‘Ah yes, he’s been widowed now for too many years. It’s time he had a wife.’
‘But father, what about me? I’m too young, and I have much studying to do.’
‘You will soon have done enough studying. And age matters not. Our Queen was betrothed when she was but an infant.’ He lowered his brows in disapproval.
‘Very well, I accept that age does not matter. In truth, it does not matter a whit to me. I would gladly marry anyone else but him.’
‘It is my duty to see you provided for. But both you and your mother are fast becoming too much of a drain on my purse. The Duke of Glasgow is a wealthy man.’
Marie’s heart sank and she cried out,
‘The mere thought of him as a husband fills me with horror.’
‘You have no need to worry. Machar McNaughton will treat you kindly. Of that I am perfectly sure.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Anger flashed in the Bishop’s eyes.
‘I have known the Duke for many years. Please do not question my judgement.’
Marie was stunned. She could see the anger in his face and sensed the seriousness of her situation. The Bishop had clearly decided that this was his chance to unburden himself of Effie and herself, and their expensive upkeep. She remembered the last time her mother had warned her about such a calamity: ‘We could quite easily be reduced to beggars if we’re not careful. So watch your manners and your rash, impertinent tongue.’
Marie had laughed at the time and said,
‘Mother, I swear you’re the last person in Scotland who should be warning anyone to be careful, or watch their tongue!’
But she didn’t think it so amusing now, as she searched for the right words.
‘I’m sorry, father. I didn’t mean to question your judgement. I’m sure the Duke must be a good man if you say so. It’s just … it’s just I don’t feel ready for marriage.’
The Bishop shrugged.
‘Well … I suppose we could suggest a compromise to the Duke. …’
‘A compromise?’
‘Yes. I shall accompany you and your mother to Naughton Castle and speak to Machar myself. You will be handfast to him for one year, and if, at the end of the year, either of you decide against marrying, then you can part honourably. Although how you and your mother will survive if you should decide on such a parting, I cannot imagine. Now, I must attend to my work, and you must return to your studies. I bid you good day.’
Thus dismissed, Marie left in a daze. She knew what handfasting meant. She would have to sleep with the revolting creature for a year.
She mounted her horse and slowly returned through the woods and across the fields.
Her mother pounced on her the moment she entered the house.
‘Where have you been? I have been distracted with worry for your safety. You could have been murdered by robbers. Or kidnapped by—’
‘Oh mother, be quiet. I’d rather die at the hands of robbers than have Machar McNaughton touch me, if you must know.’
‘Where have you been?’ Effie repeated.
‘I went to appeal to my father.’
‘Appeal? Appeal? What do you mean—appeal? What did you say? What did he say?’
‘He is travelling with us. He is going to handfast me to the Duke for a year.’
‘Oh mercy upon us!’ Her mother fluttered over to the nearest chair, waving her hands in the air. ‘I knew it. I knew it. You stupid lassie. I knew you’d spoil everything. After a year the Duke won’t want to marry you. He’ll have found out by then what a stupid, ungrateful, wicked lassie you are. …’
Marie was no longer listening. If Donald were still alive he would have found a way out. But he was gone, and she had no-one to turn to now. Already she could feel the Duke’s fat, beringed hands upon her.
X
AS they prepared to leave for Glasgow, Effie was still in a state of fearful agitation.
‘Now, you be nice to the Duke. Remember, do whatever he wants. Please him, for pity’s sake. For my sake. For both our sakes,’ she’d kept repeating to Marie before they set off.
The last time they had visited Glasgow, they had been en route for Dumbarton and the Bishop had remarked what a pleasure it was to survey Glasgow in all its splendour. Marie had agreed. But, on this occasion, the town’s beauty brought her no pleasure. It nestled in a green valley with the River Clyde sparkling through it—the river that the Bishop said was famous for its wonderful salmon. Many of the dwelling places they passed were huts composed of turf, roofed with branches of trees and thatched with heath or straw. The inhabitants looked pleasant and friendly, chatting easily together. The men were wearing blue bonnets, and many were busy mending fishing nets. The women had white linen covering their heads which hung down the back as if a napkin were pinned about them. They sang as they washed clothes by the river.
