Chapter 17
H er heart tripping, Beth clutched the sides of the elongated dinghy with both hands as the two silent clansmen, their heavily-muscled arms bulging and straining, powered them across the choppy water bringing her closer and closer to shore. She couldn’t decide if her agitated heartbeat stemmed from being in a boat for the first time since nearly drowning, from the simple excitement of finally getting to see Drasmoor, or from finally getting away from Duncan’s constant demands that she speak with him.
Since she’d yet to get through a night without dreaming of him, without seeing him in Flora’s arms, she wasn’t inclined to even give him the time of day. Not that she had a clock.
Kari tapped her shoulder and pointing, started naming the various burns and hills before them. In short order Beth found herself gawking like a tourist. She was so distracted by the sights, Kari had to reach out a hand to steady her as the boat ground to an abrupt stop on the gravel beach.
“Here we be, my lady.”
The guards jumped out first and stood in knee-deep freezing surf to haul the bow higher on shore, the boat’s wooden hull scraping in loud protest against the rock-strewn beach.
Beth jumped for dry land but an icy wave caught her feet, reminding her once again why so few at Drasmoor knew how to swim.
She followed the men through the town. The scent of roasting venison mingled with that of pine and fish drying in the sun. Dodging chickens and small children, the guards hurried them along the wide gravel-and-crushed shell paths, past the village’s stone houses. Anxious to see everything, Beth’s head bobbed and spun like a midway ride as she tried to catch glimpses of the sturdy stone homes’ interiors. Women, their arms loaded with babies—-some swaddled in crisscross fashion, others just settled on cocked hips—bobbed their curtsies as she waved and hurried past.
“Kari, why are you racing hell bent for leather?” She really wanted to see the village, to seek a possible threshold back to her time.
When her friend’s expression shifted from a smile to her what the heck are you saying look, Beth panted, “Why do ye make such haste?”
Kari pointed to the mid-day sun. “‘Tis late.”
Beth blinked. It wouldn’t be dark for at least six or seven hours. “I’d really like…” She came to an abrupt halt to stare up the nostrils of a shaggy bridled pony. One of the oarsmen held its reins.
She shook her head. Cute and calm as the beast appeared, Beth’s only experience with horses amounted to patting the velvet muzzles of spit-and-polished police mounts. Examining the cracked and weathered sidesaddle, she asked, “Can’t we walk?”
“Nay, m’lady.” Kari pointed high into the hills. “There is purpure.”
Beth looked up at the groundcover tinting the steep hills purple and then at the sidesaddle. “Oh.” She chewed her lower lip. “There’s none lower?”
Kari laughed, “Nay. Come, my lady, the sumpter willna bite.”
Beth waved toward Kari’s pony. “You first.” After Kari mounted without difficulty, Beth exhaled and nodded to her guard. He bent at the waist and laced his fingers. She stepped up as Kari had done, only to find herself suddenly flopped over the saddle and clutching the poor animal’s mane for dear life. She heard Kari giggle and flashed a warning look. She then growled at the grinning guards for good measure.
Once she had her right leg draped over the pummel, the snickering guards mounted and led them single file into the hills. The higher they went the shoddier the homes became, some were merely stone and waddle facades placed across little caves dug into steep slopes. Wandering stonewalls kept grazing cattle from devouring the scattered fields of waving oats and rye. Seeing a painfully thin woman struggling uphill under the weight of a wooden yoke balanced by hide bags full of water, Beth grimaced with guilt. Not two weeks ago she’d been put out because she couldn’t get hot water on demand.
This Scotland had nothing in common with the splendid manor homes and manicured landscapes she’d become familiar with in her time.
As they rode higher, Kari murmured, “’Tis our place for the men and women who arrived after fleeing their own septs or have nay clan. The MacDougall provides refuge, protection, and food in exchange for a pledge of fealty. None bear our name.”
Half way up one steep incline Kari pointed out the tiny stone cottage, saying it had once been Rachael and Isaac’s. How, Beth wondered, did people survive like this? And did Duncan not trust them?
Within a few hours she and Kari had gathered armloads of heather, thistle, pine boughs and a collection of twisting vines that would substitute nicely for curly willow.
For Beth, the ride down from the hills proved scarier than the ride up. Though the views were spectacular, full of panoramic seascapes, beautiful water falls—-burns—and an eagle’s view of all she could lay claim to, she could also see exactly where she’d land should her pony stumble on the shifting shale clattering beneath his hooves.
