Roger lifted a handsome eyebrow at her. Her hostility made her eyes sparkle like blue diamonds. “I’m sure there must be an excuse for his tardiness.”
“Perhaps his excuse is that he means to assert his authority over all the Scots. He will show us who is master.”
Roger was silent for a moment as if he were considering her words. “There are those who consider the Montgomerys arrogant.”
“You say you know this Stephen Montgomery. What is he like? I don’t know if he’s short or tall, old or young.”
Roger shrugged as if his mind were elsewhere. “He is an ordinary man.” He seemed reluctant to continue. “Lady Bronwyn, tomorrow would you do me the honor of riding into the park with me? There’s a stream running across Sir Thomas’s land, and perhaps we could carry a meal there.”
“Aren’t you afraid that I’ll make an attempt on your life? I have not been allowed off these grounds for over a month.”
He smiled at her. “I would like you to know there are Englishmen with more manners than to, as you say, discard a woman on her wedding day.”
Bronwyn stiffened as she was reminded of the humiliation Stephen Montgomery had caused her. “I would very much like to ride out with you.”
Roger Chatworth smiled and nodded to a man passing them on the narrow garden path. His mind was working quickly.
Three hours later Roger returned to his apartments in the east wing of Sir Thomas Crichton’s house. He’d come there two weeks ago to talk to Sir Thomas about recruiting young men from the area. Sir Thomas had been too busy with the problems of the Scots heiress to talk of anything else. Now Roger was beginning to think fate had brought him here.
He kicked the stool out from under his sleeping squire’s feet. “I have something for you to do,” he commanded as he removed his velvet jacket and slung it across the bed. “There’s an old Scotsman named Angus lying about somewhere. Look for him and bring him to me. You’ll probably find him wherever the drink is flowing freely. And then bring me half a hogshead of ale. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my lord,” the boy said, backing out of the doorway, rubbing his drowsy eyes.
When Angus appeared in the doorway, he was already half drunk. He worked for Sir Thomas in some sort of capacity, but generally he did little except drink. His hair was dirty and tangled, hanging well past his shoulders in the Scots manner. He wore a long linen shirt, belted at the waist, his knees and legs bare.
Roger glanced at the man and his heathen attire with a brief look of disgust.
“You wanted me, my lord?” Angus said, his voice a soft burr. His eyes followed the small cask of ale that Roger’s squire was carrying into the room.
Chatworth dismissed the boy, poured himself an ale, sat down, and motioned Angus to do likewise. When the filthy man was seated, Roger began. “I’d like to know about Scotland.”
Angus raised his shaggy brows. “You mean where the gold is hidden? We’re a poor country, my lord, and—”
“I want none of your sermons! Save your lies for someone else. I want to know what a man who is to marry the chief of a clan should know.”
Angus stared hard for a moment, then he closed his mouth with his mug of ale. “An eponymus, eh?” he mumbled in Gaelic. “ ’Tisn’t easy to be accepted by the clan members.”
Roger took one long step across the room and grabbed the mug of ale from the man. “I didn’t ask for your judgments. Will you answer my questions, or do I kick you down the stairs?”
Angus looked at the cold mug with desperate eyes. “Ye must become a MacArran.” He looked up at Roger. “Takin’ that you mean that particular clan.”
Roger gave a brief, curt nod.
“Ye must take the name of the laird of the clan, or the men can’t accept ye. Ye must dress as the Scots or they’ll laugh at ye. Ye must love the land and the Scots.”
Roger lowered the ale. “What about the woman? What must I do to own her?”
“Bronwyn cares about little else except her people. She would have killed herself before she married an Englishman, but she knew her death would cause war within her clan. If ye make the woman know ye mean well for her people, ye’ll have her.”
Roger gave the man the ale. “I want to know more. What is a clan? Why was a woman made chief? Who are the enemies of Clan MacArran?”
“Talking is thirsty work.”
“You’ll have all you can hold, just as long as you tell me what I want to know.”
