by Arnette Lamb
That prospect made Drummond warm with fear. “Did they see you?”
“Yes, but I told them I was Clare.”
Like a spike of lightning, the truth behind Clare’s unfaithfulness flashed in Drummond’s mind. Young Prince Edward believed she had witnessed his unholy affection for Piers Gaveston. For no other reason than to discredit her, the prince had coerced her into an affair. If she had exposed him, no one would take the word of a known adulteress. How clever and typically Plantagenet. And how sad for Clare, who had been totally innocent of the knowledge young Edward had feared.
“What’s wrong, Drummond?” She knelt at his feet, her best green gown pooling on the floor, her eyes wide with concern.
“’Tis nothing. Do not fret.” But his heart felt broken for the young woman, his wife, who had sold her fidelity to a perverted prince for the promise of her husband’s release. Drummond had been blessed among men, for he knew both of the Scottish princesses as wife, and they had both loved him well. He silently swore to protect the remaining princess with his life and his false fealty to an unworthy king.
“Drummond, I will not shame you. I’m not at all like Clare.”
Saddened that she had misinterpreted his silence, he cupped her face. “Aye, Johanna, you are, for she was a bonny lass.”
“But I meant—”
“I know.” Sliding his hands under her arms, he pulled her onto his lap. “’Twas not her fault.”
“Then you forgive her?”
Indeed he had. He owed Clare much, yet his soul felt lighter. “Aye. I shall say a prayer for her at Vespers.”
Johanna’s heart flowered with joy, and she cuddled into him. “Just do not say it to St. Ninian.”
He chuckled. “Invoking my favorite saint ’tis easy. Anticipating what Edward the Second will do causes me great distress.”
Later that evening with Johanna at his side, Drummond stepped into the great hall at Douglas Castle. At the high table, seated between burly Red Douglas and the swarthy Piers Gaveston, was Edward Plantagenet, king of all England and defender of the faith.
The observation made Drummond smile; he knew more of the man than most.
Over the din of the Douglas clansmen, Drummond heard Johanna say, “What humors you, my lord?”
Johanna. His love. He gazed down at her and found her warm brown eyes brimming with joy. She wore a new surcoat of rust-colored velvet trimmed in fox. Her glorious hair was coiled atop her head and covered with the white veil. Securing it was a garland of dried heather that looked like the crown she deserved to wear.
Only when they were old and their daughters safely married could he tell her the truth. Filled with weighty pride, Drummond diverted his wife. “What think you of the king, my love?”
Blushing, she scanned the dais. Behind her hand, she whispered, “His cheeks have grown fat and his mouth slack.”
“What, no praise for his Plantagenet good looks?”
She made a slow inspection of Drummond’s face and her interest settled on his new jerkin. “You are a thousand times more pleasing to my eyes and to my heart.”
“You flatter me well, my lady.”
“For many years to come, I pray.”
He placed her hand on his arm. “As do I. Shall we?”
Her fingers tightened. “I love you more than my life.”
Inspired and eager to make quick work of the upcoming farce, Drummond began the long walk across the cavernous hall. His scabbard slapped against his thigh, and he wondered what Edward would say when he saw the blade within.
He also took a moment to wonder what his kinsmen would say, and he knew they would condemn him for what he was about to do. But any dent to his Highland pride was more than offset. He would never again lay claim to the title of chieftain. In return, neither Johanna nor Alasdair would have to wear a bloody crown of Scotland.
Her regal head held high and her fearless gaze fixed on the king, Johanna moved gracefully beside Drummond. Noise abated in their wake, and the men of the crowd cast appreciative glances at her. She deserved them all.
Perpendicular to the other tables, the dais was draped in purple velvet and festooned with cords of gold. Jeweled goblets and plates of cheeses and brown bread marked the beginning of the feast.
As Drummond and Johanna approached, Red Douglas started to rise, but remembered his manners. When Edward stood, everyone in the hall came to their feet.
Drummond bowed from the waist. Johanna’s curtsy was queenlike, and his throat grew thick with pride at the vision she made.
Rising, she murmured so that only he could hear, “Just remember, my lord. The king is but a man with grease on his fingers and crumbs in his beard.”
Laughter almost choked Drummond; only his Johanna could find humor in so solemn an occasion.
Unaware of her artless comment, Edward put down his goblet and walked around the table to stand before Drummond. Red Douglas barreled after him.
