by Tarah Scott
Her foolish fascination with Lord Gray had nearly sent her back to Venice. She would never make that blunder again. Yes, the man was striking, with a rugged jaw, lean hips, and strong, muscular legs. And yes, the soft, rolling vowels of his Scottish burr sent chills down her spine. There was no doubt that Lord Julian Gray had been fascinating.
But then, so were many other men.
He certainly wasn’t worth the risk of being sent back home.
Shrugging all thoughts of him aside, she quickly changed into a golden gown adorned with velvet and silk ribbons and slipped the stilettos into the hidden pockets sewn in the sleeves just for them. And then throwing her green, fur-lined mantle about her shoulders, she ran down to join Orazio at the garden gate, shaking raindrops off the leaves of the shrubbery as she passed.
He said nothing as they set off through the rain pelting the cobblestoned streets. And in a matter of minutes, they had entered the inn housing Albany and were immediately escorted to where the prince was already waiting.
Nobly attired in crimson velvet, Alexander Stewart, the Duke of Albany, was tall in stature, broad-faced, red-nosed, and large-eared. His hair was also red, but the brows over his brilliant green eyes were dark, almost black.
He stood before the fire crackling on the hearth, clutching something in his hand and demanding that Orazio take care of the matter at once.
As her brother joined him at the fireplace, Liselle moved to the window, shaking the rain from her mantle.
“What does it mean?” Albany was asking Orazio, his face darkened in worry.
At Orazio’s sharp intake of breath, Liselle’s interest was piqued. Leaving the window, she crossed the room to stand at her brother’s side.
“The Turk’s head knot,” Orazio murmured softly, gingerly taking the fine gray corded knot from Albany’s outstretched hand.
“Is it Le Marin?” Albany cleared his throat nervously. “But what has Le Marin to do with me?”
Orazio was silent for a time, inspecting the knot closely before finally admitting, “It appears genuine.”
As Albany began to curse, Liselle reached over him to pluck the knot from Orazio’s grasp. Curiously, she turned it over in her palm. The fine gray cord appeared vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t recall where she’d seen it before. And as Albany and Orazio’s conversation turned into a heated debate over Le Marin’s possible concerns in Albany’s doings, she lost interest entirely. After placing the knot on a nearby table, she returned to the window.
Le Marin was Orazio’s business. Not hers.
4
the quattuor gladiis
Sometime later, after Albany’s fear of Le Marin was appeased, Pascal arrived and Orazio introduced him as a master spy to satisfy Albany’s every whim. Pascal was tall and thin, and with his arrogant air, dark cloak, and black doublet, he certainly looked the part.
Albany was pleased immediately.
And when Orazio explained that Liselle would be traveling in Nicoletta’s stead, Albany’s pleasure increased. Apparently, the man detested Nicoletta as much as she did him.
As the conversation waned and they made ready to depart, Liselle caught Albany’s lecherous gaze upon her more than once. But it wasn’t particularly troubling. She knew many ways of handling such men, with methods ranging from cold words to sharp stilettos.
A short time later and with rising excitement, Liselle found herself mounting a black mare and waving her farewells. And then, carefully fanning her green mantle out across the horse’s flanks, she turned her mare’s head and joined Albany’s party, bound for Bordeaux and thence to England.
It was still raining as they set off, but as the day wore on, the clouds drifted away. They stopped for only brief periods of rest, pressing on until finally the last rays of the sun swiftly faded into darkness. And the moon was high in the sky when they finally arrived at a small inn to take rest.
Liselle retired at once to her small, assigned chamber, but she was too excited to sleep. She stayed awake until the first signs of dawn, staring out of her window and listening to the crickets and frogs singing in a nearby pond.
The morning found Albany in a particularly lusty frame of mind, and Liselle wasn’t surprised when the red-haired Scottish prince caught her about the waist and pulled her down to his knee.
“Give us a wee kiss now, lass.” He laughed suggestively. “A kiss for luck!”
