The Laird's Captive Wife
Page 10
The horsemen made straight for it and then she discerned a huge wooden gate, studded and banded with iron and seeming to lead straight into the hillside. Someone called a cheery greeting which was returned and the gate swung open to reveal a narrow defile between sheer walls of rock. Wide enough to take two horsemen abreast, it wound upwards to another gate. This too swung open and they emerged into a large walled courtyard with various buildings along its sides, all overshadowed by a great tower of wood and stone. Iain glanced at his wife.
‘Welcome to Dark Mount, lass.’
Ashlynn said nothing, being temporarily incapable of speech and fighting to control a rising sense of dread. Iain dismounted. Seeing there was nothing else to be done, Ashlynn slid reluctantly from Steorra’s saddle. Standing there among the throng of horses and men she felt suddenly very small, and the feeling of isolation and vulnerability increased. Then she became aware that Iain was watching her. Not for a bag of gold would she have displayed the fear that gripped her now and so she lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his gaze. His expression was unreadable.
‘Come.’
He guided her towards a great iron-clamped door. The space beyond was subdivided and, as her eyes adjusted to the relative dimness she had an impression of storerooms and pantries. The smell of food suggested the presence of kitchens. They bore left towards a stout oaken staircase. It led up to the great hall. Glancing round apprehensively she had an impression of a large, stonewalled chamber with high and narrow windows. However, most of the light came from the wall brackets and the candles set on huge circular iron chandeliers. Greasy trestle tables, littered with the stale remains of a meal, ran along three sides of the room. Its wooden floor was begrimed with mud and strewn with old straw whose musty smell mingled with ancient food odours and burning tallow. Shields and weapons adorned the walls along with huge and dusty racks of antlers. Wolf and fox masks snarled from among thick cobwebs. One wall was dominated by a great stone hearth where several big logs blazed, the sole source of comfort in the place.
As Ashlynn surveyed the scene cold dread settled like a lump in her stomach. Was this gloomy lair to be her home from now on? It hardly deserved to be dignified with the word home. Prison seemed more accurate somehow. Unwilling to contemplate it longer she turned away towards the fire.
Though she had spoken no word her expression was more eloquent and Iain frowned. As a stronghold Dark Mount had served him well but, he admitted, it could not pretend to cosiness or comfort. It had lacked a ruling female presence for too long. His mother was the last woman to leave her stamp upon the place, a stamp that time and absence had almost obliterated. He shot a sideways glance at Ashlynn. Her courage was not in doubt, but whether she had the skills to follow in his mother’s footsteps remained to be seen. The memory brought back others far more bitter, memories better left buried. To banish them he summoned a servant and rattled off a string of orders. The man hurried off and presently several others could be seen scurrying about. One brought food and hot possets. Others hastened to the stairs carrying brooms and logs and other items less obvious to the casual glance.
‘The servants will prepare a chamber, lass. In the meantime come and take some food.’
She followed him to the table and sat in the chair he indicated though in truth nerves had driven her appetite away. Unwilling to let him see it she forced herself to eat some bread and a little salted beef and then drank the posset. Its fragrant spicy warmth put some heart into her. Iain leaned back in his chair, surveying her shrewdly, sensing the tension and the fear beneath that outward calm. The thought recurred that most women in her situation would have gone to pieces by now. The lass had courage all right.
* * *
A little later the servant returned to say that the room was prepared. She saw her husband rise and hold out a hand to her. For a second she hesitated but common sense decreed there was no other choice than to go with him. Reluctantly she accompanied him to the stairs. There proved to be another two floors above the hall, variously divided into living quarters. On the topmost of these he stopped before a stout wooden door and, pushing it open, stood aside for her to pass. Beyond it was a moderate-sized room. Its stone walls were stark and free of ornament but the bare floor was clean enough. The sole furnishings were a small table and two chairs and, on the far side, a bed strewn with furs. A fire burned in the hearth but, being only recently lit, had not yet taken the chill off the air or dispelled the faint odour of mustiness and damp. On the table an oil lamp was burning for the window was shuttered fast against the cold. Ashlynn shivered inwardly.
‘If you need anything Morag here will attend you,’ he said.
The serving woman, buxom in thick homespun, might have been any age between forty and sixty. Her grey eyes regarded Ashlynn with frank curiosity. However, their expression was not unkind and when Ashlynn smiled it was returned. Iain glanced at the servant and jerked his head towards the door.
‘Wait outside.’
The woman bobbed a curtsy and withdrew. For a moment husband and wife faced each other. In spite of the chill Ashlynn felt sweat start on her palms for she was keenly aware that the servant’s restraining presence was gone and there was a large bed just across the room. Not only that, her husband was a head and shoulders taller than she, weighed roughly eighty pounds more, and was much too close for comfort. The dark eyes held a disquieting expression and were focused on her face. In confusion she looked away. In fact he guessed her thoughts with shrewd accuracy but just then had no intention of following up his advantage.
