by Carol Arens
Whatever she wanted.
Chapter Thirteen
She could not have imagined that a day which had been as bad as the one yesterday was could have been followed by another one that was even worse. But, from the moment she opened her eyes—nay, even moments before that—it had spun wildly out of control as her life would now do.
How could she have fallen asleep with him? And in such a condition?
In the darkened chamber, lit with but one small candle, she’d never seen the injury to his hand when he reached for the broken jug on the floor. She’d never noticed the bloody stain on her gown where he grabbed it in the dark. Mayhap if she’d risen as she’d planned, she could have changed and no one would have seen it and made the hasty and wrong conclusion that everyone who’d rushed into the bedchamber had.
Including Athdar.
He’d lost his senses in the desolation of losing a friend, one of his oldest friends from the little he’d said, and then sought solace in too much whisky. That had driven him to the confusion that led him to her door—or rather Mairi’s door—to find some comfort there, so deep in his misery and in his cups that he mistook Isobel for her. Her mistake added to his suffering, for now, now, she knew exactly what he thought he’d done.
Taken her virtue by force.
Her head swam with the implications and complications of this situation. She needed to speak to him before he made any decisions based on...based on her deceit. What if he sent word to her parents and to Connor about this? Then there would be no way of correcting her mistake and there could be war if her father sought satisfaction for what he thought Athdar had done.
‘Nessa, please call Athdar here,’ she asked, as the servants rolled the large tub into her chambers. ‘I must speak to him before he does anything.’
‘We must see to you, lass. Athdar...the laird can see to himself until you are...made comfortable.’ The woman’s fury was clear in every word and gesture. Nessa also believed the worst.
‘Jean...’ Isobel turned to the other woman in the room. ‘I must speak to him first,’ she begged.
‘Here now, lady,’ Jean whispered as she put her arm around Isobel’s shoulders and guided her to the other side of the room. ‘The laird said he would talk with you after you have had a bath and dressed.’
Jean glanced over her head and Isobel knew she was exchanging wordless gestures with Nessa. Once the room had been cleaned up and all the servants gone, Jean took her hands and sat her on the edge of the now-pristine bed.
‘Should we call Laria for ye? Do you have any...injuries...that need tending to?’
When she looked from one woman to the other, they both blushed deeply at the questions. Isobel understood what they were asking and shook her head, trying to speak the truth to them.
‘Athdar did not hurt me,’ she said. ‘I am not injured.’ They shook their heads and tsked in reply. ‘He did nothing...’
She realised that she was convincing no one of anything. Their minds were set on believing the worst, so she gave up the battle for the moment and sank into the tub’s steaming water. Though he’d not hurt her, or truly even touched her, he had slept on her and his weight and the twisted manner in which she ended up—half beneath him, half next to him—had left her sore and achy. Isobel let the water, and the herbs they’d put in it, soothe her.
They did not rush her at all and only helped her wash her hair when she convinced them the water was cooling. Nessa stoked the fire so that it burst into flames, heating the chamber just before Isobel stood and climbed from the tub. Jean wrapped her quickly in two lengths of linen drying cloths.
She’d had enough.
‘I need some time alone,’ she said. ‘I would like to dress myself.’
She just needed an opportunity to sort through her thoughts and come up with a plan before things went completely awry. She needed to know what to say to Athdar and how to explain the grievous error that had happened between them before he took responsibility for something he did not do.
‘I will get ye something plain to eat, lady. And some of that betony tea that ye like so much,’ Jean said, accepting her request.
Though Nessa looked as though she would argue, she nodded as she gathered up the soiled garments and followed Jean out. She could not fault them for their concern. It touched her heart to have them worrying over her, much as her mother fretted about her and her siblings, no matter their ages.
Once the door closed and the latch dropped, she sat on a stool before the fire and combed the tangles out of her hair. Letting it dry, she fought the growing urge to cry. Not so much for herself, but for Athdar and all the pain he yet carried within himself. And now this fresh guilt.
Her stubborn, selfish plan to come here and convince him that they were suited for marriage could now destroy her chances of that. Worse, if this misunderstanding continued too long, even more problems would happen because of it. She needed to see Athdar and clear this up. He did not deserve the trouble she was causing on top of everything else he felt responsible for.
So, she gathered her hair and braided it. Searching through the trunk in the corner, she found clean undergarments and stockings and put them on. A borrowed gown, for she’d not been able to keep all of her garments when she remained behind, that laced up the side and a tartan shawl and she was ready to leave the chamber and carry out her task to set things aright. Lifting the latch, she pulled the door open and found Jean waiting with a tray.
Letting out an exasperated breath at another delay, she stepped back inside and let the woman place the tray next to the bed. Realising that the woman’s short stature belied a warrior’s resolve, Isobel sat and ate. Hungrier than she realised, she consumed every morsel of the plain but filling meal. The betony tea she’d come to enjoy while working with Laria calmed her as she sipped the steaming decoction. Jean looked on as she ate and drank, pleased only when she finished every bit of it.
