The Kindling Heart

by Carmen Caine

  At the sound of his name, Bree unconsciously drew the blanket closer.

  Shouting filtered through the open window. They were the sounds of angry men. She shuddered. She was still in Dunvegan. Violence hung in the air.

  “—And Ruan has four languages in him,” Merry was still speaking. “He can read… Can ye read?”

  Read? She shook her head, wondering why she’d do such a thing.

  “I can,” Merry announced. “Ruan has taught me."

  A stilted silence fell and they eyed each other for some time before the young girl pointed to the clothing folded at the bottom of the bed.

  “Isobel found ye a new gown.”

  Under Merry’s watchful eye, she slid from under the warm covers to inspect the dress. Lifting it up, she saw The MacLeod plaid folded underneath. She studied it, disheartened. It would be a surrender to wear it. She turned her attention to the dress and slipped it on.

  It was simple and for someone larger than herself but in a serviceable state with only one worn spot on the skirt. It was cold and she shivered, eying the plaid. She hesitated, but quickly caved. She never wanted to be cold again. Grimacing, she flung it over her shoulders.

  Merry had moved to straighten the bed, smoothing the coverlet repetitively in an almost obsessive manner. She clearly found it comforting. Not wishing to disturb the child, Bree peered through the small window into the courtyard below.

  A few men milled about, shouting angrily. They were large, violent, and fierce. Several had dark hair, and she could not tell if any were Ruan.

  She shuddered involuntarily.

  “Ruan will come soon,” Merry’s voice broke into her thoughts. “He’s gone to slay Fearghus for ...”

  The child’s voice trailed off, and she gestured to her eye. It was enough for Bree to understand that Fearghus had been the cause. She swallowed a gasp. How could anyone harm a child so? Besides Wat, she added grimly to herself.

  “’Tis nothing. Ruan will set it right,” Merry said. She lifted her chin firmly and gave the bed a final pat. “’Tis time for the midday meal. Come.”

  The meal had apparently ended, there were few left in Dunvegan’s main hall when they arrived. The massive fireplace burned low, unable to penetrate the gathering gloom. They sat timidly at a table in the corner, and a kindly woman brought a loaf of bread along with a platter of meat and pears. Bree ate hungrily, but Merry spent her time tearing up the bread in little pieces and positioning them in lines along the table.

  “You should eat,” Bree said, and offered her a chunk of meat. When Merry didn’t respond, she pushed it closer and repeated, “Eating will make you strong. You’ll heal faster.” She was beginning to sound like Afraig, she thought.

  Merry regarded her suspiciously and Bree thought she’d slap it away.

  “I supposed I should trust ye,” the small girl agreed, albeit grudgingly. “Now that ye wed Ruan, we are sisters.”

  Bree frowned, not wanting to hear about Ruan.

  Neither spoke the remainder of the meal. Merry only ate what Bree offered, making no move to eat on her own. She concentrated on her lines of bread, fretting if they didn’t share the exact length. Bree eyed her curiously; she was an odd child. But Dunvegan was a peculiar place. They had both just wiped their hands clean when Domnall’s voice from behind caused her to jump.

  “Ah, Bree! ‘Tis satisfying to see ye about, lass.”

  She bobbed her head in greeting, not knowing whether to be pleased or stoic with him.

  “’Tis time ye met Effric,” her father said. “Tormod’s lady, the Lady of Dunvegan.”

  “Effric is daft,” Merry cocked her head sidewise. “She spends her days staring out the window. No one pays her any heed.”

  “Aye, but she is the Lady of the castle,” Domnall boomed. “Mayhap a wee bit of Bree’s company will do her good.”

  “Bree?” Merry gaped at him incredulously. Adopting a visage far too old for her years, she added, “Then, ye ken naught of Effric’s madness. She’ll hate Bree more than any other.”

  “Why is that?” Bree asked, disturbed, but Merry frowned and slipped away, obviously wanting nothing to do with this Lady of Dunvegan.

  “The lady was a wee bit enamored with Ruan in times past,” Domnall shrugged the matter aside. “’Tis no matter now. Come.”

  Uneasiness rippled down Bree’s spine, as he cupped a hand under her elbow and guided her forward.

  “Aye, she is Tormod’s third wife and one to pity, lass.” Domnall leaned close to her ear and pointed to a chair placed facing the fire. “There!”

  Bree had noticed it earlier, but had assumed it was empty.