Bronwyn met Roger Chatworth early the next morning. In spite of her good intentions, she’d been so excited about the prospect of a ride in the woods that she’d hardly been able to sleep. Morag had helped her dress in a soft brown velvet gown, all the while issuing dire warnings about Englishmen bearing gifts.
“I merely want the ride,” Bronwyn said stubbornly.
“Aye, and what mere trifle does this Chatworth want? He knows ye’re to marry another.”
“Am I?” Bronwyn snapped. “Then where is my bridegroom? Should I sit in my wedding gown for another full day and wait for him?”
“It might be better than chasing after some hot-blooded young earl.”
“An earl? Roger Chatworth is an English earl?”
Morag refused to answer, but gave the gown a final straightening before pushing her from the room.
Now, as Bronwyn sat atop the horse, Rab running beside her, she felt alive for the first time in many weeks.
“The roses have returned to your cheeks,” Roger said, laughing.
She smiled in return, and the smile softened her chin and lit her eyes. She spurred the horse to a faster pace. Rab with his long, loping strides kept pace with the horse.
Roger turned for a moment to glance at the men following them. There were three of his personal guards, two squires, and a packhorse loaded with food and plate. He turned and looked ahead at Bronwyn. He frowned when she glanced over her shoulder and spurred her mount even faster. She was an excellent horsewoman, and no doubt the woods were full of men from her clan, all eager and willing to help her escape.
He threw up his hand and motioned his men forward as he set spurs to his own mount.
Bronwyn made her horse come close to flying. The wind in her hair, the sense of freedom, were exhilarating. When she came to the stream, she was going full speed. She had no idea if the horse had ever taken a jump before, but she urged it on regardless of the risk. It sailed over the water as if it had wings. On the far side she pulled the animal to a halt and turned to look back.
Roger and his men were just approaching the stream.
“Lady Bronwyn!” Roger shouted. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she laughed, then led her horse through the water to where Roger waited for her. She bent forward and patted the horse’s neck. “He’s a good animal. He took the jump well.”
Roger dismounted and walked to her side. “You gave me a terrible fright. You could have been injured.”
She laughed happily. “A Scotswoman is not likely to be injured while atop a horse.”
Roger put his arms up to help her dismount.
Suddenly Rab jumped between them, his lips drawn back showing long, sharp teeth. He growled deeply, menacingly. Roger instinctively retreated.
“Rab!” The dog obeyed Bronwyn immediately. He moved away but his eyes, with a warning gleam, never left Roger. “He means to protect me,” she said. “He doesn’t like anyone touching me.”
“I’ll remember that in future,” Roger said warily as he aided Bronwyn off her horse. “Perhaps you’d like to rest after your ride,” he suggested. He snapped his fingers, and his squires brought two chairs upholstered in red velvet. “My lady,” Roger offered.
She smiled in wonder at the chairs set in the woods. The grass under their feet was like a velvet carpet. The stream played its music, and even as she thought that, one of Roger’s men began to strum a lute. She closed her eyes for a moment.
“Are you homesick, my lady?” Roger asked.
She
sighed. “You could not know. No one not of the Highlands could know what it means to a Scot.”
“My grandmother was a Scot, so perhaps that qualifies me to have some understanding of your ways.”
Her head came up abruptly. “Your grandmother! What was her name?”
“A MacPherson of MacAlpin.”
Bronwyn smiled. It was good to even hear the familiar names once again. “MacAlpin. ’Tis a good clan.”
“Yes. I spent many evenings listening to stories at my grandmother’s knee.”
“And what sort of stories did she tell you?” Bronwyn asked cautiously.
“She was married to an Englishman, and she often compared the cultures of the two countries. She said the Scots were more hospitable, that the men didn’t shove the women into a room and pretend they had no sense as the English do. She said the Scots treated women as equals.”
“Yes,” Bronwyn agreed quietly. “My father named me laird.” She paused. “How did your English grandfather treat his Scots wife?”
