Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  Francis sighed. Why am I so hopeless with girls?

  He had no idea.

  I suppose I'm not that bad looking, he thought self-consciously. The thought reassured him, especially this evening. The day before he went to Court in Paris for the first time ever. He rolled tense, thick-muscled shoulders under his linen tunic and turned to face his mother.

  “Remember, you are from the house of Dunkeld and Lochlann. Great estates in Scotland,” his mother said encouragingly. “You have a lot to be proud of.”

  “Yes, Mother. I know. But I am also an eighth French.” It was important to him, that eighth. It made him feel like he belonged here when people insisted on staring or calling him “foreigner”.

  His mother sighed. “Perhaps,” she said. “I suppose that is important at court. Where, I remind you, in case you've forgotten, you will be going tomorrow.”

  Francis felt himself sadden.

  “Mother, I doubt anyone at the court will even notice I'm there. It's not like Annecy is such a big estate after all.”

  His mother raised a brow. Those sky blue eyes looked frosty with hurt. “It's not small either, Francis,” she said coolly. “You don't need to make us out to be insignificant.”

  Francis felt instantly guilty. “I'm sorry, Maman,” he said gently. “I know. I spoke out-of-turn. I was just worried. I've never been to court before.”

  His mother grinned, her anger evaporating. “I've only been twice, son. I know it's a daunting prospect. However, I trust that you'll enjoy it. It's very...diverting. And there are many more opportunities there.”

  Francis nodded slowly. He knew what sort of opportunities his mother meant. Opportunities to gain renown. To connect with important people. Most importantly, opportunities to find a prospective bride.

  “I hope I'll enjoy it,” he said cautiously. “And take advantage of the...diversions...on offer.”

  His mother smiled. “I'm sure you will son. Now. I trust you're all packed and ready to go already. But I do have something to give you. It's upstairs on your bed.”

  “Oh?”

  His mother grinned. Strikingly lovely, when she smiled like that she lost the look of age and could have been no older than he himself. “Yes. I made it.”

  After the ball, when Francis was exhausted and strangely disheartened, he found it. She had sewn it herself, he guessed from the perfect, neat stitching. Her gift to him was a doublet, quilted and padded in the latest fashion. It was a rich green silk, the color of gray-green fields under winter sky. It was stylish and exactly what he needed on his quest to be acceptable to the critical French nobles.

  “Mother!” he said, voice raw. She wasn't there, but he couldn't help it. He felt his throat tighten for a moment. She did understand! He hadn't known she cared so much about how he felt or how hard it was, potentially, for him to mingle in this land.

  He sighed and climbed into bed. Memories of the ball drifted round his head. Ettie, giggling and saying how tall he was. Disappearing after the dance.

  Will I ever be halfway acceptable?

  He had no idea. With big muscles and admirable skills at the tournament and practice ground, he was exactly what a young man was supposed to be. Somehow, though, it never carried over very well.

  It must just be because I'm different.

  He wore the doublet the next morning, when he was to leave for court. When he appeared for breakfast in the solar, his mother smiled.

  “You found it.”

  “I love it!”

  Francis chuckled fondly, kissing his mother's golden hair. Scented with rose-water, glossy in the daylight, he could barely see the strands of white he knew were there.

  “Oh, well! Don't you look handsome in it?” His mother grinned at him, stepping back so she could admire him from across the room. “You cut a fine figure, son. Look at yourself.”

  She gestured to the mirror and Francis walked across to look shyly into it.

  A lean, handsome face stared back. His pale auburn hair slightly curling, the face was endowed with green eyes with heavy eyelids like his mother's, which gave him a hooded gaze like one of his father's hawks. His full lips were peach-red and his neck firm and muscled below a strong jaw.

  I like the color of the doublet, he thought. It made his eyes seem bigger, somehow.

  A shade darker than his pale green eyes, the doublet brought out the contrast with his hair and made his face – which he'd always thought of as funny-looking – seem aloof and interesting. He felt a small smile lift the corner of his mouth and abruptly hid it, trying to look serious.

