Chapter Three

The storm was one for the ages, battering Kransmuir’s walls with driving rain, which overflowed the gutters. It raised a wind that rattled the doors and swept down the chimneys, guttering the fires. Yet Jasper stood out in its fury on the ramparts, cold to his bones and seething. The sky flashed bright with forked lightning. Let it strike and burn him to ashes because good fortune had long since abandoned him as punishment for his many sins.

He had a child at last, but he could not rejoice, for his wife lay dead. Isobel was barely cold, yet, at his mother’s command, they were already washing her body and dressing it for burial, taking away the sheets soaked through as she had bled out. He had failed to get home to witness her passing or comfort her. And even now, he wished he had not seen Isobel on her deathbed, for her pale face was a rebuke.

She had looked peaceful in a way she had never been in life. There was no sneer of contempt on her lips, no glare of impatience at his rough border ways. Perhaps she was serene because she had escaped him at last. He had thought ill of his wife that very night and cursed her for her coldness. Now, she would never be warm again. God had certainly punished him for his thoughts. He choked on his guilt as if the almighty had shoved a hand down his throat and ripped out his heart.

‘Jasper, you must come inside before you catch your death of cold.’ His mother stood before him, her red hair stuck to her face with the rain. ‘Tis weak to weep over this.’

‘My wife is dead. Have you no heart?’

‘No more heart than you. You are not this man, Jasper Glendenning. Standing here, howling at the moon, will not change what has happened. Would you rather invite the pity of your clansmen or their respect? You must show them your strength in the face of this loss, not be this fool of a man.’

‘Leave me be, Mother. I am in no mood for your pitiless counsel.’

She laid a hand on his arm. ‘I am not going down to the hall unless you come too, so if you persist in this stubbornness, you may well lose a mother this night as well as a wife.’

Jasper’s fingers dug into the stone of the ramparts as if they could sink into it. His mother had always been a cold woman, but he could still be surprised at the depth of her ruthlessness. She would not give in to him, so he sighed and followed her inside the castle.

Down in the hall, he leant into the hearth, but the flames did little to warm him, and his mother’s words were shards of ice aimed at his heart, no matter that they were true.

‘It is a setback. That is all. And you will recover from it.’

‘I mistreated Isobel. I did not do right by her, and now she is gone.’

‘Mistreated her? You gave her your wealth, home and the Glendenning name. You gave her the child she so wanted. What have you got to punish yourself for?’

‘I did not love her, and she was unhappy at Kransmuir.’

‘She didn’t love you either. Do you think she would have mourned your passing any more than you mourn hers?’

Jasper swallowed his guilt back down, else he retch it into the fire. ‘Do you not understand? I pity her end. Isobel never saw the bairn that she so longed for. ‘Tis a cruel fate.’

‘Fate is cruel, aye, but it acts for a reason. And you should never expect love from marriage, Jasper. That is a fool’s errand.’

‘Aye. You and Father taught me that lesson well.’

‘Isobel’s loss is unfortunate, Jasper, but come the morning, you will see things differently. We will bury Isobel with all honour, and then I will make enquiries as to a suitable replacement.’

‘Enquiries? Have you no grace. Isobel just died.’

She sighed. ‘There is advantage here, if only you would see it – the chance of another alliance to bolster your fortune and holdings.’

Jasper could not look at his mother. Whatever had happened in her youth had shrivelled her heart and blackened her soul. Was he as bad? He turned to her. ‘The bairn?’

‘A wet nurse has been summoned from the village. It remains to be seen whether the bairn will thrive. ‘Tis a shame it is not a boy. A man needs a male heir, not a useless lass. We’ve already enough of those at Kransmuir with your two sisters getting older and only one with a whiff of a match. Now go and find your chamber and your bed as you are exhausted, my son. I ordered a big fire to be lit to chase away the chill.’

As she left the hall, his mother turned around. ‘And Jasper, do not be a hypocrite and pretend to grieve a woman you did not like much, let alone love. Have I not always told you - guilt is for peasants and priests, not for lairds?’

Jasper stepped closer to the fire, but nothing would chase away the chill of his mother’s words. The wind howled down the chimney. Was it Isobel’s ghost railing at him for his callousness?

