The Night Side

by Melanie Jackson

  Colin, not previously a sentimental man, found himself wishing MacJannet and the smiling faces of Pemberton’s servitors were with him to help celebrate. He keenly missed the joyous celebration that would have been theirs at Pemberton Fells, and vowed to plan a feast for the missing guests as soon as he and Frances returned to his home.

  There was no delay of ceremony after the short procession. Angus MacBride began as soon as the last shrieking notes of Tearlach’s pipes and Harry’s baying died away. He wasn’t a man filled with fatherly tenderness for humanity, and looked out over the sea of faces he suspected were rife with sin, then began austerely: “Greetings, all my brothers and sisters. We are gathered here to join this man and this maiden in holy wedlock, and to consider the great happiness that may flow from a full and perfect union of this kirk and kingdom, by joining of all in one and the same covenant with God.”

  With these words, embers of fanaticism flared and the tones of evangelical hellfire began licking at them all as he spoke.

  Frances turned her head and looked at Colin, a question in her eyes. Colin wanted to groan at what was obviously to be a ceremonial mix of religion and politics, but confined himself to a small encouraging smile.

  Angus went on after drawing another breath. “We are now thoroughly resolved in the truth by the word and spirit of God. And therefore we believe with our hearts, confess with our mouths, subscribe with our willing hands, and constantly affirm, before God and the entire world, that this only is the true Christian faith and religion, pleasing God, and bringing salvation to man, which now is, by the mercy of God, revealed to the world by the preaching of the blessed evangel; and is received, believed, and defended by many and sundry notable kirks and realms, but chiefly by the kirks of reborn Scotland. Let us pray.”

  Colin nudged a shocked and outraged Frances, winked once, and then bowed his head for a longwinded prayer. He supposed he should be happy the bishop hadn’t sent John Knox.

  “…and shall defend the same, according to our vocation and power, all the days of our lives; under the pains contained in the law, and danger both of body and soul in the day of God’s fearful judgment.”

  Colin saw a flush of anger stain his bride’s cheekbones and wondered if much of the congregation looked the same. He didn’t think the bishop would understand if his soldiers ended up dead, poisoned by angry Balfour women. He wondered also if evangelical MacBride noticed the hostility, and thought not. The man’s eyes and voice were raised in prayer directed at the ceiling in the back of the great hall as if the Lord himself were hovering there; he noticed nothing else.

  “I swear we shall be married again by a priest if you desire it,” he whispered to Frances, setting lips against her ear.

  “Merci, but I feel that I shall be quite married enough,” she muttered back, her lips barely moving. “Can he not make haste? The sun is nearly set.”

  That was an exaggeration, but it was getting darker as clouds gathered and blotted out the waning light.

  “…so that we are not moved with any worldly respect, but are persuaded only in our conscience, through the knowledge and love of God’s true religion imprinted in our hearts by the Holy Spirit, as we shall answer to him in the day when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed. As we desire our God to be a strong and merciful defender to us in the day of our death, and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ; to whom, with the Father, and the Holy Spirit, be all honor and glory eternally, so shall we be strong and honorable. Amen.”

  The echoed amen was heartfelt. Apparently appeased by their sincerity, MacBride at last began the ceremony of marriage. Colin mentally urged him to hasten. A feeling of nervousness had begun tickling the back of his brain. Perhaps it was the coming darkness and the castle’s many ghosts that unnerved him, but he wanted to reach the moment when he pushed aside the bell of his bride’s long sleeve and slipped his ring upon her hand. He’d have no peace until the deed was done.

  Cook had arranged a viand royal in a very short space of time. The bridal supper had three courses, each with its own soup. The cranky goose had made the ultimate sacrifice for the occasion and appeared arrayed in a magnificent sauce, which was spiced with Tearlach’s remaining surrendered ginger and sweetened with honey. There were oysters en gravey and chawettys filled with mutton, and a sotelty of the family coat of arms made out of dough. And to smooth the way for this rich feast, there was mulled wine.

