Rose of Hope
Page 56
Robert jerked his head toward Aine. “Can’t ye get the barb out? He’ll die if we leave it in.”
Aine shook her head. “Nay, Laird, not where it’s lodged. I’ve never done that afore, and I fear he’ll die if I start probing around. We should see how he fares afore we put ‘im through that.”
Robert knew Aine thought Duncan would die, and she didn’t want to torture him more. Instead, she bandaged the wounded areas the best she could.
“Carry Duncan to his chamber,” Robert told Lachlan and Kendrick. He glanced down at his brother. “They’ll rest more comfortably in their own beds.”
When he picked up Androu, the lad moaned. His head rolled against Robert’s shoulder as he carried him to his room. He laid him down and stood over him.
“Ye’ve done all ye can,” Aine whispered.
No, I have not done all I can.
But, I will.
~~~
MacDougall Castle
May 1297
Cameron threw off her blankets and slid from bed. A chill in the air sent a shiver slithering across her shoulders, and she rubbed her arms before reaching for her wrap and shoes. She pushed aside the heavy russet draperies covering her window. Sunlight streamed into the room. From her vantage point high in the keep’s tower, she could see forever. To the left, her chamber overlooked a dense forest bordering pastures full of her father’s cattle. Several large birds gracefully landed on a small lake at the back of the field.
To the right, she had a direct view of the inner bailey. A lad with bright red hair chased a young lass around the well. Her dark curls bounced as she weaved between several women carrying baskets of laundry. One of them swatted at the boy, but he sidestepped her and laughed before he turned and ran off.
Cameron’s younger sister, Lindsey, dressed in lad’s clothing, led a chestnut mare through the yard. Like their older sister Heather, Lindsey had their mother’s beautiful blue eyes, but she clearly didn’t give a fig about her appearance. She’d stuffed her thick auburn hair into a cap, and her shirt and trews would most likely be wrinkled and stained. Her sister was passionate about animals, horses in particular. Cameron remembered their father’s rants of inappropriateness while Mum encouraged Lindsey’s desire to work with the beloved animals. As her mother had said on many occasions, Lindsey does run the stables.
Anxious to get out-of-doors, Cameron tugged her tawny woolen gown over her head and thrust her arms in the sleeves. She longed for a breath of fresh air as yester eve she had cared for numerous sore throats and runny noses, tended a woman’s burned hand, and helped bring a bairn into the world.
She grabbed her healing basket and searched the contents. Little ground ivy and yarrow remained in her clay jars, but she knew the spot to find more. Once she collected the special herbs, she would visit Mum. She ran a comb through her hair, picked up her basket and small knife off her bedside table, and headed for the door.
Cameron trotted down the stairs and into the great hall. The room bustled with activity as her youngest sister, Elsbeth, cleaned dust from the wall hangings and replaced stale rushes on the floor.
She held a cushion against her waist. “Ye’re off to visit Mum?”
Cameron stepped beside her. “I am. I need to replenish my herbs as well. Fergus is improving, but he goes through my brews quickly.”
“How’s he doing?” Elsbeth asked.
Cameron sighed. “The wound is healing, but his spirit is low. He fears he won’t regain the use of his arm.”
Elsbeth’s violet eyes softened. “I’ll sit with him later this morning.”
“Thank ye.” Cameron hugged her dear sister. “Well, I’m off. I’ll see ye this afternoon.”
Cameron slipped through the heavy oak door and rushed down the long flight of stone steps leading into the inner bailey. Hurrying along the gravel path, she tilted her face to the sun. The warm rays peeked through puffy grey clouds, and she hoped the rain stayed at bay until she returned.
A woman carrying a basket of vegetables strolled past. “Pleasant morn to ye, mistress.”
“Thank ye, Betsy. I hope ye enjoy the lovely day.” Cameron smiled and tugged her wrap tightly around her shoulders. Hunger pains rumbled, reminding her of Rena’s sweet buns. Mouth watering, she ducked into the dim, stone kitchen. The aroma of fresh baked scones greeted her, causing her stomach to growl in anticipation of tasting one of the treats.
Rena bustled around a worktable, waving her hands as she instructed two serving girls rolling dough. “Spread it even. Not too thick, but not too thin.”
“Good morning,” Cameron greeted the women.
Rena glanced over her shoulder. “Ahh, mistress. ’Tis a fine morn indeed. May I prepare ye a meal to break yer fast?”
“I want one of yer scones, but a bit of goat’s milk would taste good first.”
“The lads brought it in a few moments ago and stored it in the back room. Yer sister is in there now.”
Cameron skirted around the busy kitchen staff stoking the large fire in the hearth, slipped down the narrow hall, and into a side room. Crates and boxes of kitchen supplies lined the walls, and trays of Rena’s sweet buns set next to the milk urns on a long worktable.
“Get away from me,” Heather shrieked and backed into the room, shoving Symon and struggling against his meaty embrace.
“Symon Fraser, what are ye doing?” Cameron shouted and marched over to them. “Leave her alone.”
Her cousin jerked his head around, his dark evil eyes glowering.
