The Night Side

by Melanie Jackson

  “We are not calling him Broonie!” George insisted, his annoyed tone breaking in on Colin’s reverie. “I think we should call him Harry. Do you not think that a good name, Mr. Mortlock?”

  Colin looked at the drying animal. The children’s brisk toweling had further aggravated his hair’s tendency to curl, and the hound looked very much like an enormous thistle going to seed.

  “Well, he is certainly a hairy beast.”

  “Not hairy. Harry! After King Henry. He looks like a lion, doesn’t he? And he is big like the king…Unless you would like me to name him after you,” the boy suggested generously.

  “Nay!” Colin said, appalled at the idea, but at George’s hurt look he began searching for words of moderation. Inspiration struck. “Too much confusion might ensue. We could never be certain which of us you were calling. I think he does indeed look a good deal like a lion.”

  That was a lie, but it seemed better than saying the animal looked like the king. It wasn’t a comparison the vain monarch would care for.

  “Then Harry he shall be,” George said happily.

  “I like Broonie,” Morag insisted.

  “I like Tyke,” the other boy said, speaking for the first time. “Tearlach said he was a tyke.”

  George sniffed. “You only think that a good name because you are just six—and you are a girl,” he added crushingly, turning to the mutinous-looking female. “You know nothing about giving a noble animal a proper name.”

  “He’s a furry commoner,” the wounded six-year-old lashed back, then added something in Gaelic. Colin didn’t imagine it was polite.

  “You’re the commoner! Harry is clearly a very noble animal! He probably escaped from the king’s retinue during one of the battles.”

  The two younger children began to pout, disbelieving of this theory and inclined to say so.

  Colin decided it was time to take his charges inside. It wouldn’t do to have a second battle of Solway fought in the castle’s courtyard while they were entrusted to his care. “Come along. I am certain that Frances is anxious to see our guest now that he is looking so splendid.” It was another lie, but the perjury was worth it if it averted battle. “You can tell her all about his name, George, for I am certain that she’ll like it.”

  There were also some things Colin wished to tell her, but he wasn’t certain how to go about the task and if she would like his words as well as the hound’s name. Could a man ever speak of love on such short acquaintance and not appear irrationally hasty?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  And if any gaze on our rushing band,

  We come between him and the deed of his hand,

  We come between him and the hope of his heart.

  —William Butler Yeats,

  “The Hosting of the Sidhe”

  It was not a complete surprise, but still a welcome sight when a small band of men in hodden gray plaids and worn capes came riding up to the keep on the afternoon of the following day.

  The bishop himself was not among the dun-clad party, but Colin recognized his right-hand man, a Frenchman, Lucien de Talle, the one they rather ironically called le Corbeau because he favored priestly black garb. Like Colin, Lucien served as the eyes and ears for others. Unlike Colin, he was an instrument of observation for more than one master, being of service to both the bishop in Scotland and those working for the Protestant Enlightenment of France. Having no liking for servants of more than one master, Colin had nevertheless always found Lucien to be an honorable man, his strong religious views notwithstanding, and he did not hesitate to welcome him into the keep.

  Understanding something of the situation at Noltland, the soldiers brought with them a few servants only, and supplies for themselves and their beasts. It took a while for things to be sorted out, but with the help of the very surprised Balfour women—Anne Balfour being excepted, as she had kept to her resolve to remain in her chambers while the hound was allowed to roam at large—they soon had things stowed away and the throng organized into regular watches. For the first time in months, actual guards served as sentries atop the keep’s wall, keeping a weathered eye out for malefactors who might fight against what they perceived to be Noltland’s struggle for emancipation from the forces of obscurantism.

  They had one other man with the company who was not a mere soldier. He was Angus MacBride, a true cleric of the reformed church who, Lucien explained sotto voce, was there in the bishop’s stead if Colin was determined to go ahead with his plan to marry Frances Balfour before Noltland’s men returned.

