“It’s not your fault,” she crooned, shedding her own tears for his loss. “You were only following your clan and its chief. You are not responsible for their deaths.”
Her assurances only seemed to fuel his misery, and he sobbed harder.
The memory of Connall surfaced in her mind, a man barely emerged from youth. His face had been so peaceful in death. She thought of the wife made a widow too young, and the children that would never know their father.
Jane allowed Robbie the time he needed to grieve, and grieved alongside him herself. She grieved for all the things which made her own troubles seemed so trivial in comparison, for the world she had been thrown into. Grieved for the men who died at her husband’s hands.
At the next morning meal, Jane could barely touch the food placed in her trencher. She could not meet the eyes of the servants—men and women who were little better than prisoners, chained to Dunloch by fear of Lord Reginald’s retribution—as they scurried about the great hall serving bannock, oatcakes, pottage, meat and ale. Fruits of their serfdom.
She saw them now for what they were—not servants, not Scots, not enemies ... but victims.
She felt sick.
“And what do you intend to do with your day, my love?” Lord Reginald inquired as he slopped the last of his pottage with a chunk of cheat bread.
Jane, so mired in her thoughts, did not hear the guarded tone of his voice, nor did she notice the suspicious set of his features.
“I thought perhaps I might bring my needlework to a lovely little place I’ve discovered in the hills,” she answered. “I find I can while away the hours there quite pleasantly.”
“You spend much time away from the castle. Some of the ladies have asked when they might have a chance to enjoy your company, and people are beginning to talk about where you might go every day.”
Jane’s mouth went dry, and the blood drained from her face. Did Lord Reginald know something?
He sighed, his countenance softening at her panicked expression. “My dear, I do not pretend you are a mature woman fit to take over the running of a fortress as grand as Dunloch. I know full well that I have poached you from the home of your father at too young an age to live up to the station to which I have elevated you. And I have known you since you were a young girl. I know you have always been a solitary and independent creature, content to spend your time traipsing through the hills and splashing about in the streams. I am not a cruel man—”
“Oh no, sir, you certainly are not,” Jane agreed enthusiastically. But the words caught in her throat at the recollection of poor Diarmad MacGillivray and who was responsible for his death.
Lord Reginald did not appear to notice her sudden hesitation. “I would never seek to prevent you from finding enjoyment where you will, regardless of what nattering might be going on, whispered and shielded by hands. As long as you behave properly in society I shall tolerate other people’s remarks. But do not forget that you have an image to uphold. You are the reigning Baroness D’Aubrey, and I would expect you to put in an appearance at least once in a while for the sake of that image.”
Jane nodded demurely. “You are right, my Lord. It is only that I am unaccustomed to being the Lady of a fine castle such as Dunloch. And I confess I am homesick—escaping by myself into the hills offers me solace from the fact that I am so far from home. But I do wish to be a good Lady. Shall I spend my day visiting the ladies of the castle then?”
Lord Reginald chuckled, amused. “Nay, that is not necessary. But I had planned to take a rest from my duties today. I thought that perhaps I might accompany you to the village to observe and greet the locals. It would do much to still those wagging tongues to see you by my side at a time other than meals.”
Jane offered him a wide smile, feigning enthusiasm despite her disappointment that she would not be spending the afternoon with Robbie.
“That is an excellent idea, my Lord,” she agreed.
Leaning closer to her, Lord Reginald added in a lowered voice, “And I would that you accompany me to my chamber after the meal. I’ve a want of you before we’re off.”
Discreetly, his hand slipped from the table and slid up the inside of her thigh to prod at the concealed crevice between her closed legs; she resisted the urge to clamp her knees shut and bat his hand away.
“As you wish, my Lord,” she answered obediently.
Chapter 9
Though Lord Reginald’s desire was slaked rather forcefully, he was at least quick. He did not even attempt to undress her, but merely pulled the bodice of her dress over her breasts and raised her skirts to help himself to her. No less than twenty minutes later, they were mounted atop a pair of geldings and were on their way to the village.
