by Arnette Lamb
So, the butcher had knowledge of the king’s preferences. No doubt he took special care to please the monarch’s palate every time he languished at Fairhope Tower. Glancing at his unfaithful wife, Drummond felt the old anger rise. To the butcher, he said, “Did His Majesty say as much to you?”
Looking like he’d been poked, the man grew stiff. “The king don’t speak to the likes o’ me.”
Now that he was about to catch her in the first lie, Drummond relished his victory. Casually, he said, “Then how did you know he prefers beef to pork?”
“Brother Julian said ’twas so. He heard it from the prior at Sweetheart Abbey, who heard it from the archbishop himself when he was in Carlisle making a saint of that Welshman. Know you of it differently?”
Drummond floundered, suddenly adrift in a sea of misconceptions. His wife looked away, but not before he saw the disappointment in her eyes. He felt ashamed of himself and groped for something to say. The butcher seemed oblivious to both Drummond’s ploy and his wife’s reaction to it.
Hoping for the best, he plastered on a smile. “’Tis true, the new king takes beef over pork, but I imagine he’d change his tune, should he see these fresh hams.”
Clare rolled her eyes and huffed in disgust.
The butcher sucked in his paunch. “Thank you, my lord.”
Eager to extricate himself and his wife, Drummond held out his hand, “Shall we, my dear?”
Ignoring him, she said much too sweetly, “John, send over a haunch of that meat—for my gracious lord.” Then she left the way they’d come.
Once in the lane, she walked toward the weaver’s shed. Over the clickety-clack of the looms, Drummond tried to verify Edward Plantagenet’s stories about his dallyings with Drummond’s wife. The weaver proved loyal to Clare, as did the cobbler, the market maid, and the chandler. To Drummond’s dismay, each of the people he spoke with had a tale of his bravery that rivaled or surpassed the story told by the butcher. With a frayed and rotting rope, he had descended a treacherous glen and saved a wayward child. And all of the heroic episodes had come from Clare Macqueen. Why would she make him a cuckold and then create such tales?
When they exited the candle shop, she turned on Drummond. “These are good people, and they do not deserve to be used as pawns in your senseless game.”
She spoke the truth, for he found the townsfolk likeable, open, and truly thankful to have him in their midst. But their gratitude didn’t absolve her. “Do you deny your liaison with Edward?” he demanded.
“I do not deny that a thirteen-year-old bride can easily fall prey to a royal prince.”
“A decent Scotswoman would never willingly spread her legs for an Englishman.”
“What about all of the Douglas heiresses who have married English earls?”
How dare she sound so educated and so reasonable about cuckolding him, as if she’d had no choice in the matter. “I care nothing for those Lowlanders.”
“And I had no choice.”
“You should have sought my counsel,” he ground out.
She moved so close to him that their clothing touched. “I swear on Alasdair’s soul that I could not seek you out Drummond.”
Her piercing gaze touched his soul, and he thought again about how much she had changed in demeanor, and the more he looked at her, the more certain he was that her appearance had also changed. She’d lost her girlish freckles, and she no longer fluttered her eyelashes to gain his attention and his admiration. Obviously, she wanted neither.
But he’d have what he wanted from her. “That’s a bold challenge, coming from you.”
She gave him a fake smile. “You’re a bold man.”
He found that he liked the way the sun turned her skin the color of cream, and any man would admire her warm brown eyes and expressive mouth. His life would be easier if her disposition were as pleasing and her morals were suddenly flawless. “I can get bolder still,” he grumbled.
“Then show your mettle to your son,” she said curtly. “I’m certain he will appreciate your display of animal behavior more than I.”
He cringed at her description of him. “You’re angry with me?”
She dropped the now full basket. “Yes, I am. I’ve spent the better part of the day watching you connive to make a whore of me in front of my own people. They respect me and seek my guidance. Now, if you will excuse me, I have ledgers to balance and servants to oversee.”
Only his father had given him so chilling a set down. “Have your steward do it.”
