by Lynn Kurland
A pity she hadn't, for the next thing she'd known, she'd been given to the Englishman in trade for a debt her wandering, gambling, whoring stepbrother had owed him. That her father would think so little of her that he would send her off with a stranger didn't surprise her. That a stranger would take her as payment for such a staggering debt surprised her very much indeed. What value she had to him, she couldn't imagine.
Perhaps she should have refused to go. She would have, had she supposed she had had any choice. But she'd been but one lone woman in a press of half-siblings who hated her, with a father who had forgotten she existed until that moment when he'd needed her. The whole lot had no doubt been rejoicing that they would soon be well rid of her. Defying them all had been unthinkable.
Besides, she had contented herself with their promises of a keep by the sea.
More the fool was she for having believed them.
August, 2001
Maine
Thomas MacLeod McKinnon was a man with a problem.
Not that problems bothered him usually. He generally viewed them as challenges to be solved, heights to be summitted, obstacles to be climbed over and outdone. That was before. This was now, and his current problem was the sight before him.
There were, and he couldn't really call them anything else, mouse ears poking up from behind his rhododendron.
He blinked, drew his hand over his eyes for good measure, then looked again.
Now the ears were gone.
He shifted his last sack of American junk food to his other arm, then crossed his porch to look more closely at the bush in question. He bent down and studied it, trying to judge what the angle of his vision had been a moment before and how such an angle might set a particular configuration of leaves into an earlike pattern. He pitted all his skills of observation and his considerable stores of logic and ingenuity against the problem. After several minutes of effort, he came to a simple conclusion:
He was losing his mind.
"Okay," he said aloud. "There are plenty of reasons for this."
The rhododendron didn't offer any opinions on what those reasons might be.
It would have been something he could have dismissed rather easily if it had been the only sighting. Unfortunately, he'd just about run off the road on his way home from the store thanks to the same delusion. He'd been innocently driving along when he'd glanced in his rearview mirror and seen those same black orbs attached to a beanie hat floating quietly in midair in his backseat.
All right, so he was driving an old Wagoneer that hadn't been washed all that often. It hauled stuff for him and that's all he cared about. It was possible, he supposed, that some dust particles left over from his last trip to the dump had coagulated into a beanie-and-mouse-ear configuration. It was possible that the sun had reflected off something else and cast a shadow where you wouldn't have thought one should be.
It was also possible that his first conclusion was right and his mind was really starting to go.
He turned away and let himself into his house before he did anything else stupid, like discuss his hallucinations further with a plant. He dropped his keys on the entry hall table and walked back to his kitchen. Could an ultra-unhealthy meal of eggs, spicy sausage and extremely processed cheese spread cure delusionary states? He wasn't sure, but he was willing to try. He emptied his groceries out onto the counter, pulled out a frying pan and dumped the sausage into it. He turned the burner up to high and listened with satisfaction to the sound of saturated fat sizzling happily. This was the life for him. Uncomplicated. Unfettered. Uncluttered by visions of things that belonged in theme park gift shops.
Thomas tilted the pan to roll the sausages to one side, then cracked a handful of eggs into the freed-up space. With what the immediate future held in store for him, who knew when he might get a decent meal again?
He turned the heat down then began to walk around the kitchen, looking out the windows at the sea rolling ceaselessly against the shore and enjoying the smell of a late breakfast filling his kitchen. The more he prowled through the kitchen, though, the more unsettled he began to feel. He supposed it had a great deal to do with the fact that he was standing in a house he'd built with his own two hands, yet he planned to leave it behind and spend a year in a strange, foreign land.
The
Minstrel
Patricia Potter
Prologue
England
1485
Duncan, the Marquis of Worthington, rode like all the hounds in hell pursued him.
He'd thought that this trip to northern England would be a triumphant one. He had won back the estates taken by Edward during his Yorkist reign. Duncan's father had died defending the castle, and his mother and all her servants had been driven out.
Now the estates had been returned by Henry Tudor. Duncan had sent his men ahead to see that the castle was vacated by the Yorkist supporters. He didn't really care how the eviction took place, although he had told Gilbert to treat the womenfolk gently. His mother, once more the Dowager Countess of Worthington, would disapprove if he did otherwise, and his mother was the one person on the earth he did not want to disappoint. She was a great and gentle woman.
Then there were the vows he'd taken to protect and defend women.
Not that there was much honor left in England after such a long civil war.
He'd then planned to ride to the side of his mother, who was living at St. Anne's Convent, and take her in comfort to their restored holdings. But before he could leave the king's side, a messenger had arrived. His mother was dying of consumption. If he wished to see her, he could no longer tarry at the court of Henry VI. He had, after all, received what he wanted: the Worthington title and estates.
He'd left the next day with only Rhys, the captain of his guard and trusted friend, and each had exhausted three horses to arrive in two days…
He looked ahead. Not far now. By the saints, he would arrive by moonset. He tightened his legs around his mount, urging it to greater speed. He'd bought the gelding in a village along the way, when his second horse started to slow.
