Page 9 of Winter Longing
“Shh,” she soothed, reaching out a hand, laying her palm against his pale forehead. “All will be well.”
“Rosie,” he murmured.
Chapter Four
More than thirty minutes passed before Ailsa recognized sounds of people approaching. The cart’s wheels creaked and groaned a bit, disturbing the somber quiet of the cold winter day. Glancing down the lane, Ailsa realized that not only a few of the castle guards had come, but at least ten of them, including the captain of the army, Dersey Sinclair.
Ailsa groaned internally. Dersey would be worse than Anwen, would likely insist same as the maid had, that whoever the man was, he wasn’t their problem. Ailsa would bet her last coin Dersey would command the cart be used to deliver the man to some place outside Torr Cinnteag, far away from the Sinclairs.
She hopped to her feet and faced the party that approached, prepared to have to fight to have her way even as she knew she wouldn’t be able to explain why she felt so strongly that she needed to help this man.
Dersey’s frown was wild with confusion, darkening even further his habitual disagreeable expression.
“Step back, lass,” he said, unaccountably drawing his sword.
“Sweet heavens, Dersey,” Ailsa protested. “Disarm yerself. The man is nae conscious and thus nae threat—"
“And nae to be brought to the keep,” Dersey finished gruffly. “'Tis nae a lame duck, nae a fawn with a broken leg or some wretched hog ye’ll nae let us slaughter. 'Tis a man—an Englishman at that!”
Ailsa turned her glare upon Anwen, who’d accompanied the men and the cart. The maid had at least enough sense to shrivel under Ailsa’s furious glare for revealing the man’s nationality.
“We dinna ken that he’s English,” Ailsa said to Dersey, which was strictly the truth even as she had guessed he was. “And naematter his origins, he finds himself at our mercy and we Sinclairs do nae reject—”
“Aye, aye, aye,” Dersey grumbled dismissively, waving a hand to silence what would have been her appeal to see the man cared for. “He’s English and hence, meant for the gaol. If he lives, he’ll have ye to thank as he rots beneath the keep.” The captain then waved his hand at the idling soldiers, beckoning them closer. “C’mon, then. Get him up and onto the cart. We dinna want his carcass stinkin’ up the lane.”
The soldiers dragged their feet. Lyle and Peile arrived first at the man’s side. Lyle frowned down at the man’s strange shoes before lifting his leg and then waiting on the others to grab a limb. When Peile positioned himself near the man’s upper body, meaning to take hold of his arms, Lyle decided that position was more favorable and callously dropped the man’s long leg from waist height, moving to stand beside Peile.
“Good heavens,” Ailsa cried. “Stop that! How can ye be so callous?” A much younger Ailsa would have shoed them all away, announcing she’d see to the chore herself—she’d been taught a lesson or two in her youth about her own stubbornness and the limits of her strength. She was older and wiser now, and rather than taking over to see it done as humanely as she’d have liked, she smacked her hands on her hips and used blatant threats instead. “Recall, lads, if ye will, that I do have some sway over the kitchen staff. Unless ye want to eat boiled straw and fried dirt cakes—again—ye will imagine this man is someone kent and admired, and ye will handle him accordingly.”
Dersey turned a baffled glower her way, possibly wondering why she cared.
But the Sinclair soldiers responded appropriately—Ailsa did not make idle threats, each one of them knew, reminded of the last time they’d ignored her instructions and of the poor meals they’d been served for almost a week until her brother hadreturned from the south. They lined up around the unconscious man and with greater care gathered his limbs, carrying him over to the waiting cart. When their heave to swing him into the cart just missed banging his head against the wooden bed, Peile swung a frantic gaze to Ailsa, fearful that she’d noticed.
“'Tis fine,” she allowed, since they had not struck the man’s head. “Make haste, please,” she said, collecting her cloak before she scrambled up into the cart herself, taking up a defensive position at the side of the vulnerable man. When Anwen approached, obviously meaning to ride as well, Ailsa bristled at her, recalling her treachery, revealing the man’s Englishness. “Ye’ll have to walk, I fear,” she said in a rare moment of pettiness. “Nae room for even one more. Mayhap bring that forgotten peat to Mallaig now.”
