She sighed softly. It was hard that their problems should be so large. One year ago, all she had worried about was escaping the boredom of the convent. Now she had to agonize over the welfare of all those who lived at Noltland, especially her young cousin. It made for a trilemma, trying to decide which was more dangerous: the hellhound, the possible spy in their midst, or Colin Mortlock trifling with her heart.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
O wha is this that has done this deed,
And tauld the king o me,
To send us out at this time of the year
To sail upon the sea?
—“The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens”
Colin looked at his two small companions and had to smile wryly at the thought of them being his soldiers to command. They were the tiniest, least physically imposing army he had ever seen. Still, he had waged wars of wits with less intelligent allies and carried the day, so he was not concerned overmuch by their intrusion. He actually welcomed their thoughts. The only trick would be to assure their safety while he tracked down the traitor in their midst and dealt with him or her. He had a feeling that both George and Frances would strive for more active participation than he had in mind.
Colin carefully poured out three glasses of wine from the bottle he had brought to Frances’s bedchamber and assumed a suitably serious mien. He had already decided to begin their council by explaining the benefits of welcoming William Kirkcauldy, Bishop of Orkney, into their nominally Catholic midst. This would be the tricky part, for the Catholics of Scotland had every reason to fear the reformers massing around them. The Anglicization of Ireland and Scotland had gone further than King Henry had ever envisioned when he had declared himself the head of the Church of England, in order to attain an annulment from his first wife, and had started importing reformers over the border. He hadn’t even needed to waste many resources murdering the annoying Catholic Scots, for the Protestant Reformers who embraced Luther’s war cry had happily done it for him. The Catholics of Scotland still had the throne behind them, but Colin was certain the Protestants would eventually have their way. The pageantry and corruption that went with the wealth of the Catholic Church had never sat well with the poor but honest Highlanders. And many former Catholic priests, young John Knox among them, had enthusiastically embraced the new faith and its promised reforms.
Personally, Colin found both sides of the religious skirmish to be annoyingly dogmatic, and as dangerous and unreasonable as a pack of rabid dogs. Yet a tool was a tool. He needed a weapon of defense and the Bishop of Orkney was conveniently at hand. The trick would be to not stand up so tall that anyone wanted to lop their heads off when the Protestants came scything for blasphemers. It was Colin’s experience that much would be forgiven, but not religious impudence.
“Our greatest weapons are of course our minds and the knowledge accumulated therein,” Colin began. “That said, I do not despise cold iron, and suggest that henceforth you both go about armed. At the very least you must carry a sgian dubh in your boot. Nor should you venture out alone.”
Frances and George nodded solemnly, their eyes very large.
“I know there is some trepidation about bringing the Bishop of Orkney to visit Noltland, but I think I can put your mind at ease about this matter. Though we have passed through an unsettled time, and the religious strife is by no means completely behind us, I can state with near certitude that the reformers are going to have their way politically here in Scotland. There will be holdouts like Cardinal Beaton, who will resist with heroic stupidity until he is assassinated, but they will not prevail, and it is important in the greater picture that Noltland be seen as being friendly to, if not actually aligned with, the forces of change. We are, so to speak, going to walk the crown of the causeway and try not to wet our feet in the spiritual tidewater.”
“But—” Frances began, starting to frown.
“However, political consideration is for another day. What is of more immediate importance is that we have some strong ally here at Noltland to hold your greedy neighbors at bay until your men return home. We need someone both powerful and honest to serve as our shield.”
“And they say hen’s teeth are rare,” George muttered. “Where are we to find honest but powerful men?”
“Don’t be despairing,” Colin answered. “Fate has encompassed us with a tremendous sea of misfortune. But while we are encumbered, we are not completely enclosed, and we can escape this trap as long as we remain vigilant, with a firm hand on the helm until the wind of change comes about.”
“The men will return then?” Frances asked. “And soon? And the bishop’s people shall not need to linger once they are here? I cannot help feeling that we shall attract much unwanted attention if he remains for any time. Our neighbors are not fond of the new religion.”
“There shall return as many men as still live and can be found by MacJannet in reasonable time. It is a somewhat tricky task, but in this search he will be aided by William Kirkcauldy, since it is in the bishop’s interest to prevent this keep from falling to unfriendly Catholic hands. I believe the terminus, at least of this difficulty, is within sight, so we may be at ease. Stop frowning. These worried looks you wear quite kill my optimistic mood. One would think you had no faith in me,” he chided.
Frances and George both exhaled loudly and Colin went on: “The trouble of your neighbors setting about to scare or capture you, George, is another matter entirely. And one not so easily settled. Henceforth, neither of you is to leave the castle grounds unless I am with you. Not for any reason, and not even in the company of the bishop’s men. I don’t care who summons you. Unless MacJannet or I am with you, you must not leave the safety of the keep. And even within it you must be cautious. It is not beyond all possibility that your neighbors have a confederate within the castle.”
