Snow Raven

Snow Raven

Patricia McAllister

Life is mostly froth and bubble;

Two things stand like stone;

Kindness in another’s trouble,

Courage in your own.

—Adam Lindsay Gordon

Prologue

Summer 1598

Auchmull Castle

the southeastern Highlands

“COME AWAY, LAD. THERE’S naught to be done here.”

Gently but firmly, Hertha Cobb interrupted the laird of Lindsay’s stricken vigil. She reached up and laid a wrinkled hand on the man’s broad shoulder, squeezing her fingers, letting him know she shared in the grief of his loss. Together, the two regarded the tartan-wrapped figure lying upon the cold stone bier.

“Blair,” Ranald Lindsay whispered, reaching out to trace his wife’s beloved features for the last time. He ran calloused fingers over a sweetly curved cheek, then closed his eyes in anguish as he remembered the first time, and the last, he had seen her.
Look at me, my love!
he begged her silently, wanting—nay, desperately needing—to gaze into those soft blue eyes one last time.

It seemed a dream now, yet just a short week ago, Blair lay beside him in their huge carved bed, the pair of them snuggled happily under warm fur pelts, whispering of the bairn to come in the spring. Blair seemed so certain it would be a son; God would surely bless them doubly, she said, after so much disappointment.

Ran remembered her giggle as she teased him it would serve him right if there were twin lassies instead, both as feisty as their sire. He had growled and playfully swatted Blair’s behind for such impudence, then rolled her over and made gentle, fierce love to her again.

Ran’s gaze slowly refocused on the woman lying so still and pale before him. Blair’s dainty hands were cross-folded over her midriff, the slight bulge of a future forever lost still visible. Her fingers curved about the hilt of the jeweled hilt of the dagger he had given her, an ornate piece no less deadly for its feminine decoration and swan’s-head design.

He did not weep. He felt naught but a deadly calm, a resolve almost frightening in its starkness. Somewhere in the distance he was aware of voices, hushed whispers echoing in the great hall, but it was as if a shroud of mist separated him from reality. His attention did not stray from his Blair.

Even in peaceful repose of death, she soothed him with her presence. Her bright flaxen hair was dressed with white heather, as she had worn it when they had wed, and rested unbound in maiden fashion over the deep scarlet of her kirtle.

Earlier, his shaking fingers had fastened the sprig of rue and crest badge to her cape. Ran’s gaze focused on the Latin inscription surrounding the swan rising from a coronet proper
Endure fort. Endure With Strength.

Ran glanced away. A tremor ran through his frame, a piercing white-hot stab of emotion, prompting one word.

“Wickham.”

The name hissed from his lips banished the silence, and it seemed nature released its breath, for a sudden gust of wind through the half-open window made his tartan stir.

Spring’s kiss lay in the cool wind, in the pale sunlight dappled upon Blair’s cheeks. How different it was from the Lammas day they had wed, one bright with sunshine and laughter, as she had swirled in her plaid beside him, threading the needle ’tween the other dancers. Their wedding music was a spritely reel, dubbed “Gay Lindsay” in honor of Ran’s ancestors, once known as “The Lindsays light and gay …”

“M’laird?”

His reverie was shattered. The wail of bagpipes faded to the hushed stillness of a vigil beside a stone bier. Ran glanced over his shoulder at the elderly woman, his expression distant, as if he dreamed not of dancers, but rather
this
was the dream.

Hertha observed the lad she had nursed at her own bosom. Her heart ached for the depth of Ran’s loss; it was no less than her own. She knew his senses must be dulled by shock, for his dark eyes swirled with emotion.

After they had received word of Blair’s death, Hertha had expected their lord would grieve. But he had endured the news in terrible silence, and she realized this icy restraint was far more dangerous than if a hell-hound of fury like the legendary Cu Sith had raged through Auchmull’s halls.

Hertha’s voice was husky with emotion when she spoke again.

“Ran, lad, ’tis time to come away. The others hae arrived from Edzell, Lady Deuchar and the boys. Father Pettigrew is here to attend to the rites.”

