Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) (6 page)

A thin, ancient servant, drenched
as well just from crossing the yard, approached her. The steward, no doubt, she
decided. She glanced only briefly at his face, which was as gloomy and
inhospitable as the castle itself. With only a low, mumbled greeting, he took
her by the elbow, leading her across the yard and up the wooden stairs into the
Great Hall of the earl of Athol.

If Catherine had expected anything
of a greeting, the absolute lack of interest in her arrival stunned her. While
the servants at the hunting lodge at Corgarff had bustled about, making Ellen
Crawford and the rest of the travelers comfortable, here at Balvenie Castle not a hand was raised in welcome. Left standing inside the door of the Great
Hall, Catherine simply waited in vain for some sign--for any sign--of
hospitality.

The Great Hall itself was a fine,
old-fashioned chamber with some green and gold wall hangings and a number of
tapestries of French design covering the various walls. At the far end of the
hall, a huge hearth yawned behind a dais, and trestle tables and benches formed
a large square around the open center. Rushes covered the floor and a few old
dogs lay curled up in the corners and under benches. Aside from the tapestries,
the walls were adorned with the heads and antlers of a huge assortment of
animals, hanging alongside weapons she could not even identify.

But the oddest thing, Catherine
thought, listening to the water drip off of her clothes into the rushes at her
feet, was that there was not a soul in the hall. Though the fireplace was
prepared with great logs for a fire, no one had even bothered to light it. There
were no serving folk preparing for the night’s meal, no crofters or warriors
waiting to speak with the earl’s steward or administrators, no clerks busy at
the benches. The Great Hall of Balvenie Castle was cold and empty and silent.

For the first time today, Catherine
felt like crying. Feeling the chill of the Hall settling into her bones,
Catherine shuddered at the incredible sense of emptiness she was suddenly
feeling.

But the time for such sentiments
was short-lived, for a grunt from the steward brought her head around. Behind the thin old man a short, heavyset servant wearing an unceasingly perplexed look on his
face was carrying her travel chest and the rest of the meager possessions she’d
brought along.

“Have you no serving woman coming
along to wait on you?”

“Nay, but I can look after myself.”

“We’ll just see about that,” the
steward grumbled, starting toward the arched entry into a round stair tower,
his porter on his heels. “This way.”

Seeing no purpose in objecting--the
Great Hall certainly offered no comforts--Catherine silently followed the two
men up the stone steps. The dark, narrow corridor that greeted them on the next
floor was hardly a surprise. It was as dismal as what she’d seen below.

Catherine followed them past a
number of oak, ironbound doors that she assumed must lead to the quarters of
the earl and his family. At the far end of the corridor, the two men turned
into a seemingly endless gallery that she assumed must be above the kitchens
and the brewhouse. Finally, they reached another narrower corridor, and the two
men turned into an open door. Catherine stopped and backed up to allow an old
woman carrying a basket half full of firewood to step out first. The serving
woman’s bleary eyes traveled up and down as she appraised Catherine’s wet and
disheveled condition. Finally, the old woman simply shook her head and,
clucking like an old hen, disappeared along the semidarkness of the corridor.

Catherine looked down and ran a
hand over her wet skirts. Soaked and covered with mud, she was a sorry sight
indeed.

“Jean, one of the serving lasses,
will be up to see to your needs.”

Catherine looked up and met the
steward’s cool gaze. The other man had already wordlessly dumped her things
inside the room and was heading back down the hall in the direction that they’d
come.

“And Mistress Susan sends word
she’ll be coming to see you, as well, before supper.”

Catherine simply nodded. She was
cold, tired, and miserable. But clearly, that meant nothing to this
dismal-looking man who was very plainly disappointed with his master’s choice
in a wife. His face still creased in a frown, the steward finally turned to go.

Catherine waited until the steward
disappeared down the hall before stepping toward her chamber. Obviously, now
that he had her inside the castle’s curtain walls, the earl of Athol had little
fear of her escaping. There were no guards posted in the corridor. No bar or
lock on the door. Apparently, she was free to roam the keep.

As she looked up and down the
corridor, the absolute stillness of the place only added to the chill that had
settled into her bones. Resisting the urge to fight against anything and
everything she was expected to do, Catherine forced herself across the
threshold of the small chamber.

