A GOODBYE ON THE DRAWBRIDGE
The day of the campaign dawned. Broderick stood on the steps of the castle.
Amabel was opposite him. She wore a high-necked dress of white linen, falling stiffly down to a long train. On her head, she had a tall steepled headdress from which fluttered a filmy veil. She looked cool and remote, a pillar of frost.
“Goodbye, Lord Broderick,” she said in a small voice. Her hands, fingers long and tapered, in his, were like ice.
“Goodbye, my lady,” he said stiffly. He bent to kiss her cheek. She stood unyielding under the touch of his lips. Her skin was cool like marble under his mouth. He drew back.
“I wish you a blessed venture,” she said in a high, clear voice. “May you accomplish your long-sought vengeance.”
Broderick nodded. “That will be my aim.”
“Good.”
He squeezed her lifeless fingers, wishing that he could think of something to do or say to bring some warmth into the situation. But he could think of nothing. He gently released his hold and she withdrew her fingers. She looked past him to the ranks of the men, to the single catapult standing behind.
“Tell me all about it!” Heath said, enthusiastically. “I wish to hear a full account of the engine's work.”
Broderick grinned and ruffled the young man's thick black hair. “I shall, young man. Take care of the castle in my absence.”
Lord Lochlann snorted from further up the line, but the youth flushed happily.
“I will, lord Broderick!”
Broderick grinned. He turned to his brother. “Take care of Dunkeld for me, brother. And make sure that rascal of a father knows why I am so long absent.”
Duncan laughed. He had an easy laugh, one that made him instantly popular. “I will, brother. Take care.” He squeezed his hand. Broderick swallowed. A goodbye from his wise little brother was always quite hard.
“You, too.”
He turned away briskly, feeling the strange mix of restlessness and sadness that he always felt when saying goodbye to Duncan. He cleared his throat and called to Blaine, who was further down the line.
“Come on, Blaine. Off we go.”
Blaine nodded and the two of them turned to mount up. Broderick had been granted a magnificent destrier, a horse he felt he only just merited. Trained by the best trainers in Normandy, the horse was a mount that would have graced a champion jouster. He felt desperately outmatched and tried to pretend he was not.
“Come, Flamme,” he whispered to the horse. The horse had a French name and was trained in that language. Amabel spoke French, he thought sadly. She would have been able to help him learn the correct commands if he had thought to ask.
Blaine had thrown himself into the saddle of his black Clydesdale mount, and together they rode at the head of over eighty troops. Broderick wanted to turn around, to wave. To catch some sign that his wife cared if he lived or died. But he did not think she would take kindly if he waved.
She would probably see it as some kind of slur on her dignity.
He wished he understood his wife. She had been so ready, so close to him, so warm and kind and accommodating. But in the last two weeks, the gulf between them grew until they hardly spoke from one day to the next – he wished he could understand it.
“Blaine,” he said after they had ridden for almost half an hour. The men had tired of singing bawdy songs, and the march was slowing somewhat as the day wore on to a cool grayish afternoon.
“Yes, sir?”
“Do you know anything of women?”
Blaine laughed and Broderick glared at him. “I don't mean like that. You know I don't,” he said crossly.
Blaine bit his cheeks to stifle the cheeky grin. “I know, milord. But as far as women are concerned... I dunno much, sir. I don't ken anyone who does.”
Broderick smiled. “I will take comfort in that, Blaine.”
They rode on in silence.
“I dinnae ken much of women, sir,” he said after a moment. “But I know the Lochlann ladies. I know a little of Lady Amabel.”
“Oh?” Broderick blinked.
“She's sad, sir.”
Broderick chuckled dryly. “I think I noticed as much. Why?”
Blaine shrugged. “She likes you, sir.”
Broderick stared at him. He had been drinking from his water-bag, and almost choked on it. “What?” he coughed. His eyes were streaming, and he turned to face Blaine, utterly disbelieving.
Blaine shrugged. “Dinnae look at me all surprised, sir. That's what I heard. Ain't my fault if it disnae make sense.”
Broderick sighed. “You heard from Chrissie, Blaine?”
“Aye, sir.” He swung round in the saddle, spitting up a gobbet of phlegm into the path. He grinned at Broderick.
Broderick smiled. “She said Amabel liked me? Why?”
Blaine grinned. “No idea, sir. She has funny taste, I reckon.”
Broderick slapped his shoulder. “Not that. Not why does she like me, you wee scamp! Though I admit maybe that's a mystery. Why did she say that?”
Blaine paused, thinking. “I was talkin' to Chrissie before we left, sir. She said that she was feeling sad because Amabel was sad. She was being sharpish with everyone, she said. And it was because of you.”
Broderick sighed. He had no idea he had caused misery to the three female members of the household, not just one. He felt like the worst sort of creature. “And that was when she said she liked me?”
“Yes. I asked her why Lady Amabel was sad about you. She said it was because Amabel likes you, but you don't like her.”
Broderick stopped so suddenly he almost fell off. His horse stamped with irritability, and he sighed. He stared at Blaine. He was shocked. “She said what?”
“She said you disnae like her.”
Broderick laughed. “Why, that's ridiculous! I have done everything to show her I care. I have been attentive, kind, thoughtful...”
Blaine squinted at his superior. “Don't ask me. But it disnae seem to be convincing to her.”
Broderick sighed. Blaine was right. Whatever he was doing to make amends was clearly quite unconvincing. But what he suggested was barmy. How could Amabel think he didn't like her? After all the ways he'd tried so much to show it...
“You know what I don't understand, Blaine?” he asked.
“Lots, sir?”
Broderick cuffed his shoulder. Blaine laughed.
“I don't understand women, Blaine. Not a bit.”
“Well, sir, that is lots. Every second person is a woman. So that's a lot of people...” He trailed off as Broderick looked at him.
“As soon as we reach camp, I am going to race you,” Broderick promised. “And whoever loses will have to clean my mail shirt.”
Blaine grinned. “You want to do that?”
Broderick laughed. “We shall see, young man. We shall see.”
Still laughing, the two of them rode on across the moorland toward a reddening sky.
Broderick thought about what he'd heard. It was too crazy to believe. He was sure Blaine had misheard her. How could Amabel truly think I do not like her?
“Halt!” he called after an hour's ride. The sun was setting. He squinted at the terrain. They were within six hundred feet or so of a wood, which lay at the bottom of the gentle slope they now crossed. From the map Lord Lochlann had, he judged that they were yet two day's march from Loch Craigh. They were keeping a good pace. “We stop for camp.”
As the men grumbled their thanks and ranged off to their duties – setting up tents, collecting wood, finding water or taking positions as sentries – he dismounted. The thought of Amabel had not stopped plaguing him and now he had more questions than before. Did she truly think he disliked her? How had he made her think it? And, now it had happened, what could he do to change it?