When Isabail was satisfied her chamber was as clean as she could make it, she went in search of someone who could add to her comforts. A pillow or two, a small chest, and a brazier. Surely that was not too much to ask.
“Where is the seneschal?” she asked Beathag, who stood next to the cook, peering into a huge iron cauldron.
“There is no seneschal,” the big woman said without looking up. She scooped several handfuls of dried peas from the bowl in which they were soaking and tossed them into the pot. The cook stirred.
“Who is in charge of the stores, then?”
Beathag thought for a moment, her head cocked to one side, her finger tapping her chin. “Lady Elisaid, I suppose.”
“The chief’s wife?”
The other woman shook her head. “His mother. The chief has never taken a wife. He was to wed the daughter of Rory MacDonald, a chief from the western isles, but she ran off with a Campbell lad instead.”
“Oh.” Faced with wedding such a fierce man, Isabail might well have done the same. “Where will I find Lady Elisaid?”
“A fine question,” Beathag said. Taking the ladle from the cook, she sampled the steaming liquid from the pot. “When you find her, let me know. She has the key to the spice cabinet, and I’m in need of some flavoring.”
Isabail released a frustrated huff of breath. “What does she look like?”
“You’ll know her when you find her.”
Beathag was being decidedly unhelpful, but Isabail could not take her to task. She had no authority in the MacCurran’s household. “What are you cooking?”
“Venison broth.”
“May I taste?”
The big woman turned to her, a sneer curling her upper lip. “Never had a simple bree, my lady?”
“Of course I have,” Isabail said. “Many times. A well-prepared broth is a staple in the kitchen. You said you were missing some spice. I’d like to taste what you’ve prepared so far.”
The cook took no offense at her request. He ladled a small portion into a wooden cup and gave it to her. Isabail sniffed it first, inhaling the rich scent of boiled venison. Then she sipped. It was satisfactory, but as Beathag suggested, a little bland. “If you are unable to get the spice of your choice, you could consider adding some leek and parsnip.” As Beathag’s eyebrows soared, she added, “Just a suggestion, of course. Good day.”
Isabail scanned the inner close, seeking some sign of the MacCurran’s mother. He was a very large man, so surely the woman who birthed him was also large. Perhaps of a similar size to Beathag. She saw no one who might fit that description.
Marching toward the outer wall, she scanned the people assembled in the outer close. A group of men was laying siege to one another with wooden swords. She recognized the man MacCurran had hailed as Niall among them, seemingly the one in charge. But no women at all.
Down the rocky slope beyond the perimeter wall, she could see a field and, cutting through the field, an icy burn. Next to the water, she spied a party led by a small, slender woman wearing a blue serge gown and a white headdress. From this distance, Isabail could not be certain, but the gown looked painfully similar to the one she’d lost. Unable to help herself, she picked her way down the slope and then marched across the field toward the woman, determined to see if it was truly hers.
As she got closer, it became clear that the woman was at least a score of years older than Isabail. Her hair was hidden beneath a linen wimple, but her skin was thin and pale, her bones sharply defined in her face. Still, it was not her age that sapped Isabail’s anger away; it was the elegant way the woman carried herself—like she’d been born to privilege and expected no less.
“Lady Elisaid?” Isabail guessed.
The elderly woman ceased her stroll along the burn bank. “Aye?”
It was indeed Isabail’s gown draped over the other woman’s body—the size, especially in the bosom area, was a trifle large. But as Lady Elisaid’s faded blue eyes turned to her, any demand she might have uttered for its return died on her lips.
“I am Lady Macintosh, cousin to Archibald, Earl Lochurkie,” she said instead. “Your son has seized my person in hopes of ransoming me for political gain.”
Actually, she doubted he intended to ransom her, but accusing him of more villainous goals at this moment hardly seemed polite.
“He neglected to mention your presence to me, Lady Macintosh. You are John Grant’s sister, are you not?”
“Indeed.”
The lady waved her over. She kindly said nothing about the obvious stains upon Isabail’s gown, for which Isabail was grateful—if pressed she was not sure she could refrain from pointing out the lady wore stolen clothing. “Walk with me awhile.”
Isabail gave the invitation some thought. She was fully prepared to dislike Lady Elisaid—for the simple fact that she was the MacCurran’s mother—but she was not above using any and all methods at her disposal to win her freedom. Perhaps a mother could influence the man where a sense of fair play could not.
