Chapter Four
As they rode out of the trees Mora stared at the cottage they now approached. It looked sturdy and well tended to, yet showed no sign of habitation. She was surprised it had not been claimed by someone. When she finally saw Sigimor, she might try to gently suggest he go to some of the cities and hunt for tenants as she knew that was where he would find many ready to move and work for a decent home to live in.
Gybbon cautiously opened the stable doors, saw no animals, and led his horse inside. He quickly grabbed her by the waist and lifted her down. As he set down their bags and the blankets, Mora told herself it was the speed with which he lifted her down that left her a little breathless.
While he unsaddled Jester and then settled his mount in a stall and made sure he had something to eat, Mora opened her bag to let out Freya. When her pet escaped her and ran into an empty stall, she nearly ran after her knowing the animal was searching for a place to do her business, but then decided to just let her go. After all, she told herself, any animal stabled here would use the place the same way. A little buried cat mess would not bring any notice.
Freya had just gotten back in the bag when Gybbon came to her, collected the blankets and his own things, took her by the hand the moment she grabbed her bag, and went to look out the stable doors. It was now pouring and he sighed. Mora looked at the rain and sighed, too, resigning herself to getting wet.
"We are going to have to run for it, lass, and we will still get wet." He looked down at her as he draped a blanket over his head and around his shoulders. "Ready?" he asked as he stepped out, tugging her after him, and pulled the stable doors shut.
"Aye," she replied, glad for the slight overhang of the stable roof as it held off some of the rain if she pressed hard up against the wall. "Best to stay clear of me," she said as she pulled up the hood of her cloak, then grabbed tightly onto her bag and the cloak's front. "I cannae see too clearly with my hood up."
He released her hand and ran toward the cottage. Mora took a deep breath and then followed him as fast as she could. She used the temptation to get beneath the covered front step to keep going.
She bumped into Gybbon and quickly moved to stand beside him. He opened the door and, after looking around for a moment, grabbed her by the hand and tugged her inside. While he shut and secured the door, she took off her coat, then undid her bag to let Freya out. From the outside and in the rain it had not looked like a very big cottage, but from the inside it proved to be a lot bigger than she had thought. More important, she could not see any immediate sign of leaks.
She stood in a large room with an impressive stone hearth in the middle of one wall. As she hung her cloak on a hook to the side of the fireplace, Gybbon piled some wood in the hearth and worked to get a fire started. Mora glanced at the narrow steps that led up to the loft, then over at the far wall where a kitchen and eating area had been set apart just a little. There was one shuttered window on each wall and Mora welcomed the light thrown off by the fire almost as much as she did the heat.
Glancing at the neatly stacked wood by the hearth, she said, "'Tis weel supplied for a deserted home."
Gybbon stood and hung the blanket he had worn on another hook. "Sigimor made it clear to any who visit regularly that they must leave something to help the next visitor and was verra firm on the need of leaving some wood at the ready to start a fire. He kens that the occasional stranger makes use of the cottage when the weather turns against them on the road but, as long as they dinnae stay too long or destroy anything, he lets it be. Many of my clan have used the cottage when traveling."
"Do ye think he hopes someone useful to him might come along and be convinced to stay?"
"I wouldnae be surprised. He has invited any Murray or MacFingal to settle if they feel inclined to."
"But no one has yet?"
"I think he may get a few of the MacFingals before long if only because there are so many of them. The men in my clan seem to marry weel or will inherit something, but one cannae tell if some of the younger sons might be tempted if they are nay so fortunate." He looked toward the kitchen and frowned. "I am nay sure we have much hope for a decent meal. The rain will keep most of the game away, e'en the small game. I have a wee bit of rabbit but saved it for the cat. And, of course, I have the fixings for porridge."
"That will serve weel enough. I have a few pippens in my bag and a small number of berries. We can at least dress it up a bit." She went to her bag and dug out a box, then handed it to Gybbon.
Gybbon stared at the fine carving on the lid of the wooden box. "Nice work." He traced the shape of the thistle with one finger.
"My da did it." She reached out to touch the horse standing next to the thistle. "He liked to do that. He said it gave him some peace and made him happy. I brought three different ones from the house. I feared they might be taken or destroyed and they are the one thing that was unmistakably his."
"Aye. Someone who does such work puts a wee bit of himself in the thing he makes." He smiled faintly and set the box aside. "Then porridge and berries it is."
Mora moved back to her bag. She reached down to stroke the tops of the other boxes, holding the bottom of the bag firm. Gybbon was right. She could almost feel her father's presence as she touched his carving. Mora wished she could have brought along some of her mother's pottery, but it was simply too fragile for the trip she had needed to take. All she could do was hope it would still be there when she could finally go home.
Looking back at Gybbon, she saw him begin preparing some porridge. Mora sighed, but did so quietly so as not to insult the man. She liked porridge but suspected she would be desperate for something, anything, else by the time they reached Dubheidland.
"Do ye think my cousins are also sheltering from the rain?" she asked.
"Aye. I dinnae ken the men, but I would be willing to bet they tucked themselves up in a warm inn as fast as they could and are now enjoying a nice hot meal and an ale."
"Bastards," Mora muttered softly.
Gybbon laughed, revealing he had heard her, and Mora blushed.
"Exactly so."
Murdoch watched Robert guzzle from his tankard of ale and tried to maintain his expression of calm with a touch of disinterest. His brother's great plan was nothing less than madness, but he knew if he said as much he would die. What he could not think of was how he could get free of the plan and maybe even aid poor Mora.
He had liked Mora's parents and had been stunned when Robert had confessed that he had killed them. Lachlan had later whispered the tale to him of how Robert had struck them down even as they smiled and greeted them cheerfully. It was fortunate he had not been there and had been too stunned to say anything when Robert had boasted of the killing, he decided. If he did not remain as completely in agreement with Robert's plan as his eldest brother insisted all his brothers be, he would pay dearly. His brother had always held him firmly in place with a hard hand, and a part of Murdoch was growing very tired of it, especially now that he did not have his father to stand between them.
"Where do ye think our cousin has gone?" he asked Robert, and nearly winced at the fury on his brother's face.
"She may already be at that damned Cameron's keep with him and his horde of brothers. Her mother was so damned proud of her connection to that arrogant fool."
"Then we have lost her." Murdoch was proud of how he kept the hope he felt out of his voice.
"For a wee while, mayhap, but she willnae be able to resist going home. She also will need to get the boy if he isnae with her or want him to ken what she thinks is his now."
Murdoch kept his eyes lowered to his plate as he forced himself to eat a little food. The land and house did belong to her and Andrew. Their grandfather had left it to David. He had left that in his last will and testament. It would still be in their uncle's hands if their father was not so ill.
As he glanced toward one of the young maids scurrying through the room serving food and ale, he thought about his father's sudden illness, one that looked certain to kill him. It had come on so suddenly, and no matter what healer they brought him, it clung to him tenaciously. A sudden thought as to how that might have happened made Murdoch feel color rush to his cheeks, a flush born of fury and shock, and he was glad he was staring at a buxom brunette so that Robert would not think anything of it.
"Ye cannae handle a lass like that, boy," taunted Robert.
Murdoch gave his brother an angry look, then went back to staring at his plate. He could not banish the thought that Robert might have had a hand in their father's illness. It would explain why he had killed poor Old William. From what little he had heard of their argument, it was possible the man had been about to accuse Robert of poisoning his father.