by Fiona Faris
She could not be sure, but she thought she saw his eye flicker towards her at this.
He was, she thought, the image of his pa. He had the same chestnut-brown hair, the same dark complexion, and most strikingly of all the same green-hazel eyes. Only, whereas Eoin’s eyes gleamed with his troubles, Donald’s were utterly flat and dead. It was as if the wee boy had fallen beyond even grief.
The boy slumped back down onto the floor and resumed tracing the pattern in the rug.
Eoin seemed about to chide him for his rudeness, but Catriona stayed him with a touch to his arm. She flopped down onto the floor beside Donald and tucked her legs beneath her skirts.
“And what pictures can you see in the rug?” she asked, tracing the pattern with her own finger. “I see… the swirl of water from the oars of a pirate ship as it pulls through the mouth of a sea-loch.”
Donald’s finger retraced the pattern Catriona had just traced with hers, a pensive but guarded look on his face.
“And here,” she said, moving her finger around the lines of another corner of the pattern, “the smoke rising from the chapel beside the causeway. Those pirates have sacked it and stolen all its gold plate and its jeweled Bible.”
She looked up and saw that Donald had shifted his thoughtful, guarded look to her face.
“Do you know,” she confided in him, “I have heard tell that Somerled, the first Lord of the Isles, intercepted the pirates as they left the island and they had to hide their plunder somewhere on the island itself.” She shuffled closer and put her mouth to his ear so that Eoin wouldn’t overhear what she had to say. “Somerled and all the Lords of the Isles since, right down to your grandfather, Ranald, have searched for the treasure but have never been able to find it. I wonder where the pirates might have hidden it.”
The ghost of a smile flitted across Donald’s face. His eyes widened at the possibility.
Catriona began to fidget. She straightened out her legs and rubbed her shod feet together.
“You know,” she said to Donald, “these shoes are new, and they are pinching my toes worse than the blacksmith’s pliers.”
Donald looked at her with concern. His brow furrowed, and his lips worked silently for a few seconds.
“Well… take them off, then,” he suggested.
Chapter Eight
“His first words in the past three weeks,” Peigi repeated with an air of wonder and amazement. “It is a miracle indeed!”
They were in the servants’ quarters, a warren of nooks and crannies and arched storerooms on the tower’s ground floor beneath the hall. In one of the smaller cells, among a jumble of sacks and gear, Peigi, Deirdre, and Catriona lay on the straw pallet they shared as a bed, a heap of woolen blankets piled on top of them against the chill of early fall.
“Well,” Deirdre remarked, somewhat petulantly, “it’s not as if he’d had the tongue torn from his head.”
“But the shock had turned it to stone,” Peigi observed. “Catriona has restored the life to it.”
Deirdre snorted her skepticism at this.
“The poor wee soul just needs taken out of himself,” Catriona said. “It’s like he’s become lost in a forest and is frozen to the spot, terrified to move. He needs someone to go into the forest to find him and lead him out.”
Deirdre snorted again.
“A damned good shake and a skelp are what he needs,” she said, “not humoring and mollycoddling. All that soft treatment will just encourage the wee attention-seeking get.”
Peigi stirred, her massive frame hauling the blankets from Catriona to leave her shivering in her shift as she rolled over to confront Deirdre.
“And what would ye know of children, a mere slip of a girl…?”
“And what of that slip of a girl at yer arse? She’s no older than I am.”
Peigi considered Deirdre for a moment, slowly shaking her large tousie head at her.
“Ye know yer trouble,” she told her darkly, in a low voice. “Ye are an envious wee minx.”
“Envious?” Deirdre cried, sitting up and pointing at Catriona with disdain. “Of that?”
Catriona grabbed the blankets and, with a sharp tug, pulled them back over her body.
“Och, will the pair of ye just haud yer wheesht and go to sleep. It’s like trying to sleep in a henhouse, with all yer burbling and cackling.”
The three of them fell silent, each alone with her own thoughts, but none of them could fall over into sleep.
