He walked on to his house. There was light shining through the leaded lower windows, and smoke drifting up from the chimney. He opened the door. His housekeeper, Shula Achbain, came out to greet him, helping him remove his heavy black topcoat.
‘Sit you down by the fire,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch you a glass of mulled wine.’
Murmuring thanks the little apothecary sank gratefully into his favourite armchair. Shula was a good housekeeper. Several years ago she had worked for Maev Ring, but before that she had been a herb gatherer for Ramus. Her life had been harsh. She had fallen in love with a highlander at a time when such couplings were frowned upon. Frowned upon? Ramus smiled. Shula had become a pariah to her own Varlish people. When her husband left her she and her son, Banny, had all but starved to death.
Shula returned and handed him a goblet of warmed, mulled wine. He sipped it. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Have you heard from Banny?’
‘He doesn’t write much, sir. He is in a town called Shelding, and there is a truce. So that is good.’
‘Perhaps the war is ending at last.’
‘Aye, that would be wonderful. I miss him so.’ She walked to the coat rail and lifted her shawl clear. ‘There is a stew upon the stove, sir, and fresh made bread in the pantry.’
‘Thank you, Shula. Goodnight to you.’
Once alone Ramus settled down in his chair and dozed for a while. He found himself thinking of the Moidart. He would miss him, and their meetings to discuss painting. He had even begun to dabble himself – not attempting the awesome landscapes so enjoyed by the Moidart, but more simple compositions of flowers and herbs. They were not good, but he had noticed a small improvement during the past year. He had shown none of them to the Moidart.
After a while he grew hungry, and was about to fetch his stew when he heard the sound of horses’ hooves upon the street outside. Then came a hammering at his door.
Ramus opened it. Several soldiers were standing there.
‘Apothecary Ramus?’
‘Yes. Is someone ill?’
‘You will come with us.’
‘I am finished for the day, gentlemen.’ The soldier struck him in the face. Ramus fell backwards, colliding with the coat rail.
‘You’ll do as you’re damned well told,’ said the man, stepping into the house and dragging Ramus to his feet. ‘You are in trouble, little man. Don’t make things worse by annoying me further.’
Half stunned, Ramus was hauled from the house and lifted to the saddle of a tall horse. One of the soldiers took the reins and Ramus clung to the pommel as the cavalrymen rode at speed from Old Hills.
His head was pounding as he rode, his mind confused. ‘You are in trouble, little man.’ How could he be in trouble? He had never offended anyone. Nor would he seek to, for that would be bad manners. There had to be a mistake somewhere.
The horses cantered on, down the hill road and into Eldacre town, past the billeted troops and into the castle itself. Here Ramus was hauled from the saddle and led inside. He was taken up the stairs and along a corridor. Then the soldier leading him paused and rapped at a door.
‘Yes?’ came the voice of the Finance. The man sounded angry, thought Ramus.
The soldier pushed open the door and pulled Ramus inside. ‘As you ordered, my lord. This is the apothecary.’
‘I know who he is. We have met before. Well, what have you to say for yourself, apothecary?’
‘I am afraid I don’t understand you, my lord.’
The Finance stepped forward. He was carrying a riding crop. It lashed across Ramus’s face. The pain was instant and excruciating. ‘I am angry enough. It would not be wise to further incense me.’
‘I am sorry, my lord. I don’t know what you want me to say.’
‘Are you an idiot? Look around you.’
Ramus blinked. He did not need to look around. A half-finished painting stood on an easel. It was a lake scene, with awesome mountains in the background. ‘Yes, my lord? It is the Moidart’s studio. This is where he paints.’