by Mia Marlowe
The air current sighed.
“Turns out I was wrong. The day I buried my son was only the beginning of a long downhill slide. This is the worst day of my life.”
He had to bury his love for Katherine. She’d made it abundantly clear she didn’t want it and it hurt too much to drag it around inside him any longer. He wanted to cut her out of his heart, but she’d become so deeply ingrained in him, he didn’t know where to begin.
Who was he if he didn’t love Kat?
“Is this all it comes to? This silence and nothingness?” He strode forward and brought his fist down squarely in the center of the altar. “A man makes a vow. He swears not to change. And yet somehow, the world changes around him. I take on the mantle of my clan as I was born to do. Dinna think Ye’re not to blame for making me firstborn among my brothers. But if I were not Laird of Badenoch, there’d be no need for an heir and Katherine wouldna—” He stopped and shook his fist at the ceiling. “But I take a wife and promise to love her. Ye know I have. And I do. Yet Ye deny us a child and render the Scepter of Badenoch useless even if I knew where the damned thing was. And now Ye’d take my wife as well.”
Once Katherine entered a convent, she’d be as dead to him as Stephan.
“Why d’Ye not pluck out my heart and be done with it?” he shouted to heaven. “’Twould be kinder than watching me twist on this spit.”
He glared up at the crucifix. The artist’s rendering was a bit crude. There was no flowing hair, no artfully placed cloth wrapped around the Christ figure’s loins. No one would claim this was a masterwork, but the suffering depicted was undeniable.
“Maybe Ye’re not there.” Will’s voice dropped to a whisper but it still seemed to echo around the chapel. “Maybe Ye’re too weak to help me. Or maybe Ye just dinna give a damn.” His shoulders slumped as some of the fight drained out of him. “I dinna know which of the three is worst.”
“I do,” came a small voice from the alcove where the silver candlesticks, the monstrance, and the chalice used for mass were kept in a locked cupboard. Nab scuttled from the shadows.
“What are ye doing there?” Will demanded.
“I’m not there. I’m here. You’re there, William.” The fool shook his head. “Dinna feel bad. Dorcas has problems with that too.”
“No, I mean . . . never mind. Why are ye not with his lordship?”
“He sent me away. Seems I’ve taken to snoring of late and the earl didna want me sleeping across his threshold. And I canna go to my secret pl—weel, that’s neither here nor there, so to speak. I canna go elsewhere because there are so many people about. If I was to slip off to a certain someplace not generally . . . Odds bodkins, the chapel was lovely and quiet till ye came in and started yelling at God, William.”
“I’m done yelling.” Will sat down on the steps leading up to the altar. “I’ll not disturb ye further.”
“Ye’re not disturbing me. Though I dinna suspect the same can be said for the Almighty.”
“By my lack of faith, ye mean.”
“Och, no. Ye have faith. If ye didna, ye wouldna be talking to God at all. So ye see, whatever ye may say, somewhere inside, ye believe that He hears. Though ye’ll allow yer means of address is somewhat less cordial than He’s accustomed to.”
William snorted. “He hasn’t smitten me for it yet.”
“Has He not? Did ye not say this is the worst day of yer life? That sounds like a smiting to me. And a rippingly good one, at that.”
Nab came over and sat beside him.
“Are ye not afraid to be close to me in case He decides to smite me again?”
“Och, no.” Nab fiddled with the ends of his fool’s cap, setting the small bells jingling. “The Almighty is a gentleman, ye ken. He never smites anyone who’s already down.”
“I am that.” In fact, William didn’t think there was much further down a body could go. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. It hurt to love.
“D’ye really think the Lord weak, William?”
“I dinna know. If He isna, if He could help me, why does He not? So either He’s unable to help, which means He’s weak, or He doesna care.”
“Doesna give a damn, I believe ye said.”
“I thought ye were concerned with my less than cordial way of expressing myself.”
“If the Almighty doesna smite ye for it, why should I? But have ye not considered another option?”
“What’s that?”
“We live in an odd world.”
“Truer words were never spoke, but I’m curious as to why ye say so.”