Jane had only seen it from afar until now, but the village she encountered when they arrived was very different than what she was accustomed to in Sussex. The dwellings were primarily huts like the one Robbie and his young friends had constructed, with walls of wattle and daub or stone, and low roofs of thatch. Few dwellings were made of timber; those that were appeared to be the shops of craftsmen and merchants—if they could be called “shops” at all, for their crude construction was similar to the peasant huts surrounding them.
However, it was not the buildings that most interested her, but rather the people. Other than the plaid and the kilts, almost all of which were MacGillivray pattern and colour, they looked no different than the peasants she’d known in Sussex—similar of stature and countenance they were. These were not the beastly specimens she’d feared all this time.
The people of the village, recognizing Jane as Baron D’Aubrey’s new bride, bowed and curtseyed as they passed her by but regarded her warily and, she happened to notice on one or two occasions, with masked hostility. She tried not to take any of it to heart; their grief, she reminded herself, was still fresh in their souls as was their fear and hatred of Lord Reginald.
“Take no notice of them,” he soothed when he noticed his bride cringing from the villagers’ unwelcoming looks. “They are only bitter at having lost Dunloch.”
A sense of injustice rose in her throat at his lie and at the casual way he offered it. She longed to answer back, to tersely inform him that she was not stupid, nor was she blind. That she knew exactly why the villagers were angry and sorrowful and afraid. That she knew about Diarmad, and Connall and Robbie, and that Lord Reginald was wrong.
She said nothing, for she was a girl who, despite her inner wilfulness, had been bred to hold her tongue. Instead, she stuffed her anger down within her as far as it would go, and kept her seething to herself.
She followed as Lord Reginald led her around the village, and smiled politely as she was introduced to some of the more prominent citizens—a meagre handful of merchants and craftsmen.
When at the cobbler’s shop Lord Reginald became engaged in a discussion about the wool supplied to the castle, Jane excused herself from her husband’s company and slipped back outside.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said, catching the attention of the first passerby she crossed. “Might you tell me where I can find Margaret, wife of Connall MacGillivray?”
The man, an elderly but robust figure, passed a hand over his chin which was thick with stubble. His grey eyes scanned her with uncertainty, as if he were considering whether or not he would divulge the widow’s whereabouts.
“Well now, Lady D’Aubrey, our Margaret and her wee bairn live in the hut behind the smith’s shop. If ye just follow that there laneway, then turn ye right and ye’ll find them.”
Jane peered in the direction the man pointed. “Yes, I see. Thank you, sir. I pray you, would you mind terribly finding the baron and informing him of my whereabouts? He is at the cobbler’s shop.”
“Yes, Baroness,” the man replied, nodding.
For a moment he held his arm out as if to stop her. But then, apparently thinking better of it, he shook his head and hurried away. Jane watched the man go, intrigued by his reaction. Pursing her lips, she d
ismissed the thought and turned in the direction the man had indicated. The way was muddy, for it had rained that morning, and by the time she spied the smith’s shop the hem of her fine silk gown was saturated with the filth.
She knew Margaret MacGillivray at first glance; the woman, not much older than herself and heavily pregnant, sat on a weathered bench at the entrance to her home. A young boy of about three years played at her feet, taking a child’s delight at wreaking havoc on a gathering of hens which persisted in pecking at the ground outside the stone hut.
She certainly was a rare beauty, Jane thought as she took in the sight of the woman. Her long, sleek hair, the colour of a spring foal, was loosely plaited and hung over her left shoulder. Her sloping, almond eyes were a light, translucent gold, and were arched with graceful, winged brows and heavily fringed with long lashes.
But they were red; the pale, smooth skin beneath was puffy and blotched. Every hour that the woman had spent crying over her slain husband was written there in her eyes and on her beautiful face. Jane’s heart went out to the lady and her little boy as she took in the evidence of their grief.
“Margaret MacGillivray?” she inquired.
The young woman raised her head from her son and regarded her visitor. The expression with which she fixed Jane was initially one of surprise, but recognizing her as the new baroness, it quickly grew wary.
“Are you Margaret MacGillivray?” she repeated.
