Two days later, Cait was caught in a storm. She didn’t have any choice but to trudge through the mud to the nearest inn. Once there, with the rains prevailing, she spent far more money than she intended on a room to keep her dry until they passed. Taking stock of her account, Cait realized that she would have to find more soon, or else conserve very strictly.
She couldn’t do without food. Perhaps it was her pregnancy, but going even more than a few hours without a bite left her lightheaded and dizzy. That meant that she had to sleep out of doors. She spent the first night in a soggy pile of hay, and the second in a barely more comfortable barn.
By the time that she had been gone a week, Cait was beginning to despair. She thought that she ought to have been out of the Frasure lands by now, but none of the roads followed a straight enough path to determine where she was going. She wasn’t used to the mountains. The bare rock and dry brush all blended together and looked the same.
Then, she realized that some of it was the same.
Cait was absolutely positive that she’d spent the night in the town of Kilgannon during the rain-a suspicion that was confirmed when the innkeeper greeted her by name. “Come to call again, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” She asked, using the name that Cait had perversely chosen as her alias. “Need another room?”
Cait shook her head “no”. “Only a meal, if you’d please,” she said, counting the money that she’d allotted for nourishment that day and discovering, to her despair, that it wouldn’t cover a private table. She was forced to sit down in the tavern.
“Oh! Come to eat with the common men!” one of the occupants immediately bellowed, giving Cait’s figure a frankly appraising glance.
“Looking for company?” another called.
“Leave the poor luv alone!” the innkeeper’s wife hollered back, “Can’t you see the little lamb’s frightened enough. Probably run off from her husband…” Cait was certain that she hadn’t been meant to hear this last. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile when she considered that the older lady’s guess was correct-albeit probably for reasons other than those which were suspected.
“Awww, need to earn a bit of silver, luv?” one man, a fat, booming redhead, called merrily.
“Always ready to do your part for the less fortunate, eh Colin?”
Cait felt a wave of humiliation when she realized what the men were implying. Surely she’d never be reduced to whoring? Unbidden, came the memory that her mother had certainly stooped that low: in practice if not in name. Cait’s stomach lurched at this realization. She couldn’t imagine letting a stranger touch her! She couldn’t imagine sharing anything so intimate with any man but Ewan!
“Looking rather peaky, luv!” the proprietress of the tavern clucked.
Cait nodded miserably. Then, when a second wave of sick burned the back of her throat, she popped out of her chair. “I won’t be needing the meal after all,” she managed-before sprinting out the door. She made it as far as the road again before she was violently ill.
The few townspeople milling past pretended not to see. Cait rushed past them, heading for the well to rinse her mouth, and then heading back out of town, stomach empty but too sick and discouraged to return to the inn. She kept walking until she reached the crossroads at the edge of the village.
She remembered clearly taking the left fork before. This time she went right, thinking that she couldn’t end up any place worse. She was surprised when, near nightfall, she found herself not at another town, but in the presence of a sprawling castle instead.
Castle Frasure-or so Cait assumed from the pennants flying overhead-was nothing like Castle Cameron or Eilean Donan. Unlike the squat, impenetrable structures of the castles she had seen before, there was an airy, graceful character to the building that had more to do with art than with strong defenses.
She supposed that this made sense. Someone (Ewan?) had told her once that the Frasures had been blessed with peace. The Camerons had been too distracted warring with the MacRae’s to court another enemy, and the Frasures’ eastern neighbor was the sea. To the South were a string of small clans, none powerful enough to pose a threat. The Frasures’ isolation, neutrality, and the fact that they’d never really declared themselves for a candidate for the crown meant that they did not attract English notice.
There was a wall, of course, but it appeared more decorative than functional. The castle “house” was filled with wide, glass-paned windows, and there wasn’t even a proper gate! Cait was so fascinated by the structure that she couldn’t help but creep closer. She found herself delighted with each new detail that emerged.
Perpendicular to the main structure there was a handsome stable. There were kitchen gardens, formal gardens and, finally, a pretty orchard. Some of the early fruits were already ripe. Looking at them made Cait’s stomach rumble.
Surely the Frasures could spare just one or two? Cait thought, feeling the worryingly dwindled pile of silver in her pocket. Quickly making her decision, she laid down her bundle of luggage and started for one of the trees.
She reached for one of the smaller fruits first, intending just to have a bite, but it was so delicious that she couldn’t stop herself from taking a second…and then a third, letting the delicious juice run down her cheeks as she ate herself full for the first time in days. It felt so good not to be hungry! Cait yawned drowsily and looked for a soft bit of earth to take a nap. She turned to get her pack, but hadn’t gone more than a few steps before she froze.
A man was standing at the edge of the orchard. She looked at him and gasped. Then, almost instinctively, she started to run.
“Stop, thief!” he yelled, and started after her.
Ewan sat at his uncle’s desk-at his desk, Ewan reminded himself, still mostly disbelieving the notion-and looked anxiously out the narrow window. For what must have been the hundredth time that day, he scanned the horizon, expecting to see the English at any moment.