From the corner of her eye, Liselle spied Pascal gracefully slouching against the wall with a smile of perverse amusement playing across his handsome face. It was clear that he had no intention of rescuing her. Not that she needed him to. But she found his attitude and lack of action annoying all the same.
As Albany’s hand inched towards her breast, Liselle refocused her attention upon the man. And sliding a stiletto from her sleeve, she whispered into his ear, “I pray you, my lord, please remove your hands.”
“And why would I do that?” Albany chuckled in delight. “My hands are quite pleased to remain where they are!”
Liselle lowered her lashes with a lazy smile. “But I would fain see you keep them, my lord,” she breathed softly as her blade lightly pierced the flesh beneath his ribs.
Albany jerked and removed his hands at once, but the interest in his eyes only deepened.
Rising swiftly to her feet, Liselle stepped away, relieved that the prince was not one to force his interests. Returning her blade to its hiding place, she paused to send Pascal a disapproving look.
He responded with an exaggerated yawn that plainly signaled boredom.
And then Albany swept his arms in a grand gesture and announced he was ready to leave at once.
The rain returned, and the going was slow. But finally, after several days of squelching through the mud, they arrived at Bordeaux where the burly Scottish captain, James Douglas, awaited them on his ship The Michael.
Once settled in her small cabin, Liselle gratefully peeled off her wet clothing, and after slipping into a dry gown, wandered curiously around the deck for a time. But, as the looming dark clouds overhead threatened even more rain, she returned to her cabin and spent the evening listening with unease to the waves slapping the ship’s side.
In spite of having been born in Venice on the edge of the sea, she had never cared for sailing.
She could only pray the journey to England was a smooth one.
But, alas, her prayers went unanswered.
They set sail with the dawn, and shortly afterward the gusty winds ratcheted to a near gale force, tossing the ship about in the waves like a toy.
At the captain’s insistence, Liselle remained below deck, huddled in her cabin as the ship heaved and rolled.
Day upon miserable day passed as the incessant winds mercilessly pounded The Michael, each day an eternity in which she could do nothing more than groan as her stomach lurched and churned with the ship. And each night the snapping of the sails and creaking of the ship’s timbers made sleep impossible.
Several times each day, Pascal poked his head through her door to mercilessly tease her about her green complexion. And on each occasion, she found his smug grin even more aggravating than before.
The storm finally stopped, and she fell into the first deep sleep she had known since the voyage began. And when she woke once again, it was to find her cousin’s smirking face planted mere inches from hers.
“You’ll never find Dolfin skulking below decks like this,” he observed with a careless shrug. “And I’m not finding him for you.” Straightening, he adjusted the red-velvet sleeve of his doublet and meticulously brushed imaginary lint from his gold-colored hose.
Scowling, Liselle swung her feet over the edge of the bunk. “When have you ever done anything that wasn’t in your own best interests, Pascal?” she asked in a scathing tone.
“Does anyone?” he queried philosophically, tossing his long, dark hair over his shoulder.
She eyed him from head to toe and didn’t bother to reply.
“Albany’s quit
e fascinated with you,” he drawled, raising a brow. “You should use that to your advantage.”
Liselle snorted. “Why? I’ve already learnt all that I can from the man. He’s no longer useful to me. He scarcely knows Dolfin.” Picking up her mantle, she threw it about her shoulders and added, “Dolfin was looking for someone—someone he was certain would appear wherever Albany tarries. I believe we will find the old man in Fotheringhay.”
“So you say.” Pascal yawned as if he found conversation with her tedious. “And I still doubt your reasoning.”
“I care little what you think, dear cousin,” Liselle replied sweetly as she shoved him away from the door.
Brushing past him, she strode down the narrow passage and up to the ship’s deck.
The retreating storm hung low on the horizon, and the gulls rode the winds high above her head as she emerged from below, wincing in the bright light.
As a sudden gust of cold, bitter wind tore through her garments, she scowled, “Will this journey ever end?”
“Look there, bábia,” Pascal’s lip curled into a superior smirk as he pointed behind her.
