The Frost Maiden's Kiss (31 page)

Their manners at table were somewhat less than courtly. They ate with unwashed hands and dirt beneath their nails, using their daggers to divide the portions. Their dogs had paws upon the board and stole food when they could. Their laughter was raucous, and more than one spewed food when he laughed.

Malcolm had forgotten how rough they were and wondered if he had been much the same these past years. Their steeds were in the stables, being tended by their squires.

His comrades’ clothing was less clean than might have been ideal, and they all sported beards, for that was simpler than shaving. They had an odor of unwashed men who lived in the open air, and already it filled the hall. They were accustomed to living in rough camps, quickly struck, and his hall had become a camp in the twinkling of an eye. He was certain that more than the dogs carried vermin, and the volume of noise was one he had forgotten, as well.

To be sure, they had brought their dice and their whores, and a large supply of game—undoubtedly poached from Kinfairlie’s forest, through which they would have had to pass. Malcolm did not wish to think of what his brother was saying, even now.

As much as he did not want these men in his hall, he felt a certain loyalty to them. He had fought with Ranulf, for example, for six years, nigh as long as with Rafael. They had shared some terrible and terrifying moments, as well as some good times. The two could not be separated, though both were of his past.

There was a change in their manner here, as well. More than one of them looked at him with new respect, and indeed, others with an increment of envy. Malcolm looked about the hall he had built and the woman he had taken to wife, and acknowledged that he had achieved what few of them would manage. The cycle of living as a mercenary was endless, for money earned was oft gambled and lost, or stolen, requiring another contract and another journey to war. He had broken free of it, and he guessed that some of his comrades would have liked to have done the same.

He waited for them to see his wife, curious as to their reactions.

For her part, Catriona seemed to have been struck to stone at the base of the stairs. She stared over the hall coldly, and he knew she noted the brace of rabbits roasting over the fire, the blood on the floor where they had been gutted, the dogs fighting over innards atop one table. One of his own hounds was being humped by a newly arrived and mangy dog. Another pair of hounds wrestled in the far corner, while three men wagered on the victor. Giorgio embraced his whore with his customary passion—although this woman was unfamiliar to Malcolm—her moans of feigned delight mingling with the raucous singing and shouting.

Ranulf was the first to sense that something had changed. He glanced up and scanned the hall, his gaze landing immediately upon Catriona. He was a big bear of a man, ruddy-haired and fierce in battle, but he eyed her with an expression like that of a child caught at a naughty deed. Catriona glared at him, her spine of steel and her gaze like ice. Ranulf coughed and bowed to her, his move drawing the attention of the others.

All seemed to halt in time, freezing beneath Catriona’s displeasure.

“May I present my lady wife,” Malcolm said. He felt surprise ripple through the company, then Catriona flicked her skirts and descended regally to the floor. She wore the kirtle that had been given to her for her wedding day and likely looked more fine than any woman any of his comrades had seen in recent memory. He liked the admiration in their eyes and their uncertainty as to how to proceed in the presence of a lady.

“What manner of barbarians are you to turn your host’s home into naught better than a brothel?” Catriona demanded. “Have you no shame?”

Malcolm did not know what his former comrades would do when so challenged. Rafael stood up, his manner mocking, and he knew he should have anticipated that man’s reaction. “Do you mean to teach us our manners?” Rafael said in challenge. “These are old friends and more than welcome here.”

Catriona strode toward him, undaunted by the snickers of his former fellows. She jabbed a finger into Rafael’s chest. “You are as a serpent in the garden,” she hissed, the hall so silent in shock that her words were readily discerned. “You have been a guest these many months, and treated with every courtesy, but now you would disdain my husband’s generosity and defile his hall.”

“Defile?” Rafael stared at her, his eyes glittering with anger. Malcolm stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his own blade, thinking he might have to intervene. But he would give Catriona her lead, just to see what she would do.

“Defile,” she repeated with disgust. “Blood on the floor, meat on the hearth that was never intended for cooking, hounds doing whatsoever they would. It is appalling.” She glared at the men in turn and several dropped their gazes. “If you mean to remain, you must behave in a suitable manner.”