When they finally reached the stable and dismounted, her legs shook so hard she couldn’t walk.
Beth kissed the pony’s whiskered muzzle. “Thank you for not plunging over the cliff.”
She turned for the boat and nearly collided with the priest.
He reached out to steady her. “My lady, I will ride with ye to Blackstone. We need talk about yer conversion.”
Beth shuddered. “Must we?”
Scowling, he grasped her arm. “Aye, my lady, we must .”
#
As soon as their boat reached Blackstone’s quay, Beth bolted. She’d had her fill of the priest and his edicts. How she managed to hold her tongue as he laid out his plan for her religious enlightenment, she’d never know. She’d rot in hell before she’d spend even one morning on her knees decrying herself for a heathen. Huh! She’d been sorely tempted to tell him if he needed something to do, he should chase down her philandering husband.
She raced through all she could downstairs to prepare for the Bruce’s arrival, and then climbed the stairs to the solar, where she found a beautiful starfish on the bed.
Despite her refusal to talk with him, Duncan had been leaving little gifts in the solar all week. She turned the perfect, prickly peace offering in her hand. Where did her husband sleep now? He’d given over the solar to her without so much as a grumble, so she hadn’t a clue. When Flora’s face came to mind and Beth’s stomach clenched, she dropped the starfish onto the mantel next to the bird nest.
Feeling maudlin and hating herself for it, she picked up her latest project, her boar bristle makeup brush. The donating boar now slowly turned on the roasting spit.
As she wrapped thread around a few course hairs, she hoped the chalices she’d found in one of the storage rooms had taken a polish. Too, she hoped the women had been able to gather enough greens.
Beth put down the bristles, too agitated to concentrate. She stood and the singular key hanging from a ribbon around her neck thumped at her waist. She fingered the wrought iron symbol of her power. Duncan had left the key on the bed along with a nosegay of wild flowers. Rachael had to explain its import, that as chatelaine—-mistress of the keep—she had the honor of carrying the keys. Since Duncan only had one lock, she had only one key. The fact that it belonged to the dungeon didn’t detract from the sentiment. He wanted peace between them.
But the peace he sought was a long way from being won. To Beth’s great annoyance, Flora, though never at meals now, still remained within the keep. Beth had no way of knowing if he went to her at night, but suspected he did, given his appetites and the woman’s blatant sensuality. Thinking about them together, making love, turned her stomach and caused a tightening in her throat. She pushed the thought aside. No easy task since Flora would be joining them for dinner tonight.
According to Rachael, Miss I’m Too Sexy would serve as a gentle reminder to the Bruce that Blackstone also had close ties to the powerful Campbell clan. Why this was necessary Beth had no clue.
Beth examined her night’s wardrobe and groaned. Much to her chagrin—and Rachael’s delight-—her ensemble included a gold-and-pearl-encrusted headband with requisite rear veil and two jeweled cauls—-nets—-for holding her hair on either side of her face. Her strapless gown with its row of ornamental amber buttons down the front and back laces had been altered through the bust. It was made of deep blue and green vertical silk panels. She was to wear a jeweled girdle and a three-foot-long golden link necklace with a dangling reliquary. The locket she could have done without after learning the enameled doodad was a priceless heirloom of wife number two and held a relic—-a few hairs or pieces of bone from some dead saint. Just the thought of touching it made her skin crawl.
To complete her ensemble she had to wear a bliant—-a full-length, highly-prized blue squirrel-fur-lined coat with billowing sleeves. Taken together it had to be the ugliest getup she’d ever seen.
Struggling into the under dress she fervently hoped she wouldn’t expire from heat prostration before the night was through, but if she did, she’d look good doing it. She now had mascara, shadow, blush, and lip gloss thanks to beeswax, soot, charcoal, wild raspberries and umpteen hours of experimentation.
As she dropped the gown over her head, someone knocked on the solar door. Thinking it Rachael, she called, “Come in.”
Duncan cautiously pushed the door open to find his ladywife wiggling frantically within a mound of silk.
“Rachael, can you please help me get into this before I suffocate?”
He grinned as he strode to Beth’s side. The woman was a wonder. He silently eased the gown’s opening forward so she could extricate herself.
As soon as her head popped out she gasped. “Duncan!”
“My lady, pardon the intrusion. I’d not kenned you’d still be at yer toilet.” Had he, he would have remained below, but then tonight was too important for both of them. As she backed away, her arms finally finding their way out of the gown, he asked, “Will ye come with me? I’ve something of great import to show ye.”
