Lamont Restored

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

_______________________________

Then one of the judges of the city stood forth and said, "Speak to us of Crime and Punishment."

And he answered saying:

It is when your spirit goes wandering upon the wind,

That you, alone and unguarded, commit a wrong unto others and therefore unto yourself.

And for that wrong committed must you knock and wait a while unheeded at the gate of the blessed.

Like the ocean is your god-self;

It remains for ever undefiled.

And like the ether it lifts but the winged.

Even like the sun is your god-self;

It knows not the ways of the mole nor seeks it the holes of the serpent.

But your god-self does not dwell alone in your being.

Much in you is still man, and much in you is not yet man,

But a shapeless pigmy that walks asleep in the mist searching for its own awakening.

And of the man in you would I now speak.

For it is he and not your god-self nor the pigmy in the mist, that knows crime and the punishment of crime.

Oftentimes have I heard you speak of one who commits a wrong as though he were not one of you, but a stranger unto you and an intruder upon your world.

But I say that even as the holy and the righteous cannot rise beyond the highest which is in each one of you,

So the wicked and the weak cannot fall lower than the lowest which is in you also.

And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree,

So the wrong-doer cannot do wrong without the hidden will of you all.

Like a procession you walk together towards your god-self.

You are the way and the wayfarers.

And when one of you falls down he falls for those behind him, a caution against the stumbling stone.

Ay, and he falls for those ahead of him, who though faster and surer of foot, yet removed not the stumbling stone.

And this also, though the word lie heavy upon your hearts:

The murdered is not unaccountable for his own murder,

And the robbed is not blameless in being robbed.

The righteous is not innocent of the deeds of the wicked,

And the white-handed is not clean in the doings of the felon.

Yea, the guilty is oftentimes the victim of the injured,

And still more often the condemned is the burden-bearer for the guiltless and unblamed.

You cannot separate the just from the unjust and the good from the wicked;

For they stand together before the face of the sun even as the black thread and the white are woven together.

And when the black thread breaks, the weaver shall look into the whole cloth, and he shall examine the loom also.

If any of you would bring judgment the unfaithful wife,

Let him also weight the heart of her husband in scales, and measure his soul with measurements.

And let him who would lash the offender look unto the spirit of the offended.

And if any of you would punish in the name of righteousness and lay the ax unto the evil tree, let him see to its roots;

And verily he will find the roots of the good and the bad, the fruitful and the fruitless, all entwined together in the silent heart of the earth.

And you judges who would be just,

What judgment pronounce you upon him who though honest in the flesh yet is a thief in spirit?

What penalty lay you upon him who slays in the flesh yet is himself slain in the spirit?

And how prosecute you him who in action is a deceiver and an oppressor,

Yet who also is aggrieved and outraged?

And how shall you punish those whose remorse is already greater than their misdeeds?

Is not remorse the justice which is administered by that very law which you would fain serve?

Yet you cannot lay remorse upon the innocent nor lift it from the heart of the guilty.

Unbidden shall it call in the night, that men may wake and gaze upon themselves.

And you who would understand justice, how shall you unless you look upon all deeds in the fullness of light?

Only then shall you know that the erect and the fallen are but one man standing in twilight between the night of his pigmy-self and the day of his god-self,

And that the corner-stone of the temple is not higher than the lowest stone in its foundation.

- From "Crime and Punishment, Chapter XII," Khalil Gibran

_______________________________

[/color]

[/size]

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

It was not yet late in the season, but the fields had been ploughed, and broken grain made skeletal reminders of winter's coming presence. Fallow, half-frozen fields made for easy riding, barely yielding beneath the skittish mare's dainty hooves. Overhead, the sky was the familiar leaden gray of a Scottish September, and whistling across the hills was a chilly, sea-scented wind undeterred by the handful of miles separating the frigid northern seas. The Firth of Lorn was a singularly beautiful place; even in its death throes, it enchanted with unexpected groves of green firs and pools of clear glacial water. Its moody landscape lent itself well to stories of horror and exile.

Screams rent the cool autumn air. A distinguishing ear could hear the shrill cries of an enraged boar; closer, the whinnying of a terrified horse. The horse flew up onto hind legs, more than threatening to shake its female rider loose that it might bolt freely over the fields and away from those dangerous tusks. The dye of the woman's cloak was a clear and deep blue, but against Scotland's dismal browns, yellows, and dark greens, she blended easily into the forest looming above her. She wrapped her hands into the mare's gray mane and clung on with fierce strength. She did not pray for rescue. None would come.

They were off like a shot, horse and rider, and who had gained control was impossible to tell. By the horse's frightened grin, and the woman's look of steely determination, perhaps it was both. The boar burst through the trees in a spray of leaves and twigs, immediately giving chase to the horse and barreling in its wake, corralling it back into the forest and away from the safety of the open field. Blind with terror, the horse charged headlong across fallen logs, thick brush, scraping its rider against trees and low-hanging branches.

And just as suddenly, the chase ended. The horse reared again just in time to avoid the trap ahead. The boar had no such luck, and ran screaming through the brush ahead, the feral cries truncated within two brutal seconds. The rider swung uneasily down from the saddle. She was clearly shaken, her face pale and hands clenched, but took not even a second for herself. Through the shrubs ahead, a deep and unforgiving ravine trapped the now dying boar, whose feeble screams of pain were the only sounds in the silenced forest. Rosalind crept down the side of the ravine, her boots slipping along loose soil, hands clenching at roots and rocks. With slight trepidation, she approached the beast with her outdrawn knife. Hesitating no more, she thrust the blade into the boar's neck so quickly, the beast had no chance of protest. Blood splashed along the rocks, gushing over Rosalind's sleeves, drenching her arms to the elbows.

She had very little time to contemplate the victory of the hunted over the hunter, for other games were afoot in this primordial forest. She shoved the knife back into its sheath and took off along the ravine. She forced herself to slow her pace. The goal was not, after all, to leave the forest, but to find sanctuary. Such sanctuary was met minutes later as they emerged from the ravine walls, so perfectly blending into their surroundings in shades of brown and green that had Rosalind not been searching for them, they would not have been found. They looked like huntsmen, but the low voices held no traces of a Scottish accent. They threw a tattered brown cloak over Rosalind's shoulders, and wasting no time, hurried her along the ravine to their temporary camp. In a damp mud cave they placed the Lady Inveryne, and within five minutes, had sealed the entry with heavy brush cemented with thick river mud.

The cave was cold, dark, and filled with a layer of water thick with mud. Perhaps the tinkers used the cave to keep milk and cheese cold in the summer; it was now so cold, had there been daylight at all, her breath would be easily visible. The ceiling was just low enough that standing was impossible; the far wall was just near enough that she could put a hand to the brush in front and the sod behind. But at least, she noted with grim satisfaction, the cave was too cold for insects or any of the dead boar's friends. She was safe, and for the moment, safety trumped comfort. For the first time since the hunt began that dawn, she considered the emotions that had been building in her heart. But now was not the time to indulge in tears, even if she were given shedding them.

The hours passed with no sense to time. It alternately dragged and raced along, her heart beating with dread and anticipation alike. Yet when it was time, the brush fell away, revealing a dark and overcast night. The man's face was invisible in the dark, but his voice was recognizable. This was a man who had taken Inveryne's scrap metal and in turn, sold the keep both information and cookware for a decent price. He was loyal to the lady, and though she could not pay them now for services rendered, he had been in her service long enough that payment for this task was not necessary. "They believe you dead," he said in his thick, musical accent. "Blood on the ground, but no body. Be ware the road, my lady. I do not trust anything these days."

"Nor do I," she agreed. His silence was that of a man who rarely spoke, but when he did, it was usually of great import. It was a bass voice that could boom over the mountains and lochs, but was quite content in a whispered rumble not meant to rise above the edge of the ravine.

"Hamish MacErcher will take you in this night, but he has no horse to spare." She could plainly hear the sorrow in the tinker's voice. A horse would have carried Lady Inveryne to freedom, but the crofters were not rich. Lamont lands were in a sorry state even while its men gathered to wage war on lost causes.

"Then I will walk," she said, forcing cheer into her voice. After a soft farewell, he melded back into the shadows, and Rosalind was alone again. The clan seat of Lamont was in Toward. What remained of her wealthiest properties, specifically Inveryne, was some distance to the south. But if the tinker was correct, and Lamont did not yet mourn the loss of Lady Inveryne, she could not choose her most obvious sanctuary. East it was, skirting lands dominated by Campbell until she was safely away from the warring clans, that she might then travel south and to the nearest port. She would rest herself on the first ship bound for Skye. And when she was ready, she would put these ghosts of Lamont to rest. How, and when, occupied her mind as she climbed out of the ravine, and carefully made her way through the outstretched fingers of forest toward a tiny hut, inconspicuously dark on this cold night and indistinguishable from the shadows save a scrap of bleached linen tied to a post in the yard.

She removed the piece of cloth and made her way to the front door. She did not need to knock; they had been waiting for her since nightfall, and welcomed their lady with a bowl of hot porridge and a tankard of ale. All she could give in return was the linen, and when she had eaten her fill, fell fast asleep before the fire.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

(reposted for the sake of continuity)

Rosalind did not know these roads specifically, but she knew the men that walked them. It was not safe for a lone woman at any time of day, be she Campbell or Lamont, English or Scot, highborn or low. She kept off the roads as much as she could, but if Scotland's brush prevented her pursuers from capturing her, it made for extremely slow going. After a while, she broke free of the forest and picked her way through fields prepared for winter. The second haying finished, and nothing but sweeping pastureland available to the sheep and cattle beyond the sparse farms, it was a long road to go before she reached safety. She looked like any other displaced villager. Her hair had long since fallen from order into chaos, and though her dress was a finely-dyed shade of emerald, its quality was no longer visible beneath nearly a week's worth of dirt and mud. What possessions she had left Aberdeen with were gone. Lack of sleep, proper nutrition, and the look of the hunted had transformed her aquiline beauty into something more feral. To add to the look of the wild woman, blood stained the sleeves of her dress up to the elbows, and in her right hand, she held what looked to be the leg of a chair.

She was an utter realist in assessing her situation. The Lady Inveryne had no friends in these parts, even among the Campbells she had served for the past four years. Every person walking along the roadways, every voice she heard from her hiding places in the brambles, every sign of human habitation was a direct threat to her life. Rather than make her cold, the very desperation in her situation heated her blood. The nearness of her enemies only added fuel to the flames licking at her heart.

Yet as Rosalind had learned time and time again, determination did not make for success. Her Lamont kidnappers would pursue her west, so she went south toward Ayr. Though she pushed herself hard, she did not make any meaningful progress. Unable to enter villages for food, shelter, or clothing, she half-froze at night in abandoned shepherds' huts and stole eggs from hen houses, sheer stubbornness prevailing over the logical answer that she would never outrun her clansmen. And so it was with great anger, but very little surprise, that Rosalind found herself surrounded on the seventh day of her escape, facing far more weapons than absolutely necessary to detain one woman. She ran one hand through her hair and squared her shoulders, hardly realizing that far from cleaning herself up before the Highlanders surrounding her, it gave her the appearance of a territorial bird flaring its feathers against an unwelcome intruder. The piece of wood in her hand, held like a club, only made her image all the more ridiculous.

"Lower yer weapon, lass," one of the men ordered. Rosalind's fingers gripped the chair leg more firmly, until her knuckles blazed white. "We've no time for this, lady. Lower your weapon or we'll lower it for you." The words turned from broad Scots to French, though the tone of voice did not lessen in severity. Heaving a sigh, Rosalind threw down the chair leg. She even stood still as one of the footmen pulled her arms behind her back and bound her wrists with a spare leather strap. "I dinna make a habit of slaughtering defenseless women on the roadside, woman."

Rosalind could not help the brief note of derision that escaped her lips. The clansman laughed and shook his head, the sudden noise startling his skittish, war-trained horse. "Nor in private, either, but that is to my lordship's discretion. He waits for you in Lanark."

"Lanark?" she asked. For the first time in weeks, she was genuinely surprised. The Lamonts had apparently overshot their quarry. She could not understand why Fearghus Lamont had moved away from his target. With the Campbells distracted by battle, Inveryne was free for the taking. She frowned, but her thoughts were interrupted as her captors drew her upwards into a saddle.

"Aye, lady. There's mischief afoot in the south, and we ride to meet it. I willna ask how you parted company wi' Lamont, but his men have been sighted near Dumfries. Colban Campbell thought it safer to hide ye well away from the action."

Were it not for the strong arms around her, Rosalind would have fallen right out of her saddle. As it was, she stayed perfectly upright. It took her a moment to find her voice again. By that time, the order to press on to Lanark had been issued, and she now spoke over the crunch of hooves on loose dirt, and the clatter of men reorganizing themselves for the march south. "Ask me no questions, and I will have no cause to lie." Her words were simple and direct, and while they begged no questions except in the most foolhardy of souls, were said politely enough. "But I do thank you, my lord, for sparing my life this day."

"It would be no fun task for my men, to kill and bury a defenseless woman before battle. Time enough later for that."

"You are a most excellent captain," Rosalind said, attempting sincerity. Fortunately, her Campbell rescuer understood the intent of her words, even if the delivery was over-wry. He smiled, inclined his head politely, and rode on ahead of the troop. As they rode on to Lanark, her heart began to rejoice. Her time since leaving Aberdeen had been miserable. Perhaps luck had found her again, and just in the nick of time.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

(reposted for continuity)

Lanark served as one of the newer Norman settlements established over one hundred years earlier. Arranged much as Beauquesne was, with a centralized marketplace and a motte and bailey castle distinguishing Lanark from the dozen or so other nearby settlements that had been found lacking in King David's purpose. The wooden castle of Lanark became their destination, where the Bruce's banners stuttered in the autumn wind alongside those of Clan Campbell. Rosalind wondered why the Bruce's banners were flying. He surely was not in residence.

The bustling town seemed energized anew with the arrival of the Campbell troop. Hawkers cried their wares with more vigor, maids hurried by out of sight, doors and windows flung open to entice the clansmen indoors. Autumn was the perfect time to visit the market of Lanark. The city's streets were cool enough to hide the stink of a settlement without adequate drainage, and warm enough that one might stand up in a Scottish wind without losing fingers and toes to the cold in the effort. Despite Lanark's lively street entertainment and the constant jingle of coin, it was still a nasty and brutish place, a poor cousin to France's bastides.

She was dumped unceremoniously from her saddle onto the stones in the yard, and dragged to the straw-strewn floor of Lanark's great hall. All graciousness fled her captors now that a hot meal was near. She doubted they would waste no time after that continuing on to Dumfries, but it was far from her concern at the moment. Colban Campbell was indeed present, and he seemed the most senior of the men gathered in the hall. Yet he did not deign to rise from his chair, even as Rosalind struggled back to her feet. She knew how the game should be played, though, and did not doubt Colban's heart was still in the right place.

"She spoils my appetite," he growled, his low voice bouncing across the long walls. "Traitorous wench." At the last epithet, he tossed a greasy bone aside and reached for his cup of wine. No sooner had he taken a sip, but Rosalind was hurried away once again. The whirlwind motion of arriving, stopping, hurrying along left her breathless and sore. The sight of the food made her ravenous. Prodded into Lanark's cozy dungeon, Rosalind soon found herself less concerned with food, and more worried about her cell mates. She had never been fond of rats before, so hearing them skitter away at her arrival quickly squelched her hunger.

Rosalind sat down on the straw and planted her head in her hands. It wouldn't do to imagine dinner arriving any time soon. The Campbells would not waste food on a doomed prisoner. Colban might, but he could not risk showing sympathy for the Lady Inveryne. It might be a long time before he made contact. But at least for now, she was well quit of the Lamonts and their deranged chieftain. Fearghus was mad, but he was not suicidal. He might very well challenge the Campbells at Inveryne, but he would not send his men after her in a castle flying the Bruce's colors.

She uttered a very unmaidenlike oath as something scampered across the floor of her cell. Perhaps, she thought, the prisoners at Lanark were very well fed. Just not by their keepers.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

(reposted for continuity)

"Tell them, my lady!" It was fortunate that Lowland fop believed Colban to be harassing the Lady Inveryne, a privilege of Campbell's seniority among the men of Lanark. Though the Lowlander was displeased he would not be partaking in that delicious specimen locked below Lanark, it was not his place to question the man, and valued his life just enough to keep his distance. Campbell did not appreciate an audience, and demanded the gentleman await his return from the solid, dark cells currently housing the Lady Inveryne. Rosalind, Colban knew, would not look nearly this outraged if he had suggested what the Lowlander thought he meant to do today. Yielding was more politic in all matters except this, and though God knew she had a temper, she was not a fool. The tenacity in which she clung to life was astoundingly infuriating to anyone of Campbell blood save the tall, broad-shouldered Colban Campbell. He had learned, among many things, Rosalind was a worker of miracles.

"No, they must not know! Can you not see, this changes everything. Can you not see this?" She threw her hands up into the air in exasperation. She wanted to wrap them around Colban's neck and shake him until he ceased breathing, but even she recognized she was outmatched. She did not lose the sense that there might be ears beyond the door of her cell, and her voice remained a heated hiss even as she prowled the small room, now much smaller with the addition of Colban Campbell.

"Rosalind -- " He could not make her see reason, though nothing of her situation was reasonable. He ran his hands through his hair instead, and mentally braced himself for another onslaught. It came, in a series of short blasts that nearly knocked him off his feet, so powerful was Rosalind's conviction that what she meant to do was the only way to remedying the situation.

"God's wounds, Colban Campbell, I do not want your sympathy. I do not wish your sorrow or your rage. Your silence, mais oui, I would have your silence. It is my secret, and let God judge me in the end for keeping it, but you -- no, do not touch me, do not comfort me, do not come near me." She batted him away like cobwebs and stood in the corner now, chin lifted in defiance. "Do not dare judge me."

"It is not my place to judge you, Inveryne, but listen carefully to me. Listen to me, woman, for I need be no prophet to predict rightly what will happen. The storm will come, and you will be swallowed whole in your pride and arrogance. You will think you might fend it off, and perhaps you will, bolstering your shores against the deluge, worrying over the color of the skies as you collect what is yours and hold it close against the lashing rains. It is not the storm that will kill you, but the calm. I have known you since you were fourteen years old. I know you well enough. The storm won't kill you, Rosalind."