Scowling at being called a fool, she turned to see a long dark ribbon of land painting the horizon.
“Inghilterra. England,” Pascal murmured in her ear. “We’ve arrived.”
They watched in silence as the land rose to fill the skyline. And soon they were sailing past the dramatic white cliffs of the Isle of Wight and heading inland up the river, past the reedy salt marshes to the sheltered port of Southampton.
Eager to get off the boat and to leave the tempestuous winds and stormy waters behind her, Liselle followed Albany down the rough-hewn gangplank at the earliest possible moment after the ship dropped anchor.
They were met by a red-haired, square-jawed man with a bushy beard and a small scar under his left eye. Grinning widely, he strode forward to soundly slap Albany’s back in greeting.
“That is Archibald Douglas, the Fifth Earl of Angus,” Pascal softly informed Liselle. “A Red Douglas.”
“Because of his hair?” Liselle whispered, her mouth twisting in wry humor.
Pascal sent her a dark look. “Heed my words well, bábia! You must learn these clans if you wish to succeed!” He waited until she erased the smile upon her face before continuing. “The Clan Douglas is a great clan holding vast lands. The Black Douglases were named so for their dark deeds, and nigh on thirty years ago sided with the Yorkist kings of England against the Scottish crown. The Stewart king only survived with the help of the Red Douglases of Angus. Yon earl’s father fought with the Stewarts and drove their own kin, the old Black Douglas and his men into exile in England, where they’ve lived ever since.”
Liselle lifted a brow at the red-haired earl still speaking with Albany. “Then is it not strange that this Red Douglas also now betrays the Scottish crown and a Stewart king by seeking Yorkist aid?”
Pascal’s dark eyes glinted dangerously. “Men betray much for power,” he said softly and in an almost jaded tone. “Even their brothers.”
Liselle shot him a puzzled look.
“Be careful, bábia,” he warned, not bothering to explain himself. “Archibald Douglas may appear humble and pleasant, but do not underestimate him. He’s one of the craftiest noblemen of Scotland.”
Liselle watched him a moment, wondering what secrets he harbored. “And how do you know of these Scottish clans?” she asked softly.
He didn’t seem bothered by the question in the slightest. Leaning close, he retorted, “Unlike you, bábia, I seek knowledge. You would be wise to do the same.”
And then with a blasé shrug of the shoulders, he moved off to join Albany and Douglas and proceeded to murmur something that was met by hearty bursts of laughter.
As they suddenly turned to her as one, Liselle sent her cousin a disapproving look. He’d clearly made a jest at her expense. But she joined them all the same.
“The Lady Liselle,” Albany introduced her to the red-haired earl. “Nicoletta has fallen ill with the ague. Liselle will be taking her place as a lady-in-waiting to the princess.”
The Earl of Angus’ beard widened into a smile as he bowed and said politely enough, “’Twill be a pleasure to have ye in Edinburgh, Lady Liselle.”
But she had scarcely curtsied in reply before he was waving them all to a group of horses waiting nearby.
“We’ll stay for a wee night’s rest with the monks at Netley Abbey,” Douglas explained, catching his horse’s head and giving the great beast a fond pat. “But we’ll leave at dawn and ride hard for Fotheringhay. King Edward’s own brother, the Duke of Gloucester is waiting ye there, Albany, and his tidings will please ye greatly.”
“The only tidings to please me would be those of an army,” Albany retorted, mounting his horse. “An army that will make me King of Scotland.”
“Then be pleased.” Douglas laughed, urging his horse forward.
As their conversation continued along the same lines, Liselle fell to the back of the party. There was nothing to be learned from them now; they were too busy congratulating each other on having won a war yet to be fought.
They took a woodland path running along the river through clumps of birches and spreading ancient oaks. And the slight chill in the air made her shiver despite the sun filtering through the canopy of leaves overhead.
Soon enough, she saw Netley Abbey with its tall tower and painted glass windows perched on a gentle slope rising from the banks of the Southampton waters. There were several buildings south of the abbey’s church, half obscured by ivy and surrounded by green trees and traces of a moat.