A scuttling sound came from the shadows in the corner of the hall, raising the hair on the back of his neck. Jasper froze as a figure rose from the shadows and shuffled into the light.

‘Why are you eavesdropping in the dark? Speak before I gut you, woman.’

The seer, Creidne, cowered as she approached. A worm of revulsion uncoiled in Jasper’s belly, for she was skeleton-thin – nought but a bag of bones held together by leathery old flesh. But the bent old woman saw things others did not.

‘I grieve with you, Laird,’ she whispered in a death rattle.

‘Did you lie to me, old crone, and tell me what I wanted to hear?’

‘No. I never lie. I see only what is put before me.’

‘Aye, and you said you had a vision of me holding a son in my arms, with a wife by my side.’

‘I did, clear as day.’

‘Yet my wife is dead, and I have nought but a daughter.’

‘But your child lives. That is a boon, at least.’

‘Not much of one if I have no wife. Isobel suffered.’

‘I know. I heard her screams,’ spat the old woman.

‘Do not speak to me of that,’ he bellowed as all his rage spilt out.

The woman cowered and held her hands before her in supplication, and Jasper’s anger faded to shame.

‘Tell me this,’ he said, his words choking him as he hardly dared ask, ‘what do you see for my future?’

The seer grabbed his hand and stroked it as a child would stroke a doll. Jasper tried to withdraw his hand, but for a frail old woman, Criedne was strong, and she clung on. Her eyelids fluttered. ‘Something comes to me.’

‘What is it? What do you see?’

‘I see your pride in flames. I see a snake uncoiling, a sign of treachery, and I see you humbled to your knees.’ Her blackened nails dug into his hand. ‘Ah. And I see love many times denied.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It is not clear. But your path out of loneliness is dark and twisted with blood and pain. I see a doe, soft she is, and of pure heart, and you, the hunter. As you reach for her with a greedy hand, she runs from you, for your heart is a stone.’

Jasper shook her free. ‘You are no good to me. Folk say you are a healer, but what salve are you?’ Criedne’s wizened face repelled him – the steely glint in her eyes, the skin hanging in folds down a skeletal jaw.

‘Your wound is to your soul, Laird, which roils with guilt, and it is beyond my skill to repair,’ she hissed. ‘You’ll find no happiness until you mend your ways. But I offer this. Go and see the bairn. ‘Twill bring comfort, and ‘tis the first step on your journey.’

Her grey gaze held his with a flame of defiance, and as if under some spell, he turned and left the hall. Jasper was drawn upwards by the sound of a bairn’s wail. He followed it to a chamber and found a young lass seated on a stool by the fireplace, clucking over a wriggling little bundle in her arms. She stood when he entered, tipping the stool over with a clatter. All his servants knew to jump when he entered, for he demanded obedience.

‘Why does she cry?’ he said, suddenly fearful. ‘Does she ail?’

The lass reddened. ‘No, Laird. The wet nurse has not come yet. The storm, you see. The bairn is hearty but hungry, that is all, and so I cannot soothe her.’

‘Go and send men to find the wet nurse and bring her here at once. Tell them it is an order, and there shall be no delay.’

‘But, the storm, Laird.’

‘Tell them they can face the storm’s wrath or mine. Now give her to me,’ he said, beckoning with his hand.

The servant hesitated and swallowed hard. ‘You’ll want to sit, Laird. It is easier to hold bairns that way. They wriggle, and ‘tis easy to drop them.’ She pulled the stool upright and bid him sit, then leaned over and placed the bundle in his outstretched arms. ‘Keep the head supported by your arm, for their necks are soft as butter when first born.’

A shock of dark blonde hair was all that was visible, and then the servant took the edge of the blanket and pulled it back, and Jasper saw his daughter’s face. There was a rush of tenderness which brought tears with it, and Jasper struggled to master himself. The bairn’s eyes were squeezed shut. She opened her pink cavern of a mouth. Her hands formed little fists, like pale flowers in bud. Suddenly, she emitted a wail fit to raise the dead. Her cry was so strong that it bound iron coils about Jasper’s heart and instantly mastered him.

Jasper’s world spun and fell, for his daughter was so perfect and beautiful.

‘Go, lass, and fetch the wet nurse,’ he said gently. ‘My daughter is hungry, and I swear she shall want for nothing in this world.’