"No, it will not." She pressed her lips together, her eyes drawing an intense bead upon the middle of his forehead. A lesser man would have run screaming from her cell.

"You cannot divert it." He finally approached her again. He had the mistaken notion, like so many men, if he could merely offer comfort to her, she would cave. She would fall into his arms and allow him to save the day, to be the knight he had trained to be. Yet the aloof tone in her voice chilled him to his core.

"No, I cannot." Her gaze did not soften, but the rancor had fled away. Cool as marble, she merely squared her shoulders and waited for him to understand she was not yielding in this. She never would, so long as she breathed.

"Dear Mother of God, it does not scare you, does it? You do not fear it?"

"No, I do not." She lied, and he believed her. She saw it written clearly upon his face. Perhaps it was written as plainly upon her own.

Colban inhaled slowly, until he was so full of the stench of the prisons below Lanark and the solemn vows Rosalind spoke in the gloom that he thought he might burst of it. He could not look at her. He turned away and stared at the opposite wall, wishing, for a moment, to drop his head upon its cool surface and draw from it some reminder of reality.

"There will be no storm, just a lot of hot air," breaking the silence with her characteristic dry humor. "Colban. Colban, please. Look at me." She was suddenly before him, her hands resting upon his neck, fingertips gentle upon his jaw. He released the breath he had been holding and looked down at her. "Look at me," she whispered. Years wavered and resolved between them, a result of a long history of giving and taking of advice, friendship, and strength. He knew her vulnerable where others saw nothing but steely determination. Likewise, she had always held his heart in her capable hands. When she demanded he look, he looked. "I am a storm of my own, my sweetest friend, and there will come a day of reckoning."

"To God, I wish you had been born a man, Inveryne," he muttered.

She flashed a quick smile. The tension on his face eased as he saw it briefly touch her hazel eyes. The path she had cut from Aberdeen to the Firth of Lorne and back to Lanark had been a hellish journey, but she had never lost her way. "No, you do not," she told him with a sage look, and slowly released him. He took a step back, bowed deeply, and was soon gone. She heard his heavy boots falling down the hall, the low grumbling of male voices, and then the distant bark of bawdy laughter, very likely at her expense. She sighed.

"Well, rats," she said to the quiet cell. "You may as well come out again. I have need for your company."

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

The season of the Savior's birth was fast approaching, but with so many earthly matters to concern her, she hadn't much noticed. Her father had never been particularly concerned with holidays aside from necessary obligations, which made her first season with Domhnall that much more interesting. These were memories she had attempted to keep alive. Though their household had been divided between Inveryne and Dunstaffnage much of the year, Twelfth Night was spent at home in the modest keep.

Clan Lamont's center was far from Inveryne, and its tanist a man of little concern to Domhnall and of even less obvious relation. Domhnall never worried himself over the larger scope of clan politics, though rumors had swirled about his future leadership since his return from Bannockburn. He entertained his people, took their renewed vows, and enjoyed what privacy he could steal with his wife, a woman much beloved despite her odd foreign ways. They were as mismatched as a couple could be, but very much in love. The Rosalind of today easily recalled the date in which her marriage changed, and when tension began to pull at the fabric of their lives.

It was Christmastime of five years ago. The feasting was well underway and every table near groaned under the weight of food offered. Domhnall's family had been invited, and some had even shown for the occasion, toasting the aging soldier and diplomat with continued good health while they attempted to eat him out of hearth and home. The musicians played soft melodies and the wine lent the evening a romantic sparkle. In memory, it had all come to an abrupt halt at the arrival of a young man skidding to a halt before the dais, with barely enough air in his lungs to announce those who followed him.

In reality, it had taken several confused minutes for conversation to die while the musicians broke off in a discordant whine. Servers with jugs of wine stopped abruptly, contents sloshing onto the floor, where dogs roamed underfoot searching for scraps. Twelve armed men entered the great hall, an assortment of younger men in the shadows to support their respective lords, and in the silence, Rosalind could hear the confusion and chaos out in the courtyard, where the unexpected arrival had created a problem in her stables. Between her invited guests and members of the household, there was nowhere else to stable the horses.

Domhnall stood slowly. "Aye?" he asked, reserving his annoyance with effort. "I trust there is reason for interrupting my dinner on this holy night?"

"Aye, my lord," one of the men said, stepping forward and bowing low. She recognized him as Domhnall's peer, though when she rose, could not determine whether he was Glenstriven or Glenlean. "Mac Laomain Mor Chomhail Uile is dead. We," the man said, and quickly indicated the armed men with a nod of his head, "have determined ye the best man to lead our people back to greatness. It is long understood ye were the decidin' factor in our survival, and it is fittin' a man in the Bruce's honor guard seek our vengeance. Your pacts wi' Campbell be sound, an' yer lands prosperous."

"Ye rode from Toward then on this Christmas eve?" Domhnall asked at last, moving very slowly around the long table populated by his closer relations until he stood at the level of the armed men.

"Aye, my lord," the men chorused in soft tenor. "We did."

"This is not the season for such decisions," Domhnall said firmly. He spared but a moment's glance to his wife. Rosalind recalled the chill that ran down her spine at the look she saw in his eyes, and forced her gaze downward toward her plate.

"No, my lord, it is not. But we have no choice," another man said, desperation and irritation both taking turns on his face. He stepped past the first clansman and approached Domhnall slowly. He spoke low in rapid French that only two others in the room would understand. "You have been the power behind Mac Laomain Mor Chomhail these many years. Seize it, man, and finish the job. It changes nothing for you but your title. Get an heir upon your woman, lead us, and reap your just rewards. Accept our fealty, for we have no one else worth offering it to."

Rosalind's heart trembled, but her face remained passive in the wake of the impassioned words, mirroring her husband's features. She saw Domhnall's head drop imperceptibly. "Hamish, my sword," her husband said, his voice, though its usual low tenor, rising powerfully in the deep silence of the hall. Domhnall's squire came at a run, slowing at the last possible second as he determined the occasion of his lordship accepting clan leadership might be needing a bit of decorum. He offered the blade in both hands.

And Domhnall, one by one, took the vows of fealty from each of Lamont's most powerful men, and gave his in return. When all was finished, Rosalind welcomed the new guests to the tables below, to eat and be merry, to celebrate as they might the occasion of Christ's birth.

When Domhnall returned to the table, he held out his hand for hers beneath the bench they shared, and she held it tightly. Get an heir upon your woman, he'd said. Rosalind's ears burned as she focused upon her meal. Perhaps today she would have dared to look at her husband's features, and see that they were focused on something else entirely -- the knowing eyes of his brother, Fearghus Lamont, who had dared challenge Inveryne for an heir.

Christmas changed for her after that. She grew a bit older and a bit wiser that Christmas. It was, and she knew it even then, the beginning of the end for her and Lord Inveryne. She was amazed at how often his memory, the smell of him, his name came to her lips, even four years later. She was in Skye, and yet even sitting at the loom ushered in memories of Domhnall, leaning in through the doorway to greet her after returning from visiting the crofters. He found a thousand and one ways to haunt her when she believed him firmly lodged in the past. His ghost, like the man, were equally content to leave her in her current mess. He had no counsel to give her. She would awake late at night not to find the sleeping hulk of her husband at her side, but empty covers and cold sheets, proving emptiness her only comfort. Her fitful dreams were filled not with regrets, but of endless roads through enemy lands, and the blood of a sacrificial boar seeping up the sleeves of a gown long-since burned.

Domhnall had simply run out of time. But time was all Rosalind had. He had not been able to plan a future for her. And she, having buried her men, had spent four years devoted wholly to carving out a different future of her own making. He had pulled away from her as they sat looking down upon the feasting. Now she would let him go.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

(reposted for continuity from The Journey Forward - Preparations)

What We Are Made Of: Revelations on Lamonts and Campbells, Part I

Rosalind: It was a clear evening fine for clearing one's head, and clearing her head was precisely what she needed. She wrapped up in her wool arisaid, bundling herself against the cold that seemed to seep deeper into her leg each winter, and make a nest for itself until the warmer days of spring. There were joys and tragedies within the castle, and even revolving like a minor satellite around these greater bodies was mentally and emotionally taxing. Yet with calm efficiency, she managed the details that must be seen to, details few if any ever considered in the wake of such great and troubling events. But now was the time to return to her nightly tradition of walking -- walking the corridors when even the servants were long asleep, making her rounds in the Griffin gardens when it seemed too cold for even these Scots built so much more sturdy than she, conferring with the baser elements of the world as she delayed, just a few days longer, another trip to the confessional. Tonight, though, she brought a desk set with ink, quill, and paper to jot down what tasks needed doing on the morrow, lest they slip from her mind during sleep. It settled her heart, to know the routine and order of things well before they happened. Maybe years ago, she would not have bothered with such trifling details, but there was a look of satisfaction on her face as she set the board down on the nearest bench and rolled up her sleeves -- before, shivering, she thought better of it and sat down on the bench.

Beathag: "Come. Tis nay sae cold tha' we can nay stand it. Wot dae ye think?" The Duchess spoke to a companion, which was not unusual. She had: a retinue of three fine ladies, a court of family and close friends, and trusted servants a'plenty. In the condition that would keep with her for some months yet, it was deemed better that she should be kept in sight instead of left to her own devices for too long. Company tonight was a cherished sort. Small, but only in that he was a child. Behind them came the chattering of the other servant women: The laundress and keeper of the kitchen. Despite the lose of their beloved Aida, they too, found a reason to smile even if they wore black cloaks of mourning. Close by them too where their nieces and daughters, for whom this company was sweeter than vigils of prayer. "Ah, dae ye feel tha' wind! It comes from the North, the great North o' the Vikings.." Tales of the North Wind animated the royal mouth that kept the party huddled together. The servants were little below the ladies now, often referred to affectionatly as the Ladies-of-Scullery-at-Line. Each offered a little imput to the tale, things heard in time until the lad between them would select his favorite to hold fast to. He held his mother's hand, as he said, "Ah'm too big for her to carry now with the baby inside." His concern for her was precious, and when they stopped he pressed his head to her belly and asked if she thought, like he and Da, it would be a girl.

Rosalind: She heard the reference to the Vikings and knew immediately who had entered the garden. Smiling, she put aside any personal reservations as to where, exactly, that Northern wind was blowing from, and stood up. Quill left in the ink pot and her list with only two items written, she lifted the lantern she had brought out into the garden. She didn't wish to catch anyone off-guard, something she inadvertently did more often than not, given her quiet nature. It was good to hear the sound of so many feet accompanying the Duchess's voice. Bess always kept interesting company, and now, it seemed she was accompanied by the man of the hour himself! In an arisaid of subdued Argyll blue, she kept to the theme of mourning in the court, her darker gown beneath out of solidarity with Liliana, who had been her greatest friend these past few months, and had born Rosalind's secrets with such grace, and in turn trusted Rosalind with a few of her own, their alliance had been natural, much to the chagrin of any eyes reporting to Lamont. "My lady, you are looking hale," she greeted with a curtsy and another warm smile. "As is your son." A small pang in her heart, but nothing in her hazel eyes, as she aimed the lantern's light toward the pairing of mother and son.

Beathag: The Ebony Prince was the length of his Mother's leg so in this he stood well over many boys his age. He had the height of a lady of six or seven years worth of seasons, a voice with a mature alto peeking through a child's high pitch. His dark, thick Moor' shair was put into twists close to his head, and held back by a twist of leather. As he aged there was more of a man in him he would never meet, but a prominent showing of his mother's features by the light flecks of hair that were stubborn to subside to dark, and the curious brightness of green in his eyes, or the lightness beneath his dark skin. In face he favored her greatly, as if the sweet, dark shadow of some favorite dream. Midnight cobalts fell long over her arms in a comfortable kirtle, the chemise beneath it a subdued gray wool that peeked over the ghillie boots worn. "Thank ye, Rosalind. Tis fer mah son Ah be so Hale, n' he is home tha' he beams sae..."

Aodhan: Aodhan's mouth wore a smile that was the image of Lord Adam's, a man whom he emulated in action while his blood made him something else entirely. "Goo' evenin, m'lady." He bowed at the waist as he had been taught and smile larger when it was done. Leaning into his mother's side, he asked, "Can Ah play hide n- go seek with Elise?"

Beathag: The woman was so good natured to devote some time to the child while her kitchens were overseen by her apprentice. In the absence of Aida, she and the Laundress were the logical points of connection. Taking up her lantern, she took him to a place that was still in the sight of his mother. "Once he was vera small. All tha' seems a score ago."

Rosalind: "They do grow up quickly, I hear," Rosalind commented, watching him take off. "He is a credit to you. Such fine manners, and the makings of a tall, dark, and handsome prince. Like a fairytale." She laughed, truly glad to see the two united. "I can only imagine what a relief it must have been to find him safe and happily returned to you and your lord husband." Rosalind fell silent for a moment. It didn't seem polite to make any further inquiries, and truly, none were required. Rosalind's skills were in listening and reacting accordingly, which made her an excellent sounding board, when one had use for such a device. "Oh, it is so cold out here, let us at least have some manmade cheer to keep us warm!" There went a round of requests for drinks and some extra braziers, and soon enough, the ladies in the garden had whatever they required, brought to them by pages mustered into duty for this light work. After everything had found a place in the garden, Rosalind folded her arms across her chest, looking a bit like one of statues of the Virgin, wrapped up in her wool cloth, though decidedly less austere with that intelligent fire in her eyes.

Beathag: "The sea is colder," she remarked as she pulled the gloves taut over her hands, "tis the wind off o' it n' the hills tha' make it seem colder up here, but i remember winters at sea, n' at least there is fire we can have here." On a ship, a fire couldn't be lit for fear the vessel would feed the spark. Pages set up braziers and cider could be fetched from the kitchen. At the sea, thoughts of home and ample blankets kept one warm, "N' tae think, used tae always loathe dockin m'boat in winter. The sea takes on qualities as the season's change. Like people do. Tis ne'er the same twice e'en if some parts remain the same. Sae a child, tae, is this way. They do grow fast." Beathag failed at the semblance of a stately Virgin but succeeded at looking every bit the part of Freya. All unorthodox, giant height and tumbling golden hair. Green eyes saw the moon and seemed to hold the glow of it in the center of the orb. Scotts were fond of names of affection, and it was no wonder the revival of the herald Changeling-Child was sticking hard to her heels. She was either that, or some mythic thing brought over with the Nordic portion of her her heritage. "We missed him sae much, curious it was. He runs tae Adam's arm and claims tha' a woman named Kira led him here n' took him from Glasgow. Should we e'er find this Kira she will be given praise tae last all her days. Adam n' I are complete now. We may breathe, n' in so be more natural tae the likes o' yerselves."

Rosalind: "The first and only time I have ever been on a boat was shortly after my wedding. We crossed the Channel in the springtime, and the weather was fair, save that morning -- there was fog so thick, I waved my hand in front of my face to assure myself I was not in some fairy world. I have never seen the like since." She smiled. "But I have never lived more than a day's ride to the sea in my life; I feel it's an interesting neighbor with its own temperaments and moods, and should be respected in as much as I would not want my cattle stolen or my roof blown down." Laughing, she picked up a mug of cider for herself. She was taller than most women herself, a fact most forgot due to her other physical traits, namely the characteristic limp that looked particularly painful on the colder nights. She never voiced a complaint, never so much as rubbed the afflicted limb, and it was beyond the bounds of anyone's duty at court to comment on why a Norman lady of quality had a gait like a sailor. "I will light a candle for this Kira, for if nothing else, she reminds us that good does exist in this world, and kind deeds can be performed without any benefit for the doer." She lifted her mug with the others and toasted to this woman from Glasgow, temporarily wondering what motivated the lady to do such a thing. What challenged others to see evil and correct it without a thought to personal cost? Such was a question that occupied minds far keener than her own, and would occupy them for centuries to come, no doubt.

Beathag: "If I am tae far inland it does nay feel right to me. The moors to one hand, the sea to another with all o' the temper she can muster, the comfort she can yield n' the beauty both grand n' terrible. A fog so thick ye can't find a hand, a storm harrowed only at its heart to see the water go to smooth glass for miles." A Norman lady of quality had a gait like a solider and a Celtic woman of some repute had lived, without remorse, aking to one for many years. Winter aggrivated old aches that made the holder remem ber how they came. For Beathag, it was the cricks of battle scars old and the newer sorts of the last year. It was the hand that at times moved but felt nothing, but there was no reason to harp on it. Taking hold of an empty cup she let the cider be poured. Steam rose, curling high to heaven. "Aye. Thanks be tae tha'. This is somethin' I pray others will remember before the end. A stranger brings mem'son n' the Holy See comes hence tae an isle ruled by Heathens. Tha' I lived to see such days as this." They were old for their age, cresting the edge of life's end or gone beyond it with an awe that inspired some. Maybe height and a soldier gait were a testament to usefulness. "Tell me how fares yer matters, lass?"

Rosalind: They were women with greater concerns than physical failings. Strength, to some. Unreasonable stubbornness, to others. Whatever it was, it had kept the Duchess and the Lamont widow in fair company through the years. They were still fully capable of swinging a few battle axes when the time came for action. "Better you than me in that ship, my lady, but you do know, if you ever called for a companion in such a venture, I've not the heart to say no." She laughed again, took a sip of her cider, and looked contemplatively at the winter gardens. There was something wonderfully stark about the juxtoposition of green boughs and bare branches under the moonlight, the faces of the living highlighted by the low red glow from the braziers. "The Holy See comes here?" She lifted a brow. This was news to her, and welcome news. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as if she might take off on a race to find this holy man and see if he might do a favor or two for a penniless widow. She nearly laughed again at the image. No, it seemed she was stuck fighting her own battles for a while longer. "Ah, my matters -- they really are inconsequential. I do believe they will sort themselves out, one way or the other, given a bit of time." And perhaps a well-timed arrow, accidental slip, or, that failing, belladonna in his ale. "And that is all I pray for, really. A bit of time and some peace. Perhaps patience, which I was never particularly blessed to begin with."

