His Lady of Castlemora. Joanna Fulford

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      ‘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 most favoured earls, and the king had taken a terrible revenge. Ban wondered whether the land and the people could ever recover from it.

      ‘Perhaps Graham will have her matched with a Norman lord,’ said Ewan.

      Once again Ban was jolted out of his reverie. ‘A Norman?’

      ‘The Treaty of Abernethy has effectively made Malcolm a vassal of King William.’ Jock spat into the dirt. ‘What better way to create strong political alliances than to wed Scot to Norman?’

      They digested this in silence, recognising the unwelcome truth of it. King Malcolm’s raids into northern England in 1070 had been all too successful and called forth an uncompromising response from William, who raised an army and marched north to confront the Scots. Though brave and eager their army was routed by the Norman host. As a result Malcolm was forced to pay homage to William and sign the treaty at Abernethy two years later.

      Ewan was scandalised. ‘The lassie deserves better than that surely?’

      ‘That she does, lad. Under all their pomp and titles the Normans are just treacherous bastards.’

      ‘Aye, and led by a bigger bastard.’

      It drew a laugh for King William’s lowly birth was well known. It was also known to be a sore point with him.

      ‘Dinna let him hear ye say that. He’d cut out your tongue.’

      ‘He isna here though, is he?’ Ewan reasoned.

      ‘No, but he’s left his mark has he not?’

      ‘Aye, he has. Northumbria’s naught but a wasteland.’

      Silence followed this for they knew something of their lord’s past and none cared to dredge up a subject they knew to be painful. Aware of their discomfiture, Ban adopted a lighter tone.

      ‘So tell me, Ewan, is there no lass you’ve set your heart on?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      ‘There’s no lassie in her right mind would have ye,’ said Jock.

      ‘Why not? You managed.’

      ‘Aye, for my sins.’

      Ban and Ewan grinned. Jock’s wife, Maggie, was known for her acid tongue. She and Jock argued often and loud, but none doubted for a minute that they were devoted. They’d had a brood of eight children, of whom five survived infancy. Three were fine strong boys already showing the promise of their sire in their skill with weapons. Jock was rightly proud of them.

      However, the subject of marriage came too near the knuckle and presently Ban excused himself on the pretext of wanting to stretch his legs, wandering away from his companions to follow the burn. He found the tenor of the conversation strangely unsettling and he wanted some time alone with his thoughts.

      For the first couple of years after his arrival at Glengarron all he owned were the clothes on his back and his sword. He had been in no case to support a wife. Gradually he’d carved out a reputation and amassed wealth by the strength of his arm and the use of his wits. However, a name, even backed by gold, wasn’t enough. Land was what mattered. Land was what gave a man position and power. Without it he was effectively little more than a hired blade. Women of noble blood might indulge him with a brief dalliance, but it was beneath them to marry such a man. It was a lesson he’d learned the hard way.

      There had been female companions, of course, in the past six years, women of a certain class who filled a need. They were transient and soon forgotten, unlike Beatrice. Her image was still vivid, although he’d long since understood what she was.

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