The Highlander's Virtuous Lady: A Historical Scottish Romance Novel

by Fiona Faris

  Eventually, some color began to return to Patrick’s cheeks. His chittering stopped, and he reached for the bread and cheese and began eating, tearing at the loaf with his fingers and washing the food down with gulps of beer.

  Joan, Margaret, and Lady Maria sat down around him at the bench, while Geordie and the servants stood waiting upon his needs in a close half-circle behind him.

  “What has happened, Sir Patrick?” Lady Maria asked him, gently but firmly. “And what has befallen Sir Simon and Sir Gilbert?”

  Patrick sat hunched beneath his blanket, his arms on the table, his hands clutched around a wooden cogie of beer. He looked like a broken man, slumped in on himself. His eyes were red-rimmed and stared off into the space of recent memory, as if haunted by the events he had recently witnessed. Every now and then, his hands would start to tremble uncontrollably, sloshing liquid over the lip of his cup which gathered in a small puddle before seeping into the grain of the wood. The women watched him pensively, their brows creased with wrinkles of deep concern.

  “Disaster,” Patrick began, with a gasp of despair. “The English army, under Valence of Pembroke, had made its base at Perth, where it was joined by many of the supporters of the murdered Comyn’s cause. We came from the west, ready to meet our foe in battle. King Robert invited Valence to leave the walls of Perth and join him in battle, but the Frenchman declined. The king took this refusal as a sign of weakness. We retired the few miles to Methven, where we made camp for the night. Before dawn, on the nineteenth of June, our army was taken by surprise and almost destroyed, because Bruce had failed to take the precaution of placing pickets around the camp. Our entire army was routed.”

  “And what of Gilbert and my father?” Margaret asked in a small quiet voice, fearing the worst.

  “Gilbert escaped with King Robert. God alone knows where they are fled, but I believe they will be safe, for now, fast in the Highlands. Your father…” Patrick dashed the cup to his lips, sending a splash of beer over his mouth and down over his short beard and chest. He swallowed. “Sir Simon also escaped the defeat at Methven but was captured at a subsequent engagement at Kirkencliff, near Stirling, by Sir Thomas de Multon and Sir John Jose. Along with William de Lamberton, bishop of St Andrews, and Robert Wishart, bishop of Glasgow, he has been taken south to an English dungeon.”

  Lady Maria clasped her hands as if to offer up a prayer of thanksgiving.

  “So, he too is alive, thank God,” she whispered.

  Both Joan’s and Margaret’s eyes were round with terror.

  “Oh, dear Lady…” Patrick cried, with a look of anguished pity at Sir Simon’s wife. “For the present, yes…”

  “King Edward will surely show him clemency, as he has done in the past.”

  Patrick could not meet Lady Maria’s eye. He pushed the cup from him and stared hopelessly down into his empty hands.

  “I fear King Edward's patience with Fraser is now at an end. Sir Simon is to suffer the same fate that Wallace met this seven months’ past.”

  Margaret and Joan fell to a loud keening, as realization and grief overcame them.

  “But surely…” Lady Maria shook her head and gave a fragile smile at such nonsense, but her eyes wavered with uncertainty.

  “Your husband will be hanged, drawn and quartered as an example to others,” Patrick assured her brutally, suddenly losing patience with her false hope.

  Joan slipped from her weeping sister’s embrace and crumpled to the floor in a faint. Patrick found this strange; he would have expected Joan to have been the stronger of the two, the more resilient one, the one better able to withstand the terrible shock of the news. But, he supposed, she was Sir Simon’s favorite, the one to whom he was devoted as to the son he never had. She was the closest to him and so perhaps felt for him the greater love.

  Lady Maria sat desolate and alone. It was she who now looked the broken one. She sagged into herself, like a sack of bones that had been left on the bench beside Patrick. She had no sister, no one, to console her. She sat quietly, her feature slack with hopelessness and disbelief. Then she slowly reached up and pulled off the wimple that covered her hair. Her hair was shorn like that of a nun and stood up in little tufts all over a mottled scalp. She dropped the wimple at her feet and raised her hands to her temples. Slowly, and with a great bestial wail of grief, she tore her nails down across her eyes and both her cheeks, drawing blood to mix with the tears that began to flood from her eyes.

  Geordie and the servants turned away, the men grim-faced, the women burying their faces in their aprons. They filed from the hall and shuffled down the stairs to inform the rest of the household.

  The hall of Neidpath Castle had never seemed so cold and desolate.

  A few hours later, spent with grief, Lady Maria rose.

  “We must quit the hall to let the house in to dine,” she told them.

  Joan looked up from where she had buried her face in her sister’s lap.

  “Oh, Mother! How can you think of such a thing with Father…?”

  Lady Maria looked at her without seeing her. The world for her had suddenly become a strange, forlorn place, from which she felt completely detached.

  “The household must still be run. Our people still depend on me.”