Heather broke from his strong hold and backed away from him, wiping his slobber from her neck. Her upper lip curled, and her face grimaced. “Ye stay away from me.”
He faced the women, and Cameron glared. “I wonder what Da would think of ye attacking his daughter? Yer time here would come to an abrupt halt. He would beat ye within an inch of yer miserable life and toss ye out on yer ear.”
Symon advanced on Cameron.
She held her ground while her hand slid into her basket, feeling for her knife.
His greasy blond hair, shorn to his ears, lay stuck to his sweaty head. “Ye will not tell yer Da, or ye’ll answer to me.”
His hot smelly breath assailed her nostrils. He’d been drinking. The stench permeated the air around his dirty disheveled frame.
Cameron narrowed her eyes. “Ye stay away.”
He smirked while leaning into her. “Or what, healer lady? Or what?”
She pushed her knife against his stomach. “Or I’ll skewer yer fat belly with my wee blade.”
Symon’s eyes widened.
“Mistress?” Rena called down the hall. “Did ye find the milk?”
Symon backed away. He glared at Cameron, then turned his shifty eyes to Heather and back to her again.
“Aye, Rena,” Cameron answered the cook. “Thank ye.”
Symon gave them a malicious grimace. “This is not over between us. Ye’ll both be sorry.”
He leered at Heather before he turned and stormed out of the room.
Heather released a long breath, and Cameron embraced her older sister’s shoulders. “Are ye all right?”
She nodded. “Aye, he caught me off guard without my dagger.”
Cameron shook her head. “He makes my stomach turn.”
“Please don’t tell Da…”
“Why not? He would put a stop to this. Why do ye withhold things from him?”
“I don’t. I do not want him to worry over this. He’s verra busy, his hands are full…”
“Do not tell me he can’t handle his own nephew.”
Heather’s mouth drew into a tight line, and her back straightened. With her blonde hair secured on top of her head, she resembled their mum when she became cross and irritated. “Just let me handle it.”
Why do I even bother to voice my opinion? Heather shields Da nay matter what the circumstances. Ever since Mum passed away, she had protected him. She stepped in where Mum left off, and like Mum, she took his side on every issue. Even ove
r the feud with the Grahams.
Cameron searched Heather’s blue eyes, then reached for the jug of goats milk beside her sister. “I’ll not mention it, but ye need to make sure ye’re not alone with Symon. Promise ye’ll watch out for him.”
“I will.”
She poured the milk into a jug and took a sip. When she moved to leave, her sister grasped her arm.
“Cammie…thank ye.”
Her shoulders relaxed, and she nodded. She placed the mug on the table. “Remember yer promise.”
Cameron held Heather’s gaze, then slipped back down the hall. She grabbed a scone off the worktable and bit into the warm bread lightly sweetened with honey. “This is heavenly, Rena.”
The cook beamed as Cameron waved and padded into the bailey. The light meal satisfied her complaining stomach, and she picked up her pace, passed through the interior wooden gate and strolled into the outer bailey.
To her right, several men hammered a wagon wheel, their loud clanging reverberating against the bailey walls. To her left, Blake stacked cartons next to the barn. His hands, wrapped with leather strips, grabbed a barrel and set it on top of another. Sweat stained the underarms of his tan tunic and damp, blonde hair stuck to his forehead.
“Hello, Blake.”
The stable hand looked up and grinned. “Mistress Cameron.” His forearm brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. “Are ye off somewhere?”
“Aye, to Mum’s gravesite.”
Blake stepped toward her and placed his hands on his lean hips. He glanced at the main bridge leading from the castle and back at her. “Ye shouldn’t go alone.”
Cameron waved in dismissal. “Och, nonsense. I visit her every day.”
He tilted his head, his eyes squinting. “Ye’re sure?”
“Do not concern yerself.” Cameron turned and rushed through the outer gate, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be fine.”
She strolled down the dusty road past the village at the base of the castle, along the narrow dirt path winding beside several cottages, and into the woods. The sun filtered through the trees, casting its light on green ferns and budding flowers.
She inhaled a deep breath. A brown-streaked skylark sailed to a great height. She shaded her eyes from the sun as the bird hovered while thrusting its melodious whistle across the sky’s vast expanse. A spotted song thrush announced its presence and fluttered about the trees as squirrels jumped from branch to branch. Although it was early May, with the warm sun, the morning felt like summer.
Cameron made her way through the thick forest recalling the manuscripts she had read the night before. Her uncle often brought the precious books to her from his travels. She cherished Ian’s gifts. However, months had passed after Mum’s death before she gathered the courage to open them again. After she had failed Mum, she questioned herself, her methods, whether she should continue to practice the healing arts. But once she opened the binder, fascination with discovering different curing methods took over. She had poured over the documents until the wee hours of the morning, reading about advancements made in treating the sick and injured.
For many years, she studied under Muire, the clan’s healer, and coveted any literature that furthered her learning. Cameron had dreamed someday of becoming a well-known healer, but when Mum’s death shook her confidence, she had a hard time treating patients again. It had taken many months to pull herself out of her self-pitying despair and find the fortitude to pick up her healing basket again.
