Every Heart Has Its Day (7 page)

Hoofbeats approached from behind. She slowed the mare.

Broderick pulled his stallion to her side. “Be the hounds of Hell nipping at yer heels, milady?”

She felt as if she rode toward purgatory’s gates.

“If ye persist in riding ahead, I shall tether yer horse to mine. Do ye understand?”

Kasey nodded.

“Keep within our sight.”

Despite Broderick’s warning, she gave the horse free rein. The countryside looked like a sea of emerald green dotted with ovine foam and bovine driftwood. A distant swayback caught her eye. She tugged on the reins and waited for Broderick to gain her side.

“Why have ye slowed?”

“Be that the mount I rode to Inverness?”

“The nag ye rode could hardly be called a mount.”

“Ye speak the truth. But from where did this mare come?”

Broderick looked over his shoulders. “Yer clansmen believe the king has exchanged this mount for yer nag and ordered ye to ride it home.”

“But the king dinna give this horse to the Camerons, did he?”

“Nay. It be payment for yer services from the Mackintoshes.”

She gave thanks her clansmen lagged a good distance. She feared what they would do to the mount if they knew the truth.

On the second day of the journey, while eating their nooning meal, Broderick pulled Kasey aside. “The moon will be full this night. We can ride through so ye can sleep in yer own pallet, or we can postpone arrival until the morrow.”

“Let us ride through.” Kasey looked at the sky as she mounted the mare. She prayed her laird’s thirst for spirits had dwindled in her absence.

****

Kasey edged open the manor’s door and peered inside. She stole halfway down the empty corridor to the threshold of the great hall, before her escort clamored in behind her.

Douglas Cameron slammed down his goblet. “Symon, who calls at this ungodly hour?”

Kasey cringed. Her laird’s tone did not bode well.

Symon stamped into the corridor. “Where be my brother?”

Though younger and tawnier, Symon’s veins flowed with the same ink as Randall’s. Kasey dared not risk his ire. “Randall remains at Inverness.”

“I shall tell the laird of yer return.”

Brietta ran down the stairs to embrace her, then turned to Casey’s escort. “Thank ye for yer service.”

They nodded and shuffled their feet.

“I be sure yer families have missed ye dearly.” Brietta’s tone left no doubt of their dismissal. After the clansmen scattered, she assigned chambers to the king’s men. “Thank ye, Broderick.”

“My apologies, Lady Cameron, but I must deliver Lady Kasey to her laird.”

Brietta nodded. “I pray that yer propriety continues long into the future. May we have a few moments before ye relegate custody?”

At Broderick’s nod, Brietta pulled Kasey to the foot of the stairs. “Ye need not tell me all that has happened, for I have seen it in my dreams. I be proud of ye, daughter.”

She gripped Kasey’s hand. “Fate has long ago carved our destinies in stone. Ye bear no blame for what be aboot to happen.”

Kasey’s heart raced.

Brietta pulled her into a fierce hug. “My love will guide ye until yer heart’s desire restores joy.”

“Brietta!”

Kasey flinched at the vehemence in her laird’s bellow.

“We canna keep him waiting any longer. I shall love ye always, Kasey.” Her mother pasted on a brave smile and pulled Kasey in her wake.

Broderick followed the ladies into the great hall.

Brietta held her daughter’s hand as they curtsied. “Look who has just arrived home, milord.”

“Well, well, well. The wondrous Lady Kasey returns early.” He staggered to his feet, leaned on the table, and narrowed his eyes. “What have ye done now?”

Broderick stepped forth and bowed. “I would be happy to give ye a full account, milord, but would prefer do so on the morrow.”

Kasey silently thanked Broderick for the delay. Her laird had no control while he bended his elbow.

“As ye wish. Brietta, see this man settled into a chamber equal to his status. Mayhap the manure pile would suffice to warm his weary bones.” Douglas Cameron cackled.

Kasey’s heart slowed as she walked toward the bedchambers. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught one of her escorts returning to the great hall. She crept back and peeked in.

The clansman handed Laird Cameron a sealed missive. The further his eyes scanned down the sheaf, the more mottled his face became.

“Kasey!”

She recoiled. Her heart beat a frantic pace as she entered the hall. Her mother ran to her side.

Brietta eyes appeared glazed. She pulled Kasey into an embrace. “Remember all that I have said, my love.”