  Joan’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “I am sure they would survive if left to their own devices for a few days. What is Geordie for? He is the steward after all. Let him steward.”

  A look of puzzlement crossed Lady Maria’s face.

  “But he is not the lady of the house. He is only the steward, your father’s steward at that. It is my responsibility, my duty.”

  Margaret stood up and smoothed down her gown. It was damp from Joan’s tears.

  “Mother is right,” she said. She turned to Lady Maria. “Come, I will help you with the preparation.”

  They left the hall, leaving Joan and Patrick alone.

  It was some time before they looked at one another.

  “What are we to do, my love?” Joan asked.

  Patrick raised his head from his arms.

  “We dine,” he replied. “Then we make ready to leave.”

  “Leave?” Joan said in surprise. “Why must we leave?”

  Patrick dragged himself up from the table and turned to face her.

  “Because your father is disgraced. His lands and titles are forfeit. Oliver and Neidpath are no longer his. The Frasers will be obliged to quit. And if we do not leave of our own accord, the sheriff will come with his officers to evict us, by force of arms if necessary.” He grinned ruefully. “The dine of the household will soon no longer be your mother’s worry.”

  “But, my father is the sheriff…”

  “No more,” Patrick pointed out. “A new man, Edward’s man, shall be put in his place. In fact, I would be surprised if the appointment has not already been made. Edward will not want Tweeddale to remain lawless for too long.”

  “But where shall we go?” Joan asked. “Oliver and Neidpath are our homes.”

  “No more,” Patrick repeated. “And I daren’t take you to Boghall. My father will already be at risk of forfeiture for his involvement in the assassination of Comyn and for my appearance at the Bruce’s side at Methven.” He smiled grimly. “But leave it with me, my love. I have a few favors to call upon. I will see to it that your family is not cast out onto the road.”

  “Does my mother know, that we must quit Neidpath?”

  Patrick rose, gathering the blanket he still wore tighter around his shoulders.

  “She will know, at least in her heart. But I need you to talk to her, and to your sister.”

  “What must I say?”

  “You must tell them of the situation,” he replied, looking around, as if searching for something. “You must tell them to be prepared to quit at a moment’s notice. Tell them that I will arrange for their removal to a place of safety, where we can await news of Gilbert.”

  “Aye, Gilbert!” Joan exclaimed as if she
had just remembered him. “What of Gilbert?”

  Patrick shook his head.

  “I do not know. But if he and King Robert got clean away, they will be rallying the remnants of Robert’s army to continue the fight. They may not be able to take to the field, but they will be able to continue as a thorn in Edward’s side by mounting skirmishes and raids until they are once again strong enough to meet him in battle.”

  He continued to cast around the hall.

  “Do you know where they put my clothes?”

  Joan looked at him, momentarily befuddled by his sudden changing of the subject.

  “Your clothes? I believe Geordie took them to the kitchen to be dried.”

  Patrick gave her a look of appeal.

  “Be a good wife and go and fetch them for me.”

  She looked at him in slack-jawed astonishment.

  “Why?” Then the realization dawned on her. “You are not thinking of leaving again? We need you here. There is no other man—”

  “I must. I must arrange your safety. And besides…” He offered a fond smile. “I know that you are as good as any man. Now, go and fetch my clothes, woman! I’m relying on you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Patrick left within the hour and headed east, along the Tweed, to avoid having to pass through Peebles.

  The next morning, Neidpath received a visitation from Sir Walter of Durham, newly appointed sheriff of Tweeddale.

  He rode into the castle’s courtyard with a full retinue of officers and men-at-arms. He was dressed in a lavish red surcoat, richly embroidered with the Plantagenet armorial, with the three golden lions especially prominent, with a fashionable tailed chaperon on his head. They did not immediately dismount but pranced their large horses on the cobbles for some minutes, sending the stable lads scattering to safety the lean-to sheds and workshops.

  Lady Maria went out to receive him. She stood tall and dignified as the hooves clattered around her.

  “Lady Maria Fraser?” Sir Walter enquired, his lips drawn in a thin, sinuous grin.

  Lady Maria inclined her head.

  “I am Sir Walter Moult, Master of Durham and Sheriff of Tweeddale. I am here to give you notice to quit. As you will know, the lands and titles of the traitor Fraser, which he held by the grace of Edward, the king, are now forfeit and gifted to me in his place.”

  His voice was thin and reedy and made him sound like he was a small spoilt brat making a petulant complaint to his mother.

  “Then welcome to Neidpath, your new demesne,” Lady Maria said, though it clearly cost her much to say the words. “Will you come inside for refreshment following your journey here?”

  Without a word, Sir Walter swung down from his horse and handed the reins up to a lieutenant. He strode past Lady Maria and entered the low door to the keep. Bearing the slight with graceful stoicism, Lady Maria turned and followed him.