He had been at the castle for a week. Six days had passed since he buried his uncle, and took his place behind the swearing stone. The men of the clan had pledged their allegiance and declared him Laird-an event which ought to have been deeply satisfying-but it had all been performed in a shadow. There hadn’t been any word whatsoever on the English position. His scouts had reported nothing unusual-a fact which should have been comforting, but had the opposite effect. He knew that the enemy was out there-but where?
They weren’t at Eilean Donan, at least. Lachlan had sent a message the day after Ewan’s arrival, offering his condolences for the old Laird and advising his new counterpart that the MacRae fortress was still secure. He was using the time to rebuild his defenses and to stockpile supplies-and suggested that Ewan do the same. Of course, both these thoughts had already occurred to his brother-in-law. Ewan had put into action every plan that he could think of: preparing rations, filling cisterns, making arrows-but it was so frustrating to lie in wait, waiting for a trap to spring.
Someone was aiding them.
Ewan couldn’t shake a feeling that the English weren’t working alone. They were finding it far too easy to sneak onto his lands, and then to steal away again. He suspected that someone was harbouring and advising them-but who? It could only be a Cameron. No one else would know the land, or the castle to well.
Trying to shrug off his malaise, Ewan turned his attention to a letter of his own that he was trying to write to his wife. He smoothed the brittle parchment against the blotter and reread the single line that he had penned. He had spent more than half the morning on the endeavour, and all he had to show for it was:
My Dearest Cait,
What was she doing, he wondered. Was she still safe? Even though he knew that it was unlikely, he’d harboured a hope that Cait would try to send him word. He’d sent more scouts east than in any other direction and, perhaps unwisely, ordered twice the usual amount of men to stay behind and defend the Frasure border towns. He couldn’t bear the thought of anything bad happening to her-especially not when all their dre
ams were so close to coming true.
Ewan felt terribly guilty for the way he felt, but he couldn’t completely squelch a tiny bit of glee that his promise to his uncle had been squelched by the old man’s death. He hadn’t felt that he could name Ewan as his successor if he possessed an English wife-now, however, that theory had been proven untrue. Ewan was the Laird. There was no dissention. The clansmen were too focused on the war to worry about their leader’s domestic affairs. If-when, Ewan corrected-he led them out of this shadow, he was certain that no one would have any cause to complain.
Ewan picked up his quill again, intending to pen another line, but got no further than dipping the nib in ink before he was distracted again, this time by the thunder of hoofbeats.
The new Laird squinted toward the horizon as he tried to make out the direction of the sound. Looking east, he made out the figure of a lone rider, rushing up the castle lane, clearing on a mission of great import.
With a mingled rush of relief and panic, Ewan left his chambers. He hurried down the flights of stone stairs in the tower, and was at the courtyard almost at the same time that the rider dismounted his horse.
“I need to see the Laird!” the man-a boy, really, with scraggly, straw-coloured hair and mud brown eyes-declared breathlessly.
“I’m the Laird,” Ewan answered, still self-conscious of the title. “What’s happened? Is it about the English?”
The boy nodded his head. “I’ve come from the fighting, sir!”
“Fighting? Where?” Ewan’s skin prickled with misgiving. Everleigh’s men had last attacked the Camerons, to the west, and the southern borders. However, the rider had clearly taken the Frasure road.
“East, sir!” the boy continued anxiously, “East on the Frasure border. They might’ve attacked the Frasure lands too, sir. I don’t know. I came straight away.”
“Along the road?” Ewan asked, suspiciously.
“Aye, sir,” the boy said, nodding emphatically. “They didn’t come by the road, sir. They looked to take the hill pass, up river from Shreve.”
Ewan paled when he realized how close the boy’s words placed the fighting to Glen Mohr.”
“What happened?” he demanded, barely noticing the sizable crowd that had gathered around the pair.
“Surprise attack, sir,” the boy said.
“My pa reckoned they were trying to convince the Frasures to keep out of the fight. They came out of nowhere and burned three villages to the ground before we could rally the men. Then they slipped away again, back into the hills.
Ewan nodded, but frankly wasn’t as concerned with the English army’s current location as he ought to have been. “What villages?” he pressed.
The boy’s eyes gleamed, and he looked at his feet, unwilling to let the tears be seen by the assembled clansmen. “Walton, sir…and Dunbatton.”
“And?”
“And…and Glen Haven, Laird.”
“The village and the surrounding towns?” James’ voice chimed in. Ewan was grateful. He had lost the power of speech.
The boy nodded, “All that was close: burned and emptied. There weren’t many of us who made it away.”
“But….Muira,” James said, his voice cracking. Unlike the messenger, he seemed to have no inhibitions about letting his emotions show. “Muira and the children…”
One of Ewan’s captains, the Laird’s old adviser, intervened. “Did you see Laird MacRae’s family among them?”
“Or Cait?” Ewan added in a whisper.
The boy looked warily between them, but finally shook his head. “No, sir,” he admitted. “I didn’t. I’m sorry sir…but it doesn’t mean they didn’t make it,” he insisted, although not with much conviction.
