Page 70 of The Falcon Laird
She drew out a deep blue tunic of soft wool with a gilt-embroidered hem and neckline that gleamed in the firelight, and with it a long linen shirt. She brought them to him, and he reached out with murmured thanks.
“Henry’s?” he asked, then pulled on the long shirt and the tunic while the linen towel dropped to pool at his feet. The blue robe was thick and soft, cut long and loose with close sleeves. He went to the table, where his things were piled, and unsheathed a dagger. From a little clay pot by the tub, he scooped up a soft soap mixture—she had left it there for him, made from mutton fat, ash, and sweet and pungent herbs. Coating his wet beard, he sat on a bench by the hearth and began to scrape his beard.
“Have you a shaving song?” He winced as he cut himself.
She laughed. “You will need a healing song. Here, let me.” She stood behind him and took the blade. “This is not the best knife for the task,” she remarked.
“John has a shaving knife with his things. In the gatehouse.” He tipped back his head.
“Hush. This will be safer if you are quiet.” She began to scrape the dagger edge over his thick beard, taking away umber touched with copper and gilt, revealing more of his lean, firm jaw and throat.
The soap smelled of lavender and pine, and his damp hair smelled clean and good. She worked in silence and saw him glance up through thick lashes.
“Did you do this for Henry?”
“I did this for my brothers. It has been a little while. Oh! I am sorry.” She touched a finger to the tiny nick under his chin.
“Go slowly until you remember,” he drawled. “I trust you, my lady,” he whispered.
She smiled and slid the blade along, scraping upward. She stopped to clean the blade on the linen.
“Your brothers,” he said then. “How many do you have?”
“Two. Both are dead now. My father as well.” She paused. “Killed by English.”
He glanced up. “Where?”
“At my father’s property in the Highlands. He refused to renew his pledge to your king, so his lands were declared forfeit. My father was killed the day they came up there to take it.” Her voice was calm, flat. She went on. “My mother died later from her injuries too. She had been raped by English soldiers. I was not harmed because she hid me away in a wooden chest. I was fourteen.”
“Dear God.” He sat up, his gaze deep enough to hold her soul in its measure in that moment.
She glanced down. “My marriage to Henry had already been arranged—my father’s bid to be obedient. My uncle knew that and brought me back to Kilglassie, where I was married and then forced to pledge my oath to King Edward to supposedly to keep the castle—which went to Henry.”
“I see. And your brothers?”
“They came here now and then. Henry never knew or he would have arrested them as rebels. My brothers always cheered me. I survived those days because of them, and Michaelmas, and Fergus and Moira too.”
“You survived because you are strong also. How long were you here with Henry?”
“Eight years,” she said. “Last summer, my brothers died. They fought with Bruce at Methven, which was a disastrous defeat for Scotland. One killed on the field, the other executed.” She paused to master the grief that welled inside. “After I heard that, I left Kilglassie. I burned it, and I left.”
She touched his chin to resume the shave. She did not add that Robert Bruce’s brothers, her own cousins, came to fetch her to safety—which turned into a horrible betrayal of Bruce’s kinfolk resulting in captures, imprisonments, and executions. There was only so much she could trust herself to say.
The knife scraped, the rain sheeted, the fire snapped. His head was a warm weight against her shoulder, his hair damp. The peaceful music seemed to linger somehow. But the contentment she had found had been torn by memories. She blinked back tears, sniffed, paused to wipe the blade.
“You have lost much at English hands. I did not realize how very much.”
“And so I resent English a bit.” Her voice trembled. She brought the blade to his other cheek. “Be still, now. I would not care to cut you, though you are a Sassenach.”
“Christian,” he said after a moment, “what happened to Henry?”
“Hush. I bare all my hurts to you, and you say little of yourself.” She traced the steel edge along his cheek and well-defined chin. “If I tell you, then you will know this Scotswoman cannot be trusted.”
“I make no judgement. I just want to know.”
She lifted the blade away. “I am tired of hurting over all of this.”
“So am I. But I want to know what hurt you.”
