Pride of the Clan

by Anna Markland

  The same fear that gripped Margaret’s vitals when she learned her brothers might have drowned seized her now. She gulped air, repeating over and over that all was not lost. They had Graham’s signed testimony. But Joss had endured much for her sake. Where was the poor soul?

  “Oh, and Logan’s comrades have returned with him,” Hannah added.

  Margaret recalled the intense relief that had swept over her at the sight of five brave highlanders charging out of the Hall of Blair Castle in pursuit of the Earl.

  “Perhaps there is still hope,” she murmured.

  “I forgot,” Hannah giggled. “Tannoch’s wife has come.”

  Bollocks!

  SPIKENARD

  Two days passed in a blur.

  Tannoch lay in a fevered stupor. He occasionally blinked open rheumy eyes, but Rheade doubted he actually knew what was happening around him. Fear his brother might succumb to his severe injuries gripped him like an icy hand. “I canna understand it,” he whispered to Logan on the morning of the third day as they made their way to the Infirmary. “We never got along, yet his death will break my heart.”

  “Aye,” Logan agreed. “He’s exasperated me sometimes to the point where I’ve wished him dead, but now—”

  “Mayhap he is our Da’s son after all,” Rheade murmured.

  Logan shrugged. “Or maybe it’s because we’re sons of the same mother. That’s our bond. No use worrying over it. We’ll never truly know.”

  Rheade wished he could share his fears and feelings with Margaret. His longing for her was soul deep. She must be frantic over Joss, of whom no trace had been found.

  They entered the hospital. For Rheade the place would forever hold the smell of blood and scorched flesh and the anguished screams of pain. He couldn’t wait to get out of Stirling and return to Dunalastair.

  Glenna had never left Tannoch’s side, insisting on helping the monks cool his fevered body with damp linens, dressing his belly wound, which to the amazement of the monks was healing, and binding what remained of his arm. The stump had been cauterized, but it still oozed and had to be tightly re-bandaged frequently.

  The changes in his sister-by-marriage were startling. “It’s as if she’s wasting away before our eyes,” he murmured to Logan.

  “And there wasn’t much of her beauty left to squander,” Logan said sarcastically.

  Rheade scratched his head. “Yet she’s acquired an aura, like an angel of mercy tending to Tannoch’s needs, as if he’s the most treasured husband in the kingdom.”

  The notion of Margaret lavishing such love on him swelled his heart.

  “Peculiar,” Logan said. “Especially since our dear brother has no inkling she’s here. Let’s try to convince her to get some sleep. She hasna had a proper meal since she arrived.”

  Glenna sat in a wooden chair, her head bowed. Rheade lay a hand on her shoulder. Her head jerked up, and he regretted startling her. He touched her elbow. “I insist ye get some rest, sister. What use will ye be to Tannoch if ye die of exhaustion or starvation?”

  She shook her head. “Nay. There’s no one else to care for him.”

  “Ye ken that’s not true,” Logan replied. “The monks are close by, and Rheade and I are here.”

  “And me.”

  Every head turned to the doorway. Rheade’s heart leapt into his throat. Margaret was walking towards him, Erskine in her wake. He hurried to her and gathered her into his embrace. Her perfume invaded his senses, loosening the knot in his gut. “Margaret,” he breathed into her ear, scarcely able to believe she was there. She melted into him, her breath warm on his neck.

  “Her Majesty has granted Lady Margaret’s request to help tend your chieftain,” Erskine explained, “since he’s her laird now she’s yer wife. But she’s to go nowhere else except back to her chamber, and on the morrow Queen Joan wishes to see the lot of ye.”

  He turned and left abruptly before Rheade could decide if he’d detected a hint of a smile on the dour earl’s face.

  Glenna struggled to her feet. “Yer wife?” she shouted.

  Tannoch stirred, but didn’t open his eyes.

  “I’ll nay let this hussy touch my husband,” Glenna shrieked.

  “Twas remiss of me not to tell ye of our marriage,” Rheade admitted, determined to keep his arm around Margaret’s waist in case she was an apparition. “But ye had a lot on yer plate.”

  Glenna snorted. Rheade half expected fire to shoot forth from her flared nostrils.

