Pride of the Clan

by Anna Markland

  It was enough to push him over the edge. He suckled like a man long denied nourishment as she whimpered and writhed, raking her fingernails along his scalp. He moved to lave the other nipple. She mewled like a kitten. “When ye do that I feel peculiar in other places,” she murmured shyly. “Private places.”

  He kissed her on the mouth, consumed by a need to share breath with her, explore the warmth of her mouth, run his tongue along her teeth, taste her saliva. When they broke apart, he took her hand and held it to the swelling at his groin. “I’ve an inkling of what ye mean, Margaret.”

  Her eyes widened. Elation flooded his veins. This amazing lass was experiencing what he was certain was her first sexual arousal—with him. But her lustful gaze turned to alarm when a door creaked open behind him. He hastily drew the sheets over her nudity and stepped back, glad of the bulky plaid.

  “Hannah,” Margaret exclaimed, her face crimson.

  Losh! In the haze of lust, he’d forgotten the maidservant.

  He turned to look at the lass who bustled into the chamber, arms laden with léines and plaids, her red face the only indication she deemed anything amiss. “I am Rheade Robertson,” he declared, hoping his voice didn’t echo the uproar in his balls.

  “Och,” Hannah replied with an accusing look at Margaret, “why did ye nay tell me yer betrothed to this braw laddie who helped capture yon assassins? I had to learn of it from another maid.”

  She shooed Rheade out as if he were a rooster who had no business in the henhouse. “Begone, me lord. Time enough for canoodling when ye’re wed. Her Majesty awaits. And dinna concern yerself. I’m the soul o’ discretion.”

  He had to smile at the look of utter confusion and thwarted desire on Margaret’s flushed face as Hannah ushered him out.

  News certainly traveled fast in Stirling, especially when it fell from the lips of an Earl.

  AUDIENCE WITH A QUEEN

  Waiting nervously outside the private apartment, Margaret fiddled with the folds of her borrowed plaid, fearing Queen Joan might think her a dwarf when she entered flanked by two burly highlanders. She was relieved the scowling Tannoch had bathed, but his clothing still gave off an unpleasant odor. At least he’d trimmed his beard, but the bits of linen stuck on his face where he’d nicked himself with the blade robbed him of any dignity.

  Rheade stood erect, a proud Highlander. The stubble on his face made him look even more dashing.

  She squeezed her legs together, remembering the wicked sensations that had coursed through her body when Rheade had kissed her nipples and she’d felt the same soft stubble on a part of her body no man had ever set eyes on. But these were not the kind of thoughts she should be entertaining while waiting to be interviewed by a Queen.

  What to say if asked about Robert Stewart? It was unlikely there’d be an opportunity to speak. She was surprised she’d been invited. Had the notion of her betrothal to Rheade reached the Queen’s ears? From what she’d heard of Joan Beaufort, the woman was informed of everything, and if Hannah knew—

  Tannoch would object.

  She swallowed hard when the double doors swung inward abruptly, and relied heavily on the strength of Rheade’s hand as he led her in. She kept her eyes on the elaborate tiled floor and dropped into a full curtsey, desperately hoping she wouldn’t topple over once Rheade’s steadying hand was withdrawn. He and Tannoch both bent the knee beside her.

  “Welcome to you, Tannoch Collier Starkey Robertson,” the Queen declared. “Chieftain of a proud and noble clan.”

  She had observed the Scottish tradition of honoring Tannoch with his full name, but her manner of speech was decidedly English. Margaret was reminded the Queen was not a Scot.

  Tannoch scurried forward to bestow a kiss on the hand Joan proffered, then backed up to stand in front of Margaret.

  Bollocks! The man seemed determined to block her from the Queen’s view, which was a relief in a way.

  Rheade bristled, but acknowledged the Queen when she summoned him. “And welcome Rheade Donnachaidh Starkey Robertson.”

  Once Rheade regained his place beside her, Margaret itched to look up. What would she see? A grieving widow? A vengeful queen? An Englishwoman who must feel isolated in a foreign court and desperately worried for her infant son?

