Nat snorted, and gave her a disbelieving look. She smiled sweetly back.
It was Christmas day, and the Cotter family was preparing to tuck into its first real feast. This year, no luxury was too expensive. Not for one day of the year.
The Christmas ale had been a marvelous success, and every member of Duckett and Company had been awarded a handsome bonus for all his hard work. Between Joseph and Nathaniel Cotter they had been able to afford the goose, chestnuts for the stuffing, hot brandy and rum punch, plum pudding, candied peel, gingerbread, and mince pies.
Twelve-year-old Rose had been in heaven all day, preparing the food and chasing the men folk away with a wooden spoon when they dared try to sneak a sample.
Isobel had helped where Rose hadn’t any idea what some of the ingredients were meant to be used for.
In the corner stood the family’s first ever decorated fir tree. Just like Queen Vic and her family. It was not done up as fancy, of course. No lighted candles, no tinsel, no expensive glass bits and pieces. Instead, the Cotters had all worked on hand-making colorful bits of paper and string. It was more beautiful than any tree in the world. And the tenement flat had never looked or smelled so good.
Isobel had spent the entire day with the family. In the morning, they had all gone to Christ Church cathedral to take the service, and afterwards they had come home. She’d spent the afternoon with Mary and Oliver, telling them stories and singing carols. And later, they’d opened presents together. To add to the festive atmosphere, a fresh snow had fallen overnight, blanketing London in magical white.
They were truly blessed this year.
Once the goose was on the table, Nat stood over it. The carving knife was raised, and he examined the bird with a frown.
“How do I carve it?” he asked Isobel.
Isobel frowned, too. “That I don’t know. Willcox was always the one to carve it—Nat, I think it’s upside down. The breast is supposed to face up.”
If that was true, then she was right. The legs were pinioned under the bird, leaving the poor animal’s shrivelled spine as the only adornment.
“Hmm,” he said, prodding the crispy brown goose with the handle of the knife. “Well, all right. We’ll remember that for next time, shall we?”
It was not the most beautifully carved goose in the end. Not worthy of the Savoy, to be sure. But each person around the table had a portion of meat on his or her plate, and each one hid their snickers behind their hands as Nat grumbled and swore at the poorly positioned bird.
“Delicious,” Joseph Cotter declared as he tucked into his. “Never tasted anything like it.”
“Wonderful job on the pud, Rosie,” Nat complimented his sister.
Rose blushed, and glanced shyly towards Isobel. “It’s not so great as it could be.”
“It’s fantastic,” Isobel assured her. “These plums are so plump. You’ll have to teach my cook a thing or two.”
This made Rose blush even deeper, and she dipped her head to hide her pleasure.
Nat gazed across the table at Isobel. Truly, his heart could not feel any warmer at this moment.
After dinner, shouts of childish glee from the street below drew Mary and Oliver to the window.
“That’s Edgar and James,” Oliver exclaimed, calling over his shoulder to his father. “They’re having a snowball fight.”
“Can we go down, Dad? Can we?” squealed Mary. She bounced in place, mince still wedged into her cheeks.
“All right, all right,” Mr. Cotter relented. “Why don’t we all go down, then?”
The whole family put on their cloaks and made their way down the stairs and into the street.
Outside, it seemed as though all the children in Spitalfields had gathered in front of their tenement, and were having jolly fun in the snow. Mothers and fathers stood around watching and laughing. Mary and Oliver ran to join in, hurriedly gathering up handfuls of snow and launching them at the nearest body they could find.
When Oliver launched a snowball at Rose, who was watching at a safe distance, it accidentally hit Isobel. The boy’s face sobered as Isobel gasped and looked down at her cloak.
“Why you little urchin,” she exclaimed, and swooped to scoop up her own handful of snow before tossing it at Oliver. When it struck him in the shoulder, she let out a great whoop and hopped about.