Her time would come, she reminded
herself. Catherine pushed the door shut behind her and leaned heavily against
it as she gazed about the room. Well, she thought with a sigh of relief, at
least they hadn’t put her in
his
chamber.

A tiny, new-lit fire flickered in a
low, narrow hearth, and the room was still cold and damp. The wooden shutter on
the window would surely do nothing to keep out the wet, whistling wind. The
plastered walls of the small chamber were free of any hangings, and the simple,
narrow bed lacked a canopy or any curtain that might add even the slightest
refinement or comfort to the sparsely furnished room. Catherine let her eyes
take an inventory of all that surrounded her. Other than the bed, a small chest
and a single stool were the only other pieces of furniture.

But she was used to this, she
thought, pushing herself away from the door and walking toward her belongings
by the fire. The years of happiness and comfort she’d been blessed with for
nearly all of her childhood had abruptly ended when her father had been branded
a traitor to his king. Living the life of a fugitive with her sisters and her
mother, Catherine had learned long ago how to make do with what she had--and to
seek happiness in her dreams. Dreams of a better future. And in dreams and
plans of teaching all she’d learned in a school of her own.

The soft tap on the door was
followed by the unceremonious entry of a young serving woman. Jean, no doubt.
Catherine realized suddenly that she was still standing about in her wet
traveling clothes. But watching the young woman cross the room carrying a large
two handled ewer gave Catherine a dim hope of warm water to wash away some of
the grime of her travels.

“Mistress Susan said ye might be
needing this.”

“I’m obliged to you.”

As the servant placed the ewer on
the stool with an odd glance in her direction, Catherine considered the so far
faceless Mistress Susan. This was the second time her name had come up since
she had arrived at Balvenie Castle. Other than the earl’s name, the only other
information she’d been able to gather about the family had come from Ellen
Crawford, and no mention had been made of a Susan.

Nonetheless, the earl’s former
intended had been quite outspoken in expressing her disappointment with Lady Anne Stewart, the dowager Countess Balvenie. From the way Ellen had described her, Catherine’s
impression was that the earl’s mother was a sickly and yet personally
overpowering woman who still very much controlled Balvenie Castle and, for that matter, her son as well.

“Also, mistress said to tell ye
that Lady Anne takes an early supper in her chambers, of course. So it’d be
best for all if ye’d clean up as quick as ye can and be ready to pay the
countess a visit before she calls for her food to be served.”

“Very well,” Catherine responded
quietly. She was not about to return the servant’s snappish tone. Then, as she
undid the tie of her soaked traveling cloak, the serving woman reluctantly
crossed the chamber to take the heavy garment off her shoulder.

“You are Jean, I take it.”

“I am,” she replied, eyeing with
overt surprise the plain, unembroidered, dark wool dress that Catherine was
wearing beneath her cloak. As the servant stood waiting, Catherine noticed the
questioning look on her face.  A frown quickly replaced the look. “If ye step
out of the dress, I’ll take that to the kitchens, as well, for washing.”

“I am very grateful for your
kindness.” Catherine leaned down and opened her travel chest, taking out a
clean shift, a blouse, and the only other dress she had in her possession--a
modest, well-made woolen garment of deep blue. Walking quickly to the ewer of
water on the stool, she looked hesitantly around for a cloth of some sort to
wash herself. Realizing what Catherine needed, Jean promptly dropped the cloak
in her hand on the rush-covered floor and opened the single chest in the room.

By the time she’d stepped out of
her dress and removed her boots, Catherine’s teeth were chattering. Standing in
her chemise as Jean rummaged through the chest, she realized that even her
undergarment was soaked and covered with mud to her knees.

“Most of the household still
doesn’t know yet, mistress, but I was told by Mistress Susan that ye are the
master’s new bride.”

Catherine accepted the cloth out of
the younger woman’s hand. Gritting her teeth and dipping the linen into the
cold water in the ewer, she fought back the urge to deny it. Like it or
not--for the time being, anyway--she was his wife.

“I do not know why the men are so
slow to bring up your things, m’lady.”