‘Is Athdar in the hall?’ she asked, rising and walking to the door.
‘Is it wise to seek him out, lady? Why not rest here and wait for his call?’
Knowing the older woman meant only to be helpful and knowing she would never get past her peaceably, Isobel nodded. Taking the shawl and draping it over the chair, she went to the bed and got on it. Jean smiled and carried the tray from the room. Isobel listened at the hushed whispers outside her door and then closed her eyes to feign sleep when Nessa peeked inside to check on her.
A few more minutes of lying quietly and then Isobel climbed from the bed and pulled on her boots. From the quietness below, she suspected that Athdar was outside, in the yard or village. She would find him and they would talk about this.
She did not take a chance going through the hall and running into Nessa or Jean, so she put the shawl up over her hair, leaned her head down and made her way out of the keep’s main door. Walking along the building, she found herself drawn to the boisterous—bloodthirsty, even— sounds from the enclosed yard where the men trained in arms and fighting. If there was something going on there, Athdar would be there—involved or watching at the least. As she rounded the corner of the keep, she found that she was not the only one following the sounds or the only one now watching the spectacle within the fence.
Athdar stood, surrounded by a half dozen men, taking them on. Some carried weapons, others did not. From his bloodied face and heavy breathing, it was clear he was not winning this battle or even holding his own. As she watched, she noticed he was not truly even fighting to his abilities. She’d seen him fight before—at Lairig Dubh, here—and this was not a fight. This was atonement.
Isobel pushed her way through the crowd to get to the fence. This must be stopped. He must be stopped. The people moved aside as they realised who she was and she rushed on. Spying Broc ahead, she ran to him and tugged his sleeve.
‘You must stop this..
.now!’ she said, loudly to be heard over the cheering. When Broc simply shrugged at her, she realised they, as well as Athdar, believed he was worthy of such punishment.
Men, she had found, were daft. They had this certain sense of judgement and justice that confounded her. They were...men! If no one here would stop this, she must. Gathering her skirts, she climbed up and over the fence, landing inside the yard.
Keeping hold of her skirts and stepping over God-knew-what in the dirt of the fighting field, she walked towards Athdar. Careful to stay out of the way of weapons, she approached him directly so she was in his line of sight at all times. One by one, each of his opponents saw her and stood down. Now only Padruig and Athdar continued fighting and the crowd grew quiet. Her voice could be heard now.
‘Athdar, you must cease this now.’
She knew he saw her and heard her. Padruig did, for he stepped back for a brief second before turning back to face Athdar, sword raised and ready to strike again. She walked slowly, in measured steps, between the two men and approached Athdar.
‘Athdar, I beg you to stop this now,’ she said. Reaching over, she peeled his fingers from their steely grip around the hilt of his sword and took it from him. She dropped it to the ground and stood directly in front of him. Isobel lifted her hand to his face and touched his cheek. ‘Cease this.’
‘But, Isobel, I have dishonoured you...’ he began.
‘Nay, you have not. Only my actions can do that.’
He glanced over her head and around the yard where others remained, hanging on every word they could hear and action they could see. Still befuddled by his actions the night before and the grief of Robbie’s death, he knew only that he must take responsibility for the actions, even if she decried it. In this, there was only one honourable way out.
But would she accept it? After his abominable treatment of her? He lowered his voice to her.
‘Regardless of your assessment, your honour has been insulted. We know it. My kith and kin know it. As will yours.’ She grew ashen then, as if accepting the price of whatever happened between them. ‘There is only one way out of this so that you do not suffer the consequences.’
‘Am I to battle your men for my honour then?’ Her weak attempt to jest was whispered, telling him that this had shaken her, as well. He tried to ease her fears.
‘Padruig might give you an even fight, but you could take the others down, of that I have no doubt,’ he whispered back to her. Her lips trembled in a slight smile, but he sensed she understood. He stepped back from her, took her hand and held it up so all could see.
‘Last night, I claimed Lady Isobel as wife in our custom of handfasting. And she accepted me as husband.’ Shock echoed across the yard and he saw it in most faces there. Whether they accepted his words as truth or not, now, by publicly stating it before them, it was fact. ‘No matter my clumsy and drunken manners towards her and no matter the misunderstanding of it this morn, the Lady Isobel is my wife.’
He watched as the same determined expression her father sometimes wore entered her eyes. But would she say the words that bound them for a year and a day? He did not deserve such consideration after what he’d done and could only hope she would accept this offer and let him make all things up to her. They could work out how this would end later, but first honour, his and hers, demanded this.
‘And Laird MacCallum...Athdar is my husband.’
Her voice rang out clearly and did not shake as he was certain his had. She had allowed him to seek an honourable way to manage this disaster before his people. Though complete annihilation was yet a possibility once his overlord and her father discovered this unsanctioned match, this gave him a respite to see things righted.
