“We are pleased to serve, m’lady.”
“You are kind, but please understand that I don’t wish to distress the lady in any way.”
He looked at her with kind eyes. “My lady is dying,” he said quietly, “and has been doing so for some time. We watch her waste away. There is nothing anyone can do. The finest physicians have come and gone, powerless, so we make her life as easy as possible. We keep her from pain, and we tell her often that she is loved. Ye are nae a burden here, lass. Our burden is one we have borne for some time, and it is not affected by your coming. We are glad to have ye in the castle, and ye are welcome here ever. The Laird Rowan, no matter what the dictates were of God, queen or man, would nae have brought ye here did he not believe ye had a brave and gentle heart. And now…here we are. M’lady, if ye’ll allow me…?”
He dismounted before a massive stone stairway that led up to heavy doors one story above. These were the stables, she realized, and the horses were stabled on the first floor, while living quarters were located above. Had any enemy ever managed to enter the courtyard, the defenders here would have had the advantage when it came to battle. There were no windows to be seen on the face of the building, only slender arrow slits. Comfortable as it might prove to be, Castle Grey was a fortress built not for the niceties of life, but for defense.
She thanked the man for assisting her to the ground, while groomsmen helped Annie and Liza to dismount. Her women, she was told, were to be taken to the kitchen—apparently, it was assumed that Liza was a part of her company now. Before heading off with one of the cooks, Annie assured her that she would explore the lay of the castle, then quickly return to arrange Gwenyth’s travel wardrobe and see to her comforts. Annie looked worn from the ride, Gwenyth saw, and Liza appeared nothing short of exhausted. She made a decision and turned to Tristan. “May my women be fed and shown to their sleeping quarters?” she asked.
“Nay, nay,” Annie began to protest.
“Please, we’ll all rest,” Gwenyth said. “Tristan, please see that a meal is sent to my room. Laird Rowan has just returned, and I know will cherish his time with his wife, while I will be happiest if I know that I have created no conflict for him.”
“As you wish,” he assured her.
Still, there was a massive great hall to be traversed when they entered the castle, after passing through one doorway and then another, with nothing but sky overhead to allow the defenders in a battle to rain down arrows or pour boiling oil upon any attackers who might make it so far. This was an impressive holding, indeed, she thought.
Swords and shields, new and from ancient times, were hung the length of the great hall, adding to the impression of strength and permanence. Tristan led her along a seemingly endless corridor, until they finally arrived at a broad flight of stone steps leading to the floor above.
“The laird’s home is immense,” she said when they reached the top.
“Ah, m’lady, not so grand,” Tristan said cheerfully. “Living quarters above, servants’ quarters below. There is the main building, nae more. Ye’ll learn y’er way easily enough. I’ll have y’er women brought to the small chamber there, at the end of the hall, so they’ll be near. The master’s chambers are to the right, there, and I am ever in the wee room abutting his laird’s, should ye need a thing.”
He opened one of the many doors along the hallway, allowing her to pass before him into the room. Her travel bags had been brought and set against the wardrobe along the rear wall. These might have been guest quarters, but the room was quite grand to her eyes, far larger than her accommodations at Holyrood.
Water had already been brought that she might wash the travel dust from her person, and a tray with wine, bread and cheese had been left upon the fine dressing table. The bed was a massive four-poster, with sheets smelling of the fresh Highland air and a warm wool cover. There was nothing she could want.
“M’lady?” Tristan inquired.
“It is lovely, and I will be very comfortable,” she assured him.
He paused for a moment longer.
“Thank you,” she told him.
And still he hesitated.
“I don’t wish to keep you from your other duties,” she said.
Then he spoke at last. “If ye hear screams in the night, do nae fear. Lady Catherine…she wakes in the night sometimes, haunted by strange creatures in her mind. We have taken to sitting with the lady through the night, to soothe her quickly. But should ye hear a cry…it should not be a source of fear for you.”
“The poor lady,” Gwenyth said.
“Aye, poor lady, poor laird…” She was startled when Tristan suddenly grew indignant. “Pray God that the queen knows the mettle of the men who serve her,” he said. “Oft, loyalty is naught but the wind, while m’Laird Rowan is ever constant in all that he honors.” Then he seemed to realize that he had spoken too freely. “Forgive me. Rest well.”
The last was said calmly, as if he had donned a mask to hide his true feelings once again.
He smiled and left her. She turned around, surveying her temporary domain more thoroughly. Some thoughtful soul had even left her a vase of wildflowers. She was lodged here as commanded by the queen, yet that strange sense of guilt remained. She still felt that she was intruding where she should not be. She had so loathed Rowan in the beginning, when he had not seemed supportive of Mary, when he had seemed to consider himself superior to the French attendants, who themselves felt superior to everyone here in Scotland. He was so quick to mock, and yet she knew now that the man was not shallow but instead hid his depths and his sorrow. He was merely wary, yet he was prepared to right whatever wrongs might arise.
He had twice come to her defense or bowed to her desires.
She was grateful, she told herself, no more.
Their journey had been long and hard; she was grateful for the opportunity to stay within this room, graciously accept the service offered her and await the time—which she fervently hoped would come soon—to leave.
