by Amy Tolnitch
“I saw the marks on his flanks.”
“Aye.” Aimili scowled. “Courtesy of Angus Ransolm. Loki has not recovered from that mistreatment.”
Mayhap I just do not wish to be a beast of burden to you humans again.
Hardly that. Most of us highly value our horses. And what else shall you do?
Live free.
That wouldn’t last long. You know that. Besides, here you have food and shelter and you are not in danger from any predators. ’Tis not such a bad bargain.
I could use a bit more grain.
Even in her mind, Loki sounded so disgruntled that Aimili had to bite back a smile. She gazed up at D’Ary, who regarded her with a very odd expression. She coughed, and looked down. “Perhaps tomorrow I shall work with Loki, but until my other horses arrive, I’ve little need for your aid.”
“I have enough to keep him busy,” Hugo said with a chuckle. “Come, D’Ary.”
Aimili watched the men walk away, wondering just whom she’d taken on as her helper. Far away, he’d said, when she’d questioned him of his homeland. And it was almost as if … no, she told herself. That was absurd. No one had ever guessed that she could communicate with animals.
She shook her head and walked to Mist’s stall, opening the door to give the horse an apple. The horse nuzzled her hand, then contentedly munched the sweet fruit. “That is my good girl,” Aimili said as she brushed Mist’s velvety coat. “Today, we are just going for a ride.”
Outside of the castle, Aimili thought. Beyond the walls that seemed to bear down upon her with every passing hour. It will be all right once you are riding across the countryside, she told herself. It is not the first time you’ve sought solace in the outdoors.
And based on the events of this morn, it would be far from the last.
Aimili quickly mounted Mist and rode out of the gatehouse with a wave to the guards. Though one looked shocked and started to yell something, Aimili pressed Mist into a canter and left him behind.
She let out a breath, the tension gripping her shoulders for the last day and a half slowly easing away as she rode over thick green grass. Loch Moradeea lay behind her, its deep blue waters shimmering in the sunlight. She rode along the edge of the forest, breathing in the scents of crushed leaves and hints of heather. At the sight of a small herd of red deer, she pulled Mist up just to watch the little family make their way deeper into the trees.
Aimili and Mist meandered along, eventually circling around to head back to the castle. A part of Aimili wished she could simply keep riding, but she knew how impossible that would be. Not that Padruig would come after her, she thought with a grimace.
She patted Mist on the withers. “Thank you, girl.”
My pleasure. Do you feel better?
Aye.
They finished the ride in silence. As Aimili neared the castle, her enjoyment of the day slowly gave way to foreboding. With each step closer to the castle, the feeling deepened, clogging her throat and tightening her chest.
You feel it, too, Mist said.
Aimili shivered. Aye.
There is evil here.
I know, but I cannot tell from what or whom it hails.
Nor can I, but I know one thing.
What?
It is growing stronger.
Aye.
Be careful, Aimili. Very careful whom you trust in this place.
I shall.
Which left no one at all, Aimili thought.
At the gatehouse, she saw a guard shout and point to her. When she entered the bailey and dismounted, she found Padruig waiting for her. Behind him stood her father and brothers, each with identical expressions of disappointment in their eyes.
Padruig stood with arms crossed, a terrible scowl on his face and fire in his eyes. “Do not ever do that again,” he bellowed.
She handed Mist off to a groom. “Do what?”
She hadn’t thought it possible, but Padruig’s scowl grew harsher. “Go outside the castle walls without guards. Without telling anyone your destination. Without asking permission!” he finished.
At the last, Aimili’s chin came up. “You jest,” she snapped. “I am no prisoner to be treated such.”
“Nay, you are the wife of the Laird of Clan MacCoinneach. Ye are no longer free to play the reckless child.”
Child. By the saints, how she hated that word. “I will not be caged,” she spat. “Not by anyone. Not even my”—she paused to sneer—“husband.”
