Chapter 15

Seeking his steward, Adkin MacGurk, Rob found the slender, white-haired man in the buttery talking quietly with the housekeeper, a buxom middle-aged redhead known as Flora's Maggie. Maggie's mother had served as Ardincaple's housekeeper for many years before her.

MacGurk and Maggie turned as one and began in chorus to express their pleasure at seeing Rob and to offer their sympathy for the loss of his father.

Maggie said, "Such a shock it were, Master Rob—" Breaking off with a grimace, she said, " 'Tis likely I'll do that more than once, m'lord. But it doesna seem possible, even after two days' time, that the auld laird be dead."

" 'Tis hard for me, too, Maggie," Rob said. "But, prithee, call me ‘laird' as you called him. It will please me more than ‘m'lord.' Meantime," he added, "I must tell you something of importance."

"Ye've brung home a lady wife," Maggie said, exchanging a droll look with MacGurk. "We ken that fine, sir. Cully told us."

"I never could keep secrets from either of you," Rob said.

"The mistress… that is to say, her ladyship, Lady Euphemia—"

"I'll wager you both know how she reacted," Rob said. "But she is with my lady now at my lady's request. We must all wait and see what comes of that."

Neither Maggie nor MacGurk looked any more hopeful than Rob felt.

He said, "I mean to hold our laird's court on Wednesday morning, MacGurk, as my father intended. You will have to spread word again of this new change."

"Nae need, laird. I doubted ye'd go farther than Arrochar and would be back as soon as ye could tae report tae Himself. So I did nowt about his laird's court, 'cause I thought likely ye'd want tae get him underground then, too, so folks could be there tae see when ye did. See you, sir, wi' this chilly weather, I kent fine that we had time tae wait, if only until tomorrow."

Thanking him, Rob agreed with Maggie's suggestion that she might take a wee peek into his bedchamber to see if aught needed doing before he and his lady wife slept there. She took herself off at once, leaving the two men alone.

"Walk with me, MacGurk," Rob said then. "I want to hear all you can tell me about how Father died and what else you know of his plans for his laird's court. I've just sat through one with a Brehon justice setting the rules, so I ken more than I did about such things. But—" He spread his hands.

The older man chuckled. "I'd like tae hear more about that court, sir."

"In good time," Rob said. "Tell me how my father died."

The steward's version being the same as the galley captain's, Rob was no wiser afterward than before. Nor had MacGurk been privy to MacAulay's intentions toward anyone who would appear before him at his court.

Since Rob had been at Ardincaple for a sennight before going to Tùr Meiloach, the steward had little more to tell him. "I will say that them who serve the castle would be glad tae see more o' ye, sir," MacGurk added quietly.

Assuring him that he would stay at Ardincaple at least until the King summoned him for some task or other, Rob had turned away before he recalled that he would leave sooner than that.

"I did tell my good-father that I would try to attend the Inverness Parliament," he said. "Sithee, I must swear fealty to his grace as soon as I can, and Andrew Dubh expects to leave Tùr Meiloach in ten days."

"Will your lady accompany you, sir?"

"We'll see," Rob said. When that answer caused MacGurk to raise his eyebrows, he realized that the older man feared he might be leaving Murie like a lamb for his mother's slaughter. Rob doubted that that would be the case, but he also hoped to take her with him. He just did not want to make that decision until he had a better idea of what he could expect of her.

After showing himself everywhere he thought necessary for the time being, he grew impatient to learn if his bride had survived her discussion with his mother.

Lady Euphemia's hopeful request to hear that Muriella and Rob had not consummated their marriage had shocked Murie, so she was glad that she could answer honestly. She was also grateful for the heat she felt in her cheeks. She said, "Mercy, madam, I did not mean to mislead you. We did that straightaway."

Well, almost straightaway after we reached Tùr Meiloach, she amended silently to herself. Lest her ladyship inquire more closely, she added hastily, "See you, madam, your brave Robert saved me from a dreadful villain and did so with great courage. I can tell you now, after seeing how you stood up to him…" Pausing, she added in a confiding tone, "I ken fine that you must be as aware as I am now that he can be a trifle domineering."

Dryly, Lady Euphemia said, "Robert can be willful, aye. I expect a young wife might think him rather intimidating."

"Aye, because he is forever telling me what to do," Murie said frankly. "But I meant only to say that he clearly inherited his courage from you, madam. My good-brothers told me that he is a gey courageous man, and then I saw as much for myself. But they told me little else. I hope to learn more about him and about Ardincaple from you. My mother has oft told me that the lady of a castle kens more about it and its people than her lord husband does."