“I am my steward.”
His mind skidded to a halt “You?”
A bell rang out. “’Tis four o’clock,” she said. “Alasdair will have completed his studies. You promised to show him your elephant. I hope you’ll not disappoint him. We sit down to table at eight.”
With that, she whirled and started up the steep steps to the keep. Drummond watched her go, her back stiff, her hips swaying, her arms empty. “You forgot something,” he called out.
She stopped and turned to face him. Her righteous anger stirred his blood, for she looked like a woman defending her home.
With complete irreverence, he said, “According to the chandler’s tale, when I rode into battle against Edward the First, you always rewarded my chivalry with a parting kiss. I assume a return from the dead deserves an equal show of affection.”
She marched toward him. Feeling like the gallant in every story he’d heard today, he prepared to receive her favors. Then he’d rebuke her, or perhaps he wouldn’t.
But rather than offer him the kiss he anticipated, she snatched up her basket. “Go whistle!”
When she turned away again, her steps quicker and more determined, Drummond continued to admire her. He had been wrong to draw conclusions, but damn if she didn’t make him feel like a useless ornament in his own home. She also brought out the playful lad in him, for he wanted to race up the steps and pinch her pretty bottom. From past experience, he knew what she would do in response.
On that enticing thought, he anticipated the evening to come.
Johanna had just pressed seal to wax on a letter to Sister Margaret informing her of Drummond’s return, when Bertie Stapledon entered the solar.
Cap in hand, a worried frown creasing his brow, he leaned against the closed door. He wore a bulky tunic belted low on his hips and trunk hose that he’d patched himself. “I should have been here to alert you of his arrival.”
Warmed by his loyalty, she attempted to make light of the situation. “Then who would have taken Alasdair fishing?”
A fun loving man with a penchant for fat trout and a fondness for the hunt, the widower had been a constant in Johanna’s life. As always, he fell into the role of mentor. “You’ve thought about what to do?”
“I’ve thought of little else. ’Twould seem I must learn to be a wife to him.”
“Evelyn said he insisted on taking your place at table tonight.”
She shrugged. “I always thought it mere ceremony.”
“And a carrot to dangle before Alasdair when he gets an itch to roam the tower battlement late at night.”
A gentleness settled over Johanna. She could not love Alasdair more, even if she had nourished him in her own womb. When the trials of motherhood troubled her, Bertie was always there to help. “I doubt he’ll soon bedevil us with that threat. An elephant is surely more exciting.”
“How did Lord Drummond come by such a creature?”
She stared at the clothes chest that seemed to dominate the room, much the same as the owner governed her thoughts. “I know not, but ’twill give me something safe to discuss with him.”
“How is it for you, Lady Friend?”
The endearing name for her had been coined on the night his wife died. Bertie had been downhearted and lonely. Johanna had encouraged him to talk. The sad event had sealed their friendship. “’Tis confusing, Bertie. I feel vulnerable, as if I’m a breath away from botching it all.”
He moved a wooden stool ne
ar the table where she sat. “I imagine you were shocked when you saw him.”
“Not half so much so as when you called him by name. I had condemned him for an imposter.”
Bertie laughed, but when she did not join in he grew serious. “Pardon, but I suspect he was just as disturbed as you.”
Johanna felt a burst of relief. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“’Tis natural you didn’t.”
Her past mistakes danced before her like demons around a Hallowmas fire. “I should have inquired after him—at least once in all these years.”
“Why? They didn’t call the old Edward the ‘Hammer of the Scots’ because he fancied himself a carpenter. He hated the Highlanders more than the Welsh. No one would have expected him to spare the chieftain’s life, and the less Clare Macqueen said to that Plantagenet, the better. Had you written in her name you might have attracted the attention of his son.”
Bertie knew of Clare’s affair with Edward II, and he’d been correct about the danger in her calling attention to herself. According to Drummond, Clare’s royal lover had not forgotten her.
