by Faris, Fiona
Gilbert raised his hand to indicate he would brook no argument.
“She is no longer a child,” he insisted. “She is a grown woman who knows how the land lies between the Hays and the Comyns. If she has been complicit, she can have no excuse.”
Elizabeth raised her chin in defiance.
“Do I take it, then, that I am to be thrown into the dungeon too?”
“Don’t be silly!” Gilbert returned. “You will be confined to the castle and have no contact with the prisoner. I hereby forbid you to set foot outside the castle walls, except with my expressed permission and under guard. I am designating Matthew Fitt your ‘jailer’. Now, go to your chamber.”
Elizabeth drew herself up and strode from the parlor, with as much dignity as she could muster. She regretted the coolness with which she had met Margaret’s reception, but she felt in her heart of hearts that something had shifted between them, that something had been broken.
“I cannot believe that you would prosecute Elizabeth,” Margaret said with sharpness as soon as Elizabeth had left.
A cloud of emotion passed over Gilbert’s brow, but he pulled himself up to his full height and composed his features into a mask.
“I have already explained why that must be,” he said stiffly, before relenting and attempting to reassure his wife.
“Listen, Margaret, I have no doubt that we will find her innocent of any deliberate part in this plot against the king. She has fallen head-over-heels in love with this rascal, and that love has blinded her to his true intentions. She will be absolved with a chastening – a period of confinement in the tower here – and will then be able to resume her liberties. But justice must not only be done but must be seen to be done. Otherwise, we will be seen to be behaving like tyrants, using the law to suit our own interests rather than fairly, to dispense justice.”
Margaret sighed and resumed her seat by the fire.
“I understand, Gilbert, but it seems harsh on Elizabeth.”
“This whole episode will be a harsh lesson for her. Hopefully, it will leave her stronger and wiser.”
“But I fear it may have broken something between us. You saw her there, just now; she has grown distant and resentful towards us. I fear our trust might not be mended.”
Gilbert made a face, as if he were having to swallow some bitter physic.
“I know.” He sighed. “I have the feeling that she is no longer happy in the nest. Perhaps this is natural, and she would be growing unsettled in her situation even without the appearance of this Comyn to turn her head. Perhaps her affair with the Comyn is even a symptom rather than a cause of her impulse to fly the nest. Perhaps it is time she was married.”
Margaret looked up at him sharply, a flash of anxiety in her eyes.
“But I have not yet found her a suitable match…”
“Perhaps you have been setting your sights too high,” Gilbert suggested firmly but tentatively. “Certainly, you have educated her well in the virtues of a lady; I have no doubt she would make some landed knight an admirable mate. But… she is, after all is said and done, an orphan whom you plucked from the gutter, and who has been ruined by many men into the bargain.”
Margaret’s hackles rose, and she was about to fly at Gilbert in Elizabeth’s defense, but Gilbert forestalled her with a raised hand.
“Those are just the facts,” he pointed out. “You may have turned the lass into an accomplished lady, but you cannot change the facts, and they weigh heavily in the scales against her when it comes to finding her a prospective suitor.”
“You have something in mind?” Margaret said in a defeated voice. It was more a statement than a question.
“Aye. I would reconsider Matthew Fitt’s request for permission to pay her court. He is a fine young man with decent prospects of his own. I could use my influence to find him advancement…”
“But he will never be a nobleman.”
“No,” Gilbert conceded, “but it is now becoming possible for a commoner to enjoy great comfort and privileges in the service of the king and his earls. He is more than likely to become the captain of one of my castles – Delgatie, for example – where Elizabeth would have charge of the household. And Matthew is a handsome man…”
Margaret sighed. It was as if she had deflated, all her high hopes and dreams for her protégée having suddenly escaped her.
“It would be a tolerable position,” she conceded with reluctance.
“And quite a rise in her station from a scullery slut.”
Margaret considered for a few moments, her bottom lip pinched between her teeth.
“Very well,” she decided. “Send for Matthew, and we will inform him that he has our permission. It may sweeten the pill for her of having him as her guard to have him as her suitor. They will be spending much time together. Let us hope that some love might flourish between them.”
“He is, I suspect, already smitten by her.”
“And, judging by the way they have comported themselves together when they meet at dine, she is not without some small feeling for him. Perhaps it will all turn out for the best.”
“I am sure it will, my darling,” Gilbert said, stepping forward and running his hand down the silver-blonde cloth of her hair.
She reached up and clasped his hand, pulling it close to her breast.
“Perhaps,” she said, “we should have a daughter of our own.”
She smiled, as a warm glow of affection kindled in his eye.
“And how might we contrive that, wife?” he replied, stroking her breast with his fingertips.
She stood up and slid away from him towards the door.
“I will show you how, husband, when we retire for the night.”