“This world, ’tis not at all what God intended. Remember the Garden. Everything perfect. Then suddenly, it was no more and not because of anything the Almighty did. We brought our exile on ourselves. Ye might even say we chose it. And that makes the world odd.”
Nab wrapped his hands around one knee, pulled it toward his chest, and warmed to his subject. “Take me, for instance. If the world were as God intended, d’ye think I’d have been born a fool?”
At the moment, Will didn’t think Nab was a fool at all.
“No, the world is as men have made it and the evil in it is on our hands,” Nab continued.
“But God could fix it.” William couldn’t get past the fact that the Almighty could give Katherine the child she craved if only He would.
Nab looked back at the crucifix. “I think He already did. The roots of the oddness, at any rate. O’ course, that doesna mean that evil willna still befall us. ’Tis too much a part of everything not to. This world will still be odd so long as we’ve breath.”
It wasn’t the most satisfying answer to his questions, but William couldn’t think of a better one.
“I’m sorry about yer son, William,” Nab went on. “Sorry as I can be. And I think ye’re right to feel pain. But I’m thinkin’ the Almighty feels it too, right along with ye. He does care. If He didna, that would be the worst. I dinna know for sure, but I believe when we weep, He weeps.”
But Will hadn’t wept. Not even as he’d dug that small grave. He’d kept all his tears, all his hurt, all his sorrow tucked away in a dark corner of his heart.
His eyes burned. Then his vision swam and the back of his throat ached. He stood abruptly and walked away lest Nab catch him with weak eyes. “For what it’s worth, Nab, I’ve never heard a fool make more sense.”
“Where are ye going, William?”
“To see my wife.” He was going to show Katherine that black pit inside him. And then if she still wanted to be free of him, he wouldn’t be able to blame her.
Katherine wasn’t asleep, but she didn’t stir when she heard William’s soft tread as he approached the bed. She barely breathed. She’d been so certain he’d left her, left the castle, she almost thought she was having a waking dream.
But when he peeled off his clothes and lifted the blankets to slide in beside her, she decided she wasn’t imagining things.
And her heart sang a quiet song of selfish hope. She’d wanted him to come back so badly, she hadn’t dared wish for it. Still, he made no move to reach for her under the covers.
So she lay frozen in place, listening to him breathe.
Then she heard something else. A small sob. She rolled toward him and saw his profile by the light of the banked fire. His cheek was wet. His mouth was a tight line.
The man was weeping.
“William—”
“Oh, God. Katherine. Our son . . . all our unborn bairns . . .” He covered his eyes with a splay-fingered hand.
She wrapped her arms around him and felt him shaking. He drew a ragged breath.
“He was so small.” Will’s chest shuddered. “And there was nothing I could do.”
“Ye did all ye could for Stephan. Ye rested him.” She pressed soft kisses to his cheeks, his eyelids, tasting the saltiness of his tears.
“’Tis not right. Sons should bury their fathers. A man shouldna bury his son.”
“I know.” She palmed his face as her tears joined his. �
�I know, love. ’Tis not right. ’Twas my fault.”
“No. Never say that. It isna your fault.” He grasped both her hands and met her gaze, his eyes awash with tears. “Nab says it happened because the world is odd, and I think he’s right. Because evil still hunts us. And . . . and God weeps with us, Katherine. Am I making any sense at all?”
“Oh, Will.”
They held each other and let their grief flow. Katherine had cried over Stephan countless times, but now, for the first time, William wept with her. Something dark and decayed inside her seemed to burst. In its place something new fluttered—a small sliver of hope.
They’d joined in love in their early days. They’d been yoked in heartbreak at the loss of their son, both dragging the weight of it, but not pulling together. Now, finally, they were joined again, this time in shared grief. In that moment, the load Katherine had borne was lighter because Will lifted half of it.
The intimacy of shattered dreams was a fragile foundation, but as their hands found each other under the blankets, Katherine dared to wish for the first time that they could find each other again as well.
