by Lynsay Sands
“It seems the lady did no’ need yer healing skills.”
Rory grimaced at that comment from Conn as the man moved up beside him. “Nay. She has those skills herself.”
“Aye,” Conn murmured, but there was sympathy in his eyes, as if he knew how disappointed he was.
Rory tried to shrug it off. “’Tis fine. It gives me a break from tending to everyone’s wounds.”
“She’s an interesting lass, is Lady Elysande,” Conn commented. “Brave as our Lady Saidh, skilled at healing like Laird Sinclair’s wife, Lady Jo, and kind as all yer brothers’ wives. I think she’ll be lovely like all o’ them too once she heals,” he added. “In fact, at one point this morn while visiting the shops, she briefly forgot her sorrows and smiled and laughed and I saw a hint o’ the beauty the bruises are shadowing.”
Rory immediately felt envy twitch at him a bit. He would like to see the lass smile and laugh.
“Oh, you’re up.”
Rory turned toward the door to the kitchen to see the alewife peering out. Offering her a smile, he said, “Aye. Good morn, madam. Thank ye fer the bread, cheese and ale. ’Twas appreciated.”
“Well, I could hardly let ye go hungry after Lady Elysande explained ye’d sat up all night to guard her and your men against those nasty villains who attacked her.”
Rory blinked at the words and glanced to Conn, who was nodding solemnly, a twinkle in his eyes. Apparently he was aware of the lie Elysande had told to cover for his sleeping in. One that made him look better than he deserved, he thought as the woman began to speak again.
“And ’tis handy you’re here, because we need some help with the plaid,” the alewife said with a slight frown. “I’ve done me best, but m’lady suggested I fetch you if you were up, or your brother if you were not.”
“I’d be pleased to help,” Rory said, and moved toward the door when she gestured for him to follow.
When he entered the kitchen this time, Elysande was fully dressed in not just her own gown, probably her breeks and tunic still under, but now she also had a strip of plaid over it and belted around her waist with a bit of rope. The hem though was a bit lopsided, the pleats uneven and the part above the rope at her waist had just been pulled around her shoulders like the blanket it was.
“I fear while I’ve seen a Scottish lady or two wearing the plaid over their gowns, I wasn’t sure how they managed it,” the alewife said fretfully. “I couldn’t seem to get the pleats right and—”
“Actually, ye did well fer yer first try,” Rory assured her kindly.
“I told you, Mildrede,” Elysande said at once, smiling at the woman. “It just needs a tweak or two.”
Rory stared at her blankly, losing his train of thought at the sight of her smile. Elysande was at a slight angle to him with the bruised side turned away and when she smiled kindly at the alewife, or Mildrede as she called her, he was stunned to see just how pretty she was under all that damage.
“Is that not right, my lord?” Elysande prompted him, making him realize he was just standing there gaping at her.
“Aye,” he said finally, his voice gruff, and moved forward to perform those tweaks.
“I still don’t know why ye think you and yer men need to wear Scottish dress,” Mildrede commented as she watched him work.
“Because if de Buci forced my mother’s maid to tell him what she knew, he and his men will be looking for an English lady and her two soldiers traveling with Scots. Not a Scottish lady and her men.”
Rory had just knelt to straighten her pleats, but leapt up in horror at her words. “Ye told her about de Buci?”
Elysande’s eyes widened slightly at his reaction, but then she patted his arm soothingly. “Aye, but ’tis fine. Did you not see the portrait of our king in the great room where we ate last night? Mildrede is a loyal subject who would not see our king murdered either. She is more than happy to help us now she knows the importance of our mission.”
“Aye,” Mildrede said firmly. “Why our king is a saint. Much better than his father, Edward II, or that Mortimer, who basically ruled and bankrupted the treasury while our king was a child. Only Satan’s henchmen would wish to see our king and his son dead so they could place his brother on the throne. Nay, we do not need that happening.”