Kasey’s knees shook. She had seen her laird angry many times before, but this night he trembled with rage. She curtsied to him and prayed for mercy. “Ye beckoned, milord?”

“Ye traitorous whore! Dinna dare to appease me with false innocence.”

Footsteps approached from behind.

“This concerns ye not, Broderick!” Laird Cameron rounded the table. “Had ye accepted yer burden, this scandal would not have tainted my name.”

Brietta stepped in front of Kasey. “Laird Cameron—”

“Speak to me no more, wench.” Cameron lunged for Brietta’s throat. She latched onto his wrists and struggled to push them away as she drew back.

Broderick ran to intercede. Warriors caught him and pinned him to the rushes.

“Let her be!” Kasey shoved the laird.

He fell, dragging Brietta down. He straddled his wife. His knuckles whitened. Brietta twisted and kicked.

Kasey wrapped her arms around his chest and pulled. Symon hauled her away. She kicked and wrested. He held fast.

The Cameron gained his feet and hoisted Brietta. “Make them watch.”

The warrior on Broderick’s back forced the emissary’s head up by jerking on his hair.

Symon gripped Kasey’s jaw. Tears streamed down her face.

The laird suspended Brietta until her body went limp, then flung her, head first, toward the mantel.

“MOTHER!”

Chapter Seven

CAMERON MANOR, SEPTEMBER (1345)

Kasey woke to her own screams. Her chest pounded. Sweat beaded her brow. Trembling hands wiped away tears that once again failed to cleanse her soul.

Her mother had died two summers before, but not one day slipped by that she did not relive the event.

She dragged her weary body up from the hearthstones and staggered to the window. Dawn remained but a hope.

The hardened skin on her hands snagged strands as she combed her hair with her fingers. The calluses were an ugly blessing, for she no longer wasted precious time wrapping linen strips around blisters.

She snatched her arisaide from under the table, then headed out the door, across rocky mounds to the small copse near the stream. She had supped here with her mother the day before her fateful trip to Inverness. And here her mother’s body rested in an unmarked grave.

To her knowledge only one reason decreed eternal penance, but her existence proved her mother’s fertility. Mayhap someday she would find the courage to question why Laird Cameron denied Lady Brietta’s burial in consecrated grounds.

Within moments after she sat, memories attacked. Glimpses of the bloodied head she had cradled in her lap. The coppery scent of her mother’s blood singed her nostrils as she wiped away her tears with crimson-covered hands. Her pitching chest opposed her mother’s stilled breast.

Her laird’s accusations rang as though he stood by her side, shouting them anew. What say ye, whore? Will ye do naught to aid yer mother? Can ye heal only our enemies?

Torrents of guilt washed over her. She had known the Cameron spent his days imbibing. By nightfall, no one could reason with him. When Broderick gave her the choice, she should have delayed their arrival until the next morn. Her laird, though unpleasant from an aching head, may have been more amenable.

“Ye must cease this, Kasey.”

A sense of warmth enshrouded her. Her lips quivered as she looked about. “Mother?”

A figure, cloaked in white so bright Kasey had to shield her eyes, nodded. “Blame’s burden be not yers to carry.”

“I should have—”

She held up a hand. “Nay, my love. It mattered not then. It matters not now.”

“So much has changed, mother, I canna cope.”

“Find the strength. Brighter days await ye.”

Her mother’s form broadened in its shoulders and took on an amber hue.

Kasey picked up a stone and hurled it through the swirling mist. “Ye lied to me!” She slid to the ground, hid her head in her hands, and allowed her tears to flow. She could no longer suppress her grief for all she had lost. Her mother. Hunter. Hope.

When her tears ran dry, she raised her head. Pink fingers clawed the early morn sky. Harvest mist swirled above the stream. On the opposite bank, a tree stood barren save for two golden brown leaves.

She feared a future steeped in madness, but she had no time to worry about that now. She rose and brushed dead grass and leaves from her kirtle.

The day after her mother’s death, her laird had dismissed most of the keep’s staff. The head cook and one helper prepared every meal. Two scullery maids cleaned the entire keep, and two laundresses tended the garments of their laird and dozens of unmarried warriors. It became Kasey’s primary duty to ensure the completion of all chores the six women had neither the time nor desire to attend.