And so she settled in, grateful for the water and soap—French soap, she noted with a smile—left for her pleasure. She bathed as best she could, and in time Annie arrived with her supper, assuring her that she had immediately put Liza to bed, and that in the morning, they would all feel much fresher.
Annie was delighted with their accommodations. “We’ve a room together, and it’s lovely big,” she said enthusiastically, then whispered, “I think we’re in a room for a visiting laird and lady, just so we might be near you. What kindness we are finding here.”
That was certainly true, Gwenyth thought, then quickly thanked Annie and sent her off to bed. Afterward, she dined, finding herself quite hungry after the long ride, then put on her nightgown and lay down to sleep.
But despite her exhaustion, she could not lose herself in slumber. The darkness of the strange castle plagued her. Her fire was burning low, and there were long shadows in the room.
She’d been warned that she might hear screams in the night, that the lady was plagued by demons, and she could not help but listen nervously, even as she told herself not to be afraid.
SHE DIDN’T KNOW HIM. His own wife didn’t know him.
It was always the same, but each time it hurt afresh, and he felt as if his heart bled. Catherine was but a shell, so slim that she was like a child, as weak as a kitten, and she stared at him with empty eyes when her nurse cheerfully informed her that her laird and husband was home.
They were blue eyes, and they looked as huge as saucers in the skeletal thinness of her face. At least she did not fear him when he set a kiss upon her forehead, then sat by her side, taking her hand. It seemed she had been ill forever, and that his heart had lain in tatters just as long, as he realized he must still take responsibility for his own life, even as he watched hers slip away.
There were times when he loathed himself, for he had often felt relief that his duty to the Crown had taken him away from the suffering here, though Tristan had assured him that his la
dy did not suffer, did not feel pain.
But Tristan had informed him privately that in the last month or so, Catherine had taken a serious downturn. A late summer fever had taken its toll.
“My lady,” Rowan said now, holding her delicate hand, the skin like parchment. “You are as beautiful as ever.”
She blinked, looking at him in confusion.
“It’s me, Catherine. Rowan,” he told her.
Something seemed to register in the depths of her eyes, and he felt as if he were being stabbed through by an enemy broadsword. Leaning forward, he took her from the bed, then carried her over to the chair by the fire. She was as light as a child in his arms.
He cradled her to him, and remembered a lost time when she had been headstrong and filled with laughter, when her eyes had caught fire at the sight of him and the world had been filled with promise.
And now…
Now she sat limply in his arms. She did not fight him, but neither did she find any comfort in him. And still he sat there, holding her for hours, until she drifted to sleep in his arms. At last he rose, returning her to bed.
He called to her nurse, Agatha, so the woman would know Catherine was alone again, and he returned to his private quarters to bathe and dress anew, thinking he could not leave now, and yet he was duty and honor bound to see Gwenyth MacLeod safely home, and to travel on to England as quickly as possible. He pressed his head between his hands and, as he did so, he realized his exhaustion. He lay down, thinking he would rest for no more than a few minutes.
He felt numb, beyond pain. He was numb, and he despised himself for it.
AT FIRST IT TRULY DID SOUND as if demons had descended upon the castle.
What she heard first was like the cry of the wind, the bitter lament of a storm sweeping through the valley. Gwenyth awoke instantly at the sound, and sat up in bed.
Then it came again, a low, plaintive tone of anguish.
Tristan had told her to not fear, that the lady heard demons in her mind and sometimes screamed in the night. But there was something about the desperate tone of those screams that tore at her heart, and she rose, feet bare upon the cold stone floor, and ventured to the door, opened it and looked out.
At the end of the hall, she could see a glow of light slipping out past an open door. The sounds that had roused her were emanating from that room.
She paused, torn. She was a guest here; she was not privy to the personal lives of those who lived here in the castle. But she could not remain as she was; the lady seemed to be crying out to her in pain.
She moved down the hall and looked past the open door. She saw no one within, though the cries were echoing more loudly now. She tentatively stepped inside.
The first thing that met her eyes was a giant bed in the far corner of the room. It seemed at first that there was nothing there other than a pile of sheets and finely embroidered covers. Then the mound of bed clothing moved, and Gwenyth heard a low, keening moan.
She couldn’t bear the sound and hurried closer, asking tentatively, “My lady Catherine?”
The moaning continued. It was low now, yet it seemed to reverberate loudly in Gwenyth’s soul. Should she seek help elsewhere in the castle?
Again, the heartrending moan.
She moved forward, unable to do anything else.
In the bed she saw a tiny ghost of a woman, tossing, her eyes wide, as if she saw something in the night. Her former beauty was evident in the vast pools of her eyes and the golden strands of hair tangled about the cadaverous sculpture of her face. She stared at Gwenyth suddenly.
“They come,” Catherine whispered.
Gwenyth sat at her side, taking her hands. “No one comes, my lady.”
Catherine stared at Gwenyth with an eerie glint in her eyes, but she had ceased to moan. Gwenyth smoothed back the tangled mass of her hair. “You are safe and well in your own home, loved and cherished.”