Beathag: "The Gods would think we grow bored without battles, n' men racin' off tae the call o' the horn. Some intrigue, or matter tae mull o'er. His Lordship does nay employ enough poets fer if he did we'd have a veritable theater o' things tae perform. Ah only write annuals n' keep the old histories n' bard ways, Ah'm nay an actor." Not in a play written by a man, at least. On God's stage she played the part of Highlander-come-Royal as to marry the Lost Proverbial Son. "Ye are kind to say yes tae boats. If e'er I did travel again Ah'll bare tha' in mind. A great many o' the court are afeared o' boats n' rightly sae. But we sail nae tae the Holy See, the holy see sails thus 'ere. Sae mark," so the giant women considered life as it was known, "We shall gae tae war, this is true. The Holy o' all Christ Child Holies comes hence, n' in our company is a Princess o' Italy. There are also forsaken enobledchildren, secrets, n' wolves tha' run about the valley with murderous illness. There are all matter o' mad folk n' yet we still manage to smile with our cider. Ah dae sae Rosalind, we're daein right well." She grinned as she looked out to the land. "Ah too, pray for tha'. Peace. As it is tis a fickle thing. Ne'er comes unless a storm rages first or it isn't true peace. it is a lie we desperately want tae believe. "

Rosalind: "My husband's favorite quote was that man might never know true freedom without having first been enslaved. I thought him mad at the time, but I've since come to understand it's a quote applicable to a great number of things. There is no peace without war, no understanding of love without first the absence thereof. We're bound to a life of relativity, my lady. What is dark but the absence of light, and light but the absence of shadow? And one man's wealth is another man's pittance. A test, perhaps, to one man but a trial of the soul to another. I do hope it is as they say, and these trials do lead us to some greater reward. Life is difficult. Living is tremendously hard. When there are so many ways in which we can suddenly cease to be, it is a miracle indeed we stand here and toast good souls we may never meet in Glasgow." Rosalind was too practical to profess a great belief in hope, but there it was, in a nutshell -- she was, in the end, just a romantic and an optimist. Underneath fatalistic predictions, she believed in gold on the other sides of rainbows and happy endings without undue compromise. "You do sense it. The storm. It has been building for a time and I am not sure where it will strike, but it will. I do not know enough of weather to continue the analogy." She smiled. "But it looks, sometimes, as if we may come out the better for having braved it."

Beathag: "It has already struck. Despite the good care of ye, n' Liliana, n' the Household m'senses are nay as hampered as wot old actions are. They are keener. Tha' storm has long since struck. It came e'en before m'son was stolen n' we prayed for Aida. It came before we prayed for the Campbells in our company. It strikes now though in the flash they'd stand there n' tell us twas nothin'. " Calmly ventured, calmly gained. The knowledge was taken in with the samesimplistic action that drew the cider from the mug. Sliding down the throat, it was jolted after again with speech."It thunders in a Valley O' Stars, n' rocks across the sea. Ah know it e'en rumbles in your own heart, m'friend. Good Sir Campbell is nay here. N' nay just not among the court. He has been with his wife for a time but he is gone now, out intae the Island n' Ah believe he has an intent tae use his sword if his words fail. Somewot tae dae with Lamonts n' Campbells n' all matter o' clan madness. Ah know this because his official business gives him leave tae gae toward these places, e'en if his reasons in the end will be personal. E'en a fool could see the murder on his eyes, nay matter how calm, he has only learned to go cold, as many soliders can. His sister-in-law was lost, his child, too? He, n' the men like him are grown mighty sick of it. Oh yes, the storm has long since struck. The lightnin' is only goin' tae move closer, tha' is all." She looked over at Rosalind with a tilt of her head. "Wot dae ye need tae happen in these matters o' the clans, nay wot ye pray for, but wot dae ye need. Twill be done, if it can be."

Rosalind: Like so many things in her life, the subtleties rocked her foundations as much as the more dramatic news. Her pale face went even paler at the news of Campbell's departure. Surely it had not already started? She touched a hand to her temple to steady herself. This was not going according to her plans, but nothing ever did save matters of the court within her purview. "The loss he suffered was tremendous. And I do not know how a man might react to such a loss, how he might channel that rage." Though she had ridden to battle in her husband's stead, fought a war to keep the land her husband abandoned, and had been fighting to survive every day since Inveryne fell four years ago, she was still a woman, still distinctly feminine in how she handled her affairs. Discrete, yes, but not completely stripped of emotion. She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them to focus on Bess. "I am not sure what needs to happen, save the reckoning these clans so richly deserve. I -- I regret the loss of what blood may spill when it happens, of course I do. But it cannot be stopped, can it? Those that can fight, will fight. Those that can run, must run. And those that have neither the sense to do one or the other, must pray. And so it is as we said earlier -- pray for peace." Bess had distinctly given her permission to ask for whatever she needed. But she wasn't sure what that was anymore, and frankly, all of her plans had simply resulted in her headache, rather than staving off any bloodshed.

Beathag: "By now ye are aware tha' there are certain members o' this court n' household who move with different authority than others. The most trusted men in service move as the hands o' justice n' with our permission, they are the hands o' death. Sir Campbell will fast become an executioner on his adventure. Aye, he will channel tha' rage. Rest assured. Any fool enough to cross him will loose in a very hard way." Reaching out a hand she placed it gentle, firm on Rosalind's back. "He is goin' tae dae somethin' tha' will endear him to some n' endanger him with many. Ah have nay doubt tha' one of the Campbells 'pon the Isle raises trouble at the behest o' his mainland kin. When Kendrew returns, the tanist will not. He will be the tanist for the Campbells o' Skye as they are called, if nay the only tanist to be blunt. If there are any o' the Lamonts tha' he should be made aware of, tis best to tell me now sae tha' he can be made further aware. If he is confronted, unless expressly said, he does nay have to be discriminatory." If there were any that ought be spared should battle ensue or captures come, any that might be of use or that were needed time was of the essence. Many things relied on time, and by the time war was declared the enemy would not find Skye wanting nor having waited. "Any with aim to take ye, tae make trouble will fast find their head fer the pluckin'. In tha' way I am cold as the winter. Ah'd rather take heads than see those good have theirs taken n' can dae sae without flinch or regret."

Rosalind: She was aware of the hand upon her arm, but it brought her only a moment of comfort. She listened carefully to Bess's words, and the wheels were already at work in her mind. "There is something you should know. Something I told in confidence to Liliana, and then to Kendrew, but it is complicated -- and itself complicates many things. But it is not, truly, evil. Not worth eradicating. Campbell's affairs are his own, and those within the Campbell clan, I would sooner wash my hands of, save my husband -- " she balled the fist of her left hand, but her expression remained neutral, "is inextricably tangled up in reclaiming land from them." She felt she had made this explanation so many times before, repeating it now seemed superfluous. But she retold the story faithfully of how she had been kidnapped from Aberdeen by the Lamonts that first night she had attempted to leave for Skye when Bess's people were still in the city. How they had ridden across the whole of Scotland and met her late husband's brother, Fearghus, and how by the next night, he had found and bribed a priest to perform the marriage ceremony. "I left ... without his blessings." She cleared her throat at the massive understatement, but would not insult Bess's intelligence. After taking a sip of her cider, she continued by reporting the circumstances of her escape attempts, the final culminating with a hunt in the woods that nearly ended her life, and sent her scrabbling for freedom until Campbell men found her outside the town of Lanark. "Killing Fearghus would, in all honesty, make me a happier woman, certainly. It would most definitely relieve me from seeking out holy authority for anulling our marriage, which was never consummated. However, he is good for Lamont. He can be an ally to Skye, and most likely will prove himself a formidable strength to you if it comes to battle, which is most certainly will. Kendrew, however, may be placed in great danger if he takes the tanist's cloth. As .... " she paused, not for greater effect, but because it was the first revelation to anyone outside the bonds of blood she had made, "as will my son, the son of Colban Campbell, who turned three years of age two nights ago. Bess -- my lady -- there are many forces at work, and eliminating one now may be the undoing for you and yours. I am willing to bet on Fearghus, though I hate him to the extent of that word -- he has taken many things from me, though it was through the cruelty of ignorance that I hold him most responsible. He has treated me ill, but we share a common interest in wishing to see our people's dignity restored. There must be a balance; we had different roads to its restoration."

Beathag: She listened to this with no shred of emotion passing over her features to flicker a light of hint as to what went on in her head. A learned trait was the concealing of emotion even in her eyes, and the royal veneer didn't peel to afford a hint of what a fellow woman might think of such situations. A ruler instead looked at the plausiblity of incident at a wife gone without blessing, unconsumated marriages, and dangers ahead. Unmentioned sons were heirs in their own rights. "Ye should have mentioned the greater details o' this far earlier." She cautioned, but did not reprimand. It would have made no difference to temprament, only outcome. Even now the message could only influence. "We can stay his hand on this Fearghus, but on other things the danger will be wot it will be. Too much is at stake n' too much 'as been lost. The Campbells are split, as are many clans these days, but they are splittin' vera viably n' before the King, no less. Kendrew will be the Tanist o' the Campbells o' West Isles. Let others squabble o'er the politic of it, he was given the boon he will accept it. Perhaps this knowledge n' his new posistion may of use tae Fearghus, n' hopeful it shan't anger him. If it does m'hope he is a man o' some restraint. In the first few days o' the new year, Ah will declare him a true Tanist. Twas his choice." Cider was sipped again. People could be spared death, honor could be found, but what was coming for many months couldn't be ceased. Campbells would establish themselves here. There would be a new family of them, derived from disagreeance instead of blood.

Rosalind: "I should have." She nodded slowly. She could assess a situation as well as any other, and at the time of her arrival, it had not been safe for her to be alive. She shuddered to think what might have happened if he had foreknowledge of her brief affair with Colban Campbell. "While I am sorry for my omission, I understand the consequences. I tried to repair what was damaged. I warned Kendrew of what might face him. But I could not tell anyone about my son. I could not." She inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. "I made my last escape only because he believed me dead. When I arrived in Skye, he discovered that I was not. He sent me a dowry, which I refused twice, before I accepted -- my title was bankrupted, and all income from my estate in France has been claimed by Fearghus. I have sold what he sent me and set aside funds for his arrival in Skye, if he should follow. That he does not convinces me he has other items on the agenda more important than reining in his wife." She sighed. "He laid siege to Inveryne. Perhaps, with the disarray in Clan Campbell, he will claim it easily. It will bolster his forces, which have new armor and weapons, and quality horses. I believe he has hired mercenaries, though how he came by money for the siege much less the arms or men I do not know. My lady, we have a delicate balance between us only because our priorities have temporarily distracted us. I kept knowledge of my son restricted to Colban and myself; the boy's parentage is unknown, save he belongs to Colban and is well cared for at Lanark. Fearghus cannot know, and as far as I am concerned, will not know. While he lives, he suits the needs of Skye. But I swear, as he has sold me off that I will never see Inveryne, nor live to tell of this winter, I will not go without a fight. My son lives in Lanark and there he will stay. In this way, I disappoint neither clan and betray both, but so be it. Kendrew has my support in his endeavors, and though Lamont wishes it, for personal reasons and matters of loyalty to old friends, I could never agree with complete vengeance against Campbell." She smiled, amusement entering her eyes. "It was not intentional, but it fits. He binds Argyll together, my son."

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

The cell had been a dark and lonely place, but at least it was dry and relatively comfortable. Though she was in the house of her enemies once again, she had no real fear for her person. Colban Campbell had rescued her again, and despite their earlier argument, there was a deeper understanding at play. She waited through the long hours and the days, shifting about the cell to follow the single and insignificant patch of light that fell through the miniature window above. Her mind fell quiet in the waiting, making this destination entirely different from the gypsies' cave in Argyll. Even in this uncomfortably small cell, she was safe. She was no longer running. And despite the twisted relations between Campbell and Lamont, this was her home, too.

It took several days for the men of Campbell to ride out to Dumfries. In that time, Lanark's castle nearly shook under the weight of extra horses and the booming voices of Scots. It was noticeable when they departed. A great silence drifted slowly down the corridor beyond her cell door, and remained where it was, stifling as any blanket. She could hear her own breathing slow in response. There was no need to fear what had already marched off to battle. There was, as long as she remained in Lanark, no need to fear at all.

Colban came for her as soon as he could. Echoes of their argument were clearly expressed on his face, and though she was entirely wrapped up in her own struggles, she rose from her seat on the floor and gingerly wrapped her arms around his neck. His grip was lower, firmer; large arms wrapped around her with a strength she envied. The embrace lacked passion, but not love. He pulled her closer and held her still, the door to the cell still wide open behind him, and the silence of Lanark deafening.

Finally, they released one another. She took the arm he offered, and he led her up the long set of stairs toward daylight. Wide halls she had only glimpsed on her way down to her prison suddenly seemed much wider. Daylight was blinding. He led her up another set of stairs, down a long corridor, and to the suite of rooms he generally occupied. He was too old to have any desire to sleep in the barracks, where most bachelors were consigned, and as castellan of Lanark, too important to go without private quarters.

Rosalind's hazel eyes quickly swept the room, then turned up questioningly to him. Colban smiled and nodded, indicating a closed door to the left. He would not stop her. Even if he tried, it would be as ineffectual as a roaring river meeting a beaver's dam.

She opened the door slightly, peering within the darkness, and for the first time in weeks, allowing the tension to ease from her body. Colban was behind her when she leaned back. Despite the days of waiting, she was exhausted. Her balance had fled her. Her will to remain upright on her two feet fled, though it was through the haze her desire to fight was renewed. Her son had fallen asleep on Colban's bed, and was curled up in the shape of a comma, his thumb shoved in his mouth, and wheat-colored hair shaggy around his cherubic face. She had chosen a name that meant "peace" with no sense of irony, and the immense pride she had in what she and Colban had created three years ago felt like fire in her veins.

Gently but firmly collecting her, Colban led Rosalind toward the guest room, where a maid was waiting to give Rosalind a bath. A set of clothes borrowed from one of the Campbell women had been folded on the nearby chair, but due to the nature of the women inhabiting Lanark over the past several weeks, they were not the sort Rosalind generally wore. But they were better than the clothes she presently wore, which aside from being caked in dirt and stinking to the high heavens, were stiff with blood and sweat. She did not fancy herself beautiful at the moment, but she had not been aware of just how disgusting she was until she laid sight on the bath and the large cake of soap in the maid's hands.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Much later, and much cleaner, she sat down to a table fairly groaning with food. Colban had obviously taken time away from his duties to enjoy the meal with her. It would be rude, and ill-advised, to inhale her food, but with a nod of his head, all of her guilt fled and she delved into the meal with shocking abandon. She was compelled to offer an apology, but of course, as castellan of Lanark, he was well-aware of the conditions his less-loved guests suffered. Rosalind reclined in her chair with her arms folded across her stomach, and for the first time, glanced down at her clothes.

At her outraged expression, Colban burst into laughter. His eyes lit up with humor, even as her face tightened with dismay. He eventually regained control of himself and choked out an apology. "It is a time of war, Rosalind," he said by way of explanation. "They are clean, I swear to you."

She merely rolled her eyes. Colban freed her from many of the strictures society had placed upon her over the years. She was as free to laugh as to rage, and though their clans would more than frown upon any relationship between Lady Inveryne and Colban mac Lochloinn, it had not always been that way. He had been her dearest friend from the moment she arrived in Scotland. With an age difference of a scant five years, he had also been far closer in age than any other occupant of Inveryne, and their immediate bond had been cemented by their family connections. His brother was Arthur mac Lochloinn of Lochawe, the eventual Lord Dunstaffnage, and her husband's foster-brother. Though their friendship would only continue to grow over the intervening years between what was then, and what formed the now, things had not gone so well with their respective clans. He had been her constant friend through every salvo, and had saved her life on numerous occasions.

Rosalind was wise beyond her years -- or at least, those who knew her would claim -- but even she was at a loss to explain what had deepened their friendship into an affair that resulted in a son that was boon and burden to the clans of Argyll. Though she would always love Colban, they were both old enough to put aside any foolish notions of continuing the affair. The romance had faded, and luckily, their friendship had only continued to grow.

She would never claim infinite patience; her time spent with Fearghus Lamont was testament to that much. Tolerance, though, was something she could claim. With a final sigh at the very low cut of her bodice, she put the issue of wardrobe aside and enjoyed one of the very few conversations she could ever have with Colban Campbell without potential for unwanted listeners overhearing what should not be overheard. In this rare moment of privacy, she laughed as he related all the stories relating to his life in Lanark that she had missed since leaving him in Aberdeen, and listened with rapt attention as he spoke about their favorite subject -- their son.

He didn't speak about Dumfries or the battles ahead. She knew his mind was heavy with the burden she had recently laid upon him. Soon, news of her marriage to Fearghus Lamont would be known across all of Scotland, and he would rest easier. He could not act as his once-heroes had. There was nothing more to sacrifice but his own life if he did the honorable thing by calling Fearghus out to the field of battle. That day would come soon enough, with or without honor, but assuredly after he guaranteed the safety of Rosalind and their son. For now, yielding was politic. Secrecy was a matter of survival. He could not hate her for expressing logic that the rest of the country, at most times, seemed to lack.

"I am making arrangements for you, Rosalind," he said at last. "Lady Mary has written. She expresses her concerns over your well-being." He took her hand in his own and held it loosely, his blue eyes filled with concern as they focused upon her face. "We are in agreement on that matter. I spoke to one of the Campbell men on his way to Dumfries, and there is a small escort waiting to take you immediately to a ship bound for Skye."

"I have heard all this before, in Aberdeen," she protested.

"Aye, well. This time it moves beyond intention. With Lady Mary's blessing and Kendrew of Skye's protection, you will make it to your ship, and I will be well quit of you." He smiled, and to her chagrin, she found herself returning the gesture. He lightly squeezed her hand. "I will not fail you again."

She met his gaze evenly, sobriety replacing mirth. "I know."

