The Way of the Righteous

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

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Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.

But his delight is in the law of the LORD; and in his law doth he meditate day and night.

And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

The ungodly are not so: but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.

Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.

For the LORD knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish.

- Psalms 1, Holy Bible, King James Version


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[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Rosalind's days were the timeless grace of a life extended beyond its intended short course. Seasons came and went. Summers reached out into long twilights, radiant with her children playing along the perfect crescent stony beach, punctuated by her husband's frequent laughter and Sax's noisy barking. Many had sought entry to Inveryne's life, but few had gained it. Even trusted confidants remained in Turas Lan, once invited for dinner, but eventually shown the door. Rosalind guarded this life as she had once defended Inveryne. Those very few who knew her suspected standing upon the battlements in borrowed armor was not out of the question. They were right. Though it was difficult to see the woman who had once taken to the battlefield twice in borrowed mail in the creature that occupied the land gifted to her in service to the Griffin three years ago.

Age would never work against Rosalind, but she was no girl. Time had balanced the often strict Norman features of her face; her life had given them wisdom. There had not been many years of laughter to put such lines upon Rosalind's mouth, but there had not been so many of tragedy to put them upon her brow. Fair-skinned even at the height of summer, too willowy to ever find even the cattiest courtier branding her anything more than lithe despite their hearty country diet, she remained the paragon of Northern European beauty. Rice powder was en vogue in court, though in summer, glowing cheeks and unbound hair prevailed. Inveryne did not mean to set the fashions, but she was consistent. Through all the war and strife, few had remained as constant as the Lady Lamont. They had once named her a Jezebel, but none had held such a firm grip over so many fractured souls as Lady Mary's former ally and sister. Once a pawn, and now with her own hand upon the pieces, Rosalind had come so very far from her first days of waning winter light chasing her through ghostly trees as the boar, and her then-husband, chased her to her doom.

She thought about Fearghus upon occasion. Not frequently since she ceased her use of opium, a habit formed in the wake of an unsuccessful surgery many years ago that had saved her life, but made disaster of a leg mangled under the weight of a cart wheel. She thought of his lover, as mistress was too harsh a word. There were days when the sun's light drifted upon the wheat, and she believed it to be the same shade as Gwen's hair had been, the night Fearghus's beloved tended to Fearghus's wife. Life had its dramatic events, Rosalind thought. But it was so much broader, so much grander, under illumination of its subtle variations. There was room for faith when, under even Rosalind's admittedly cynical gaze, such spirits as Gwen's persisted. She did not wonder what had become of Gwen, but she did hope whatever fate had found her, had been kind. Rosalind was not known for counting her blessings, but she did. She had once had so few of them she thanked her maker every day that they were now too bountiful to count.

Fearghus did not have a grave. It made Rosalind wonder if he rested easily. For many months, she had believed not. The matter of the French gold had settled her on that issue, until days bled into weeks and weeks into months without sighting of her once husband. Now only Domhnall walked at unease, one of those spirits the superstitious Scots surrounding her had at last convinced her yet walked abroad. Rosalind closed the doors on the proper days and attended Mass, even if it was at the small chapel she maintained in the woods, for the seasons she spent at home rather than at court. She prayed for all of her husbands. Peregrine, of course, received the most. She liked to concentrate upon the living, though she had a more than healthy respect for the dead.

Peregrine alone would keep her upon her knees in the chapel for long hours, her thumb growing numb as the rosary beads slipped past. He had not given her laughter, but he had seen her pick up her son, and know true joy despite the ties that bound her. She could have asked at any moment to be freed, but for the sake of hundreds of strangers who believed her a whore, she would sacrifice her life, and barricade Aldric from the demons at the door. Equality had been found, but not without struggle, and if the Inverynes seemed an odd match, they had but look no further than Apollonia to see the best in each was the best in their child, and the security of a land that had not known much while those of legitimate Lamont blood lived and breathed.

She had just emerged from the chapel when she caught sight of a strange sight upon her land, though he was hardly a stranger. With her hair in a pair of functional braids, and her dress no more elaborate than any of the girls that came to Inveryne to keep the house running under its lady's tutelage, she wasn't prepared to receive guests. Neither was she prepared to receive what Colban was -- somewhere between family and regret, a love who had become too distant over time, but near enough to never be forgotten.

