Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts Book 5)

by Cynthia Wright

  The guard continued to stare, clearly unconvinced. “Who exactly is your aunt?”

  “Lady Tess Lindsay. Ye might tell her I am here. Lennox MacLeod, of the Isle of Skye.”

  When the guard opened the door and went inside, Lennox stood in the wedge of light that spilled into the courtyard and scanned the room. His eyes were drawn to the magnificent ceiling, painted with costly verdigris, indigo, and gold, before he searched the long table of women for his aunt. Two dogs, a brown terrier and a greyhound, roamed about the edges of the table, in search of scraps. The Queen of Scots sat at one end, chatting amiably with her ladies, a gown of claret velvet covering her great bulk. Servants wearing the crimson bonnet of the queen’s livery carried platters of roasted capon and spring vegetables.

  Lennox hadn’t seen his mother’s sister for several years, but he remembered that she was a big woman, taller than many men, and he quickly saw her near the queen. Tess’s kind face was lined, her gray hair nearly hidden under a French hood. Her brow furrowed at the sight of him.

  “Lennox MacLeod?” she queried, looking surprised. “I did not expect to see you tonight.”

  He cocked his head slightly and came a bit closer. “Did you not? I thought…”

  The guard, who was conferring with an usher, straightened. “Ye were meant to wait outside!” he scolded Lennox.

  Queen Mary looked among them with interest. “Who might this handsome visitor be?” Her eyes twinkled in the candlelight. “A Viking raider, perchance?”

  As his aunt made introductions, Lennox came to bow before the queen, smiling in a way he hoped would dispel any lingering doubts. “I apologize for the interruption, Your Majesty,” he said. “I must have misunderstood the message from my aunt.”

  “We are pleased to have you among us, good sir,” replied the queen. She gave him a look that was subtly laced with coquetry, and it came to Lennox that they must be nearly the same age. “Do join us. My people will make a place for you beside your aunt.”

  When he was seated and had drunk a goblet of Burgundy wine, Lennox looked at Tess. “I have something of great import to discuss with you, Aunt.”

  She blinked. “I am glad to see you, lad, but you should not have interrupted this meal. Her Majesty is meant to be in her chamber for these weeks before her lying-in, but she chafes against confinement. So, when she ventures out, as tonight, her ladies surround her. But you are a man.” Her voice was gentle, but firm.

  Chastened, Lennox turned his attention to the queen. She was speaking of her young son, Prince John, who was less than one year of age, but who lived in St. Andrews with a household staff of his own. “Soon, I am told, he will take his first steps. How I wish I could be with my boy,” she said, sighing, and Lennox felt the grief underlying her words. “With both my little sons!”

  Tess leaned over and explained softly, “The queen has one more child, born before her marriage to King James, who has remained behind in France, living with Her Majesty’s family. Little François is but five years of age, and our queen has to content herself with letters that bring news of him across the sea.” Pausing, Tess sipped her wine. “Thank God none of our family were born royal.”

  “I suspect ye have seen a great deal during so many years at court,” Lennox ventured, hoping to steer the subject in another direction. He could feel the miniature concealed under his belt, pressing against his hipbone. Would his aunt think him selfish if he began to ask questions about his mother?

  “More than you can imagine.” Tess lifted her pearl-handled eating knife and gestured toward his untouched serving of capon. “But we will speak of other matters later.”

  His heart sank, yet he could not force this subject. “Later tonight?”

  Just then, Queen Mary went pale and set down her goblet of wine. “I am unwell,” she proclaimed. Beads of sweat shone on her brow, and her hand went to the great curve of her belly as she moaned, “This should not be happening. It is too soon!”

  Aunt Tess rose, calm but concerned. “We must escort you to your chamber, ma’am.” She joined the other ladies in assisting the queen, and just before they left the table, Tess glanced back at Lennox. “When the time is right, I shall send for you.”

