Page 72 of Blood of the Thistle

“He sat in council when we agreed the route. Knew when we meant to move and how many men ye would take.”

“And he left us the evening before,” Tòmas said suddenly.

Harsain looked at him.

Tòmas frowned, searching his memory. “Said he meant to ride ahead. There was some message he was to carry—I cannae recall to whom.”

“MacLaren,” Niall supplied. “He said he meant to meet MacLaren’s men.”

Harsain’s expression hardened further. “Aye. I thought he’d ridden ahead with them. When the English came upon us, I never thought to wonder why Hay wasnae there.”

“Because he wasnae fool enough to be caught in his own trap,” Bram said.

The anger that had sustained Bram through so much of his captivity stirred again, hotter for being voiced at last among men who understood precisely what the betrayal had cost. For three months he had carried the knowledge alone, turning the same details over and over while English guards mocked Scotland’s defeat and boasted of Wallace’s fate. Now he stood in his own courtyard with men who had survived the thing Hay had arranged, and Bram could see the same fury taking hold of each of them.

Tòmas looked away first, his jaw working. “Nearly three score men we lost. For what?”

“To save his own skin, apparently,” Niall said bitterly.

“Or improve his fortunes,” Fearchar said. He had remained quieter than the others, but his expression was grave. “Men do worse for less.”

Bram’s mouth tightened. Whatever Raghnall had been promised, Bram intended that he should enjoy precious little of it.

Fearchar’s attention settled upon him. “How many ken this?”

“Now? The five of us.” Bram looked deliberately from one man to the next. “And it remains so until we learn where Hay is and whether anyone else was bought with him. I willnae have word racing across the north that I returned from English captivity naming him traitor before we ken who might carry that warning straight to him.”

Niall’s mouth curled with distaste. “If he has sense, he’ll be halfway to London.”

“Only if he kens I escaped the noose at York.”

That earned a long look from Harsain.

Slowly, understanding replaced the anger in his face, followed by a smile containing no humor at all.

“Aye,” he said. “Mayhap we shouldnae hurry to correct him.”

“Nae,” Bram agreed. “We shouldnae.”

Chapter Nineteen

Anastasia followed Mairead downstairs to find the great hall transformed by noise and movement. The clamor met her halfway down the stair—a tide of voices and laughter, the scrape of benches on stone, the clatter of cups, and bursts of Gaelic she couldn’t decipher. Her hand found the cold stone wall as she slowed, suddenly aware of her unfamiliar clothes and the crowd awaiting her below.

Mairead had been civil all afternoon, though Anastasia felt less like a guest than a task to be completed before more pressing matters. The task began with a bath: when a wooden tub and buckets of steaming water were carried into her chamber, she nearly wept with relief. After two weeks of icy stream washes and one memorable plunge into the loch, she’d dreamed of sinking into hot water and staying there.

The tub proved the easiest part. Being cheerfully stripped by Mairead and three maids was mortifying; crossing the room nearly naked under their indifferent gazes even more so. Personal modesty clearly meant something different here. But then, the hair washing felt unexpectedly luxurious—someone else working warm soap through weeks of grime—but when they moved to wash the rest of her, Anna felt compelled to firmly put a stop to that. She was twenty-eight, able-bodied, and perfectly capable of washing herself.

At a slight nod from Mairead, the disappointed maids retreated. They descended again the moment Anastasia stepped from the bath, wielding linen towels with such vigor she suspected they’d been told not just to dry her, but to polish her. She endured it until one ventured too near a region she’d managed independently since childhood. She yipped, snatched the towel, and finished herself under Mairead’s raised brow.

While the maids worked on her hair, Anna had noticed the embroidery on the linen chemise Mairead held ready for her—a small thistle, worked in faded green and purple with a curious touch of red thread upon each thistle flower.

“Many mac Cailin garments and linens in this house bear that mark,” Mairead had said, catching her look. “The women of Craig na Coille have stitched it for longer than anyone remembers.”

“What is the red thread for?” Anna had asked.

Mairead’s hands had paused in their work. “Blood of the thistle,” she’d said, and something in her voice had made Anna listen more closely. “Long before my time, this keep was attacked while its laird and his army were away. His wife, Mòira, had only old women and boys to defend the walls. Fought bravely, they did, kept Craig na Coille for the mac Cailins.”

Anna had stilled beneath the maids' hands, her attention firmly caught.