‘The accommodation is rough and ready at present,’ he observed, ‘but no doubt you’ll amend it to your liking in due course.’
Not knowing quite what to say Ashlynn remained silent.
‘Is there anything more you require just now?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing more.’
He moved towards the door. ‘Until later then, Ashlynn.’
Weak-kneed with relief she watched the door close behind him, then sank down on one of the chairs. It took her a moment or two to recover her self-possession. She was recalled by Morag’s return.
‘Do you require anything, my lady?’
‘Yes. I would wash after my journey. I would also like a change of clothes if that can somehow be arranged.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
When Morag had left, Ashlynn took another glance round the room and shivered, instinctively moving closer to the fire, seeking some comfort from its warmth. However, it did little to dispel the sensation of sick dread that sat like lead in the pit of her stomach.
* * *
Some time later the woman returned with a jug of hot water, soap, towels and a comb. Over her arm she carried a clean shift and a gown of brown woollen cloth. With them were woollen stockings and a pair of sturdy leather shoes.
‘These are as near to your size as I could guess, my lady.’
Ashlynn thanked her. Then, as the servant poured water into the basin and laid the towels ready, she unfastened her cloak and tossed it on to the bed before divesting herself of belt and tunic. Since the cold did not encourage her to strip off she contented herself with bathing her hands and face. With Morag’s help she combed and braided her hair and then pulled on the clean shift, stockings and gown. The latter was too big but not unduly so, and they contrived to disguise the fact with the aid of a girdle. Ashlynn glanced down at herself, smoothing the skirt with her hand. The cloth was warm and serviceable, the colour practical, but the garments had no pretensions to beauty or elegance. They could hardly have been more different from the ones she had worn hitherto. However, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Morag handed her the cloak and she put it on, glad of the additional layer.
‘Will there be anything else, my lady?’
‘No. I thank you.’
The servant withdrew then and Ashlynn was left alone. Once more her sombre gaze took in the details of the room and for the first time noticed the door, partially concealed
by shadow, in the side wall. When she tried the handle it didn’t budge. She wondered what lay on the far side—a store room perhaps. It was of no importance and there would be time enough to find out later. In the meantime she needed to get away from this chamber. She let herself out but, instead of retracing her steps along the way she had originally come, set off in the other direction. It brought her at length to another narrow wooden door. This one was unlocked and yielded quite easily when tried. It led out on to a short flight of steps and thence up to a flat roof area at the top of the tower. Dusk was drawing in. In a little while it would be full dark.
The knowledge did nothing to lighten her mood. Wrapping the cloak closer around her Ashlynn moved to the crenellated wall and peered out between the stone merlons, but there was little to be seen save snow and swirling white mist. She recalled what Iain had said about the weather closing in. Soon they would all be its prisoners. She felt as one standing at the edge of the world in some uncharted waste, a place where different rules obtained and where, just out of view, lurked unspecified dangers. It was very cold out on this exposed place and far from an ideal refuge, but she didn’t want to return to her chamber and certainly had no intention of going down to that filthy, cheerless hall where there was a better-than-even chance of meeting her husband.
Now that he had intruded on her thoughts again she found him harder to dismiss than she would have liked. He had told her that he had never forced a woman, but she wasn’t naïve enough to think that would hold good for marriage too. It was a husband’s right to take his wife whenever it pleased him. She knew full well that it would please him. Involuntarily her mind returned to the great fur-strewn bed. How would it be to lie with him, to yield completely to his will? The memory of the hayloft returned with all its startling intimacy: the warmth of his body against hers, his kisses hot along her throat, the touch of his hands on her naked flesh…
Ashlynn forced the thoughts away even as her mind reiterated the truth. She was not indifferent to him. That was the worst of it. For men the marriage bed was not about emotion, only a necessity for the getting of heirs. For a woman it was different. Where there was any kind of initial attraction, such intimacy would invariably lead to stronger feelings; in this case, feelings that were not reciprocated. Iain had married her at the king’s command, but the human heart could not be commanded. She would be the means by which he sired his heirs, nothing more. Her wishes had counted for nothing in the face of the king’s will. She was effectively Glengarron’s prisoner but, unlike other prisoners of rank, no ransom would ever buy her freedom. She was tied to this man and to this God-forsaken place for good. In any case, even if she did have her freedom, there was nothing to go back to. Whichever way she looked at it the future seemed every bit as bleak as the landscape around.
* * *
Just then the subject of her thoughts was checking on the comfort and condition of his injured men. Iain had made it a rule never to leave an injured man behind to die of cold or wounds, or to fall victim to scum like William’s mercenaries. A long and bumpy journey in the back of a wagon was painful and undesirable, but not as bad as the alternative, and all the injured had received good tending at Jedburgh. Iain guessed that if they had survived so far they’d likely live to tell the tale. He stood now looking down at the face of the young man on the pallet before him. For all the waxen pallor of cheeks and brow the Saxon was a good-looking youth and well made too.
‘How is he?’