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Colban recognized there would be more to Rosalind's recovery than a hot bath and clean clothes. He knew she needed more than confirmation that their son was alive and well. From the hell she had walked through to find mediocre sanctuary at best, she deserved far more than he could give her at Lanark. The arrangements with the Bruce's sister and Kendrew of Skye were airtight, and within two days, she would find the safety she required in Skye. He watched her sleep before the fire, her pale skin made red-gold in the light, a light blanket pulled up to her chin. He understood the reasons she made for keeping her secrets. Of course, he understood her greatest reason. Aldric, who so resembled his father in face but was truly his mother's child, deserved a chance at life. What life Colban could give him would be one of duties to Clan Campbell, and God alone knew what fate was in store for his people. After all, Lamont had once been the greatest clan of Argyll. Clans generally did not return from the dismal state Lamont now found herself, but Colban trusted Rosalind's fears were not misplaced. She had seen something in Fearghus that he had not. He let her dream in peace for now. There was nothing more he could do.

_______________________________

They found quickly found shelter at an inn, and she was left alone to her thoughts while the horsemen from Aberdeen remained in the taproom down below. Her room faced a rise in the road, and beyond a few scraggly autumn-battered trees, a church of rough cut gray stone. The few buildings clustered along the road were the only indication of civilization, and like many towns that sprang up across the Highlands, might have been as old as the hills themselves -- or as transient as the men who walked them. Rosalind spent a good deal of time staring out the window, watching the sun slowly set. She understood the realities of her situation, and hardly gave a thought to rescue or escape. She was hardly a fan of fairytales and romances, and having lived in the Highlands for the better part of her life, understood such fantasies only led to heartache. How soon Fearghus found a priest who could be bought would determine the hour of her wedding, which was only a matter of when, not if. As the night grew long and the air cooler, a woman came into her room to stoke the fire and leave a basket of fuel at the hearth. Rosalind noticed the woman entered and left with the iron firepoker. She merely rolled her eyes at the precaution, but it did make her curious -- if Fearghus knew such personal information about Domhnall, how much did he know of herself? Enough to know he must remove any potential weapons from her person. The thought brought a grim smile to her lips.

Securing Rosalind at the inn had been a cursory percaution. He knew now that it was time that was against him. He needed to secure his marriage to her quickly, and with as many witnesses as possible in order to insure that there would be no nay sayers later as to the event. It brought Inveryne that much closer to his grasp. Pacing his horse, he thought grimly of the countless number of times that he questioned the wisdom of his own decision. It was clear to him that he had to marry Rosalind, but there were other machinations that were currently coming into play that he would need to be cautious of. She would not be an easy wife to have, nor to hold and she certainly had her own ideals when it came to the rightness of his decision. That she dared to hold fast to her damned stubbornness was both a source of pride and displeasure. Turning in the saddle as they drew near to the Inn, he gave a short nod to those in his routine before dismounting. When he entered it was with the cassock berobed person of a priest. Like most Highlanders he was a little superstitious of God's wrath and dared not to go against the church. The inn keep was a quietly assured man, who listened to his requests with the same hang dog look that he had grown well used to. When it was over with he would think later on the ramifications. "Bring her down. It is time." He had given her time, but that was at an end now and he wished for it all to be done with. Tomorrow would be a new day with even greater tasks at hand.

She had just finished lighting one of the sunken, deformed candles when there came another knock on her door. These dour little Scotsmen had her believing the worst in every situation. She was not going to her execution. True, he had given her no alternative, but he had little idea what he was truly about to embark upon. Rosalind was not a person to be trifled with, and it was that quiet confidence that so many mistakenly called stubbornness. She had led an army as much as Fearghus aspired to do, had been trapped before, and if she had found a way to survive then, she would again now. The man lurking on the other side of the door waited impatiently as Rosalind straightened her gown and tucked her hair back into place. She led the way down the hall and stopped momentarily on the stairs. There he was, with his clansmen. In the shadows, caught out of the corner of her eye, he could pass as Domhnall's ghost. She blinked and continued down the stairs, maintaining eye contact with him, rather than the priest at his side. "You have returned early. I am not yet prepared. I would have things for writing in my room and at least a clean dress." She lifted her chin slightly as she came to a rest at the bottom of the stairs. "Surely, such things are not beyond your finances."

All eyes turned toward the stairs as she descended and for a moment he wondered what the thoughts of those that were present were. Some he knew would have turned on him in favor of their Lady but then there were others that saw her as the herald of dour things to come. He could stand on both shores of those thoughts, but wondered even more greatly if the outcome would be as he wished? When she came to stand before him, he barely concealed the need to smile. "Aye, I have returned with the Father Murdock who will be presiding this evening." He didn't even comment on her need for a clean dress or things with which to write. No, he rather enjoyed the small blade set to her in the small form of that insult. "Not beyond Madame, but not important enough to warrant it. You will have enough of each when the deed is done." And it was obviously a deed he was looking to have quits with as soon as possible. There was no mistake in the underlying tones of Norman French when he spoke her. When he turned his back, it was without even a cursory care for his own safety. Obviously he knew what she was capable of but had decided that it was negligible with regards to his own safety. Calling out to the gathered men he watched as they formed up a semi-circle around them with the priest in the middle. He wore a Lamont's smile of victory when he turned back and offered her his hand. At this juncture, she did not have a choice in the matter of anything. At this one moment, she was little more that the chataline of the house.

As he had little idea how many of his men were in favor of the Lady Inveryne and how many would sooner slit her throat, she was equally in the dark. Though he turned his back to her, it would have been foolish to attempt to be anything but obedient. She slid her hand into his and joined him at his side. "Certainly, you had enough to insure the services of Father Murdock," she murmured. She had escaped after the fall of Inveryne not to save her own neck from the hands of the Campbells, who would sooner have her dead, but from the hands of her own clan. Neither side was correct, though it was difficult to sympathize with Fearghus's cause. "What is it you fear, that allowing me one more day would disrupt your plans? We have no liking for one another. Clearly, it is not anxiousness on your part." She would have chosen her words more boldly had not Father Murdock been present. As it was, she fell silent at the priest's glare. Simply willing to go with Fearghus's plans did not mean she had to enjoy them.

He might have held his smile in check before, but with her words he let out a booming laugh as he clapped her fingers more firmly in his and squeezed them in a manner that was far from gentle. "I will only say that I wished to be at quits with this as soon as possible." His voice might have sounded like the prospective, impatient groom. "Father, we have not all night to begin." Settling into the gathering as he waited for the priest to begin his droning in Latin. It was only when they were half way through the first part of the ceremony that he leaned toward his perspective bride to mutter in Norman French once more. "I would just as soon as give a Campbell another day to wait execution than marry you, but this is for the good." And for what good he wouldn't expound on. In his opinion it simply wasn't any of her concern or business. So he waited for the priest indication when he should repeat and when the vows should be spoken. His voice had a firm quality to it, one that was used to being followed. And his clansmen around them whatever their stance would stand behind him if it meant that they would defeat their enemies and have their home back with the vision of prosperity.

Rosalind hadn't liked Domhnall much in the beginning, either. Though thinking of her late husband while standing at this makeshift altar now was repulsive, she could convince herself to think of this marriage with the same sense of duty. Lamont had been in similar dire straits fourteen years ago, save there had been more Lamonts alive to complain about them. She straightened herself up at his side and mentally reminded herself to be pleasant. They did not have to like one another to work for the same goal. But it would certainly help. She pressed her lips together and held her tongue, listening to the Latin intonations as if hearing them for the first time. She ignored the pain radiating up her hand as she said her own lines, made the necessary signs, and when all was finished, turned to the clansmen. She did not expect them to offer her fealty as the Lady Inveryne, though she saw a few rustle. Confused loyalties would certainly make Fearghus's rebellion an interesting one. She looked to her husband, as he was the man with the plan. Truly, she had nothing to say to him, certainly nothing of wit. Even a caustic comment she had been practicing up in her room died away. All her plans of the past four years had been undone in this ceremony, and she honestly had little idea how to proceed from here. Just as the silence became awkward, a lad of only ten raced out of the room, slamming the door behind him. They could hear his shouts down the street, and in a great clatter, the church bells began to toll.

It might have seemed like the ceremony took forever, but in his mind it was only a matter of minutes for it was ended and they were turning toward the group. Clansmen stared, some with disbelief and others with barely concealed hostility. Blessed by the priest for the final time, he listened for the sound of the church bells and once they rang true he smiled in a way that had little to do with the happiness of his nuptials. "All of you are witness to this rite of marriage. No man here can say otherwise." His voice held a charismatic air to it, and let the air hang with all his words until he motioned toward the trestled tables that were even now being set inside the dining room. "My friends, let us dine." He gave Rosalind's hand one more painfully close squeeze before releasing her hand. "You may join us if you wish, or retain to your room, wife." She was nearly dismissed from his mind already, but he did so for a reason. If he wanted to know the depth of her anger, than he need only stroke it to find out for a certain.

She listened quietly, as attentively as any of the clansmen gathered. It would take more than a few goading words to raise her ire, for she had suffered more indignities than a curt dismissal from her own wedding reception. Rosalind waited until the men had laid in on their meal, noting it had been some time for most of them since they had eaten anything so hearty. It would win her no favor by interrupting them with a speech, so her words were reserved for her husband alone. "I am most curious -- where does the money for this come from?" She had an idea of many of his motives and actions over the past four years, but had little idea who might be funding him. He had money to hire a priest, no small sum, given what the man might earn otherwise. Money for the inn, the horses, the mercenaries sent to Aberdeen. Lest she seem ungrateful to the new Lord Inveryne, she would eat at his side, but would not delay long at the table. She could see the mixed emotions in the clansmen's eyes, and nothing good would be accomplished by stirring the pot now.

He deemed it unnecessary to answer her question as he sat at the table, and presided over the reception of his wedding. Instead, he turned his attention to his own plate. "Much has changed while you've waited attendance on the Lady Mary. You'll find your standing, and ours in turn is much improved." That was all he would say of the subject. If she chose not to dally at the table, he was of no mind to ask her the 'why' of it. When he was seemingly finished with his meal, he pushed from the table but remained seated while listening to the murmured utterances around him. Brow heavy with a frown, he seemed to filter through the chatter, placing some things into one place in his mind and the others allowing to simply pass him by. He enjoyed seeing that his new wife was confused by his means and he intended to keep it that way. Which of course meant that any visitors that Rosalind intended to meet with, or anyone she thought to curry favor with would have to be strictly monitored. He did not intend for her to meddle in affairs that he thought she was best left outside of.

He was a fool if he believed her greatest purpose in this life was to get him a son. She glanced sidelong at him as she ate, trying not to betray how truly famished she was. Did he believe she had spent the past four years darning Lady Mary's stockings? Embroidering tabards? When she had had her fill, she rose from her seat and laughed at the raucous jeers from the clansmen, who seemed in much better spirits with the free-flowing ale and mead. "You will have Inveryne," she called out to them, "and that is your duty! Now I must see to mine." With a sly wink, she turned, stooped beside her husband, and whispered into his ear. The world might think it was a sweet nothing or baudy enticement to follow, dependent on his reaction. There was no reason to think otherwise. "I do hope, for our sake, you mind the person giving you coin. I would like to give you the benefit of a doubt. Perhaps you are a decent man, and we will hold Inveryne. Perhaps the Lamonts will prosper once again, and be the example to all Scotland. But I, my lord, have no desire to find myself widowed again." She pressed her lips into his hair, a brief gesture to close the performance, and vanished up the stairs. Meddling was not something Rosalind did. She listened. She watched. It was in his hands how he chose to deal with her.

She knew how to work the heartstrings of all the men there and they raised their glasses whether to her or her words he did not know. What he did know was that she hadn't been simply darning stockings and embroidering tabards that was for a certain. He saw her as part viper and saw to keep whatever venom she had well away from his person. Head turning slightly, seeming for all the world to see that he was indeed enjoying some enticement of his new wife his voice held just a tint of borderline hatred in it. "It is more likely, Madame, that you will find yourself waked before that should happen. I assure you." Raising one broad hand toward the gathering he waited until they were quiet before speaking out loud to them. "My friends, I thank you for your respect and presence and will leave to you retire until the morrow." He rose then, not to follow her immediately but to give himself a few minutes of quiet without the unsettling presence of his new wife. He needed an heir, and he knew that Inveryne would be his by month's end. As for the Campbells, he knew that their time too was short lived. They were not the greatest power in the highlands any longer. Not while Fearghus Lamont was about it. But Rosalind's words held his thoughts as they traveled back to his current benefactor and he grunted. Soon enough there would be little need for him either.

She lit the few candles in the room upon entering. The fire had gone down since the maid last visited, but putting another log on helped stoke the flames into giving more heat. When she stopped by the window, she noticed no one on the streets, and chastised herself. Who would be on the streets on an autum night in this Godforsaken little village? Certainly no knight in shining armor. He would be late, even were he down below. And rather outnumbered. Her slight laughter erased the bitterness she suddenly felt. She splashed water upon her face, and knowing he would not be far behind, settled herself on the edge of the bed. She was not nervous at all, nor did she dread his visit, it being a necessary part of the arrangement, but she was sincerely disliking the idea of being in close quarters with him, in the dark, and on her own. He was a snake, and she had little reason to ever trust him. Finally, she heard his footsteps on the stairs, then watched the knob turn. Her heart began to race, and no matter how she willed, it would not slow. Perhaps she was nervous, she admitted, and glanced briefly up at the ceiling, as if held some answer for her.

Mounting the stairs, he thought for a moment that perhaps he was getting rather old to be playing the field of politics in such a fashion but the thought was quickly squelched with a low curl of laughter. The day he felt old was the day they would be placing him into the ground. What he wasn't at all certain of was his new wife on the other side of the door and how she might handle what was to transpire in the coming months. Washing some of the dust of travel from his face and next in the next room over from Rosalinds, he glanced out into the night and prayed momentarily for God's greater wisdom before turning the knob to her room. When the door swung open, he gazed at her there on the bed, sitting as serenely as she pleased. He hadn't expected her to be worried like a virgin, but then he wasn't sure at all what he should expect. She was a rather pointed enigma that he hadn't yet been able to decipher the key to unraveling. "I would that there was no animosity between us, Rosalind. But there will be times when I will not share what will be said to me behind closed doors. I will be faithful to you, and put no other woman before you. That is all." He wasn't sure why he declared himself thusly but it did in fact make himself feel somewhat lighter for the harsher line he had to take when finally managing to marry her. Certain things had to be done to protect the greater interests of the clan.

She studied him carefully. "A union free of animosity certainly would make things less complicated between us." She said it with a bit of hope, almost humor, though it was difficult to tell in the dim lighting. She rose from her seat. "There is no use arguing about the ... ceremony itself, really, is there. What's done is done." She could be very diplomatic when it suited her. But he was right. They would, at best, have another thirty or forty years together, an amount of time that seemed to stretch out beyond her comprehension, but would be made longer if they did not find some common ground. "I will not demand answers from you, Fearghus, but you must understand -- I can be a help to you. You insult me when you withhold information, as I would you, were I to maintain my silence. I suppose this lack of trust can be remedied?" She slowly walked to the fireplace and back, lacing her fingers behind her. When she next spoke, she stood at the fire, letting the flames warm her face. "And I hope you never underestimate my passion for my possessions. If it concerns Inveryne, I would know -- I have lost too much to be ignorant of your plans for it. If I deem it mine, I shall fight 'til my dying breath to maintain it." Her voice was cool, but her fingers tightened, until she realized she was hurting herself. She relaxed her shoulders. "That is all." She turned, a wry look in her eyes, conscious of the terms they were now dictating.

He could understand then, watching her as she stood by the fire with her face partially averted how and why so many would have fought for her. Why Domhall had loved her in his own fashion. "Aye, t'would." He would need an ally close to him in the coming days, but he was still leary of just how much of an ally she might be. "You will have no need to fight until your dying breath for Inveryne. There is greater game afoot, wife." That was all he would say of the heart of the matter. "It might stand well in your stead the less you knew of certain matters. If you are ... innocent to others things. That is all." He would not justify anything further than that. He saw no reason for it at present, and frankly he was bone tired with the length he had journeyed to find her, possess her and now it would seemed ... to keep her. Hand rustled through his hair, he sat on the bed with his back to her finally and shook his head. "We have discussed to much this night already. There will be more time on the morrow to speak of these matters. For now, I am for bed." His Norman French slipped, an indication that he was more than willing to forgo formality for the sake of peace at least for one night.

He is tired, hm? she thought to herself, just barely restraining her brow from arching. She had spent the last two days nonstop slung across the back of a horse and dragged into a marriage against her will. 'It is in the past' was becoming a very tired mantra. Ah, well. Bed did sound like a good idea, and whatever she had to do to get some much-deserved sleep, she was just beyond caring. She had had four years to ponder the mystery of events leading to Inveryne; she would not decipher the riddles in one night. "Well, then to bed. I hope you were not planning to sleep with your clothes on." She was already working on the tie at the back of her neck holding up the top layer of her dress, fingers easily loosening the knot. She was certainly not undressing him, nor did she plan on making this scene anything other than what it was.

"Aye, I was no'." His voice was roughened by the need to finally lay his head to rest but there was the simple matter of her potentially taking her leave of him. It wasn't that he would be forceful with his new wife but he simply hadn't the energy to deal with her fighting him. Instead he rose from the bed long enough to eye her as she undressed before grunting and moving past her. It was almost as if he was going to find his rest elsewhere but his only move was to lock the door and then press his back to it before sinking there to the floor, wrapping himself in his own heavy cloak. She would have to leap from the second story of the Inn in order to get away from him and even then she would have to get the window open and squeeze through it. Leaned against the door his head fell forward and he slipped into sleep with the ease that a child might have. But it was a light sleep even if it did not seem so. He did so as part of the self perseverance.

