‘Here now, lass,’ she said. ‘This will warm ye. Have ye eaten yet?’
‘My thanks.’ Sorcha accepted the cup and sipped the warm brew within. It was hot enough to spread the warmth through her and sweet, too. ‘I did eat something.’ She put the cup on the table there. ‘I should get my bags and bring the horses here.’
As she turned, she lost her balance and swayed. Coira grabbed hold of her and guided her to a stool. Pushing her hair from her face, Sorcha fell hard on to it.
‘Dinna fash, lass,’ Coira said, bringing the cup to her. ‘Drink and take a bit to rest.’ The woman walked to the door and called out to someone. ‘Kennan! Fetch the lass’s horse and bags. See to them!’
‘Kennan?’ she asked, drinking down the last of the cup.
‘Our son, the youngest,’ Coira said, never pausing in her work as she moved from one task to another in the cottage. Folding this, pouring that, and so on. ‘So, was yer father ailing for long?’
For a moment, Sorcha was confused, thinking of her true father instead of the man who’d been her mother’s servant for decades. Then she shook her head. ‘Nay, not ailing at all.’
She thought on the last days of their journey and realised Padruig had been tired. He’d complained of his arm and shoulder paining him yesterday and laughed about being an old man to ease her concern. Then last night before they slept, he mentioned that his stomach was unsettled. But those things could have been anything and she’d not connected them with an illness. The journey had been long and filled with tension and fear over being found and returned to her father. Her own stomach had been unsettled for days. Her arms ached from hours of controlling her horse on unfamiliar paths.
‘Well, lass, sometimes the Almighty is being merciful to take someone quickly. ’Tis still quite a shock.’
Sorcha murmured some reply, unable to think of what to tell this woman who clearly only wanted to help her and offer her some measure of comfort over losing her father.
* * *
As the next hours passed, Sorcha realised that she’d never spent this much time with the common people who lived their lives outside her world of comfort and wealth.
Other than those who served them within Castle Sween, Sorcha never had much to do with people who did not live in the keep. Nor had she seen how they lived. Oh, she’d seen and passed cottages in the village before, but had not spent any real time there, observing their tasks and speaking like this. Her father had forbidden all but the most casual of conversations or visits, deeming them beneath the dignity of his daughter.
She watched as the others in the family arrived back after their chores and duties and greeted each other warmly. Though she’d done nothing to help, their hospitality was freely offered and gladly accepted. Coira brushed off any gratitude she tried to express. Soon, it was the darkest part of the night and Sorcha lay awake, considering her plight and the possibilities before her.
* * *
The next dawn found her still awake and with no firm plan of what to do. For now, she could remain here but that could not last for long. It would not take long before her inexperience at working or seeing to herself became apparent even to those people who were not looking too closely.
Sorcha walked along the river, trying to sort out her thoughts when the question occurred to her. When Coira came out to hang wet garments to dry, she approached and tried to help, following the woman’s example. After twisting and then shaking out a few pieces of clothing, she asked her questions.
‘How far are we from Skye?’ she began. ‘How many days to reach there?’
Coira paused in her work, placing her hands on her hips and staring off to the west as though she could see it from where she stood now.
‘’Twould take about three days to reach the shore. Then, across to the island and to your destination.’ She turned and looked at Sorcha. ‘Where on Skye do ye go?’
‘Nigh to Portree.’
‘Then add another day, and two if a storm blows in off the sea.’
Sorcha then thought on her other choice. Rather than rushing to the refuge of a convent, her mother had mentioned another cousin who’d married into the Mackintoshes. Mayhap she should go there and seek counsel about her choices?
‘Do you know far it is to the village of the Mackintosh clan?’
‘In Glenlui? Near Loch Arkaig?’ Sorcha nodded. There were other Mackintoshes further north, for they were a large clan with many septs, but that was the one she needed to find. ‘Not too far. Two days up the glen. Longer if ye go back out the way ye came in.’
She could not go back the other way. Padruig had explained that the Cameron lands sat between them and both the MacPhersons to the northeast and the Mackintoshes to the northwest. They had quickly, and with care, made their way around the Cameron lands to avoid any chance of her capture. Disguised as a merchant travelling with his daughter had shielded her from much scrutiny. The other factor that protected her was that no one knew The MacMillan’s daughter or, if they did, they did not expect to see her here or now.
‘Does anyone travel there?’ she asked. ‘My mother always spoke of her cousin who married a Mackintosh of Glenlui.’ She needed an escort, for truly there was no way for her to make it there alone. Although Sorcha might be tired and heartbroken and losing hope, she was not so lacking in wits to try such a thing. ‘I could hire them. Or exchange their escort for my father’s horse.’
She saw the interest spark in Coira’s gaze. Sorcha knew the importance of a horse, even if this one was a bit old and worn.
‘Aye, I may ken someone,’ Coira said.
* * *
Someone, indeed, for three days later, Sorcha bid farewell to the helpful people here and to Coira and rode north following Coira and Darach’s eldest son Tomas. The woman had promised to have the priest say prayers over Padruig when next he passed through the village and that gave Sorcha some comfort knowing his soul would be blessed even if he’d not been shriven before his death. He’d been a good man, a faithful servant to her mother and a brave friend to help her escape, knowing his fate if they’d been captured.
* * *
Just over a week after Padruig’s death, two months after her mother’s and three weeks after her own, Sorcha arrived in Glenlui and stood before the cottage of her mother’s cousin, Clara MacPherson, wife to James Mackintosh. After watching Tomas ride out of the village towards the glen, Sorcha knocked on the door and found Clara tending to her bairns inside.
At first, before Sorcha even had a chance to speak, Clara stared and blinked at her. Then she shook her head and examined her from head to toes before canting her head and shaking it once more.
‘For a moment, I thought ’twas my mother’s cousin Erca standing before me.’ Clara studied her closely and laughed. ‘You have her hair colouring and the shape of her face, but that chin is certainly not hers. Those eyes are a bit of both, are they not?’ It took but a moment more for her expression to grow guarded. ‘Why are you here, lass? Where is your mother?’
So, word had not spread yet? Out through the MacMillans to the MacNeills and MacPhersons? The Camerons surely knew it. Sorcha drew in a breath and tried to speak, but the words came not. The tears she’d somehow managed to control did though, breaking free and pouring down her face. Clara, bless her, did not need the words to understand. She drew Sorcha into her embrace and rocked with her, all the time murmuring words of sympathy and comfort.
‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘We can speak of her and the reason why you are standing at my door.’