Roger chuckled as if at some private joke. “My grandfather lived in Scotland for a while, and he knew my grandmother to be a woman of intelligence. He valued her all his life. There was never a decision made that was not made by both of them.”
“And you spent some time with your grandparents?”
“Most of my life. My parents died when I was very young.”
“And what did you think of this non-English way of treating women? Surely, now that you are older, you’ve learned that women are only of use in the bed, in creating and delivering children.”
Roger laughed out loud. “If I even had such a thought, my grandmother’s ghost would box my ears. No,” he said more seriously, “she meant for me to marry the daughter of a cousin of hers, but the child died before our marriage. I grew up calling myself MacAlpin.”
“What?” She was startled.
Roger looked surprised. “It was in the marriage contract that I’d become a MacAlpin to please her clan.”
“And you’d do that? I mentioned to Sir Thomas that my husband must become a MacArran, but he said that was impossible, that no Englishman would give up his fine old name for a heathen Scots name.”
Roger’s eyes flashed angrily. “They don’t understand! Damn the English! They think only their ways are right. Why, even the French—”
“The French are our friends,” Bronwyn interrupted. “They visit our country as we do theirs. They don’t destroy our crops or steal our cattle as the English do.”
“Cattle.” Roger smiled. “Now there’s an interesting subject. Tell me, do the MacGregors still raise such fat beasts?”
Bronwyn drew her breath in sharply. “Clan MacGregor is our enemy.”
“True,” he smiled, “but don’t you find that a roast of MacGregor beef is more succulent than any other?”
She could only stare at him. The MacGregors had been the enemies of the MacArrans for centuries.
“Of course, things may have changed since my grandmother was a Highland lass,” Roger continued. “Then the favorite sport of the young men was a swift moonlight cattle raid.”
Bronwyn smiled at him. “Nothing’s changed.”
Roger turned and snapped his fingers. “Would you like something to eat, my lady? Sir Thomas has a French chef, and he has prepared us a feast. Tell me, have you ever eaten a pomegranate?”
She could only shake her head and look at him in wonder as the baskets were unloaded and Roger’s squire served the meal on silver plates. For the first time in her life she had the thought that an Englishman could be human, that he could learn, and desired to learn, the Scots’ ways. She picked up a piece of pâté, molded into the shape of a rose and placed on a cracker. The events of the day were a revelation to her.
“Tell me, Lord Roger, what do you think of our clan system?”
Roger brushed crumbs from his doublet of gold brocade and smiled to himself. He was well prepared for all her questions.
Bronwyn stood in the room where she’d spent too much time in the last month. Her cheeks were still flushed and her eyes still bright from the morning’s fast ride.
“He’s not like other men,” she said to Morag. “I tell you, we spent hours together and we never once stopped talking. He even knows some Gaelic words.”
“ ’Tisn’t hard to pick up a few hereabouts. Even some of the Lowlanders know Gaelic.” It was Morag’s worst insult. To her the Lowlanders were traitorous Scots, more English than Scot.
“Then how do you explain the other things he said? His grandmother was a Scot. You should have heard his ideas! He said he’d petition King Henry to stop the English from raiding us, that that would bring more peace than this practice of capturing Scotswomen and forcing them to marry against their will.”
Morag screwed her dark, wrinkled face into walnut-shell ugliness. “Ye leave here this mornin’ hatin’ all English and come back bowin’ at one’s feet. All ye’ve heard from him are words. Ye’ve seen no action. What has the man done to make ye trust him?”
Bronwyn sat down heavily on the window seat. “Can’t you see that I want only what is best for my people? I am forced to marry an Englishman, so why not one who is part Scot, in mind as well as in blood?”
“Ye have no choice of husbands!” Morag said fiercely. “Can’t ye see that ye are a great prize? Young men will say anything to get under a pretty woman’s skirts. And if those skirts are covered with pearls, they’ll kill themselves to have them.”
“Are you saying he’s lying?”
