His Lady of Castlemora. Joanna Fulford
‘The journey may be made to serve two ends,’ Iain continued. ‘Archibald Graham is an old friend and ally but, sadly, his health is failing.’
‘I am sorry to hear it.’
‘He has a daughter. The last time I saw her she was a child, but she must be eighteen or thereabouts by now. She was widowed a while back and he seeks a new husband for her.’
Ban’s expression grew more guarded. When he’d guessed at some ulterior motive he could never have suspected anything like this. Yet it was typical of Iain that he should, with such unruffled ease, let drop some small but incendiary piece of information.
‘By that you mean me?’
‘Not at all,’ was the imperturbable reply. ‘I merely suggest you should go and take a look.’
‘She’s a widow so there will be children as well, Iain.’
‘Apparently not.’
Ban raised an eyebrow. ‘Not?’
‘She was married but a year, and the mortality rate among infants is high.’
‘As you say.’ Although he didn’t pursue it, the matter still left a question in Ban’s mind.
‘The woman is reputed fair and, being Graham’s daughter, will have a handsome dowry to boot.’
‘Better and better. And of course I am five and twenty and single yet.’ Ban paused. ‘Did my sister put you up to this?’
‘No, though I know she would like to see you settled.’
‘She told you that?’
‘She may have mentioned it once or twice.’
‘An understatement if ever I heard one. She has been matchmaking these last five years.’
‘Aye, well, what do you expect? You’re her only brother.’
‘And being the last surviving male of the family I must get an heir.’
‘Have you any objections to marriage?’
Ban shook his head. ‘None—in principle.’
It was true as far as it went. The idea of marriage did not displease him. It was a necessary step in a man’s life, a responsibility that must be undertaken to ensure that his name and his line continued. The woman should be compliant and, ideally, pleasing to look upon although, as he knew to his cost, beauty was no guarantee of a warm and generous heart.
His brother-in-law nodded. ‘Well then.’
Considered dispassionately, Ban knew the scheme made sense. All the same he couldn’t quite repress a twinge of envy when he compared it with what Iain and Ashlynn had found in marriage. He saw the love and the passion in their relationship, heard the shared laughter and the witty banter. Iain was a devoted husband and a good father. Recalling how he had once doubted the man, Ban was ashamed. Ashlynn could not have found a better. Among married couples they seemed to be the exception that proved the rule. To his knowledge Iain had never strayed from his wife’s bed. He had eyes for no one else and that was as it should be. A vow once made should be kept.
‘Of course this commits you to nothing,’ Iain went on. ‘The woman may not be to your liking.’
Ban schooled his expression to neutrality. It was far more likely that a landless thane would not be to her liking. ‘As you say.’
‘If so, you were merely delivering horses. On the other hand …’
I might fall in love?’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
Ban grimaced. In his experience love was a chimera, the stuff of boyish dreams. It also made a man dangerously vulnerable. If he married it would be a business arrangement, essentially. If affection followed later well and good. It was as much as one could hope for. ‘Indeed.’
Again the lazy smile appeared. ‘As I said, she is reputed fair.’
‘Damn you, Iain.’ The words were uttered without rancour.
‘Then you’ll go?’
‘Aye, confound it. I’ll go and look over the goods but I warn you now, I’m hard to please.’
‘So was I.’
A gentle nudge brought Ban back to the present with a start and he realised Jock was passing him the water bottle. He took it with murmured thanks, realising guiltily that he hadn’t been taking in any of the conversation thus far.
‘We should be assured of a warm welcome anyway,’ said Ewan. ‘Archibald Graham has a reputation for hospitality.’
Ban and Jock exchanged glances and grinned. One of Ewan’s prime concerns was his stomach. Yet no matter how much he ate it made not the slightest difference to a frame that was small and wiry. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, but he was surprisingly strong. At eighteen he had ridden with Ban for three years now, at his side in whatever adventure came their way.
‘Good. A well-cooked meal and a comfortable bed will suit me fine,’ replied his leader.
‘The old man was ailing last I heard,’ said Jock.
‘I heard that too.’ Ewan took a swig from the leather costrel in his turn. ‘Fortunate then his son is of an age to manage things after him. He has a widowed daughter too, accounted fair forbye.’
‘She’ll no lack for suitors then. Graham is rich enough.’
‘She’s marriageable all right.’
‘Do ye think she’d look my way?’ Jock’s craggy face split in a grin revealing a missing front tooth.
‘No,’ replied Ewan. ‘She could have her pick of men. Why would she bother with an ugly brute like you?’
‘You can talk. If ugliness were a crime, laddie, ye’d no be in prison; ye’d be ten feet under it.’
Unperturbed, Ewan grinned. ‘I’m thinking she’ll no marry either one of us, but what about Davy? He’s handsome enough.’
‘Aye, he is, but he and Lachlan’s daughter have reached an understanding. Besides, Davy’s a commoner too.’
‘Then what about you, my lord?’ said Ewan.
Ban was almost taken by surprise for it came so near his private concerns, but he managed to return the smile.
‘I have nothing against marriage, though heiresses are almost invariably ugly.’
‘I’ve never met any so I’ll have tae take your word for that,’ replied Jock.
Ban plucked idly at a strand of grass, thinking that, ugly or not, no heiress was likely to consider a dispossessed English thane to be a good catch. His fortunes had mended considerably in the last six years and he had gold enough but his lands were lost, perhaps in the hands of some Norman lord now. It was beyond mending, like a father and brother slain along with his brother’s wife and their infant son. King William’s men had laid waste to a huge swathe of the north of England, leaving a charred desert where nothing lived, and the bones of the dead lay bleaching amid the ruins of their villages for there were too few left alive to bury the number of the slain. All for the death of one man, and that man a fool. Robert De Comyn’s brutality had led to the uprising in which he was killed. However, he was one of William’s