Rory had some difficulty with anyone calling Edward III a saint. He knew the man had done some good things, like an overhaul of the government and such, and unlike his father he wasn’t trying to take over Scotland. At the moment. But that was only because he had his hands full with France.
Still, the woman seemed sincere in her loyalty to her king. Besides, with the roads unpassable there was no worry that she could send a messenger to de Buci to betray them for coin, and he intended they would leave the moment the roads were passable, so he supposed it mattered little if she knew.
Sighing, he merely nodded and turned his attention back to straightening the plaid, and quickly had the skirts fixed.
“I need a pin to clasp the top,” he muttered after pulling the material up and around her throat. “If we pin it here, ye can leave the remainder to lie, or pull it up o’er yer head like a cloak hood.”
“I have a pin,” Mildrede said, and rushed from the room.
“You are upset that I told Mildrede,” Elysande said quietly once they were alone.
Rory grimaced, but acknowledged, “Well, s’truth I’d rather ye had no’. She likes her coin, the alewife. Do ye no’ recall the ridiculous sum she demanded to let us sleep in the stable?”
“Aye. I remember. But ’twas only because you are Scottish,” she said defensively.
Rory frowned at the words. “What’s that to do with—”
“You said yourself that the people here do not like the Scottish. They see you as the source of all their hardships. Why, English children are raised being told to behave or the Scots will drop from the trees and get them.”
“Were ye told that as a child?” he asked with dismay.
“Nay, of course not. My mother was Scottish. She said we are a strong, brave people determined to hold on to our independence.”
Rory smiled, liking the way she included herself as a Scot despite being half-English.
“The point is,” Elysande continued firmly, “Mildrede is naturally afraid of Scots. Still, she was too kind to see us out in the cold on such a horrible night even though we are naturally something of an enemy. So, she let us stay, but made you pay a lot so that she could salve her conscience and keep her neighbors from thinking poorly of her by being able to claim, rightfully so, that she had made us pay dearly just to sleep in the stable.”
Rory stared at her silently, thinking she was the sweetest, most naive woman he’d ever met.
“Besides, she gave us food to break our fast with for no charge. She let me use her kitchen to make my liniment and helped me with it, and is including a fine meal tonight too to make up for it now she knows everything.”
“The liniment,” Rory said now, latching on to that bit and letting the rest go. “Ye were careful with the wolfsbane? ’Tis—”
“Poisonous,” she finished for him with amusement. “Aye. I know. I was most careful in the handling of it and in the amount used.”
Rory nodded, and then asked, “Is it working?”
“Aye. I am feeling much better. Numb most places, which feels odd, but . . .” She shrugged fatalistically.
“’Tis better than the pain,” he finished the unspoken thought for her.
“Aye,” she whispered, and then glanced past him to the door when it swung open.
“Here. You can use this one,” Mildrede announced bustling into the room and holding out a fine cameo brooch.
“Oh, nay, Mildrede,” Elysande protested. “’Tis too fine. I cannot take that.”
“I want you to,” Mildrede assured her, and then ran one finger over the brooch. “’Twas my mother’s. She received it from a lord she found injured in the woods and helped as a young woman. He had no money on him
and gave her the brooch as a thank-you. She gave it to me when I married.”
“Then I definitely cannot take it from you, Mildrede,” Elysande said firmly.
“Well.” Mildrede frowned briefly. “You could borrow it, then. Once you’ve warned the king and he’s taken care of that de Buci bastard and his friends, you can come back for a nice visit, tell me of all your adventures and return the pin. I’d like that I would. To see that you were all right and learn how you’re faring.”
Elysande smiled at the suggestion, obviously touched by it, but then frowned. “But what if de Buci captures and kills me? The pin would be lost forever. Nay, I cannot.”
Rory saw the way Mildrede paled at those words, and fully understood her response. He felt a little weak and sick at the suggestion himself. More so by the way Elysande said it so cavalierly, as if it was a good possibility and one she was not only aware of, but had accepted.