He took a step toward her and narrowed his gaze. “You shall do as I say. And that does not include running off without a suitable guard.”
Aimili gritted her teeth. “I shall do as I please.”
“Nay.” Something in Padruig’s fierce gaze gave her pause. “You do wish your horses delivered to Castle MacCoinneach, do you not?”
“You bastard,” she hissed. “You promised me my horses.”
A thin smile crossed his lips. “Not exactly.”
Rage ripped through her, stripping her of speech.
“A guard, Aimili, or you shall remain within the castle walls.” He leaned toward her. “There is much to do here. Mayhap you could work on your embroidery skills. As you have no doubt noticed, we are in dire need of tapestries for the great hall.”
She closed the distance between them, furious beyond reason. “I curse the day I was foolish enough to marry you,” she spat.
His expression showed no reaction at all. “That makes two of us,” he said softly, then turned and stalked off.
“Lass, ye cannot continue to behave this way,” her father said. “You be a lady of your own castle now.”
“If that means I have forfeited my freedom, I want no part of it.”
“’Tis too late.”
Aimili opened her mouth to dispute him, but realized she would do naught but further disappoint her father, who would likely not believe her story of her wedding night anyway.
“We depart.” Her father stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Try, Aimili.”
Try to be someone she wasn’t, he meant. Aimili just gazed back at him, until her father sighed and signaled to a waiting groom.
Morainn enfolded Aimili in a big hug, but Aimili didn’t feel the warmth. She felt as if she had turned into a cold stone that nothing could reach. “Be well, Aimili,” Morainn whispered. “Everything will be all right, you shall see.”
Aimili could tell from the tone of her sister’s voice that Morainn didn’t believe her words any more than Aimili did. “Make sure that Father sends my horses as soon as possible. Then I will be all right.”
“I shall.” Morainn pulled back and Aimili saw the tears in her eyes.
“Morainn,” their father called. “We must be away.”
“May God keep you,” Morainn said.
“And you, sister.”
Aimili stood in the bailey and watched her family ride away. Only Morainn turned back as they crested a rise and lifted a hand in farewell.
Chapter Six
Padruig marched straight to the training ground, wanting nothing but to smash something, anything. For the next hour, he traded blows with Magnus, their swords clanging as they leapt and feinted across the training ground. As time wore on, Padruig felt a strange sort of peace settle over him. No matter the condition of the castle, the ever-perplexing problem of his unruly wife and the eddies of distrust whirling amongst the clan, here at least he knew his value and his place.
Finally, Magnus held up a hand and put his sword down. Sweat ran down his face, and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his tunic. “Enough.”
“Tired?”
“Only of serving as an outlet for your frustration with your bride, though you finally provide me with a challenge.”
Padruig sheathed his sword with a grunt. “I could have beaten you at any time, as well you know. But you have improved somewhat.” He looked around for other possible opponents, but the other men all appeared conveniently busy.
“What now, Laird?�
�
“I need to search Grigor’s chamber. I have sent a messenger to Angus Ransolm, but the man will not accept the loss of Freya without return of his coin.”
“Damn Grigor to hell for thinking to condemn sweet Freya to such a man.”
Padruig started at the vehemence in Magnus’s voice. Could it be that his friend had a care for Freya? No, Padruig told himself. Freya is but fifteen years of age and Magnus at least a score and five.
No more than the difference between you and Aimili, his inner voice taunted.
Aye, he thought. And that is one of the reasons why Aimili shall sleep alone.
“Would you like aid?” Magnus asked.
“Of course.” Padruig started walking toward a large square tower that loomed from the far left corner of the curtain wall. He led the way up winding steps until he and Magnus emerged onto a wide stone landing. An arched doorway led to the interior chamber once possessed by Padruig’s father and claimed by Grigor.
Padruig had never cared overmuch for the chamber. It was well protected, true, but at the cost of open air and the views from his own chamber.
Magnus whistled as he walked into the chamber. “Grigor fashioned a comfortable lair for himself.”
