The Bard (Highland Heroes #5) - Maeve Greyson Page 0,10
proud of Greyloch Chapel and the last gift they had been able to give their beloved lady.
Sorcha led the way to the aisle. Maybe her nerves would settle if she introduced Sutherland to Mama. There was no crypt for the chapel. Her mother’s resting place was to the right of the altar, set upon a raised platform built into the southern transept. Flickering candles constantly kept lit by chapel servants, lent a soft glow across the ornate sarcophagus and effigy of her dearest mother. The sculptor had done well. Mama’s likeness was both calming and unsettling.
With a hard swallow, Sorcha struggled to maintain some semblance of composure. It had been well over two years since a stumble down the turret steps had stolen Mama from them, but every time she looked at the lifelike effigy in eternal sleep, the pain of the loss became raw once again. “The Lady Amelda Tiernan Greyloch,” she whispered as a tear escaped and trailed down her cheek.
Sutherland took her hand, eased an arm around her, and gently pulled her close. “I see now where ye get yer beauty,” he said quietly as he hugged her hand to his chest.
“Mama was the one who possessed true beauty. Inside and out.” She didn’t attempt to pull away, instead, she leaned into him, allowing herself the luxury of drawing from his strength. She had always found coming to the chapel difficult, but she endured it for Da’s sake. The place gave him solace, but it stirred too many precious memories for Sorcha’s comfort.
She lost track of how long they stood there, Sutherland holding her, his strong silence more soothing than words could ever be. It was as though they were the only two left in the world, standing on the precipice of eternity.
The main door of the church thudded, shattering the heavy stillness. Hurried footsteps scuffled toward them, growing ever louder.
“Lady Sorcha! It’s time.”
The hushed call rang with urgency, hitting Sorcha like a splash of cold water. Mungo Greyloch, stable master in charge of the clan’s prize stock, was a calm man. If he sounded an alarm, it was true. She stepped aside, hastily putting an arm’s length of space between herself and Sutherland as the agitated man rounded the last pew.
“Lady Sorcha, it’s yer Peigi. It’s her time. She’s baying and bawling something fierce.”
“That canna be. She greeted me as usual when I visited this morning. She seemed finer as could be.” Sorcha grabbed up her skirts to hurry to the call, then belatedly turned back to Sutherland. “Forgive me. I must go.”
“Who is Peigi?” In two strides, he caught up with her and Mungo.
“Peigi’s her wee one,” Mungo said, huffing and puffing as he struggled to keep up. Both age and girth plagued the man. His fondness for food and drink had made him resemble the fine Highland cattle he tended.
“When her mother refused her, I nursed sweet Peigi and raised her as my own,” Sorcha explained as they left the church and rushed across the courtyard.
“Ye nursed her? The daughter of the chief tended a calf?” Sutherland’s teasing tone hit her ill.
“I couldna verra well let her die, now could I?” Sorcha increased her pace toward the thatch-roofed building where the cows about to calve were kept. It was too early in the year, and the Highland weather too fickle to allow the precious expectant mothers to roam. Too many newborn calves could be lost that way. She pushed inside and hurried to the stall in the farthest corner. Her sweet friend, the largest Highland cow ever to grace Clan Greyloch’s herds, stood with her great legs in a splayed stance, swaying back and forth with her shaggy head hanging low. The bovine split the air with a loud, rumbling moo.
“Sweet Peigi, I’m here, fear beag, dinna fear.” She scooped up a handful of the special grain mix she prepared each day as a treat for her. “Here, my wee one. Have a nibble to ease ye.”
“Wee one?” Sutherland echoed.
As she entered the stall, she paused long enough to shoot a warning glare back at the man. Thoughtless fool. This was no time for jesting. What if Peigi died? Apparently, the man needed a lesson in compassion. “Aye, she is my little one, born so weak and sickly, her mother didna want her. I spent many a night in this stall, cradling this fine girl in my lap. I wouldna let her die then, and I willna let her die now. If ye canna