"That is perfectly true," Euphemia said. "Why, I could tell you tales…"

When she paused, Murie clapped her hands together with sincere enthusiasm and exclaimed, "Oh, pray do, madam. I adore such stories and learning about how people think and act. You must know many, many tales that you can tell me. Robert talks so little about himself," she added. Then with a sigh that she hoped sounded sad rather than frustrated, she said, "There is one thing that he did tell me, although he mentioned only the barest facts and none of the reasons for it or names of people involved. He… he said he should tell me about it before anyone else did."

When her ladyship's eyebrows fluttered upward, then down into a frown, Murie realized she might be thinking of the scheming Euphemia was supposedly doing now with Duchess Isabella to marry Rob to the duchess's young daughter.

Hastily, but as casually as she could, she said, "He told me that a young girl… that he was nearly betrothed… and… oh, it was such an appalling tragedy!"

"You speak of poor Elizabeth Napier, I think," Lady Euphemia said. "Hers was a terrible fate, aye, and much Robert's fault, I fear. Sithee, he did not want to marry and rejected all that his father or I said about how little he need feel married until the girl was older. He offered her little wooing, so the poor child decided she would not have him. Her parents knew what an excellent marriage it would be, so they urged her to be patient with him. She cried out at them then, her mother said, and threatened to run away. So her father locked her in a tower and said he would keep her there until she came to her senses. The next time he entered, she threw herself out the tower window right in front of him, to die on the cobbles below."

"How horrid!" Murie exclaimed, too easily able to picture the lurid scene. Searching her memory as she watched Lady Euphemia, she added, "Robert never told me the poor girl's name. Did you say it was Elizabeth Napier?"

"I did, aye. Her father is a Clan Scott chieftain, so the connection would have been an excellent one for her and for Robert."

Thoughts awhirl, Murie fought to concentrate. "She was a Borderer, then."

"Aye, but her mother is kin to the powerful Earl of Sutherland, so the family has roots in the Highlands and the Borders. Why did you ask that?"

"I thought I had heard that tale before," Murie said. "I was gey young though. Robert said he was fourteen at the time. That would be ten years ago, aye?"

"I promise you, we did not spread the tale," Lady Euphemia said with a sniff of indignation. "Someone else must have done that if it is the tale you heard. People will gossip, and it does seem to fly about the country faster than real news does."

"I'm nearly certain that the name I heard wasn't Napier, though," Murie said.

"Well, it is sad but true that such tragedies are more common than we like to think they are," Lady Euphemia said. "Do you have a great deal to unpack, my dear? Come to that, did you bring your woman with you?"

Welcoming the endearment, Murie sensed that it was either sincere or a habit of speech for her ladyship. Either way, the rancor had disappeared from her voice and demeanor. That alone was acceptable progress, Murie decided, feeling more confident than she had when their conversation began.

In response to her ladyship's question regarding a personal servant, Murie said, "I brought no one, madam. Our Tibby would dislike leaving home, and Mam said she was sure that you would willingly provide someone to suit me."

Lady Euphemia nodded. "I know several maidservants who might do, but you will want to decide for yourself. I own, my dear, I was disappointed to learn that Robert had married without consulting his father or me. But I begin to think that you and I may deal together more comfortably than I thought we would."

"Then, mayhap, if you would not find it tiresome, you will show me something more of this wondrous castle," Murie said. "I have little to unpack, because Mam said she would send more of my things here after the Inverness Parliament. But I'd like to learn as much as you can teach me about Ardincaple."

"I don't tire as easily as that," Euphemia said. "Forbye, I know that Robert will not tell you many things that you should know about the place and its people. Sithee, I came here just as you have, so I ken fine how difficult it can be."

Murie felt as if she had achieved much but sensed that Lady Euphemia had reasons of her own for being kind to her and wondered what they might be.

Sunday and Monday, Rob and Muriella kept busy with duties at the castle, while Rob kept a wary eye on Murie and his mother. Long experience warned him that Lady Euphemia often had goals that did not mesh with his father's and were unlikely to appeal to Rob, either.

Evenings, when the sun neared the horizon, he and Murie took supper with Lady Euphemia. Afterward, they strolled about the castle yard together and talked before retiring early to bed, where they learned even more about each other.

Muriella having shown strong curiosity and eager willingness to explore the pleasures of the marriage bed, Rob was just as eager to teach her all he knew.

