For six days, Jean’s father lay in his bed, unable to talk, not responding to anything she said to him, even when she pleaded with him to please squeeze her hand, to please blink his eyes. But the blow with a studded mace to the side of his skull was too much. The sunken wound oozed both blood and water, soaking a bandage as soon as they tried to wrap it. When the sun set on the sixth day, his eyes closed completely and his last breath seeped out of his chest in one long tight whistle.
Jean wouldn’t let herself cry. She’d done enough of that the first day when they were burying all of those lost, including her mother. Once the burials were over, Boyd went with three others to find Janet. They came back with only worse news. Just like Helen, the Beauty of Braemore who’d flung herself from the turret of her castle prison after her wedding abduction, Janet had died falling from the highest tower of Halberry Castle where the Gunns had locked her up. But from what Boyd could learn, it seemed more probable that Janet had been thrown out than jump herself.
Either way, she was gone and any amount of Jean’s lamenting couldn’t bring her back. None of them could be cried to life again. Jean had prayed and had only gained living to see her worst nightmare. What kind of miracle was that? She was done with prayer.
They buried her father next to her mother among the many other new graves, out beside the chapel. They didn’t have a grave for Janet, for her remains had been swept away by the cruel, cold water of the North Sea.
Jean was in the kitchen cutting potatoes for Robert to add to his stew. With so many slain, the staff of the estate had to be reassigned and thinned to cover all the duties required for a place as large as Balvenie. And Jean didn’t want to be left alone with her thoughts. So she jumped in to get the work done. She now was head of the household. It was up to her to make sure everyone was taken care of. She had no appetite and could barely put any food to her lips, but others needed to eat.
Boyd came into the kitchen. Jean looked up. She had no smile to give him. Her face had become absent of all expression, feeling flaccid and empty. She was certain she’d never smile again. No amount of gaiety or surprise could ever lift her brows or even widen her eyes, let alone trick her into smiling. She would never have joy again.
“We have guests,” Boyd said. “Robert, can you stretch the fare to provide for five more at table for supper?”
“I have swan in the larder. And plenty of cakes.” All the uneaten food from the wedding had been sustaining them since that horrid day. And even a week later, there was more left.
“Who is here?” Jean asked. An unexpected resentment welled up that Boyd hadn’t told her, hadn’t treated her like the head of the house that she now was. The anger came out of nowhere and surprised Jean with the intensity of it. She tried to press it back down, to attribute it to all that had happened, but when she spoke, she couldn’t keep an edge out of her voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Boyd looked at her with bewilderment. “I’m sorry. I was trying to not bother you. Of course, I should have found you straight away. Laird William Keith, Earl Marischal, the chief of the clan, is in the Great Hall. He’s come after getting word of…of what happened.”
“He’s a bit late, wouldn’t you say?” Jean snapped, sorry she’d said it as soon as she had. “Did he say why?” she tried in a softer tone.
“He has not yet. Robert, I will await word from you when the food is ready. Shall we go greet your guests?” he said to Jean.
She pulled off her apron and put it on the table next to her knife and the pile of half-cut potatoes. Worry mixed with the irritation clouding her thoughts. What would Laird Keith want with them?
When she entered the hall, three of the five strangers stood up. One of those three stepped forward at once, clearly taking charge. The two men with him who remained seated were much larger than he—clearly evident even though they stayed in their chairs—but the one who came forward oozed power and authority.
His claymore was still secured to his back in crossed leather straps. With Gunn savages on the prowl, everyone was wearing more weaponry and not removing them for any reason other than sleep, and then they were always in reach. Keith’s face was ruddy and his hair like copper. He was in his mid-thirties, Jean guessed. He moved with confidence and with the knowledge that his position assured respect and obedience, like he was accustomed to everyone doing as he commanded without question.
He reached out to her and clasped her forearms in his huge hands.
“I am gravely distressed by what has transpired here. Be certain the Gunn clan will rue the day they attacked the Keiths. How are you holding up?”
Jean remembered him now. She’d met him when she was ten at the games her family had attended down in Stonehaven when her father had brought home a prize pig for tossing the caber farther than any other. The memory stabbed her heart. She winced.
“No need to say a word. I can see for myself,” he said. “You need not worry anymore. I am taking care of everything.”
“I’m grateful you’ve come,” Jean answered. Her expression didn’t move. She didn’t know what he could possibly do to help. She wasn’t really grateful. She resented him, even blamed him for being fine, for being alive.
