21 A COLD AND EMPTY LIFE

"I'VE GOT AN errand for you." Cailean greeted Torran without preamble.

His second was standing inside their meeting alcove, pouring himself a cup of mead, when Cailean strode in.

Torran nodded, handing Cailean the cup and pouring himself another. "Where to?"

"The House of Maids in Baldeen." Cailean walked to his desk in the far corner and sat down before pulling out a sheet of parchment. Unstoppering a jar of ink, he then dipped in a quill and deftly began to write.

All the while, he was aware of Torran's gaze upon him, but the enforcer had the wisdom to hold his tongue.

The missive Cailean wrote was short, blunt even. Nonetheless, he wouldn't waste words. Once he'd signed the letter, he sprinkled a couple of pinches of pounce over it, to dry the ink, before shaking the powder off and rolling up the parchment. He then sealed it with warm wax. While the wax was still soft, he took off his signet ring—which bore a wolf's head sigil, the mark of the High King's chief-enforcer—and pressed it into the seal.

Only then did he pick up his cup and take a gulp of sweet, frothy mead. "How is Mirren?"

Torran's features tightened. "The healer has tended her. She'll heal in a few days … physically, at least."

Cailean's fingers tightened around his cup. "I warned Drago what would happen if he harassed any more servants."

Torran pulled a face. "Leering at the lasses is one thing … dragging one into the shadows and brutalizing her is another."

"That's why Drago and Frang's heads are now on pikes outside the walls … I don't give warnings twice."

A tense silence fell then. Torran leaned up against the stone wall, long legs crossed at the ankles as he nursed his drink. "That should dissuade others in the future."

Cailean scowled, reaching up to massage a stiff muscle in his shoulder. "I lead a pack of rabid wolves."

Torran pulled a face. "Aye … the earth magic turns us all a bit feral … but the men all know rape won't be tolerated."

"Let's hope so." Cailean lifted his cup to his lips and took another deep draft .

"I hear I missed a show earlier," Torran said after a pause.

Cailean glanced his way, to see his second was smirking now. "You did."

"You went easy on her, I hope."

"Of course," Cailean replied with a snort. "Although I could see she was doing the same."

Torran barked a laugh. "You jest?"

"Do I look like I am?"

Torran's expression sobered. "She certainly held her own against Drago and Frang." He gave a rueful shake of his head then. "The Mother's tits … how is that possible?"

"Fia insists she had a fighting instructor at the House of Maids." Cailean rose from his desk and crossed to his second. He then thrust out the folded parchment to him. "Which is why I need you to ride there … and get me an answer from Mother Gelda herself."

"Have I gotten you into trouble?"

Sucking her finger, for she'd just pricked herself, Bree glanced up from where she'd been mending her husband's leather breeches. In truth, she'd been finding it hard to concentrate. Ever since her fight with the chief-enforcer, she'd been plagued with a feeling of impending doom. "No … why would you think that?"

Mirren straightened up from sprinkling fresh salt around the hearth, lowering her gaze. Her face was pale and puffy today, her eyes red-rimmed. "The chief-enforcer seemed vexed that you'd come to my aid yesterday," she said huskily .

"He wasn't angry about me helping you." Bree pulled a face then and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. After her fight with the enforcers—and then sparring with her husband—her body ached all over. "He thought he'd ordered himself a refined Maid of Albia … not a wife capable of breaking someone's jaw with a broom."

Mirren's gaze flicked up. "I've never seen a woman fight like that," she whispered.

"Aye, well … I was taught to defend myself at the House of Maids."

"You were?"

Bree nodded, studying her handmaid for a long moment. She'd told Mirren to take a day or two off, but the lass had refused. All the same, she looked too upset to be working. "How are you today, Mirren?" she asked gently.

The lass's throat bobbed, her sky-blue eyes glittering as she held back tears.

Watching her, Bree fought a tight sensation in her chest. "I'm glad my husband executed those pigs," she ground out. "Although he should have made them suffer first."

Mirren nodded, hurriedly knuckling away the tears that now trickled down her face. "I wish I were like you, Fia," she croaked.

Bree forced a smile, even as her ribs constricted further. Ancestors, she wished they could change the subject. "No, you don't."

A muscle feathered in Mirren's jaw. "But you're fierce. You aren't afraid of anything … and you know how to defend yourself." She paused then, her throat bobbing. "Will you teach me? "

Bree stared back at her. Of all the things Mirren might have asked her, this wasn't what she'd have expected. "Surely, you don't want—"

"I'm tired of being cowed," Mirren choked out, wringing her hands before her as tears flowed unimpeded down her cheeks. "Of shrinking to make myself smaller every time one of those brutes looks my way." She drew herself up, even as her small body trembled. "You don't live in fear … you fight … I want to do the same."

Bree drew in a deep breath. Curse it. She didn't have time to train her handmaid, and it wasn't wise either, not when her position here was so precarious. Not when her husband now watched her like a hawk.