“A suitable manner?” Rafael echoed.

“It is one matter for you to insult me, Rafael, but you will not insult my lord husband without regretting as much,” Catriona continued.

Rafael smiled coolly and Malcolm knew better than to trust him. “Is that so?”

“It is.” She fixed her gaze on Rafael again. “Are we understood?”

“Oh, we understand each other very well,” Rafael murmured, his tone dark and silky.

Catriona lowered her hand and stepped back. She turned her back upon Rafael but before Malcolm could utter a warning, that man reached for his dagger.

Chapter Eleven

Catriona moved so quickly that Malcolm was impressed. She had the knife he had given her in her hand and its blade at Rafael’s throat in a heartbeat, her gaze boring into that of his old friend. The point of the blade drew blood at that most tender spot.

“Surrender that blade to my lord husband, or leave,” she said, her voice carrying clearly through the silent hall.

Malcolm stifled his urge to applaud.

Rafael glanced at Malcolm, his gaze falling to Malcolm’s hand, gripping the hilt of his own dagger. He bowed to Catriona and sheathed his dagger, then handed blade and scabbard to Malcolm with an exaggerated bow. He probably expected that Malcolm would not accept it, but Malcolm did.

He would buttress the argument his lady made. He felt the change in the mood of the hall and saw several of his former comrades exchange glances.

His lady’s eyes were shining with triumph.

It was Ranulf who stepped forward first and bowed low. “Malcolm is fortunate indeed in his choice of bride,” he said, showing more refinement in his speech than Malcolm might have believed possible. “I am Ranulf, lady, and most pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Welcome, Ranulf.” Catriona inclined her head, gracious as a queen.

Bertrand, his ebony hair all askew, was the next to bow, even as all the others looked on in silence. Tristan nudged the dogs off the table, and Georgio actually stepped away from his whore.

Catriona stood and waited, her expectation tangible.

And sure enough, as one, they all bowed before her, even Rafael. The dogs dropped to their haunches on the floor, watchful, and Catriona crossed the hall with a resolve and a certainty of her position that made Malcolm proud. She looked Ranulf up and down, compelling that man to tuck in his chemise and surreptitiously try to buff the toes of his boots on the back of his calves. Bertrand ran a hand through his hair.

Catriona paused beside the strewing herbs stained by the cleaning of the rabbits, her displeasure so clear that Louis winced. “Do you do as much in your mother’s home?” she asked him, and he stammered an incoherent reply.

Catriona gestured. “I mean to break my fast in the hall, after I say my prayers. I trust that all will cleaned by my return.”

“Aye, my lady.”

“The meat can be cleaned on the cliffs behind the kitchens, the offal left for the dogs there, and the meat hung in the kitchen to cure.” She smiled at Louis. “Perhaps you are not aware of the day, but it is Sunday and no meat will be consumed in the hall on this day. The rabbits will make for a fine stew on the morrow.”

“Aye, my lady.” Louis and Reynaud bowed, then scrambled to do as bidden.

Catriona eyed the partridges, as well as the feathers already piling on the floor. Amaury had been plucking them in his usual haphazard manner—an inevitable consequence of his sampling the ale while he worked—and one of the dogs had dragged a bird to the corner.

“Surely such a task as this can be done behind the kitchens as well?” she asked Amaury. The man had to be two feet taller than she and weigh twice as much, but the back of his neck reddened as he gathered up the pheasants to follow Louis and Reynaud.

“I will have the dice,” she said to Gunter on her way to the portal. That wizened soldier meekly put the cup into her hand, as if he knew not what else he could do. “The better to save you from the temptation of sinning on this day.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Gunter said with a bow.

“You are welcome to join us in prayer,” Catriona said from the threshold. “Though we have no priest and no chapel as yet at Ravensmuir, I was always taught that the Lord hears all prayers.”

Malcolm bit back a smile as he led his lady from the hall. “Well done,” he said beneath his breath and she cast him a mischievous smile.

“I was terrified!” she confessed in a whisper.

“Yet none would have guessed as much. You have shamed them into good behavior.”