  As they drew closer, a face peered around the back of the chair. A woman rose as if to greet them, clutching a small ornamental cage that housed a yellow bird.

  A rank, disagreeable odor pervaded the air. As Bree stepped closer, it was apparent something was dreadfully wrong with Tormod’s Lady. From a distance, Effric appeared quite lovely, but upon closer inspection her blonde hair lay limp, and unwashed. Her gown was wrinkled and as stained as her bare feet stretched out beneath it. She was a young woman, though she hardly seemed it. And by far the most astounding thing about her was that the source of the unpleasant smell that made it difficult to breathe was the Lady of Dunvegan herself.

  “Lady Effric,” Domnall addressed her, bowing respectfully. “May I present ye my daughter, Bree.”

  The woman stared vacantly, apparently having lost interest.

  Domnall cleared his throat, adding softly, “Ruan’s wife.”

  The words had an astonishing effect. The dull blue eyes focused instantly.

  “Bree?” Effric repeated.

  “Yes, my lady,” Bree swallowed, dipping into a nervous curtsey.

  Effric said nothing for several minutes and then suddenly screamed in pure rage, “Is this true? Is this true?”

  Involuntarily, Bree stepped back.

  “What is this?” Isobel queried as she hurried into the hall, followed by a heavily pregnant woman with flaming red hair.

  “Ruan is wed?” Effric screamed. “Wed?”

  “Domnall!” Isobel cursed, sending the man a sour glance. “Hold yer tongue, man! I said a wee bit of company and nae to mention the lad!”

  “She was nae responding, woman!” Domnall explained brashly, appearing very unapologetic. “I dinna ken she’d—”

  “Ruan wed to this whore?” Effric shrieked, whirling to slap Bree across the face.

  Bree reeled back, clutching her cheek, shocked more than hurt, as Domnall roared in anger. He captured Effric’s wrist to twist it behind her back. There was a short scuffle.

  Effric began to wail, “’Tis a lie! Ruan is mine! ‘Tis a lie!”

  “Ach, lass,” Isobel sighed, shaking her head at the Lady of Dunvegan. “Ye’ve feigned madness so long ye’ve finally surrendered to it. ’Tis hard to feel pity, after the things ye’ve done.”

  “Ruan is mine! He’ll always be mine!” Effric gave a high-pitched screech.

  “What is done, is done, lass,” Isobel replied, in a matter-of-fact tone. “If ye care to remember the games ye played to be Lady of Dunvegan. Ye got yer wish. Yer Tormod’s wife, nae Ruan’s.”

  “Marriage means naught to Ruan! He’s slept in more marriage beds than any other!” Effric screamed. Pointing at Bree, she added, “I’ll have that whore hanged!”

  At that, Domnall bellowed, “No one calls my daughter a whore, even ye, lass, as daft as ye are!” Grabbing the writhing woman about the waist, he half carried, half dragged her out of the hall, Isobel close on his heels.

  As Effric’s screams faded, the red haired woman waddled forward with an apologetic smile, her hand resting upon her expectant belly.

  “Aye, the poor lass truly is mad. She hasn’t spoken in months to anyone. We thought she’d just fade away,” she remarked. “I’m Jenna.”

  Jenna was tall, young, and quite beautiful. The freckles dusting her nose matched her hair in the most char
ming of ways. She was bright, filled with life, and possessed the knack to make one feel at ease.

  “I heard ye’ve been ill, poor lass, best sit before ye faint. I’ll rest with ye a wee spell, until Domnall returns,” Jenna said. Patting her protruding belly with a proud smile, she lumbered to the nearest bench.

  Uncertain, Bree gingerly took a seat opposite her and rubbed her stinging cheek.

  “The bairn will be here soon…” Jenna began proudly, but fell abruptly silent.

  A newcomer shuffled into the hall. It took Bree several moments to recognize him as the priest who had presided over her wedding vows to Ruan. Not that she’d vowed, she thought bitterly. Her father’s word had been enough. Straightening her shoulders, she faced him as he moved their way.

  His graying hair still hung in grimy strings, and his nails were even dirtier. Together with his rumpled robes, he was quite the unkempt figure. His watery eyes were cold as he viewed Jenna with open distaste.

  “Only a wanton would boast about a child of sin,” he accused, by way of greeting. “Ye should be on yer knees, praying for yer lost soul.”