She rolled her eyes. "My lord, I have already broken my leg once. I have no desire to do so again." She stepped out of her gown. It was too chilly to go without her chemise for the night, so she remained half-clad, long enough to scurry from her place by the fire to the bed. Fearghus didn't seem the type to take a room at an inn with questionable standards of cleanliness, but she did run her hand under the covers just to make sure there weren't any nasty bity things waiting for her. If he wished to sleep on the floor, so be it. She was rather relieved not to deal with this awkwardness, even if it was delaying the inevitable. Drawing the covers over her head, she immediately fell asleep. Unfortunately for her, it was the sleep of the dead, these being the first hours she'd had in two days to sleep undisturbed.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

(edited from play)

His night was dubious at best, with the scent of embers dying from the peat fire he found himself roused by the slightest lisp of noise emitted from the bed. Drawing blood slowly into his extremities as he bit back a growl of derision. At least his wife had not had the opportunity or the means with which to escape, a thing which he was certain would have occurred at some point in the night had she been given the chance. There was barely a cusp of light coming in from the window. Drawn toward it, his eyes remained there before trailing to the sleeping form of his wife. With each breath she drew, his glower grew until he rose up from his position before the door and rumbled his way to the opposite side of the bed where she lay. Pulling at the coverlet, he drew it back long enough to stare at her gowned form. It wouldn't be right in his mind for his clansmen to come to the door to find him propped against it, now would it? And he had rights, but there was a moments pause before he was decided. Removing his clothes in curt fashion, he crawled into bed while it was still warm from her body only to take hold of her and settle himself. If she stirred at all he was certain at first there was no recognition.

Sleeping allowed her mind time to process the past three days. Unsettling dreams and nightmares encroached upon her sleep as dawn approached, turning her deep slumber into a restless struggle against waking. Rosalind hadn't much minded if he chose to sleep propped against the door, instead of taking his rights. She needed sleep; her mind, constantly tracking the shifts and sways of her own precarious position, needed rest. She was not naive enough to think he would go through so much trouble to leave the marriage unconsummated, the inevitability of what was to happen next chased her even in her sleep, the deep anxiety barely expressed on her calm features as she dreamed, despite her occasional tossing and turning. For a moment, when she felt the covers lift, and a warm body slide next to hers, her heart lifted. She had slept for ten years beside Domhnall; the four spent apart were not nearly enough to convince her body that he was truly gone. But something was not quite right in the grasp, and it pulled her closer to wakefulness. He sought her out with fumbling, rough hands, and wakefulness found her immediately. They struggled, awkwardly, until he loosed a curse into the pre-dawn air.

"Please, Fearghus. I am your wife, not a wench you found in a ditch."

Between her words and the fact that he was being drawn closer to wakefulness, his hands stilled on her body. Feeling the stiffness of her form he was furthered mollified although his curses toward God said something plainly to the otherwise. With utterances of her frigidity he pushed away from her as if she were as volatile as a hot brand. Cracking, his joints and muscles softened as he rose. Dawning his breeks and boots, he strode toward the bowl of water left previously and splashed his face before moving toward the dead fire and starting it anew. "We shall not remain here long." When he had finished dressing, he left the room they had shared without so much as a backward glance and only cursory instructions to the men in the hall that the Lady his wife would join them directly. His mood, stirred by unsated passion and self disgust was black.

She rested for but a moment after he left, her eyes staring up at the ceiling as if expecting the boards above would give her an answer. Too pragmatic to mope, Rosalind climbed out of bed. There was nothing to do but wear the dress that she had been wearing since Aberdeen, and she stepped into it with only a brief sound of disgust. She shoved her feet into her shoes and looked briefly around the room. The scent of him was everywhere, reminding her vividly of that unpleasant scene of a few moments ago. Likely used to whores and camp followers, she imagined the act held considerably less worth to him than it did to her. The idea of not only conquering the chills that raced along her skin at the idea of him touching her, but learning to enjoy that touch, was unfathomable. It occurred to her that her life was not nearly as valuable now as it had been before the witnesses gathered for the ceremony. Her death could be blamed upon the Campbells. With enough creativity, she knew Fearghus would be successful. She rubbed her shoulders as she walked around the room, her thoughts racing on in a singular direction. They would leave soon. She did not have much time. Though no one looked for her, she suspected if they moved, she stood no chance of escaping. "It is now or never," she whispered to herself, resting her hands upon the chair tucked beneath the desk. Offering a brief prayer, she picked up the chair, and slammed it against the corner of the fireplace with all the strength she could muster. And then she waited.

Thumping his way down the stairs where the board to break their fast awaited them. "See to my wife, the Lady's needs." Passing a dismissive wave toward one of the younger guard with him he sat and began to eat after the meal was blessed. It was while he was eating that he turned his thoughts to the woman upstairs and what was to be done. He couldn't kill her outright, and knew that there was a certain chance that she would attempt to flee him. Although they were married, and witnessed there was no certainty that the church would honor that claim. Nor would anyone else for that matter! Frowning into the mug of mulled ale before him, he listened with only half an ear to the priest next to him. What would he know about being a good husband? When he glanced up toward the stairs he wondered if there would ever be a time for peace with his new wife? Scoffing as he tore bread and drew a slab of cheese toward himself he knew for a certain that there would never be peace.

Angus rolled his eyes as he was all but dismissed to wait upon the lady. He wondered what he had done to deserve it? When he passed Gilead in the hall there was a snicker and his frown only deepened. reaching the door, his fist pounded against it. When there was no answer to the summons he pounded and swore at the same time. It might not have been right for him to do so, but he hadn't been told to be polite about it. And when she did not answer again, he assumed that something might be amiss and drew the dirk from his boot and pushed the door open. "You are wanted downstairs by his Lordship, your Husband." Seeing her with the broken chair leg, he stood still, blocking the doorway.

The reverberation from the chair jarred her painfully, but she held her ground. She slammed the chair a second time, and was rewarded with the sound of several pieces clattering to the stone hearth. She picked up the sturdiest piece, a chair leg the thickness of her wrist. It wasn't much, but she would fight him with whatever she had. She could not out maneuver him. He was taller, faster, and heavier. She was not certain what she hoped to win. Surely, an escape even armed was impossible. For a moment, she faltered. There was no way she could fight Fearghus, much less the men with him at the tavern. Why could she not accept this? Her grip loosened slightly on the chair leg. Perhaps she misunderstood Fearghus. Perhaps. She quieted her thoughts upon hearing bootsteps down the hall. Could she be at peace with a husband that acted more a jailer? She moved behind the door and raised the chair leg, quieting her breathing throughout the heavy-fisted knocking at the door. The knob began to turn. He entered, and for a moment, she stupidly listened to him speak. They both seemed to realize the ridiculousness of the situation, but fortunate for Rosalind, she was the quicker to act. She swung the chair leg around like a baseball bat and brained him before he even had the chance to defend himself from the attack. She quickly rifled through his clothes, expecting at least to find an eating knife, which would be a bit more wieldy than the chair leg. Alas, Fearghus was thorough with his men, and she found nothing. He was alive, though, she was glad to admit. She dragged him into the room, clear of the doorway, and picked up her weapon again. She heard another man in the hall, and lingered just out of sight in the door. Rewarded but a few moments later when the second guard approached, suspicious at the loud thump from Rosalind's room, but hardly expecting what came flying at his head from out of nowhere, he went down just as swiftly as the first lad. Again, she found nothing on him worth replacing her chair leg. She crept down the hall and peered down the stairs. Again, she worried. What could she accomplish by fighting? She would be stopped as she went for the door. She could hardly expect to run away on her badly-mended leg. Oh, merciful heavens -- just what had she started?

It would have taken Angus more than he had to realize the situation. When he was assaulted by the chair leg, his nose opened and a fountain of blood spurted out while he wavered on his feet for the span of a few heartbeats before falling, face down onto the floor. The noise although it stirred the dust from the boards there, did nothing to bring on any others. With the hall way and stairs clear she could take her leave if she so chose but there were guards posted outside with the horses. However, those guards were currently embroiled with dice to one corner of the stables.

Below, however while all this was going on, Fearghus listened now in earnest to the tale of some other laird who was having equal troubles with his own wife who was English born. And to some degree the joke of how an English woman was almost as responsive in bed as a dead one was. He laughed uproariously at the jest, falling on the same humor as he had always used before to ensure the respect of his men. He was for all the world to see, a man's man. When he wife did not immediately appear he thought nothing of it. But continued to do as he had.

She eased herself down the stairs, one step at a time. She heard the generic noise of men busy socializing in the taproom, and wondered what the vantage point of her husband would be. Would he see her slip out the door toward the stables? And what of the men outside? Though she handy with the chair leg, the element of surprise would eventually wear off, and she would have on her hands a nest of very angry Scots. With nothing to lose at this point, Rosalind moved quickly through the doorway and darted to the side. She crept toward the stables, clenching the chair leg in her right hand and struggling to control her breathing. She heard a burst of laughter from the stables intermingled with long groans of loss. Startled at the men's presence, when Fearghus had seemed so intent on leaving immediately, she grew a little bolder in her escape. With the men concentrating on their dice, Rosalind quietly approached one of the horses, drawing one hand up the horse's flank in a soothing gesture. Once she had the horse's trust, she led the beast just a few steps away from the others.

With the continued carousing of a moment's peace, each person to a man was taken up in full with the idea of having the morning to do nothing more than please themselves. Their journey with Fearghus had been a long one and although it seemed as if peace might be in sight for their clan and in turn ... revenge they relished in the idea that their futures were now secure with the marriage of their laird. There were several scuffles, and no shortage of curses but their vigilance was indifferent at best. When Fearghus had concluded his meal, it was with the realization that his wife had disobeyed him and had never come down stairs. His first inclination was to let her starve herself, that he he didn't care but when his page came to him with word that Angus was dead, and that blood pooled the entirety of the room almost he was certain that this was the work of his wife. After watching over her all night she had finally made her escape and with the death of a clansman to boot. It set a rage in him that had him howling toward the ceiling. He would not allow those around him to think as they would, but began directing them to see to their horses. Surely a woman such as herself could not have gone far. And if she had, then he would get her back by force if necessary. Then he would strangle her slowly while she begged for her life. No one did this to him. No one! His mood continued to spiral outward until he was ready to draw blood himself. He ordered them mounted, but it was soon discovered that his horse was now ... missing. As the world dropped away from his vision, he found his hands were now around the throat of another younger clansman, and he was struggling to breathe as his fingers pinched his airway closed. It was almost as if a vessel in his brain had broken and left him with nothing but madness. Towering over the lesser man, it took mere seconds to snap his windpipe, turn on the crowd of men now gathered and curse them all to mount and find her. There would be a spoil of gold for the first that brought her back alive, and silver for the one who brought her back dead. With the priest nit picking at his toes, he took another horse and stormed off in search of his wife.

A few steps, a few more, and soon the horse had been separated without issuing a single sound. The gamblers went on dicing as she slid one foot into a stirrup and, with difficulty, she forced her injured leg over the saddle, bunching her skirt up between to ride like a man. Domhnall had had no time to coddle a woman. When she came to Inveryne, he had taught her to ride as any other of his men. It was not so strange, but she had not been upon her own horse since the fall of Inveryne four years before. She was awkward at first, but that made no difference -- she picked her way very slowly around the stables, and only when she was sure they were out of earshot, increased her pace. She had been gone no more than a few minutes when she heard a rider behind her. She gasped, hunkered down, and kicked her mount into a faster speed. Escape had gone from ridiculous to a possibility, and the glimmer of hope was too real to slow down now.

They spread out, a wide forest of hunters to the fox. But half of the men who were with them didn't know what to look for, and so they scrambled through the glens of wooded areas without certainty. Some were told that she was blond, and others though tthat she was red haired. She was wearing blue, no she had been wearing red. Her cloak had fur, or it was trimmed with ribbons. For whatever reason, luck held on Rosalind's side as they spread out thinner than they should have so that there were holes amidst their line. Holes a single rider who was slight of build could have easily slipped through without much notice. It only served to enrage Fearghus further, and he had no choice after two hours but to send scouts outward and regroup his men. They would turn their pockets out to the villages and someone among them would tell of a woman with an injured leg who past through. When he had Rosalind again, she would never ever escape him. Ever.

The rider kept on, persistent and inexorable. Rosalind pressed her horse harder, but she knew his determination to capture her was matched with her determination to escape. It was a matter of whose mount was the strongest, and after a while, they both discovered it was Rosalind's. His horse faltered as hers picked up speed. When he dropped back and turned away, she slowed her mount and turned him in a different direction. She wasn't sure where she was going, just of the direction she had come from, and that going back was no option she could ever entertain. She clutched the chair leg in her left hand, the reins in her right, and picked her way through the hillsides. The territory was vaguely familiar, but she would have to go to a village soon for food and shelter. Autumn nights in Scotland were not kind to those unprepared, and with nothing but a thin cloak and the dark green dress she had left Aberdeen with, she would have a difficult night without food in her stomach. On the next ridge, she scouted signs of smoke and followed her nose. She knew better than to enter the town, instead pilfering eggs from the henhouse and a length of unguarded sausages before taking off with the horse for the woods. As she entered the forest again, she noticed a limp in her mount's gait and uttered a fierce curse. She inspected the hoof to find no stone or pebble, but the damage had been done. Her mount was useless. From here on, she went by foot.

His forces spread quickly, passing word that a lone woman atop a horse should be kept at all costs. Gold crossed the palms of many but there were few who kept their eyes to the road to see if perhaps a woman did pass through. As night drew closer, Fearghus found himself lacking any patience necessary to deal witht he fact that his wife was still not recovered. He ordered more men from the surrounding villages, any that would come to his request for aid. And when they refused, he bribed them with more gold. Soon the surrounding forests were rife with men on foot as they prodded every stone and turned each log. She would be found before the moon was straight above in the sky. At sword point, she was laughable at best with nothing more than a chair leg to defend herself against four well armed men. That was how Fearghus found her, and when he saw her standing defiant and unarmed among the tall fire that was recently stoked he took no time in crossing the distance to her, a feral sneer on his lips. "Ah, my wife. I see your jaunt for this day is past." He gave her no other greeting, and no warning of what was to come but reeled back his arm and slapped her with a snarl. As she crumpled beneath the blow he contemplated hitting her anew but the crowd of men behind him stopped his forward progress. Instead, he grasped her by the hair, drawing her head back so that he might whisper in her ear. "Cause me more trouble, and what I will do to you will surpass any nightmare you can fathom. Do I make myself ... clear?" He spoke in Latin, knowing that only the priest might be able to understand. But he knew well that she did.

No sooner had she finished one of the sausages, but she heard the forest go silent in a very ominous way. She dropped what she was holding, all of it, and held her hands out palms up. Rosalind was stubborn, fiercely independent, and capable of leading armies, but she was also a realist. Realistically, she could not win this fight. Hardly acting the role of the defeated woman, however, upon seeing Fearghus, she righted her posture and raised her chin, leveling dark hazels upon him with a ferocity that would send a lesser man running. She had never been hit with such force before, and aside from her blazing jaw, was impressed at how swiftly she had collapsed. She couldn't remember the fall. Given no time to ruminate on physics, he drew a sharp gasp of pain when he picked her up by her hair. Her jaw was so stiff, she worked it slowly a few times before speaking, and only then, responded with great effort.

"As crystal, my lord."

Perhaps he would see the look in her eyes that guaranteed she would weigh the risks and benefits of any further action. Even with the cold abyss in his eyes, she knew her limits now, and was willing to learn from her mistakes. No matter how long she had to wait, no matter what must be done, she would win this battle. She blinked slowly, and the look of absolute rebellion vanished. She would obey.

Dropping his hand from her hair, he turned without so much as a backward glance. "I expect nothing more than your obedience. I care not for tears, or laughter." With that he said nothing more as he called for a horse for his wife and for another for himself. Without a word toward her, the men gathered her toward her mount and helped her sit astride. When they were all mounted, with Rosalind at the center they moved toward an even more ancient relic of a castle than the one they had originally called home. It would do for now, Fearghus thought as it loomed above them. But only for now.

[/left]

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Locked well away from the rest of the Clan, the Lady Lamont was little better than a prisoner in the castle that could only be called a decrepit bid at being a fortress. Its stone was gray as most were, but there was an unhealthy sheen of green that often crept side long against the seems, mold feasting on the damp that seeped through as the winds of the highlands howled. With guards posted outside the solid oak door, there was little enough to pass the time save to sit and think. Fearghus was sure that Rosalind had plenty on her mind to mull. He saw to the most basic of her needs, but failed to do more so than that. Had he his own way she would have remained as out of sight as a ghost, relegated to the obscurity of a rather insane relative. There were other members of his household that thought differently and one morning when the sun had broken through the normally dismay gray of clouds that clung to the dilapidated castle the door which had been previously barred was thrown open and with it came a tub the size of a man, bucket of steaming water and a woman who was slight of build and had hair that was more golden than red, and brilliant green eyes. She had a calm manner about her, taking stock of the Lady Lamont as she might any person in her care. Tongue clucked, she shook her head gently and patted the folds of her simple green dress. "They've no' been kind." Her voice was sweet, but competant. Turning she snapped at the guards, herding them about with the tub and buckets until all was finished before sending them away with a flutter of hands. Standing before the Lady, she looked almost as if she had accomplished some great feat. "You'll have a bath, then?" From the rather worn look of her, Gwen was of a mind that a bath would have been most welcome.

There was not so much as a single tapestry to keep out the cold of this damp fortress. Though she was an efficient task mistress, and Mary's court had hummed on under Rosalind's management, she was not certain how long they would remain in this place. Boredom had the better of her not long after arriving, and even if she wished to put the household to rights, the door remained barred and her intractable, furious host kept well on his side of the keep. After long hours of thinking through her situation, she came to a conclusion moments before drifting off to sleep. With no cause to rise early and attack the day with her usual vigor, she was still in bed when the door flew open and the tub arrived. Another servant went to stoke up the fire in the hearth, since it had all but died overnight through neglect. Rosalind climbed out of bed and wrapped herself in one of the blankets for warmth, carefully observing the young woman before her. This was not Fearghus's doing. He did not seem the sort to hit a woman before his host of men and then send a peace offering in the form of a bath, welcome as it was after nearly a week of living in the same clothes as she had worn the night she was taken from Aberdeen. But maybe it was. Maybe, she reasoned with only the slight overtone of defeat, she had misjudged Fearghus. She should be kinder, more tolerant. These had always been her faults, and now bitterness and rage had honed them into a blade far sharper than she could wield. "A bath would be lovely," she said at last, choosing not to respond to the young woman's comment about the lack of kindness. It was obvious by the bruise upon her cheek that Rosalind had not received much in the way of hospitality recently. Instead, she made her way closer to the fire and dropped the blanket and then held out her arms to be undressed.