“I thought there would have been more folk in the castle,” Catriona murmured at length.
“Normally, aye,” Peigi told her. “Mostly, the men-at-arms who lodge in the garrison. But the laird sent them all away after his wife died, and all the servants except Deirdre, Tamhas, and myself. That is why Deirdre and I share a bed; it can get very gloomy and dreesome in the undercroft o’ a night.”
“The laird seems to have taken the loss of his lady sorely,” Catriona observed in a whisper.
“Och, aye; very sairly,” Peigi whispered back. “He was besotted with her; some may say ‘bewitched’. The marriage had been arranged from the time he was just a wee laddie, not much older than Donald is now. His father, the Clanranald, is a great one for the diplomacy, ye see. But it was a case of love at first sight when the couple came of age and were brought together for the betrothal. Ah, the Lady Isbeil was a bonny work though. Tall and slender like a silver birch tree, with fine almost silver hair, eyes as blue as the summer sky, softly spoken and demure. And he… well, ye have seen him for yerself. As handsome a young man as ye shall ever meet, gallant and true, with yon bonny brown hair and the Italian cast to him. That’s from his grandmother, of course, the Lady Mariotta, whom his grandfather brought back from his adventures in Lombardy.”
“I did wonder about the darkness of his complexion,” Catriona said.
“Aye.” Peigi giggled and dug Catriona in the ribs with her elbow. “And his men-at-arms used to say that he was built like a Lombard stallion too, if ye catch my meaning.”
Catriona shifted uncomfortably on the straw pallet. A memory of Ruairi’s engorged member cleaving her sister’s flesh rushed into her mind.
“But anyhow,” Peigi continued, “they were a devoted couple, Muideart and the Lady Isbeil. He doted on her. It is as if a madness has come upon him since she was taken. I think he blames himself for her death. She had a hard enough time of it, pushing out wee Donald. He almost lost her then, and she was always a wee bit delicate in her health after Donald. I think he believes that, had he not got her with child again, she would still be with him. Which is probably the truth of it.”
* * *
They must have fallen asleep, for the next Catriona knew was that Peigi no longer lay between herself and Deirdre. She raised herself on her elbows and looked around at the dark shapes that filled the room.
“If it is Peigi ye are looking for, she’ll be with Tamhas,” Deirdre’s voice chimed in the darkness.
“Tamhas?”
“Aye. Most nights, Peigi rises to go to the garderobe for a piss. Or so she will tell ye. But really, it is to go to Tamhas in his bed.” Deidre giggled. “Can ye imagine it? Tamhas’ wee white arse jigging away in that mountain of flesh…? It’s a wonder he disna get lost in her hills and glens. And if ever he fell into the crack of her hurdies, he’d be crushed like a peck o’ corn between the stones o’ a mill.”
“And she goes to him?”
After what Catriona had witnessed between Sorcha and Ruairi, she could not imagine any woman going willingly to any man.
“Oh, aye,” Deirdre responded in surprise. “She’s a randie auld cunt. She has her needs, and Tamhas seems to satisfy them.” She reflected in silence for a moment, then gave a little shiver. “Ugh, I canna see how though. Imagine yon wee runt slobbering all over ye.”
She rolled over into the space that had been vacated by Peigi and threw her arms around Catriona. Catriona stiffened.
“The maister though; he’s another matter,” Deird
re crooned. “Can’t ye just imagine his big golden Italian prick between yer legs…” She placed her hand between Catriona’s legs and gave her a playful rub. “I imagine it every night. I’ve rubbed myself that sair wi’ the thinking o’ it.”
“Stop it!”
Catriona leaped from the pallet, tugging her shift dress down over her groin.
Deirdre eyes slowly widened in amusement.
“Ye never have!” she exclaimed in a loud whisper. “Ye have never played with yerself, down there, have ye?”
She began to laugh. Then she stopped, and her eyes grew even wider. A malicious grin spread across her face.