The animal increased its stride and Duncan saw the outlines of the stark stone building of the convent. But though the building itself was bleak, the gardens around were lovingly tended by the nuns.
His mother had been happy enough there. She was deeply devout and had always loved gardens. She had, in fact, been at her happiest kneeling in God's earth. He had sent her what he could during the years, though he himself had been unable to return.
Duncan had not seen her in seven years, and it pained him that he had not provided better for her. Nay, more than pained. Agony sliced through him. He had seen so much blood and hardship in the past decade. He thought he had steeled himself against emotion! But now it thundered through him. I must not be too late.
They arrived at the entrance and Duncan rang the bell at the gate. He paced impatiently until a small window in the gate opened.
"I've come to see the Dowager Countess of Worthington."
The habit-clad woman hesitated. "You are her son?"
"Aye."
The stone gate opened. "She has been waiting for you."
He breathed easier. "She still lives then?"
"Come with me," the woman said without directly answering his question. She bowed her head and led him through gardens of herbs and flowers to the stone edifice. She opened it without anymore words, then led him to a small room.
He saw a small slight woman lying on little more than a cot. There was little else: a small table, a stool and a cross that hung above the bed. The entire space was cold and bare, and the ache in his heart deepened. He should not have left her here. He should have found some way…
A Sister sitting on a stool beside his mother rose silently and disappeared out the door. He went over to the cot and knelt by its side. "Mother," he said.
His mother's once blond hair was now white. Her face was pale, but her blue eyes burned fiercely. She held out her hand.
"My son," she murmured. "I prayed…"
"We have our lands back," he said, wanting to comfort in some small way.
Judith, once said to be the loveliest woman in northern England, smiled, then lapsed into a fit of coughing. He touched her cheek and felt its heat. He took a cup of water on the table and held it to her mouth. She swallowed slowly, with obvious pain, but her eyes never left him.
"I'll take you home," he said.
She shook her head. "This is home. The Sisters have been kind, and I have peace now. I am ready to go to our Father."
"Nay," he said, as if he could, indeed, hold death at bay.
"He granted my wish by bringing you… here to me," she whispered, her voice dropping. "I wanted to see you." She hesitated. "Have you wed, Duncan?"
"Nay," he said softly. "I have been… busy."
"You are the last, Duncan. And, God help me, my favorite. Your brothers… gone. Your father…" Her fingers dug into his. "I wanted to tell you, to ask you…" She started to cough again and he felt helpless. His suddenly clumsy fingers offered the cup again, and he saw blood on its edges.
She looked fragile, as if she would drift away from him any moment. He didn't know if he could bear that. He wanted to give her so much. She'd never had much at Worthington. His father had been a brutal man who had gotten her with child year after year. Two died in her womb. Another three died before their first birthdays. Only two had lived past fifteen, and one of those—his older brother—died for the Lancaster cause.
"What can I do, Mother?"
"Swear to… me," she said. "Swear to me you will marry for love. Protect her. Take care of her." She smiled weakly. "Love her, for there is no greater joy in life."
He was stunned to silence. He had never seen a tender word exchanged between his mother and father. His mother had been obedient and had busied herself with her gardens, particularly after Duncan and his brother had been sent away to be trained in arms.
Had they—his mother and father—ever been in love? He didn't think so. It had been an arranged marriage. She had brought land to his father, and he had given protection to her family. A sudden thought hit him. Had she loved someone else?
"Duncan." Her voice was weaker, as if her words were pulling her lifeblood from her. "Your oath?"
He didn't believe in love. It was naught but a myth. A whimsey.
His hands tightened around her almost lifeless one. He wanted to give her his strength. Her gaze, bright with fever, bore into his. "Your vow."
Duncan nodded. "I vow," he said, watching as she closed her eyes and one last soft breath escaped her lips.
one
Making a vow was bloody well easier than keeping it. Duncan looked about the great hall, already a disaster from the last occupant's indifference, and saw only greed.
They had been coming nonstop, these neighboring families, all with marriageable daughters. They had knocked on his door, expecting hospitality ever since he'd made the mistake of letting it be known that he was looking for a bride.
The hopefuls came in every size and weight, of cheerful and fearful countenance, of sensible and foolish temperaments, of plain and beauteous visages, of great dowries, and not-so-great dowries but aspirations nonetheless.
Mostly he saw greed.
There was one shy but fetching lass who had attracted him, but she trembled every time he neared. He overheard her telling her father that his scarred face and reputation terrified her. He didn't want a terrified bride and had no idea how to calm her fears.
None made his heart sing. If, indeed, hearts did sing. He doubted it, but he had made a vow to his mother, and he was bloody well going to try to fulfill it. He had never broken a knightly vow in his life; and he didn't intend to start with one he made to the only person who had ever loved him.
He sat at the table and fought the loneliness and the futility of his vow. 'Twould be far better to just take a bride as others did: to gain land, men at arms, wealth. There was, he thought no such thing as true love. It was an invention of the minstrels and troubadours, of storytellers and ballad writers.
