I cannae think of a better way to heal a wounded heart.’
Ewan forced a crude laugh. Dallying with serving girls didn’t appeal, especially when his thoughts were consumed with the unearthly encounter. He looked back over his shoulder. She was, of course, nowhere to be seen. He wondered if the whole incident had been the product of his mind and she had never been there at all.
He took a few steps closer to the place where the ghost had been, stopped and roared with laughter. What he had believed was a solid wall in fact held a small archway that had not been apparent from the angle he had been standing at. An iron gate had been pulled to. Ewan shook his head at his foolishness. The woman had not been a spectre passing through solid stone. She was a flesh-and-blood woman who had simply walked through a gate, albeit one dressed very oddly.
A prickle of excitement ran down his spine. If she was real, she would be among the guests and he might find her. Might even talk with her. He would like to see if she was as pretty as the brief glance had suggested she was. The path led only to the battlements and outer wall, which was no place for a lone woman to be walking. He peered through the gate, hoping to see where the woman had gone, but, seeing no sign of her, joined Struan making his way to the Great Hall with higher spirits and alert eyes. For the first time since his loss, his grief had to compete with another emotion.
The five great fireplaces in the hall were ablaze and filling the Great Hall with the heady smell of woodsmoke and herbs. The building was large, but men and women stood crushed together in tightly knit groups while serving maids and boys wove their way from group to group, replenishing wine cups. Ewan seized a cup from a passing tray and drank deeply, finishing it quickly and taking another almost instantly. He strode from group to group, greeting old friends and paying deference to the men who outranked him, remembering that he, too, was now owed respect as the Earl of Glenarris. All the while, he was conscious that his eye was searching for the woman in white, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Ordinarily a gathering of this many men from so many clans would lead to old grievances and rivalries being raised and fought over but tonight, at least, all within the walls were united in the grief that the devastating loss at Flodden had caused in all hearts. Scotland had lost her sons and fathers.
Lively music came from the minstrels’ gallery high in the rafters of the building and Ewan could tell from the way bodies were starting to move in time with the rhythm that it would not be long before the whole company began dancing. Ewan’s fingers began to click in time with the music. He decided that he would dance tonight and lose himself in the music in the hope it might diminish the sorrow in his heart.
Ewan was caught by the arm and found Angus by his side. They walked side by side through the milling people. They were almost at the furthest end of the Great Hall when Ewan saw a flash of McCrieff plaid. His cheeks flushed and he knew his previous reflection on peace and truces was about to be tested. If he had thought about it he would have remembered members of that clan would be present too. Donald McCrieff, son of old Earl Malcolm, laird of the McCrieff clan, was with his cousin Duncan.
They were thickset of body and florid of complexion and stood staring at the gathered men belligerently, occasionally whispering with their red heads together. Ewan recognised Duncan by sight, but they had never spoken. Duncan was reputed to have a quick mind that his cousin was entirely lacking. Ewan realised from the sharp intake of breath from beside him that Angus had also seen them. Angus began muttering threats under his breath.
‘Now’s not the time,’ Ewan said, placing his hand on Angus’s arm, even as his fingers itched surprisingly to curl into a fist. ‘We’re all here for peace and to decide the future of Scotland.’
‘Aye, though the future would be brighter without a McCrieff in it.’
The gap between cousins widened to admit a third person to the party. The figure that appeared between the two men was small, female and dressed in grey. She was none other than Ewan’s ghost.
His heart clenched.
She’s real.
Perhaps he had spoken aloud because Angus was staring him with an expression of amusement.
‘Pretty little piece, isn’t she?’
‘Do you know who she is?’ Ewan asked. Still pale, still looking wary, but more beautiful in the warm glow of firelight than she had been in the low dusk sunlight. He watched as she dipped a graceful curtsy to the McCrieff men. Duncan loomed over the woman, his thick frame and height serving to make her look small and fragile beside him.
‘The Frenchwoman?’ Angus leered at Ewan. ‘Don’t get any ideas about her. She’s the poor young lassie who is to become Duncan McCrieff’s second wife next week.’
A pit opened beneath Ewan’s feet. His stomach lurched with revulsion and, he was startled to notice, jealousy as Duncan took her hand and bowed deeply over it, lifting it to his lips. Ewan bit his in response, fighting the intense urge to be in Duncan’s place.
So she was French. That explained her slightly unusual manner of dress and told Ewan something else. Following the custom of her country, wearing white indicated she was in mourning. Well, she was not alone in that, with barely a single person not grieving for someone lost at Flodden.
‘A Frenchwoman,’ he muttered. ‘McCrieff’s last wife was English. Why he can’t marry a good Scottish woman is beyond me.’
‘Mayhap no good family wants to let their daughters breed with him,’ Angus sneered.
Ewan grimaced. The girl looked barely past childhood. The image of Duncan’s stocky frame heaving itself on top of the slender girl in white soured the wine in Ewan’s belly. A woman as beautiful as she should be cherished. He would treasure her, if she were his. He could not guess for whom she grieved, but any woman about to marry a McCrieff would have plenty to mourn in the future.
* * *
Marguerite Vallon slipped into the Great Hall. Keeping her head bowed, she walked rapidly through the groups that filled the whole space and made her way towards her future husband. No one had noticed her late arrival. These Scottish men were too busy drinking or shouting—and in many cases doing both simultaneously—to pay attention to one small woman.
She was out of breath from running back to the gateway. Her heart pounded from the exercise, coupled with the agitation from having been seen passing through the gate. Tonight it had been too close for comfort. Duncan did not ask how she spent her days, presumably believing she sat in attendance on Queen Margaret, sewing and reading with the other ladies of the court. If he knew what she really did with her time he would doubtless be furious with her.
On her second day in Stirling Marguerite had discovered the small gate that was unaccountably unguarded. Ever since she had been using it as a way in and out of the grounds without being seen. She had become complacent, however. Now the castle was busier she would have to be careful. She did not want to have to explain to anyone what she was doing.
She caught a glimpse of red hair and made her way towards it. Duncan was standing with his cousin Donald, a man as pleasant in manner as Marguerite’s fiancé. He was less handsome, but younger, and whenever Marguerite saw them together it made her want to weep that she was to marry a man who was almost twice her age.
‘Good evening, messieurs.’
Duncan gave her a charming smile, lifting her hand to his lips. Donald bowed, made an excuse and left them alone.
‘I