Ran blinked, as if her words slapped him into reality. His hand rose and raked with sudden agitation through the deep brown waves of his hair.

“God’s blood, Hertha, I cannot deal with Darra today.”

Hertha sighed. “Yer sister will nae be put off fer long, m’laird.”

“I know. See to their hospitality, Hertha. Keep them distracted as long as you can. Give me but a moment more with my bonny Blair …”

“Ye canna help yer poor lady-wife. She serves a higher laird now.”

“Then I will avenge her.”

The sudden vow was no less deadly for its quiet delivery.

“Hist, Lord Ran! Ye dinna ken what yer saying in yer grief. The others look to ye now, to set an example and lead them through these dark days.”

Ran nodded. Hertha sensed his capitulation came too easily, and frowned. She wanted to clasp him to her breast, soothe and croon at him in a motherly fashion, but long had it been since any touched this proud man in aught save passion or battle. Always, always was the barrier there, though Blair had seen many a stone removed during their brief marriage.

Hertha had only seen Ranald Lindsay tremble thrice in his life. Once, when he wed Blair, and gazed into her loch-blue eyes as he spoke the binding vows; the second when word came from Edzell his father, the Earl of Crawford, had died; and lastly when he had returned from hunting stag in the Grampians and learned of his wife’s fate.

All three within less than a year. Ran suddenly turned from the bier and faced Hertha. Raw emotion had replaced the bleakness in those dark eyes. Hertha felt a sudden chill that did not issue from any spring breeze, and knew The Wolf was back.

Chapter One

Auchmull

Two months later

“WHAT IS THE EXCUSE this time? How dare he hide from me like some Lowland churl!”

The crisp, impassioned voice of Lady Deuchar rang throughout the great hall, and her gaze focused on Hertha accusingly.

Darra shared her elder brother’s keen dark eyes and the infamous Lindsay penchant for rebellion. She was renowned for her wit and beauty and was a favorite at James’s Court.

Married to Kinross Deuchar, a baron of some prominence and excellent reputation, now the mother of two young sons, Darra was quite content with her lot and thus had an inordinate amount of time on her hands for meddling in others’ affairs.

“Ran is acting like a mummer gone mad,” Darra said curtly, before Hertha replied. “Well, he is! ’Tis not as if this outcome was not unexpected. He should admit Blair brought such ill fortune upon herself.”

Hertha shuddered at the matter-of-fact statement, though she knew Darra spoke with no true malice. This Lindsay lass had been a spoiled, willful bairn and had yet to grow out of it. Her talents outweighed her shortcomings, for Darra Deuchar nee Lindsay was a devoted wife, mother, and chatelaine at the family estate of Edzell. Hertha only faulted the lass one thing, and that was her oft too merciless attitude toward her eldest brother.

“His little Blair is but hardly gone, lass,” Hertha said with equal bluntness. “Surely ye would nae deny yer brother private time to grieve.”

“Brooding does not suit any Lindsay.”

To be certain, Hertha had never seen this lass brood. Ran was the moody one, Darra the ever-practical lass, and young Gil the charmer. All three bore the dark hair of their Crawford maternal kin, and the fair skin of their Anglo-Norman Lindsay ancestors.

Today Darra was eloquent and striking in black velvet mourning, which she wore out of respect for Ran. The fact her looks were attractively foiled by such a stark hue was but an extra benefit. There was no question as to why the lady enjoyed such popularity at Court.

Still Hertha restrained herself from going to adjust the train of the gown. She was too accustomed to fussing over all the Lindsays in mother-hen fashion. It was hard to accept the fact the Lindsay bairns were nigh all grown.

Och, poor Mistress Darra, Hertha mused. The lass had never understood Ran anyway; his secretive nature and moody reveries had never mixed well with Darra’s incessant curiosity and inherent desire to control every situation.

Hertha sighed, wishing Darra’s boys had come along, for she would have welcomed their noisy distraction at present. She still held the tray of cakes and heather ale she had brought out for the unexpected guest, and she regarded it with sudden weariness.