Chapter Thirty
Slains Castle
Elizabeth’s Bedchamber
Elizabeth threw herself onto her bed and wept. It was as if a floodgate had opened and all the tension that had been growing inside her since they had first fled the shieling gushed forth, overwhelming her and refusing to be stemmed. Her whole body shuddered with grief and self-pity and anger.
Her first thought was for Duncan and his plight. The dungeon beneath the gatehouse was little more than a tiny hole, no broader than a garderobe, and much too low to stand up in. There he would remain, with only kitchen scraps to eat when Sanderson remembered to feed him and only straw to soak up his dung and urine until a court could be assembled to try him. And this court’s decision would be a foregone conclusion; treason was a crime that had to be stamped out with the utmost severity, and an example would need to be made of him. He would, she knew, be taken to the marketplace in Errol and hung to within an inch of his life, castrated and then disemboweled, and hacked into quarters for the edification of those who still retained some sympathies towards their former masters, the Comyns. His guilt would not be questioned, nor would any mercy be shown.
And he could have fled had it not been for her. He could at that very moment be safe in France or among his kinsfolk in the west had he not waited for her, entertaining the hope that she might contrive to elope with him. She wondered how long he would have waited for her, or to what lengths he would have gone to seek her out had she not decided to go to him. Would he have been so reckless as to have ended up in the dungeon in any case? Would he have tried to infiltrate the castle to steal her away?
She realized all that was just idle speculation. The fact was that he was languishing in prison awaiting certain death and that he was in that situation because of her. She had to think of some way of liberating him.
She knew that she could not prevail upon her patrons. She had disappointed her friend and mentor, Margaret, greatly. She suspected that their relationship was broken and might never be mended. Had she not herself broken with Margaret when she had decided to run away with Duncan? Nor could she hope for clemency from Sir Gilbert. Not only had she betrayed his trust and generosity, but he was thirled to the ideal of the king’s justice and would not compromise that ideal and
show favor to his ward. She had to find a way of helping Duncan despite them.
With a great effort, she composed herself and began to think carefully about the situation and the obstacles that needed to be overcome. The first of those was that she was being kept under close confinement, but that presented no great difficulty because Duncan was within the castle bounds too and therefore accessible to her. The second obstacle was Sanderson, who had been charged with Duncan’s keep. He would have the key to the dungeon door; he also stood sentinel over that door. She would have to find a way of obtaining that key and getting Sanderson out of the way so that she could use it.
The third obstacle was how they would get away. No matter how his escape might be effected, Duncan would soon be missed, and they would not be able to get far on the road on foot even if they escaped in the dead of night and were not discovered until the next morning. They would need horses, of which there were plenty in the stables. But how to procure them…
And finally, she did not have much time in which to act. It would take a week at the most to assemble a court. Neighboring lords would have to be empaneled to satisfy the requirements of the law and ensure that the justice visited on Duncan was not summary, and it would take time to send out messengers to summon them and for them to journey to Slains.
She needed to get the key from Sanderson and Sanderson himself out of the way, and she needed to have horses readied for their flight. She did not know how she would effect those things, but at least she had something to think about and plans to scheme. That was progress of a kind.
* * *
Sanderson rubbed his hands together. The whole affair had worked itself out nicely. True, he had fallen out of favor somewhat with the Earl and Countess over his not having told them of the lassie’s trysts with the Comyn knave, but he had redeemed himself somewhat by giving them the intelligence that had led to the lassie’s safe return and the apprehension of the traitor. He would still have some work to do, to fully ingratiate himself with the master and mistress once more. But the chief thing was that the lassie had thoroughly disgraced herself, the wee whore that she was, to the extent that no respectable laird would look at her once word of her disgrace had got around. And word would get around; he would make sure of that. She would be begging him to take her in out of charity, and then he would see what tunes she could play on his auld fiddle!
He left his chamber and went through to the guardhouse, taking with him a clay demijohn of ale. He climbed down the few steps to the dungeon door and sat down on the lowermost, resting his back against the rough stone of the stair wall. He uncorked the bottle and hefted it on his forearm to his lips.
“Comyn!” he cried, once he had taken a deep draught, hammering on the thick oak hatch with the flat of his hand. “Comyn, are you there?” He snickered. “Of course, you’re there. There is no way around this fine thick door. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Duncan Comyn. I hope we shall become firm friends during the course of your stay. You will find me a fine host. I keep a fine table of kitchen slops, and you will not find me ungenerous when I piss in your water. I will think of you also while I’m pumping your wee doxy, Lizzie Bryce, for you. I’ll keep her well primed, as she will trim my wick.”
If he had been hoping for a reaction, there was none. He hammered on the door again.
“Come on, Comyn, man; at least be civil. I’m the only company you are going to have until your audience with our highers and betters, and Christ knows the company you’ll enjoy when they’re done with you will be a lot less loquacious. The craic o’ the craws as they strip your banes in the gibbet will get a wee bit monotonous after a while, I’d reckon.”