  Within minutes, he found himself alone at the table, surrounded by plates of rich food and half-drunk goblets of strong wine. The dogs lay nearby, gnawing on bones.

  I have waited a lifetime, Lennox thought, sighing. I can wait a few hours more.

  Chapter 7

  Nora stood before the magnificent loom, welcoming the wave of anticipation that came over her. This was the one bright spot in her life.

  Over the past fortnight, since the dark, confusing episode with Sir Raymond Slater, Nora had alternately felt either numb or consumed with trepidation. She was unable to summon her usual zest for life, except during these moments when she could see and touch the loom and imagine sitting before it, weaving art.

  Since its arrival from France, magnificent loom had been completely rebuilt in a spacious room of its own. William Brodie had been laboring over the design for a new tapestry, and today five weavers would be chosen to begin the creation of a huge tapestry called The Prodigal Son.

  Nora could scarcely wait. Surely this would be the moment when she could officially make the leap from a confined role as a female tapestry keeper to that of a true artist. A weaver.

  It was thrilling to see that her father’s pattern for the tapestry, called a cartoon, was now in place. Behind the cartoon, plain warp threads stretched vertically between the two large rollers, to make a grid formation. Shuttles wrapped with specially-dyed weft threads of silk, wool, and costly metals were already assembled to one side of the loom. The craftsmen would manipulate the shuttles by hand, weaving the colored weft threads between the warp threads.

  The process was magical, Nora thought. Her heart beat faster as she envisioned the masterpiece slowly coming to life over a period of months. And one day she intended to oversee the entire process, as her father now did at Stirling Castle. Her imagination was bursting with secret ideas for her first grand tapestry project and all the ways she would make it stand out from those made in Europe. Whenever memories of Sir Raymond Slater threatened to engulf her, she clung to her dream, to this craft that was in her very blood.

  And she prayed that her worst fear, lurking in the shadows, would prove unfounded.

  “Ah, there is my girl.”

  “Father!” Nora turned to see him entering the room. She colored slightly, as if fearing he might be able to read her mind about Slater. Thank God he seemed to be too consumed by this project to notice how pale she had grown and how little she had been eating.

  “It’s time we spoke about your duties in the coming weeks,” announced William Brodie, spreading a sheaf of parchment over the worktable.

  Was he avoiding her eyes? Nora felt a chill. “Duties?”

  “Aye.” He cleared his throat. “As it happens, there is a tapisier who has been here for a good many years, a Frenchman called Jacques Habet. He has very firm ideas about the role of any lass who might be involved in our work.”

  Nora suddenly felt that there were threats all around her. “I see.”

  “It isn’t easy for me to come in here and usurp all the authority from this fellow, as ye may guess. We must tread carefully. But he does have many consequential tasks in mind for you.” Her father’s tone became hearty as he pointed to the list. “First, ye will organize the castle tapisiers to clean and organize the existing collection of royal tapestries. I must admit, they are more impressive than I had expected. I am told His Majesty inherited many from his mother, Margaret Tudor, who must have brought them from England as part of her dowry. And there are some exquisite cloths that came from France with Marie de Guise.”

  Nora knew he was referring to Queen Mary, whose name had been anglicized when she became the Queen of Scots. She looked ahead, down the list of tasks. She was to supervise the repair and storage of all manner of hangings and embroider
ies, choose which pieces would move each season with the court, and oversee the servants who would hang the tapestries by rings in the other royal residences.

  “These duties will be quite consequential,” her father said at the very moment she looked up at him.

  “I suppose it might seem so, to another sort of person.” Nora heard the decided edge to her own voice, but she couldn’t help it. “However, I suspect any castle housekeeper could do as much. When you were offered the position of master weaver to the royal court of James V, and we came here from London, I believed I would work with you.”

  “Lass, have I not told you, many times—”

  Nora broke in. “I wish to be a weaver. Part of the creative process, at the loom.”