“De Buci will not have ye,” he said firmly. “Me men and I will keep ye safe. Me whole clan will once we reach Scotland, and I’ve brothers and a sister with their own clans and armies all across Scotland that will help. Between them and the Sinclairs, we will get ye through this alive, lass. And warn yer king too.”
Mildrede seemed to start breathing again then, and even cast a smile his way. “There, you see? He and his men will keep you alive. So you can borrow this.”
“Aye, we will,” Rory said firmly. Taking the pin, he used it to fasten the plaid around her neck, saying, “But only for a short while. We’ll go out at once, purchase a much less expensive brooch for her to use, find our lunch at one o’ the inns and then return yours when we get back.”
When Mildrede opened her mouth as if to protest, he added gently, “’Tis a lovely piece and might draw notice, which is the last thing we want until this ordeal is over. Something less expensive would serve us better.”
“Oh, aye. I suppose it might,” the alewife relented.
“And I promise I will see Lady Elysande here myself for a visit once this is all over.”
She rallied at that, and gave him another smile. “Well, that’s fine, then.”
Nodding, Rory took Elysande’s arm and urged her toward the door. “Then we’ll be off and let ye get about yer business.”
“Aye,” Mildrede said. “But make sure you’re back for the sup. I sent my Albert out to find some meat so I could make you a fine stew tonight. Nothing fancy mind, but a hearty pottage to fill yer bellies and build up yer strength for the trials ahead.”
“We shall look forward to it,” Elysande assured her as Rory whisked her out of the kitchen. He was moving her so quickly now they were several steps into the ale room before she got her head turned forward again, and then she drew to an abrupt halt as her gaze settled on Tom and Simon in their new finery.
Chapter 7
“M’lady?” Tom said uncomfortably when Elysande merely gaped at them.
“Are you displeased, m’lady?” Simon added, glancing from her to Tom and back, and then he asked almost hopefully, “Should we change back into our own—”
“Nay!” she blurted, starting forward again and smiling now. “You look like Scots, and that is what we wanted.”
And it was true. They did look like Scots. Just a little shorter and a little less brawny than the real Scots they traveled with, Elysande thought as her gaze slid over them. Tom and Simon had looked much larger in their hauberks, chain mail and padded tunics. Now they didn’t seem very threatening at all. At least not next to the Buchanans, each of whom were a couple inches to half a foot taller, and most definitely wider with much larger upper arms. Even Rory, who was supposed to be renowned for his healing rather than his sword work, had huge upper arms. But Tom and Simon were two of her father’s youngest men. It was why they’d been away delivering a message when de Buci arrived and hadn’t returned home until after the slaughter was over. Still, it was shocking to her to see how much smaller they appeared in the Scottish gear.
“Ye look lovely in yer arisaidh, Lady Elysande,” Conn said in his quiet voice. “Like a true Scots lass.”
Elysande flushed with pleasure at the compliment until she recalled the damage on one side of her face and that she couldn’t possibly look lovely. The man was just being kind. Taking it in the manner it had been intended, she smiled at the man, drew the sides of her plaid skirts out a bit and quickly dipped into a curtsy.
Popping back up, she smiled widely and tried to mimic their Scottish accents. “Thank ye, kind sir. ’Tis pleased I am to be a Scottish lass.”
The horror on the Buchanan men’s faces told her they were no more impressed than Rory had been with the effort. Rolling her eyes, Elysande spun on her heel and headed for the door. She pulled the top of the plaid over her head, drawing it across the damaged side of her face as she went, adding in that accent they so abhorred, “Come alon’, then, laddies. Apparently, we’re off to the shops again and then on to find our noonin’ meal somewhere.”
“Ye’ll have them weeping do ye keep that up, lass,” Rory said with amusement as he appeared at her side to open the door for her.
“’Tis nae tha’ bad,” she protested as they left the alehouse.
“Aye. ’Tis,” he assured her with a grin as he took her arm.
Elysande merely gave an annoyed sniff and kept walking.
“Why are we heading back to the shops?” Alick asked as he and the other men moved out around them.