“Ye’re fearful, aren’t ye? Ye’re so fearful of having a man’s cock in ye that ye can’t even bear to imagine it.” A fresh thought dawned on her face. “Or is it lassies ye prefer? For if it is, ye can play wi’ me while I dream of Muideart.”
Catriona snatched up her clothes from the stool on which she had folded them and bolted from the room.
“You’re an evil wee bitch!” she cried at Deirdre.
“And ye’re just a frigid wee virgin,” Deirdre cried after her, then added to herself, “And here was me fearing that ye’d be vying wi’ me for the maister’s attention.”
Chapter Nine
The days passed into weeks, and Catriona and Donald became ever closer and fonder playmates.
They began by tracing more and ever more complex stories in the swirls of the rug in the withdrawing room. Then Catriona asked Donald to show her the island, which he was delighted to do.
They spent whole mornings and afternoons, come rain, hail, or sunshine, scrambling over the four rocky outcrops that constituted Eilean Tioram, exploring its rugged coastline and small beaches, and the sandbar and marshland that joined the island to the mainland at low-tide. They played in the chapel ruins and around the old smokehouse down by the shoreline beyond the curtain wall and spied on the seabirds as they wheeled and soared and dove in the wind that whipped the broad surface of the loch into choppy waves. When the weather was impossible, they played in the hall and private apartments and delved into every nook and crevice in the passageways of the tower.
As his confidence in her grew, Donald gradually opened up, revealing more and more of himself to his playmate, both directly in their conversation and indirectly through the tales they acted out, tales of pirates and princesses and buried treasure and knights and great chieftains. However, there yet remained a core of sullen withdrawal from which Catriona could not coax him out of.
One day, while they were playing on the rug and they were each silently tracing their own dreams in the pattern, Donald suddenly announced:
“You can never be my mother.”
Catriona gave a start.
“What do you mean, Donald, my pet?”
Donald continued to follow the route of his thoughts with his finger on the rug.
“My father brought you here to be my new mother because my mother has gone away. But you can never be my mother, even though my mother is no longer here.”
Catriona looked at him seriously. She took his hands, pulled him around to face her, and gazed steadily into his eyes. His face bore a solemn, somber look, a look of profound sadness.
“I know I can never be your mother,” she said slowly and deliberately. “And I wouldn’t even pretend to be or want to be. I am your friend, not your mother.”
Donald thought about this for a moment.
“Where is my mother?” he asked, a look of desperate longing in his eyes. “Father said she had to go away and won’t ever be coming back, and that’s that. Why can’t she ever be coming back? Does she not love me anymore?”
A bolt of shock shot through Catriona’s body. Surely to goodness they had told the boy that his mother was dead. Surely, someone had spoken to the boy and explained.
She placed her hand on his chest.
“Your mother has gone nowhere. She is still here, in you, in your heart, where she has always been. She flows around your whole body, in your veins, in your blood. She will always be here with you, Donald, always. And you can always speak to her, whenever you like.”
Donald’s eyes shown as if he had experienced some great revelation, an epiphany.
“Oh, but I do speak to her,” he said, as if realizing it for the first time. “I speak to her all the time. She always sounds so sad....” He listened for a moment. “But now she sounds happy!”
He leaped up and threw himself into Catriona’s arms, and tears sprang to her eyes.
* * *
Behind the door of the withdrawing room, Eoin stood in the passageway, eavesdropping on Donald and Catriona. A single teardrop traced a line down his cheek. What Catriona had just said to Donald was the most heart-achingly beautiful thing he had ever heard, even more beautiful than the lullabies she sang to his son to help him fall asleep.
He thought about going in and sweeping both of them into his arms, Catriona in gratitude, Donald in love, but he did not want to intrude on their moment of intimacy, which would be so healing for Donald. Instead, he carried on along the passage to his chamber.