  “Thank you, Maman,” he said again softly. “It's a wonderful gift.”

  His mother chuckled. “It suits you, son. You cut a fine figure. I'm so proud of you.”

  Francis swallowed hard. He hadn't ever considered that before – that his Maman, beautiful, cool-headed and accomplished – was proud of him. It meant a lot.

  “Thank you, Maman,” he said gravely. His voice was raw and he cleared his throat. She smiled.

  “I'm sure even Yves thought it suited you,” she grinned.

  Francis nodded. Yves served as manservant to both himself and his father. He was a curmudgeonly old man with a fine sense of humor and if he thought it suited him, it did.

  “He did, Maman.”

  “Well, then. There you are. You must know it looks exceptional, if Yves said it is just passable.”

  Francis chuckled aloud.

  “I could wish you and Father were going to come too...I'll miss your good company. Why should I face all that ceremonial heaviness without it?”

  His mother smiled and impulsively kissed his cheek, reminding Francis of the formidable, determined girl she must have been in her youth before he was born. “Well, I am sure you'll enjoy it. It's not all ceremonial and dreary. There's lots of fun to be had if you let yourself just enjoy it.”

  “I trust you, Maman,” Francis said fondly. “If you say it's fun, it probably is.”

  “It is,” his mother said, tipping her head back and letting a laugh escape that long, pale throat. “Now, then. I should let you get on with your preparations. I need to go downstairs and talk to the cook.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” Francis said fondly. “I appreciate it.”

  “Well, you will if I can persuade Cook to stop using the smoked ham and give you something decent to take with you on the journey. It's not winter anymore...we have fresher things in the pantry.”

  Francis chuckled and kissed his mother on the head fondly. “I'll leave it to you, Maman.” He grinned. “She's unlikely to withstand your active persuasion.”

  His mother's happy laugh followed him out.

  Even as he rode out in the coach, he found himself turning over his mother's predictions of fun at court in his mind. He wondered if she was right...If court would be fun and diverting and if he'd enjoy it. It wasn't how he imagined it turning out.

  I imagine long, tedious audiences full of protocol and talking to the older lords about the productivity of the farmland here at Annecy.

  He let his imagination run away with him. He filled it with a vast castle, wide courtyards, massive ballrooms filled with people. Fountains. Groves of trees. Walks. Balls, parties and opportunities to get to know others of their social status. A time and place for making matches.

  The thought made Francis nervous. Not only because of lots of young ladies, but the prospect of trying to choose a wife was really difficult. How did one even go about it?

  I suppose I find someone I like and ask Maman if she thinks they're suitable.

  That seemed the simplest way forward to Francis.

  All that matters to me is that I can talk to her.

  That was, he realized, the problem.

  The eligible young ladies he had met were like exotic birds – happy, chattering and playful. They seemed to think mainly of balls and parties and who said what to whom. He felt bewildered and didn't even know how to start talking to them. The few encounters he had with them
had been strained and daunting.

  I hope I don't find they're all like Marguerite, Henriette and Matilde.

  These were the daughters of the Baron of Moreau, Castelles and the count of Paysanne, respectively.

  Even just seeing them makes me feel awkward.

  Beautiful and refined, the three girls were like something from another world. An unapproachable, inaccessible world that had no intersection with his.

  He chuckled. “I'm talking myself out of this.”

  The idea of marriage was appealing to Francis. He thought about it as he felt the jolt and roll of the carriage underneath him. He had a wonderful example at his home, after all... his parents were best friends as well as lovers. He liked the thought of a true companion after a life where so often he felt alone. Of course, the idea of someone with whom to share the act of love did appeal to Francis, sending a thrill through his loins.

  He shook his head. Easy, Francis. You're not considering a pretty lass from one of the villages nearby. This is your wife you're going to choose. His loins were stirred now though, and he bit his lip, wishing he had time to seek Charmaine, the kitchen maid, with whom he'd had some happy trysts. The girl was friendly and willing, but he sensed she was reluctant now that they were both reaching an age to find a marriage partner. He respected her wishes to keep herself to herself.

