Page 37 of A Constant Blaze

“About ten years. He traveled with his harp, a strolling musician, but he was so good that Mother offered him a place with us. Rumor says he is the son of an Irish king. Or a runaway slave. Or both. He never tells.”

“Do you like him?” Malcolm asked.

She laid down the knife. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because I suspect you are a good judge of character.”

“I am. I always knew Fergus of Galloway would betray us. But yes, I do like Muiredach. I just don’t quite understand why my mother would take him on so short a trip.”

Malcolm unfurled his clenching hands, forced himself to pick up his cup and drink. The wine was good. Halla still kept up standards. “How do you know,” he asked as mildly as he could, “that the trip is short?”

“Because she took so little. And so few men.”

“Astrid came with her from the Isles,” Malcolm remembered.

Gormflaith stared at him. “No,” she said forcefully. She wasn’t denying Astrid’s origins.

He knew how she felt. He didn’t want to believe either that after twenty-two years, it was his homecoming that had driven her back across the sea to her own people.

The hall doors opened to admit three men, one of them wearing wrist guards and a breastplate. Sweyn, the captain of Halla’s house guards, got to his feet.

“Who’s this?” he demanded.

“Messenger from the Lady Mairead. The lady bade us bring him here.”

Malcolm leaned forward, crooking his finger.

The man in armor strode forward, the men of Ross at his heels. “I seek Adam MacHeth.”

Malcolm had no time for that. “Well, you’ll have to make do with Malcolm MacHeth. When did the lady bid you come here?”

“Y-yesterday,” stammered one of the Ross men as they all stared at Malcolm in wonder. He felt like a rare beast exhibited at a traveling fair.

“Where?” Malcolm demanded evenly.

“Near the coast, just by the River Peffery.”

“Who was with her?”

“Two of her own guard, and her lady. And another lad, a servant maybe. I don’t know him.”

“Did he have a harp?” Gormflaith asked.

The man scratched his head. “There could have been a harp. Something was tied to his saddle. Why?”

Malcolm released him to stare at the supposed messenger instead. “Give me your message to my son.”

The man drew in his breath as though debating, then blurted, “The Lady Mairead has been imprisoned by her husband.”

“For what?” Malcolm snapped.

“Who knows? Suspicion of adultery or treason for all I know. But if she sent me to Adam mac Malcolm, she must fear it’s serious. She wouldn’t otherwise endanger him.”

“No,” Malcolm agreed. “She wouldn’t.” He refocused his gaze on the messenger, whom he was now tempted to believe. “You also told the Lady of Ross this?”

He nodded. “She took the ring I was meant to give Adam mac Malcolm to prove who sent me.”

Malcolm threw himself back in his seat, new fear and pride and frustration threatening to swamp him. If she took the ring, she meant to go herself, use it to prove her identity to Mairead. And keep Adam out of it. That was why she’d sent the man here and not to Tirebeck. She was still his Halla.

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