But still he had made that blasted vow…
A young woman leaned over, offering a cup while exposing some of her endowments. He had a whiff of perfume that nearly knocked him off the chair. Her father, a neighboring earl, grinned foolishly. A little earlier he had stopped Duncan in the hall and said he would exceed any other dowry.
He was, Duncan knew, a former supporter of the Yorkist cause and probably feared retribution from the new Lancaster king. He was only interested in selling his daughter to save himself and his estates. But, then, so were the other hopeful fathers who accompanied wives with anxious expressions.
A minstrel entered the hall and stood, awaiting Duncan's nod. Duncan had hired the wandering gypsy as his hall filled. It wasn't hospitality. It was for his own sake. A distraction from the mayhem his hall had become.
He should never have told the priest about his mother's request. Duncan was sure that was the source of all his uninvited company.
The minstrel, a gypsy who had appeared just days ago, started to play, the sound of his lute drowned by the increasingly loud voices. But in fleeting moments, the sound drifted over to him and Duncan knew the voice was good. Not as fine as Rhys's, though. For a moment he thought back to those lulls between battles both in England and on the continent. Rhys had the Welsh love of music, and he'd taught Duncan how to play. They'd done so privately, Duncan not wanting to be thought soft by his men. But his soul had grabbed at it, like a drowning man reached for a branch to save himself. With the exception of his mother, who had been a gentle but distant figure, he'd known little but training and war for more years than he wanted to remember.
He wished he were playing that lute, rather than feeling the fool sitting amidst a ruinous manor beset by the oddest assortment of prospective brides he'd ever seen.
Lucifer's horns, but he'd rather face a hostile army. At least he knew the proper responses there.
His attention ran back down the table to his current guests. They included three barons, two earls and one marquis, all of whom wanted to improve their lot. Among them were seven marriageable daughters. And this was the second lot.
Blasted rules of hospitality. He would like to toss all of them out, but then in this political atmosphere, one needed all the allies one could find. Insulting daughters was not the way to win them.
A flash of brilliance suddenly struck him. A messenger from the king. A summons to the court. Of course, the court would be every bit as bad as this situation. The word most likely had traveled far and wide, and he would be deluged there, too, by prospective in-laws who would see little but his purse. And his status as a favorite of the new king. God knew he had fought for him long enough.
He wondered whether any woman would want him for himself, and not his wealth. Whether he could find a gentle soul who would not tremble at his reputation.
The earl on his left asked him to tell the company of the Battle of Bosworth, the one that saw the death of one king and placed a crown on another. It was 'a transparent attempt to give Duncan a chance to boast. Boasting was the last thing he wanted to do. He was sick of battle, of the noise and the smoke and the smells. He wanted to forget—not remember,the dead men who would never go home and the maimed ones who'd lost any chance of a decent life.
Shades of Lucifer, he wanted peace. Peace with a woman who didn't fear him or desire his wealth.
His eyes went to the minstrel again and a thought tickled his mind. He could play a passable song on the lute and the viele. He could even sing. He only knew songs of war and battle, but surely they would be in demand.
Days—even weeks—of being invisible was an irresistible thought. He could take measure of the young ladies without fearing they wanted him for all the wrong reasons.
He had been gone more than ten years. Only those in the immediate area would recognize him. If he traveled north…
The more he thought about it, the m
ore appealing the idea. He even smiled. Twenty faces smiled back at him. Not one, he judged, with sincerity.
Only Rhys was to be trusted. He and the men who had fought for the Tudor cause for so many years. Rhys could stay and take care of the estates, particularly the cleaning of the castle He wanted them in good condition when he brought home a bride. One that wanted him for himself. If, indeed, such a person existed.
Lady Lynet Hampton of Clenden stared at her father. "You cannot mean it."
George, the Earl of Clenden, drew himself up to his full height, the one indication of his determination. He usually slouched, stammered, and shambled his way across a room. He was lovably incompetent at almost everything. Well-meaning but ineffectual. Lynet had always wrapped him around her finger.
But not this time. "You have two sisters, gel, who want husbands. None of them can wed until you do. It is time for you to make a decision."
"They can marry… I can stay and take care of you."
He looked at her glassily, and she knew he had taken courage from brandy. "Your mother says they cannot wed until you do. You are ruining their chances, my girl."
"There is no one…"
"That is why I am inviting three men who have asked to call upon you. By the end of the fortnight, you will choose one." He blinked rapidly. "And you will be charming and spend time with each of them. You will not steal away."
She wanted to defy him. She probably would have, had she not known how much it would hurt him. As resentful as she was at his edict, she knew he wanted only the best for her, and he'd been ill lately. She knew he was determined because he believed it the best for her.
"Who did you invite?" she asked.
"The Viscount Wickham, Lord Manfield and the Earl of Kellum," he said, obviously encouraged by her question. "They are all young," he added hopefully.
She knew Wickham and Kellum. Wickham was in his early twenties, an attractive but callow fellow who thought of nothing other than hunting, unfortunately more for the sport than for the food. Kellum, on the other hand, liked little but himself. He was always preening in the steel mirror.