  “Ye are stubborn, Nora Brodie. Headstrong. Just because ye want something, it does not mean it is possible. I cannot simply push this Habet fellow aside and insist that one of the royal weavers must be a lass. They would think me mad.” He paused, adding for good measure, “Habet has already said no lass has the strength to work the loom all day long.”

  Nora blinked back tears. How could this be happening? All her life, he had encouraged her aspirations. Hadn’t she left her own mother behind, in Flanders, to be at his side so that she might grow up to become a master weaver?

  “Father, you have promised me.”

  He stared in consternation. “I have ne’er promised that ye would be a true weaver! Ye must have dreamed it! With your gifts and determination, ye may have a grand life as a royal tapisier, which few women could even imagine. But a master weaver?” William shook his head. “Nay.”

  Her eyes stung. “You know I can do it.”

  “This is a world of men. I cannot change that! No master weaver has ever been a—”

  She broke in, her tone impassioned. “I know what you are going to say, that women cannot assume such a position, but I mean to break that rule. I will be a master weaver before I die.” She watched his eyes widen and hurried on. “It is a big dream, bigger than such a dream would be for a man, so I have no time to waste with this…” Nora poked a finger at the sheaf of parchment. “This list!”

  Her father moaned and rubbed his brow as if she had caused his head to ache. “Even if ye were a lad, there would be years of apprenticeship ahead. I cannot simply wave a hand and allow my daughter to move past the men who follow the proper path.”

  Apprenticeship? What about all the years she had spent with him, learning to weave magnificent tapestries at her father’s side?

  “I am being punished because I am female,” Nora declared angrily.

  “I did not make this world!”

  Suddenly, Nora’s throat was thick. “I thought you were my ally.”

  “I am, lass. Your ally, but no wizard.”

  She turned away. “I must go outside, Father. Perhaps I only need a bit of air.”

  “Aye, go on, then. But do not tarry.” He waited until Nora reached the door before adding, “If ye will be patient, perhaps we shall find a way. Ye must show them all that ye are willing to give your life to your art. That’s what it will take if ye mean to do what no other woman can.”

  She felt a surge of hopeful determination at his words, but no sooner had she emerged into the busy inner close than the dark cloud of worry returned, wrapping itself around her like a heavy cloak.

  “Nora!”

  Looking up, she saw Grant. The youth emerged from a small group of masons and carvers, loping up the cobbled pathway from the bakehouse with an oval loaf of bread in one hand. He seemed to grow taller every time she saw him, and if she were not so preoccupied with her own problems, his attentions to her would seem sweet.

  Nora put on a smile and waved. Almost before she could speak, he was at her side. “Where have ye been these past few days?”

  “I have been very busy. We are about to begin the first tapestry on the new loom.”

  “But that is a good thing, and I can see in your face that something is wrong.” He was staring at her, an unruly shock of dark hair falling over one eye. “Come with me.”

  Sighing, she let him pull her along, into the still-unfinished new palace. Because work was being done on the other side of the building, there was no one about as they made their way along a wide passageway. When they reached the doorway to the king’s outer hall, Grant pointed inside.

  “The heads are going to decorate the ceiling in here.” He pointed to the plain, coffered ceiling high above them, and she realized he was referring to the large portrait medallions she’d seen them making. “I’ve been helping with the carving! Bayard has taught me so much.”

  On they went, until Grant opened a door leading into a large, three-story-high courtyard with stone walls and many windows. It opened to the blue sky overhead.

  “How lovely!” exclaimed Nora. “But it would be much nicer if it were a garden.”

  “It’s meant to be a place to exercise the king’s lion,” Grant replied casually. “I think it’s outrageous, but there’s no time to speak of that now.” He led her to a low wooden bench against one wall. When they were seated side by side, Grant tore off a large chunk of rough trencher bread and handed it to her. “It’s still warm.”