"Aye, lovely." Careful of her own position within the household or rather, the lack thereof she moved with a patient air to assist the Lady of the household undress. Having seen her limp, Gwen's heart swelled with both understanding and a little pit of pity for the poor woman. She'd not had an easy time of it and with expert handling had Rosalind in the steaming water before she could protest. "You'll no' have an easy go of it wit' tha' Laird I cannae tell ye wha' a temper he 'as because 'tis obvious ye've already seen tha'." She couldn't have spoken words more true, and from the unlady like snort that Rosalind emitted there came only a nod. Steeping the water with rosemary and lemon, she used a rough short haired brush to scour the grime from the lady's skin so that it glowed rosy and healthy once more. When that was done, the set about rinsing her hair with more lemon and soapwart so that it shone in the light. Assisting her from the tub, Gwen made sure she was wrapped into a towel before briskly rubbing her dry and warm, lathering her in healing salve and then setting her into a clean chemise of fine lawn. It's collar was embroidered with deep blue flowers. Seating Rosalind into a chair, she began brushing the tangles from her hair, plaiting it and setting it before moving to a sachel. "How long has your leg pained you, my lady?" Her voice still held it's sweet lilt but there was worry in her voice.

Rosalind was usually a quick judge of character. She was often correct in her judgments, but occasionally, someone surprised her enough that she felt compelled to apologize. She knew what she liked and what she didn't, particularly in household staff, and could see the use of maintaining this woman. She knew, without Rosalind's suggestion, exactly which herbs to use, and that Rosalind's personal preferences in scent were remnants from a childhood spent in France. Save the ghastly florals for the English, she once told Mary with a laugh. They need it more. She relaxed in the tub, enjoying a bit of luxury for once, as she listened to the Scottish woman's musical voice without feeling much need to reply until she was out of the water and dressed. "It is not a defect of birth. It was crushed beneath a wagon wheel some four years prior and reset, but it did not mend properly. It only pains when the weather changes." She smiled at the end of the last statement. The girl was from this land -- and likely knew the only constant in Scotland's weather was that it would change.

It pained her greatly to know that the woman had to suffer, and given the constantly cold of their country it probably did most often. "I could, tha' is ifin' ye'll allow it make ye a cup of fermented poppies an' honey. 'Tis no' a cure all, but t'will take some of yer pains away for a wee while." Taking up a horse hair brush, she moved the bristled gently against her mistress's scalp with the care of someone used to doing so often for others. "Yer supper shall be up shortly. On tha' morrow yer ta' be given a tour of yer house and ta' inspect tha' servants." Most of which was her doing, but she said nothing of it. It wasn't her place, though she yearned heartily for the man that was now tied by Church and State to Rosalind. It simply wasn't to be for her and Fearghus, but that did not mean she would love him any less, nor invited him any less frequently to her bed. "I've brought ye a few gowns, but ye'll have to be takin' them in since yer just a wee bit more slight than tha' lass we borrowed them from. She's a tiny bit wider in the hip than ye." Good sturdy clothing, with a fine weave. They had no doubt once been the property of the last lady of this castle and were slightly outdated but beggars couldn't be choosers in Gwen's mind. The lady needed proper attire and she procured it the only way she knew how. "There are several rooms which have nae been opened, sae ye may wish ta' see them." There were tapestries here somewhere, she was sure of it but the storage rooms had been barred to all save for the lady of the house, who Gwen had pointed out to Fearghus was locked away like a ragged criminal. She'd been subtle, clever even and had eventually gotten her way. Lucky for her, Fearghus was a soft touch when it came to her.

It was typical for the lord of the house to keep other women nearby for his use. Rosalind would not be much troubled if Fearghus did, given how much she loathed his company. That her late husband had not kept any of the servants for his personal use had been an oddity that suited their marriage. As much as difference divided Domhnall and Rosalind, they had found joy in one another's companionship. He had treated her as an equal, and she had trusted him to do what was fair. It wasn't right to compare her two husbands, she knew, but it was bound to happen. "Supper sounds wonderful. I am so hungry! And really, the pain is not bad today -- I would reserve aught made of poppies for my worst days. As for the clothing, it is much appreciated. I did not have much with me when I left Aberdeen, but I did have one or two dresses, if they were brought here, they should serve me well until the new ones are altered." She thought about the other rooms in the household. It wasn't her place to comment about what was in Fearghus's coffers, but the first purchases that must be made were new tapestries. Those she had seen on her way to her suite had been in tatters due to God only knew what. It disgusted her to imagine mold and moths run that rampant. Instead, she asked what she thought the healer might know. "Do you know how long my husband intends to remain here?" He planned, after all, to take Inveryne soon. When they left, it would only be for that stronghold. Her voice remained firm, even as the thought of retaking the keep sent shivers down her spine.

Nodding and humming in agreement she thought to perhaps brew a less potent infusion that might suit her ladyship on a more daily basis but said naught. If she didn't know what was in her tea, it wasn't likely to hurt her only help her feel better. "Ye've only tha' two gowns?" It was almost appalling for Gwen to think of her mistress has having only two gowns when she herself had six! While chewing at the inside of her lip she made a mental note of it to ensure that lady as more better suited lest it be figured out too soon what she herself was to the household. With her mistress properly gowned and coiffed she step to the door long enough to order that supper brought up before she began the task of seeing to the tub being emptied and the fire restocked with wood. Her eyes never met Rosalind's as she wandered and it was apparent that Gwen was unsure as to how much she should say regarding the subject. "Tha' Laird has no' disclosed to us yet when we shall make our move against Inveryne. We ta' wait fer some sign he said." Of course, what that was, she didn't know.

"My title was bankrupt until recently," she commented lightly. "I was at the mercy of the Campbell court. Oui, only two gowns." The way she had lived her life for the past four years had been on Mary's terms, but they had been agreeable to Rosalind. It was a gilded cage, but one she had willingly climbed into. The terms upon which she used Highland hospitality to save her life were well known in the old rumors that once dominated fireside talk in these mountains. She cared not a whit for whose table she supped at, so long as she was fed. When she had been abandoned by her own clan four years ago, she did not believe anyone would be judge and arbiter over the rest of her life. But that had certainly been her motivation for fleeing Scotland in the first place. She was glad, though, this girl had some sympathy for her. It was more than she was earning from the Lamonts at the moment. "Ah, it was silly to involve you. Forgive me. I ... feel as though I am being led blind. Your lordship keeps his ambitions closely guarded. I do admire that quality in him. No matter. It seems we will be here some time, if he deems is necessary to make this keep livable." Rosalind took her seat again, smoothing the oversized gown around her.

It amazed Gwen that her mistress could be so amendable to her husband even with the way she had been treated. She found it highly unlikely that were she to be struck into the same position that she would have reacted the same but she was born low for even a Scot with a lowland mother and stood fast to the highlanders way of things which included rebelling whenever it suited her. She wasn't above railing at Fearghus either to get what she wanted, and more than likely were she in Rosalind's place she'd have howled the walls down. At the mere mention of the Campbell name she was compelled to spit into the fire, which she did so lustily. "Tis no' for nothin' tha' ye had ta' endure them. Tha' Laird no doubt intends ta' keep this place, sae tis no' an unwise decision ta' see ta' its upkeep my lady." Going about her duties she made sure that the linens upon the bed were changed, that the rushes were gathered and that new were brought in along with springs of rosemary and that the lady was in general made as comfortable as possible even given the condition of the room in which she was in. She brougth emoidery thread and cloth as well as parchment, ink and quill. When all was done as it could be, she sat herself and went about peeling the leaves from dried bundles of thistle and club moss for her medicines. "Is France really as beautiful as they say tis?" She was curious of the lady's upbringing but wouldn't ask outright as she figured it would be rude.

Rosalind was determined to be above reproach as a good wife, no matter the circumstances bringing her to where she was. It was easy to do, she thought, given she hadn't seen Fearghus in a while. She could let her outrage die and accept the fact that she was now wedded, if not bedded. She could, if he would let her, be an asset rather than a figurehead. She knew the Campbells and her way around them, had good standing among other clans due to her association with Lady Mary, not to mention the clout of having single-handedly defended Inveryne for several long months after Domhnall foolishly got himself killed. She had slept on all of it, and was more or less at peace with her decision. Those thoughts were not very far from her mind as she listened to the healer, turning over every word about Fearghus with particular care. "He truly intends to rebuild this clan." Though she was careful, even she couldn't hide the sense of wonderment. Where were you four years ago? she demanded silently of him, unconsciously balling her right hand. Luckily, Gwen shoved an embroidery hoop in that hand, and Rosalind stabbed at the image for several long minutes. Her knots were tiny and precise, perfectly placed and delicate. When her sudden wave of anger ebbed, she slowed down the stitches. Her nose twitched at the scent of the herbs and she smiled. "I do not remember my mother, but one of the women who cared for me in my youth had some knowledge of herbs. That is what I remember of France -- the freshness of the herbs and vegetables, the occasional fruit for dessert, the fields of lavender stretching as far as the eye can see. I think France is beautiful, but I left it so long ago. My memory is more emotion than fact. Scotland has it's own beauty. Inveryne especially. Are you from the Dunoon area?" She never could distinguish the Scots accents and doubted the validity of those who said they could.

Listening, there was only the occassional rustle from the dried bundles and she picked and peeled. Not every bud was abused for she chose only the best, the ones she felt would be most effective. "I have given ta' growin' lavender within tha' keep nearer ta' tha' hearth's heat. 'Tis tha' only way I can have them survive tha' cold." Which would only get more brutal as the days roamed onward into deep winter. She herself often felt a strange sense of wonder whenever Fearghus spoke of the clan and bringing about it's rise to the former glory that it once held. Not simply because of the power he would wield then, but because the people deserved the right to thrive in their own land. It made her misty eyed more often than not, and she chose her words with great care, but there was no denying the conviction of thruth that laced that sweet lilt. "Aye, he'll see tha' deed done and there nae be a doubt tha' he'll no' live ta' see it done. A stubborn man is our Laird, but no truer a one was there ever." Sighing softly, she set aside one bundle for another to begin all over again. Drawing out time was a skill she knew no better, and listened with a half smile. "I've heard tha' there are places there tha' rival tha' greenest pasture in tha' highlands. I often wondered if it were true." Laughing a little then, she sounded like a rather cheerful bird before she hummed to herself as the door was thrown open and with it came a small oak table, and another maid bearing a covered tray. With one ill look cast toward Gwen, the table was set and the servants departed. "Now ye jus' go on with yer dinner and I'll return in a wee while ta see ye put right ta bed. Tha' morrow will bring sorrow enough!" Twittering once more, she shook her head and left more quietly than she had come.

"I hope he does," she replied quietly. She would believe it when she saw it. The sudden change in Fearghus's priorities over the past four years left her suspicious, and undoubtedly, she was the only one with her doubts. He had wholeheartedly convinced the Lamonts that he could restore the clan. Their marriage was surety to that fact. She studied her embroidery rather than the maid. Rosalind could not be the one to shatter the reality Fearghus had so carefully crafted, not when the girl seemed so hopeful. Hope was a feeling not many under the stewardship of Lamont had felt in fourteen years, since the battles of Bannockburn and Stirling. It would be callous and cruel to do so. Men could change. She had to give Fearghus a chance. "There are, I really do believe, and I miss it greatly. Perhaps some day you will see it yourself." When the food arrived, Rosalind set down her embroidery and took her seat. When she looked up, Gwen was gone, and Rosalind was alone again. She felt lonelier than before Gwen's arrival, realizing what an effect the absence of lovely company had.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

She could not put her finger to it. She could not say why or when. She had no ready explanations, only what unfolded before her, as if no animosity between husband and wife had existed. Her first day of liberation from her room was spent tentatively moving from one door to another in quiet assessment of the keep her husband was calling temporary home before the move onward to Inveryne, if they did not all perish in the process. It was a distinct possibility, and she wondered, more than briefly, whether this had occurred to Fearghus. Rosalind had not yet seen the extent of his rage, nor -- despite his beliefs -- was she trying to bring him to that edge, but she had her suspicions. Perhaps he was mad. All of Lamont was mad. And this was why recapturing Inveryne was not only a possibility, but a crusade. She had learned from her father the disillusionment of the failed Crusader. She had learned to hold what was tangible. If Fearghus had acted four years ago, she knew she would be more obliging to this marriage. He was forcing her to hold a dream in her hands that had brought her nothing but pain. On the second day, she put the people of this keep to work. Tapestries replaced on the damp walls, carpets brought into drafty rooms, peat and firewood stocked near every hearth, and so many other chores there was not a moment of rest among any of the keep's denizens. On the third day, amidst the ordered chaos, Rosalind saw the remaining women put to work at the looms before taking off for the great hall to consult with the huntsmen.

Not a moment did he find himself in peace. There were far too many preparations to be made while winter was still settling before he could consider them ready. And ready they nearly were, though such information was kept quiet, barely whispered among his followers. They came daily to pledge themselves to the cause, and he like any other good Laird brought them to his table and welcomed them with hospitality. At his side more often than not was either his wife whom he spoke to only briefly and if absolutely necessary or his mistress to whom he seemed to defer much to and smile often. It was a strange happenstance, but one he either thought none would notice or did not care. Between both women his home was better for it, even if it was not truly their home and his people also would be better so this made him content. Yet at night, when the fires were dying and the walls quiet could he quietly seethed over the situation he was forced to endure. Even now as he rallied with his men for a hunt, he was pressed to remain as neutral as possible given that his wife felt the need to make her presence among them known. "We go to raid, wife." His Norman French was flawless, but there was a distinct undertone of dislike for the tongue itself. Scots should have spoken Gaelic, and given he'd chosen to speak to her in French he obviously thought she was not one.

Her late husband had thought much the same of the Norman dialect, yet so frequent were his dealings with his social peers, his affairs were always conducted in flawless French. The nobility spoke the language of England's elite. Though there were barriers in communication among Lowland Scots and the Highland Gaels, at least their ruling heads had a common tongue among them. Practicalities of dealing with the ladies of Scotland, however, had made it quite clear what role her native tongue would play in Fearghus's household. Where the Campbells found her Norman ways enviable, this Lamont household had little use for manners. Apparently. She smiled anyway at her lord husband's declaration. The huntsmen would likely not see the brittleness in her expression, nor did they see the wary truce between the Lord and Lady Inveryne was a fragile one. "The boar and the deer stand little chance against your might," she replied lightly, causing twitters from the hunters. Though she protested the marriage, she knew her clansmen as well as Fearghus. Humor went a long way toward securing loyalty. "Now, who will bring back supper for our table?" she asked, switching effortlessly to Gaelic. "Is it you, Duncan? Or you, Alexander? Or pray will it be my Lord Inveryne?" At the chorus of boastings, Rosalind laughed, turning toward Fearghus. "I believe a challenge has been offered," she concluded.

That she could tie men together was something to be admired, but to what length would that be of value and how can I hold fast if she chooses to try and take it from me? Knowing that what ice he tread upon was thin at best, he chose to be magnanimous at least for the moment toward his wife. His laughter was loud, bellowing over the gathering in a manner that suggested he enjoyed the light banter with his wife. "Indeed, so a challenge has been made! What say you men? A handful of gold to the man who brings down the largest game." Rather than search for the undercurrents he let himself be swept up in the competition as any other man might. It would be enjoyable to do something for sport even if she had suggested it in her own fashion. Grudgingly he should perhaps thank her in some way but he would ask his Gwen first what sort of thanks might one give a wife like Rosalind? Awkward for a moment, he debated what to do before placing a hurried kiss to her cheek before signaling that they should at least gather the forces. He felt like a swain too tied by his tongue to do anything of worth when it came to this woman but there was so much riding on their marriage. It was enough to make a man daft.

Rosalind was not about to dismiss Fearghus's efforts. He was obviously loved by his men, or he would not have been half as daring as he was. Aside from his astounding showing in Aberdeen, smuggling Rosalind across the whole of Scotland, and arranging their speedy marriage -- he was not simply waving the possibility of Inveryne before his men, he was a man who knew the business of war. Rosalind, who had known Lamont when it was wealthy and when it was bankrupt, knew the costs of keeping so many men beneath one roof. She knew the cost of armor and weapons, food and supplies, and what she was spending in repairing their current stronghold was insignificant in the face of Fearghus's expenses. She held her suspicions at bay; now was not the time to address where the money was coming from, just as it was not the time to announce she was giving her husband another chance. She wanted, truly, to see the men of Lamont hold their heads high again. So did Fearghus. She laughed at his hurried kiss, but without the mirthless edge she usually reserved just for him, and cheered on the hunters as they poured outside into the courtyard. If she had visions of Fearghus suffering a hunting accident or any other dreams of malchance, they did not show on her face. She seemed genuinely pleased.

There were horses to be saddled, bows and quivers to be checked and stocked and all the while this was going on there had to be beer and salted meats for no doubt one could not have a hunt without a break or two in between. His men deserved the chance for sport and perhaps so did he. That his wife was cheering them on, and laughing in the face of his obviously ineptitude was something out of a dream and no doubt he would wake and they would be at one another's throats before dawn broke tomorrow. But for now, there was only the heightened sense of anticipation that came just before they mounted and rode off. Before he mounted though, he turned back toward his wife with a strange sort of expression on his face. One of puzzlement and perhaps a little bemused. That she spoke Gaelic would stand her in good stead, so perhaps there was something to this ... truce sort of thing Gwen had spoken of before. "See tae our castle, m'Lady. We'll return afore while with yer supper. Bar tha' door an' let none enter without tha' crest of Lamont." She of course would know well what he meant but still, it needs be said. As he turned the roan, he gave a brief glance to those that would remain behind and decided on a whim. "Behold yer Mistress, my wife. What orders she gives, are orders of my own. What insult ye give her, ye give me." Hopefully those who had wondered her place in their lives would now know of the full of it.