  She sensed Tannoch’s wrath when the Queen spoke her name and he was forced to move aside. Judging by the sudden pungent odor she was certain he broke wind out of spite. Determined not to wrinkle her nose, she raised her eyes and saw all she’d expected and more. The Queen had not escaped unscathed from the attack on her husband. Despite attempts to conceal the damage, the black eye and swollen nose were unmistakable. She gasped, her heart sinking. Had Robert been the one to slap the Queen?

  “Your Majesty,” she murmured, surprised any sound emerged from her parched throat.

  “You may rise, Lady Margaret.”

  She was grateful once again for Rheade’s help as she rose from her curtsey. She swayed, feeling like a sapling between two mighty oaks. However, she was thankful she didn’t stand alone before this powerful monarch in whose veins flowed the blood of the hated King Edward, Hammer of the Scots.

  For the first time, Margaret noticed Erskine standing beside the Queen. He cleared his throat. “Queen Joan and her son are grateful beyond words for your capture of the Stewarts.”

  Tannoch mumbled something incoherent. It amused Margaret to see him tongue-tied. Rheade clenched his fists.

  “’Tis hard to comprehend Walter Stewart’s reasoning,” Erskine continued. “He’s the son of Robert the Second, half brother of Robert the Third, and uncle to James.”

  “Mayhap auld age addled his wits,” Tannoch offered.

  Queen Joan wrinkled her nose, then grimaced, gripping the carved arms of her elaborate chair. Evidently she’d momentarily forgotten her injury.

  “Mayhap,” Erskine agreed with a half smile. “It falls to me to tell the sordid tale. The Monarch and his court went to celebrate Christmas at Blackfriars and lingered on there. His Majesty was in high spirits that fateful night. He spent the early part of the evening playing chess, had supper about nine o’clock, after which most of his attendants retired. There followed some music, singing and the reading of romances.”

  The Queen closed her eyes, as if remembering.

  “At midnight, the King called for a parting cup before going to the bed chamber where the Queen and her ladies were in conversation. He changed into his nightgown and slippers and, standing in front of the fire, joined in their banter.”

  Erskine paused in his telling, cleared his throat then began again. “Suddenly there were sounds of argument in the passage outside. The ladies hurried to push the bar through the fastenings securing the door, but it was missing, apparently removed by the Chamberlain, Robert Stewart. The King used a poker from the fireplace to lever up some floorboards. He fled into a sewer tunnel and the Queen and her ladies quickly replaced the boards to hide his location.”

  “They must have been terrified,” Rheade murmured, earning an almost imperceptible nod from Her Majesty.

  “Aye,” Erskine replied. “The Queen shouted to Catherine Douglas, ‘Katy, bar the door,’ but the only thing the woman could do was shove her arm through the stanchions in an effort to thwart the assassins’ entrance. The cowards forced the door open and broke Katy’s arm when she held on.”

  “A brave woman indeed,” Rheade offered, this time receiving a glare from Tannoch.

  Erskine coughed. “Queen Joan has bestowed the nickname Catherine Barlass to honor her pluck. When they failed to find the King, the conspirators threatened the women. They searched the chamber and then spread out to other rooms in the palace.”

  “And His Majesty was still hiding in the drain?” Rheade asked.

  “Aye, imagine,” Erskine replied sadly. “Our monarch in a filthy cesspit.” He inhaled deeply. “’Tis hard to tell the remainder of the tale. Assuming the silence above meant the danger had passed, the King called out for assistance in e
scaping from his refuge.”

  Margaret dreaded the twist of fate she sensed was coming.

  Queen Joan’s knuckles turned white. She opened her eyes. Erskine thumped his fist into his palm. “Ye’ve guessed correctly. The killers heard the King’s pleas and returned to the bedchamber when they realized he was beneath the floorboards. Two of them tore up the boards and went down after him. In the confined space, the King took them by their throats and tried to wrest the knives from their hands. Then Robert Graham jumped down into the void and the King was dispatched. They later counted sixteen stab wounds to his body.”

  “Imagine the filth in the drain,” Rheade said.

  Tannoch grimaced, his fists clenched.

  The Queen leaned forward and finally spoke. “My husband begged for mercy,” she said in a voice laced with hatred. “But Graham ran him through with his sword, and James was finished off by the three.”