Johanna had bigger trouble now. “Drummond is convinced that I am the new king’s mistress.”
“Why would he think that?”
“It seems Edward told him so.”
“Heaven help us all then, for even the kindest of men say he’ll make a dreadful king. I remember him as a useless prince.”
Under normal circumstances she would have fretted over the dire predictions regarding the new king’s rule. Just now she had her own troubles. “Tell me what you remember about Drummond.”
“I wasn’t that close to him, do you see? And he did have a passel of younger brothers and kinsmen in that Highland stronghold. And they were off raiding or warring more often than not. But even in a crowd he stood out—proud as a man freshly knighted the day I first saw him. Destined for greatness, his father said.”
“Did Drummond believe it?”
“If I’m remembered of it correctly, he laughed and swore ’twas the burden of being birthed on Whitsunday.”
“He was popular?”
“Aye, but he was the firstborn son, with his father’s blessings. A fair demon he was with a sword in his right hand and a wicked dirk in his left.”
Needing a crime to offset Clare’s sin, Johanna said, “He had mistresses, I suppose.”
“I wouldn’t know about those doings,” Bertie said much too quickly and defensively.
“We can be certain, of course, that he’s gone decent now.”
“To be sure, for he brought no woman with him. Just a garble talking Welshman—name of Morgan Fawr.”
“Will Mr. Fawr need quarters in the keep?”
Without rancor, Bertie said, “Nay, he’s a stable dweller.” He tipped his head toward the trunk. “I don’t suppose Amauri’s been too busy to carry Lord Drummond’s luggage up.”
To which chamber, she asked herself for the hundredth time. When no answer came, she again faced the grim truth that she had no idea of what to do with Drummond Macqueen. “I haven’t set Amauri to it yet.”
“You could move Alasdair in with me and have his room to yourself.”
Fairhope Tower had no guest chamber. When Red Douglas or Sheriff Hay visited, Johanna followed custom and relinquished her chamber for important guests. Bertie had given her a temporary solution to the problem of sleeping arrangements. “Have Evelyn move Alasdair’s belongings to your room and my things to his—before she sets the table, and tell her she’s to keep my business to herself or I’ll send her back to her family.”
“I’ll tell her, but she cooed like a dove just moments ago when she spoke of Lord Drummond. Sooner or later she’ll tell him whatever he wants to know. If she doesn’t, young Alasdair will.”
It was true, and Johanna must have ready answers to all of Drummond’s questions. But first she must know more about him. “Do you think he loved Clare?”
Bertie stared at the ceiling. “He never told her so, although she asked often enough. They were young when they wed—he three and twenty, and Clare almost three and ten. He treated her well enough, but he never gave up his dallying women. One of them bore him two sons. Poor mites both died before they crawled, or so the gossip had of it.”
Johanna knew how she would feel if her husband took a mistress and gave the woman children. She’d feel betrayed, and she would doubt her own worth. Poor Clare. Such misery might lurk around the corner. Of necessity, she grew more determined to speed Drummond to the Highlands and into the bosom of his clan.
“I doubt he’ll stay,” she said.
“I doubt he’ll leave.”
Fear engulfed her. “Do not say that Bertie. He must go before he finds out I’m not Clare.”
“You’ve won over bigger trolls than him, and canonize me if the sheriff offers his congratulations of it. I say hell quaff a few when he hears the news.”
Ramsay Hay, the sheriff of Dumfries, had been her devoted champion until she had packed away the trappings of mourning. Then he had turned erstwhile suitor. Although she had been blunt and insistent when refusing his attentions, he had been equally persistent. She seldom worried about other men approaching her, for Ramsay kept most of them at bay. But could he chase off a husband?
She tapped the stack of letters on her desk. “I’ve written him a message. I wrote to Sister Margaret and Meridene, too.”
Tenderness wreathed Bertie’s weathered face. “The abbess’ll wear out a rosary praying for you. Mistress Meridene will picture it on one of her tapestries.”