Get ivy and hull, woman, deck up thine house,
And take this same brawn for to seethe and to souse;
Provide us good cheer, for thou knowest the old guise,
Old customs that good be, let no man despise.
—From “Get Ivy and Hull”
“Dinna mistake me. I’m all for decking up a house, or a castle, for Christmastide, but a line must be drawn when a woman decides ’tis time to deck up her man.”
—An observation from Nab,
fool to the Earl of Glengarry
Chapter Twenty-Three
The chapel was a good deal quieter after William left, but not a smidge warmer. Nab paced the small space, beating his arms to warm them. He usually didn’t mind when Lord Glengarry ordered him away from his threshold, but on this particular night a couple had spread their cloaks dangerously close to the secret entrance to Nab’s tower stairs. He didn’t dare chance slipping into it in case someone should discover him and his hidden chamber.
Nab wasn’t comfortable around crowds of people when they were upright. When they were sprawled about the castle all around him, snoring, farting, or swiving, he felt as if he’d crawl out of his skin. It was his good fortune that Father Argyll, who tended to the souls of all who dwelled in the castle, was an elderly fellow who rarely kept the canonical hours, and preferred to counsel his parishioners by daylight. Nab could count on the chapel being empty all night.
He just couldn’t count on it being comfortable. If he was in his tower room, he’d be all wrapped up in the wolf pelt and old blankets, snug as could be. And if Dorcas happened to be there with him . . .
He cast a glance at the altar and hurried over to light another candle. It wouldn’t do to dwell on what might take place if he and Dorcas were tangled up in the same set of blankets. He was in church, after all.
The door to the chapel creaked open behind him. “William, I thought ye—”
“There ye are, Nab.” Fergie’s voice crackled with a growing boy’s squeak and then dropped into a lower register. “Ye’re a hard one to find.”
“Why are ye looking for me? I thought ye were in the well house, Fergie.” It had been Nab’s first choice when the earl exiled him, but though the small space had the advantage of a fire, it was still very small. He didn’t think he could share it with the boy all night.
“I was, but then Dorcas came and booted me out and sent me to find ye.” Fergie shot him a toothy grin. “Ye’re to hie yerself there on the double-quick or she’ll not save ye any of the sweeties she brought for ye.”
If the lad’s sticky-looking cheeks were any indication, Fergie had helped himself to a few of Dorcas’s sweets before he did her bidding.
“Go on wi’ ye,” he urged. “A lady doesna like to be kept waiting.”
“Dorcas isna a lady. At most, she’s a lady’s maid.”
Fergie shook his head. “Ye’ll never make her yer lady with that sort of daft thinking. Go on, Nab. She’s expecting ye.”
Nab wasn’t sure he should take advice about women from a boy whose voice couldn’t even decide which octave to live in, but he certainly didn’t have any wisdom of his own to draw upon. This thing, whatever it was, between him and Dorcas had simply sprung into being of its own accord. It was like a mysterious river he’d been swept into without warning. He had no idea how to keep it flowing or how he might direct its course.
“But where will ye go?” Nab had no trouble with the thought of sharing the small well house with Dorcas, which surprised him in no small measure, but not if Fergie insisted on spending the night there too. Just the thought of the three of them in that compact space made it hard for him to draw breath.
“There’s always room in the stable for the likes o’ me.” Fergie shivered. “A bed of straw is warmer than here in the chapel.”
And more likely to be shared with rats, mice, and other small creatures, Nab thought but didn’t say. He thanked Fergie and pulled his plaid over his fool’s cap for extra protection from the elements as he pushed out of the chapel door. He sprinted to the well house and ducked inside. The wind whipped through the bailey behind him with a keening wail.
“Quick. Close the door,” Dorcas ordered. “Ye’ll let all the heat out.”
Nab complied and leaned against the portal. It rattled behind him despite the thrown bolt. “The wind is fierce this night.”
“Ye’re lookin’ a bit fierce yerself.” Dorcas tipped her head, eyeing him speculatively. He wasn’t sure he liked it. She looked a bit like a tabby before a mouse hole. “But we’ll deal with that later. I’ve brought ye some tarts and an apple fritter.”
