Page 17 of Bride of the Mad Laird
They walked up the stairs into the keep where they were met by a kindly faced older woman with a beaming smile, her grey hair in a bun at her nape, a kerchief at her neck, clad in a woolen tunic and a kirtle of blue linen. A jangle of keys fastened to a belt at her waist signaled that she was the castle seneschal.
Tòrr took the woman’s hand, pressed it to his lips and turned to Lyra.
“This is Claray. She has been here all me life and she’s cared fer me through many difficult times.”
Claray curtsied and turned her smile to Lyra.
“And this is the Lady Lyra.” Tòrr gave Lyra a smile that made her think he understood how awkward and strange she was feeling. “She isnae long from the Priory at Iona and will be sheltering wi’ us fer a while.”
Claray nodded. “The lord Edmund told us a little of yer troubles when he arrived here almost two days ago. I’ve prepared a bedchamber fer ye. One of our maids, Elspaith, will take care of ye. If there’s anything ye wish fer, hot water fer washing, fresh strewing herbs, candles, or something ye fancy from the kitchen, Elspaith will bring it. Ye’ve only tae ring the wee bell and she’ll come.
Lyra looked to Tòrr, unsure of what she was to do.
Tòrr hesitated. “What is ye wish, me lady?
Edmund nodded. “There’s nourishment ready fer ye both.”
“Mayhap I could wash first?” Lyra asked, all of a sudden feeling grimy after her travels.
“If ye follow Claray, she’ll show ye tae yer chamber. After ye wash she’ll guide ye tae the refectory, where ye may join us.”
As Lyra trotted up the stairs after Claray she overheard Edmund say to Tòrr. “Let us go tae yer study where we can speak in private. I’ve much news.”
Her stomach clenched. She had the strangest feeling that the news concerned her. And it was not good.
Claray unlocked the door to a bed chamber that seemed enormous to Lyra. All she could remember was the poky dormitory at the Priory that she’d shared with the other novices and her dear friend Davina.
To have a chamber to herself was daunting. On one hand it was exciting to think she would be on her own for practically the only time she could recall, but then, she was used to company at all times. Even at night, in the Priory, she was used to the sounds of the other novices, the gentle snores, the restless movements, now and then someone speaking unintelligible words. And tears. She’d contributed many of those herself over the years.
The chamber was filled with the scent of roses, a vase of late-blooming ones standing at the center of a small table by the wall. A bed far bigger than anything Lyra could have imagined was half concealed by a series of green velvet curtains. A fire blazed merrily in the grate.
She turned to Claray. “It’s quite lovely. Thank ye.”
Claray indicated a bowl and jug for washing, on another table. A cake of soap and several folded flaxen cloths lay beside the bowl.
“I’ll wait outside, me lady. Take as much time as ye wish and when ye’re ready I’ll guide ye tae the refectory, where ye’ll dine.”
After Claray had left the chamber Lyra looked around. The bed was covered in fur throws and sewn patchwork coverlets in different colored striped lines. There was a garde-robe, and behind the bed a series of carved oaken cupboards where, she supposed, if she had any items of clothing or special treasures, they would be kept. This would be where she would place her carved box once she’d retrieved it from Paden’s saddlebag.
She sighed, taking up the soap, and poured water into the washbowl, unsure of whether she should configure this charming bedchamber as a bigger and prettier prison than the Priory had provided or simply enjoy the unaccustomed opulence.
This would, no doubt, depend on Tòrr, who had yet to reveal whether he was her friend or her jailor.
She freshened up with the rose-scented soap, dried her face and hands, and combed out her hair with her fingers so that it hung loose down her back. There was very little that could be done about the somewhat bedraggled kirtle apart from smoothing out the skirt, but at least it was quite dry by now.
As Claray had promised, she was waiting patiently outside the door when Lyra emerged, ready to take the next step in her fateful journey.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Tòrr poured a dram of whisky each for himself and for Edmund.
“Slàinte mhath,” he raised the glass, savoring the smoky, peaty fragrance before taking a sip of the amber liquid.
“And tae yer continued good health, me friend,” Edmund responded.
The whisky was mellow but with just the right amount of fire. Tòrr savored the burn as it slipped down his throat.
The two men stood by the fire in Tòrr’s study. Gazing into the flames, Edmund cleared his throat before turning to Tòrr, his usually smooth features etched with a deep frown. He hesitated.
