Son of the Morning Read online

  There was no way she was putting that heavy wool gown back on, and the velvet one would be just as hot. Grace looked down, checking the kirtle for modesty. She was dismayed to find it failed miserably, unless she didn’t mind any casual observer being able to see both her nipples and the darkness of her pubic hair. Inspiration struck, and she shook out the big scarf, then tied it around her waist so that it draped strategically over both front and back. Then she bloused the kirtle out from the waist so the fullness gave her a bit of modesty up top, too. Satisfied with her effort, she stuffed the dirty wool surcoat in the bag and remounted the horse. She hadn’t solved any of her problems, but at least now she was comfortable.

  Five minutes later, as she watched a group of five women trudge along the rutted road, obviously heading to Creag Dhu, inspiration struck again.

  The business of the women wasn’t in any doubt. Their skirts were hiked up farther than any Grace had seen since arriving, and their bodices were pulled low. They hadn’t bothered with long-sleeved, high-necked kirtles; their undergarments were short-sleeved and loose. No kerchiefs covered their heads, and though their hair was for the most part unkempt, as Grace watched they began finger-combing the tangles, pulling strands over their shoulders to curl flirtatiously around their breasts. They pinched their cheeks and bit their lips, and there was a good deal of laughter and obviously naughty observations.

  Whores, or at least loose women, on their way to the castle for a night of recreation or commerce, or both. And Grace now looked remarkably like them, with her scanty clothing and loose hair. She kneed the horse into a walk, approaching the group from an angle.

  “Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly when she neared, trying to alter her accent so the “good” sounded like “guid.” No help for it; she would have to speak Old English, which was at least close enough to Scots for her to be largely understood.

  The whores watched her suspiciously, no hint of welcome in their faces.

  “My man left me,” she said baldly. “I’ve no coins, no food for two days, and I have no place to sleep.”

  An overblown redhead who had seen better days looked her up and down. “Aye?” she said in a tone that clearly meant, “So what?”

  “If you are going to the castle, could I go with you? A night’s work would bring me a coin or two, and at least food for my belly.”

  “Ye have yer beast,” the redhead pointed out, nodding at the horse. A horse was a valuable animal, worth more than all their possessions put together. They weren’t likely to have any sympathy for her so long as she possessed him.

  Grace thought quickly. “You can have him,” she promised, “if you will take me with you.”

  The five women put their heads together, and a swarm of Gaelic buzzed around her ears. Finally the redhead held up her hand and nodded to Grace. “’Tis a bargain.” She waited expectantly, and Grace climbed down from the horse, not without a great deal of relief. Her bottom was so sore after two days of riding that she was much happier walking. She untied her bag from the saddle, and presented the reins to the redhead, who looked triumphantly around at her friends.

  They resumed their trek up the road. As they trudged around a bend and the castle came into sight, the redhead said, “What’s yer name?”

  “Grace.”

  “I am Wynda.” She nodded in turn at the four other women. “Nairne, Coira, Sue, and Eilidh.” Introductions accomplished, they completed the walk to the castle.

  Both guards stepped forward to meet them, stubbled cheeks stretched in huge grins. A great deal of giggling, pinching, and butt patting went on, then both guards looked questioningly at Grace. Evidently the other five were well known by the men-at-arms.

  “Grace,” Wynda said in reply to their questions. “She’s a Sassenach hoor.”

  The guard took the bag from Grace and opened it, thrusting his big hand within. He pawed through the articles of clothing and pulled out a book, looking at it in puzzlement. Grace was too tired and hungry to do anything but stand there. Wynda repeated Grace’s tale of her man leaving her behind. Perhaps it was the explanation, Grace’s lack of anxiety, or that the bag obviously held no weapons, but with a shrug the guard handed the bag back to her. He called out to the guards on the other side of the double gate, and the six women walked through.

  She was in. Her heart began pounding with excitement, the rush of adrenaline dispelling her fatigue.

  Wynda proudly led her horse to the stable, while the others made their way toward the barracks. Grace fell behind them, slowing her steps until they were well ahead of her. They were chatting, laughing, paying her no mind. Calmly she changed direction, looking around with interest.

  The inner ward was neat and busy, people going about the daily business involved in running a castle. To the left were the stables and barracks, to the right a training ground where a number of men, stripped to the waist, practiced their swordplay. She could see a well-shaped head with long black hair, towering over all the others, and quickly she looked away as if he might feel her gaze.

  Black Niall was there, so she wanted to go in a different direction. Now that she was inside she could see that in addition to the four tall towers which stood at each corner, there were two smaller inner towers, one on each end of the center great hall. The entire thing was huge; she couldn’t begin to guess how many rooms the castle contained.

  She walked into the great hall, and a wave of dizziness swept over her. The hall was just as she had seen it in her dreams. She knew where Niall sat, and exactly where the kitchens were. The smell of roasting meat filled the air, and she wondered if her dizziness was caused by hunger.

  Men and women alike were looking at her strangely, and she ducked her head, walking quickly toward the kitchens. Perhaps she could beg a piece of bread; if not, perhaps she could steal it. She had already stolen a horse, so why worry about bread? She doubted either was as serious a sin as the rash of head bashing in which she had recently indulged.

  Her appearance in the kitchen went unnoticed for a few moments, largely because there were so many people bustling about, chopping and stirring and pounding. A young boy slowly cranked a spit on which turned what looked like an entire pig. Fat dripped sizzling into the fire, sending out a wonderful smell to mingle with the yeasty scent of baking bread.

  Finally a buxom woman spotted her, and snapped out a question in Gaelic. “I’ve come a very long way,” Grace said. “I’ve had no food for over two days—”

  “Sassenach!” the cook spat in disgust, and made a shooing motion with the cloth tied around her waist.

  Evidently being thought an Englishwoman was more to her discredit than being dressed like a whore. Grace shook her head and said, “French.” Then she abruptly turned white as another wave of dizziness hit her, and she swayed, reaching out to the wall to support herself.

  The dizziness was all too real. Gasping, Grace bent over from the waist, trying not to faint. The need for food was becoming more pressing by the minute.

  Perhaps it was the reassurance that she wasn’t English, but supporting arms were suddenly around her, leading her to a bench. The buxom woman pressed a piece of bread into her shaking hand, and poured ale into a shallow bowl for her to drink. Slowly Grace chewed on the bread, which was of much better quality than that she’d had at the Hay keep. She didn’t dare take more than a few sips of the ale, not after being so long without food.

  The work went on around her, though the buxom woman kept looking in her direction, perhaps assessing the return of color to her face. After a bit, when the bread stayed down, another piece was placed before her, along with some cheese and a few slivers of cold pork. Feeling stronger now, Grace ate as greedily as good manners allowed, and drank more ale.

  The cook clucked her tongue approvingly and put even more meat and bread in front of her. “Ye’re scarce as thick as a strae, lass. Ha’ a bit more. Ye’ll need yer strength tonight.”

  Grace tried, but she was full. After a few more bites she sigh