The old woman, who had been examining her patient carefully glanced up for a moment, regarding the laird with cool grey eyes.
‘He’s lucky to be alive with those wounds and such a bad knock on the head withal. ’Tis small wonder he has a fever.’
‘Will he pull through it?’
‘He’s young, and clearly of a strong constitution or he’d not have lived thus long. God willing, he may yet survive.’
‘Tend him well.’
‘Depend on it, my lord.’
He nodded. If anyone was going to save the youth it was she. None in Glengarron knew more about healing than Meg. He just had to hope his faith in her would be justified now as it had been so many times before. He continued his round of the injured, stopping here and there to have a quiet word or to put a reassuring hand on a shoulder.
* * *
By the time he finished it was dark and the courtyard covered in glittering rime. In a day or two the snow would come in earnest. They had returned to Glengarron just in time. Fitzurse was lost to him for the moment, but there were compensations: a less arduous regime, hot food, roaring fires and a comfortable bed.
That last turned his thoughts in another direction and he sighed. The immediate future was hardly calculated to fill him with unalloyed delight. His new bride was angry and resentful and, behind that brave front she wore, more than a little afraid. He could well understand the reason for it. However, he was her protector now whether she liked it or not. God knew she needed one. As he recalled the bruises on her face his anger resurfaced. He had no time for the kind of brutality that entailed. No man worthy of the name indulged his strength in such a way against a woman. If nothing else their marriage had put an end to that. No man would ever touch her again, save he.
He had arranged for them to dine alone together in a private chamber prepared for the purpose. It was much warmer than the hall and permitted of greater intimacy. Besides, he knew that his wife wasn’t ready to run the public gauntlet just yet and there would be time enough to let the inhabitants of Glengarron see their new lady. Stories would be circulating like wildfire as it was for many of his men had wives and families all too eager for the latest gossip, and the laird’s unexpected marriage was the juiciest morsel in years.
For a while he warmed himself by the fire in the hall holding his hands to the blaze. The light shone on the gold thumb ring, giving the metal a reddish lustre: the colour of passion. He grim-aced. A forced match was hardly likely to be the precursor to passion and yet twice, briefly, there had been a spark between them. For a moment the memory of the hayloft returned to tease him. He could not deny the attraction he had felt. Could the spark be rekindled? In a little while he would know the answer.
* * *
It had been in Ashlynn’s mind to refuse when a manservant came to announce that the evening meal was served. However, a moment’s reflection was sufficient to let her see the lack of wisdom in this, for though she had only known him a short time it was long enough to be sure that Iain would fetch her himself if she denied him her presence. Accordingly she followed the servant obediently, expecting that he would lead her to the hall. Instead she found herself in the chamber next to her own. Her husband was waiting for her.
For the space of several heartbeats they faced each other. Ashlynn saw that he had changed his clothes and now wore dark hose and a tunic of crimson wool, belted at the waist and richly embroidered at neck and sleeves, the colour a perfect foil for his dark hair and eyes. Those eyes were now fixed on her, and she was forcibly reminded of the shortcomings of her current attire. However, he seemed to find nothing amiss for he smiled faintly and bowed low over her hand.
‘Come and sit down, Ashlynn.’
In fact, Iain had temporarily forgotten that his wife had no other garments besides the borrowed ones she had been wearing. He guessed that Morag had attempted to remedy the matter for the brown woollen gown was clearly a servant’s garb. It was also too big and tended to conceal her figure rather than emphasise it. He eyed it with quiet disfavour, realising it was a matter he was going to have to address in due course.
Unable to follow his thought, she felt herself redden, feeling unwontedly self-conscious. The recollection of her bruised cheek and cut lip only intensified the feeling. Rarely had she appeared to such disadvantage and certainly never before a man. Not just any man either. She was more than ever aware of that handsome charismatic presence and it made her feel awkward. He on the other hand seemed quite at ease and led her now to the table.
Iain settled himself back in his chair, his hand toying with his wine goblet. He had taken several of these with the meal but the wine appeared to have touched him not at all. He surveyed her keenly now, the dark eyes shrewd. Ashlynn bridled instantly.
‘Must you stare at me like that?’ she asked.
‘Does it displease you then that a man should look at you?’
To answer yes or no would have been equally ridiculous and she said nothing.
‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘I know it isn’t the first time. You told me yourself that you’d had admirers.’
Admirers yes, she thought, but none with the power to unsettle her so thoroughly. Besides, back then she had always been the one in control of the situation.
‘I would wager there were many. Yet you never met one who pleased you?’
‘No.’ She paused and threw him a speaking look. ‘I still haven’t.’
The dark eyes gleamed. ‘That’s better. I feared for a moment that you’d lost the fighting spirit.’
‘If you did you were much mistaken.’
The challenge was there and unequivocal too. In spite of himself his enjoyment grew. ‘I’m glad to hear it, truly. I once thought that a marriage of convenience was like to be dull. Now I am reassured that it will not be.’