He closed the door behind him. She really was the most remarkable lass. Barely a child herself, she had an adult’s wisdom and a gift with children. He had done well to have brought her there. It lifted his spirits slightly to think that he had at last done something right by his son. Since Isbeil had been taken, he had been unmanned. He had Tamhas to thank for holding together what remained of his household and for carrying out his day-to-day affairs; now he had Catriona to thank for saving his Donald from drowning in his grief and despair.
They would get through this yet.
She was also a fine-looking lass, though he immediately chided himself for this last thought. She was young, only half his age, and it was unbecoming, he knew, to be thinking of her in that way, with his Isbeil not long in her grave. But he could not help but admire her neat form, the slimness of her hips, the shimmering nut-brown tresses that fell down her back as far as her waist, her smooth milk-white complexion and her dark eyes. He also found attractive her quiet modesty and lack of artfulness, in contrast to that scullery maid, Deirdre or Dorcas or whatever her name was, who was forever flashing her feral eyes at him and waving her pert tail at him like a cat in heat.
He had been meaning to speak to Tamhas about her.
Chapter Ten
With Donald abed and sleeping the sleep of the just, Catriona threw a shawl over her shoulders and took herself down to the shore for some time to herself.
She wandered east alone the seaward-facing shore until she reached the sandbar. Dusk was falling. The tide was rushing in and, already, the causeway was several feet under water, cutting the island off from the mainland. She looked longingly to where the River Seille poured its strong stream into Loch Muideart and thought of her people three miles upstream at Ath Tharracail. She wondered how her mither was managing with the work alone, now that both her daughters had been plucked from her nest, and if her pa was behaving himself and keeping his big mouth shut. She thought of Sorcha. The summer was over, and Ruairi would have returned home from the shieling. She hoped that her sister was bearing up under the lovemaking, such a brutal business it was.
So wrapped she was in her own thoughts that she did not see or hear her master come up behind her.
“Good evening, Catriona,” he greeted her.
She gave a jump and clamped her fist to her throat.
Eoin frowned.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Catriona recomposed herself.
“No, sir. There is no need to apologize.” She waved a hand in front of her face and gave a small nervous smile. “I was away in a dwam.”
“Homesick?” he conjectured, giving a nod in the direction of the river.
“A wee bit, sir.” She smiled coyly. “I am thinking on my people back at the clachan, and the troubles they have.”
Eoin laughed.
“Always thinking
of others,” he observed. “Do you ever think of yourself?”
“All the time, sir, for they are the same thing. As the future Clanranald, you must know that, sir. You are your people, and they are you.”
Eoin stared at her in round-eyed astonishment.
“Quite!”
They fell silent for a few moments. She gazed out across the loch, narrowing her eyes against the blustery sea breeze, while he watched how that same breeze whipped her hair restlessly about her throat and cheeks.
“I came down to thank you for the grand job you have done with Donald,” he resumed. “He is almost back to his old self again, the way he was before… well…”
Catriona turned her eyes on him, hooking her hair back over her shoulder.
“Ah, but he is not the same; nor can he ever be the same wee boy again. He has lost his mother…”
“Aye, but he seems to have found her again – sort of – with your assistance.”
She gave him an enquiring look, edged with annoyance.
“Have you been spying on us, sir?”
Eoin shuffled uncomfortably, unable to meet her eye.
“I only overheard what you said to him this afternoon.”
“You were spying on us!”
“Och, I wouldn’t say ‘spying’. That’s putting it a bit too strongly. ‘Eavesdropping’ maybe…” He dismissed his quibbling with a curt sweep of his hand. “Whatever, I just wanted to say, ‘Thank you!’ Your words have helped the boy no end.” He met her eyes with his, and they glowed with sincerity. “They have also helped me.”
She bobbed a little curtsy.
“Thank you, sir; I am glad.”
A smattering of raindrops blew in on the breeze.
“We should be getting back,” he suggested. “It feels like rain is coming. And, anyway, it will soon be dark. Shall we walk back along the sand?”
“As you please, sir,” she replied, then hesitated. “Only…”