at just noon. With a few passes of her brush through her hair and a fresh braiding, she was off to the meeting room.
Curiosity was strong in her mind. What was Uncle John, the new head, planning to do now? The doorway was partly open and she could hear the muffled voices of her uncle and her mother speaking. She did not hear the words exactly but the tones were hard and clipped. Were they having an argument?
She cast an apologetic look to Mrs. Croft as the lady’s lips pinched tightly, she nodded, and walked away. Her mother and uncle paused speaking when she stepped in. From the imbedded line in her mother’s face and the thin press of her uncle’s mouth, she definitely knew they were having an argument.
“Good evening, Mother, Uncle John,” Magdalene greeted as calmly as she could, while smoothing her skirts under her to sit.
Uncle John smiled at her, “I’m sorry to wake you, Magdalene,” he said apologetically. “But we have some serious matters to discuss.”
Why did she feel so anxious? “Like what?”
“I am changing some policies around here,” Uncle John said evenly. “Since I won’t be able to live in Winchester anymore, and there is no sense in keeping two estates, I will be living here and letting go of some of your father’s men to add some of mine.”
Blinking, she nodded, “That… makes sense.”
“For the next few weeks, I’ll be shuffling between here and the capital to make sure of the merge of our estates and transfer of leadership of this family to me,” Uncle John added.
Nodding again, she wondered why she felt that her Uncle was building up to something pivotal. She felt antsy. “I understand.”
“And I will be sending that old nurse of yours to a nunnery because she will be of no use to you anymore,” he added. “You will be married soon.”
Cold lanced down her spine. Before she could speak, Uncle John added, “Magdalene, I don’t know what plans my brother had for you about marriage. He was probably going to allow you to choose who to marry when you were ready, but you are a lady in your prime. Ideally, you should have been married years ago. I won’t force you to marry anytime in the next week or so, but before this year is over, you will have a husband.”
Magdalene looked to her mother for help but the Lady looked away with her lips tight. “Mother, do you agree with this?”
“I…” Lady Larie sighed and folded her hands on her skirts. “Magdalene, your Uncle has a point. You have subverted marriage for too long. I was married to your father when I was eight-and-ten. You are twenty now, I… I do think it’s time.”
There was something strange in her mother’s voice. Something off. She felt, absurdly, that her mother was saying one thing but meaning another. Confused, she looked between them and swallowed. “When will I be married, then?”
“Before Michaelmas,” Uncle John said kindly. “I know it is a lot to take in now but it will be for the best, you’ll see. You know that I only want the best for you.”
It was April now and Michaelmas was in September, so she did have time to choose a suitor. Magdalene nodded, trying to displace the feeling that he too was saying words with another meaning. She did not know what to do or what to say and sat, decidedly uncomfortable as the conversation stuttered another start.
“Do I get to choose my husband?” Magdalene asked hesitantly.
“Yes—” her mother began.
“No.” Her Uncle cut in.
From the corner of her eyes, Magdalene saw her mother’s mouth flatten. Clearly, she disagreed but was not going to argue about it.
“Magdalene,” Uncle John said. “I think it’s best if I do it for you. Don’t worry, I won’t be a tyrant and dismiss your opinions entirely.”
“I
know you won’t,” Magdalene smiled, having total trust in her uncle. The man was not nearly as demanding as her father had been and she had all faith that he would follow through on his words. But why was her mother still upset?
“Mother,” she asked. “Is something wrong? You don’t look too happy.”
“No, no,” Lady Larie said. “No, it’s… your father’s death is still affecting me. I’m sorry for worrying you.”
Again, Magdalene felt that her mother was lying. It was logical for the death of her husband of over thirty years to be draining her but still, something was off. Magdalene frowned but did not say a word.
“Is there anything else?” Magdalene asked.
“Not relating to you,” Uncle John clarified. “There are some administrative decisions I have to make with your father’s advisors and tenants but again, those have nothing to do with you.”
Looking around the room, Magdalene felt a new wave of sorrow that this room would never be the same with her father gone. It must have shown on her face because her mother reached over and took her cold hand. “Go to bed, sweetheart. I’ll bring up some warm milk for you soon.”
Sighing softly, Magdalene nodded, stood up to kiss her mother on her cheek and Uncle John’s, too. “Goodnight.”
Leaving the room, she wondered what she was missing. That meeting had gaps in it and she could feel that some important things had been left out. Her mother was hiding something from her, but what? She had never known her mother to be secretive.
In her room, she disrobed and donned a nightgown, then sat to undo her hair to brush it out. She was running the stiff bristles through her thick tresses when her mother came in, holding a pewter cup of warm milk. But then, she stopped and closed the door behind her. Magdalene frowned and rose to take the cup from her mother.
Settling it on her table she took her mother’s hands. “What is it, Mother?”
Lady Larie’s deep blue eyes were even darker. “It’s John… I know he’s doing his best for us but I don’t trust him, Magdalene. He and your father were at odds for many years and…I feel a different air about him. He was once calm and loving but I feel he has changed. I trust the guidance of God’s spirit, my daughter, and I have never felt more affirmative about the warnings His spirit is now telling me. Listen to me, Magdalene. If anything changes, if he demands more than you can handle, I will make you run.”
“But Mother,” Magdalene said. “He said that—”
“I do not care what he says,” Lady Larie overrode her with narrowed eyes. “I do not take the words of men as any assurance. God’s spirit is much more assuring and I trust His voice of guidance over anything else. If he does what I fear he might do, I will send you off to my sister in Scotland. She will take care of you, Magdalene, as if you were hers.”