Catherine hurriedly ran the cloth
over her face and her skin, trying to get as much of the grime as she could.
“Everything I have is already here, Jean.”

A cloud of confusion again darkened
the woman’s eyes. “But we were told--”

“I am Catherine Percy.”

The name evoked no glimmer of
recognition in Jean’s face.

“Before your master...took me as
his wife, I was to work with the good fathers at Elgin Cathedral. To start a
school here.”

Slowly the look of confusion was
replaced by one of panic. The woman’s hand suddenly flew to her mouth. “By the saints, mistress, I do not think...why, Mistress Susan...and Lady Anne...”

The young maid’s eyes suddenly
cleared--perhaps at the vision of Catherine’s blue lips--and she hurriedly
moved to the fire, stacking more pieces of wood on the growing flames and
racing back to her.

“Mistress, you’ll catch your death
in that wet shift. Here--out of that thing and let me get you dry!”

Catherine was too cold to argue.
So, nodding obediently, she quickly pulled off the wet garment. A moment later,
dry at last, she appreciatively accepted the soft blanket that Jean had yanked
from the chest and was wrapping around her.

“Sit by the fire a wee bit,
m’lady,” Jean said, moving the stool closer to the fire and placing the ewer on
the floor. “Ye’ll warm up in no time.”

Settling before the hearth,
Catherine watched the maid moving about the chamber, taking her few possessions
out of her bag and airing them on the bed. There was an attentiveness that
bordered on concern in Jean’s manner now, and it was an attitude that had
certainly been absent before.

Clearly, Catherine realized, her
new husband had not even bothered to inform his household as to the identity of
his new wife. But it was also interesting how greatly, and how openly these
people were prepared to dislike her, thinking she was Ellen Crawford.

“I’ll be back to dress ye in a
wink, mistress. I need to be running along for just a moment...to tell Mistress
Susan about...about...supper.”

“Thank you, Jean. I can manage to
dress myself, if you have other duties.” The serving lass wanted to warn her
mistress about the mix-up; Catherine could understand that perfectly. But then, as the young woman leaned down to pick up the soiled clothes, a question popped into
Catherine’s head, and she asked it before Jean could escape. “About your
Mistress Susan. Is she...I mean, does she run the household?”

“Aye, mistress, that she does.
Since Lady Anne has taken to her bed, Mistress Susan has taken charge of the
castle.” Jean lowered her voice to a whisper.  “And I do not mind telling ye
that she does a fine job of it, too. The serving folk are much happier taking
directions from her. She’s a great deal easier than Lady Anne and her tantrums.
But then, she came up to Balvenie Castle to do just this sort of thing. My
understanding is that she was trained for it from the time she was a wee lass.”

“So Mistress Susan hasn’t been
living at Balvenie Castle all her life?”

“Nay, mistress. She only came here
last summer, before the harvest. She was brought up here by the countess
herself...to marry the master!”

*****

The sun had only been winning its
struggle with the rain clouds for about an hour when the burly, bristle-bearded
miller led Athol and Tosh along the Kettles Brook. Behind them, where the broad
creek tumbled into the Spey at the village of Rothes, the rest of the earl’s
men waited, happy for an hour’s respite from a day of hard, wet riding.

“I know where my old man likes to
fish, m’lord,” the miller tossed over one broad shoulder. “We’re not far, now.”

Athol frowned and stared at the
man’s bald head, shining and beaded with sweat from the walk. Hopefully, the
miller’s father would have more information to share than the others he’d
spoken with. They’d offered little enough.

The ancient, wizened little priest
and his equally aged housekeeper at the village of Knockandhu had been more
than happy to sit before a morning fire and share with Athol their memories of
his father. With a gentleness and diplomacy that would have shocked those who
knew him well, though, he’d finally gotten them down to business. Aye, the earl
had spent a great deal of time, in the old days, at the little hunting lodge
he’d kept there. They both recalled the hunting parties with Duncan, the laird
of Ironcross Castle, and his family as well, joining in the festivities. Aye,
the earl was a lusty, great-hearted man, that they agreed on wholeheartedly. But when it came to the rumors of the laird keeping a mistress there, they’d been vehement in
their response. Nay, he’d kept no mistresses at Knockandhu. The earl was not
that kind of man.