The laird had discharged Evonne from her position as Kasey’s maid. She stayed on in the keep, but never told Kasey the capacity of her new duties. From the lackluster look in Evonne’s eyes, Kasey believed them horrid.

Her friend’s devotion remained steadfast despite public displays. Evonne’s taunts hurt her to the core, but her friend had no choice. Others had been beaten for naught more than treating Kasey kindly. Oftentimes, after the others retired for the night, Evonne would sneak down to the kitchens. She held Kasey’s hand while she distracted her with the latest gossip. Without her former maid, Kasey would forget the warmth of a human touch.

The sun peeked over the distant mountains. Kasey picked up her skirts and ran into the kitchens.

She nodded at the head cook, who stood with her hands on her hips. “Ye be late, princess.”

“My apologies, Agatha.” She wasted no time in mixing the bread dough and putting in the first loaves to bake. She curtsied to the cook and scurried out to the great hall.

She swept aside the rushes and scrubbed the floors, although she scoured the floors each night after the evening fare. How much dirt could accumulate in an empty hall?

She scuttled back to the kitchens and nodded at Kenna, the kitchen helper of barely ten summers. Together they prepared a simple fare for breaking the fast.

“Laird Cameron wishes for honeyed apples this morn.”

Kasey bit her lip. The treat required peeling and baking. Since half the sun had already cleared the hill, she could not finish them on time.

She tried to ignore her rumbling stomach as she peeled the apples. She added the honey and put them into the oven just before her laird entered the kitchen.

He scowled at her as she curtsied, then turned and smiled at the cook. “How fare thee this morn, Agatha?” He patted her bottom.

She giggled like a lass twenty summers younger. “I could be better, milord. It seems someone”—she glanced at Kasey—”be behind her time. The fare will be late agin.”

Kasey wished she could slap the disdain off the cook’s face, but feared the consequences.

The Cameron grabbed her plait, jerked back her head, and leaned down so they stood nose to nose. His rancid breath soured her stomach.

Despite the pain in her neck and scalp, she said naught and trained her gaze on his chin.

“I would think by now ye would ken the penance for sloth. Since yer return, ye have consumed fewer than half the meals ye have prepared.”

Kasey resisted the urge to gag as his spittle fell on her chin.

“This be yer last warning.”

“As ye wish, milord.” Though she dared not show it, she took pride in her steady voice.

He shoved her toward the table. She latched onto the edge while she dashed away the image of her mother’s head striking the mantel.

“Why dinna ye return to bed, Douglas? I shall serve ye anon.” Agatha winked.

He clutched the cook’s breast. “Bring fare for three.”

Kasey glanced at the woman, who had oftentimes eaten thrice her share. When Agatha had served as Lady Brietta’s maid, she had been sweet and helpful. Now she stationed herself on the padded chair next to the hearth and issued commands.

“Dinna ye have work to do?” Agatha pushed Kasey toward the oven.

Kenna cowered in the corner. Kasey smiled, hoping to reassure the child. She must have understood, for she blinked twice, straightened, and returned to slicing venison. Pretty, brown eyes in a sunken face, ribs poking through her threadbare kirtle. Whenever Agatha refused Kenna fare, Kasey fed her and gladly suffered the punishment for disobeying.

She removed the apples and served the meal. After her clansmen ate, she cleared the tables before again scrubbing the floors. Four and twenty men ate the morning meal, but they made the mess of a hundred pigs.

Afterward, she snatched up her buckets and hurried to the pond. She wished the unmarried soldiers would wed quickly, for the mountain of dirty tunics, trews, and plaids often stood higher than she. At least the laundresses did not expect her to scrub the garments.

She need only fill the tubs. The first few days her arms had burned hotter than the hearth, but she had since grown accustomed to the labor. And she no longer had to water the garden. When she emptied the tubs, she poured the leavings straight down the rows.

The sun approached its peak too soon. She ran back to the kitchens. Quiet reigned while she and Kenna prepared the nooning meal. Agatha sat on her perch, plying a needle. She stuck out her foot once as Kasey passed, but Kasey had expected mischief and stepped over it. She dammed her laughter at the disappointed look on Agatha’s face.