  Jenna’s lips tightened perceptibly. “Ach, Silas, and a braw day to ye.”

  The priest shrugged before sending Bree a venomous glare. “A godly wife submits!”

  Jenna snorted, “’Tis a fine way to greet yer brother’s wife,” she observed pointedly.

  Bree’s mouth fell open. This priest was Ruan’s brother?

  “A pious wife obeys,” the priest continued unperturbed. “Your screams were heard to Dunscaithe!”

  His brows furrowed into a line, reminiscent of Ruan, and as he towered in open disapproval, Bree’s heart quailed. For all his slovenly appearances, he was an intimidating man. She wanted to shout that she’d done nothing wrong, but the words stuck in her throat. What courage she’d managed to foster was rapidly disappearing.

  “Confess!” Silas ordered, menacingly.

  Bree swallowed, wanting to explain, but it was difficult to focus as the man’s gaze dropped, lingering on her breasts in quite an un-priestly manner. Her apprehension turned into shocked indignation.

  “I’ve nothing to confess,” she said tightly, though her voice shook. The words had been hard to say. Still. She’d said them.

  Jenna chuckled, delighted. “Find other souls to save, Silas.”

  Glowering, Silas hissed, “Fear the fires of hell, harlot!”

  Jenna shrugged, dismissively.

  Turning back to Bree, Silas observed her a moment before wiping his forehead and then storming from the hall, disappearing down the same passageway Domnall had carried Effric.

  “Aye, let him pray over Effric’s twisted soul,” Jenna grunted. “’Tis odd Effric spoke today, but then, she’s always pined after Ruan. She’s a petty one, had a cruel hand before she succumbed to the madness. I’d much rather have her silent than back to her old self, but Isobel thinks there’s something yet to save. I’m nae so sure, lass.”

  Bree nodded in agreement. It was obvious that Effric had been Ruan’s lover. The thought evoked no jealousy whatsoever. Ruan was welcome to any woman’s bed as long as it kept him from hers.

  “’Tis a dark place, Dunvegan,” Jenna muttered, shifting on the bench, seeking a comfortable spot. “It dinna use to be.”

  With growing apprehension, Bree watched her settle.

  Finally, Jenna smiled, “Ah, ‘tis muckle better.”

  Dutifully, Bree smiled in response. Twisting her fingers tightly in her skirt, she waited for Jenna to expound upon the strange inhabitants of Dunvegan, but the young woman only yawned before drifting off to sleep.

  After a time, when Domnall showed no sign of returning nor Jenna of waking, and Merry was no longer in sight, Bree moved stiffly to her room in the tower. She lay awake long into the darkness of the night, fretting.

  Ruan had been clear in that he’d no intention in claiming marital rights.

  Could she trust him? Oddly, she wanted to. The thought of wandering the cold moors made her shiver, she could not face that again. The unbalanced behavior of Effric and Merry was worrisome. Silas frightened her and Tormod even more so.

  But there was nowhere else for her to go. She was stuck in this dark castle with these disturbing people.

  It was a long time before she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  Chapter 09: The Mad Lady of Dunvegan

  “Up, ye lazy whore!”

  Bree bolted upright.

  “If Domnall hears ye call her that, ye’ll pay,” Isobel’s voice calmly inserted itself in the cold dawn. “And ye promised to be pleasant, lass. Bree’s a companion for ye.”

  Bree squinted, barely able to discern the outline of two women.

  “Up!” Effric shrilled, apparently heeding Isobel’s warning.

  Stiffly, Bree slipped out of bed.

  “I’m Dunvegan’s Lady, and nae you! Ye’ll nae be lying abed!” Effric spat, reaching to slap her cheek, but Isobel snatched her hand back in time. Effric glared, but twisting her hands behind her back, she continued. “Ye’ll work here and nae get any special treatment! The scullery wench ran off last month, and ye’ll take her place!”

  “Nay, Effric, Bree’s nae to be in the kitchens. She’s a companion for ye when she isn’t helping me,” Isobel sighed, still holding Effric’s hands. “Mayhap music would soothe ye. Bree, can ye play a lute?”

  Bree shook her head.

  “Then, needlework would do ye both good.”

  Effric bit her lip, she seemed ready to argue, but a piercing look from Isobel swayed her mind. “Then, ye’ll attend me, Bree. Now, get up with ye!”