The huts gave way to houses of wood and plaster which had a much more substantial appearance. Soon they reached the manor houses with their crow-stepped gables, but even these were dwarfed by the towering presence of the ancient Cathedral which had been dedicated to St Mungo, the patron saint of Glasgow.
Before long they had arrived at Naughton, and Marie was filled with panic at the sight of the Duke of Glasgow’s castle. It was a traditional Scottish fortified house, with a sturdy square keep four storeys tall, and small crenellated turrets. The building had recently been extended to include a vast banqueting hall, and adjoining the hall stood Machar McNaughton’s pride and joy—an ornate chapel he had built to house the elaborate family vault. Outside, a large geometric garden was laid out around a central fountain.
‘Oh Marie, what a lucky lassie you are!’ her mother declared. ‘If you please the good Duke, and all goes well, all this could be yours.’
Marie glared at her and Effie shrank back. She was afraid of Marie’s temper, and, as she had said only yesterday,
‘Your temper will be the death of you yet. That and your impertinent tongue.’
‘I’d rather be true to my feelings, whatever the consequences,’ Marie had snapped at the time. Despite her brave words, she did not feel courageous now.
The drawbridge had been lowered in expectation of their arrival, and the whole party clattered noisily over it and into the courtyard. The Duke’s servants met them, taking care of their horses and showing the guests to their bedchambers. A banquet was to be held that evening in the great hall, they were told, at which the Duke of Glasgow would formally welcome them.
It was the mention of the celebration banquet that really brought Effie back to bouncing, euphoric life.
‘Isn’t this wonderful, Marie? You must admit this is wonderful. What will we wear? I think my dress of shot red and yellow taffeta and my vasquine to hold out the skirt and my orange taffeta petticoat—the one lined with red serge.’
Marie refused to consider wearing anything so gaudy.
‘When will you learn, mother, that your colours do not suit me.’ As often as not they did not suit her mother either—but Marie managed to hold back the remark.
She chose a black gown stiffened with buckram, a white undergarment frilled high to her ears, and black shoes and stockings. She felt as if she was in mourning for herself. Her mother cried out in despair when she saw her.
‘Och, you look like a spinster and far beyond your tender years. Why are you so stupid and thrawn? What have I ever done to deserve a lassie like you?’
The banquet that evening was held in the great hall, a magnificent stone-vaulted room draped with vibrant Flemish tapestries depicting extravagant hunting scenes. Logs blazed and crackled on the stone flags of the huge fireplace. A long table groaned with the weight of several sheep, calves, capons, deer, geese and hare, and the other guests were already merrily indulging themselves in the Duke’s wine from goblets being filled and refilled by an army of servants.
‘Ah, my good Bishop!’ Machar McNaughton came staggering towards them, arms outstretched in welcome. ‘And the beau
tiful ladies Effie and Marie. Welcome to Glasgow!’
Effie bobbed a curtsy. Then she roughly nudged Marie, making her stumble off balance into a grudging curtsy.
‘How was your journey?’ Machar cried out in a voice like a bell in full clatter.
‘Long, sir. Long,’ Effie said.
‘But without hazard, I hope.’
‘Thankfully yes, my Lord, but we would have been happy to endure much in anticipation of your lavish hospitality.’
‘And my beautiful Marie?’ The Duke eyed her with happy lasciviousness that made Marie lower her gaze and pray that God would remain by her side to protect her. Yet she prayed without hope and said nothing.
The Bishop broke the awkward silence. ‘Is there any news of your son, Machar? I hear he was taken prisoner at Pinkie.’
‘He was, yes. …’ Machar was subdued for a moment. ‘But have no fear, we shall secure his release before long. And he would not want this happy occasion spoiled by gloomy talk. Come, let us drink a toast!’
The Duke beckoned a servant and they all raised a glass. ‘To my beautiful Marie—and my son Gavin, who, God willing, will be back with us soon.’