They had scarcely dismounted before an austere, blunt-faced monk came out to greet them at the main gate. Once they were inside the courtyard, he motioned a fellow brother to escort the men to one side of the abbey, as he escorted Liselle to a small one-room guesthouse on the other. And after promising her sustenance, he shut the door and left her alone.
Taking a deep breath, Liselle stretched and glanced around, grateful for the feel of solid earth beneath her feet. The room was a simple one, comprised only of a bed and a small wooden table with a single candlestick.
Moving to the window, she let her thoughts wander until a knock on the door revealed another monk bearing a simple meal of mutton stew and brown bread. After placing the meal upon the table and lighting the candle from his own lamp, he nodded kindly and then exited the chamber, never having said a word.
Liselle ate peacefully, lost in thought, listening to the cry of the gulls outside her small window for a time. She was relieved that she was no longer on a rolling ship or wasting away from boredom in Venice.
Finally, exhaustion overcame her. And as the sun set, she crawled beneath her woolen cover and fell asleep in moments.
The storms that had plagued their journey returned in the middle of the night, waking her on several occasions. But when she rose at dawn, the heavy drumming of the rain had subsided to gentle showers.
In a short time, she was dressed and ready to leave, and it was only a little time later that another soft knock on her door heralded the return of the kindly nodding monk, and with him, a breakfast of bread, fish, and a few honey-spiced almonds.
She ate quickly in silence, and then wrapping herself in a soft, hooded cloak and lacing up her sturdy boots, she slipped outside in search of the others.
She had almost reached the abbey’s main gate when Albany’s laughter sounded from inside a nearby building. Peering through an open door, she caught sight of the prince and Douglas still at table, slapping one another on the back. She rolled her eyes contemptuously. Apparently, the prospect of starting a war was an occasion to be overjoyed. Finding no sight of Pascal, she resumed circling the abbey grounds.
Stepping out from behind a long, low building near the stables, a flash of black caught the corner of her eye. Instinctively, she ducked back, and crouching low, leaned forward for a better look.
A short distance away, Pascal stood with his hea
d bowed, murmuring to a man clad from head to toe in black.
Liselle frowned, watching as the two clasped forearms and pressed their cheeks in farewell. The gesture seemed strangely familiar, but she hadn’t recalled seeing the man before. Most likely, it was a new messenger. Curious, she rose to her feet, preparing to join them.
But then a shrill whistle pierced the air, and as Pascal whirled with his stiletto appearing in his hand, she instinctively darted back.
Pascal was behaving unusually. But then, she’d never bothered to observe her cousin much before. Perhaps he always acted in this manner.
The whistle shrieked again, and the sound of Douglas’ booming voice quickly followed it.
Reluctantly, Liselle gathered her skirts and withdrew. It was time to leave. She’d have to pry into her cousin’s affairs later.
Picking her way a short distance through the wet grass, she arrived at the main gate just as Pascal stepped around the opposite side of the building. And as he caught the reins of her gray mare and moved to assist her to mount, she saw an unusually dark expression written upon his handsome face.
“What is it?” she whispered curiously in his ear. “Have you received new orders?”
He raised a scathing brow, but his voice was soft. “Orders? What madness is this, bábia? It’s time for you to wake from your dreams now!” He snapped his fingers in front of her face.
Liselle scowled but nodded her chin towards where she’d just seen him. “Did you not receive tidings, behind yonder building?”
His dark eyes flickered, and she could tell that he knew what she meant, but he denied it anyway. “I know not of what you speak!” he said in a belittling tone. “You would do well to remember that my business is no concern of yours. I am not yours to command.”
“You’re lying,” she accused, irritated.
But he was clearly done speaking of the matter. Stepping away, he complained loudly, “England is a miserable place.” He held out his hand and eyed the raindrops falling into his outstretched palm with disgust. “Do they ever see the sun in this accursed land?”