When the food was ready, Robert with an armory servant and a chambermaid brought in platters. The Clerk of the Kitchen was one of the servants lost. He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, discussing last minute food arrangements with Jean’s mother in the Great Hall when the murderers came. Jean would need to find someone to replace him soon. There was too much work for Robert to do by himself. Annis was killed too. But her wounds didn’t show. She’d dropped dead when she learned what had happened to her son, Alick, who’d been cleaved in two out in the bailey with the others.
Alick’s death hit Jean harder than she’d expected. Even in the midst of all her grief for her family, she felt a different kind of devastation when she learned that the boy she’d grown up with, and who’d always treated her with awe, was gone. But there was too much pain. She stuffed down her feelings about Alick and decided that on some other day, when she’d dealt with her other losses, at some distant time, she might revisit those emotions—or maybe never.
Without eating a single bite, Jean sat silently watching their visitors stuff their mouths, talking and bantering with one another like life was fine. She grew more angry by the minute. After they finished eating everything Robert put out for them, Laird Keith pushed his plate away to the middle of the table.
“You will come back to Stonehaven with me. The Countess, my wife Margaret, is with child again and near her time. She could not journey here, but she wants you by her side. She loved your mother much and knows she’d want you to be cared for.”
“I am fine here. I don’t need anything,” Jean said. A flutter beneath her heart left her breathless. Leave? She couldn’t leave her home. Especially now. Who was he to think he could snatch her away from everything she knew?
“Nay, you’re not fine here. You will come. At least for a time. Once we find a husband for you, you can return and he will be the new laird of Balvenie Castle. But until then, you will stay at Dunnottar Castle with us.” He rose and called to his men.
Fury pulsed through Jean’s vessels, but she knew better than to express it. For her lost da’s sake, she would not disgrace her household. She lifted her chin and faced Keith with courage and pride. “I will ready my belongings.”
“Horatius, Panahasi, come with me as we inspect the lands and farms. The people will want to see me, see that their laird is about and hasn’t forgot them,” Laird Keith declared.
The two huge men who’d come with Laird Keith stood up. Jean momentarily forgot her anger and stared at them with open curiosity. As they rose, they just kept getting taller and Jean’s neck tilted to take in their full height. They towered over everyone, with shoulders as broad as two men each. Jean had never seen such big men. They didn’t wear kilted tartans and linen shirts like the highlanders of her clan. One had on black leather trews
—long pant legs that disappeared into his calf-high black boots. His shirt was dark linen, tucked into the waist of his trews, showing off his powerful physique unlike her clansmen in their typical loose shirts. Many weapons were at his hips, including a sword on each side and at least three daggers. Another knife was in a sheath tied around his thigh, and even another in the top of his boot. A chain looped from his scabbard and back up to his low slung belt, clanking as he moved. It was attached to a weapon that was unknown to her.
The other giant had on close fitting leather trews too, but unlike the first giant’s pants that looked worn out, his were pristine, without a scuff on them. They squeaked with every move he made. His shirt was an unrivaled purple, dark and deep in color like a night sky right before the sunlight is completely obliterated, more intense than any dye Jean had known. The fabric of the shirt shimmered somehow, flowing in the light like smooth black water. The shirt fit him snugly, making it clear that there wasn’t a bit of him that wasn’t solid, enormous muscle. He too had weapons strapped onto his sides like he was ready for battle. His face was beautiful—not worn and haggard like the other giant. His thick hair was pulled back into a queue held with a leather ligature. Jean stared until he looked right at her. She felt a hot flush rush into her cheeks and she averted her gaze.
“Angus and Seamus, stay with the steward and attend to whatever he needs.”
Jean had forgotten all about William Keith. She focused on him as he gave instruction, trying to will her cheeks to cool while attempting to appear relaxed and not flustered.
The two called Angus and Seamus exchanged a look of frustrated displeasure. Seamus even made a small yet definite stomp against the ground, just like a child would do. Jean thought they probably were too young to understand that it didn’t matter what they were assigned to do by their laird. Whether they rode with the chief of the clan around the estate or stayed to repair the chapel with Boyd, it was all useless. They couldn’t undo what had been done.
Jean realized she was thinking them immature when they were probably a year or two older than she was herself. But she no longer thought of herself as a young lass. She’d aged decades in the past week. She’d never feel the spirit of youth again.
RELOCATION
The Raid of Balvenie and the Maiden Who Survived Page 5
