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‘I am afraid I must insist,’ replied the young man. ‘Come along.’ He had a rough voice, at odds with a frail appearance.
‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’ said Morna, her ire raised by his condescending manner.
‘I am Drostan Bain, Will’s cousin.’ He took a step closer. ‘Will said that you come from a great family and that we are to treat you as an honoured guest. The talk amongst the men is that you have a lovely face, but they were wrong for you are spectacularly pretty.’
‘And you are impertinent.’
Why could he not leave her alone? Whatever and whoever he was, Drostan was annoying, like a tiresome bee buzzing in her ear when all she wanted was a little quiet.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘We get few strangers here, and it is a delight to meet someone new. I ail and therefore rarely leave the castle, so there is little excitement that comes my way.’
Indeed he did look unwell. His skin was stretched tight over a thin face, pale, like parchment, as if all the blood had been drained out of it.
‘Please leave me, Drostan. I want to be alone,’ she said, hoping he would leave her be.
‘Oh, don’t break my heart by sending me away, for you are fascinating to me, Morna,’ he continued. ‘May I call you that? I can be your guide to Fitheach if you would let me. It will give you some respite from my cousin’s fierce attentions. He can’t keep you all to himself, that’s not fair.’
He winked at her and smiled, and Morna was struck by how appealing his face was when he did that, despite the palor. It was dominated by brown eyes, a nose too delicate and long to be masculine and a wide, full mouth. The lilac circles under his eyes just accentuated his tortured beauty.
‘Your cousin won’t like it if I wander off,’ she replied, softening a little. ‘Besides, the door out is locked.’
‘How do you think I got in?’ he said smugly taking a key out of his pocket. ‘And you are right, he will not like it, so all the more reason to do it,’ he smiled. ‘Don’t say no, for I risk all to talk to you. My cousin would have me whipped for doing so.’
Morna regarded him warily. It would be good to find out more about Fitheach, and Will too, and this Drostan seemed harmless enough. So scrawny was he that Morna suspected she could best him in a fight if she had to. If he stayed out here any longer, she worried that the wind might take him and blow him over the side of the tower.
‘Alright, you may be my guide but do not put a hand on me,’ she said sternly.
‘I will not, I swear. You are safe with me for I have a malady that is carrying me towards death’s cold grip. Rest assured, I am not a mindless brute like some others at Fitheach,’ he said darkly.
***
Will’s castle was not as impressive a stronghold as Beharra, but it had a sturdy beauty to it and, as Drostan became her willing guide, Morna found herself warming to it a little, and to him too. They strolled along the battlements skirting the castle as Drostan told her stories of his Bain ancestors and how they had wrung a living from the sea and the wind-swept islands surrounding them.
Morna took great delight in a particular kind of sea bird coming and going all around, with their striped faces and pompous waddling. Puffins, Drostan called them. Plump, quarrelsome things, they clung resentfully on to the cliffs below Fitheach in their hundreds, their shrill squawking and grabs for territory amongst the craggy rocks a constant chorus as the sun rose higher.
Drostan kept stealing glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking and, every now and then, he would become bolder and smile into her eyes. He was attentive and courteous, and Morna found her heart stilling its beat a little in his soft company. She also pitied him for he had the whiff of the sick-room about him.
How different he was to Will, who made her terribly nervous. In the years since they had last met, Will seemed to have hardened and embittered and now had an edge to him which his cousin did not.
‘The great hall,’ Drostan announced to Morna as they entered the heart of Fitheach. He walked off to the warm embrace of the fire, spitting in the hearth. ‘A bit of a grim place isn’t it,’ he said, rubbing his hands together and holding them out to the flames.
Morna did not think it grim. Indeed, it was an impressive room, not that large but with a ceiling decorated with the same swirling ochre patterns as in her chamber, faded by time but still beautiful. The walls were hewn from massive blocks of stone, and the windows were set low along its length. Like everything, it smelled of the sea and spoke of a life lived for practicality rather than comfort, for there was little adornment.
‘You grace this hall in that dress,’ said Drostan in a clumsy attempt at flattery.
‘Does it belong to the Lady of Fitheach? Does your Laird have a wife I must thank for it?’ asked Morna.
Drostan gave her a dark look. ‘No, there is not a woman alive who can hold my cousin’s interest for too long,’ he replied sullenly. ‘His tastes are many and varied in that regard.’
Morna had the distinct impression his reply was meant to wound Will, so she changed the subject quickly. ‘This place must have seen many feast days and celebrations, Drostan.’
The young man gave her an anguished look. ‘Not much to feast about since…’ He stopped and turned his back on her to stare into the fire.
‘Since what?’ asked Morna.
‘Nothing. ‘Tis not for me to say.’
Drostan’s demeanour had darkened considerably.