“How would I know? I’ve only just seen the man. But I have not seen Stephen Montgomery. For all ye know, his mother could have been a Scot. Perhaps he’ll appear with a tartan across his shoulder and a dirk in his belt.”
“I could not hope for so much,” Bronwyn sighed. “If I met a thousand Englishmen, not one of them would understand my clan as Roger Chatworth does.” She stood. “But you are right. I will be patient. Perhaps this man Montgomery is unique, an understanding man who believes in the Scots.”
“I hope ye do not expect too much,” Morag said. “I hope Chatworth has not made ye expect too much.”
Chapter Two
STEPHEN HAD RIDDEN FAST AND HARD ALL DAY AND WELL into the night before he reached Sir Thomas’s house on the border. Stephen had long since left the wagons and his retainers behind. Only his personal guard managed to stay with him. A few hours ago they’d encountered a storm and a river about to burst its banks. Stephen slogged through the muck. Now, as he reined into the courtyard, he and his men were covered with lumps of mud. A tree branch had struck Stephen over the eye, and the blood had dried, giving him a swollen, grotesque appearance.
He dismounted quickly and threw the reins to his exhausted squire. The big manor house was lit by a myriad of candles, and music floated on the air.
Stephen stood inside the door for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the light.
“Stephen!” Sir Thomas called as he hobbled forward. “We’ve been worried about you! I was going to send men out to search for you in the morning.”
A man came to stand behind the aged and gout-crippled knight. “So this is the lost bridegroom,” he smiled, looking Stephen up and down, noting his filthy, torn clothing. “Not everyone has been worried, Sir Thomas.”
“Aye,” someone else laughed. “Young Chatworth seems to have done quite well without the belated bridegroom.”
Sir Thomas put his hand on Stephen’s shoulder and guided him toward a room off the hall. “Come in here, my boy. We need time to talk.”
It was a large room, paneled in oak carved in the linen-fold pattern. Against one wall was a row of books above a long trestle table. Completing the sparse furnishings were four chairs set before a large fireplace, where low flames burned cheerfully.
“What is this about Chatworth?” Stephen asked immediately.
“Sit down first. You look exhausted. Would you like some food? Wine?”
Stephen tossed a cushion out of a walnu
t chair and sat down gratefully. He took the wine Sir Thomas offered. “I’m sorry I’m late. My sister-in-law fell and lost the baby she carried. She nearly died. I’m afraid I didn’t notice the date and only realized it after I was already three days late. I rode as hard as I could to get here.” He picked a piece of caked dirt from his neck and threw it into the fireplace.
Sir Thomas nodded. “That’s obvious from the look of you. If someone hadn’t told me you approached bearing a banner of the Montgomery leopards, I’d never have recognized you. Is that cut above your eye as bad as it looks?”
Absently, Stephen felt the place. “It’s mostly dried blood. I was traveling too fast for it to run down my face,” he joked.
Sir Thomas laughed and sat down. “It’s good to see you. How are your brothers?”
“Gavin married Robert Revedoune’s daughter.”
“Revedoune? There’s money in that match.”
Stephen smiled and thought that the last thing Gavin cared about was his wife’s money. “Raine is still talking about his absurd ideas about the treatment of serfs.”
“And Miles?”
Stephen finished the wine in his cup. “Miles presented us with another of his bastard children last week. That makes three, or four, I lost count. If he were a stallion, we’d be rich.”
Sir Thomas laughed and refilled both metal goblets.
Stephen looked up at the older man as he lifted his drink again. Sir Thomas had been a friend of his father’s, an honorary uncle who brought the boys gifts from his many trips abroad, had been at Stephen’s christening twenty-six years ago. “Now that we’re through with that,” Stephen said slowly, “perhaps you’ll tell me what you’re hiding.”
Sir Thomas chuckled, a soft sound deep within his throat. “You know me too well. It’s nothing really, an unpleasantness, nothing serious. Roger Chatworth has spent a great deal of time with your bride, ’tis all.”
Highland Velvet Page 2