When both men stood before Drummond and Johanna, she threaded her fingers through his. In formal presentation, Drummond held her at arm’s length.
The king eyed her cautiously, and Drummond recognized the fear behind his gaze. “Lady Clare.”
“Your Majesty,” she intoned. “May you long become your throne.”
Edward the Second blinked, then nodded in respect.
Her part done, Johanna stepped to the side, but Drummond could feel her reaching out to him, willing him to stand strong and tall. He could not do otherwise, for pride throbbed strong in his chest.
Tipping his head back, Edward looked down his slender nose at Drummond. In a voice loud enough for all to hear, the king said, “What say you, chieftain of the Macqueens?”
Drummond thought of the happy, prosperous years ahead, years filled with peace and enhanced by the company of the woman he loved. She would bear him children; he would teach them well. Buoyed with a happiness he never before thought to enjoy, he bowed his head and went down on one knee.
“I style myself your servant and do submit me to your service, Your Grace.”
“Rise, then, and rejoice,” the king replied. “But give me your sword.”
Drummond swallowed back apprehension and stood. With a firm hand, he pulled his broken sword from the scabbard and offered it up.
Red Douglas gasped in surprise. Murmurs rumbled through the crowd.
Edward took the weapon. “Do you present me with my father’s symbol, the blunted sword of Curtana?”
“Nay. If it please Your Majesty, I give you the broken sword of Drummond Macqueen.”
Edward’s keen blue eyes scanned the blade before handing it back. “’Twas my father’s practice to break the swords of his enemies. I command you to carry a proper sword, Lord Drummond, and wield it in the name of peace. This, then, would content me and satisfy Lord Douglas.”
Drummond sheathed his weapon. “Agreed.”
Douglas clapped his hands. “Let us eat and be merry.”
Heaving a sigh of relief, Drummond took Johanna’s hand and led her to the high table.
Hours later, when the king finally said his farewells, Johanna turned to Drummond, “Will you walk with me, my lord?”
“What have you in mind, lass?”
He looked so endearingly handsome that her heart tripped fast. “Must I have a reason to stroll in the moonlight with my husband?”
“Your motives are suspect.” He smiled and as he took her arm, his fingertips caressed the side of her breast. “And you know it well.”
Undeterred, she walked regally across the hall. In silence they exited the castle and strolled the moonlit yard. Longfellow trumpeted their arrival. She patted the elephant’s trunk, and when Drummond stepped closer, she said, “Longfellow, cuddle up.”
His trunk snaked around both her waist and Drummond’s, gathering them chest to breast.
“Clever minx,” Drummond murmured into her ear.
“This clever minx loves you to distraction.”
His lips met her
s in a kiss of promise and soul deep love. When he’d taken his fill, he murmured, “Now that I’m distracted, too, what else have you on your mind?”
Her heart overflowing with love, Johanna cradled his cheek in her hand. “Only thoughts of you, my mighty chieftain.”
“Will I be a chieftain when I grow up?” piped Alasdair from his perch atop Longfellow.
“Alasdair!” bellowed Drummond. “Get down here this minute.”
Johanna craned her neck to see Alasdair but it was too dark.
“I could be persuaded to come down,” the boy drawled, “if you could be persuaded to teach me how to be a chieftain.”
Drummond rubbed his cheek against Johanna’s. “What ever will we do with him?” he lamented, loud enough for the boy to hear.
More trials would come with Alasdair, for he was an inquisitive lad, eager to please. He also needed discipline.
“I have an idea,” she said with much enthusiasm. “A chieftain must have kinsmen to lead. I say we give our son a dozen brothers.”
“Nay,” Alasdair protested, clamoring down the rope ladder and coming to stand before them. “It’s sisters I want—a whole passel of them. Please?”
“Hum.” Johanna pretended to ponder the request. “If you will promise not to snoop on your father and me, I’ll do my best to give you a sister.”
“When can I have her?” Alasdair demanded.
“Oh, by Whitsunday next, I should think.”
Drummond grew still. “Did you just say what I think I heard you just say?”
Alasdair laughed and danced in a circle. “Father’s gone tongue tied, and I’m getting a sister.”
Johanna smiled. “’Tis early, but, yes. I carry our child.”
Drummond squeezed her tight. “Thank you, my own dear love. If you have no objections, I should like to give her my favorite name: Johanna.”
Tears clogged her throat, and Johanna Benison knew that she had at last fulfilled the prophecy of her name. She had truly been blessed.
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