As one unified front, Oliver, Mary, and their friends launched a surprise attack at the spectating Cotters. Nat and his father joined in while Rose stood back, seemingly offended by the childish spectacle. But when she was hit by a wayward snowball square in the temple, she let out a shout, and joined in the fight. Soon the entire street was throwing snowballs indiscriminately at one another, old and young alike.
Eventually the snow throwing gave way to a general merry romping. Red-nosed and breathless, Nat drew Isobel to his side and circled an arm around her. Contented, she laid her head on his shoulder. They’d long ago stopped caring about who saw them together.
“I was thinking,” she said as she watched the children. “My house in Belgravia is awfully large for one person.”
Nat tipped his head down to look at her. “Is that so, Mrs. Duckett?”
“It’s also farther from the brewery than I’d like to be.”
“It’s only five miles.”
“That’s not quite an easy walking distance.”
“We’ve walked it before.”
“Yes, but not every day. I think I might like to walk to work each morning. It is good exercise after all.”
“Oh, yes. Good exercise indeed. What are you trying to say, my love?”
“Well… I was thinking I could take a house a little closer.” She paused, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. “Something with, perhaps, five bedrooms. Space for a three- and a five-year-old to tear about. Somewhere where people aren’t going to look down at a family from Spitalfields moving in next door.”
“Are you asking me to marry you?” Nat teased.
“Certainly not. That’s for you to ask me. I’m just saying it’s rather practical to take a house together. Would it not be ideal?”
Nat tightened his arms around her. “It would. It would be ideal. And I’ll have you know that a certain question has been on my mind.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed. I’ve been waiting for the right time to ask it.”
Isobel leaned her head back on his shoulder, and her gaze returned to the children.
“How about you hang onto that question for just a while longer, Nathaniel Cotter. Surprise me with it when I’m least expecting it.”
He pressed his lips to the top of her head.
“How about I save up some money first so that I’m not poor when I ask you.”
She laughed and swatted him affectionately. “I don’t care a fig if you’re poor. I do, however, think Mary and Oliver need proper rooms in a house of their own. And Rose, for she is swiftly growing into a woman.”
“That she is,” Nat agreed. “And she’ll need a good woman to model herself on as she grows.”
“So it’s settled. I shall look for a house closer to the brewery, and you shall continue to save your money.”
“Agreed.”
Together, in reverent silence, they watched the scene in the snow. Watched Joseph Cotter crawl like a horse with Mary and Oliver on his back. Watched the moon as it shone down from the clear winter sky.
Nat contented himself with the mere presence of the woman beside him, and of the final gift he had for her that he’d not given her that morning. It was plain, gold, and wrapped simply in parchment. But he’d saved his money to buy it for her, just as he’d saved every penny he’d earned over the last several weeks. With the bonus from the Christmas ale, and a generous donation from his father’s wages which Joseph Cotter insist his son take, Nat was no longer quite so poor as he was letting Isobel believe.
When he saw her home tonight, he would ask her his question. It would be the most memorable Christmas ever, and t
he first happy Christmas of many to come.
Did you enjoy this story? Also by Veronica Bale, try this complimentary chapter of
A NOBLE TREASON
“Veronica Bale strikes an excellent balance between setting a rich, detailed backdrop and building a story intriguing enough to pull you in and not let go until you’re finished. If you like historicals, romances—or better, both together—you’ll enjoy this book.”
—Sarah Wagner, Author of Eldercynne Rising on A Noble Treason
One
A malevolent wind streaked through the autumn air. Invisible fingers raked the masonry of Stirling Castle, which jutted into the night sky atop the rock cliff on which it had been built. The wind’s lamentations seeped through the chinks and cracks of the mortar, echoing through the castle’s corridors like the moan of the banshee.
The sky was a dense, unyielding black this night. Not a star, not a hint of the moon’s pale glow, penetrated the ominous curtain that smothered the land below. Neither was there firelight to offer a flicker of comfort. Not on the wall walk of the castle, nor in the streets of the town below. Any torches that were lit were quickly snuffed out by the relentless wind.