Despite their tardiness, they readied the nooning meal on time. After serving and clearing it, she again scrubbed the great hall’s floor. Twice the men attended the nooning meal, yet the mess did not double. Mayhap the warriors’ aim improved as the day wore on. Nay, judging from the increase in noise, their mouths must grow.

Before she prepared the evening’s feast, she attended the abovestairs. Her laird demanded clean bed linens daily in all the chambers, whether slept in or not. She had to scrub the floors and spread out fresh rushes each sennight. Thankfully, she had done that chore the previous day.

As she dusted her way from room to room, she wondered what tasks the scullery maids attended. She could ask no one save her laird, and that was out of the question. At least she did not have to empty the chamber pots. She could not stomach that chore.

She stopped outside the last door on the left and took a deep breath. She dreaded entering her mother’s chamber and laid her hand against the wood. Just as she cracked it open, a man shouted.

Not just any man, but her laird. Creaking floorboards sent her scurrying into the next room. She peeked into the corridor.

“Clean yerself well, my sweet. I shall return after a wee rest.”

With a smile on his face, her laird sauntered past. She could not remember the last time she had seen aught but a scowl. Mayhap later, if he remained in high spirits, she would ask him why the Camerons hated the Mackintoshes.

Nay, she would not. He would consider her question insolent, and she would suffer his wrath.

She slumped against the door. When had she become a coward?

Sobbing caught her ear. She peered into the corridor to make sure no one lingered, then crept toward her mother’s chamber where Evonne straightened the bodice of her kirtle. Tears trailed down her cheeks.

Kasey wrinkled her nose at the musky smell and noted the rumpled bed linens. “Evonne? Be ye ill?”

Her friend hugged herself as she backed up against the wall. Her flush deepened with each shake of her head. “Ye should not be here.”

“Ye should not be here. This be my mother’s chamber.”

“Yer mother be dead.”

The words stung like a slap, but naught would be gained by arguing with her last friend. “Tell me if ye be unwell.”

Evonne smiled weakly. “I be fine. Go afore someone sees us speaking.”

“I must clean the room.”

“I will tend the rest of the abovestairs. Please, Kasey, let me be.”

She longed to take her friend into her arms and soothe away her troubles. But if caught, both would suffer consequences. Whatever worried Evonne could not be as bad as a beating.

For the first time this day, Kasey was ahead of her time. She could not enjoy the spare moments, for she had a feeling they had cost her friend dearly, but she could put them to good use. Mayhap she and Kenna would not have to rush through the preparations for the evening meal—if Agatha kept to herself.

As the sun sank below the horizon, Kasey sat alone at the table savoring her first meal in nigh on two days. The scraps of pheasant had dried, the crusts of bread had staled, and the crumbs of cheese had hardened. Yet it tasted like the finest fare she had ever partaken. She wished she had the time to truly enjoy the food, but more chores awaited her.

She pushed her chair from the table and stumbled over the hem of her kirtle. Afore she retired this night she would have to take up the hem. Again.

Her vision grayed. Sad amber eyes appeared, then faded. The room darkened, dampened. At first she could see the shadow of her hand before her, but a force pulled her further in. Evil and despair blocked the distant candle’s light.

Her sight brightened, then blurred with tears. She snatched the last full pail, threw in the scrub brush, and stomped into the great hall. She was a fool. She shoved crumbs to the floor. Mackintoshes lie. She scoured the tables. Gratitude? Honor? They did not ken the meaning of the words.

She looked down. The men had dropped more food on the floor than she prepared for a nooning meal. She kicked the rushes aside and dropped to her knees.

Evonne’s earlier distress as well as the vision provoked her to scrub the oak until it splintered. Had her friend perceived her folly? Gavin would not come for Evonne any more than Hunter would claim Kasey. She seized the soiled rushes and thrust them into a wooden cask. Hunter could make a fool out of her, but she would not tolerate Gavin disappointing her friend.

Her tears returned. She let them fall with the fresh stems she scattered over the planks. She could do naught to avenge the lies. She and her friend could but accept their new life, for neither would see a Mackintosh again.

Though she felt like worn, wet linen, she could not rest. Tonight she had to make tapers. She crawled to her feet, snatched up the bucket, and toddled to the kitchens.

At least she could sit while making candles. Her other late night chores did not allow that luxury. Though she knelt while gardening and emptying the hearths, the tasks strained her back. She could not stir soap from a chair.