All night long, survivors of the raids continued to trickle into the castle. It was mostly men. Ewan had the sense that it was mainly warriors who hadn’t been able to join the fight, or nearby townsfolk who had panicked. He expected a second wave of survivors soon-the women and children who were forced to walk the whole, weary way, and he told the castle to brace itself for their imminent arrival.
“What are we going to tell Lachlan?” James had pestered Ewan with the question all evening until the Laird finally sent him away. He wasn’t ready to think about what to tell his brother-in-law. He wasn’t ready to think that his sister and niece and nephews might actually be dead! In truth, he hadn’t devoted much thought to Muira. He was more concerned with Cait.
He hadn’t gotten to say goodbye properly. His entire body felt raw with regret. He had come so close to telling her how he really felt, but hadn’t. He could still remember how she had asked to be brought along. He argued that it was too dangerous-and now she had been killed, sitting quietly at home!
He didn’t care so much now that the English might be knocking down their door at any moment. What did it matter? What was there left to live for?
Your family, a small voice said, reminding him that James wasn’t strong enough to stand on his own, your clan. Everyone was looking to him for answers. He couldn’t forget his duty. It was all that he had left.
Cait had tried to run away, but it wasn’t any use. The Frasure guard had caught her in three easy strides and wrenched her to the ground.
“My baby!” Cait yelped, shielding her still-flat stomach from the fall. The man cast a skeptical look, but treated her more gently as he pulled her back to her feet.
“Not from these parts, are ye, Lassie?” he asked, frowning as he examined her rumpled appearance. “That’s a Cameron tartan!” he remarked, noticing her shawl.
Cait tucked the garment back until her cloak and lifted her chin defiantly, refusing to answer.
“You’d have to be a Cameron, or a fool to try and steal from the Laird!” the man said, his expression less friendly in the face of her obstinacy.
“The Laird?” Cait squeaked, and then chided herself for being surprised-of course the orchards belonged to the castle. “I was hungry!” she defended, after a pause.
“Aye, well-tell it to the Laird,” the man said firmly. He grabbed her elbow and nudged her forward, pushing Cait along a pleasant stone path and into the castle proper.
Cait’s cheeks flushed scarlet as she endured the curious stares of strangers as they watched her being herded through. She worried about what the Laird was going to do. Surely he would be lenient! After all, she’d only taken a few apples. She could pay for them if he wanted! Still, she was too aware that the Laird had almost total power. He could hang her if he wanted.
Worked up nearly to the point of hysteria in her mind, Cait was surprised when she was brought to a stop in front of an ordinary ash desk. An old man was sitting at it, facing out the window, ignoring them until the guard cleared his throat.
The man looked up, and Cait caught her breath-although she felt foolish for doing so a half-second later. There was something strangely familiar in his face, as though they had met before. The set of his jaw or, perhaps, the bow of his lips resonated somewhere in Cait’s memory, but she couldn’t place the thought. As soon as she looked closer, the resemblance fled, and she felt foolish for being so startled.
For what it was worth, the old man must have seen something too, because he stared frankly back, a questioning look in his milky grey eyes. They looked at each other for nearly a full minute, before the guard broke the silence.
“I caught this girl, sir, out in the orchards. She was stealing your fruit.”
“Only three apples!” Cait interjected, but was silenced by a hard nudge to the ribs.
The old man did not take kindly to her attempted explanation. “Is it less wrong to steal a little, than a lot?” he asked, frowning.
Cait thought it was better not to answer the question.
“You aren’t from the clan,” the old man-the Laird Frasure, she assumed, spoke after a pause.
“N-no sir,” Cait answered finally.
“Your accent is rather queer.”
Cait’s heart seemed to stop as she considered, wit
h a jolt of panic, what might befall her if the Laird decided that she was English! She carefully mimicked her clansmen when she spoke again. “No, sir. I’m…I’m from another clan.”
“Which clan?” he asked, suspiciously.
Cait licked her lips, wondering if she dared to tell the truth. It would be humiliating to be packed away home. However, she was frankly reconsidering the wisdom of running at all. Her money was nearly gone, and she had nothing to show for the adventure.
Luckily, Cait was spared the necessity of making an answer. The door behind her opened, and the Laird looked toward the person who had entered.
Cait didn’t dare to turn around, but she could read some information from Laird Frasure’s face. At first, his features were cross with annoyance at the interruption, but they quickly softened. “Isobel,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“It’s time for your tea,” a soft, but aged female voice called back. Cait was hustled out of the way by the guard, and she was able to watch the woman bring the Laird a cup of steaming liquid.
Cait studied the older woman’s appearance. Her hair was silver, and her skin was finely lined, but she was still slim. Her face was turned away, but even from the side it was radiant with a beauty that would never completely fade. She must have been truly ravishing as a young woman. Cait decided immediately that she was the Laird’s wife-a suspicion that was confirmed when, to the man’s consternation; the lady popped a kiss on top of his head as she sat the teacup before him on the desk.
Even after the tea was delivered, the woman seemed in no hurry to leave. She looked over his desk with frank curiosity, rearranging his papers into tidy stacks. Only when she was finished did she look at Cait-and then she squeaked in surprise.
A Year and a Day Page 21