After supper Tuesday, they walked out onto the hillside beyond the castle, from the crest of which they had a view northwest as far as Loch Lomond. Realizing that a slight hollow just below them on the hillside there provided both privacy and shelter from the breeze, Rob spread his plaid on the ground there.

"Come here to me, lass," he said, still on one knee but looking up at her.

She stood where she was and cocked her head. "That sounded ominous," she said. "I hope you are not going to fulfill your promise to the Brehon out here, sir."

"You may hope," he said, but his eyes twinkled. "I doubt you will dislike what I mean to do."

"In that case, my lord, I am yours to command," she said with a smile.

"Then do as I bid you," he said, beckoning with a finger for her to approach. When she stood right in front of him, he said, "I think it is warm enough for you to take off your kirtle and shift."

"Here?" Her voice squeaked.

"Aye, sure," he said, grinning. "You said I had only to command."

"Very well, then, but you had better keep me warm, sir."

He kept her warmer than warm, stirring her senses until she cried out to him to stop, and then he stimulated her more, taking her to heights she had not known before, and clearly enjoying himself in the effort.

Afterward, as they walked back to the castle, Murie said casually, "I enjoyed that, and I would like to spend more time with you, doing things together."

"Then we will," Rob said amiably.

"Aye, but your mam said the laird's court will mean having the castle full of clansmen, some of them strangers even to her. Must you hold it so soon? Your mam said that some people might think it disrespectful to your father not to wait until a more suitable length of time passes after his burial."

"Did she?"

"Aye, and I must agree with her," Murie said. "Sakes, your father is not in the ground yet, sir. You seem more concerned about your court than about him."

Easily keeping his temper, since he knew she was blameless, Rob said, "I must have forgotten to tell you, lass. We'll bury him Wednesday at dawn, so that as many clansmen as possible can be here. Because he was chief of our clan, it would be unwise to bury him with what some might deem to be unseemly haste."

Having sensed Rob's flash of anger, the one emotion of his that she could always sense, she wondered now at his calmness. Realizing that Lady Euphemia had neglected to mention Lord MacAulay's burial when she expressed her concerns about the laird's court, and strongly doubting that Rob had forgotten to tell her that both would take place on Wednesday, Murie deduced wryly that Lady Euphemia had not yet fully accepted her.

Although tempted to share these thoughts with Rob, she suspected that doing so would be like raising a din on one of her sisters at home. His flash of temper was over, so she knew he was not angry with her. However, if he was already angry with his mother, Murie doubted that he would thank her for telling him what he had likely deduced for himself. Even so, she had to say something.

At last she said quietly, "I hope I have not vexed you again, Rob. I am happier when we are having fun than when you are displeased with me."

Putting an arm around her shoulders, he drew her close, then stopped and turned her to face him. "I'm not angry with you, lass," he said, kissing the top of her head. Then with a little smile, he added, "In troth, I was thinking that I should tell you how much I appreciate the time you spend with my mother. I had feared that you would not get on with her, since I find it hard to do so myself at times."

Aware that she was blushing, and recalling that he seemed able to read her every expression, she said, "Then I should admit to you, sir, that I can easily tell when I have irked her and can tell as easily if what I say pleases her. I just talk more about topics that please her and avoid those that don't. People tend to like others who share an interest in things that interest them, do they not?"

"They do, aye," he agreed, albeit with an unnervingly thoughtful look. "I must say, though, that I have known her all my life and still cannot sense her feelings as easily as that."

"Well, I can," she said. "However, I will tell you that I also sense some…" She hesitated, seeking an acceptable word, then added, "Frankly, sir, ‘mendacity' is the most suitable word. I ken fine that it is a dreadfully tactless thing to—"

"Never mind tact," he said. "If you thought she was being deceitful, why did you let her persuade you to urge me to put off my laird's court?"

"It wasn't like that," she said. "The sense of her that I just mentioned was something I felt the first time I talked with her, as if she were saying one thing but thinking another. Today, I believed she was telling me what she thinks is true."

"Then you have more faith than wisdom when it comes to your instincts, lass. I won't urge you to distrust all that she says, just to know her better before you make judgments about her truthfulness."

"Good sakes, sir, do you think your mother lies to you?"

Rob hesitated before he said, "I think she likes to get her own way. I know she sometimes refuses to hear what anyone else says, if it contradicts her belief about how things are. I respect her opinions in that I believe she has every right to express them. But I also know that she will go to great lengths in her efforts to control other people and make them dance to her piping."