“Oh?” Her eyes grew wide with apprehension. “Is the venison burning or the—”
As she grabbed up her skirts readying to run for the door, he caught her elbow. “Nay, my lady. The preparations below go well. ‘Tis something else entirely I want to share with ye.”
“Oh.” She dropped her skirts and craned her neck to silently study him for a moment. She released a hiss of air before saying, “Husband, I haven’t time for conversation right now. I’ve too much yet to do for the banquet.”
Augh. She still wasn’t inclined to make this easy for him despite all his gifts. “Beth, please. ‘Tis of great import and will only take a wee moment of yer time. Please? ‘Twill please ye, I promise.” He gave her his most beseeching look. As she eyed him warily, he kenned her skepticism. Given all that had transpired between them, he’d be reticent, too, if their roles were reversed.
She huffed. “Aye, as ye luste, but later. Right now I need to get about my work.”
He exhaled audibly and smiled. “Ye willna regret agreeing, my lady wife.”
#
Heads turned an hour later when he led Beth through the crowded bailey. As he guided her toward the thatch-covered stable, her brow remained furrowed and he urgently prayed this gift—his most prized personal possession—would finally break down her defenses and incline her toward peace.
As he pushed a pitchfork out of their way, Beth glanced about. “Duncan, if you’re about to show me the kittens, I’ve seen them. They’re bonnie, but—”
“Nay, dear wife, ‘tis nay a kit I luste to give ye.” He drew her to his side as he rounded a mound of hay and released her hand. “‘Tis this.”
Beth blinked and stepped forward to examine his pride and joy, to touch the deep green globes hanging off the wee bowed branches. “What is it?”
“A lemon tree.”
“A lemon…” She faced him, eyes round and mouth agape. “But how…I mean why is it hidden here? Doesn’t it need sun? And how did you come by it?”
He couldn’t help but grin at her. Aye, ‘twas good, her wondrous look. “‘Tis brought out at sunrise but kept out of the wind and then returned at gloaming to this barn where the cattle help keep it warm.” He stroked one fruit with a gentle finger. “I’ve been coddling the wee thing for two years, hoping it would finally bear fruit. ‘Tis most precious to have somethin’ so fragile thrive in this harsh place, nay?”
Beth, fingers to her lips, murmured, “Lemons. I can’t believe it.”
He took her left hand in his. “‘Tis for you. My gift. I…” When she tried to extricate her soft hand from his calloused one, he held fast and murmured, “Nay, Beth.” He fingered the gold and ruby band that bound them together and swallowed the sudden thickness in his throat. Inexplicable fear had him tripping over his well-rehearsed words.
“I…I like ye verra much, my lady. Aye, verra and I am most humbly sorry for my brutish treatment of ye in the solar. ‘Tis not my normal way. ‘Twas fear that turned me into a beast, ye ken?” He looked up from her hand to her face and took a deep breath, pleased to find her gaze—-now questioning—firmly locked on his.
“I have cursed myself far harder and longer than ye could in two lifetimes, lass, once I kenned your true intent for the blade. And ye must ken that what ye saw in the upper hall—-with Flora—‘twas naught of my doing. Nay. I wouldna. ‘Tis not an honorable man’s way.” He dropped her hands and heaved a sigh. “‘Tis all I have to say.”
Beth took a deep breath, stunned by the sincerity in his voice. Could she believe him? His hands shook as they’d held hers. Apologizing hadn’t come easy for him, and yet he cared enough about her to do it. Now her dilemma was whether or not to believe him. Did she dare hope?
Her heart cried yes, believe every word, but her brain balked. Hadn’t she been hurt enough? Didn’t every man caught cheating proclaim innocence? Yes. Yet her heart kept insisting, “He said he likes you verra much .”
She reached up and stroked the brocade jerkin on his chest. Just nights ago his chest, so broad and beautiful by the glow of the solar’s fireplace, had brought her to tears. She heaved a sigh. If only he hadn’t allowed—-wanted—Flora to remain within the keep.
#
Duncan’s fingers halted their exploration of the intricate design on the large Broach of Lorne, the only thing of value his father had left to his keeping. His thoughts were on Beth, his troubled heart comparing his parents’ loveless marriage to his own.