  He needed to focus on his own future. If she could be so level-headed and practical, the least he could do was follow her example! He himself had the succession of the estate to consider.

  “Especially now. When I'm on court business.”

  “Whoa!” the coachman was calling. Francis looked out through the window, seeing the landscape change from wide farmed fields to valleys and wooded hills. They were on the road north. To Paris.

  The thought made his stomach tingle with excitement. He was on his way to Paris in the summer. To find himself a wife.

  The thought had daunted him before. However, things had changed. Was he anticipating it now?

  Strangely, after his conversation with his mother and the realization that, though different to most, he was not ugly, he found that he was.

  He wanted to see what life had in store for him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A MEETING AND A SURPRISE

  A MEETING AND A SURPRISE

  The sunshine splashed bright yellow light on the marble tiles. It glittered off the fountain in the courtyard where young ladies laughingly danced a quatrain on the flagstones alongside. Claudine Poitiers, daughter of Le Duc du Pavot, watched the water splash and listened to the happy chatter of the young ladies down below. She sighed.

  “Uncle Lucas?” she turned a smooth, high-cheeked oval face toward the man behind her on the terrace.

  “Yes?” her uncle asked. Soft and gracious with the accents of the court, her uncle's voice had always been able to soothe Claudine, even when she was at her most upset.

  “Why cannot I be like that? So carefree? So able?” She felt her long, tapered fingers curl into a fist where they lay on the balcony, her mute frustration like a pain twisting her heart.

  Her uncle sighed. “It is tragic, Claudine. But it is as it is. We cannot change what life hands us.”

  Claudine looked down sadly, big-lidded blue eyes sorrowful. If only she could move as those ladies did! Light, carefree, without having to plan it. However, Claudine was ill. For the last year or a little over, some strange malady had struck her. Insidious and undiagnosed, its only symptom was a slow lethargy that stole her vitality and breath, making even simple movements, such as climbing the stairs or crossing the yard, a demanding fight.

  “I shouldn't feel unhappy, I know,” Claudine sighed musically. “I am blessed with much. I know that. But all the same...” she shook her head, small pearly teeth biting her pale lip sorrowfully.

  “I know, Claudine.” Her uncle shook his head. “We must not allow despondency to overrule. Maybe some great physician will visit court? He may know the nature of this debility.”

  Claudine sighed. She had seen all the court physicians, and none of them had known what ailed her. She had listened to their advice, received their prescriptions. She had calmly tried them for a few days, and then given up hope. Nothing, it seemed, could remedy what sickened her.

  “Mayhap, uncle,” she said sorrowfully. All she could do was hope.

  “I do keep telling your father that it would benefit you to take time away from court. But it seems he will not hear my simple advice.” Her uncle raised slender, muscled shoulders below a velvet doublet.

  Claudine turned to smile sorrowfully at her uncle. “I know, Uncle Lucas,” she said fondly. “I know you hold my safety as important. Father, though...he is insistent I find a husband. The heir to Pavot seems more important than I.”

  Lucas shook his head. The sunshine glinted off his golden hair, almost identical to Claudine's own, marked just slightly by lines of silver that showed his superior age. “Do not judge your father too harshly. Laurence is a stubborn, hard-headed solider, but he cares about you too,” he said softly.

  Claudine chuckled lightly. She walked across the terrace, feeling dizzy, and found a chair to sit down in. Her heart raced sometimes for no apparent reason, her head thumping. She closed her eyes a moment to steady herself. Oh, why could she not be like everyone else?

  “I know Father cares for me,” Claudine said softly. “But Uncle, you...you help me. I know you understand what it is that ails me better than anyone.”