  Colin could feel the bishop’s secondhand glee at the thought of marrying Colin and Frances under the cloak of his religion. Noltland had not firmly committed itself to one side or the other in the religious battle, instead being loyal to Scotland’s monarch. He would feel that to perform the marriage of Noltland’s heiress was an accomplishment both moral and political.

  Frances, unaware of Angus MacBride’s calling and Colin’s purpose in requesting him, was delighted with Lucien and his soldiers, and was at her most charming. Her tone set the example of how the men were to be received at the castle. George was at his dignified best while expressing a soft thanks for their prompt arrival, and the women were gracious and warm to their somber visitors, though Tearlach was heard to mutter something about hershippers and limmers overrunning the castle before he disappeared inside the keep.

  At first unhappy about their assigned task as guards for this remote keep—and doubtless less than pleased to have the mad piper calling them cattle thieves and rogues when their motives were pure—the bishop’s soldiers soon thawed in the warmth of their welcome and promptly fell to work with a will, seeing to the many tasks that had been left undone when the Balfour men went off to war. The good physical work was actually welcomed after the boredom of soldiering in camp when no battle was at hand.

  It was several hours before Colin and Lucien were able to find a few moments for private conversation, but after dinner that evening, they were at last able to retire to Colin’s chamber, and there had some direct discussions. Colin felt the weight of Frances’s gaze as it rested upon his retreating form, but she did not follow.

  “Mon cher, I thought your plan mad when the bishop first explained it to me. But she is a lovely thing. And most valiant, too. What an intelligencer she would make! Women have a natural gift for this work, and she is intelligent as well,” Lucien said with admiration, accepting a glass of wine. He lounged, very much at ease, his crisp black beard thrust belligerently forward onto his chest. His keen eyes scrutinized Colin, veiled though they were by his long dark lashes.

  Colin forewent the examination with calm and humor, though he had no intention of discussing his true feelings for Frances Balfour, particularly as he did not yet know if they were truly requited. He was willing to be thought mercenary, but not a sentimental fool.

  “Searching for signs of madness?” he enquired, as the visual consideration stretched on.

  “Signs of love. But perhaps that is the same ailment. MacJannet is certain that an intense infatuation is upon you and has demolished your wits,” Lucien answered.

  Colin shot back his cuff and laid a hand upon his wrist. He counted leisurely for a moment, demonstrating the lack of frantic, amorous pulsations. It went counter to his new feeling to disavow his allegiance to Frances Balfour, but it was standard practice in his calling to be duplicitous about amatory dealings. It was no part of true affection to give hostages to Fate, and he did not trust Lucien that much.

  “My pulse does not leap, nor is it thready.” Next, Colin clapped a hand to his head. “I can feel no fever. My hands do not shake. I have not abandoned civilized dress for the Highland man’s drafty plaids and plain blue bonnets. And my senses have not so far abandoned me that I cannot tell that I am in the very north of Scotland in a damp pile of rubble and not in the comfort of my own well-ordered home.”

  Lucien’s white teeth flashed and he laughed softly. “I said ‘ailment,’ not ‘illness.’ And it
is MacJannet who questions your good senses, not I. I’ve known you too many years to be concerned that you would lose your head over a pretty face.” He waved a languid hand, a delicate gesture that he managed quite well in spite of calluses from his many years of wielding a basket-hilt sword in battle. “It is also quite plain that your taste in effete English clothing has not changed.”

  “Softly, my popinjay. I’ve seen you in France; do not forget. I recall a particularly resplendent cloak of crimson velvet. You can easily be a peacock among peacocks when the mood—or the role—suits you.”

  Lucien smiled benignly, his eyes wide. “But no one else here has seen it. This rough lot would never believe such testimonies. They are boring and unimaginative, if very devout, and would not believe me capable of such sins against convention.”

