Angus’s feet always warn me of his coming. My women move with delicacy, steps barely whispering through the crushed oyster shells that line the path to our fastness. The monks always come in pairs, scuffing noisily to announce their arrival, as if to avoid any hint of impropriety towards us.
I remain, in spite of everything, a queen. But heavy-footed Angus pounds the shells to powder in his eagerness to be with us, to share whatever needs sharing. A successful hunting party on the shores of the loch, a new style of carving freshly arrived from a distant outpost of the Culdees, a far-off battle whose outcome will touch us not at all.
It’s all the same to Angus; it breaks the monotony of his days among the women. He chaps at the door, mindful of his place. Ligach walks across, drop spindle in hand, twisting the fleece without pause.
She spins her yarn with no apparent attention, her pattern of movement as regular as a tic, only with a more benevolent result. I have sometimes wondered whether she puts it to one side when she takes Angus to her bed. ‘I think she must,’ Aife says.
‘Not even Ligach can spin on her back.’ I am too fond of Aife to comment on her lack of imagination. With an easy movement of her wrist, Ligach’s thumb catches the latch and lets the door swing open.
Angus’s cheeks are pink above the thick russet of his beard, either from the cold March wind or from his haste to give us news. ‘A boat,’ he says. ‘From the far shore.
’ Not the short .