  Harry had been freed after the ceremony and he spent his time capering about with a sort of magnificent gallop that a pony might envy. Colin had been prepared to order George to take his pet lion away, but the sagacious hound had not committed the sin of begging at the table. Colin suspected this was because George was supplying the beast with adequate treats beneath the board, but Colin did not comment on the abuse of Cook’s fine cuisine. It pleased him to see boy and dog so happy.

  The bride was very quiet, and not in appetite, but Colin could hardly blame her; he felt no inclination to gluttony either. His senses, his intuition, were still actively warning him that something was amiss. It would not surprise him to learn that Frances felt the same way.

  Or—he looked over at her—could it be that she was feeling shy?

  Colin shook his head, wondering at his stupidity. Of course she was nervous! This was her wedding night. The fact that they had nearly made love already did not mean she didn’t face this moment with trepidation. MacBride’s talk of spiritual purity had probably driven all thoughts of desire from her head and had her nearer to panic than anticipation. He wondered if he should say something to her. But nothing reassuring came to him.

  Very soon, it was time to retire. The Balfour women made a ring about Frances and led her away. It did not please him to see Anne Balfour among the bridal party. He hoped she would say nothing untoward.

  His own somber groomsmen likewise rose from the table, intent on seeing him to his chambers and into his nightclothes, and who knew what thereafter. Among his party were the castle ghosts. They showed no understanding of what had just passed, no joy or anger. They were probably simply attracted by the activity, or so Colin assured himself.

  Glancing back at a worried-looking George, who sat alone stroking Harry and staring after his cousin, Colin decided he would permit his escort as far as his door, but no closer to the bride. Whatever the local tradition might be, he was not subjecting her to the barbaric custom of having the bride’s deflowering witnessed. This wasn’t a royal wedding. There was absolutely no need for it. If some proof was absolutely necessary, they could hand the sheets out in the morning.

  There was another excellent reason to keep them away from the bridal bed. Their gloomy presence, condemning anything that looked even mildly pleasurable, could make a man impotent. It could even so damage a delicate girl’s sensibilities that she might never enjoy the act of consummation. He would not let these creatures ruin this marital happiness for them!

  Belatedly, it occurred to him that this would have been just the thing to say to put Frances’s mind at ease. He would reassure her as soon as they were reunited.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I saw the new moon late yestreen,

  Wi the auld moon in her arm;

  And if we gang to sea, master,

  I fear we’ll come to harm.

  —“The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens”

  The bride looked both nervous and wrathful, sitting in the middle of the nuptial bed. Colin could understand that. Thwarted desire made him wrathful, too. However, he suspected there was more to her ire than frustration at delayed gratification, and was practically certain Anne Balfour was to blame for the new chill in the bedroom air.

  “You look quite cross, my love.” His tone was light in spite of his anger. The Bible might be correct that a soft word could turn away wrath.

  Frances said pettishly: “Those women seemed unable to conceive of me undressing myself. Do I not manage this task every evening?”

  “The men had a similar conceptual problem,” Colin
answered soothingly, pouring out some of the wine he had ordered brought to their chamber and bringing her a glass. “But they are gone now.”

  All except the one ghost who hovered near the fire. Colin might have thought her to be Frances’s mother, but the mode of her dress was wrong. He did his best to ignore her silent witness.

  Frances took the wine but still did not meet Colin’s eyes. She bowed her head slightly and the fall of her hair served as a dark curtain that draped the side of her face and hid her further from view.

  “Why don’t you have a little wine and then tell me what Anne Balfour said to upset you,” he suggested gently.

  Frances’s startled gaze fluttered up briefly.

  “You’d best tell me about it,” he urged. “Distrust and anger grow like some horrible fungus in the dark shadows of doubt. Obviously Anne has been busy planting poisoned words. Best we clear them out before you have ugly mushrooms pouring from your ears.”