The sweet, yeasty scent of the pastries filled the small space. He let the end of his plaid slide off his head and reached for a tart. It dripped with currants and honey. Between the warmth of the well house and the good food, Nab’s cold-stiffened limbs thawed quickly.
“I didna know I was hungry till ye brought out the food.” As he fell to, he had a slightly holy thought, which he blamed on his time in the chapel with William. “Do ye suppose that’s why God gave Eve to Adam—to let him know what he needed before he even knew he needed it?”
Dorcas smiled at him.
Usually her smiles made Nab feel all jittery inside in a good way, but this time, his innards flittered with a bit of foreboding. He hadn’t really done anything to warrant a smile. Gifts weren’t generally given without an expectation of something in return.
What did Dorcas want for this smile?
“’Tis right glad I am to hear you say so,” she said, “because I’ve summat in mind that ye need and I dinna think ye know it.”
“What’s that?” he asked as he picked a few crumbs from the fritter off his shirtfront.
“Ye need a haircut, Nab.”
“My hair is not bothering me in the least.”
“Weel, ’tis bothering me. It wants cutting,” she replied. “And a wash,” she added for good measure. “Now sit ye still while I get my shears.”
He considered bolting, but where could he go? The laird had banned him from his quiet threshold. The keep was overrun with people and the chapel far too cold for comfort, especially after the warmth of the well house. He supposed he could join Fergie and the other rodents in the stables, but then the lad would know he’d failed to do what was necessary to make Dorcas his lady.
It was one thing to be thought a fool by all the adults in the keep. To have a mere boy think him ridiculous chafed Nab’s soul.
He took off his fool’s cap and scratched his head. Most of his hair had been braided into seven or eight, or maybe ten, thick strands a few months ago, but there were any number of snarls around and between them where some of his hair had worked free.
Dorcas shook her head at him. “How long has it been since ye had it cut last?”
Since before he came to Glengarry. His father had despaired
of bringing order to his chaotic mind and his mother felt the same about his hair. “It’s been a while.”
“Weel, never ye fear. I’ll fix things.” Then she began snipping off his many braids, dropping them to the stone floor beneath their feet like so many bright red worms.
“Have ye cut a man’s hair before?” he asked as the shears snapped by his ear.
“No, but when I lived with my mam and pap, I sheared plenty of sheep.”
“Ye dinna intend to shear me surely?”
“I havena decided yet. It may take that much cutting to rid ye of all the snarls. We’ll see.”
Nab fingered his cap nervously while she continued to snip. The pile of hair on the flagstones grew. “What made ye think of doing this?”
“I was just watching ye while ye told the story of the Blessed Mother and the robin and about all the animals and—”
“Did ye like the story?” It was important that she did. He was always waiting for her to discover what everyone else knew, that he was a fool. If she admitted to liking a few things about him before that realization hit, he might stand a bit of a chance of keeping her regard afterward.
“Aye, I liked it verra much,” Dorcas said. “Ye tell it exceeding fine, but it seemed to me as ye were doing it ye were looking a bit wild.”
“Weel, I was imitating a goodly number of beasts.”
“Not wild beasts, though. As I recall, ye did a passing fair ox, an ass, a horse, a—”
“So ye’re saying I want taming?” Something about this idea made his chest swell. It felt good to be thought a bit wild.
“Aye,” she said with a laugh. “That’s it.”
More hair fell to the floor. “What if I want to stay wild?”
“But ye dinna. There. I think that’ll do. At least until ’tis clean and I can see what’s what. Now, for the wash.”
“I dinna think I need—”
“Oh, aye, ye do. Did ye not just say that God gave the first man a woman to point out to him what he needed?”
“Aye, and that may well be one of the most poorly considered holy thoughts I’ve ever had.” Nab sighed. He should have kept it to himself. He didn’t used to say so many things he regretted. At least, not so quickly. Usually he didn’t realize he’d made a mistake till he was wrapped up in his plaid ready for sleep while the day’s events fumbled around in his brain.