“Aye, my Lady. I am,” Margaret responded, her tone carefully non-committal. “How may I help ye?”
Jane glanced furtively at the nearby villagers. Some of the onlookers had slowed their pace, curious about the baroness’ reasons for visiting the young widow. They peered inquisitively in their direction as they went about their.
“I wonder if we might step inside your home that we may chat more privately,” she suggested.
Margaret glanced at her gathering neighbours and quickly nodded her assent. “Alright, if ye wish.”
She heaved herself up from the bench belly first, her left hand pushing on the seat behind her. When Jane lurched forwards to assist, Margaret put up a hand to deter her.
“I’m alright, my Lady,” she insisted. Then to her little boy she called, “Connall, ye’ll come in now.”
Jane followed Margaret into the modest but tidy hut. The inside was sparsely furnished compared to the relative luxury to which she was accustomed, and a carpet of fresh rushes and straw had been spread. The family’s meagre possessions, largely cookingware and a trunk or two, were stacked neatly in corners and by the fire ready for use.
“Well, my Lady, what is it ye’d like to speak wi’ me on?” Margaret said, sitting heavily in a simple, unadorned hawthorn chair by the fire.
Jane noticed that another chair, larger than Margaret’s but similar in its simple design, sat empty. She needed not guess to whom that chair belonged. Her eyes trailed to the little boy who had nestled himself at his mother’s feet, clasping a small toy tightly in his fist. His was, without a doubt, the face of the man she’d seen lying dead among his clansmen. She had no trouble tracing the high brow, the blonde locks, the aquiline nose. And where his mother’s eyes were a startling gold, the little boy’s were a clear green. Like Robbie’s. It must have been a MacGillivray trait.
“In truth I had no particular reason for coming to you today,” she admitted.
“Oh?” Margaret’s fine eyebrows rose in confusion and, Jane thought, a touch of mistrust.
She lowered her eyes to her lap, and her shoulders sank. “I feel a strong urge to assure you that I did not know about the ... well, the tragic event which occurred the morn before my wedding day. I know now, however, and I wanted to tell you that I am truly sorry for your loss. I know of your husband, Connall, and ... and I am sorry.”
At the mention of her husband’s name, fresh tears sprang to Margaret’s eyes. She spent many long moments fighting to regain her composure, and when she had, she fixed Jane with an unreadable gaze.
“I’ll wager yer lord husband doesna ken of yer visit wi’ me—or of yer sympathy over my loss.”
Jane shook her head. “He does not.”
“But ye’re an English lass. Surely ye think the MacGillivrays’ fates were just.”
Jane recognized the hard edge in Margaret’s voice and the challenge in her words despite her impassive expression. In return she fixed the widow with an expression of simple honesty.
“I was raised to have utter and unquestioning faith in God and in the king. And I was raised in a manner in which politics were never discussed in my sphere of existence. I knew only that Scots were barbarians and brutes, and that they needed a firm English hand to rule them. I knew that because it was what I was taught. But now I am grown and am faced with a world that is not what I was led to believe. Now ... now I do not know anything anymore.”
Her sincere admission softened Margaret’s countenance. “If ye’d but seen my Connall, if ye’d kent him, ye’d ken that he’s no more a barbarian than his wee lad here.”
Jane did know, but she kept the fact that she had seen Connall to herself—there was no use in upsetting Margaret any further. Instead, she said, “I do not understand why the MacGillivray chief attacked, though. I mean, from the way it had been explained to me, they were far outnumbered. Why would he sacrifice the lives of his men so carelessly when it was obvious he would not win?”
“He didna ken,” Margaret answered with a resigned sigh. “The clan were betrayed by the villagers, and his forces were surprised by the garrison at Invercleugh waiting alongside D’Aubrey’s men.”
“So you do not blame him for your husband’s death, or for the deaths of your clansmen?”
“Nay, my Lady, I dinna blame him. Ye’d have to have kent MacGillivray. He were a peaceable one, he were. It were the clansmen what wanted to attack, and he had no choice but to bow to their pressure. It were either step aside and let them take matters into their own hands, or stay and lead them, and hopefully increase their chances through planning rather than hot-headed action. My Connall loved that man dearly. MacGillivray did not want him in the fight but the stubborn amadan would not be swayed ...”