  Margaret removed his arm from her waist and walked towards her sister-by-marriage. “I ken ye dinna like me, Lady Glenna,” she said softly. “But I have pledged myself in bonds of holy matrimony to Rheade Robertson, and thus to his clan.”

  Glenna’s eyes widened. A slight frown wrinkled her brow.

  “Ye are wife to the laird of my clan, and my chieftain lies at death’s door. Would you deny me the right to help tend him?”

  Glenna fidgeted with the frayed sash of her léine, glancing briefly at Tannoch. “He might die,” she whimpered.

  Rheade marveled once again at Margaret’s ability to say the right words in a dire situation. She was a canny Scot familiar with the ways of the Highlands. He was sorry he’d never met her brothers.

  His bride moved to lay a hand on Glenna’s arm. “He’ll no die if I have aught to say about it,” she said firmly. “Now get some rest. Tannoch will need a strong woman at his side when he recovers.”

  Glenna swayed on her feet, and for a moment Rheade feared she might swoon again; but she allowed Logan to escort her from the Infirmary after pecking a kiss on Tannoch’s forehead.

  “Ye are a marvel,” Rheade told his wife.

  “I’m happy to see ye too,” she said with a naughty smile, producing a jar from beneath her plaid. “And guess what I brought.”

  ~~~

  As Margaret hoped, the spikenard in the precious ointment worked its magic on Tannoch. With Rheade’s permission she smeared dabs of it on the healing belly wound, and on his neck and forehead.

  After a short time, his breathing slowed and he fell into a deep sleep.

  “I’ve wed a miracle worker,” Rheade boasted to the Infirmarian when he came to inspect his patient. “A wee dab or two of salve and he’s sleeping like a babe.”

  The cleric inhaled. “Spikenard? Where did you get such a costly ointment? ’Tis wasted on a dead man.” He huffed away shaking his head without waiting for an answer.

  “Sounds like the same thing they said to Mary of Magdala when she lavished the spikenard on our Lord and Savior,” Margaret said with a shrug.

  Rheade remembered the soothing yet arousing effects of the salve on his own body. “Dunalastair’s Still Room should have some of this miracle potion on hand in future,” he quipped with a wink.

  She giggled, but put a forefinger to her lips. “Hush. We dinna want to wake yer brother.”

  “He’s sound asleep,” he replied, holding her gaze. “First time he’s slept peacefully since we arrived. I could ravish ye right here and he’d be none the wiser.”

  Desire tingled in private places. “I’ve a yearning for ye.”

  They stood at the foot of Tannoch’s pallet, hand in hand.

  “I feel safe now I’m with ye,” she whispered.

  He raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across the backs of her fingers. “I’m hopeful all shall be resolved after we see the Queen on the morrow. I only wish we had Joss.”

  A lump rose in her throat. “I’m worried for him.”

  TELLING THE TALE

  Rheade held Margaret’s hand tightly. In his other hand he gripped the parchment Graham had signed. She’d wanted to see it, but he’d persuaded her against it. He feared the blood smears might turn her belly.

  Margaret had been obliged to live in a tiny space yet she smelled sweet. Her léine was spotless and she wore Rheade’s brooch proudly on her plaid. Her hair shone like moonbeams.

  Her other arm was linked with Glenna’s. His sister-by-marria
ge had benefitted from a day of rest, but still looked a distraught wreck. He wished she’d bathed, but at least Hannah had combed her hair.

  Logan stood with his friends, all uncharacteristically silent.

