Page 10 of The Highlander's Runaway Nun
When Laura finished her meal, she placed her fork gently on the tray and turned her gaze toward Cora, who was folding the clean gowns.
“Would ye… show me about the castle?” she asked hesitantly, her voice soft but laced with curiosity.
Cora’s face lit with warmth, and she clapped her hands together with delight. “Aye, me Lady, I’d be glad to. There’s much for ye to see.”
Laura rose from the table and, with Cora’s help, got dressed. She then followed the maid through the chamber door into the wide corridor. The stone walls were thick and cool, their surfaces lined with tapestries of hunts and battles long past. The air smelled faintly of heather and smoke drifting from the hearths below.
“It feels as though the walls themselves are whisperin’ tales of Clan McCormack,” Laura murmured as her steps echoed.
Cora laughed lightly as she led her toward a set of narrow stairs spiraling downward.
“They’ve plenty of tales, aye. The castle’s nearly two hundred years old, built by Laird Duncan McCormack when he firstclaimed this isle. He said the loch will guard his kin better than any army.” She ran her hand along the railing as they descended.
Laura tilted her head, intrigued by the story. “So, the isle itself is a shield?” she asked.
“Aye, me Lady, ye could say so,” Cora answered. “In times of war, the bridge could be burned, leavin’ enemies stranded on the shore while the clan stayed safe within. ’Tis nay wonder the McCormacks have held fast here so long.”
They entered the great hall, and Laura slowed to take it all in. The ceiling soared high above, supported by beams of dark oak, while banners of the clan colors hung proudly along the walls. Long trestle tables filled the center, still bearing remnants of the wedding feast, cups, crumbs, and the faint tang of ale. A massive hearth blazed at one end, its flames warming the heart of the room.
Cora watched her carefully, noting her awe. “The hall’s the soul of the castle,” she said fondly. “Here’s where we eat, drink, and make merry. And where the Laird holds council when the clans of the region gather.” She smoothed her apron as she spoke, her pride evident.
Laura stepped closer to the hearth, studying the carved mantel where wolves and stags had been etched into the stone.
“It feels alive,” she whispered, “like every cheer and every sorrow still lingers here.” She turned back toward Cora, her dark eyes curious. “Do the folk love their Laird well?”
Cora’s smile faltered, just for a moment, but she quickly recovered. “They’ll stand by him, aye,” she said cautiously. “Though the shadow of the old Laird still weighs heavily, the folk will follow the new one. That is how clans survive, by loyalty.”
They came to a gallery that overlooked the loch through narrow windows. The water shimmered like glass beneath the midday sun, the wooden bridge stretching across it like a lifeline. Laura pressed a hand to the cold stone of the sill, staring out at the green hills beyond.
“It’s bonnie,” she breathed. “So peaceful from here.”
“Aye, but daenae be fooled,” Cora warned gently. “The loch may look calm, but strayin’ from the shallows into its depths can swallow a man whole. Many have tried to swim across, and few return. That’s why the bridge is guarded day and night.” She gestured to the pair of guards standing watch below.
Laura shivered slightly at the thought, then let Cora lead her onward. They entered the kitchens, where heat and noise immediately surrounded them. Women bustled to and fro, kneading bread, stirring pots, and chopping vegetables upon broad wooden tables. The smell of stewing meat and herbs filled the air, making Laura’s stomach stir, though she had just eaten.
Cora grinned at her reaction. “The kitchens never rest, me Lady. Day and night, they work to keep the clan fed. Ye’ll always hear laughter here, even when the work’s hard. ’Tis the warmest place in the castle.”
Laura smiled faintly, moved by the energy of the space. “It reminds me of the Abbey’s kitchens,” she admitted softly. “Though we had fewer mouths to feed, the bustle was much the same. There’s a comfort in the sound of women workin’ together.” She breathed in deeply, letting the memory settle in her chest.
From the kitchens, they walked into the armory, a stark contrast to the warmth they had left. Racks of swords and spears lined the walls, their steel glinting in the torchlight. Shields bearing the stag of McCormack stood stacked neatly against the far corner. Laura’s steps slowed, unease curling in her stomach.
“This is the heart of our strength. Every lad trains here till his arms cannae lift a blade nay longer. The clan’s safety depends on these walls, and on the men who wield what rests within them.” She ran her fingers over the hilt of a sword reverently.
Laura swallowed hard, her eyes lingering on the sharp edges gleaming in the firelight. “I cannae grow used to such things,” she admitted quietly. “The Abbey was a place of peace. Here, every corner reminds me of battle.” Her words carried a tremor she tried to hide.
Cora gave her a reassuring smile, though her tone was steady. “Ye’ll find balance here, me Lady. There’s both peace and battle within these walls. One protects the other. In time, ye’ll see that.” She gently ushered her back into the corridor.
They finished the tour by stepping out into the courtyard at the heart of the isle. The cobblestones were worn smooth bycenturies of feet, and the sounds of horses and men in practice filled the air. Green ivy climbed the stone walls, softening their sternness with nature’s touch. Laura turned slowly in a circle, taking it all in.
Cora folded her hands in front of her, smiling at Laura’s expression. “This is yer new home,” she said gently. “It may feel strange now, but it will soon become familiar. The castle has a way of claimin’ those who walk its halls.” She looked at Laura with eyes that were kind but knowing.
Laura stood still, her heart pulled between awe and dread. The castle was grand, strong, and full of life, yet it also felt like a cage she could never escape. She thought of the Abbey and the peace she had left behind.
Laura continued to trail behind Cora as they walked down the drafty corridor, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The torches along the passage flickered, casting long shadows across the cold floor. Laura folded her hands together, unsure of what questions were safe to ask. At last, curiosity pressed too heavily upon her chest to keep silent.
“Cora,” Laura said softly, “why was the Laird’s maither nae at the weddin’? Does she nae reside at the castle?”
Cora stopped cold in her tracks, her back stiff as though Laura had struck her. Slowly, she turned, her expression pale and troubled. “Ye daenae ken? ’Twas the Laird himself. He killed his faither, lass, and claimed the lairdship for his own.”
