Anya rose and moved to the washstand to scrub the charcoal from her fingertips. “I am happy to be feeling better. I’d hate for anyone else to suffer winter fever.”
“Have you suffered the malady afore?”
“Not exactly.” She rubbed the soap between her palms. “I do get a bit wheezy in springtime, but it passes with the season.”
Her Ladyship’s gaze trailed to the pile of velum. “Ye do ken Angus refused to leave your side.”
“I do.” She pulled a drying cloth from where it hung in front of the washstand. “He feels responsible for me, though he should not.”
“My son has always been duty bound. In truth, I believe he is more suited to the lordship than Alasdair was.”
After drying her hands, Anya rehung the cloth and returned to the bed, sitting across from Her Ladyship. “Why do ye say that?”
“Do no’ misunderstand. I loved them both equally. But Alasdair focused more on improving his own lot than that of the clan. Angus wishes to secure the Lordship of the Isles to ensure the people who count on him live happy lives, free from the yoke of tyranny.”
“He desires peace, yet he’s thrown in his hat with Robert the Bruce, which will ensure more fighting and bloodshed. Unfortunately, the battles will be fierce regardless of what side he chooses to support. Angus pledged his fealty to the Scottish king because it was the right thing to do for clan and kin. Because he believes in Scotland as a sovereign nation.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand. Would it not be nice if all Scots felt the same?”
“I believe they will in time.” The Dowager Lady Islay pointed to the drawings. “May I have a look at your work?”
Anya gathered the sheets of vellum and held them against her chest. “Forgive me, but they are but mindless scratchings at the moment.”
“I rather doubt that. Come, until my son marries, I am still the lady of this castle and I want to see them.”
A blast of heat spread across Anya’s cheeks as she passed her sketches to the woman. “When given time, I can denote much more attention to the details.”
Her Ladyship pursed her lips as she studied each one. Anya sank lower on the bed, wishing she could pull the bedclothes over her head and melt into a puddle. What would Islay’s mother think once she realized her son was featured in every picture? Would now be the time for Her Ladyship to decide to send her to the tiny chamber in the tower to serve out the duration of her sentence?
Anya squeezed her eyes shut. She might be bent and grey by the time this horrid war ended.
“These are quite good,” said the Dowager Lady Islay, peering over the parchment. “Who taught ye to draw so well?”
One of Anya’s shoulders ticked up. “I suppose I’ve been drawing since I first held a quill. My father had a number of books in his library, and I oft studied the pictures and tried to copy them—the shadowing and whatnot. In time, I improved, I suppose.”
Her Ladyship returned the sketches. “Well, I ought to have ye draw a scene from the Oa for my next weaving project—a tapestry with the geese would be lovely, mayhap add deer. And I do believe it would make quite a statement to visitors in the great hall if my son were on horseback riding through the moor as well.”
As Anya released a pent-up breath, she straightened. Perhaps she’d escaped a lonely existence in the tower yet again. Angus had requested such a drawing as well, which made the request doubly enticing. “I would definitely want to put a great deal more detail into the sketch if it were to be intended for a tapestry to adorn the hall, my lady. I’ll need a larger canvas as well.”
“Well then, once ye’ve fully recovered, I’ll see to it ye have whatever size ye need. And mind ye, I want my fierce Angus Og featured in the drawing. Ye are quite skilled at capturing his likeness.” Her Ladyship stood. “Mayhap a rendering with bow and arrow in hand, chasing a seven-point stag.”
15
Though it was not a feast day, the tables in the hall were nearly full this eve, teeming with those who supported the MacDonald army. There were also many nearby crofters who were running low on supplies due to the end of winter. Angus had heard their tales of woe many times before. He was only glad that the castle’s larder was well-stocked and his hunters brought in fresh meat daily. If he did nothing else in his tenure as lord of these lands, he would see to it no soul went hungry.
Beside him, Raghnall picked up an ewer and poured a tankard of ale for himself. “Ye can inform the king we’ve recruited another five hundred fighting men from Skye.”
Angus tore his bread and slathered half with butter. “He’ll be pleased for certain, though I want ye to send up a team of men to train them, ensure they are ready.”
“I have just the soldiers in mind.”
“I would have thought no less.”
“Did Miss Anya tell you I’ve asked her to sketch a picture of the Oa for my next tapestry?” asked Mither on his left. “She is quite talented.”
Angus shifted his gaze down the table to where the lass sat beside Friar Jo, recalling he’d wagered for such a drawing, but then Anya had fallen ill and there had been no contest. “’Tis good to hear ye are keeping her occupied.”
When he caught Anya’s eye, she smiled, her grin bright enough to light the entire hall. Angus’ heartbeat sped, yet as he returned the gesture, he told himself his reaction was because she had made a full recovery.
“Have ye seen her work?” asked his mother.
“Hmm?”
“Anya’s charcoals. Have you seen them?”
“Aye, she drew a picture when we were on the Isle of Nave. It was a very realistic rendering.”
“Indeed?” Mither sipped her ale. “Then I believe ye’d be doubly impressed to see the wee sketches she made whilst she was convalescing.”
“I’m certain they’re good.” As Angus watched Anya, his mother’s voice faded into oblivion. At first, he had placed the Irish lass at the end of the table near the friar for two reasons. She was nobly born, and thus it was apt for her to sit at the high table. But she was not a guest. In effect, she had invited herself to Dunyvaig by stowing away on his birlinn. Thus, since she was also under Angus’ supervision, he felt it important not to be seen as growing too fond of the woman.
Except the seating arrangement hadn’t helped him to distance himself in the least. His heart had a mind of its own, and Anya O’Cahan might as well be seated beside him.
But such a thing simply wasn’t done. Her Ladyship’s chair would be occupied by Mither as long as Angus remained unwed. And the man-at-arms always sat on his right. There were certain conventions that absolutely must not be overruled, even by the lord and master of the keep.
By the stars, the lass looked radiant this evening. The color had returned to her face and her eyes shone like emeralds in a crown. She laughed at something Friar Jo said, then hid her grin behind her tankard as she raised it to her lips. While she drank, her gaze flickered to Angus.
Sitting taller, he smiled.
She looked away, her face growing apple red.
Good God, he felt like a wet-eared lad playing googly eyes. As the servants began clearing the table, Angus picked up his tankard and stood. “If ye will please excuse me, I mean to have a word with the artist.”