Murie wished she could explain her ability to him, but he urged her ahead of him on the path. The sun was below the hill and the Loch Lomond area behind them already in deep shadow, so she walked silently until an echo of what he had said earlier returned to her. Then she looked back and said, "I know I do not always show wisdom, sir. You are not the first person to say that, as doubtless you know."

"You are young yet," he said.

"Aye, but young or not, I do trust what I sense about people. I don't pretend to be as gifted in that way as Dree is, though. Animals like me, but I cannot tell how one of them is feeling unless Lina's cat growls at me or a squirrel chatters angrily."

"Sakes, lass, no one can tell what animals feel or if they even have feelings, other than pain."

Stopping, she turned and stared at him. "How can you think that?" she demanded. "One need only look at Scáthach to know if she is unhappy or excited. She watches you, sir. She knows your every move and mood. She can tell by your clothing if you are going outside or staying in and reacts with excitement to the one and resignation to the other. Your slightest gesture tells her what you want of her."

"Aye, because I have trained her well."

She shook her head at him but offered no further argument. She had seen an arrested look in his eyes while she described Scáthach's behavior, which told her that she had given him reason to think about all that she had said.

Rob could not decide whether he was more annoyed or intrigued by Murie's argument. She was right about Scáthach's ability to read his moods and intentions, though. Also, he could read Scáthach nearly as well, and in ways he had not taught her. Her demeanor when danger threatened differed from her demeanor when it did not.

The way she had growled to warn him of the ambush awaiting him in the pass the day he'd followed Dougal and Muriella there had told him that he needed his weapon ready even as he whirled to face the swordsmen.

But he did not want to dwell on that now or argue any more. Instead, he took his wife to bed and taught her a few more things about pleasuring him and obeying his commands. She was, to his increasing delight, an apt and inventive pupil.

When he awoke before dawn Wednesday, she was still asleep, so he got up, dressed quietly, and gave orders for his man to let her sleep until after the burial.

Finding Lady Euphemia downstairs breaking her fast, he bade her good morning and took his rightful place at the high table. It still felt strange, even disrespectful, to sit in the laird's chair, but he was sure the feeling would pass.

"It will be a fine day, I think," his mother said, daintily spooning a bite of her boiled egg from its shell. "Your Muriella told me when she arrived that she will need a maidservant. I have given the matter much thought, and I believe my Tressa's Mairi will suit her needs."

Knowing that Mairi would repeat to her mother anything that Muriella said and that Tressa would repeat it to Lady Euphemia, Rob said, "I think MacGurk's Fiona would suit her better, Mam. She is closer in age to Muriella."

"Oh, but my dear Robert, your Muriella is so young that she would surely do better to have someone older who can show her how to go on here."

"She can ask you or me if she needs help," Rob replied mildly, nodding to the gillie who approached with his customary breakfast on a tray. The lad set down a mug of ale, a large bowl of barley porridge, and a platter of cold sliced beef. Another lad brought a basket with oven-warm manchet loaves in it.

Waiting only until the two had turned away, her ladyship said, "Muriella does not seem at all shy. I will say that for her."

"I think she likes you, too, Mam."

"Are ye sure that Tressa's Mairi won't do. I do think—"

"I will talk to MacGurk," Rob said. "If he thinks his Fiona is not ready for such responsibility, he will say so. Forbye, it will be up to Muriella in the end." Lady Euphemia was still frowning, so he changed the subject. "Do you ken what sort of grievances Father expected to hear at this laird's court?"

She shrugged. "He told me naught, so I warrant there was naught of import. I do recall some sort of grievance over a death that he thought was odd."

"Odd?" Rob's eyebrows shot upward. "The grievance or the death itself?"

"He just said ‘odd.' "

"Could it have aught to do with his own death? Might someone summoned to the court have thought that killing Father might somehow benefit him?"

"I don't know how," Lady Euphemia said. "The only thing that fretted him of late was that business of the fees that Campbell of Lorne and Pharlain of Arrochar were urging him to collect. Were ye at least able to set that to rest?"

"Greed is not something that one puts to rest," Rob said. He knew he would likely have to tell her all that had happened at Arrochar, but he did not want to discuss it over his breakfast or in the great hall where others might hear.

She said curtly, "Did ye even see Pharlain?"