"It is unusual for you to be so far out in the woods," she greeted him, stepping down from the worn stone platform elevating the chapel. A chilly wind rustled leaves turning pale, but not yet gold, with the coming end of summer. His blond hair did not seem at odds with the surroundings, but Colban himself always seemed out of place unless dominated entirely by the awesome power of nature. Upon the hills and braes, he was as small as any mortal. As the leaves shifted silver and yellow-green -- a sign rain was nigh -- he did not seem quite so large until she stood before him. Long ago had she learned to stand just far enough that her neck did not tire from the mere act of meeting his gaze, though never in their shared youth had Rosalind looked at him as she did now, fierce in her independence, an early gold leaf stuck in one of her thick brown plaits, as wildly Scot as any of his ancestors.

"I had news to bring you," he said, holding out his arm. He thought she would refuse, and things would be as they always were between them. At least, as they had been since she changed the rules on him seven years ago, and told him she could not marry him though she carried his babe. But perhaps, despite the coldness of her jaw and the inexplicable sense of the feral glinting in her Norman eyes, she had reconciled herself to civility and would allow Colban to be a gentleman this day. The weight of her arm was surprisingly light as she laid it upon his, the unusual ring her husband had given her at odds with the season, though not the fairness of Rosalind's alabaster skin. He missed the feel of that skin. She scented it with roses. Or had, in those months of blissful unreality in which she had stayed a guest of Lanark.

Memory threaded between them as they walked, as devoid of weight as the tiny birch leaves swirling up between their bodies as they walked. Rosalind's berry-red skirts and the Spanish leather of Colban's boots, once a gift from Rosalind, now so worn in, they seemed as natural to Colban as the blue of his eyes. "He is here, isn't he."

Rosalind stopped as the breeze turned into a cold wind. The leaves no longer swirled, but whipped in a wide vortex around them, as Rosalind drew herself to face her childhood friend, and once ally. She grabbed his arm as if to prevent herself from falling, but if Colban were wise, he would never admit to seeing her knuckles turn whiter than usual. She had not worn this mask in so long, its cracks were visible. He wished to smooth them down with his thumb, as he once had. He wished, very much, to melt stone within his strong arms. To love Rosalind, however, was to admit she would always leave her loved ones impotent to help. She could navigate the waters of Scotland far more gracefully than any Scot; not because her birth made her naturally better, but because of her profound love of this land, its people, and her own role within it. Though Colban's love of Rosalind had not waned over the years, it had changed. He was not one to be made impotent by anyone, much less the unblemished mother of his child. Rosalind would not be allowed to take her traditional approach of engaging Neil upon her own. Neil was his brother. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rosalind was quicker.

"I am going to kill him, Colban," she said, with as much warmth as the sound of the leaves skittering past them. "I am going to feel his blood warm upon my fingers. Are you prepared to bury another of your siblings?"

"I am," he said, sinking into temptation with a gentle, large hand to her cheek, and further yet with a kiss to her soft, but unyielding lips. She'd once hit him for catching her at unawares, for taking such liberty with her person when she had suffered Fearghus without recourse. Now, she merely set him back with a hand to his shoulder, and a brief, pained shake of her head. "Kendrew will take him first, if he hears of my brother's travels. I thought you should know."

His voice sounded strange to her. Had she heard it before? That note, it had sounded in the dungeon of Lanark, in the darkest hour, when she had spurned his advice. He had known she would, or he had not know her at all. He had prophesied of hell. Though he had let her go alone into the depths, he would have carried her, had her pride allowed. These men in her life, they were too noble. They were too kind. They saw a saint when she knew herself to be a sinner. In loving her, they made of her Rosalind's worst fears. Though her stomach felt weak, she stood erect, with the father of her boy standing tall in her vision. "Ne pas abandonner un frère pour l'autre," she said so very softly, observing the pain that crinkled Colban's loving blue eyes. "This never happened. You were never here. You would be surprised to know how easily you were never here."

"Suppose I was not," Colban agreed after a short eternity. He was the first to look away, but it came as a surprise to neither of them. He did not say goodbye, but took his leave into the trees, forgoing the path for the sake of the wilderness. It seemed a mercy to him after Rosalind's raw power, though he knew she would stand upon that path for a very long time, pretending to be a statue when she had always been, for better or for worse, a force of nature.

Neil Campbell's days were numbered.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

There were dangers that lurked in the valley, but none so frightening as Neil Campbell. Yet relationships were delicate things, requiring the lightest of nudges, and if any excelled in the diplomacy that brought the resurrected Lamonts to the greatest position of prominence in centuries, it was the Frenchwoman who called herself Lamont. Her children were not of Lamont heritage, and her accent, despite her years under northern skies, retained a distinct sense of otherness. These Scots were suspicious, but those who had sworn loyalty to Rosalind and her son in those uncertain days after Fearghus's death, were certainly not fools. They had suffered, and suffered long. A leader with as many failings as Inveryne was still better than none. Time, and time alone, had brought Rosalind to a position of respect.