The autumn was not yet chill enough to need a cloak, but her gown was of thick wool, and was comfortable enough indoors and out. She followed the men into the courtyard and stood well out of the way amidst the chaos. The horses whinnied and pawed the ground, sensing the excitement of the clansmen yet hampered by the walls of the keep. She listened to Fearghus's announcement with disbelief, struggling with her heart to maintain her usual serenity. The trust he placed in her meant a good deal. She did not deserve it, not after her honeymoon jaunt. She wondered how much it had cost him to speak those words, but again, was not fool enough to ask him. It seemed when she was most direct, he was most likely to respond with brutality. If walking sideways around this man was the key to marital happiness, she rather wished she'd learned this lesson sooner. Slightly cross with him yet again for the quickness of their marriage, for another reason entirely this time, she smiled anyway. Rosalind could find the humor in their situation, even if he could not. "Of course. May be you will even find the keep still standing upon your return. Bonne chance!" she called out to the hunters as men began to mount their horses.

If he heard her he made no mention of it but kept the smile on his face just the same. Rallying the hunters around him with a sharp jerk of the reigns, he haled his wife once more before taking off with a cloud of dust. They would find their game on the lands of other clans and leave only a faint trace of their passing. As for his wife, he would have to think long and hard on this tentative truce and what was to become of them. Surely there was a way that they might dwell in peace? That his heart belonged to Gwen would pose a problem, but he was certain that if he spoke candidly to his wife, something could be arranged. He would have harmony in his household so help him God, or he would string all of them up by their thumbs. Though is soured his thoughts on the matter, it didn't drag his spirits down as he and his men went about the business of bringing down large game for the hall's supper. A challenge was a challenge and he as skilled as any of the others. They would roast well tonight, and smoke what was left for the long coming siege. They would need these fine memories of frivolity in the coming times when there was blood and death around them.

Rosalind busied herself once again in the task of managing this household. It was easier done without clansmen constantly underfoot. With the kitchens nearly emptied, she had everything scoured from top to bottom, leaving the doors open to air out the musty larders. It would not do to have fresh meat go bad for lack of a clean place to store it. She watched the daylight through the windows, noting at its waning moment the voices of men on the air, and the clatter of the hunting party's return. In private, she admitted how anxious she was at Fearghus's return. They were doing so well lately. She didn't want to spoil it. She didn't want him to spoil it. If they could live beneath the same roof and speak no more than a few words to one another, perhaps the marriage could work. Unfortunately for both of them, they would have to find an accord in private as well, and that had been their greatest failing thus far. She would never break her public image. But in private, she had no qualms of speaking her mind, nor making her demands known. After greeting the hunters and watching Fearghus award the victorious man, she returned to what she did best -- mobilizing the staff. With the game being prepared in the kitchens, Rosalind finally retired for the day, as was her right as lady of the keep. She removed her tabard and splashed water upon her face from the basin in her room, and then discreetly sent a servant to ensure Fearghus was being looked after.

With the good cheer of his men around him and the boisterous sounds of cups being filled he found himself relaxing more so than he had in a good long while. He was brought a basin filled with hot water, and fresh linen to wash the dust of the hunt from his face. Without thinking he cleaned his face and hands before calling out orders for the table to be set. They would dine, and then he promised the men around him that they would plan. There was talk, masculine murmurs of invasion and siege, of death and glory. Seated with those of his clan around him, a mug of fine ale in his hand and the spoils of the day decorating his table he could very well imagine that perhaps his wife might have very well have had something to do with it. Much later when he sought his bed, with the guttering of candles decorating the halls he noted well that the rushes were clean and the tapestries refreshed. Between Rosalind and Gwen this place turned into a fine home. But it wasn't their home, and he had already vowed to God and man that he would see the Lamonts where they belonged or die trying. Too little had been done before and he meant to do right by them all this time. As he passed the door of his wife's rooms he thought of disturbing her, but gave up the notion when he realized that there was little enough that he might say to his wife that would not end in an argument, so rather than begin one he chose the coward's path and sought the company of his mistress, who greeted him with a puzzled look before welcoming him with an understanding smile. If any knew the tenuous threads between husband and wife, it was the woman on the outside.

She grew restless in the privacy of her rooms. Waiting, always waiting, to see which route Fearghus would take that she might adjust accordingly was tiresome. Perhaps if they could just speak as equals -- if he would listen to her.... But what would she say to him? It was apparent he liked this match no better than she. Why state the obvious? She paced her room, feeling caged despite her newfound freedom. What words of diplomacy could she use to ensure this household remained a strong one? To put Fearghus's mind at ease, and her ghosts to rest? She stopped abruptly, amused at how quickly her mind had accepted the marriage despite the fact that it remained unconsummated. Just days ago, she would have found Fearghus's absences a blessing. Now, they merely made her wonder. "Well," she murmured to herself. She took a candle and lit the taper in the flames of her hearth and quietly made her way down the hallway. She couldn't shake off the feeling she was about to enter the lion's den, but he had not been available at any other time during the day. Her choices for approaching him were limited. Biting her lip, she raised her hand and rapped upon his door.

Though the hour was growing later and later, he seemed reluctant to part the company of his Gwen. It was only the sound of his door being called upon that drew him from the lounge he'd taken against her lap with a furrowed brow. "Perhaps the guard at the gates have found something amiss." Muttering over boogey men and rampant idiots, he was half dressed when he all but ripped the door to Gwen's chamber from its hinges, a bellow full on his mouth before he realized that it was no guard, but his wife who knocked there at his door. "Rosalind?" Stupidly, he gaped at her before remembering that he was not in the most pleasant of states. That he felt somewhat humiliating for being caught in such undress did little for the edge of temper that boiled up and over the brim of his control. "What, woman?! I give you leave of the house, I place you as its Mistress. What?!" That he hadn't given her a chance to say anything was sure not to help the manner. Gwen, beside herself with the thought of an oncoming confrontation immediately sought to cover Fearghus with a robe. She wasn't dressed any better than he, but at least she had more of her wits about her even if her cheeks were the color of a ripe plum.

Rosalind nearly dropped her candle. Aside from the jolting flicker of the flame, her reaction was commendably calm. She swallowed, giving her time to think of something careful to say. It was ridiculous to imagine a man of Fearghus's age did not have a sexual appetite, that he had remained celibate all these years until he found a wife. She had assumed.... She blinked owlishly upon seeing Gwen. And then she nodded, very carefully. "Pardon my interruption. You must be wearied from your hunt. I -- " her words faltered. She had never had this experience before in her life, and knew not where to resume her sentence. Her face was pale in the warm glow of candlelight. "I think you should dress yourself before you catch cold." It was not her duty to chastise him. It was not! The words leapt into her head with a surprising force of rage. Her grip tightened on her candle. She had refused him once, no doubt he believed her frigid.

She might have been restraining herself, but he was getting himself into a fine froth and over what? What should have been an minor annoyance was turned into something more because of the embarrassment he felt. Shoving his arms through the robe foisted upon him, he got himself good and ready to cut her down as he might a sapling tree but there was an undoubtable hiss coming from behind him. "Fearghus!" When he looked behind him to quiet his mistress, he saw only defeat between the two females he was pressed. "God hang me." The barracks with the rest of his men was looking well enough at the moment but he couldn't yet get away as Gwen stonily regarded him with the same disdain he was seeing in his wife's eyes.

"Ye did nae speak with yer wife this eve?!" Though her voice remained soft, there was a hard note to it of reprimand and he felt twice more the fool.

"Nae, I .. Och, Gwennie, I cannae talk tae her. Look at her!" Motioning toward the woman who was even now like a specter before him he found he hadn't words.

"Tis no excuse. Yer tae apologize and ye'll no' be seein' my bed for tha' next fortnight." Without further issue, she turned on her heel and the angel faced Gwen slammed the door in both their faces, locking it with a resounding thud of wood against wood. She was not opposed to being his mistress, but she would be damned if she allowed the lady of the house to be treated in such an ill fashion. She knew Fearghus' faults better than Rosalind's and no sooner had the door closed than Fearghus was standing like a slack jawed adolescent boy who had just been caught behind the hen coop with his hands on a maid where they ought not to be.

"She has a right temper, does our Gwen." Light as a bear, he sighed and pushed the door to his chamber open. "It is ... It is sorry for my temper I am. There! Now, what will you have of me, woman?" He wanted wine, the stronger the better.

She watched the man and his mistress, but was too astounded by her own reaction to what she'd discovered to find humor in Gwen's reaction. "You have never spoken to me at all," Rosalind said quietly. "I know you have said words, Fearghus," she added, holding up a hand to still him as she entered his chamber. "But have you ever spoken to me in what is not a command?" She smiled weakly. "Perhaps I have not been welcoming of kind words. And I will tell you, that is not necessarily entirely my fault. Though I understand your frustration, that you should find an unwilling wife when your plans are so near fruition, did you ever give me the opportunity to give you a chance? I am doing my best," she added firmly, a light blazing in her hazel eyes. "I tried rebellion and learned it has no place here. Now I've tried to be a good wife to you, what you have only demanded from the beginning, and yet you maintain your distance. Why do I even approach you now?" She laughed suddenly, covering her mouth to stifle her humor. "Why, really, when it is you -- you owe me." She sobered for a moment, long enough to find a place to set down her candle.

Barely was the wine poured before he set the cup aside and glanced at her with eyes narrowing. "Owe you, do I? And pray tell me wife who wished me not in her bed and would have tried to escape me, what do I owe you?" Turning them, he relaxed the bulk of his frame against the mantle of the hearth, folding his arms against his chest as he watched her now. There was no temper in his gaze, but something more subtle. More dangerous. "You've been a good wife, oh aye. I thank you for being biddable and seeing to my house. But what have we to speak on that will not come to an argument, wife? I command you, because it is my right to do so. I will lead this clan, not you. There are those that are loyal to you, oh aye, I ken that. But you are not the one who will see us home again, are you? What have you done since then? I know what I am fault for, but I have done everything to see that our family is restored and you? You have played maid to an old woman!" Roused now, he cut himself off from any further conversation for the moment. He was intrigued to know just what it was he owed his ... wife.

She inhaled deeply, settled her arms across her chest, and spoke with chilling gravity. "How quick you are to forget your own history, Lamont." She looked him up and down, head to foot. His uncanny resemblance to Domhnall no longer had such a devastating effect upon her. "You will lead this clan, oui? Lead it until it suits you to adopt another interest? To claim more of what is not yours through ignorance or neglect? As I do not believe you a stupid man, this makes you one of immense cruelty." Deep breaths. In. Out. Her rage threatened to consume her, but she held it, mastered it, fed it in every word she spoke. "I played maid to an old woman because my efforts to retain Inveryne were subverted by your efforts to see my husband perish. When Inveryne fell, it was not a Lamont that saved my life that day but a Campbell, and damn you, Fearghus Lamont. I led this clan when no one else had the courage. I rode out to battle in my husband's armor. My loyalty was in question when I played maid to an old woman, but never, never have I betrayed Lamont as you have." Four years of rage, and he had barely scraped the surface. If there was a moment of calm after the last word hammered down, a moment in which he might actually consider her real part in Inveryne's fall, it almost justified the argument she knew was about to devastate any truce formed. She fell silent, not for a lack of words, but for an inability to express how horrifying the last four years of her life had been.

Her words did more than stung. They rended the flesh from his bones and swept aside the tattered bits of his pride. Jaw clenched, he waited her out until there was nothing left of her in his mind but a hollow being. A traitor to the Campbells. "Aye, I'll lead this clan. These people who have been trampled by your Campbell friends deserve their place. Their rightful place and I'll not have a woman who would lead them in one turn and betray them in another sitting at the head of my table had I the choice. But you'll keep those who are loyal close to you, because if you won't they'd be dead like so much Campbell trash. Aye. I'll lead this clan until I don't draw breath. So I'll ask you a last time and never again. What do I owe you, wife?" He would give her no quarter, would sweep aside all the faults of his past because though a Scot's memory was long, it was often tainted based on life's triumphs verses their follies. If he could take back their home, all would be forgiven of him. It was imperative that he give them back that pride. That place.

He was a fool. She looked sadly at him, despairing of the clan he would lead to ruin. "Do you think there will be no retaliation when you seize Inveryne? Are you so completely ignorant of the agreements Domhnall and I forged at Dunstaffnage? You make his death in vain, Fearghus, and all those who will die in the coming months. I did not betray Lamont so much as survive a massacre you could have prevented. It would suit your needs if I had died. Well, I did not. Without your aid, I had nothing. No place to go. No place to call home. No allies. And enemies everywhere I looked. You may call what I did treason. But you and I know better than that. I know that you delayed. You allowed the Campbells to do what you could not. You need merely to clean up the mess, and all is right with Lamont, save that I survived. It must haunt you." She glared at him. "What you owe me cannot be replaced. But do not think because I come between you and Gwen that I shall feel in any way sorry for your loss. I like her. She suits you well."

"When I seize Inveryne it will be as if God has smiled on them." His words were clipped, but there was a vicious bite to them. "And no Campbell will gainsay what it is that I do." Head shaken he pushed from the mantle of the hearth to retrieve his cup of wine. "Do you think that you are the only one who might gain allies? That there is no one else in all of Scotland or England who would rather that there were Lamonts in Inveryne rather than Campbells?" He would go no further and give her no names. Who he chose to deal with was his own business and no woman, especially one such as her would ever be confidant to his thoughts. "I gave Gwen leave to see to you, to set you in the place that should have been hers. How she deals with that is her own business and a grown woman is she. What haunts me is that tis your name next to mine rather than hers." Downing the whole contents of his cup, he set it down just as carefully as he had picked it up. "You have had your say, and I mine. We are at quits for now, wife. When there are again Lamonts in Inveryne, you will not be among them, I tell you the truth of it." Turning his back toward her, he looked into the flames and concentrated on the future that might be among them.

"You are selfish. You are a coward. And I am ashamed to call you tanist. God damn you." He had adopted an attitude of calm while she wished nothing better than to turn her rage into violence. She didn't care that she could not win this fight. To draw blood, to rend flesh, it was all she craved. But as she had survived the past four years by quieting her need for vengeance, she stilled herself now. "Perhaps it is well that you cannot reconcile yourself to a marriage to me. For I cannot reconcile the blood you bear upon your hands. Even should you wipe the Campbells clean from the map of Scotland, I doubt you will ever be satisfied with yourself. One day, you will awake alone, and no ally will you find to comfort you. And that, Fearghus, is only the beginning of my hell. I would not curse even you with what I suffered due to your negligence." With that, she had nothing more she wished to say. He was deliberately ignoring her accusations; he did not need an accounting of her losses. They were far too precious to her to waste them on uncaring ears. She left his room, shutting the door quietly behind her, and went to find her own quarters. She would escape. And she would have this marriage anulled or die trying.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Things had not been pleasant in the keep since the last discussion between man and wife. She kept to her sphere of influence and departed with the same silent alacrity as a ghost when he appeared, finding diplomacy easier managed when both parties maintained a separation of several rooms. It did not, as some might believe, please her to know even the residents of their interim home faulted Fearghus for Rosalind's sudden change in attitude. The hunt she had organized had lifted spirits high; her mirth and good cheer had been contagious. The absence of Lady Inveryne's laughter and encouragement settled like a pall, and if the clansmen were not privy to the comings and goings between Fearghus's suite and Rosalind's, the servants were. They were not accurate in speculation, but the rumors persisted. Weary of the attitude within the keep, she found her way to the stables and comforted herself with ideas of escape and annulment. She was no longer equipped to hide her deep unhappiness after the hunt's failure, and while she remained hidden in the stall of a short bay mare, channeled it into grooming.

All within the keep knew that something was amiss but not even the ever cautious Gwen could fathom the depth of it. After the incident within the hall she had felt shamed to her very bones and as a result religated herself to the deepest parts of the keep if for no other reason than to serve and penance for having flaunted her relationship with Fearghus directly into the face of the Lady of the House. Still it could not be said that she did not see to the Lady's needs. There were fresh linens brought to her bedchamber, and her water was always hot and clean. But there was no holding back the gnawing of a troubled conscious and so with a heavy heart she sought out the personage of the Lady of the House. It took no great skill, since many knew where to find her but when she looked into the stables, her feet paused and refused to allow her to continue. "Courage, woman." Stiffening her spine and what was left of her tattered resolve she approached quietly, huddled beneath the cover of her arisaid with her face quiet there was a certain air of fragility about the woman who was known to have a redoubtable temper. "My Lady, may I have a moment?" Not that Rosalind was required to give her anything other disdain, but Gwen's heart wouldn't let her go on as this.

"As far as I am concerned, Gwen," Rosalind said peaceably, setting her tools down and straightening up with a hiss of air through her teeth, more at the familiar jolt of pain than with anything resembling temper, "explanations are unnecessary between us. But I would not dismiss your heart. Have out with it." She stroked the flank of the mare, and wondered why it should be here in these stables. Now was not the hour for ladies' hunters. It was the hour for vicious fighting beasts trained for the melee, to carry the weight of a clansman in his armor. After edging her way out of the stall, she grabbed her own wool wrap and planted it firmly around her shoulders. The bucket of grooming tools she took back to the workbench. To be honest, she had not given Gwen much thought since that night. It was a surprise to find her there, assuredly, but the heart often had little to do with marriage. She had been lucky in her first marriage to have her husband's undivided attention. She missed that. She missed the cordial conversations, his respect, his laughter. A thousand things to cause her unexpected pains of sadness even four years after his needless and stupid death. She could fault the man but not her heart, and she wondered if the intelligent Gwen was aware of Fearghus's fault lines. She chose to love him anyway, apparently. She turned back to the woman, lips relaxing from anger into tolerance. "But mind you shut the door first."

