Chapter 8
“I beg your pardon?” The distant lapping of the waves on the shore had mesmerized Napier, still fogged and trying to chase the remaining tendrils of last night’s sleep from his brain with a cup of tea.
The air was particularly brackish that morning, as if the receded tide was a blanket pulled back to release the strong scent of seaweed and shells that lay beneath, littering the stark stretch of wet brown sand.
He’d just taken another sip when he thought his wife had begun to broach the topic of golf, of all things. “It sounded as if you said—”
“I did indeed,” Margaret interrupted. “Which you would know already were you abed at a reasonable hour last night, instead of partaking in more of these tiresome political ruminations you seem to be obsessed with of late.” She paused to pick up the teapot and, with great deliberation, warmed their cups.
Margaret and her husband would soon go down, as always, to join the rest of the household in breaking their fast, but to sit each morning on their balcony, overlooking the seashore and greeting the sun with a spot of tea, had become their treasured routine.
Dawn had well and fully broken, and a rod of white sunlight glared along the wet sand.
“I did indeed say golf.” She blew on her tea and sipped it gingerly.
Napier hid a smile. He could always tell when his wife had some juicy bit of news.
He knew she enjoyed the telling of it, and he’d let her prolong her pleasure.
She’d been a beauty in her youth, and he had been shocked when she’d chosen his quiet reserve over one of the many men more outgoing in their charms who’d courted her.
Napier vowed he’d never give her cause to her regret her decision.
They’d never been blessed with a child, and though Margaret didn’t hesitate to make her opinions known, she’d not once complained of her lot.
So, if his wife wanted to delight in telling him her gossip, he’d delight in the hearing of it.
“But I thought nothing vexed you so much as to hear about your brother’s golf games,” he said.
“Oh, you’ve the truth there,” she replied tartly. “But I’d endeavor to play at swords and longbows if I thought I’d gain some insight into my brother’s heart. We’ve tried for years to find him a suitable match, and he shows up one morning with some accented beauty.”
“A beauty, eh?” Napier raised his brows with affected gusto.
“Archibald!” Margaret swatted her husband with her napkin and, not missing a beat, continued, “I tell you, this Magda is a peculiar one. But I dare say, I quite took a fancy to her. Do you know she plays golf as well as a man?”
“Not so.” He’d been feigning his interest somewhat, but now Napier leaned in, truly intrigued.
“So indeed! She played golf with the men.” Margaret put down her teacup to free her hands for broader gesturing. “As did I.”
Napier’s usually stoic demeanor shattered as he let go a brief and explosive laugh.
“I most certainly did,” Margaret huffed. “That Sydserf and I were a duo. I made quite a pretty shot on, what do you call it, the fairway.”
“Dear heart, women don’t—”
“Women most certainly do. Why, Mary Queen of Scots herself was quite the golfer.”
“Oh really?” He chuckled. “My Margaret playing golf.” Napier shook his head.
He looked at his wife, ever amazed that he’d been so blessed with a woman who never ceased to surprise him.
He wasn’t a naturally joyful man, but his wife made him more of one each day.
Napier’s mind turned to coarser things, and he mused he’d risk much to catch sight of that plush rump of hers bending over a tee. “Well, that would be quite a sight.”
Margaret flushed. They’d been together nearly twenty years now, and he knew she recognized the look in his eyes.
After savoring her discomfort for a moment, Napier asked, “But who is this lass then?” He’d finished with his tea, and set to smoothing the corners of his moustache up and the length of his goatee down.
He knew that such vanities only emphasized his thin, elongated features, but he knew too that his Margaret’s preference was a well-tended and fashionable man. "Who—and where—is her family?”
“She claims the surname Deacon. I think it’s Irish.”
“And are we to welcome this rudderless lass into our home?”
“Well,” Margaret exclaimed, “we shall of course be gracious as always.”
Napier recognized that even Margaret herself hadn’t known until that moment where she would stand regarding the strange and wayward woman.
“But of course we’ll do whatever you say, my beauty.
” He smiled warmly, a rarity generally seen only by his wife.
Beautiful she was too, he thought. Her glossy brown hair was not yet grayed, and she bore the Graham family regal height and carriage.
She’d grown in girth since their youth, but he loved her all the more for it.
Margaret was lush refuge for his tired bones, though he’d never dare breathe as much to her, knowing how prickly she’d grown about her weight.
“You are my one and only mistress, and you know I live only to please you.”
“Good.” Margaret’s eyes sharpened. “Then you will refrain from this Aberdeen madness.”
“Ah.” Napier girded himself. He’d known she wouldn’t be happy about his departure, and had been fearing this exchange. “Go I must, dear heart. To protect your brother, at the least.”
“My brother,” she grumbled. “And what of your very own wife? You don’t even agree with all this Covenanting nonsense.”
“No, I do not. It’s true.”
“And yet you go all the same? When I’ve explicitly asked you not to?”