  “Convenient, that. I cannot imagine the bishop employing any other sort. One does not want large numbers of men with weapons thinking too much for themselves.” Colin watched Lucien’s smile widen and then added: “But, if my health and fashion of dress do not interest you, then let us talk of the bishop and his plans. He is still pulling caps with Beaton?”

  Lucien stopped smiling. “Aye, they’re a fractious lot, these Catholics, encouraged by the Lord of the Isle to every sort of mischief. Either he or the bishop shall end up dead. There’s been one punitive foray against them already; a bad business where people went mad with battle lust. No one was spared, not even babes in their mother’s wombs.” Lucien’s tone was suddenly grim and hard as he answered frankly. “They were content before to confine themselves to political stratagems, but are increasingly given to talk of actual battle and the hiring of mercenaries from Ireland and Spain.”

  Colin shook his head.

  “And there will be no help from the throne,” Lucien went on. “That is why the bishop could spare a score of men to you and no more. All are needed elsewhere.”

  “’Twill suffice. If MacJannet is quick at his work,” Colin answered, also grim.

  “But when was the industrious MacJannet ever anything but efficient?” Lucien asked, lounging back in his chair and resuming a calm tone.

  “Never. A fact for which I am most grateful. The situation is perhaps more imperiling than I first thought. I could not put everything into my letter, lest it be intercepted. And certain strange events have arisen since MacJannet’s departure.”

  “Oui? But of course they have. Something always arises when it is inconvenient. Confide in me, mon cher. I am all attentiveness and anxious to be of service.”

  Before Colin could speak, there came a distant but ghastly blare, which made the wooden shutters rattle.

  “You are slaughtering swine this night?” Lucien asked, sitting forward in his chair.

  “Nay, ‘tis the piper playing down the sun.” Colin fetched the ewer and refilled Lucien’s glass.

  “Are you certain? The sun was gone some time ago.”

  “Tearlach is sometimes behind the hour. Ignore it. It will be over soon.”

  Lucien cocked his head. “The bagpipes are all infernal noise to me, yet this sounds more ill than anything I have yet heard, even from a novice. It sounds like the screaming of the damned being tortured in Hell.”

  “Well, it might be the baying of the spectral hound,” Colin allowed, as nearby, Harry’s mournful wail joined Tearlach’s ear-splitting disharmony. “Tearlach is sometimes less than affectionately known as the bane of the Balfours.”

  “A spectral hound? MacJannet spoke some of this Bokey hound, but he denies that it is of supernatural agency.”

  “MacJannet is, as always, correct.”

  “Then you found the beast that stalks your halls and threatens the young laird? You have dispatched him, or do we need to mount a hunt on the morrow?”

  “The beast was discovered. He was not however ‘dispatched,’ as the boy has taken a great liking to him, this extremely unspectral hound, and the monster also apparently likes him. Much to Lady Frances’s dismay. She is used to keeping a tidier house.”

  Lucien laughed softly. “Alors! But this is most odd, and a story I must hear at once. Come, tell me the round tale.”

  Colin took the second seat near the hearth, and with his feet comfortably toasting, he proceeded to tell Lucien of his adventures since setting foot in Scotland, omitting only his cousin’s plans of acquiring the keep and Frances for the MacLeods.

  “But what a tale!” Lucien exclaimed as Colin drew it to a close. “However, I think perhaps some things have been left unsaid?”

  “You are not at all stupid, my friend,” Colin answered, sipping his wine. “I think your imagination can supply any deficiencies of detail. They are unimportant matters, after all, as I have no intention of this keep falling into anyone’s hands except the Balfours’.”

  “And the boy? You have plans for him, as well? I rather like him. He is small but quick of wit. In time, he will become a good leader. If he lives.”

  “George is a difficult matter,” Colin conceded. “It is best if he remains here to see to his inheritance, but I have every intention of removing Frances as soon as may be. And I do not think the two cousins shall wish to be parted.”

  “Ah.”

  “There is another matter, as well. Whether we discover the hound’s true master or not, I am not certain that I will never be easy in mind leaving George here without a strong guardian who has his welfare at heart.”

