Page 4 of Highland Queen

Chapter 2

Tira and Rhona helped me bathe, washing the blood and bits off. Neither said a word, but I knew what they were thinking. I was sorry that they had to see this. I couldn’t imagine any other lady’s maids suffering through as much as they did.

“All those inches,” Rhona said as she rinsed the last of the soap out of my hair, fingering my chin-length locks.

“They’ll grow back,” I said absently. My eyes closed, I relished the feel of the warm water. Every part of me hurt. The muscles in my arms and legs felt like they were made of stone. And my head felt dizzy. Nausea, from the heat of the water or the exhaustion—I wasn’t sure which—crept over me.

“Not in time for the crowning. What will Lady Madelaine say? And look at you, covered in bruises. You’ll need a long-sleeved gown. And there’s no hiding the bruise on your cheek,” Rhona chided.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Rhona clicked her tongue, a sound I’d heard her make a thousand times at Fleance and Lulach, but said nothing.

There was a soft knock on the door. Tira went to answer. She spoke in low tones, and a moment later, Morag entered.

“Well, here is the shield-maiden returned from the battle,” she said then sat down on my bed.

“Have you come to scold me too?” I asked.

“No, I’m just jealous. I had half a mind to slip out myself.”

I chuckled.

“Don’t encourage her,” Rhona said.

“Oh, that one doesn’t need encouragement,” Morag said with a laugh.

Tira huffed heavily. “Let me lay out a dress.”

Rhona handed me a towel and helped me out of the basin. I sat down on a stool in front of the fire while Rhona set about tossing out the wash water. The girls had done their best to clean me up, but when I looked at my hands, I was surprised to see there were still spots of blood on them. I picked up a washing cloth and began to work at the stains. They wouldn’t budge. I poured a bit of oil on the fabric and rubbed more. The effort turned the back of my hands red, but still, the splattered spots of blood remained.

“Rhona, do we have any stronger soap?” I asked.

She looked back at me. “My lady?”

“These spots of blood won’t come out,” I said, working the rag on my hands.

“My lady, you’re rubbing yourself raw. Here, let me have a look,” Tira said. She laid the dress she was holding on my bed then crossed the room and took my hands. She turned them over, took my washing cloth, then worked on my fingernails a bit. “There, that’s better,” she said then handed the cloth back to me.

“But…but here,” I said, motioning to the splatters of blood I saw on the back and palms of my hands. “And here.”

Tira looked at my hands. “Just shadows from the fire, my lady. There’s nothing there. Stop scrubbing. You’re making your skin red.”

My brow furrowed, I looked at my hands. The spots were plain as day. I turned to call Tira back, but my eyes met Morag’s.

She shook her head.

Frowning, I looked back at my hands once more. Scarlet marred my palms, fingers, and the backs of my hands. This was no trick of the light. I rose and went to the window, catching the sunlight on my hands. They were there. Everywhere.

“Don’t you see?” I asked, showing my hands to Rhona.

Rhona glanced briefly at me. “No, my lady. There is nothing there.”

“You’re just tired, my lady. No doubt your eyes are swimming. Come along now and get dressed. I am sure there are a hundred dispatches and just as many men waiting on you below,” Tira said.

I turned to Morag.

“It will pass,” she told me.

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