Ever watchful of the Lady, she noted the flash of her eyes when she stood but rather than mistake it for anger she saw to the root of her problem and wondered how it was that a woman could have such fortitude to stand up to such pain? Was it developed from her past, or something more recent? "I cannae tell ye how long tis been for Fearghus an' I. Always when there was one, there has been tha' other. I love him, an' I cannae renounce tha' no matter for tha' tryin'." Although it sounded like little better than excuse, it was as Rosalind had prompted her, what was in her heart though it hurt to see it cause pain to others. Turning, she did as bid, shutting the door quietly so that they were alone with the horses and the drifting scent of hay and leather. Plucking absently over the wood of the stall's door, she buried her nature to ask questions and instead opted to tell a little of her own. "I'va strange yen for tha' man since the minute I clapped eyes on him. He's arrogant, too foolhardly an' he's a vicious nature tha' belies a need tae see things righted. Tis all he wants, really. But, I ken he's no' knowing the how's of goin' about it sae he mucks it up and tries again." Her sigh was the burden of so many mothers and wives, of sisters and cousins who saw the men of their clan off to war and wept when they did not return. "I wonder betimes if tis worth it, for stone and mortar. Is it worth it my lady, or it merely the folly of men?" Lapsing into thought, she shook her head and looked for all the world like a world weary angel with an uncertain purpose.

Rosalind listened very carefully to what Gwen said, recognizing more similarity than difference. "You are asking me?" Rosalind laughed, truly bemused. "I saw my husband off to war twice in my life. Once to answer the call to the Bruce when none other could be moved. The other in a sad dispute that took his life and that of his foster-brother. Had he seen reason that day, the world would be much different. But you know," Rosalind added slowly, leaning against a wall and shifting her weight to her uninjured leg, "it is not for man to know what could have been. It is silly for us to conjecture what may be." She folded her arms beneath her breasts and rested her head against the wall behind her. "Do you believe you can make him see reason? Has he listened to you in the past?"

Ever the wise, Gwen kept her words close to her heart. All those dreaming, lovely words she so wished could be given a proper vent but never could. They would no doubt damn her, but in the company of another woman who seemed just as wise what could possibly be the hurt? "I ken tis not a man who has tha' heart tae ask himself ... who shall suffer if I do this? Tis tha' woman who will an' must. God is mysterious like this, an' a bit mean ifin ye ask me." Polite to a fault she blushed at her own words before smiling if only in a self defacing sort of way. "Fearghus would listen, an' he would weigh, but I ken tha' in the end my words would be tha' of a woman's foolishness. Tis silly tae fight for a thin' tha' our clan can live without. Why no' build anew, without tha' pain of the past tis what I would say." Trailing the soft burr of her voice died just a little as she huddled harder beneath her plaid. "No one of import listens tae a woman, do they? Even if tha' woman has more sense than the peas for brains they've in their coke." At least, she was on fair terms with which head most men thought with.

"It was in my experience that with the respect husband had for wife, if he knew not to meddle in her affairs of managing the home, she would avoid in the affairs of war." She smiled lightly and beckoned Gwen to follow her closer to wear the braziers had been lit. She held out her hands to their warmth. Autumn was her favorite season, and for that, she knew she had the same heart as those she now called her own. Who else would take pleasure in the glorious death throes of nature but the bloodlusting Highlanders? Pulling her gaze back from the abstract and settling it on Gwen, she chuckled. "He listens to you, I think. He will ultimately do what benefits his clan; in that, he is very similar to Domhnall. He does not wish to fail Lamont as Domhnall did, and if he wishes to call it treason, he will not find an argument from me. I have spent too long at another man's mercy to argue the legitimacy of my husband's final actions." She studied Gwen very carefully, aware she was revealing a bit more about her relationship to Domhnall than was truly appropriate. And this was not about herself. She was, truly, very self-centered when it came down to it and it would do her well to focus her attentions on someone else. "Perhaps you have more of his respect than you believe. Would a man like Fearghus be drawn to you because you have a pretty face alone?"

Her chuckle was anything if not humorous as she followed in the wake of her mistress if only to settle before the brazier. Having grown in this clime, she was well used to it but welcomed the cheering glow that was cast off the fire. "Tis no' for a man tae ken how a woman will keep his home after tha' war, nor how she'll pick up the pieces scattered by his idiotic ways." Men had a fine place in life to Gwen's thinking but they just didn't ever see the full breath life offered. Only what was directly before them. "It gnaws at him, in tha' night while he sleeps." Her lips barely moved for all the words were uttered, just a cusp of sound even with only the ears of the horses to hear them. It felt damning to say them, but they needed to be said. "Ye struck a mighty blow, my Lady when he said he should have come before. It haunts him, even while it prods him on. I donnae ken that t'was my face alone tha' struck him, but I seem tae soothe somethin' for him tha' no other can. Who is tae say what tha' is because the good Lord knows he sure as hell does no'." Lips turned into a firm line, it was obvious that she was a woman who could have done with a few soft words from the man from time to time. "He has some need tha' no even I can fill though and I ken tha' drives him tae just as much as the events at Inveryne dae." Ghosts weren't only of those long past but of places too, Gwen thought and she wondered what haunted Rosalind besides the personage of her dead husband. "Will ye leave here ifin it comes tae tha'? Would ye want tae stay?" She had a curiosity that couldn't be held, and her respect for Rosalind was more than she had banked on having.

"If it haunts him," she said coolly, "then perhaps there is hope for him yet." She sat down upon a small three-legged stool and thought about Gwen's words. It haunted his sleep every night? It gnawed on him? Good. She lived with the consequences every day, and there were ghosts she could never escape. She bristled at the idea of offering him sympathy because of his failures. "No one expected Domhnall to do such a damned fool thing, but he did. Fearghus's delay was inexcusable. His motives are suspect. That he calls me the traitor makes my blood boil, but it is nothing to what I call him." She shrugged lightly. "Is that something I could live with?" She didn't dare turn the question around on Gwen. The woman had not been at Inveryne and knew nothing of what she spoke. She smoothed the fabric of her dress over her lap. "If he might have given me a reason to stay, the moment has since passed. He has shown nothing but brutality and a lack of common sense. Had I the patience to wait the years it may be required for him to learn to listen to what I have been shouting at him since our wedding day, I might be persuaded, but I do not see this happening." She could be honest, even if she knew her spite might hurt Gwen. Yet after she spoke the words, she paused, then let out a sigh. "Had many things happened differently, I would not be this person -- this woman who is so stiff and unyielding she loses her humanity. If Domhnall lived, if Fearghus had acted sooner, if, if, if. While I see what might have happened so clearly, Gwen, it is difficult for me to forgive him for what did."

Hearing the words and letting them wash over her was a hard price to pay for this confidence, but it was one well worth paying. "Ye cannae live yer life for so small a thin' as an if, my Lady. T'would break a lesser woman or man for tha' matter ifin ye tried." She remained standing, chosing to leave her hands close to the flames to warm them although they needed no warmth now. "Were it I, forgiveness would never come." Licking her lips, she knew that if Fearghus were to ever know the extent of her unease that he might not trust her as he did. "If I forgave a man who had done so much tae me, I would hope that God would allow me to rot for an eternity before letting me into heaven." And that was as far as she would say on the subject. "Why are ye out here, though with tha' horses? Yer not a rider are you?" Gwen couldn't ride a fig, which was uncommon for a highland woman, but then Gwen was by no means traditional in any sense of the sort!

She smiled briefly and nodded. "I try not to let it bother me, but I am married to it." Hearing Gwen's words warmed her soul, though, and somewhat eased her concerns about escape. It was interesting to hear that Gwen was so opinionated and determined to act as an independent. Once, she'd had similar freedom. "I used to," she replied. "Hunting was a sport I enjoyed once upon a time. It has been many years, though." If observations were facts, most would think Rosalind's horsemanship skills went only so far as to be thrown over the saddle like a sack of flour. "It was, in fact, one of the few things anyone agreed upon at Dunstaffnage while Campbell still lived. So, and what do you do to amuse yourself, Gwen?"

It amazed her that the woman could have so much to her and yet appear on the surface to be completely known for a certain. Cautious always, she counted on her fingers the number of times Fearghus had warned her that Rosalind couldn't be trusted and yet here she was ready to thrust out her own hand into this mire of intrigue that could drown her entirely. And the man she loved? Love him she might, but that did not mean she could not dislike him in equal measure. "Ye'll no' tell anyone of this, aye? Tha' ye've a fondness for tha' hunt? It might be better for yer interests ifin t'was not common knowledge." As to what and why, Gwen couldn't say. She only had a feeling and that was reason enough for her to caution Rosalind. Plucking at her skirts, she hugged herself and smiled a bit more broadly. After all, it wasn't everyday she had a nice conversation with another woman. "Oh, I've a yen for my garden now and then. I make a mean poultice, and I've a touch with spices. I sew and I worry of course. Mostly, I daydream. Tis an affliction my lady, truly that I dream of when the heather won't be stained with blood and children can play without worry of being cut down." It was a sad business being a woman of the highlands now but she, like Rosalind still had hope.

Rosalind was amazed sometimes, too. She seemed like two people -- one created solely by rumor and the other considerably softer and full of dreams. Although the first one served her purposes, and kept her strong, the second one was more faithful to her ambitions. There had been a time when her life had been defined by much simpler and domestic goals, when she hadn't a single care for the fate of Scotland if only she could persuade the cooks that fruit was not poison and vegetables unworthy of fear. When hunts brought her back rosy-cheeked to her husband and he translated even the dirty parts of the Scottish ballads at the feast that night. She blinked. "Oh, Gwen, really, he would? Blame it on a Campbell maybe? He's intelligent, but not original, is he?" She laughed, though, and rose from her seat. "Might solve our problems, in any event, though why he pained us both in putting us through that marriage ceremony is -- " she stopped, too amused to finish. "I think my request for an annulment might end with less blood shed, don't you think?" she said after she'd recovered. "It would hurt his pride, I am sure, but a less compatible marriage I am hard-pressed to recall." She smiled. "It is a good dream, one worth believing."

"I donnae ken ifin he would think tae blame it upon a Campbell or the devil. He's not himself since this campaign was undertaken." No, the man she had fallen heedlessly in love with seemed more likely to hold things to himself than the one who had spoken so openly before to her of his thoughts. "Ye've seen tha' keep. Tis crumbling, yet none come tae roust us from it. Sae whose is it? None here know, an' our coffers are full ... tis not an idiot than can ken he's got someone else givin' him gold. Yer tae be on yer guard because I donnae ken who tis, nor tae what point ye play. He married ye for a reason, and t'was not just for the support ye draw. He'll no' give ye an annulment. He's said at least tha' much tae me." And it was clear by the hard set of her jaw that she was unhappy with the fact that in the inner sanctum of their relationship, Fearghus held back. It worried her further that he had married when he had said he'd no intention of doing so. There were wheels in motion that she couldn't see and that frightened her more than anything.

"I am not asking him for an annulment," Rosalind said testily. "But as the marriage has yet to be consummated, I hardly see the difficulty in securing one." Gwen was correct, though. It merely confirmed many of her own suspicions about Fearghus, and why she had not already made her escape already. He was dangerous, and she was valuable. It did not matter the reason why. The practicalities of the present could not be ignored. The mirth disappeared from her voice. "I must do what is right for this clan, Gwen. That I disagree with Fearghus's methods does not mean I disagree with Fearghus's motives. He can only see that I betrayed the clan once. I did not, but few have ever been interested in my defense. I doubt he will ever see me for more than a traitor, and I know my life will be short when I am no longer of value to him. So I will make my own plans, and I advise you to do so as well." The stony tone of her voice yielded for only a moment. She did have a heart, and it broke for Gwen, that she should be caught in the position she currently found herself. "I cannot promise the safety of the man that caused me to lose my son," she said softly. "If it is between him and me, I know whose life I prize more. I am sorry, my friend."

It hurt to be spoken to so callously of lives that could be lost, namely the one that seemed to mean to much to her heart. Yet of late, even that paled in comparsion to her wish to go beyond the bloodshed of war. "When has a woman ever aske for such a thing?" She replied in much the same fashion, if only to come to kneel at Rosalinds feet, her hand warmed by an inner light and the brazier grasping onto Rosalinds as if life itself might perish were she not to hold fast enough. "There are whispers that even I've heard of yer valor for Lamont. Yer no' as friendless as ye ken, but yer in danger here." Without knowing Gwen was speaking treason in Fearghus' eyes but what was she to do? "Think of yer son, an' get away from here. With Fearghus gone, he'll inherit and things can be set aright as they weren't before." Her heart was long swayed to Rosalinds plight, which seemed to parallel her clans. "I cannae bring mine from tha' hills for fear of all tha' hatred bounding through the moors." Sighing softly, another hard squeeze was given before she stood almost reluctantly. "Tis a mortal's coil we're wound in and I donnae ken where it shall end for me. Not here, not by Fearghus, not with blood. God did nae put me on this earth simply tae bed a man, bear him sons and watch them all die. I can tell ye that at least." Hands folding, she looked once more forlorn. "I should see tae supper's readiness. Will ye be in directly then, my lady?" Rosalind had a way of garnering followers even if she didn't search for them.

Tears pricked her eyes. She pretended it was the heat from the brazier and turned her face until they had disappeared. So many things were gone, permanently. So many people had entered her life and disappeared. But for the one that had never had a chance to live, for a life she and Domhnall had been praying for over ten years to bring into this world -- She pressed her lips together so tightly they went temporarily numb. Gwen's words eventually penetrated the muzzy, dim haze of her mind and brought her back; the solid grasp of the woman's hands were the healing touch she needed. Sympathy. Just an ounce of sympathy, a moment to recognize that she was wounded, and not yet healed. "It should be my right to hate you, Gwen, but I cannot. Had we met only under different circumstances. I will not ask you to jeopardize yourself. You should have happiness with the man you love. I thank you for your warning, but please, do not involve yourself further." She could not press Gwen for a vow. It was and was not her fight.

There were fights, and there were struggles. Not every woman was so fortunate to be able to choose and Gwen thought it heartening to know in this she did have a choice. "Nae my lady, tis no' for ye tae ask but for those of us who can, tae give." Knowing that both would be missed shortly, she couldn't escape the fact that she would under any circumstances help Rosalind. "There are times, when respect is worth more tae yer soul, than love is. Fearghus may have my love, God knows why know but I donnae respect his motives or his means. We're all in jeopardy in one degress or another, my lady. Tis for the individual tae decide what tae do over it, eh?" Hedging beneath her arisaid, her fingers stiffened as did her back. She was a woman of courage, if in one fashion or the next. Chin uplifted, her features split for a moment into a beautific grin. "Oh aye, I was right set on hatin' ye, but tha' was before I knew ye sae all is the better for it, even me. Take yer time my lady. But come in soon, yer leg will be bothering ye from sitting sae long." With that she ventured to the door and opened it if only so long as to peek out before hurrying toward the keep.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

She yielded because she had no other recourse but to yield. Fearghus would never understand, and to be fair, neither would a majority of her countrymen. Her ideas regarding marriage were revolutionary at best, heretical at worst. No matter what she believed, she was still a pawn to be placed on the chessboard of Scotland, fodder staring down the black and white to the bishops and royalty. Yielding was politic, because to rail against the injustices placed upon her was to scream at the deaf and dumb. No change would come, merely silence, and her rebellion would be for naught. And so, for a while, it suited her to think of marriage to Fearghus as viable. She harbored her suspicions and her fears. As he never troubled her in their marriage bed, he also never made an effort to learn about her beyond the rumors swirling around the name of Lady Inveryne. Her mind knew the union was made for politics alone, but her heart was still unreasonably sore. She could have made a better effort to understand him. If his suspicions about her loyalty were incorrect, perhaps there was merit to the idea that Fearghus did not intentionally delay sending aid to Inveryne, potentially averting Lamont's terrible tragedy four years ago, and a personal tragedy that was in every sense of the word, devastating.

But he had not. For so many reasons, he had chosen to believe the worst of her. And she had never been able to set aside her suspicions, and give even a terribly mismatched union a chance to breathe. Her words to Gwen came back to her with terrible force. It is not for man to know what could have been. It is silly for us to conjecture what may be.

Watching Colban playing on the floor with their son, she thought instead to what definitively was. She had a lovely, healthy son. No matter what he might some day achieve, he was at this very moment the very best of his mother and father, and had spent the first three years of his life knowing their love for him, and abiding affection for one another. Colban was her dearest friend, a former lover, a man who understood her dark and light and loved her anyway. He had steadied her nerves when she watched Domhnall ride off to Bannockburn. He had regaled her with stories about his travels to the Holy Land. He made her laugh with tales of his laboratory misadventures. He had picked her up from the floor more than once, dusted her off, and told her to keep up the good fight.

She could not say what the future was for the two men she held closest to her heart. She did not know what the next day would bring, and the future was too heavily clouded by the past to discern any happiness. She could vouch for no one's safety in these troubled times, yet the further she was from her son, the safer he would be. Colban, lifted from suspicion of not only harboring the Lady Inveryne but loving her, could resume his duties as the castellan of Lanark. War, once again, would become his profession and he would excel at it, no matter which side of the line he stood upon. He would fight, when like his brother Arthur, he knew peace was a more satisfying industry.

Rosalind joined them both on the floor, ignoring Colban's concerned look. She was not so old and decrepit yet that she could not somehow find a way back to her feet. Her old injury made life a little more complicated than it was already; she would not let it prevent her from playing on the floor with her three-year-old. She yielded because it was politic, but she knew, too, when to fight.

Tomorrow would come too soon, and with it, she would make one last attempt to leave Lamont and Campbell behind. Not for the safety of France, but for the West, and a position within the Duchess of Skye's household. The past, even the recent past, must be laid firmly to rest. It would follow her no matter how lofty her ambitions. She knew the storm would come and that Colban could not fight it for her again. Yet, for the chance of beginning a new home, for building a sanctuary that her son might one day join her and know peace, there was no other option but to go. It was always difficult to say goodbye to Aldric, but she found her sadness easier to swallow knowing that when they were reunited, she would never have to leave him again. In the time she had with him, she would not spend an instant of it with tears in her eyes. She, like Colban, would concentrate on what existed in the present.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

(Link for continuity's sake to "Epiphany," set in Griffin Castle.)

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

(Link for continuity's sake to "Looketh Toward Damascus," set in Griffin Castle.)