  “Not so long as there is the possibility of a traitor in your midst,” Lucien agreed with a short nod. “You have identified who she is?”

  Colin stared at Lucien for a full second.

  “You did remark that I am not stupid,” Lucien reminded him. “It has to be one of the women. And as I said before, they have the gift of scheming.”

  “Aye, more is the pity. There’s no proof, of course, so it makes accusing her difficult.”

  “Oui? But you and I have long experience with knowing things that cannot be easily proved. Treason against one’s laird is a dastardly thing. Something must be done, even if it is not done before a royal court.”

  “Aye, I know this.”

  “What shall you do then?”

  “Nothing, until I find her confederate. She could not be acting alone. And it may be that there is some circumstance that would argue for mitigation.”

  “I see. But when the other party is discovered, what then?”

  “I know not,” Colin admitted. “I have no stomach for this new habit of shedding the blood of women.”

  “Nor do I, mon ami,” Lucien agreed with a sigh. “But sometimes it must be done. And this creature has conspired at murder of a child, her kin, and her laird.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  This quiet dust was gentlemen and ladies

  And lads and girls.

  —Emily Dickinson, “This Quiet Dust”

  Frances watched the tenebrous passageway, waiting for Lucien de Talle to leave Colin’s chamber. Her own room was dark and growing cold, as the hearth had been allowed to die down to embers. She had known it would be a sacrifice sitting in the dark without a fire and had prepared herself by dragging a stool to the door and supplying herself with a blanket. But the night was proving to be both longer and colder than she had anticipated.

  Finally there was a crack in the blackness, and the silhouette of the Frenchman could be plainly seen in the doorway. Frances leaned forward impatiently, stilling her breath lest he somehow hear her as he stood alone in the echoing passage, as though listening for something. She willed him to be gone with thoughts fierce enough to bludgeon, yet Lucien turned back after a single step and said something in parting that gave her pause, even through her single-minded desire to see Colin again.

  “You’ll remove her as soon as you may, oui? Then see about securing the boy’s inheritance?”

  “Aye, I’ll have her away. There are things afoot here of which she is best left in ignorance.”

  Frances frowned, feeling vaguely troubled.

  “That is best
. Females, even the finest of them, are not good repositories for men’s confidences.”

  “I’ve not forgotten my calling, Sir Worry. Be off with you and leave matters in my hands.”

  Frances quickly eased her door shut as the light of Lucien’s candle came wavering down the hall, forerun by the echo of his catlike footsteps.

  Could the Frenchman have been speaking of her—saying that she was unworthy of trust? It was rude of him to talk so of her when they were barely acquainted. And worse still that Colin did not defend her virtue to him!

  But surely this was not what they meant. It had to be someone else they spoke of.

  Frances’s brow cleared, and she rubbed a hand over her thudding heart, trying to soothe its alarm. She was being silly. Of course they had to have been speaking of the traitor in the castle. That spiteful person seemed to always be in Colin’s thoughts.

  As for the talk of Colin’s calling and George’s inheritance—well, she had not heard what had passed before it. Surely if she had heard the entire conversation she would not be feeling this vague alarm, because certainly all would be explained.

  Still, perhaps now was not the time to go and speak with Colin. A calm mind was still far from her command. She should perhaps wait, reflect…If she went to him now there was only one way that things would end. And suddenly, she was uncertain if this was what she truly and forever wanted.

  Colin frowned at his door. He had been almost certain that Frances would seek him out as soon as Lucien left. She had to be consumed with curiosity about what news he brought. And yet she did not appear.

  Either she had fallen asleep while waiting, or she had come creeping down to listen at the door and overheard something that had awakened caution in her breast. Colin thought back to his final exchange with Lucien when his door was ajar and then cursed beneath his breath. If she had heard that, she might very well be suffering from pique. Or perhaps giving birth to new damning and inconvenient distrust.