“If I but knew that my God was with me,” the woman murmured suddenly, and she seemed as lucid as anyone in that moment.
“My dear Lady Catherine, I assure you that God is with you always,” Gwenyth said. She realized Catherine was clinging to her, that the bony hands within hers had found a sudden and terrible strength. “He is with you,” Gwenyth went on, feeling at a terrible loss, not knowing what else to say or do. Then a song taught her long ago by one of her nurses when she was a child came to mind. She began to sing it softly.
God is in the Highland, God guarding on high,
Above the tor, within the night sky,
God is always with me,
At my side He doth lie.
Never fear the night,
Never mind the dark,
God is always light
A beacon ’gainst the dark.
“It’s beautiful,” Catherine whispered. “Please…sing more.”
If there was more, Gwenyth didn’t know it, so she was momentarily silent.
“I love that song,” Catherine said, her grip tightening further, her wide eyes childlike, trusting. “Please sing it again.”
So Gwenyth sang it again, and then again.
To her amazement, the grip upon her hand eased as she repeated the only verse she remembered for the third time and watched as Catherine slowly closed her eyes. After a minute, when she seemed to be sleeping in peace, Gwenyth gently disengaged her hands and rose.
When she turned, she froze.
She was not alone in the room. The nurse was just a few feet away, standing in silence. Rowan was at the rear of the room, seemingly held there only by Tristan’s hand upon his arm. They were all staring at her.
Rowan’s thick wheaten hair was tousled, as if he’d just risen from bed, and he wore a look of undisguised anguish. It seemed to her that he was staring at her as if she were some sort of abomination. She was certain, from the way he stood, as tense as a bow string, he longed to step forward and wrest her away from his wife’s bedside.
Ready to defend his wife in the only way he knew how. There was such strength in the man, Gwenyth thought, yet there was nothing he could do to heal his wife and return her to the woman she had once been.
“She sleeps now, and sweetly so,” the nurse murmured.
Gwenyth stepped quickly away from the bed. She realized she must look like a ghostly interloper, for she was wearing only her white nightdress, her feet bare, her own hair in wild disarray. She found it difficult to speak, even though the nurse’s words had broken the awkward silence in the room.
“I’m sorry. I heard her distress and did not see…did not see anyone with her,” she whispered.
Rowan continued to stare at her in rigid silence.
“We arrived just after you entered,” Tristan said, “but did not interfere.”
She was amazed at the harsh quality of Rowan’s voice when he spoke, though his words were kind.
“It seems that you soothe her where others fail,” he said. “Go to bed, for you must be tired. We are with her now.”
Tristan offered her a weak smile as she fled the room, so she was startled to find that he had followed her into the hallway. “M’lady?”
She stopped at her own door, turning back.
“M’lady, please…”
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said stiffly.
“I…” The man was most evidently at a loss. He lifted his hands, seeking words. “Please, do nae take unkindly to m’Laird Rowan. Ye must ken…she does not know him now. And to watch this…his heart breaks.”
“I understand,” she said.
“Y’er kind, m’lady. The laird fell asleep, while the nurse stepped out for air. And I fear that I, too, slept through Lady Catherine’s first cries.”
She nodded. Rowan hates me, she thought. Before, I amused him. Now he hates me. He does not want anyone to see pain or weakness in him, and he hates me because now I have seen both.
“Ye did soothe her,” Tristan said. “Thank you.” He bowed in closing.
“Good night,” she told hi
m.
“Good night, sleep well, m’lady.”
ROWAN DAMNED HIMSELF. How often had he ridden into battle, slept upon the ground, ever wary for the slightest sound in the night? He had trained himself to be vigilant; in this land, it was not only the English who were the enemy. When there was no one else to fight, his people went to war with one another, so he had learned never to let down his guard in the night.
But Catherine had cried out, and he had not heard her. He had not awakened.
Instead, Gwenyth had gone to her.
And the wife who did not know him or his voice had responded to the gentle and soothing touch of a stranger, to the sound of her voice.
He sat at Catherine’s side throughout the night. She did not cry out again. She barely seemed to breathe. She was like an angel in the vast bed, a tiny angel.
He owed Gwenyth his deepest gratitude, he thought. Yet something in his heart rebelled; this was his private pain. The world had known Catherine as a great beauty, clever, witty, charming, kind. None should have to see her like this.
When the cock crowed, he rose from her bedside, while she slept on. He felt weary to the bone and the heart. He needed rest, yet he was loath to leave Catherine.
Why had he brought her here? The queen’s command, he reminded himself dully.
She should have behaved like a normal guest. She should have walked in the courtyard, rested in the comfort of the castle and ridden out to see the beauty of the country. She should not have intruded on his personal life.
He knew he should be grateful for the service she had done Catherine, and yet he hated the very fact that she was here. Perhaps it was because she was too much like the woman Catherine had once been, strong and beautiful, determined…compassionate.
He dismissed such a thought from his mind.
She was the queen’s lady, and she had lived in France too long. She needed to reaccustom herself to the reality of her own country, to learn that she was not the law and couldn’t argue with the new faith of the land.
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