“Your brother needs me, Margaret. Even in his youth, he was a lad of principle. But a man can be blinded by his good intentions. James doesn’t suspect the knife at his back, wouldn’t think to.
And yet I fear that with his Covenant, these Lowland noblemen see their opportunity.
His virtuous movement has become an adder’s nest of callous and opportunistic ambition. ”
“Will there be a fight?”
“I hope not.” Napier’s usually unreadable face creased with concern. He hated to see his wife worry so. “Fret not, Margaret.” He took her hand. “I travel not as a soldier, but as a guardian. If this Magda is to travel with us, we’ll need to install her well outside Aberdeenshire limits.”
“Well, do care for yourself, Archie.” Margaret sniffled.
“Of course, pet.”
“I’d die without you.”
“And I you.”
“And you’d best vow to bring my scamp of a brother back to me alive.”
He laughed and took her hand to his lips for a kiss.
“Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps James has the right of it. I hope so for his sake. Regardless, I will be an ally at his back.”
“To watch for that knife?”
“Yes, dear heart.” Napier placed her hand back in her lap with a gentle squeeze. “To mind that knife.”
“Lowland nobles gather even now, and the weight of our war purse grows heavy.” Archibald Campbell rattled a small leather purse, disdain beading his small, close-set eyes and quivering his thin, bloodless lips. “The gold your little German princeling paid you was surely no more yellow than ours.”
Campbell grew vexed. He’d summoned this general-for-hire all the way from the warring on the Continent, thinking that Alexander Leslie’s Scottish heritage might inflame him to the cause, but Leslie only played as shy as a maiden at her first dance.
“Aye, gold is good, but I care no more for this prayer book than I did for Gustavus,” Leslie replied, referring to the Swedish king and would-be German princeling who’d last bought his military services.
“Should King Charles march on your Covenanters, he might well have more men at his back than I ever faced in Germany.”
“The religion of your country is under siege.” Campbell pulled his face into a mocking pout, exaggerating the sag of his thin skin and his droopy, overlong nose, making his face seem a thing carved from wax left too long in the sun.
“Are you to tell me that Alexander Leslie, celebrated sword-for-hire, cares solely for his own hide?”
“And who else’s?” Leslie replied matter-of-factly.
“Campbell, I’ve no care for your cause. Spare me talk of king and kirk.
I fight for the highest bidder, so save your sanctimonious breath for those precious noblemen of yours.
I don’t see many of them raising broadswords for this Covenant.
” He kicked a stool close to sit across from Campbell at his ornate desk.
“But double your payment in gold, and you’ve my sword and my word.
” He carefully twisted the ends of his long moustache, letting the statement hang in the air.
“You crooked little man,” Campbell muttered, reaching in a drawer for additional purses.
“But”—he snatched the money back before Leslie could grab it—“I’d have your word that my coin also buys me the services of some seasoned men.
If Aberdeen refuses to sign the Covenant and sides against us, I’d not belabor this.
I shall need you to fight them. With hired men at your back, the townsfolk should scatter like leaves in the wind. ”
“I’ll thank you not to call my ability into question. I can gut the Aberdeen townsfolk, if you will it. My father was a captain, as was his father before him.”
“Yes, but your mother was a wench.”
“Och.” Leslie snatched the pouches from Campbell’s hand.
“You’ll have your men,” he spat. “And pleased they’ll be for a day’s work in their native land for a change.
But what of you, Campbell?” he sneered. “Whose back will you be guarding the day we take Aberdeen? As I understand it, you favor the taste of blood.”
Campbell’s face soured, and he stared blankly at the mercenary seated in front of him. “I’ll have my own . . . concerns . . . that day.”
He shuffled through papers on his desk as if already dismissing the soldier.
“But you do remind me,” he added offhandedly, “there’s a small matter of sharing your command.
There will, in fact, be some of your detested nobles fighting that day, and they’ll not follow a mere sword-for-hire. ” He eyed Leslie derisively.
“Aye, I feared as much, though it might cost you more coin.” Leslie strode to the door, his presence more commanding than his small, wiry frame might suggest. “Especially if I’m expected to keep your noblemen alive. I’m a soldier, not a caretaker.”
“Despite your contempt, they’re men of reason and class, who will want to follow one of their own.
James Graham will march with you. The Marquis of Montrose.
I suppose he’s a skilled enough fellow,” Campbell added.
“He’s learned in the arts of war, with the teachings of battle in his head, if not the taste of it in his mouth. You’ll stand with him, Leslie.”
“You send me to battle with a man who knows no more of war than what he was spoon-fed by his betters?”
“Ho!” Campbell silenced the general’s protestations with a raised hand. “Protocol demands you’ve a nobleman as second in command. And I tell you, the Graham will suffice.”
“I see.” Leslie’s face was dark. “Is that all, Campbell?”
“One last thing. Pray, remind me, what was that word you learned on your continental campaign?”
“Aye,” Leslie smiled broadly, “’tis a German word I’ve come to hold in high regard.
“Plunder.”