During the meal, no-one noticed Marie’s lack of appetite or her pale, worried expression. She kept sipping at the wine that was poured into her goblet, grateful for the comfort it gave her. But soon her head began to swim, as lute players, singers, jugglers, and fools cavorted and tumbled around the table in their gaudy clothes and caps, the boisterous laughter of the company almost drowning out their exuberant and enthusiastic performances. The celebrations went rioting on until very late, and as darkness enshrouded the castle, many candles were lit, flaring and fluttering in the wind which whistled in through the deep slits in the walls.
There was a scream and a loud burst of laughter to one side, and Marie turned to see Effie being molested by a fat, bearded man whose doublet was stained with red wine. Effie was clearly enjoying every minute of it, but her mother’s suitor reminded Marie of Machar McNaughton, and as she turned back she was surprised to see that Machar had staggered to his feet and was making for the far end of the vast banqueting hall. In the half-light of the flickering candles, she saw him disappear behind one of the stone pillars. She could just make out another figure, but he had his back turned towards her.
When Machar got up, he felt distinctly unsteady, but it was not an unfamiliar or unpleasant feeling. He had got word that the Earl of Edinburgh had arrived, and he hastened to meet him in the murky shadows at the far end of the great hall.
‘Good evening, Guthrie.’
‘Machar, you look well. Perhaps a little too well.’
‘My bride awaits me, so let us get down to business.’
‘I can see why you are anxious to bed her, she’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she?’
‘She is indeed,’ said Machar. ‘But enough of that. You have news for me?’
‘I have. When Gavin disobeyed my orders and left my side, he was apparently wounded in the fight, but he is recovering slowly. Our English friends have no further use for him, but they are gravely displeased that you have not been as helpful to them as they had hoped. And they have paid you well for your ‘services’ and have had precious little return.’
‘I have done all that was asked of me,’ the Duke hissed, looking warily about, terrified that any of his guests should overhear. If anyone ever found out that he was in the pay of the English, God alone knew what would become of him. ‘And now I want my son back.’
‘That is easily done. Our friend Randolph does not think you will be of much further use to the English cause, and all he asks is two thousand gold pieces for your precious Gavin’s safe return.’
‘What!’ cried Machar. ‘That is an outrageous price!’
‘Take it or leave it, Machar. It is, after all, a mere fraction of what you have already been paid by our English friends! And remember, if you fail to pay, your son will have nothing to look forward to except a long, slow death in an English dungeon.’
Machar thought for a moment. The conversation had sobered him up, and he realised that he had little option.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will make the arrangements tomorrow.’
‘I think not!’ Jamieson exclaimed. ‘I leave tonight, Machar, and I must take the gold with me, wedding night or not.’
‘All right, all right. Meet me in my private chambers in an hour. I will have the money waiting for you. No-one must know about this—you had better use the secret passage.’
Machar walked slowly back to his seat at the head of the table and poured himself a large glass of wine, and then another. The ransom payment would bankrupt him, and there would be no more English gold to replenish his coffers. God, how he hated that treacherous dog, Jamieson. As soon as Gavin was safely home, he would find a way to revenge himself upon the bold Earl.
As he took his place at table, the Earl of Edinburgh was delighted with his evening’s work so far. He could not believe what a fool Machar was. He had not only taken English gold, he had passed on useless information about the Scots movements before the battle of Pinkie. And now, their English paymasters had decided that Machar had to pay the price for his double-dealing. He had to die. And Guthrie Jamieson was just the man to make it happen. Not only would he get a good price for murdering the Duke, he would also have the two thousand for the ransom and young Gavin could rot in an English dungeon for all he cared.
At the appointed time, Jamieson made his way along the secret passage to Machar’s private chambers, and opened the door. Even with the door open, he was still concealed by a large tapestry hanging on the wall. He remained hidden, and waited. And waited. Twenty minutes passed. Then an hour. He was becoming furious now. Killing the Duke would be a pleasure.
At the banquet, Marie was by now utterly exhausted. She kept widening her eyes in an effort to stay awake. Eventually, someone called over to the Duke.
‘Machar, if you want tae have any sport wi’ yer sweetheart tonight, I suggest ye bed her now.’