  Under Effric’s critical eye, Bree hurriedly donned her gown as she wished in vain that Isobel had been quiet. She’d much rather have cleaned the gloomy kitchens of Dunvegan than serve Effric personally. She followed Effric through the shadowy castle, wondering what the woman had planned. Several times, she caught a glimpse of Merry following.

  They arrived at Effric’s chamber.

  It was large, the furnishings finer than she’d ever seen before, with small furs cast on the floor, and an even larger one on the bed. Several chairs with ornate embroidered cushions stood next to a table. Behind it, a small tapestry graced the wall.

  Effric walked to the window seat, picking the cloth on her sleeves, and proceeded to stare out silently at the sea loch.

  Not knowing what else to do, Bree stood patiently in the middle of the chamber, hands folded contritely behind her back, while Isobel bustled about with several baskets of thread and a loom.

  “Ye love yer needlework, lass,” Isobel clucked. “Mayhap ye should start a new one. Ye could do one of yer canary, love. Ye love the wee one so!”

  “Bree must leave,” Effric addressed her in a shrill voice. “She doesn’t belong here.”

  Bree agreed with her whole-heartedly and could not resist a nod.

  Isobel sent her a dour look and then corrected Effric calmly, “She canna leave, my lady. There’s naught to be done now.”

  Bree glanced at the floor, feeling a little ashamed.

  “She’ll nae live in the keep!” Effric slammed her fist on the table, her blue eyes filled with tears. “Nae here!”

  “That is atween Cuilen and Tormod,” Isobel said. She shook her head firmly before addressing Bree, “Love, fetch a bowl of porridge for Effric, would ye now?”

  Grateful for the reprieve, no matter how short, Bree did as Isobel asked. All too soon, she returned. She placed the bowl to the table as Effric rocked back and forth. Before she could react, the woman lunged, sweeping the bowl aside to splatter the contents in all directions. Grabbing handfuls of Bree’s hair, she began to wail and yank viciously.

  Bree sank to her knees, her head in agonizing pain.

  It was several seconds before Isobel managed to extricate Effric’s fingers from Bree’s hair.

  “Ye are the lady of Dunvegan!” Isobel reminded sharply, pulling Effric back to the window. “Behave as such!”

  Effri
c began to weep. Seizing a hairbrush from a nearby table, she threw it at Bree, “Out of my sight! Stay out of my sight!”

  Bree fled.

  Not knowing where else to go, she returned to her chamber to find Merry tidying the room.

  “Ye’d do better to leave this place,” the young girl said, running her hands across the blankets repetitively to smooth the wrinkles.

  At that, Bree heaved a loud sigh. Tears briefly stung her eyes, and she moved to sit on the edge of the bed, but at Merry’s disapproving frown, moved to the chest instead.

  Like it or not, she was stuck here. She rapidly blinked the tears away. All she had ever wanted was to live in a cottage with Afraig and grow herbs.

  “Ruan is taking me away from this place,” Merry said. “So… they canna send me back.”

  “Back?” Bree sniffed, grateful for the distraction from her own problems.

  “Aye, back to Fearghus,” she murmured, pointing to her eye in an awkward gesture. “He is my husband.”

  “Husband?” Bree gasped in shock. She shuddered. Squaring her shoulders and adopting a wide smile for Merry’s benefit, she took a deep breath. They wouldn’t think of husbands. Instead, she’d recapture happier times and, perhaps, help this child if only for a few, brief moments.

  Not knowing what else to do in the awkward silence, she thought of Afraig’s stories and began. “Have you heard of the tale…”

  ***

  The next week found Effric despondent, reacting to no person or thing. Isobel, who clearly cared for the Lady of Dunvegan, stayed by her side.

  “I’m sorry she hurt ye, lass,” Isobel said, while giving her a warm hug. “She’s just nae herself, love. Ye’d best stay out of her sight for now. There is no need to cause the lass more harm.”

  Bree was happy to comply. She spent the time with Merry, huddled under the plaids in her tiny chamber, recounting every story she could recall. To humor the young girl, Bree tried to speak as much Gaelic as she could, and was soon surprised at the ease with which the language began to flow from her lips. She’d apparently learned more from Afraig than she had realized.

  Merry listened to Bree’s stories in fascination. Each day, the young girl’s bruises faded a little more and the swelling in her eye lessened. She still found comfort in her rituals of straightened the covers and lining her bread on the table, but she hurried through the ceremonies a little faster each day.