  Dread filled Margaret’s heart. It was plain no mercy would be granted to the assassins, or mayhap to anyone associated with them. She didn’t blame the Queen. The woman had seen her husband brutally murdered before her eyes. She understood now why Erskine had told the tale.

  The Earl clenched his jaw and gripped the hilt of his sword. “The irony is that our beloved King had ordered the outside egress to the drain blocked the day before,” he said. “There was no possibility of escape.”

  “May I enquire as to why?” Rheade asked.

  “He became annoyed when his tennis balls kept falling into the drain and he couldn’t retrieve them. Little did he suspect his love of tennis would contribute to his death.”

  Margaret wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

  ~~~

  Rheade’s mind whirled with the implications of what he had seen and heard. Margaret swayed beside him, her fingers buried in the plaid. Tannoch would likely mention her betrothal to Robert Stewart and he had no inkling of how Queen Joan might react to the revelation.

  However, his brother seemed to have been afflicted with an attack of uncharacteristic nervousness and had barely uttered a word. No doubt he’d give Rheade a tongue-lashing later because he’d had the temerity to speak. That was preferable to having the Queen believe the Robertsons were a clan with no breeding and no manners.

  An uncomfortable silence followed the news about the tennis, as if no one in the chamber believed the irony of it. He wasn’t sure if Joan cared to hear how the assassins had been captured. He had a sudden recollection of the chamberpot smashed to smithereens in the bailey; mayhap a touch of humor was what was needed.

  Unexpectedly, Erskine turned to Tannoch. “I understand, Laird Robertson, ye seek a boon in return for capturing the murderers.”

  Tannoch frowned. “A boon?” he parroted.

  Rheade’s gut knotted.

  “Aye. Permission for Lady Margaret to wed yer brother here.”

  Rheade feared Tannoch’s head might spin off as he swivelled it to glare at him. “Nay,” he thundered.

  The Queen’s mouth fell open.

  Erskine bristled. “May I remind ye, Laird Robertson, this is a court in mourning. There’ll be no shouting.”

  Tannoch mumbled an apology into his beard. One of the ridiculous scraps of linen stuck to his face that looked suspiciously like they’d been torn from his léine, fluttered to the floor. “’Tis only, er, nay. She’s betrothed to another.”

  Margaret gasped. Rheade itched to thump his brother’s nose. Why was he determined to put her in harm’s way? “If I may speak, Your Majesty,” he said, taking a step forward.

  Queen Joan inclined her head in approval.

  Ignoring Tannoch’s spluttering, he embarked on the tale. “Lady Margaret Ogilvie traveled here from Oban.”

  “Oban?” Erskine exclaimed. “Ye’ve had a long journey.”

  Margaret nodded.

  “She came,” Rheade continued, “because when she was a wee lass, her father betrothed her to a nobleman from Atholl, a man thought to be honorable, the great grandson of a King.”

  He recognised the moment it dawned on the Queen what was coming next. She paled visibly, darkening the bruise around her eye they’d tried to mask. She held up a dainty hand. “You speak of Robert Stewart,” she said hoarsely.

  “Aye, but she—”

  He stopped when Erskine shook his head in warning.

  The Queen beckoned the Earl and whispered in his ear. He backed away when she rose from her throne with the help of one of her ladies. From the strain on her face, Rheade suspected the monarch had suffered unseen injuries. They bowed their heads as she slowly left the chamber.

  “Her Majesty thanks the Robertson clan for their capture of the treacherous Stewarts,” Erskine began, “and she’s confident ye’ll soon have Robert Graham in custody. As for Margaret Ogilvie, the pain is too fresh for Her Majesty to contemplate any discussion of Robert Stewart. Lady Ogilvie is commanded to the protection of the nuns at Emanuel Priory.”

  Tannoch grunted his satisfaction.

  Rheade moved to put a protective arm around Margaret as she swayed. “But I have sworn to protect her,” he explained. “She’s an innocent victim.”

  Erskine bristled. “Dinna challenge Her Majesty in this. If she’s innocent, as ye say, God will keep her from harm. Ye must consider she might be in danger from those incensed by our King’s death who wouldn’t think twice before killing her in revenge.”

  Rheade hadn’t considered there might be others like Tannoch who would believe Margaret guilty by association. “I request permission to escort Lady Margaret to Linlithgow Bridge.”