Having sought solace for his woes in an ocean of wine, the Duke was now much the worse for wear, and had to be helped to his feet. He had forgotten about his appointment with Jamieson.
‘Aye, you’re right, sir,’ he slurred. ‘Come on, lassie.’
He grabbed Marie’s arm and linked it through his, jerking her from her seat and pulling her along. There was a noisy barrage of coarse and lewd comments as they made their way out of the hall. Then, as the long dimly-lit corridors engulfed them, the shouts and laughter faded away into the distance. Machar, muttering incoherently, led Marie up the narrow tower stairway and into his bedchamber, her fear and loathing of the Duke mounting dizzily with every step. Now, in a kind of drunken madness, she heard the animal-like noises as the Duke tore down his trouser flap and staggered towards her. She struggled to escape as his hands groped and tore at her clothing. Terror ballooned into panic as she felt his skin against the most private part of her body. The room seemed to spin around her: then suddenly she saw the dagger that glistened at his belt. She grabbed at it and, with a surge of manic strength, plunged it into the Duke. He gasped with shock and rolled off her. The sight of his blood on the starched white sheets and the awful realisation of what she had just done was too much for Marie to bear, and she collapsed in a dead faint beside him.
Watching all this from behind the tapestry, Guthrie Jamieson could hardly believe his luck. Nor could he believe that Machar had forgotten about their meeting. Drunken pig. Obviously his young bride was of more interest to him than his son. In an instant, Jamieson leapt out from behind the tapestry and ran to the bed at the far side of the room. Machar had not moved, but he was disappointed to see that the wound was in his shoulder and did not look too serious. But what a vixen Machar had chosen!
At that moment, Machar opened his eyes, looked around him and groaned pathetically, ‘Help me, Guthrie.’
‘Machar,’ said Jamieson, picking up the Duke’s own dagger, ‘I don’t t
hink I can help you any more. But I will have the gold you promised me.’ As he reached for the strongbox key from the Duke’s belt, a fat hand caught him by the wrist.
‘No-one … opens that box … but me,’ the Duke gasped.
‘You have no need of gold where you are going,’ Jamieson replied steadily, and with a flash of cold steel he expertly finished the job Marie had started, plunging the dagger straight through the Duke’s heart. Machar’s inert body slid off the bed and onto the floor with a dull thud.
Jamieson quickly checked that Marie was still unconscious. It would be a shame to have to kill her as well—much better for her to live to take the blame.
Anyway, there was no time to waste on her. There was gold to be found. From a previous visit, Jamieson knew exactly where to find the Duke’s strongbox, and immediately snatched the key from Machar’s belt and opened it. There wasn’t as much gold as he had expected. The old fool was obviously running out of money—no doubt he had wasted much of it on that ridiculous chapel. But he couldn’t have carried much more anyway. Replacing the key, he made sure that Marie had not stirred. She lay still, the bloodstained dagger by her side. A sad end to a young life, he thought, laughing softly to himself, as he made his escape.
Marie came to an instant later, and could not believe her eyes. The bloodstained corpse of the Duke lay beside the bed, his dead eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Her own bloodstained clothing and the dagger lying beside her filled her with horror. It was then her eyes were diverted by a movement behind one of the tapestries. Grabbing a candle, she staggered across to the tapestry and jerked it aside. It revealed a half-open panel that led to a secret stairway, and she was just in time to catch a brief glimpse of a shadowy figure disappearing through another opening at the foot of the stairs.
Terror beyond all terror now. Marie had not only committed murder. Someone had witnessed it. Her first thought was to seek help and protection. But from whom? Running from the room, she hesitated in the corridor. In a blind panic, she opened the nearest door and hid behind it. After a few moments, she dared to look round the room, and recognised some garments belonging to her father. Otherwise the room, lit only by a few candles, was empty. She began pacing silently about, kneading her hands together and making little moans of distress. She longed to believe it was all just a dreadful nightmare but she knew it wasn’t. The blood on her hands told her it was all too real. Suddenly, the door opened and both the Bishop and her mother entered.
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