Disliking her tone but knowing of old that he would gain nowt by saying so, he said, "I saw him. He made his feelings plain. But you need not fret, Mam. I will see that Ardincaple keeps safe and that the lochs hereabouts remain free to all vessels unless the King himself decides to set fees for passage."

"Ye sound gey sure of yourself," she replied. "Ye ken fine that your father did not approve of meeting force with force."

"And you ken fine that I am not my father," Rob said in the same calm way, despite a stronger urge to snap at her. That urge was as familiar as it had been when he was thirteen, but the knowledge that his word was now law at Ardincaple and that Murie might suffer if he annoyed his mother, made it easier to be civil.

Evidently, Lady Euphemia was wise enough to know that she had gone her length, because she excused herself minutes later to prepare for her late husband's burial. Realizing that she meant to attend it and might take offense at Murie's absence, Rob went upstairs to wake her.

Lord MacAulay's burial took place efficiently and with dignity, after which, the gathered crowd being deemed too large for the great hall but small enough to accommodate in the courtyard, Rob convened his laird's court there.

As usual at such events, a wooden dais bearing a table and chairs for the laird and whoever would keep the record stood at the foot of the wooden steps leading to the main entrance. At Ardincaple, the accuser, the accused, and the witnesses would stand on the dais to declare their grievances, defend themselves, or give evidence.

Gillies carried a bench out and set it at the front of the gathering, near the table where Rob would sit. The lads kept the bench clear for Lady Euphemia and Murie, who soon took their places there. Other benches were available for those who wanted to sit. Most of the men remained standing, and everyone stood when Rob took his place at the table and declared the laird's court open.

Murie had never observed such a proceeding other than at Arrochar, although she had witnessed bits of one or two of her father's courts, unbeknownst to him, from a window overlooking the tower's yard. Such occasions there were always solemn, because men's hides or their lives often hung in the balance.

At first, she thought that the grievances Rob heard were petty, even boring. Each seemed to be a matter of someone taking a lamb, firewood, or another object that was not his—often by mistake. The accuser would state his view of what had happened. Then the other man would give his version or apologize and promise Rob that he would pay for or return the property. Rob would make his decision one way or the other, and that would be that. Rob seemed to be utterly fair and just.

Then a middle-aged woman stepped to the dais and declared that one Donnie's Ferg had murdered her husband. "He should hang for it, laird," she added grimly.

"If your accusation proves true, Mistress Cowen, he will," Rob said. "Step forward onto the dais, Fergus, and be heard."

A tall, gangly lad of some two score years, with corn-yellow hair and eyes so light blue they looked colorless, walked forward and stood warily at the edge of the dais on Murie's right. She could see his ashen, freckled face clearly. So terrified was he that she could sense his terror in other ways, too, as he warily eyed Rob.

"You may speak, lad," Rob said when silence fell.

"It… it were an accident," Fergus blurted. "I didna mean tae kill 'im!"

"But you did kill Gib Cowen, aye?"

"Aye, laird, but I couldna help it!"

Rob said, "Have you a witness to Gib's death, Mistress Cowen?"

"Aye, sure, laird, and Ferg kens it fine," the woman said. "Me son Jocky were there and saw the whole thing. He stands yonder. Ask him yourself."

Rob motioned for Jocky Cowen to step onto the dais. "Tell us how your father's death happened, Jock."

"Sakes, laird, Ferg there were a-climbing up one o' them cliffs yonder, seeking tae find eagles' eggs. Me da stood below 'im, 'cause Ferg told him to, so he could lower his basket tae him after he filled it with eggs. T' clumsy oaf fell on Da instead and squashed 'im flat! Had Ferg no been so clumsy, me da would still be alive. Ferg did kill him, though, so he should hang for murder."

Growls of agreement sounded from some of the men in the gathering, as well as mutterings of shocked protest.

Rob said evenly, "It does sound as if it might have been an acci—"

"Sakes, laird!" Jocky exclaimed. "Had Ferg no been up there at all, he'd no ha' fallen. He told Da tae stand there, so he kent fine that Da was there. Ferg could ha' kept from falling on 'im, had he tried, but he didna try. He just smashed intae him. It be murder, same as if he'd taken a club and beat Da tae death!"

More sounds of agreement and disagreement followed his words.

Murie watched Rob, but her thoughts had flitted elsewhere, to a tale she recalled that bore a slight resemblance to the incident described.

The resolution of that tale stirred a near smile. Knowing that Rob would not appreciate humor at such a grave time, she stifled the bubble of merriment and saw with relief that he had shifted his attention back to Donnie's Ferg.