  Erskine scratched his grey beard. “Permission granted,” he declared with a smile, “but it’s unlikely the nuns’ll let ye in.”

  Tannoch growled. “I need my brother in the Grampians hunting Graham, not playing nursemaid to this wench from Oban.”

  The Earl narrowed his eyes. “Ye seem disposed to condemn the lass, whereas yer brother obviously disagrees with ye. Are there good reasons for yer opinion?”

  Tannoch scowled. “She’s betrothed to a traitor.”

  Erskine shook his head. “Do ye have proof she was involved in the plot?”

  Tannoch studied his feet. “Nay,” he rasped.

  “Then ye are dismissed. Next time I see ye, Laird Robertson, ye’ll hae Robert Graham in yer clutches.”

  Tannoch clenched his jaw and left abruptly.

  Margaret leaned heavily on Rheade as he escorted her from the chamber, his heart in knots.

  THE WATCHER

  Emanuel Priory, Linlithgow Bridge, March 10th, 1437 AD

  The Earl provided an escort of a dozen men for which Margaret was grateful after the dire warnings of possible reprisals from people filled with hatred and fear.

  The journey from Stirling wasn’t arduous, and took only a day. They passed through Falkirk and she appreciated Rheade’s attempts to ease her worries with an explanation of the town’s strategic importance. He described the progress King James had made on the splendid royal palace being built in Linlithgow itself. “But I dinna ken what will happen to the grand scheme now James is dead. The Queen will have enough worries protecting her son.”

  Margaret didn’t get a glimpse of the construction at the palace as they came to a halt outside the gates of the Priory on the banks of the Avon. She had a terrible premonition that once she entered she might never be allowed to leave. “How long do ye think I’ll be here?” she asked for what was probably the hundredth time.

  Rheade had no answer, but showed no impatience. “I’ll get ye out of this place as soon as I’m able.”

  “But how?” she asked, hating the whine in her voice.

  He took a deep breath. “I’ve decided the best way is to help Tannoch capture Graham.”

  Her spirits fell. “Ye’re going into the Grampians?”

  “’Twill put me in my brother’s good graces, hopefully, and mayhap convince the Queen to grant me a boon.”

  She wanted to be strong, to believe him. “But capturing th
e Stewarts did us no good. Yer brother stole the credit.”

  He dismounted and helped her do the same. He kept his hands on her waist. She closed her eyes, storing the memory of his touch. He kissed her gently and she tasted the sweet mead they’d sipped in the market in Falkirk.

  He smiled. “Keep the faith, Margaret. There’s something Tannoch kens naught of that will shame him into admitting he didna capture Robert Stewart.”

  She arched her brows, warmed despite the chill of the wind and the apparent hopelessness of their predicament. “Yer smile does things to me, Rheade Robertson.”

  He held her tightly until the iron gate squealed open. An elderly nun beckoned. “’Tis time,” the woman called softly. “But the young man canna enter.”

  Rheade kissed her nose. “Erskine was right,” he quipped. “Fare thee well. Pray for me, Margaret.”

  She wanted to leave some token with him. She lifted the sweet bag from around her neck. “The nuns willna let me keep this. Take it.”

  He accepted the token, unfastened his brooch and pinned the sachet to the inside of his plaid. “’Twill rest next to my heart,” he growled.

  She could only nod, choked by the lump in her throat. She turned away to Bàn, kissing the palfrey’s nose. “I hope to see ye again, brave little horse,” she whispered.

  She’d done naught to dishonor her family’s name. For her dead brothers’ sake she held her head high as she walked towards the gate and the waiting nun. She might never see Rheade again but resolved not to turn around for one last look, afraid her heart might break in two.

  ~~~

  Rheade cringed as the gate clanged shut, disappointed Margaret hadn’t turned round one last time, but he understood. He marvelled again at the strength of the lass whose world had fallen apart. He sensed it had taken enormous willpower for her not to dissolve into tears. Despite losing her family, her home and her freedom, she had held her head high as the nunnery swallowed her up. But he worried. Margaret Ogilvie wasn’t a woman suited to the religious life. He sensed passion in her, had seen it in her eyes when he’d suckled her. She was a woman made for a man—for him. The truth of it only increased his melancholy.