He ran a comb through his jaw-length light-brown hair and shook it out free. He shaped his plaid over his shoulder and beneath his right arm until the long, woven russet-coloured cloth hung neatly. The brat was an outdoor garment but the colour proclaimed a man’s clan allegiance and at this time the usual rules of clothing would be relaxed. He added a swagger to his step as he left the room, holding his shoulders back and head high. He would make his first appearance as Earl of Glenarris one to remember.
He descended to the ground floor and made his way outside to the Inner Close of the castle. The sun had sunk beneath the height of the curtain wall and the limewashed stone of the Forework was a warm orange. The impression was much more benign than the image of the skull that he had first thought of. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of grass mingling with tempting smells coming from the kitchens beside the Great Hall. Ewan inhaled deeply, his appetite surging back for the first time in days. Since his father’s and brother’s deaths all food had tasted like ash, but the scent of rich juices from the roasting meat were more than any man could resist. He would eat well tonight and fill his belly, knowing that he had three days’ journey to take him home to Lochmore Castle.
A few other late guests were making their way across the courtyard, taking a direct route. The cool breeze on his face and neck made his stiff velvet doublet a little more bearable and Ewan decided to take a longer route. He made his way round the path, past the Chapel Royal, and came face to face with a ghost.
The apparition appeared before him no more than half-a-dozen paces away. It was small, slight and female, and appeared to have passed through the solid stone of the inner curtain wall itself. The figure was facing away from Ewan. She was clothed from head to foot in grey, with a veil of long, white silk that covered her head and fell to her waist. Late evening sunlight seemed to stream through the wall itself, lighting upon her veil and causing it to glow and shimmer like a sunrise over the loch where the water took the colours of early lavender and slate.
Ewan stepped back in surprise, mouth falling open. His mind refused to believe what his eyes were seeing, but no living woman at court would be dressed in such a strange manner or such a colour.
He must have gasped out loud because the spectre spun on the spot to face him in a flurry of skirts. The veil she wore framed a face that was pale and angular. With the light shining behind her, Ewan could only vaguely make out the woman’s features. Black eyes and red lips that became a startled circle.
Ewan got an impression of fragile beauty and of apprehensiveness. The spectre looked more fearful of him than the reverse. His heart began to pound in his throat and his palms grew moist. Was this creature here to herald his death, or seduce him into giving up his soul? If he was going to be faced with proof that the unearthly creatures he had scorned as old wives’ tales truly existed, he could not imagine a more alluring example.
The creature raised an arm swathed in a wide, billowing sleeve and swiftly drew the edge of the veil around to cover her face, leaving only the tantalisingly dark eyes visible. Ewan raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight and try to catch a better glimpse of her. He could not have moved from the spot if his life depended on it. He had no idea how long he might have stood there, not daring to move in case the creature vanished, but waiting for her to melt away, because at that moment he heard himself being hailed loudly from across the courtyard.
The bewitchment that had transfixed him was broken. The ghost shuddered and stood motionless, then stepped quickly back through the wall, disappearing instantly. Ewan stepped towards her, hand outstretched. A sense of yearning filled him that such delicate loveliness was beyond his reach. He might as well try to catch mist.
‘Ewan Lochmore! It is you I see!’ came the voice that had intruded.
He tore his eyes away from the now-empty spot and gave his attention to the speaker. A familiar figure was striding across from the King’s House towards him, his reddish-gold hair streaming behind him.
‘Struan MacNeill!’
Ewan opened his arms wide, roaring his greeting and genuinely pleased to see someone he had not seen for over a year. MacNeill’s sept was a branch of Clan Campbell, neighbours of Clan Lochmore, and the men were on friendly terms. The two men embraced, clapping each other on the back amid loud exclamations.
‘My commiserations, Ewan,’ Struan said, once they had released each other. ‘Hamish was a great man. They both were.’
Ewan passed a hand over his eyes.
‘Are you ill?’ Struan asked. ‘You look as though you’re half-asleep.’
‘I was looking for a woman,’ Ewan murmured.
‘Aren’t we all?’ Struan laughed, grabbing his crotch in an exaggerated manner. ‘Don’t fear, there are plenty of bonny lasses in the castle who are more than happy to oblige. I cannae think of a better way to heal a wounded heart.’
Ewan forced a crude laugh. Dallying with serving girls didn’t appeal, especially when his thoughts were consumed with the unearthly encounter. He looked back over his shoulder. She was, of course, nowhere to be seen. He wondered if the whole incident had been the product of his mind and she had never been there at all.
He took a few steps closer to the place where the ghost had been, stopped and roared with laughter. What he had believed was a solid wall in fact held a small archway that had not been apparent from the angle he had been standing at. An iron gate had been pulled to. Ewan shook his head at his foolishness. The woman had not been a spectre passing through solid stone. She was a flesh-and-blood woman who had simply walked through a gate, albeit one dressed very oddly.
A prickle of excitement ran down his spine. If she was real, she would be among the guests and he might find her. Might even talk with her. He would like to see if she was as pretty as the brief glance had suggested she was. The path led only to the battlements and outer wall, which was no place for a lone woman to be walking. He peered through the gate, hoping to see where the woman had gone, but, seeing no sign of her, joined Struan making his way to the Great Hall with higher spirits and alert eyes. For the first time since his loss, his grief had to compete with another emotion.
The five great fireplaces in the hall were ablaze and filling the Great Hall with the heady smell of woodsmoke and herbs. The building was large, but men and women stood crushed together in tightly knit groups while serving maids and boys wove their way from group to group, replenishing wine cups. Ewan seized a cup from a passing tray and drank deeply, finishing it quickly and taking another almost instantly. He strode from group to group, greeting old friends and paying deference to the men who outranked him, remembering that he, too, was now owed respect as the Earl of Glenarris. All the while, he was conscious that his eye was searching for the woman in white, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Ordinarily a gathering of this many men from so many clans would lead to old grievances and rivalries being raised and fought over but tonight, at least, all within the walls were united in the grief that the devastating loss at Flodden had caused in all hearts. Scotland had lost her sons and fathers.
Lively music came from the minstrels’ gallery high in the rafters of the building and Ewan could tell from the way bodies were starting to move in time with the rhythm that it would not be long before the whole company began dancing. Ewan’s fingers began to click in time with the music. He decided that he would dance tonight and lose himself in the music in the hope it might diminish the sorrow in his heart.
Ewan was caught by the arm and found Angus by his side. They walked side by side through the milling people. They were almost at the furthest end of the Great Hall when Ewan saw a flash of McCrieff plaid. His cheeks flushed and he knew his previous reflection on peace and truces was about to be tested. If he had thought about it he would have remembered members of that clan would be present too. Donald McCrieff, son of old Earl Malcolm, laird