“And time enough ’tis for that,” Vera said from behind them. “They are past due for a stern word, that much is certain. My lady, you show your mettle with every passing day.”

Malcolm could only agree.

“I have had a good tutor,” Catriona said beneath her breath and Malcolm glanced down to find her eyes sparkling. “I did not imagine I would have a second chance to surprise Rafael.”

Malcolm could not help but chuckle at that.

He led Catriona to the jut of land she had chosen for the site of Ravensmuir’s chapel. The grass was wet from the rain, but the downpour had halted since the men had arrived. As they all made their way to the point, the sun came out from behind the clouds. Catriona pulled her cross from her chemise and folded her hands around it, dropping to her knees to pray. Malcolm knelt beside her and Vera did the same behind. Catriona began to recite the Paternoster aloud and Malcolm added his voice to hers.

By the time they reached the end, they were more than three. His former comrades had straightened their tabards and buffed their boots, and were on their knees behind his lady, adding their prayers to her own.

Malcolm scanned the sky for the ravens, just because he sensed that a corner had been turned. The sky was overcast, but devoid of birds, yet for the first time, Malcolm believed they would come.

* * *

Ruari had seen a great deal in his time, but this day was the most remarkable marvel of all. He had a bad feeling when he awakened and it only grew more intense.

First, the laird sent word that Ruari should go to Ravensmuir, an errand he did not wish to take but could not decline.

His sense of foreboding did not dissipate when Lady Elizabeth came to him in the stables to confide that the laird had suggested she journey to Ravensmuir with Ruari. It seemed to Ruari that the laird Alexander would have given him such a command himself, or at least sent it via his castellan, but Lady Elizabeth was insistent.

Lady Elizabeth was not the maiden she had been when first he had met her, when his laird Erik had courted his lady Vivienne, that much was certain. She had become a mere shadow of her former self. She had once been both beautiful and cheerful, a maiden he had expected to be wed young and wed well. In these days, she was pale and quiet, with shadows beneath her eyes. She reminded him of a ghost, and he oft shivered in her presence.

Her excitement on this morn was a welcome change, and Ruari told himself that he did not mind having some company on such a journey as this. Perhaps the change of scene would do her good. He had the ostler saddle her favored steed, even as he asked for confirmation from the castellan that this was the laird’s choice.

Anthony came himself to the stables, just as they were preparing to leave. He took the reins of Lady Elizabeth’s steed, his expression stern. “I have told you already this morn, Lady Elizabeth, that the laird has chosen not to ride to Ravensmuir,” he said, his tone gentle. “Have you forgotten?”

“But I must go there!” Lady Elizabeth protested. “I must!”

“Perhaps on the morrow Laird Alexander will accompany you there,” Anthony said, and the maiden’s eyes flashed with a defiance that was now rare in her.

She surrendered her grip on the steed with reluctance, and only after she cast an assessing glance over the number of ostlers and squires in the stables. She departed with nary another word, and Ruari would not have put it past the Elizabeth he had originally known to find another way to achieve her goal.

“She is much changed,” he said to Anthony who shook his head.

“I fear she is unwell,” the castellan murmured. “Though I wish it were otherwise.”

Ruari nodded, his heart heavy in agreement, then rode out.

He arrived at Ravensmuir to find the bailey empty.

He led the horse to the stables, only to find that it, too, was devoid of men. The stalls were full of steeds, all of them brushed and tended and swishing their tails, but not a soul responded to his cry. He knew there was no ostler at Ravensmuir, but the lack of men only added to his dismay.

He left his horse tethered in the endmost stall and went to the great hall. It, too, was devoid of men, although it appeared it had been occupied recently. There was blood on the floor by one fireplace, which was not the most consoling sight he could have found.

He crept up the stairs to the solar, seeking some sign of the keep’s occupants. He found the door unbolted and the chambers empty.

But it was there, in Ravensmuir’s solar, that Ruari saw the marvel. He chanced to look out one of the windows, for the only place they could have gone was toward the sea. And there on the point of land that extended like a finger toward the rising sun, he found all the men he sought.