“No!” Frances denied swiftly. “It cannot be. Everyone here is Balfour by blood or by marriage.”
“I am sorry, but it is a possibility—nay, a probability—we must not ignore. I know the thought is distasteful, and it is not my desire that you feed on the bitter bread of distrust, but you must bear in mind that someone might be playing the part of intelligencer for what they perceive to be an innocent reason. They may even be carrying out tales unaware. Can you be absolutely certain that no one ever has contact with the outside world? What of the beggars who stopped here earlier? What of the widows who might have allegiances with their blood families? Or someone who has a lover? Can you risk your own and George’s life on this naïve hope of complete Balfour clan loyalty?”
Frances and George exchanged a glance.
“Non, we cannot be certain,” she finally said. She turned her troubled gaze upon Colin. “There are probably those who would say I am most foolish to trust you, that you might be the intelligencer who wishes us harm.”
George gasped softly at her audacity, his eyes going wide and owl-like.
“Very true,” Colin agreed affably. “I am, after all, related to the MacLeod. Of course, this hound was heard before my arrival, but it might be a subtle plot concocted by my cousin when he was last here, one to which I am now joined. George, don’t look so disturbed. Have some more wine. Your cousin and I are merely fencing.”
Frances frowned, trying to imagine the MacLeod being subtle. The image would not form. Nor could she see Colin as being the subordinate Judas to any man. She felt certain that if he intrigued, it would be for his own ends, and she could not see anything he might want that he could not have by easier means.
“Are you an intelligencer for your cousin?” she asked straightly, making George choke on a mouthful of wine.
“Nay, I am not. But he certainly intended for me to be,” Colin answered with breathtaking frankness, staring into her pleading gaze and wishing he could kiss the worry away. He tried not to think how close this was to an outright lie. He wasn’t intriguing for his cousin, but he was definitely an intelligencer. “And if the MacLeod can plan such a thing, so can others. You are wise
to remain wary.”
George’s seizure of coughing grew worse with Colin’s answer, causing Frances to momentarily look away from her Master of the Gowff.
“My cousin, are you well? You are quite red of face.” She laid a hand over her bosom, as though to still her own turbulent heart.
“Aye,” George whispered, wiping away a tear. “I breathed when I should have swallowed.”
Colin took a sip of his own wine before going on. “My own cousin, however, forgot the first rule of puppetry. One must be very sure of one’s creations before sending them out onto the stage. He did not pause long enough to consider that I might have allegiances elsewhere that superseded the ties of blood. That is a very Scottish mistake, assuming that blood ties are always valued above all other things. It is not always true. Politics and marriage—and greed—can make other bonds just as strong.”
“And do you have other allegiances?” Frances asked, looking a bit white about the mouth as she considered this.
“Aye, of course. All men do—particularly men of property. And, before you ask, none have anything to do with a secret marriage to a woman in York. However, I do not care to share the list of these bonds with you at this moment, as they are not relevant to our task and would require some explanation.”
Frances glanced swiftly at George, and then wisely held her peace, though Colin suspected she wished to question him about the women in his life who might not live in York.
Colin went on: “What is of import to you is the fact that your well-being and the preservation of this keep from your neighbors is now my foremost concern.”
“But why should this be so? We are strangers to you—not kin, not political allies. I am not your wife.”
Colin looked straight into her eyes. “Why? I think you know the answer to that question. As for being related through marriage or politics, give it some time, my dear. I am not that impetuous.”
Frances flushed a shade of vivid rose. George began to smile. His small body relaxed and his wheezing eased.
“All right. If Frances is satisfied, then so am I. Where and how do we begin?” the boy asked.
“First, we find the hound’s lair. If possible, we track the creature and discover our foe, and then lay a trap for both man and beast. If we cannot discover the hound’s master, then we settle for the time being for ridding ourselves of the canine nuisance and making it difficult for anyone to steal out of the castle and carry tales to our enemies.”
Frances and George both leaned forward. Frances asked, “How do we do this? Have you a notion for where to begin the search?”
“Aye. That I do, and we’ll start first thing tomorrow morn.” Colin lowered his voice and said impressively: “Here is what we shall do. George, you will provide a distraction while Frances and I begin the hunt…”
Frances jumped as the chamber door shut softly behind George and she was left alone with Colin. Earlier, she had been so exhausted that she felt she would drown in sleep the moment the sky went dark. But now she was wakeful, her mind as bright as the noon sun, and whirling like a cyclone with all the plots she and Colin had made.
“You have no final words for me? No questions before I retire?” Colin asked. He added coaxingly: “You were curious enough earlier.”
“I think it is for you to speak first,” she said softly, staring intently at the yellow handkerchief she wound around her fingers. It had been her mother’s, and it was her gesture of continued mourning that she carried the thing with her at all times.
“That is certainly traditional,” Colin answered. “Unless the man is a lady’s servant. Then he might hesitate before speaking plainly of delicate things.”