  Margaret, Joan, and Geordie the steward were in the hall, awaiting Sir Walter’s pleasure. He ignored them and strode purposely around the room, taking in its appointment and fittings, as if making a quick inventory. He came to a halt by the top table on its raised dais.

  “A pretty place,” he observed, to no one in particular.

  He turned and came up short as his small weasel eyes alighted on Margaret. She cast her eyes down demurely as he shamelessly inspected her and smiled thinly as he found her to his liking.

  “A pretty place, indeed,” he repeated.

  Lady Maria puffed in behind him, having hurried up the stairs. She indicated to Geordie as she entered the room.

  “Geordie Cummings is my husband’s steward,” she said. “Perhaps you would like to interview him. He will be able to give you a good account of the estates, its incomes, and worth.”

  Sir Walter did not remove his eyes from Margaret. Indeed, he ran them along the length of her tall, willowy form, pausing at the swell of her breasts above the cinch of her girdle and the liquid flow of her gown over her slender hips and thighs.

  “I think not,” he replied distantly. “Perhaps later, in good time. First I would hear the account this charming creature has to give.” His eyes snapped up to Margaret’s face, his voice assuming a hard authority. “And you are…?”

  “Margaret Fraser,” she replied, dropping into a slight curtsey, “elder daughter of the house.”

  “Margaret,” he echoed, burring the consonants as if trying out a fine wine. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  He nodded his head sharply at Joan, who stood proud and defiant, barefoot in her crumpled yellow kirtle.

  “And who is this little trollop?” He sneered.

  Margaret rose to the dignity of her full height.

  “This is my younger sister, Joan.”

  “Your sister?” Sir Walter said in affected surprise. “Why, I took her for a scullery maid. But,” he added thoughtfully, “now that I see past the slatternly garb, I do see a sisterly resemblance…” He turned on Joan. “You should comport yourself more like your sister, little girl,” he censured, before turning his seamy look back to Margaret. “She is far more pleasing on the eye.”

  He clapped his hands.

  “The rest of you, go see to my men,” he said haughtily, as if they were servants to be commanded. “Margaret, my pet, you will stay and entertain me.”

  Lady Maria was affronted. She gasped and reeled back as if she had been struck. Joan’s lips curled into a snarl, but Lady Maria recovered quickly enough to restrain her with a hand on her arm.

  “As you wish, sire,” she whispered, and she drew Joan away with her as she curtsied, turned and walked with dignity towards the door. Geordie, looking utterly distraught at the insult meted out to his mistress, followed them downstairs.

  Sir Walter grabbed the back of a chair and turned it away from the table. He sat and leaned back appreciatively as he continued to inspect Margaret where she stood.

  “Now then, Margaret,” he began, “what are going to do with you and your mother, and that little whore of a sister?”

  Margaret shrank into herself, clasping her hands in her lap. She felt exposed, as if she were standing naked. She resisted the burning desire to raise an arm to cover the swell of her breasts.

  “Of course.” Sir Walter smiled. “You do realize that, in law, you are my chattels, with which I may do what I will. I could set your mother to work in the fields. I could give your sister to my men as a plaything. And I may do so yet. But you, my sweet… what am I going to do with you? You are too rare and precious a thing to be yoked to the plow or mishandled and broken by rough chiels. You are a fine piece of porcelain, best appreciated by a connoisseur.”

  He placed his fingertips together and made a steeple of his hands.

  Margaret shivered beneath his cold, cruel, calculating scrutiny.

  “I am minded,” he continued, “to install you here as my house-mate. I cannot marry you, of course, for I still have a wife at home in Château Gaillard in Normandy.” His face darkened with resentment. “But, since I am to freeze my arse off here while my liege hammers the Scots into submission, I might as well secure for myself some homely comforts.” He ran his eyes hungrily over Margaret’s lines again. “So, what do you say, my dear. You may remain as Lady of Neidpath in return for a little… gratitude, shall we say?”

  Tears had begun to streak Margaret’s cheeks, but she would not brush them away. She would bear her humiliation with dignity. Her legs had begun to tremble, and she feared she might slump to the floor at any moment. Sir Walter saw all this but simply smiled, his eyes bright with pitiless amusement.

  “Think on it,” he said finally, rising to his feet.

  Margaret saw with horror that an erection was pushing out the cloth of his short, knee-length overgown, between the folds of his surcoat. Sir Walter noticed her reaction and grinned.

  “I will return on the morrow to hear your agreement,” he said. “Meanwhile,” he added, striking a courtly pose, pulling aside his surcoat to place a hand on his hip
and – incidentally, as it were – to display his bulge to greater effect, “consider my lance to be forever at your service.”

  He laughed a strange yelping laugh, and strode from the room.

  Minutes later, she heard the ironshod hooves of the sheriff’s company clatter from the courtyard below.

  Chapter Eleven

  Patrick returned that evening after dinner. He was accompanied by two riders dressed in short tunics and hose of Lincoln green, leather jerkins, and flat bonnets pulled close over their brows.