Why had that all too familiar steely look returned to Beth’s eyes as she coolly thanked him for the lemon tree? ‘Twas certainly not what he’d expected. Indeed, ‘twas far from it. Could he have been mistaken thinking her expression had softened as he spoke? Been mistaken thinking he saw a warmth in her eyes, a slight turning up of her full lips as she touched his chest? Nay. It had been there, truly, if only for a few precious moments before it vanished. So what in the bloody hell had he done or said wrong to make that softness, her interest, fade? Ack!
“Remembering old times, Duncan?”
Startled, Duncan frowned at his advisor. “Aye.”
“Some things are best forgotten, my friend.” Isaac held out his hand for the heavy gold broach that had once belonged to the long dead Robert the Bruce. He turned it over in his palm. “Melting this down could solve some of yer financial woes, friend.”
“Give it here, ye heathen.” The broach, named by a predecessor for the land surrounding him and the Firth of Lorne, had been in MacDougall hands for generations. According to family lore, Ewin MacDougall married Red Comyn’s daughter. When Robert the Bruce later murdered her father in 1306, the MacDougall and Bruce clans became sworn enemies. Years later, Robert—after a hasty crowning at Scone—-had been forced to retreat before the victorious English into Argyll where he had hopes of reaching his Campbell allies, but he’d been surprised by the MacDougalls at Dalrigh near Tyndrum. Robert escaped, but on his discarded cloak was found the magnificent broach Duncan now held in his hand.
As always happens, political power and alliances between clan chiefs shifted back and forth over the years—to the point of Robert the Bruce’s granddaughter marrying Duncan’s grandfather, but this generation now had a new score to settle.
Hearing a trumpet’s blare signaling the Bruce’s launch from shore he placed the broach into its temporary hiding place beneath his diary. When he had use of the solar again, he would return the broach to its proper hiding place in the headboard. None besides his intimates knew he held it.
“Come Isaac, we need meet our guests.”
#
Duncan greeted the Bruce in the bailey. John was nearly as tall as he and well turned out in a gold collar, tall hat, ridiculously long-toed shoes, and a rabbit furred houppelande—-a short fur-lined tunic—all clear indications of his status and income. By law, none with a yearly income of less than a thousand pounds sterling could don such finery. Duncan again silently thanked God for Beth’s labors within the keep and was pleased she would wear what fur he owned. He wore his simple best; the blue brocade jerkin over a close fitting red tunic and high leather boots. He despised hats of any style and so greeted his guest bareheaded.
“Good eve, John. I hope ye found the way easy.”
“Aye, ‘twas fine weather.” The Bruce looked about the bailey. “Ye’ve made fine improvements in these five years past, I see.”
As they walked to the keep entrance, the Bruce’s gaze roamed as much over the castle battlements as it did over the stables, kirk, and workshops. Duncan grinned. Many of his keep’s nastier defenses like the nags—the catapults that threw fire bombs at enemy ships—and the machicolation, which allowed him to pour boiling oil onto enemy heads, were all hidden behind the innocent interior parapet walls.
Inside the keep, Duncan felt renewed pride watching the Bruce’s stunned reaction to Beth’s idea of a well-turned-out hall. Even he had to admit it looked like the home of a wealthy man, filled with the rich glow of candlelight, tapestries and flowers on every surface. At each place at every table lay a woven reed mat, a trencher, a two tined fork and a carefully folded napkin, so it appeared a fleet of swans floated on seventy wee green ponds. The head table overflowed with bouquets and the colorful tableware he’d brought back from Italy. The keep even smelled rich, the fresh air wafting in through uncovered windows infused with a delightful mix of beeswax, flowers and roasting meat.
Beth entered the hall. As she glided toward him wrapped in a new aura of confidence, Duncan’s mouth gaped. Not only had she transformed the hall, she’d transformed herself.
He snapped his jaw closed as she dropped in a deep curtsey before him.
“Good eve, my lord husband.”
“Good eve, my lady.” He swallowed the lump in his throat as he took in her now sultry eyes and rose-tinted lips. Still dumbfounded by the change, he mumbled, “Sir John, may I present my ladywife, Beth…ah…Lady Katherine MacDougall.”
John the Bruce bent over her hand. “My lady, ‘tis indeed a pleasure.” When the man continued to hold Beth’s hand for longer than Duncan thought appropriate he cleared his throat.
Beth, looking quite satisfied with the Bruce’s attention, extracted her hand and waved toward the sitting group. “My lords, if you please, come this way.”
