“Verra new. Tis the truth, the old laird started it. He had a falling-out with his kinsmen and turned his back on them. Decided to start his own clan, named it after himself. Fingal came here a few months before his cousin died, a verra distant cousin, and obviously wooed the mon into naming him his heir. Fingal married the mon’s daughter to secure it all, e’en though she was promised to another. She gave Fingal one son ere she died.”
“Then what is the name of his kinsmen’s clan?” Fiona was astonished when Mab suddenly looked fearful, even going a little pale.
“We cannae say the name. Tis forbidden.”
“I dinnae think anyone will hear ye, Mab.”
Mab shook her head. “Tis forbidden. If the old laird kens anyone has said it, he goes into a rage which can last for hours. Nay, ’tis best if ye just see us all as MacFingals.”
Fiona began to think she had landed in a keep full of lunatics, the old laird being the worst. Lunatics, broken men, and castoffs. The banished and the bedeviled. Her curiosity was roused, however. Before she left Scarglas, she was determined to find out exactly who Fingal MacFingal was and why he had turned his back on his kinsmen. A small inner voice sneered that her interest was stirred more because of a tall, dark warrior named Ewan than by some angry old man, but she ignored it.
Chapter 5
The sound of the door being unbarred brought Fiona to her feet. She had been both annoyed and relieved when she had been secured inside the room with Simon. A soft pallet had been made for her by the fire and even her demand for a bath had been fulfilled, a painted wooden screen set up in the corner of the room to give her privacy. Fresh clothing had been brought to her and Fiona thought she looked rather nice in the soft woolen gown, the deep blue complementing her eyes. Mab had left to be with her son, Simon had passed a peaceful night, and she had slept well, too. There was no reason for her to feel irritated, for her treatment as a hostage had, thus far, been exemplary. She knew, to her disgust, that the lack of any word or sight of her captor was the cause of her annoyance. That implied that she had missed him and she cursed her own weakness.
Gregor entered the room, followed by Mab, and he smiled at Fiona. “Ye clean up weel, lass.”
Fiona inwardly cursed the blush she felt sting her cheeks. “Thank ye.”
“How fares the lad?” he asked as he moved to the side of the bed to look at Simon.
“No hint of fever,” said Mab who, after setting a tray holding a bowl of broth and some water on the small table by the bed, felt Simon’s forehead and cheeks.
“He passed a quiet night.” Fiona stood at the foot of the bed and smiled at Simon, who blushed when Mab yanked down the covers to look at his bandaged wounds. “The wounds looked clean when I changed the bandages this morning and put a wee bit of salve on them. Do they look clean to ye, Mab?”
Gently easing aside the bandages enough to peek at the wounds, Mab nodded. “Verra clean. Ye must tell what your salve is, for ’tis clear that it works wonders.” She tugged the blankets back up and, with Gregor’s assistance, eased Simon into a partially seated position against the pillows. “I have broth, water, and some cider for ye, laddie. And dinnae make that face. Ye ken ye must nay eat too heartily for a wee while.” She looked at Fiona. “A day or two, aye?”
“Aye. Broth today, I think, and if there is still no sign of fever or infection, something a wee bit heartier on the morrow. They werenae verra deep wounds.”
“Mere scratches,” said Simon. “I will be out of this bed soon.”
“Nay until Mab and I say ye can or we will be lashing ye to that bed. The wound upon your belly could be set to bleeding verra easily. Ye will be in bed until it closes and then ye will be verra, verra careful for a while after that. It wasnae deep enough to gut ye, but ’tis more than a scratch. I will see it closed tight
“Then what is the name of his kinsmen’s clan?” Fiona was astonished when Mab suddenly looked fearful, even going a little pale.
“We cannae say the name. Tis forbidden.”
“I dinnae think anyone will hear ye, Mab.”
Mab shook her head. “Tis forbidden. If the old laird kens anyone has said it, he goes into a rage which can last for hours. Nay, ’tis best if ye just see us all as MacFingals.”
Fiona began to think she had landed in a keep full of lunatics, the old laird being the worst. Lunatics, broken men, and castoffs. The banished and the bedeviled. Her curiosity was roused, however. Before she left Scarglas, she was determined to find out exactly who Fingal MacFingal was and why he had turned his back on his kinsmen. A small inner voice sneered that her interest was stirred more because of a tall, dark warrior named Ewan than by some angry old man, but she ignored it.
Chapter 5
The sound of the door being unbarred brought Fiona to her feet. She had been both annoyed and relieved when she had been secured inside the room with Simon. A soft pallet had been made for her by the fire and even her demand for a bath had been fulfilled, a painted wooden screen set up in the corner of the room to give her privacy. Fresh clothing had been brought to her and Fiona thought she looked rather nice in the soft woolen gown, the deep blue complementing her eyes. Mab had left to be with her son, Simon had passed a peaceful night, and she had slept well, too. There was no reason for her to feel irritated, for her treatment as a hostage had, thus far, been exemplary. She knew, to her disgust, that the lack of any word or sight of her captor was the cause of her annoyance. That implied that she had missed him and she cursed her own weakness.
Gregor entered the room, followed by Mab, and he smiled at Fiona. “Ye clean up weel, lass.”
Fiona inwardly cursed the blush she felt sting her cheeks. “Thank ye.”
“How fares the lad?” he asked as he moved to the side of the bed to look at Simon.
“No hint of fever,” said Mab who, after setting a tray holding a bowl of broth and some water on the small table by the bed, felt Simon’s forehead and cheeks.
“He passed a quiet night.” Fiona stood at the foot of the bed and smiled at Simon, who blushed when Mab yanked down the covers to look at his bandaged wounds. “The wounds looked clean when I changed the bandages this morning and put a wee bit of salve on them. Do they look clean to ye, Mab?”
Gently easing aside the bandages enough to peek at the wounds, Mab nodded. “Verra clean. Ye must tell what your salve is, for ’tis clear that it works wonders.” She tugged the blankets back up and, with Gregor’s assistance, eased Simon into a partially seated position against the pillows. “I have broth, water, and some cider for ye, laddie. And dinnae make that face. Ye ken ye must nay eat too heartily for a wee while.” She looked at Fiona. “A day or two, aye?”
“Aye. Broth today, I think, and if there is still no sign of fever or infection, something a wee bit heartier on the morrow. They werenae verra deep wounds.”
“Mere scratches,” said Simon. “I will be out of this bed soon.”
“Nay until Mab and I say ye can or we will be lashing ye to that bed. The wound upon your belly could be set to bleeding verra easily. Ye will be in bed until it closes and then ye will be verra, verra careful for a while after that. It wasnae deep enough to gut ye, but ’tis more than a scratch. I will see it closed tight
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