“Aye, so it would appear. Though the hall has been nearly stripped.” Padruig looked around, disgust roiling in his belly. Thick tapestries lined the walls and covered the wooden floor. Heavy, woolen hangings encircled the bed, which was piled high with fur pelts. A variety of trunks and cupboards sat against the walls.
Magnus picked up a bedcover made of pine marten. “Nice,” he commented.
Padruig thought of his chilly spot on the floor of his chamber and slung the fur over his shoulder. “Check the trunks,” he said. “Surely he hid away the coin somewhere in here.”
There were seven in all, six of which were unlocked and held various items of clothing. Padruig and Magnus dug beneath the garments, but found nothing. Padruig took the hilt of his dagger and broke the lock on the last trunk.
“Pray God this is it,” he muttered as he opened the lid.
It was empty.
“Filthy whoreson,” Magnus swore. “Must have hidden it elsewhere.”
“Aye. Which means I am off to talk to Grigor next. We need coin, and not just for Freya’s sake.”
“I ken. What of the de Granthams? Surely, they would—”
“Nay,” Padruig snapped. “I am the laird. ’Tis my responsibility to see to the clan.”
“Ye cannae make silk out of naught.”
“I will find a way.”
“My lady?” a female voice asked.
Aimili turned from brushing Mist and saw a young girl staring at her with round, blue eyes. She wore a simple, undyed woolen bliaut, her light brown hair woven in a single plait. “Aye?”
“The lady Efrika asked me to find you. She wishes to speak with you.”
Before she could stop it, Aimili closed her eyes and let out a soft groan of dismay. No doubt to discuss her responsibilities as the laird’s wife, she thought, stifling another groan. “Where may I find her?”
“She is in the great hall with Lady Freya.”
“Tell her I shall be there anon.”
The girl nodded.
“Thank you …” Aimili realized she had no idea of the girl’s name.
“Kenna,” she said with a bright smile.
“Thank you, Kenna.” Aimili turned back to brushing Mist, running the soft bristles over her velvety coat until it shone.
Your husband was worried for you.
Aimili snorted. Worried that I was not here under his thumb. That I was not busy remaking myself into the lady of the castle.
Surely, he will come to understand that you are special.
Special. I thank you, dear friend, but I fear the true description is “unusual.” No one has ever accepted that. Why should Padruig be any different?
I hope that he will be. I want to see you happy.
I am happy as long as I have you and the other horses to work with. That is all I need. All I have ever needed.
When you were a child, true, but now you are a woman grown.
You are the only one who thinks that.
Mist snuffled her shoulder. I am not sure about that. Sometimes, the way Padruig looks at you is not a man gazing at a child.
The sun must have been in your eyes. He of all people has made it crystal clear that he thinks me no more than a reckless bairn.
Mmm. Perhaps.
I must go. Efrika awaits, no doubt to try to entangle me in the management of the castle. She gave Mist a last pat, latched her stall, and walked straight into D’Ary.
He caught her by the shoulders, and Aimili felt a strange tingling flow down her arms. She flashed her gaze to his, and stepped back, confused.
For a moment, she thought he knew what she’d felt, but then his gaze lightened. “My lady, I thought to offer my services the next time you wish to ride. It shall be my pleasure and honor to accompany you.”
Aimili flushed, realizing that he along with much of the castle no doubt heard Padruig and her father chastise her. “I need no guard, despite what Padruig may say.”
“Then think of me as a friend.” His voice dropped. “’Twill make it easier for you to venture out.”
She considered his offer. As much as it infuriated her to admit it, Padruig had a point. Though it was little more than a pretense, in the clan’s eyes she was the laird’s wife. Were she to be captured or injured, their honor would demand retribution. “Very well,” she grumbled. “Have you any skill with a sword?”
D’Ary smiled. “Aye, a bit. Enough to see to your safety, I think.”
“I am not unskilled myself.”