He dwelt, for now, under the auspices of the Cistercians. There were others from Lochawe staying in those humble halls, and in the absence of the brothers' speech, their Scottish voices were a welcome joy to a land emptied. Rosalind herself thought it a delightful irony that Neil had chosen this place, of all, to set up his residence as he moved his household to Skye for the winter. Far from a joyful man, he was stubborn and casually cruel, and if any could make the valley's recent deadly history bend to his will, it was a man fittingly called the Black Campbell.

She met him in the kitchen gardens, one of the few places that enjoyed relative privacy. Her own men lingered in the halls, troubling the monks for food. When they found there was no meat to be consumed, they settled into positions of observation. Neil was the sort who aged well -- if he was not particularly handsome, he had the sheer force of physical presence to remind others of his place of power. His hair was still black as night, though it had retreated a bit up his scalp. He was a bit more rotund, but he had always carried about a little extra weight. He was not as tall in person as others thought him to be, and he and Rosalind nearly saw eye to eye as they greeted one another. He was Colban's eldest brother, the only surviving member of Colban's family, but the two men seemed as distantly related as dogs and cats.

"This is certainly unexpected," Neil said, sitting back down upon his bench. He smiled benignly; it vanished when Rosalind failed to return the gesture. "What might I do for you, Inveryne?"

"Leave," Rosalind said shortly. He raised his eyebrows and seemed ready to give fight, but Rosalind quirked half a smile and raised her hand for him to stop. "Leave the valley. It is unsafe here. The brothers remain out of hospitality toward your household, but they would not continue to endanger themselves if you took up safer residency."

"We live in dangerous times, Inveryne," Neil said, rising to his feet again. The garden was empty, few plants surviving the harsh autumn weather, even under the most vigilant care of the brothers. "There is as much danger here as anywhere else in the world. People die. It is in God's hands."

"It is possible to delay the inevitable," Rosalind said dryly, taking the arm he offered and walking slowly at his side as they wound their way through the garden paths. He wore an excess of clothing, as did she. They were both warm, bristling, careful to make no more contact than was absolutely necessary, though they were by the broadest of definitions, family. Old hurts ached in Rosalind's heart, but had scarred over so thoroughly, individual episodes were lost in the greater memory of having been injured. Neil, he was always the victor. What wounds did he carry, what battle scars did he ponder when he saw his great, fleshy body naked? "For yourself. For them."

"I will bide here, unless you offer your home to me." Neil looked at her with startling frankness, pausing in his steps and turning her to face him, both hands grasping her shoulders and holding her still. "I'd sooner see you an ally," he lowered his eyes, but there was very little to see under the heavy garments Rosalind wore, and then rested them back upon her face. "Perhaps I was insensitive in making an offer for Aldric, but there are children about his age, and I would be proud to cement our blood relationship. He is a Campbell, and should know his kin. But -- " he held up a finger to silence her, giving his head a slight shake, "I did not come here for that, and neither did you."

"You have bastards about his age," Rosalind clarified, shaking her other arm free. "Step back, Neil, you offend my space." She was quiet for a moment, as if realizing how abrupt her words had been.

"You mother him too much," Neil responded, taking a slight step back.

"The least of my crimes, to be certain." She gazed around the garden before settling upon him again. A very fine flurry of snow, nearly invisible in the gray daylight, began to swirl around them. "I would like to be allies. Let us take it under consideration. Oh, and before I attend to my meeting with His Grace, I left a few packages in the kitchen for your people to prepare. A bit of venison and some cheeses -- while I myself have never found solace in reserving my personal protection in the Lord, I had a feeling that you might hold a bit more faith than I in these things. You may, however, wish to ask your men whether they would be happy wintering in a monastery where no meat but that from a Lamont's bow is placed to table."

"And I assume you will not be trapping game when you are hip-deep in snow," Neil responded mildly, but a smile lingered on his lips.

"No, likely not." She inclined her head politely and departed, feeling something release in her chest, but not entirely. She wished to see Neil dead. Before he could harm another, or cause her to trip into another scheme, he would die by her hand. She was not certain yet how this would happen, but had already prepared her soul for the eventuality. Meurig would help her sort it out, though she hoped he was actually far too busy these days to help sort through her moral ambiguities. He deserved all his rewards, and she hoped, of all of them, Meurig was happy with his lot. He seemed the least likely able to change it, and certainly not with the tools Rosalind pondered employing.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

This thread to be continued in A Court in Winter.