  Lucas frowned, sucking in his lips over his teeth a moment, a gesture familiar to her that showed his worry. He looked not entirely unlike her father, with his high brow and long, elegant face. Where her father was sleek and contented, her uncle was lean and watchful. The younger son and count of Blanchard instead of duke, he seemed more complex than her own hale, unconcerned father.

  “I care about the state of your health,” Uncle Lucas said softly. “I think your father...is less involved in it than I.”

  Claudine sighed. If her uncle meant to say her father was cheerfully oblivious to anything but hunting, fighting and the governance of the estate, he certainly found a discreet way of stating that.

  “I know Father has...other things in mind.”

  “The succession. Ah, yes.” Uncle Lucas frowned mildly. “Quite why he's so excited about your producing an heir, I'm not too sure. Anyone would think he's simply avoiding me.”

  Claudine chuckled. “Uncle, I'm sure it is not that. Anyone can see you'd be a grand duke.”

  “I don't want to be Grand Duke,” her uncle said pettishly. Then he grinned. “I know what you mean, niece,” he teased fondly. “And thank you. Your faith in me is moving. If only it made me more able, I would revel in it. But sadly, it does not. I am as I am, and have no means of helping.”

  Claudine shook her head. “Uncle, you do what you can. I am indebted to you for your assistance as it is. No one would have assisted me more. There's nothing that can help me.”

  Claudine said it despairingly.

  “Niece...” her uncle said gently. “Patience.”

  Claudine felt a sudden stab of restlessness, out of character with her usual tranquil self. She did not feel patience. Why should she? She was twenty years of age! Why should she be confined to a chair on the terrace, unable to take twenty paces without weariness, when other young ladies of the court could hop, skip, and dance? It wasn't fair! She would need to try and find someone who could help her.

  She stood and walked to the edge of the terrace, wishing at the least to watch the ladies dancing and forget, for a little while, about her watchful, concerned uncle telling her to have patience. If it was him unable to walk or dance or ride, confined to a chair most of the day, he'd find patience a challenge.

  Claudine leaned on the rail, her head clearing a little as she breathed in the fresh, fragrant warm air and watched the ladies in the courtyard below. Two of them, Yvette and Mirabelle, were dancing together, Mirabelle holding out an elaborate skirt of yellow silk and blue b
rocade. They were laughing, arms linked, as they practiced some new dance step together.

  “Oh, come on, Mirabelle! Why should I dance the man's part?” Yvette protested lightly.

  “We can take turns,” Mirabelle said, her bright, glossy hair shining in the sunlight as she turned to face her cousin with an impish grin.

  “Maybe he can be of assistance?” one of the other ladies, clustered around Mirella, who played the lute for their pageantry, suggested.

  “He?” Mirabelle asked.

  “Yes. Pardon me, sir? But what is your name. And since you watch us so intently from the hallway, mayhap you will join in our fun?”

  Claudine felt herself smile, a little shocked by Mirabelle's forthright invitation to whoever it was. The subject of their addresses – a young man, Claudine knew it must be – stepped uncertainly forward. Claudine saw him step out of the shadow of the hallway and into the light of the courtyard below.

  She stared.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, with a strong-jawed face, the young man had an upright posture that was not matched with his awkwardness. It was his hesitating manner which struck her first, though it struck her at almost the same time as the color of his hair.

  A brown that leaned closer to a rich russet, like leaves in autumn, kissed with sunshine, it was a striking color different to many she had seen before. No other young man she knew had such hair.

  The hair color, combined with the uncertain grin and the broad-shouldered, hardened body made him striking and handsome.

  Claudine felt her heart start to thump in a way that had little to do with the malady.

  I've never seen someone who interests me like this.

  “I wonder who he is?” she whispered, almost to herself. She watched him walk forward, the still air of the summer's courtyard allowing the words to carry clearly up to her.

  “We need someone to help us learn the quatrain,” Yvette explained. Her thin, elegant face was flushed red, Claudine noticed. She felt her own hands grip the stone railing tighter as she watched the young man frown, evidently quite surprised by the invitation.