  Frances didn’t smile at this silly sally, proving that she was actually very upset.

  “Speak, my dear, or forever hold your peace. Ce soir ou jamais, as they say, it is tonight or never. Once this marriage is consummated, there will be no going back.”

  In point of fact, they were already past the point of undoing events. And even if they had not been, Colin would never permit her to throw their union away because of anger at a small misunderstanding. Still, he knew better than most how to be politic in his replies.

  “Very well then! Have your truth—and so shall I. You have deceived me from the first! You almost took me as a lover—and all the while you lied about what you are! I thought this was something wonderful between us, and now you have poisoned the pleasure. I believe all men are deceivers!”

  He found interesting that she objected to deceit in a lover and not in a husband. He was also very interested in where and when Anne Balfour had come by her news.

  “To begin with,” Colin answered calmly, “I did not lie. I said I wanted you to wife and I still do. Cherie, please consider the source of these rumors before you allow them to spoil your pleasure in your wedding day. Your cousin has not distinguished herself with loyalty and charity of mind or action. She is, in fact, a traitor. She knows me for an enemy of her schemes and will of course try to blacken my name to you. Doubtless she would have blamed me for your father’s death and King James’s, as well, had she thought you would believe it.”

  Frances’s voice moderated, but her face remained stormy, proving that pain was often recalled by the sufferer long after an injury was inflicted. “But her traitorousness does not alter the facts that do exist, does it? You are not who you pretended to be.” The lower lip trembled. “How can I know now if anything you say is true? I…I am so…how do you say decevoir?”

  “Disappointed.” He sighed. “I am sure you are.”

  “Oui! I had hoped that in spite of the mystery around you, I would be moving into a more honest life. One more open and free, where I did not have secret enemies. Now I discover that I have more than ever before!”

  Frances tilted back her goblet and drained it. The sudden rush of spirits brought a hectic flush to her cheeks.

  Colin seated himself on the edge of the bed and possessed himself of her empty hand, which he clutched tightly against himself. “Frances, look at me. I am speaking the absolute truth now. This I swear, before God and on the life of my sovereign. I am Sir Colin Mortlock, owner of Pemberton Fells. I came to Noltland to be your Master of the Gowff at my cousin MacLeod’s request—just as I told you.”

  “But…but you are not just Sir Colin Mortlock, are you? You work for the English king against the Scots.”

  “I have never worked against the Scots, just against their most recent king, who was an idiot—and I am always Sir Colin Mortlock.”

  She snorted, but her hand relaxed. He preferred her scorn to the threat of tears, though he would rather have had smiles from his lady on this, their wedding night.

  “That may be truth, but it is not all the truth.”

  “You are correct. Sometimes, when the king has need of me, I am more besides.” Colin looked into those darkly troubled eyes and tried to explain what he did. “Put aside your hurt, if you can, and consider the world of the monarch. As powerful as they are, there are places where sovereigns may not go. There are things a wise ruler needs to see and know if he is to guide his country, but may not be told by his advisers—perhaps because they are pursuing their own political ends, perhaps because they are blind to everything except their own ambitions or obsessions. It is unfortunate, but still true, that these obsessed men are often the sorts who are drawn to power. Imagine how frustrating this would be for you if you were a king who actually wanted to make informed decisions.”

  Frances nodded once. Colin thought it was an agreement simply to consider his words, not to assent to his points.

  “Sometimes that desired information is trivial, but other times it is vital. On the occasions when the information is most crucial, it nearly always happens that discretion is required while acquiring it. In these cases, I—and my father, and his father before him—have served in times of crisis as the eyes and ears of the king. This was our duty—just as your father felt it was your family’s duty to lay down their lives for your king at Flodden. My presence here is dishonesty in a sense, because I have lied by omission in not announcing my sometimes occupation, but it is not deceit. It is simple survival. Everything I have done here has been for your well-being and our future happiness. It has nothing to do with my king or politics, English or Scottish. I see danger here and have moved to intercept it before it can do you or George harm.”