Anwen gasped at what was obviously meant to be a retribution, but she did not argue.
Dersey mounted his big red destrier and frowned down at Ailsa. “Ye yerself can take it up with yer brother, lass, whatever this sudden love of the English is to ye.”
Ailsa made a face at the captain but wasn’t wholly immune to fright. Her brother had no love for either strangers or the English specifically, and was known to be volatile, often reacting excessively. Tavis might lock her in the gaol as well for daring to bring this stranger into their home.
One problem at a time, she reminded herself, her gaze moving back and forth from the stranger’s face to the path ahead and the keep as it came into view within a few minutes.
Torr Cinnteag itself was a tall, square tower, built with thick dark gray stone, nearly blending into the surrounding cliffs, and streaked with moss, weathered from more than a hundred years of exposure to the rains and winds that blew across the deep loch. They crossed a stone bridge which spanned a natural gorge, creating a choke point for anyone approachingthe fortress, making it nearly impregnable by direct assault. Just beyond the bridge stood the gatehouse, fortified with a heavy, iron-bound gate, flanked by two towers where the castle guards stood watch. Just inside the gate were the stables, housing the laird’s horses and those of his officers, and beyond that, adjacent to the main keep, sat the chapel, where Father Gilbert said daily prayers. The stone chapel was simple but solid, with a carved wooden cross and many Gaelic inscriptions merging Christian faith with ancient symbols of protection favored by the Sinclairs.
Ailsa sent a longing gaze toward the chapel, a bit of eager relief flooding her when, as if on cue, Father Gilbert emerged from the arched doorway, his psalter curled in his hand and tucked against his chest.
She didn’t want the Englishman sent straight to the dungeon, as her brother or Dersey would no doubt insist. But she knew, too, that no guest room in the keep would be allowed for him. The chapel, however—more specifically, the chambers at the back where Father Gilbert lived—offered a solution. In earlier times, when the Sinclair lands had been more populated, those rooms had housed other religious figures to tend the flock. Now, they were rarely used, quiet and sheltered, and, Ailsa imagined, perfectly suitable for a weary, and surely harmless, traveler.
“Father Gilbert,” she called out, waving her hand to summon the priest as the cart came to a stop near the doors to the keep and the main hall.
“Now dinna be disturbing the cleric with yer nonsense,” Dersey grumbled loudly as he dismounted.
“A person in need of attention is nae nonsense,” Ailsa chastised the captain. She scooted out from the cart’s bed, landing on two feet, her cloak bundled in her grasp and not on her person though the cold was beginning to seep through to her bones. “Father Gilbert,” she addressed the priest again as he neared.
The priest approached, his brow furrowed, his sharp eyes moving from Ailsa to the unconscious man sprawled in the cart. Originally from England, Gilbert had once studied at the University of Paris before returning to serve as rector in Nether Wallop, Hampshire. Despite his intelligence and dedication, again and again he’d been denied appointments because he’d been born illegitimate. Decades ago, he had met Ailsa’s grandfather at York Minster, during the enthronement of the archbishop on Christmas Day, 1279, and the two had struck up an enduring friendship. When Maraug Sinclair had offered Father Gilbert the role of rector at Torr Cinnteag ten years after their first meeting, the young priest had accepted, eager for a place where his birth would not be held against him.
Though Father Gilbert and Dersey were of a similar age, they could hardly have looked more different. Dersey, with his long, gray-streaked beard and gravelly voice, had a permanent air of irritation. His hair, what little remained, lay thin and unruly atop his head, adding to his rough appearance. Father Gilbert, by contrast, was always impeccably groomed. His clean-shaven face and the neat black hair framing it lent him a certain solemnness, further emphasized by his calm demeanor and thoughtful gaze. Where Dersey’s voice was loud and more often than not edged with impatience, Father Gilbert’s tone was ever soft, measured, and soothing—meant for counsel, not commands.