Leaving the Bruce’s contingent in conversation with MacDougall clansmen, Duncan and the Bruce followed Beth to the chairs before the fireplace and found a wee feast of fresh bread, smelts and cheese awaiting them. More shocking was finding the hammered bronze and silver chalices he’d plunder from Persia now polished to a soft glow and holding mead.
Once they were seated Beth said, “Supper will be served within the hour. I’ll ring the bell when it’s ready.” She dipped in curtsey and murmured, “If you’ll excuse me…” then glided away.
John’s gaze followed her. “Yer ladywife’s speech…I must be getting’ old for my ears couldna keep up with her.”
Duncan tore his gaze from his wife’s fine rump to stare at the Bruce. “‘Tis naught yer ears. Her rapid and odd manner of speech ‘tis their way in York, or so she tells me.”
The Bruce reached across the table for the chalice sitting at Duncan’s elbow. “‘Tis good then that ye have a way with languages, MacDougall, or ye’d be reduced to waving yer hands like a mute.” He tasted the mead.
“Humph.” ‘Twas nay reason for the Bruce to have switched challises. When he finally chose to kill the bastard, he’d do it like a man—with a sword.
Reaching for the more elaborate chalice Beth had intended for the Bruce, Duncan mumbled, “Ye know naught the truth of yer words.”
His ladywife had been using hand gestures to show her displeasure all week. Some he couldn’t help but laugh at. He liked the fist in the air and arm slap combination the best. Reminded him of the Romans’ ways. And God’s teeth, could the woman roll her eyes. She could go through life without saying another word and be perfectly understood. But he did miss her lilting voice and warmth, particularly in the wee hours when he couldn’t sleep for worrying. About her, the Bruce, and about whether or not he should take up arms again. Unlike Isaac, he wasn’t as sure his shoulder would be adequately healed in time for the jousts.
Around a mouthful of cheese the Bruce said, “My people are excited about the tournament. Will ye be bringing a large contingent?”
“Large enough.” Duncan had only three tents. Many within his sept would be sorely disappointed hearing they would have to stay behind, every tournament and accompanying fair being something the clan always looked forward to and enjoyed. Well, mayhap he could sell some of their kine and find a way.
“Ye’re very pensive this eve, MacDougall.”
“Nay, just wondering what my ladywife has prepared for our entertainment.”
“‘Tis naught a wife’s nature to be predicable.”
“Ye speak more truth than ye know.”
The Bruce’s eyes narrowed as he devoured more bread and cheese. “Hmm. Ye do favor this lass.”
Duncan shifted in his chair. “Though odd in her ways, I canna deny she is good-hearted and clever.” Reluctantly, he wondered how her tales of York and ghosts could be reconciled with this truth. And he never would reconcile it if she continued to ignore his peace-seeking overtures. Just this morn he’d set a pretty speckled starfish in the solar for her to find but she’d said naught, and he’d climbed off a damn cliff to get it. At least, she wore the key, had exclaimed over the lemon tree, and had smiled just a moment ago. Surely, that meant he’d made some progress.
Around a mouthful of smoked fish his enemy asked, “Have ye thought on how we’re to proceed with the tournament, MacDougall?”
“Aye.” And so they discussed the broad points of the contest. To his surprise Beth had assigned Flora to supervising their needs. As she tended them, he found it odd the Bruce paid little heed to his voluptuous sister-by-marriage. Odd.
Before they started working out the finer points of the tournament, specifically who would be entrusted with the prizes they planned to accumulate, the bell rang and the hall began filling.
Beth led them to their seats at the head table. She placed the Bruce to his right then took her seat to his left.
Duncan grinned watching his enemy examine all that lay before him. He well understood the man’s surprise.
Once everyone had found their seat, Beth clapped and a parade of women entered carrying course after course. Platters plied high with fragrant venison, succulent roasted boar with turnips, piping clams in broth, filets of white fish, and roasted leeks smothered in a delicious cream sauce seasoned with rosemary were laid on each table, and then consumed by all in prodigious amounts.
When he thought his stomach could hold no more, a dozen women arrived with dense bread puddings soaked in rich aqua vitae—-whisky—-and cream sauce.
At his side, Beth reached for her wine, and Duncan throwing caution to the wind, enfolded her hand in his before she could snatch it away. It might kill him but he would make the best of this marriage. He brought her hand to his lips.
“My dear ladywife,” he whispered so only she might hear, “I have never dined so well, neither in Italia nor at Albany’s table.” He turned her hand and kissed her wrist. “Ye are indeed worth ye weight in or , Lady Kathy.”