“Lady Elysande needs a pin fer her arisaidh,” Rory answered.
“But she’s wearing a pin,” Alick pointed out, leaning his upper body forward to peer around Rory at the pin fastening Elysande’s arisaidh at her neck.
“’Tis the alewife’s,” Rory explained. “Just borrowed until we can find her another to replace it.”
“Ah,” Alick said with understanding.
“Conn, do ye ken o’ a shop where we could find what we need?” Rory asked.
“Aye.”
“Lead the way, then,” Rory suggested, and the man moved out in front of them to do just that.
They walked the next few minutes in silence until Rory asked her, “What do ye think o’ the city, lass?”
Elysande glanced to him and then around at the busy street, managing not to grimace. It had been beautiful this morning when they’d first left the alehouse. The air had been cold and crisp, the street almost empty and the ground covered with fresh, clean snow. But by the time they’d returned to the alehouse they’d had to pass through a very different scene. The city had been teaming by then, the air had reeked of offal and the street had been a mixture of slush, mud and the contents of the chamber pots that had been emptied out the windows of the upper floors of the buildings.
In truth, she found the city disgusting and felt sorry for the people who had to live here. She was also grateful she had grown up in a castle far away from the cesspits of such a city. But instead of saying that, she asked, “Are all cities like this?”
“Some are bigger, some smaller, but aye. Otherwise, they are all much the same,” he answered, glancing around.
Elysande wrinkled her nose at this news, but simply said, “Well, ’tis nice to have the shops available, and not have to wait for the various merchants to roll up to the castle.”
“Aye. ’Tis an advantage,” Rory said, and then grimaced. “But the smell.”
“Aye,” Elysande gasped, and tugged the hood of her tartan over her nose as they passed through a particularly putrid area. “And it cannot be healthful to be walking about with this kind of filth in the streets. ’Tis no wonder the Black Plague hit the cities so much harder than everywhere else.”
“Aye,” Rory said grimly, and then pressed her closer to the building they were passing, and rushed her along as they heard a shutter open overhead. They were just quick enough that none of their party got splashed by the contents of the chamber pot that someone tossed out.
“Where do the children play?” Elysande asked with sudden concern.
“What?�
�� Rory asked with surprise.
“At Kynardersley the servants’ children played in the bailey when they were not helping their parents. But where do they play here? I have not noticed any children about.”
Rory glanced around now as if in search of them. “Mayhap the cold keeps them inside today. But I have no idea where they would play on nice days.”
They were both silent as they followed Conn down another street. Elysande glanced around to see the men beside and behind them. Alick was on the other side of Rory, while Inan was beside her and the rest of the men were behind them, but all of them were alert, their eyes scanning the people in the streets, on the lookout for trouble. Elysande supposed Rory had told them to keep an eye out for de Buci’s men.
Not wanting to think about that just now, Elysande sought her mind for something to say and asked, “What was it like growing up with so many brothers and a sister?”
Rory looked surprised by that question, and then he smiled crookedly and shrugged. “I’ve never really thought about it. I guess ’twas noisy, busy and sometimes a pain in the arse.”
“Why a pain in the arse?” she asked with curiosity. She’d always wanted brothers and sisters. It had never occurred to her that it would be anything but wonderful.
“Because o’ the pranks we pulled on each other,” Rory said with a fond smile of remembrance. “After my mother died, I always had me nose in any book on healing I could find, and they were fond o’ teasing me o’er it, or snatching them away and making me give chase.” He shrugged wryly. “Although, to be fair, they ne’er picked on me as much as each other.”
“What kind of pranks did they play on each other?” Elysande asked with interest.
“Oh, well, shaving each other’s heads if they were fool enough to drink too deep and lose consciousness. Putting crushed rose hip in their beds to make them itchy.”
“Putting pigs in their beds while they slept, or carting their beds out to the bullpen while they were still sleeping in them,” Alick put in, joining the conversation. Leaning around Rory he met her gaze and explained, “Those last two were when we were older and the brothers we did it to were in their cups.”