Safely contained within Stirling Castle’s royal apartments was a man. He sat in front of a grand hearth, idly watching the flames of a modest fire as they twitched and shuddered in their iron grille. His bejewelled fingers clutched at the fine furs draped over his shoulders, and he slouched, sulking, in a large armchair of carved oak. The seat and the armrests were padded in scarlet velvet, complementing the crimson in the plaid of Clan Stuart that draped his knees.
Some might even jest that they complemented the crimson stain upon the man’s royal cheek, a mark left at birth, and one that was a source of great ridicule…but only when His Majesty was not around to hear it.
A sharp, swift knock at the door made a welcome disruption from the wind.
“Come,” the king called.
The guardsman stationed outside clicked the iron latch. The door swung inward on silent, well-oiled hinges. Silhouetted against the flat orange glow of the torchlit corridor, the queen consort, Mary of Guelders, waited patiently to be received. She stepped through to her husband’s chamber. Dismissed by a wave of the royal hand, the guardsman shut the door behind her.
King James remained as he was; he did not look behind to acknowledge his wife as she crossed the room. Her skirts rustled and jerked with each waddling step she took. Reaching his chair, she lowered herself awkwardly to her knees, a task made difficult by her heavily pregnant belly. Taking his gold-encrusted hand in both of hers, she kissed his soft, pale knuckles.
“Your Majesty.” Her elegant French lilt rippled over delicate lips.
King James waggled his fingers, releasing her. Queen Mary struggled to her feet, and when the king swept an arm, inviting her to sit, she smiled gratefully. Her gray eyes swept the room. The mate for the chair in which her husband sat was next to the window. Too far from the warmth of the fire. Her only other option was a cushioned stool. It had no back and no armrests, but it was next to the hearth, and closest to the king. Mary knew which seat James would prefer she take.
It was just as well. She desired warmth more than comfort anyway.
The queen arranged herself atop the stool, curbing (as much as possible) the grunts of effort that seemed to accompany everything she did these days.
There was a long pause in which the king said nothing. He simply continued to observe the restless flames, as though he’d forgotten his wife had joined him. Mary knew better than to interrupt. She rested her hands lightly on her belly and waited.
“How are you feeling this night, my dear?” he enquired at long last. His was a cultured English accent, the baser Scots inflections of his subjects having been scrubbed from his speech during childhood.
“I thank you, Your Majesty. I am well. The babe has been mercifully still this day, and I have been able to rest.” It was a lie. The truth made the king fidget, so Mary always lied.
“And the children?”
“They too are well, Your Majesty. I am told by Alexander’s nurse that he enjoyed the apples brought from York. And Marguerite and Mary have spent the day at their lessons. The harp master sends Your Majesty his praises of the princesses.”
The king tisked. “I’ve bid you before. Do not call her Marguerite. It is Margaret. This is not the French court.”
“Beg pardon, Your Majesty. Margaret. I forget myself.” Abashed, Queen Mary smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her lap.
The king lapsed once more into silence. A long, slender finger stroked his lips in thought. The queen shifted subtly on her stool. The ache in her lower back intensified, and she longed for a padded backrest. To hell with the backrest, she longed for her bed, for a skin of hot water and a goblet of warm, spiced wine. Still, she dared not interrupt. The king could be quite petulant when he had a mind to take offense at something.
“Parliament has sanctioned my declaration,” he announced. “The lands of the lesser Douglases are now lawfully considered forfeit.”
“Of course they have. How could Parliament possibly deny their king’s demand in the face of such a monumental treason?”
“You placate me, woman. They certainly never had a problem opposing my father. Nor did they think twice when they forced me to return the Douglas territory I confiscated last year.”
“Ah, oui. I had forgotten.”
“You’re forgetting quite a bit of late.” James flipped a mocking glance in her direction.