The way things were going, Bree would soon have to flee Duncrag. Mor had wanted her to stay here a while, but at this rate, she wouldn't last the summer.

Aye, she had her own problems, but the pain and desperation in Mirren's eyes held her fast. She'd asked for her help, and Bree couldn't bring herself to refuse her. And so, she nodded. "Very well," she murmured. "We shall start tomorrow."

"What are you doing?"

Bree glanced up. She was sitting in the sleeping nook, propped up by a mound of furs, Fia's diary on her lap. Across the alcove, her husband sat by the fire, cup of ale in hand, Skaal at his feet .

"Reading my diary," she replied, surprised that he'd even addressed her. Usually, mac Brochan made a point of ignoring her all evening.

They'd had supper together, a tense and silent meal, before Bree retreated to the sleeping nook. It had been a frustrating day. She'd finally managed to go down to see Eldra. The healer had been alone, although she'd been more interested in questioning Bree about the incidents of the previous day. She'd also been frustratingly glib and enigmatic when Bree asked her about the man she'd once worked with. Eldra seemed convinced he'd departed Duncrag one night and never returned.

Bree didn't want to believe her—for Eldra didn't offer any explanation—but doubt had crept in. Maybe her predecessor had fled. Living here wasn't easy; perhaps he'd feared for his safety and was now hiding somewhere in Albia, doomed to continue living as one of the Marav. Bryce wouldn't dare return to Sheehallion now, not after failing his queen. A chill had prickled Bree's skin as she'd considered this possibility—for she was also close to messing up.

Mac Brochan cocked a dark eyebrow. "Why? Didn't you write it?"

Bree gave him a tight smile. "I did … husband … but reading my entries brings back memories." She shrugged. "These days, I feel like I'm a different person to the lass who wrote these words."

Her breathing quickened then. The chief-enforcer would never know how true those words were.

His head inclined. "How so?"

Uneasiness fluttered up, like a sack of released moths, in her belly. She didn't trust her husband's sudden talkativeness. Under normal circumstances, she'd have been pleased that he wasn't ignoring her. But after what happened the day before, she suspected there was a purpose behind his questions.

And yet, he was also handing her an opportunity. Maybe, if she engaged his sympathy, she'd draw him in.

"I was lonely at the House of Maids," she finally replied. Indeed, the entries after Fia's disappointment at not being chosen by the wool merchant had been tinged with melancholy and a growing sense of hopelessness. "I felt cut off from my family … and one by one, my friends all left."

The chief-enforcer grunted at this, his gaze flicking to where a lump of peat glowed in the hearth. It had been a cool day with heavy grey skies, and despite that they were now in early summer, the air was cold and damp inside the broch.

"It's best to make friends with loneliness," he said after a pause, still not looking her way. "The only person you can truly count on is yourself, anyway."

Bree stilled. Iron choke her, she didn't like to admit she had anything in common with this man. And yet, how many times over the years had she told herself those words?

Like her, Cailean mac Brochan was a lone wolf.

Pushing aside the discomforting realization, Bree focused on the warrior-druid seated by the fire. "That's cynical," she replied finally. "Surely, there are those you trust within these walls?"

Mac Brochan's gaze cut her way, his lips compressing.

"What about Torran?"

Her husband snorted.

"But you two seem to be … friends."

"Aye, but that doesn't mean I trust him."

"That makes for a cold and empty life."

He shrugged. "Aye, just the way I like it. "

Silence fell then. And once again, Bree felt an unwelcome feeling of kinship with this man. It took a rare individual to be comfortable with being alone. She'd met few, besides herself, who'd mastered it.

Deciding, it was best to let their conversation lapse—for it was making her increasingly uneasy—Bree glanced down at the diary she'd just opened. This entry was in late winter, only a moon's turn before The Day of the Hag. And here, finally, there was mention of Cailean mac Brochan.

Mother Gelda called me in to see her today.

A letter has arrived from the High King's chief-enforcer. He wishes for a wife and has asked her to select a suitable woman for him.

She has chosen me!

Apparently, he is too busy to make the trip here to meet me first. Instead, he told her that he wishes for a sweet, obedient woman who will not make too many demands on him.

Mother Gelda thinks I am the perfect choice.

I'm excited, of course … relieved that I've finally been chosen. But there is also a part of me that wonders why he wouldn't make the trip here. Surely, he wants a bride he finds attractive?

Maybe that doesn't matter to him .

I must admit that I'm nervous. The chief-enforcer! The most formidable of all the warrior-druids. The rumors tell of a terrifying brute of a man who is shadowed by a fae hound.

My heart quails at the thought of such a beast. It's said that if it howls thrice, the sound will stop your heart.

However, I must be brave. I will write to my husband-to-be and tell him I am looking forward to becoming his wife. Hopefully, he will write back, and we will establish a relationship of sorts before we meet.

Bree stopped reading and glanced up once more, taking in her husband's sharp profile. She wondered then, what Fia would have made of him, had they met.