  The double doors to the Queen’s anteroom creaked open. Erskine stepped into the hallway and closed the doors behind him. “Ready?” he asked.

  Margaret squeezed Rheade’s hand.

  “Ready,” he replied.

  Erskine laid his hand on the doorknob, but a commotion further down the hallway drew everyone’s attention to where three guards struggled to subdue a peasant.

  “Joss,” Margaret exclaimed, clasping her hands to her breast.

  “My lord Earl,” Rheade pleaded, “this is the man we’ve been seeking. Please allow him to pass.”

  “Leave him be,” Erskine shouted.

  One of the guards held up a long object bundled in cloth. “But, my lord, he is armed with a sword.”

  Excitement bubbled in Rheade’s veins. “’Tis Robert Stewart’s sword,” he explained.

  “Let him go,” Erskine repeated. “Fetch me the weapon.”

  Margaret ran to embrace Joss. “Where have ye been?” she admonished. “I’ve been worried.”

  He reddened considerably when she kissed his cheek. “Long walk,” he rasped.

  Rheade gaped in disbelief. “You walked from Blair?”

  Joss nodded.

  Erskine unwrapped the sword, examined it briefly, then folded the cloth over it again. He handed it to Rheade. “Now we’re ready. Remember, this isna a trial.”

  He opened the doors and ushered them in.

  Joss balked.

  Margaret took his hand. “Please, Joss. ’Twill be all right. We must tell the Queen what happened at Blair Castle and assure her I had nothing to do with Robert Stewart’s plans. I need your testimony.”

  Still he shook his head.

  Margaret stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. A grin split his beefy face, then he nodded.

  Queen Joan glared first at the ox of a man being led in by Margaret like a timid child, then at Glenna. She arched a brow upon catching sight of Logan’s friends.

  Rheade was again surprised to see Garth in attendance, seated on a dais slightly below the Queen’s. Mayhap his presence was a good omen. He could vouch for Rheade’s role at Loch Bhac and he obviously had the Queen’s ear.

  Glenna came close to toppling over as she curtseyed, only saved from disaster by Margaret reaching out to steady her as she too sank into a full curtsey.

  Joss fell to his knees and touched his head to the tiles. The other men bent the knee and bowed. Rheade held on tightly to the bundle he hoped would elicit a favorable response from Joan.

  The Queen made a deprecating sound as she eyed them. “A motley group,” she declared. “Sir Rheade, rise and explain to me whom you have brought.”

  Rheade rose and gestured to Margaret. “May I present my—”

  The Queen waved an impatient hand. “Those I don’t know.”

  Not a good beginning.

  His heart pounding too rapidly, he sidestepped to stand behind Glenna. “May I present Glenna Lockie McIntyre Robertson, wife of our chieftain, Tannoch—”

  “You’re the Mistress of Dunalastair?” the Queen exclaimed.

  Glenna raised her head. Rheade prayed she didn’t answer the Queen back with the annoyance written on her scowling face.

  “I am, Yer Majesty,” she murmured.

  Rheade breathed again.

  Joan raised a brow. “I see why you need a wife,” she said sarcastically to Rheade. “And who are these fine young knights with Sir Logan?”

  Logan stood and presented his comrades.

  Joan smiled for the first time. “Welcome.”

  The grovelling Joss was evidently to be ignored, which was probably for the best.

  “And I understand from Erskine you are all owed a debt of gratitude for the capture of the Stewarts.”

  Rheade was surprised Erskine, or mayhap Garth had told the Queen the tale, but Glenna raised her head and declared, “Nay. Tannoch captured them.”

  “Nay. ’Twas Rheadedonnachaidhstarkeyrobertsonladymargaretlogankeeganalasdairfergus.”