Mary’s face stung as though she had been slapped. Mon Dieu, he was in a foul mood. Had he beckoned her merely for the sake of abusing someone? He knew full well how different Scottish parliament was to that of the French system in which she’d been raised. Like its English counterpart, the French monarch’s ruling hand was absolute; he made demands of his noble lords, not requests. Not so with these Scots and their backward system.
Of course, if she had paid better attention during her lessons as a girl, the queen might have remembered that now. Parliamentary customs among the different kingdoms had never been of much interest to young, pretty Mary of Guelders.
“And you will proceed with the confiscations?”
“Yes, and as swiftly and brutally as possible. I want the Black Douglases crushed. Once and for all. No longer will they stand in my way of ruling my own lands. They have brought this upon themselves.”
“And what of the prisoners? Will you release them now that Lord Ormonde is dead?”
A muscle twitched in James’s jaw as it did every time Hugh Douglas’s name was mentioned. The Earl of Ormonde was brother to the Earl of Douglas, the clan’s chief, who had led a rebellion against the Crown only two months ago. The uprising had been put to an end at the Battle of Arkinholm, where the Douglases and their supporters lost their campaign. The Earl of Douglas fled to England before the battle began, leaving his brothers to carry on the fight in his absence. One escaped, one had been killed in battle, and one, Hugh Douglas, had been captured. For over a month he was held prisoner with the rest of his traitorous kinsmen in Stirling Castle’s towerhouse.
The king had delayed Ormonde’s trial, hoping that the threat of his brother’s execution might lure the Earl of Douglas back to Scotland. It was to no avail. When it was obvious that the Douglas chief was more interested in preserving his own head than saving his brother from the fate that should have been his, the king took Ormonde’s head.
Ormonde’s body had been drawn and quartered; his sightless, tar-coated eyes now stared out over Stirling from atop the towerhouse gate—assuming there were still eyes in the head, and that the crows hadn’t been at them.
It did not satisfy King James. He was furious that his revenge upon the Black Douglases would not be complete.
“I’ll have them all beheaded, too.”
“All?” Mary was surprised. “Even the Earl of Albermarle? I thought his supporters had pleaded with you to release him.”
“Am
I to dance to my nobles’ tune, then? Am I not king? Lord Erroll and his Clan Hay can be damned for all I care.”
“And the Earl of Angus? Douglas the Red?”
James’s lips twisted in consideration. “Yes, the Red Douglas suggested he should be spared as well. And I cannot jeopardize his loyalty. Not now, anyway. I shall have to sway his position with more lands, I think—which I’m perfectly prepared to do now that parliament has come through on the forfeitures of all Black Douglas holdings.”
“And does Your Majesty feel confident the Red Douglas can be swayed?”
“Of course. All men can be bought if the price suits. Every last one of those Douglas heads in my towerhouse will be mounted beside Ormonde’s, you mark my words. It is simply a question of when.”
“As you will.” Mary bowed her head.
More silence passed before James finally waved a pale hand. “Leave me.”
“Humbly, Your Majesty.” Heaving herself off the stool, Mary curtseyed, and waddled away. The door opened without command, the sentry on the other side well trained at listening through thick oak for his cues.
When the door shut behind her, Mary released a breath. What a brutal, bloody land this Scotland was. In her six years since landing on its rocky, jutting shores, she’d never been able to accustom herself with the fierce, intense hatred that spanned hundreds of years. Brother fought brother, families slaughtered their own. This feud with the Black Douglases was a prime example. George Douglas, Earl of Angus and chief of the Red Douglas line, had brought down his own Black Douglas kin. The ultimate betrayal.
It troubled Mary of Guelders deeply. Pray her sweet, young son ruled in a more peaceful time than that in which he would grow to manhood.
Pray her son lived to reach manhood, come to that.
***
The wind that moaned through the enclosed halls of Stirling Castle’s royal apartments all but shrieked through the uncovered slits built into the masonry of the towerhouse cells. Even if there had been a moon this night, the openings in the wall were too narrow to admit any light it might have cast.
The Christmas Blend Page 12