Frances laughed without humor. “You are not my servant. I have not been so foolish as to think of you as such since…” She waved a hand. “For a long time. And you have never hesitated at plain speech—and more.”
Colin studied her busy fingers, now completely swathed in linen. “It is true that I would not be content to remain your servant for long. Yet I do plan to be of service.” He took her bandaged hand and began unwinding the delicate linen. “And it would greatly relieve me to know that I am not plowing water here. Even the bold sometimes wish for encouragement.”
Frances looked up, puzzled by his words.
“Tell me, lady, that I do not sow the seeds of affection in sterile sand when I court you. Your heart does not belong to another?”
Frances swallowed, and thought how best to answer this. Her heart was saying something with great vehemence, but she did not entirely understand. Since Colin’s arrival it had been as though she was struck by the brightest light, which dazzled her with emotional lightning. But a part of her knew that after the beautiful lightning, there came a fearful thunder of hindsight and common sense, and it was for this aftermath that she waited, hoping for some determinate sign that would tell her definitively if she should give her devotion to this man.
Her heart said: follow. Reason, ever suspicious, bade her flee. She had to favor reason because loneliness could make the heart foolish.
“How can I answer you?” she said at last. “There is no reply that is not either cruel or immodest, and now I have no guardian to answer for me. I do not see at all what we should do.”
“Ah! That is true. Unless Tearlach…”
“Never!”
“Ah! Yet there is protocol for this situation. We must not despair.” His tone was light.
“Indeed?” Frances allowed him to lace their hands together and to turn her to face him. Beneath his fingertips, her pulse raced.
“Aye. One needn’t declare oneself forthrightly, but it is customary to give some sign to one’s suitor. Now, let me consider…You might begin by passing me a rose stripped of thorns.”
“We have none,” she pointed out. “Only thistles. And their thorns are fixed. It seems to me that this would send an altogether repressive message, oui?”
“Sadly, this is true. Well, then, you might begin by saying something like, ‘Your face hath taken up residence in my heart.’”
“That is most poetic,” she approved, beginning to smile at the foolishness of their conversation. Some of her anxiety departed. “Supposing that it were true, of course, and a woman did not mind being unsubtle.”
Colin’s teeth gleamed as his lips replied to her smile in kind. He led her toward the fire, seating her on the stool by the hearth. “Yes, always supposing. But if you said this, then I could reply with, ‘On my tomb shall your name be fixed fast,’” he went on outrageously. “Which is quite a tribute, for stone masons are rather rare in these parts and marble is expensive.”
“Marble?”
“From Italy,” he affirmed. “I would insist on the finest.”
“That is certainly a commitment,” Frances agreed, as he knelt before her on one knee, and raised the hem of her skirt toward his lips. When he paused, she asked a bit breathlessly: “What then would happen?”
“Then I should present you with a sonnet or ode—I shall see to that as soon as we have found our illmannered dog and dealt with him. Do you like sonnets?” he asked, kissing her dress before letting it fall.
“But of course.”
“Good. Sonnets are shorter. I am not at all certain that I could compose an entire ode,” he confessed.
“Not even with my face in residence in your heart?” she asked.
“Hmm—perhaps. But you would have to accept that it wouldn’t be a first-rate ode, not on an initial try. You might actually have to sit through many readings of a great deal of ill-sounding poetry before an ode of sufficient skill and passion came from my quill.” Colin leaned forward, still taller than she, even when seated. He lowered his face to hers, pausing a breath away.
“Let us begin with a sonnet and see what transpires,” Frances whispered.
“Nay. Let us begin with a kiss. ‘Tis a traditional form of inspiration,” Colin murmured, bringing his lips to hers. “Lasseir les aler,” he whispered.
L
et them go! But what did he mean? Her feelings? Her doubts?
“Oui,” she sighed, not certain what she was agreeing to, and in that instant, not particularly caring.
Frances exhaled and allowed herself to relax into the kiss’s soft temptation. Colin’s hands traveled from her hands up the length of her arms and throat until they reached her face. There he made a frame for her chin and rested his fingers against her warmed cheeks.
His lips coaxed, asking gently to be let near her so he could taste. His scent filled up her head and made her dizzy. Her spine melted, her limbs growing weak as her body pressed itself against Colin’s greater strength and warmth. Her good sense swooned into insensibility and left her body to its own devices.
Colin gathered her in, burying his face in her hair and murmuring some endearment that she could not hear above the drumming of her heart. Heat washed through her body with the force of a tidal current.
There came a brisk rap on her chamber door, loud enough to interrupt her heart’s thunder and intrude on her benumbed brain’s dazzlement. Colin rose to his feet and, putting her from him, spun to face the intruder.
As he turned half away, Frances noticed the dirk he clutched at his side. The blade was plain and serviceable, not the sort worn by court fops. It disturbed her to see that even when he made love he was armed and prepared for battle. Some of the delightful, mindnumbing heat drained away from her, stilling her tumultuous pulse and causing the tide of desire to recede precipitously.
The Night Side Page 13