  ~~~

  Margaret groaned inwardly. Not only had Joss spoken out loud, he’d scrambled to his feet, his agitation plain.

  She took a chance, rose hastily from her curtsey and went to his side. She linked arms with him. “Forgive Joss, Your Majesty, he’s a simple man with a good heart. He has served my family since before I was born.”

  Joss thrust out his broad chest, beaming a big smile at Queen Joan.

  “What in the name of all that’s holy was he trying to say?” the Queen asked.

  Margaret was relieved she seemed amused rather than outraged. “He said Rheade and Logan and these three brave men you see before you captured the Stewarts.”

  “He was there?”

  “Stables,” Joss insisted, stabbing his finger into his chest. “Blair.”

  “We didna ken Joss was there,” Margaret explained. “He and his twin brother had set off back to Oban.”

  “There are two like him?” the Queen asked, her eyes wide.

  “Nay, his brother Shaon is—”

  She hesitated, unsure what to say without insulting her faithful servant.

  “Clever,” Joss declared.

  The corners of the Queen’s mouth edged up. “But he came back?” she asked.

  “Lady Margaret,” Joss said, as if that explained everything.

  The Queen cast an amused glance at Garth. “Sir Rheade, you’d best tell me the tale.”

  Rheade lay the bundle at his feet, then recounted their flight to Blair. Margaret was relieved he left out the part about them snuggling in bed.

  He explained Margaret had caught sight of the Stewarts coming down from the mountains.

  He told of the decision to bring the horses into the entry hall, and the surprise attack on the advance party.

  Margaret clung to Joss, sensing his excitement as the tale progressed. The Queen’s eyes darted from one to another as each warrior who’d taken part was named.

  “Meanwhile from the turret room Margaret saw the Earl and his grandson attempting to get away. She broke the window to get their attention, to delay them.”

  Joss chuckled, slapping his thigh. “Threw piss-pot.”

  Whistling, he drew a slow arc in the air with his finger. Then as his imaginary missile hit the ground he thrust out his hands as if describing a volcanic eruption. “Ppprrrkk!”

  Silence reigned. The Queen put her fingertips to her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Garth chewed on his knuckles. Even Erskine cracked a bemused smile.

  Joss took a deep breath. Margaret toyed with the idea of stopping him but it was somewhat late for that.

  “Lady Margaret. Window.” He cupped his big hands to his mouth and at the top of his lungs in the falsetto voice of a woman yelled, “Traitor, Traitor.”

  Rheade stared at Joss for long minutes, evidently as surprised as she was that he’d seen and heard everything. Then he carried on. “Aye. Well. Having subdued the first group in the hall, we charged out—”

  “‘Osses,” Joss exclaimed, laughing out loud. “‘Osses in a castle.” Then he looked to Rheade, evidently giving permission for the tale to continue.

  Rheade cleared his throat. “The Earl fell from his horse, injuring his arm. He surrendered.”

  Joss pointed at Rheade, stuck out one beefy leg and declared. “Kicked.”

  “You kicked the Earl off his horse?” the Queen asked.

  Margaret marveled the monarch had readily understood Joss’s limited speech.

  “Aye,” Rheade replied. “Then I rode after Robert who had taken advantage of his grandfather’s capture to attempt an escape.”

  Joss cupped his hands to his mouth. The Queen wisely covered her ears. “Coward,” he shrieked, again imitating a woman’s voice.

  “Indeed,” the Queen declared. “Cowards all, to
slay an unarmed king.”

  “Aye,” Joss whispered.

  The Queen rose. “And you have brought me Stewart’s sword.”

  Rheade picked up the bundle, drew off the cloth with a flourish and strode forward, holding the weapon in both hands like an offering to the Almighty. He bent the knee before Queen Joan. “Tis for ye to decide what to do with it, Yer Majesty,” he said.

  Queen Joan stared at the blade. Eyes fixed on her husband’s broad back, Margaret recalled her terror as she’d watched Robert and Rheade wrestle in the dirt, her past and her future. She understood the Queen’s pain. If Margaret was presented with a weapon that had slain her husband she’d hurl it into the fires of hell.

  Beside her Joss sniffled.

  Rheade must have sensed the Queen’s anguish. “May I suggest my Lord Erskine take the weapon until ye can decide what to do with it.”

  The Queen straightened her spine. “I am grateful to you, and I am convinced Lady Margaret Robertson is innocent of any complicity in the plot. Anyone who can inspire such loyalty in a servant, and receive messages from dead men—”

  Margaret’s knees trembled. Her husband’s shoulders relaxed.

  Erskine came forward and accepted the sword from Rheade who stepped back and grasped Margaret’s hand. The Queen had given her blessing. The future with Rheade was secured.

  But she worried for her sister-by-marriage, still kneeling.

  As if sensing her concern, the Queen bade Glenna rise. It was evident when the Mistress of Dunalastair raised her head that she’d been weeping.

  “Go to your husband, Lady Glenna,” Joan said. “We cannot overlook his selfless role in the capture of Graham, and his steadfast loyalty to our person and to my late husband. I wish you both well.”

  She left the dais on Garth’s arm. It seemed to Margaret the audience had helped the monarch exorcise some of the demons plaguing her. She didn’t envy the hard years ahead. Even in her remote cupboard word had permeated of powerful nobles disgruntled at a woman acting as Regent.

  Glenna swayed as if in a trance and leaned heavily on Rheade as they exited the antechamber.