“But… you have not spoken to her for years,” Magdalene said in clear hesitation. “How can you be assured about her intentions?”
“I am,” Lady Larie said in her ‘do not question me’, tone while standing. “Drink your milk and get some rest, Magdalene, and remember what I said. If anything goes bad… you will run to her.”
Chapter 4
Ratagan, Clan Williamson, Scotland
Halfway across the humungous dining hall, Angus’ glare was hot enough to burn a hole into the side of Malcolm’s head. The man didn’t look up but he still gave Angus a satisfying flinch. It was nearly two weeks after Malcolm and his friends had cooked up the foolish plan of going to find the witch, but Angus was still not over how stupid his brother had been.
“Are ye a goddamn dobber, Malcolm?” Angus had growled when he had found him that evening. “What on this God-given land made ye think ye can go and just confront the witch by yerself?”
He had found Malcolm—a drunk Malcolm—at the edge of the forest with a half-empty tankard of whiskey in his hand. He had grabbed his brother with one hand and had pierced his brother’s friends, Alistair, Roran, and Cinead, with a scalding look.
“I will deal with ye three later,” Angus had growled, while throwing Malcolm over his saddle.
He joined him and rode off to the citadel with Malcolm growling and grunting under his breath. The ride was not that far and when they got to the courtyard, Malcolm had pushed off the saddle, flopped on his ass and canted to the side, retching up the alcohol he had drunk. Riding while slumped across the horse with his head hanging down one side had upset his stomach but Angus had felt no sympathy for him.
Now, Angus could barely look at him over his cup of tea in the dining hall. Malcolm had not met his eyes since that day but he was sure his brother was not foolish enough to even think of making the same mistake again. Huffing under his breath, Angus went back to his main problem—how to get rid of the witch.
He was sure that if Malcolm had gone and confronted her, he would be in the ground next to Rodham and Bhaltair. He glared down at the swirling brown dregs in his cup. After rescuing Malcolm from his own stupidity, he had gone to see the priest, but the man had been as helpful as if he had asked a rock the questions. Luckily, there had not been any more casualties from the witch and for that, Angus was thankful, however, he still did not know what to do.
“Wanting wine instead of tea?” The melodic voice of his four-and-ten-year-old sister, Ailsa, said teasingly.
His sourness was mollified a little and he spun to his baby sister. Nae that much of a baby anymore, is nae she. Ailsa was getting tall, nearly brushing his collar bone and her dark auburn hair could be mistaken for brown if one did not look too closely. She had the same eyes as he and his brother but sadly, she had the same mischievous spirit Malcolm had.
“Nay,” Angus shook his head to reach out and hug her. “Did ye grow six inches last night, sister? Ye need to stop growin’. Nae man wants to marry a beanstalk.”
Her fist struck his stomach and Angus pretended to grimace. “All right, all right, settle down, Valkyrie. What dae ye want?”
“Nothin’,” Ailsa sighed, as her eyes flicked to the nearest window. “Just… I ken yer tryin’ to get rid of that witch but yer killin’ yerself doing it. Have you looked into a mirror lately? Yer face has more black bags than our storehouse with those ten-pound gunny sacks of coal.”
Angus’ brows disappeared into his hairline. When had his shy sister gotten so bold?
“Ye dae ken that I’m daeing this for all of us?” Angus said.
Ailsa’s eyes narrowed. “I ken and I dae thank ye, but yer going about it the wrong way. Ye staying up at night is nae going to magically make the witch drop dead.”
“She’s right, son,” Lady Isobel’s voice chimed in. “You look tired beyond measure some days.”
Angus felt like he was being ambushed and turned accusatory eyes on both women. “Did ye two plan this?”
“Nay,” Ailsa rolled her expressive eyes. “But even if we did, ye ken it’s true. Take a look in the mirror, Angus. Ye look just dragged from the grave.”
Grimacing, Angus ran a hand through his hair and grimaced at the grime he felt. When was the last time he had washed his hair? Furthermore, when was the last time he had gotten more than two or three hours of sleep?
Staring at his palm coated with almost invisible grime he sighed. “Ye have a point.”
Looking around the room he felt the conflicting urge to go to his room and have a long bath and having ten hours of sleep, while a part of him wanted to stay in the dining hall and then go wrack his brain once more to find the solution to the witch problem.
“They will survive without ye looking over them,” Lady Isobel said sagely while resting a hand on his arm. “Go get some rest, son. I will send up the bathwater for ye.”
It was when taking the staircase to his room that Angus felt the exhaustion his mother had spoken about. His legs suddenly felt anchored to stone blocks with the effort he took into lifting them. When he did get there, he collapsed on the nearest chair in his room.
With heavy lids, he watched his wooden bathtub being filled and when the helper
s were gone, managed to disrobe and sink into the water with fatigue running double through his muscles.
He was tempted to fall asleep there in the warm soothing water but managed to stay awake to clean himself and wash his hair. His lids were heavy and he did stumble when getting out but dried off with a towel. He managed to drag on a plaid before tumbling into his bed to sleep like the proverbial dead.
When he woke it was to the song of morning birds. Angus rubbed his face to wipe away the lingering sleep. If it was morning, it meant that he had slept over twenty-three hours since he had gone to bed after breakfast yesterday. Had he been that worn-out? He had missed lunch, dinner, and supper, for God’s sake. Shuffling up, he raked his fingers through his freshly washed hair and smiled at the renewed energy he could feel in his body.
The Highlander's Fiery Bride: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 3