His smile widened. “Och, well then, we have naught to fear.”
“Thank you, D’Ary.”
“As I said, ’tis my honor and pleasure.”
She nodded and left the stable. As she walked across the bailey to the hall, she wondered about D’Ary. Had she really felt a tingle when he touched her? Why? He was a very handsome man, but he didn’t interest her even if she were not wed. It must have just been something in the air, she decided. Maybe a storm was on the way.
A shout drew her attention, and she paused to watch the falconer carefully transfer a hawk from his wrist to one of the low stone blocks standing outside the mews. The bird was beautiful, its round black eyes shifting back and forth over its surroundings, gleaming with intelligence. Though Aimili rarely hunted, she admired the hawk’s physical beauty and ability.
The hawk fixed its gaze on her.
Be at ease, little friend.
The unblinking gaze didn’t waver.
“’Tis a shame,” a woman’s voice said in a hushed tone. “The laird was once a mon any woman would gladly take to bed.”
Aimili inched around the mews and spied a group of laundresses pounding out bedsheets.
One of them giggled. “You would know all about that, Beatha.”
“Aye, that I would.”
The woman speaking was plump, with big breasts swelling above the edge of her bliaut. She let out a hearty laugh. “The laird lay between my thighs on many a wondrous occasion. But now—”
“Those scars,” another woman said.
“Aye, but ’tis more.” Aimili saw Beatha shiver. “’Tis something dark inside him. Hard. I would be afraid to lie with him now.”
“He is wed, Beatha.”
Beatha crossed herself. “Och, the poor lass.”
“I wager the lady can take care of herself. Did you not see her take down that slut, Ciara?”
“The marriage bed is different. She has no choice but to submit to him, the poor thing. Pray he is not too harsh with her. She is such a spare lass.”
Aimili looked down at the front of her tunic and suppressed a sigh. She did not possess the ample breasts of Beatha, no question.
“You would not deny him, Beatha,” one of the women scoffed.
“Aye, I would. He frigh
tens me the way he looks so grim. And I saw the sheet. ’Twas soaked with blood.”
Aimili almost started forward at that, but held herself back. She would not explain to a laundress clearly seeking attention.
“Beatha, enough. You talk of our laird.”
“Hmph.”
Before she heard any more, Aimili sidled away, her thoughts more troubled than ever. Despite the woman’s exaggeration of the blood, Aimili sensed an element of truth in the rest of her speech.
Whom had she married? Not the tender, golden man of her dreams, that was certain. A man hardened by tragedy, or something more?
Something dark, Beatha had said.
Like in Aimili’s dreams.
“Tell me where the coin is and I shall do no more than banish you,” Padruig said to Grigor.
Grigor glared at him and spat onto the dirt floor. “I deserve naught but your thanks.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. You abandoned the clan.”
“The clan had accepted Alasdair as laird.”
“That weak old man?”
“A man of honor and good judgment.”
“It was I who kept the clan together, I who kept the castle from being taken by the MacVegans.”
“I was not aware that they had attacked,” Padruig said dryly, crossing his arms.
“They would have if a strong man was not laird.”
“The coin, Grigor.”
“Why should I tell you? You’ve imprisoned me and killed my woman.”
“Your whore tried to kill me.”
“A shame your lady is quick-witted.”
One of the guards threw Grigor up against the stone wall. “Laird, leave him to us. We’ll get the answers you seek.”
“There are still those in the clan loyal to me,” Grigor insisted. “You’ll not win their favor by beating their laird.”
“I am the only laird.”
The guard slipped a dagger into his palm. “I’ll be more than happy to shut him up, Laird.”
“Hold,” Padruig told him. He looked at Grigor. “Because of your incompetence, the clan’s survival is in peril. The storage vaults are not filled, there are too few animals to be slaughtered, and the hall is barren while your chamber is filled with luxuries. I know you received coin from Angus Ransolm. Where is it?”