  There was a long silence as she mulled this over. The concerned ghost drew nearer. Colin made an effort to ignore her, since she didn’t seem to mean any harm.

  “You see it as the same thing—what you do and what my father did?” The question was, to Colin’s relief, thoughtful rather than sarcastic. The tide was turning in his favor. He blessed the streak of curiosity that ran through her pragmatic mind.

  “Aye, I do,” he answered truthfully. “It is required that we each serve our monarchs according to our gifts. This ability to live two lives simultaneously is a peculiar talent that seems to belong to the Mortlocks. It is decried by some men, but the power of dissembling is essential to the art of the intelligencer. Few men of morals and loyalty have the gift, for if they know truth they feel they must always speak it. And others are intent on silencing them so the truth shall not be known. These honest men do not survive long in the world of kings.”

  “But Colin!” She waved her free hand. “To live your life for politics. It is so petty.”

  He laughed shortly. “Petty and almost always dangerous to some degree. But I tell you that a well-thought-out stratagem wins more battles than generals and their armies. Frances, you have no concept! Petty politics sway behavior in ways that you have not ever considered.” Colin set his wife’s empty goblet aside and took both her hands. He drew a breath and then spoke more openly than he ever had in his life, even to MacJannet. His first truth surprised him when he heard himself say: “What a lot of virtues—like discretion—I have set aside since coming here.”

  Frances sniffed, apparently still unimpressed and unforgiving. “Politics. What is there to consider? It is just the maneuvering of greedy men who have no other sensible occupation.”

  “Perhaps, but I am quite serious about this point. Think about it, Frances. Use your wits. I know it is not your usual realm of thought, but you have seen first-hand the effects of royal maneuvering and can understand this. Consider that politics, at the very least, influences fashion—from deciding what clothes we wear to what musicians and artists will be favored in society. It even decides what sports we shall play. Look at how the bishop’s men dress. Look at how your gowns are different from what ladies here wear. Think why it is that you may not go veiled into a kirk. It isn’t God’s revealed will that causes this. It is the whims of kings and priests
that have caused this.”

  Surprised at his words, Frances looked down at her silken night rail, and acknowledged that this was true. No other woman in the keep would wear silk, because of religious prohibition.

  “But politics does much more than this when it becomes a quest for power and influence over men’s minds.” Colin shook his head, searching for a way to explain how large this princely power was and how it was growing into something nearly impossible to control. “In recent years it has left the throne and climbed into the pulpits. There it has put words into the mouths of priests, and through them, political beliefs have been implanted into the hearts of otherwise godly men. It makes some into zealous reformers, and others doubt their own beliefs and become crippled by conflicting thoughts. It can be a tool for change, a weapon of destruction, even a vile usurper of princely power if perverted…what it cannot be is ignored. Not if you are a king. Not if you are a loyal subject who serves his monarch faithfully. As goes the king, so goes the country. Politics and the politicians, ugly as they often are, are about our survival.”

  She spoke hesitatingly. “And you are paid to do this?”

  “Aye—handsomely,” he answered, refusing to feel shame. He had never felt that idleness made possible by wealth made one man better than another who toiled for his bread. “But the best reward this occupation can bring is safety.”

  Frances’s eyes widened.

  “Safety?”

  “Knowledge is power. Power, naked or disguised, is what keeps you safe. And if you have not enough of this strength on your own, then knowledge lets you borrow from others in times of need. But you already know this at some level. Do not forget, Frances, that you are also a dissembler.”

  Frances’s eyes widened.

  “Qu’est-ce que?”

  Colin nodded. “Has your recent life at the castle not been all a tapestry of lies? Lying to neighbors, lying to my cousin, even lying to your own people about what we have arranged for them, weaving together an illusion—and all so that George and your family may be kept safe from the wolves at your door?”