She waited as Margaret covered her eyes against a fresh wave of grief; she wondered briefly if she might console the woman but Margaret quickly regained control of herself.
“They say MacGillivray is not among the dead,” she said cautiously.
“That is correct,” Jane confirmed. “Lord Reginald rides daily in search of him. I fear he will not be lenient if he finds him.”
“So the baron believes he is alive then?”
“He does, yes. Though why he is so intent on catching the man, I know not. He’s hardly a danger to Dunloch now. Do you reckon he’s found shelter somewhere, or allies, perhaps?”
“Our Robbie were always resourceful. I’ve no doubt he’s out there taking care of himself.”
Jane started. “Robbie?”
“Aye. Robert MacGillivray.”
“Pray, tell me—did he happen to have a son by the same name, and did he bring his son into battle with him?”
“Robbie, a son?” Margaret scoffed at the notion. “He’s barely more than a lad himself. Oh, he could have settled down wi’ a nice girl from the village had he wanted to, or negotiated for a bride among the daughters of the neighbouring lairds I suppose—his betrothed died in childhood, ye see. But he had no’ shown much interest in ... Baroness, are ye alright? Ye look a bit peaky.”
Jane felt more than peaky, she felt downright sick. It was as if the ground had fallen out from under her feet and she were spinning in empty air.
Robbie was MacGillivray. Her Robbie. All the pieces she had not thought to wonder about before fell into place with this revelation. That was why he’d been hovering around the dead. That was why he’d lamented, crying “What have I done?” MacGillivray was not among the dead and was nowhere to be found, despite Lord Reginald’s exhaustive efforts far and wide to locate him, and yet she’d manag
ed to stumble upon the lone survivor of the attack. A wounded survivor no less.
Good God. Robbie was MacGillivray!
“I ... er, I fear I must depart,” Jane said rather woodenly, and stood on numb legs. “Thank you for speaking with me, I am very sorry for your loss.”
Margaret regarded her with wide, startled eyes. She made to raise herself from the chair in which she sat, but Jane halted her.
“Nay, please you, remain seated. I can show myself out.”
With a sharp turn, she departed the small hut. Her head was reeling as she stepped outside into the moist afternoon air.
“I want to speak wi’ her,” she heard a small voice insist as she began to walk away.
Warily, she turned back to the door to see the little boy, Connall, come bounding towards her. His blonde locks swayed vigorously as he trotted forwards with the determination of youth.
“My Lady,” he said in his child’s voice.
Jane bent down to the little boy’s level, focusing her efforts on maintaining her composure in front of him.
“Yes, little one, what is it?”
“You are the baron’s lady?”
“I am, yes.”
“D’ye ken where my da is? Mam says he isna coming home, and when I asked her if he’d died and gone up to heaven, she started crying. But if he’s died, then he must be buried and we can visit him. D’ye ken where he is?”
The innocence in his clear, green eyes as he waited expectantly for her answer broke her resolve, and her face crumpled. Bitter tears sprang to her eyes, and she put a hand on his little shoulder. Pulling him close, she placed a remorseful kiss atop his forehead.
“Sweet boy. I’m sorry, I do not know,” she lied. Then, before despair completely overwhelmed her, she stood and fled his presence.
Once she’d rounded the corner of the smith’s shop, she pressed herself against the timber wall. She breathed deeply and with purpose, willing her thoughts to calm and her trembling limbs to still. In Sussex, the plight of the people of Scotland had been to her stories of brutal wars and savage men. Sheltered within the walls of Dunloch, it had been closer to her, but still no more than a concept, a vague notion. Now however, that small, innocent boy Connall put an irreversible human quality on the fight. The MacGillivrays of Dunloch had lost their rightful land, and as a result, that beautiful little boy had lost his father. What a cruel, cruel thing, she thought angrily, swiping at tears that refused to be contained.
Bride of Dunloch (Highland Loyalties) Page 9