Silence still.
“Are you still alive in there?” Sanderson asked, delivering a mighty kick to the door with his boot. “You ha’ena done away with yourself by swallowing your own tongue? I’ve kenned chiels wha have done sic a thing to cheat the executioner. To be plain, I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” He shivered and spat. “Having your marbles cut off and your own entrails unwound and burned before your dying eyes maun be a hellish way to go.”
He cocked an expectant ear at the door, but still, there was no response from the cell.
“I’ll tell you what: to while away your time, I’ll tell you all the ways I’m going to use yon Lizzie once I get my hands on her. I ken you’ve had your turn with her, but I wat have ploys you wouldna imagine you could do with a woman. Eh, man? What do you say to that? It might help you relieve yourself in the dark, imagining all those things…”
He felt the prick of a sword point over his spine at the nape of his neck. His eyes widening with terror, he slowly turned his head to look up over his shoulder. Standing over him, at the top of the stairs, he found Matthew Fitt, his eyes blazing with cold fury, his sword trembling in his hand.
“You will not taunt or torment the prisoner,” Matthew said, his voice a low, seething rumble, indicating what the consequences would be otherwise by increasing the pressure of the point of his sword on Sanderson’s spinal cord.
“Jesus!” Sanderson squeaked.
Matthew withdrew his blade.
Sanderson scrambled to his feet, the demijohn dangling by his side and chinking against the wall.
“I’m sorry, maister…” he began. “I was just taken by too much zeal at the capture of the rogue. And I’ve had a drink to celebrate… A drop too much, perhaps” he added, venturing a sheepish smile.
“Pish!” Matthew raised the point of his sword to tickle Sanderson’s Adam’s apple. “Make yourself scarce, man, and take your drink and your filthy tongue with you. I will be keeping a close eye on you, and if I catch you misusing the prisoner again, or speaking ill of the Lady Elizabeth, I shall gut you where you stand. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you, maister. It shall never happen again.”
“Good. Now, be on your way.”
He stood aside to let Sanderson past.
Sanderson scuttled up the stairs and took himself off to his chambers.
Matthew lingered at the top of the steps and gazed pensively at the door. He could not be sure, but before he left, he thought he heard a muffled ‘Thank you’ penetrate the thick wood.
Chapter Thirty-One
Slains Castle
The Great Hall
Elizabeth spent all of the following day moping in her bedchamber, not emerging even to dine. Margaret ordered a maid to take food up to her when she did not appear at the table in the Great Hall, but the maid returned to report that the Lady Elizabeth would not open the chamber door to her.
The second morning after Duncan’s incarceration, however, she appeared at midmorning in the Great Hall to break her fast and announced that she wished to take some fresh air, perhaps venturing as far as the Bullers, or a little way beyond.
“It is a fine morning, and the exercise would do you good after all that has happened,” Margaret said.
“I believe it would calm my nerves,” Elizabeth added, with a small apologetic smile. “I am sorry for the words I said.”
Margaret reached out and squeezed Elizabeth’s hand as it lay on the table.
“I believe we all said words we regret the other night. Think no more of it.”
“Aye,” Gilbert joined in with a tight little smile. “Enjoy your liberty. I will command Matthew to accompany you.”
Elizabeth could have protested, but she had expected no different. She could accomplish what she had in mind despite Matthew’s presence, and he would be not unpleasant company during the walk.
After breakfast, Elizabeth stepped from the entrance to the tower and was met by her keeper.
“Good morning, milady,” Matthew said with an awkward informal bow.
Elizabeth could barely suppress a smile of amusement. Matthew was no doubt a handsome and gallant warrior, but he found the niceties of gentlemanly manners distinctly alien.
“Good morning, Master Fitt,” Elizabeth responded with a gracious nod. “I take it that Sir Gilbert ha
s informed you of my intentions?”
“He has.” He smiled, a little bashfully, Elizabeth thought. “And if it is not too presumptuous, milady, please call me ‘Matthew’.”
This time, Elizabeth allowed her smile.
“Only if you call me ‘Elizabeth’.”
“Very well… Elizabeth.”
“Matthew…”
They turned and made their way across the courtyard to the gatehouse. As they passed beneath its stone archway, Elizabeth tried not to think of Duncan languishing in his small dark hole only yards away. She did, however, see Sanderson glower at them through the doorway to his lodge.
They crossed the drawbridge and the outer ward to the castle rampart, that separated the headland from the mainland proper. They scrambled over the rampart and joined the path that led along the cliff above Cruden Bay and beyond to the Bullers. The morning was fine, though chillier than it had been as the year wore on towards fall. A slight breeze blew in off the bay, which that morning was dusted with whitecaps and bobbing gulls. The sky was blue, and a light haze lay on the horizon. Elizabeth’s spirits felt quite uplifted, despite the weight of worry that burdened her.