  Lately, the thought of food had made Nora sick. Everything made her feel sick, in fact, which was part of the reason she felt anxious, night and day. This bread, however, felt comforting. She took a little bite and sighed. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

  Grant stuffed a piece of bread the size of her fist into his mouth and chewed. “Lennox told me how to charm the kitchen maids,” he confided, grinning. “They give me lots of things.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” She smiled but felt an odd pang when she thought of Lennox.

  “Aye, I’m growing up.” Grant swallowed and leaned closer. “Will ye tell me what’s amiss? Ye are like a different lass.”

  Of course, Nora could not tell him the real truth, so she said, “The castle tapisier wants to relegate me to caring for the embroidered cloths rather than weaving at the side of my father and the other men.”

  “I do not think ye would be daunted by such a challenge, Nora.” He watched her. “What is truly bothering you?”

  His plain-spoken question caught her off guard. “Some things…a lady cannot discuss.”

  “Why not? I am your true friend.”

  Nora began to weep and found she could not stop. “I… Oh, Grant, you are right. My problems are much bigger than anything to do with weaving.” She couldn’t look at him. “I fear my life is ruined!”

  Awkwardly, he gathered her near and patted her back. “How can that be? Whatever it is will pass, will it not? Now, ye must tell me what has happened.” After a brief pause, Grant added, “I give ye my word that I will keep your confidence.”

  Drawing a deep breath, she felt a surge of relief. There was no one else to talk to, and she couldn’t keep her terrible problem inside any longer. “You will find this very shocking.”

  “Nay. Nothing ye could do would shock me.”

  “I—” She could scarcely say the words aloud. “I believe I am with child.”

  “How can that be?” Grant’s eyes were round with disbelief. “Are ye saying that ye have lain with a man?” His expression told her that he believed this was impossible.

  Determined to pull herself together, Nora straightened her shoulders and dried her eyes, but her chest ached as she told her terrible story. She had reached the part where Slater escorted her to her chamber and then helped her to her bed when Grant looked as if he were in the grip of a wild fury.

  “Ye are about to say that he took you by force!” he cried, his cheeks red with emotion. “I will find him and murder him!”

  Nora lay a hand on the boy’s arm. “It wasn’t truly like that. Part of the confusion for me is that I am not completely certain what happened. I grew ill. The floor kept moving. I couldn’t gather my thoughts. Perhaps the wine affected me, and I said something to him that was misunderstood?”

  “Nay
! Damn his eyes, he is no gentleman or this could not have happened!”

  “I want to think you are right.” She drew a ragged sigh. “But perhaps he is used to lying with women who are carried off by his fine looks, his wealth, his position at court…and thought he was doing me a favor.”

  “I will not listen to one more excuse ye might make for that jackass!”

  “Believe me, I do not wish to excuse him. In truth, I hope to never see him again. I wish I could put it all out of my mind now, but I deeply fear that my life will never be the same.” She twisted her fingers together until they hurt.

  “How can ye know it—know that he’s made you with child?”

  Nora thought of the semen Sir Raymond Slater had left between her legs, the tangy scent of it, the way it felt when she touched it and tried to wash it away. He had put his seed in her, and if her monthly flow did not commence soon, she would be forever ruined.

  “It is the way of life,” she said sadly. “Men do the dishonoring, and women are left behind to pay the price.” Tears slipped from her eyes. “Perhaps I wanted too much. My dreams…may have been too big after all.”

  Grant jumped to his feet and began to pace back and forth in front of the bench. “I will not let you suffer dishonor at the hands of that scoundrel!” he shouted. “I will marry you myself!”

  His voice rose, echoing against the stone walls of the lion’s den, and Nora reached for his hand and brought him back to her side. “Please, do not shout. People will hear you!”

  “Marry me.” Shaking with emotion, he framed her face with the big hands he’d yet to grow into.

  “Grant, please stop. You are only making this worse. I am years older than you, and I would never steal your future away like that.” Nora managed to smile at him tenderly. “Besides, you have dreams of your own to chase before you marry.”