Never had children been so fortunate as Clare and Johanna, and later Meridene, for Sister Margaret had cared for them as any mother would. She had been so protective and nurturing that Johanna sometimes thought the abbess had chosen wrongly in her vocation. “I asked her to visit”
“’Twould be grand if she did, and without haste, for Ramsay Hay will run his horse to ground getting here. Pity any who runs before his mission.”
Moved by a fierce protectiveness toward her home and her son, she walked to the window and scanned the outer bailey. “Ramsay’s first visit should prove interesting and diverting. When he arrives, I’ll tell Alasdair he can patrol with the watch.”
“He’ll pass up a custard for that.”
“If there’s trouble between Drummond and Ramsay, it won’t do for Alasdair to witness it.”
Bertie’s eyes twinkled with glee. “We should also bar swooning women and fretful babes from the table that night.”
Johanna only half listened, for she had spied the elephant at last. Her heart clamored in her breast, for the animal appeared as a small gray dot on the horizon.
Drummond was taking Alasdair for a ride. What if he took him for good?
She whirled and raced for the stable, fear rising like bile in her throat.
Chapter 3
Perched on a padded saddle, his son before him, Drummond sat atop Longfellow’s broad back. A specially woven carpet with tassels and tinkling bells protected the elephant’s spine and further cushioned the passengers.
The slow pace and high vantage point afforded an unobstructed view of his holdings. Summer ripened fields turned the land into a sea of swaying grain. The loamy soil would support any number of crops, and he wondered why she did not vary the plantings. Peas and beans would thrive in the furrows. She could even graze cattle on this land.
On the western horizon lay Solway Firth. In the distance to the north, a sizeable loch looked like a giant platter of silver. Closer, and straight ahead, a rocky banked and tree lined burn wended through the countryside. Longfellow plodded toward the water.
A gentle old bull, he obeyed Drummond without hesitation, and only occasionally did his enormous feet stray from the hard packed wagon road.
“I want to stand up.” Alasdair drew his knees beneath him and moved into a crouch, preparing to stand.
Patience, Drummond had decided, was a rare gift when dealing with a seven-year-old lad. “So y
ou’ve said, Son, at least a dozen times.”
His skinny ass in the air, Alasdair looked over his shoulder at Drummond. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks, and a familiar defiance twinkled in his eyes. “Then say yes.”
Alasdair had been blessed with his mother’s mouth, which was now drawn tight in frustration. He’d also inherited her willfulness. Her new willfulness, Drummond amended, for she’d been quiet and tractable when he married her. “Sit down, Alasdair!”
“Listen, Father. I could be persuaded to serve as your squire, should you be persuaded to let me stand.”
“Nay.”
“But if I’m to steward this land someday, I should know all of the farms and the herds.” He flapped his arms, as if exasperated. “How can I, unless you let me stand up and see them?”
The lad could negotiate himself out of a sealed barrel. But could he wield a sword? Eyeing him cautiously, Drummond said, “I could be persuaded to forgo shining your bottom with a leather strap, should you be persuaded to sit down.”
Miraculously the lad did as he was told. Then he spoiled it by grumbling, “You’re afraid of what Mother will say.”
The statement was so unexpected that Drummond almost laughed. Had he, as a lad, spoken so disrespectfully to his father, he’d have been cuffed soundly, then given the dreaded task of cleaning chain mail. “You have the manners of a cornered badger.”
As precocious as a prince, Alasdair again moved into a crouch. “She will not yell at you, you have my word of honor on that. Mother seldom yells.”
Mother. The sound of that word sparked another oddity. In the last hour Drummond had heard it said more than he would have in a week’s time at Macqueen Castle. The patriarchal clan system had specific places and duties for women, and indulging their sons was certainly not one of them.
“Next year, when I’m older, I’m also going to scale a castle wall.”
Drummond sent his son a threatening stare, then waited until he resumed his seat “Also?”
“Like you did when the evil Viking lord kidnapped Mother.”