At first silence reigned, then someone in the crowd began clapping. Broc called out her name, ‘Isobel! Lady MacCallum!’
The rest began chanting it in her honour, accepting his words and their vow—understanding that honour’s demands had been answered.
‘Isobel! Lady MacCallum!’ they shouted. Then, ‘A MacChauluim!’
The sound was deafening as it echoed around the yard and off the stone buildings. Athdar waited for it to fade before kissing her hand and releasing her. They needed to speak, but first he needed to see to a few things.
‘Wait for me in my clerk’s chamber? I will be there shortly,’ he said to her. ‘There are things to settle between us that this declaration did not.’
This time his words were met with acceptance rather than the usual mutinous expression and he nodded to her. Padruig walked to him, holding out the sword he’d retrieved and they both watched as his new wife walked away.
‘She may have just saved your miserable life, but I suspect Rurik will still want your bollocks,’ Padruig said, spitting in the dirt at their feet. ‘What will you do with her now?’
‘I have no idea,’ he admitted. He’d not planned on having another wife, or even allowing another woman close to him, so he could not even gather thoughts about what next. ‘I guess we will come to some agreement on things between us and then wait for her family.’
Padruig laughed then, aloud and hearty, the sound of it filling the yard. Others stopped and looked at him before carrying on with their duties. Padruig slapped him on the back, hard enough to make him stumble. ‘I want to see that.’
Athdar went to the stables and to the barrels that held fresh water and washed himself clean of the sweat and blood that covered him. He could not speak to Isobel until he removed all signs of his debauchery. Though some walked past him, no one approached or spoke to him. He took the time to try to sort through how his life had spiralled so out of his control in such a short time.
If he could only remember what had happened between them last night. He rubbed his face and scrubbed his head, hoping that some memories would loosen within him. By the time he was well scrubbed and clean, nothing—no images, no words—had come to him. His only other choice was to ask Isobel, but after seeing her condition this morn, he did not want her to remember or relive whatever he’d done.
He made his way to his chambers and changed his trews and shirt for clean garments and then went to find her in the room he used for keeping his land rolls and records. It was more of a private sanctuary for him than anything else. Broc and others had urged him to request a brother from the nearby abbey to serve him as clerk, but he’d resisted.
Athdar approached the door, ill at ease about the coming discussion between them. He lifted the latch and eased the door open to find Isobel studying his collection, albeit small, of books. They’d been a gift from his mother on the anniversary of his birth for several years after he’d mastered the ability to read. Jocelyn had added to them, occasionally sending him something she thought might interest him. There was a Bible, some histories about Greece and Rome and his mother’s book of hours. A modest collection for someone with the lands he held, but not as extensive as Connor’s lands, titles, wealth, power or library.
‘I had not thought to share these with you,’ he said softly, startling her from her examination of them. ‘You are probably accustomed to many more than that.’
‘Oh, I am permitted access to the laird’s library, but my own library numbers only a few more.’ She turned then and watched him close the door.
‘Would you prefer it open?’ Did she fear him now in the quiet privacy? In spite of her brave intervention in the yard, she must have known she was safe there.
‘Nay,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I think we have matters to discuss that should remain between us.’ Isobel moved around the table he kept there and sat on one of the stools. And then she watched and waited for him to begin.
‘I...’
He was used to giving orders to men. He was used to making arrangements for the villagers. It had been years since he last answered to any woman as ‘husband’ and he could not think where to begin
. With no memory of what had happened between them, he did not know how to apologise to her.
‘You did me no harm, Athdar,’ she whispered. ‘I am not injured.’
He wanted to believe her. He had never in his life taken a woman by force and he had seen carefully to both Mairi’s and Seonag’s first time when he lay with them as husband and wife. He knew how to have a care for their tender sensibilities. And in spite of her apparent willingness to explore passion with him that night a week or so ago, he had no idea of what he’d done if drunk and unaware.
‘I am well,’ she said again, staring at his face. ‘You were very drunk and came to the room confused and staggering. After you broke the jug, you fell down on the bed and dragged me with you. I...’ It was her turn to hesitate now and he did not wish her to be more disconcerted by having to speak of it.
‘Isobel, I know it will be difficult to remove the memories of last night from your mind. I want you to know that I will not force you to share my bed.’
He thought to give her reassurance, but that mutinous lower lip appeared once more, confusing the hell out of him. Added to that, his body reacted to the very thought of her in his bed and rose as though that deed was imminent.
‘The handfasting satisfies the needs of honour, but we can work out an acceptable arrangement between the two of us. If you wish it?’
‘I understand that you were not yourself, Athdar. I have seen grief change people. I have seen men in their cups. You were devastated last night over your friend’s death. I do not expect that behaviour will be repeated, so I am not worried over what will happen between us from now on.’
He wanted to laugh at how wifely her words sounded—the ones about that behaviour and not happening again could have been uttered by any married woman to her husband after a night’s excess. She was extraordinary in accepting what had happened. But then her expression became serious.