Lady Darra was above such humble offerings anyhow, and young Gil and his older sidekick Hugo had grabbed handfuls of cakes before dashing off to practice tilting in the yard. Hertha set the tray upon the sideboard, noting Darra’s gaze had instantly marked the slight tarnish on the silver.

Darra’s lips thinned. “Ran has enough funds to run a proper household,” she said. “Bad enough he refuses to occupy the high seat at Edzell. One must marvel that he cannot comply with the meanest concept of civilization here.”

“Perhaps because I’ve yet to find any guests worthy of the effort,” came a cool reply from the top of the stairs. Darra frowned. Only with the greatest of restraint did she manage to turn and regard Ran with what might have passed for indifference.

“High time you faced me,” she rebuked him as the elusive chief of Clan Lindsay descended the stairs to the hall, clad in his red-and-black Lindsay tartan, with the ceremonial key to Auchmull pinned at his left shoulder.

Darra saw her brother's shoulder-length, wavy dark hair was loose, spread across his broad shoulders. He was thinner since she had seen him last, but she glimpsed a familiar, feral glint in his eye.

She eyed Ran’s appearance disapprovingly. She had willingly surrendered the clan plaid when she wed Kinross, and it annoyed her Ran still clung so stubbornly to the past, especially when it amounted to naught but misty legends and myths of Lindsay glory.

He seemed not the slightest perturbed by her remark.

“Indeed” was all he said, and his lips curved slightly. Darra suspected he mocked her and this prompted another gambit to regain control of the situation.

“I have been here nigh an hour, Ran, and yet you cannot be bothered to greet your own kith and kin. D’you suppose I traveled all the way from Edzell to cool my heels in your humble hall, awaiting your pleasure?”

Ran looked at her. His boot heel hit the main floor with a ring of finality. When he spoke again his voice was so deceptively soft as to give the illusion of gentleness, where there was, in truth, none.

“Nay, lass. As I hardly presume you came to weep over Blair’s grave, either.”

Darra flushed at his remark, and hugged herself, her hands rubbing up and down her arms. “’Tis too cold in here by half,” she complained.

Ran said nothing then, but crossed the hall to the huge, empty hearth where a fire had not blazed since his wife’s death. He leaned against the mantel and folded his arms, regarding his sibling with something akin to dark amusement.

“I prefer it cold.”

Sensing the impending storm, Hertha saw opportunity to escape. She gratefully seized upon the excuse of the tray as she picked it up again and bustled off for the kitchens. After her departure, nothing was heard for a long time but the distant shouts of the lads as they thundered their ponies across the inner ward. Their laughter and good-natured taunts rang off the keep’s stone walls, underscoring the daunting silence in Auchmull’s great hall.

After Hertha left, finally Darra spoke. She could not bear the tension. Nothing was more chilling than Ran’s icy silence when he chose to use it as a weapon.

“Ran, I realize you and I have never gotten on famously, but there is no need for further adversity at such an hour. Gilbert looks to you now, more than he ever has. You must set an example. You are the Earl of Crawford.”

“A
Sassenach
title with all the attached unpleasantries of duty,” Ran said, punctuating his words with a chuckle containing no mirth whatsoever. His flinty gaze never wavered from her face.

Darra felt cornered and raised her chin. She was but five foot three to her brother’s strapping height, but enough Highland blood coursed through her veins to make her every bit as dangerous as male Lindsays when her ire was roused.

“Duties, unpleasant or otherwise, are a fact of life, Ran. Best grow up and accept it.”

“I need accept nothing I do not choose to.”

“Pray tell, how does refusing to accept Blair’s death aid or benefit any of us?”

Darra’s inspection of her brother’s residence had not failed to note the fact none of the late Lady Lindsay’s personal items had been removed. Indeed, the woolen Blair was mending around the time tragedy struck was still neatly folded upon a low table beside her favorite fireside chair, as if waiting for its mistress to return any moment and pick up the darning needle again.