With time, belief in herself grew, and she immersed herself in learning all she could absorb. At least Da left her to pursue her education. More like, he relished her attention away from him and his silly feud with the Grahams. However, since Da and Robert Graham sealed a truce, the past few days had been relatively calm—no more late night raids, no more pranks played on each other. Indeed, she could get used to this peacefulness.
Robert Graham.
Remembering how he had held her in his arms, his hard body pressed into hers as his earthy scent enveloped her, the corners of her mouth tugged up. She closed her eyes, and her insides tightened in an excited dither. Secretly, she relived those short moments with him over and over again. But those thoughts were only fanciful daydreams.
Her eyes fluttered open. With her quest to become a healer, she had discouraged suitors, swearing never to submit to a man. Too often, she had witnessed her mum’s pain over Da’s liaisons. No, that was not a life she intended to lead. Nevertheless, she cherished the stirring memories of being in Robert’s strong embrace.
She continued down the worn trail to a damp, shady area where ground ivy grew. The plant reduced pain and swelling around bruises and was useful when treating coughs and sore throats. Kneeling beside the vines, she cut the soft, hairy leaves and placed them in her basket.
She stood and made her way deeper into the forest, stopping along the way to collect cuttings. A patch of feathery-leaved yarrow to staunch the flow of blood from wounds, sprouted in the sunshine. She snipped the soft, dark green leaves, and then discovered a cluster of comfrey. The ointment made from crushing the large leaves and mixing them with water soothed and healed cuts and bruises. She clipped several plants and placed them alongside the others in her basket.
A twig snapped.
Her head jerked toward the noise.
Robert Graham leaned against a tree, holding broken sticks in his hands. Her heart slammed against her chest at seeing him again. He didn’t utter a word, but instead he stared at her with solemn intensity.
She stood and faced him. Why was he here? What did he want?
He dropped the sticks on the ground and pushed away from the trunk. Dark hair hung past his broad shoulders. His cream-colored shirt lay open at the neck, exposing suntanned skin and black curls. Grey woolen trews hugged his long muscular legs as he stalked toward her. His eyes no longer held the twinkle that so easily caused flitters in her stomach. In fact, his thick brows drew together, and his dark eyes narrowed.
She clutched her basket in front of her and stepped back, trying to calm her body’s trembling.
He stopped within a few feet of her. Unlike their earlier encounter, his large muscular frame loomed over her, his wide chest and broad shoulders crowded her.
He pushed the sleeves of his shirt up revealing thick forearms. His cold, dark eyes seared her with, what? Hatred? What had she done?
She drew herself up and took another step back. “What do ye want?”
“I want ye, lass.”
***
AUTHOR’S NOTES
The post-Conquest period was a time of brutal upheaval for the English people. In one day, through one terrible battle, their entire way of life was overthrown. But even in those dark times, there lived women and men who valued honor, compassion and decency. They looked for—and sometimes found—the simple joys of life and the blessings of peace. It is my hope I have portrayed these positive aspects in such a way as to balance the bleakness of the period.
Although I present this tale primarily from the Anglo-Saxon perspective of my heroine, Ysane, it is also the story of the Norman hero, Fallard. Through the joining of their separate lives into one, I have undertaken to blend the diverse customs of the two, just as real Norman and Saxon individuals came together to create, in time, one people.
Anglo-Saxon England was a land of vast forests dotted with fields and pastures, small villages and some few cities. Its people lived in thatch-roofed huts, and in timbered mead-halls and wood-framed manors behind wooden palisades. But as early as the 5th century, some churches were constructed of shaped stone, often garnered from Roman ruins.
By the reign of English King Harold I [Harold Harefoot, A.D. 1015-1040] Normans and Bretons were moving into England to stay. They, like the Romans, brought their architecture with them. At the time of the Conquest, a handful of stone keeps behind stone walls as wide as six to eight feet, had already been built in the land. Thus, the concept of the fictional Wulfsinraed Burh being built of that material by a we
althy, well-traveled visionary, while improbable, was not impossible.
I have endeavored to recreate the person and character of William I, the Conqueror as accurately as possible given the nature of surviving information. He began the construction of the Great Tower as mentioned in Epilog I but sadly, did not live to see its completion. The massive edifice still stands today within the Tower of London complex, and is known by its more recent name of the ‘White Tower’.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Màiri Norris lives in Hampton Roads, Virginia with her husband, a retired Coast Guard master chief, and three cats. She is a US Navy vet, loves travel, especially to Scotland, and enjoys dollhouse miniatures when not writing. She is a member of Celtic Hearts Romance Writers, a chapter of Romance Writers of America. A lover of history, she also loves to read (and write) historical romance.
Her next work, Viking Sword, set in 9th century England, will be available in 2014.
Visit Màiri and learn more about this book and upcoming novels by this author at: http://www.romancingtheeras.com
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Table of Contents
ROSE OF HOPE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
DEDICATION
DISCLAIMER
GLOSSARY
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN