April arrived. Two of the house cats dropped litters of kittens in the dim recesses of the cattle barn. One of the deerhounds birthed three puppies—all male, to Kier’s delight, for when the pups were grown he would have a strong pack of dogs to hunt with him. By mid-month the snows were entirely gone. The hillsides were green again, with bursts of color here and there indicating groups of spring flowers. The sheep were once more in their near meadow, the lambs born in February now gamboling through the grass as the shepherds and their dogs watched over the flocks.
It was May now. The few fields that could be tilled had been, and were planted with barley, oats, and hay. The cattle and sheep had been driven to their summer pastures. And word came that the king was considering an expedition into the north, for the MacDonald and the Highland chieftains had still not rendered the king their fealty. Kier trained his men daily but for Sunday. When the time came Glengorm would be ready to march north with James. Whether their laird came with them would depend upon the lady. If she birthed a son he would be free to go. If not he would have to remain while his clansmen rode with Sir William. The fields were green and high as the month ended.
Cicely could never, ever recall being as uncomfortable as she was now. Her belly was enormous, and she could scarce waddle about as June began. Her temper was volatile at best. But each day she walked from the house down the hill into the village, and strolled along the loch. The waters seemed to soothe her. One day, however, as Cicely returned from the little shale beach, she saw a large sow rooting along the edge of the lane. She stopped and stared at the great creature. Then she burst into fulsome tears. Her sobs brought several of the women from their cottages to gather about Cicely protectively.
“My lady!” Mary Douglas exclaimed. “Are you in pain? Should we call for Agnes to come?”
Cicely shook her head as she continued weeping.
“What is the matter?” Marion Douglas asked her sister-in-law.
“Perhaps the demon inside of the witch is hurting her.” Bethia cackled.
“Be silent!” Mary Douglas thundered in her deep voice. “ ’Tis you who are the witch in this village. Your mother-in-law is dead this winter past, and your man run off as soon as the snows were gone. You should go back from whence you came, wherever it was. We never have known where Callum Douglas found you.”
“Wouldn’t you be surprised if you knew.” Bethia chortled. “Perhaps one day you will, Mary Douglas, and ’twill be to your disadvantage, I promise you.”
Mary Douglas gave the woman a hard look, but then she turned back to Cicely. “My lady, what has made you weep so? Please tell us, so we may help you.”
Still sobbing, Cicely pointed to the grunting sow.
The women looked at the pig, confused, and then Mary Douglas began to chuckle. And when she did all the other women who had borne young understood, and began to giggle too. Soon they were all howling with laughter, and Cicely, her tears vanished, was laughing too at the absurdity of the situation. The clanswoman put an arm about her lady.
“The bairn is near to being born, my lady,” she said in a comforting voice. “And we have all felt as you do at some point or another in the months before,” Mary Douglas said with a kindly smile.
“He kicks all the time,” Cicely said wearily, yet feeling better for her laughter.
“He, is it now?” Mary said with a grin.
“Did I say he?” Cicely looked confused for a brief moment.
“Aye, you did,” Mary replied.
Cicely laughed weakly. “That is the first time I have referred to this child as he,” she told Mary Douglas. “Kier insists that it is a lad, and certainly no lass of good breeding would kick so hard and so often. Johanna never kicked me like this.” Then a panicked look came into her eyes. “Oh, Mary! What if I am like the poor queen, and produce only lasses? She has had three now, God help her. Glengorm needs an heir every bit as much as Scotland does.”
Mary Douglas tucked her hand into Cicely’s arm and began walking her back to the house as the other women returned to their own cottages. “If our Lord means for it to be a lad, it will be a lad,” she said. “You will give Glengorm an heir. If not this time, my sweet lady, then next. And so will the queen give Scotland a son. She comes from a family of more lads than lasses, I have heard.”
“She does! She does!” Cicely agreed. “But my poor mam died when I was born, and so we will never know if she would have given my father any sons. My stepmother, however, birthed three strong boys.”
“You are not to fret,” Mary said. “Not with the birthing being so close. Midsummer is only a few days away, and there will be a full moon too this year. Is everything in readiness for the birth?”
“Aye,” Cicely replied. “And, Mary, you will come with Agnes, won’t you?” They had now reached the house.
“If you want me, my lady, I will be by your side,” the clanswoman promised.
And the morning of Midsummer’s eve, Mary Douglas was awakened as the sky was growing light by a pounding on her cottage door. Her husband, Duncan, grunted and turned over in their bed, but Mary suspected she was being summoned. Getting up, she went to the door, peeping out the window near it, and saw Gabhan Douglas. Mary opened the door. “Am I needed at the house?” she asked him.
“Aye, and hurry!” he said.
“Have you wakened Agnes?”
“Went to her first,” Gabhan replied, and, turning ran off.
“What is it?” Duncan asked sleepily from the bed.
“The lady is having her child,” Mary said as she pulled on her skirt and blouse, slipping her feet into her boots and drawing her plaid shawl about her. “I’m needed.” Then she hurried out the door and up the hill, Agnes Douglas, the village midwife, coming to her side as she walked.
“She births easily, and this should be no different from when the wee lady Johanna was born,” Agnes remarked as they walked quickly along.
Mary crossed herself. “I pray you are right, Agnes.”
Reaching the house, they were greeted by Orva. “She’s in the new bedchamber,” Orva said. “She’s been having pains since just after midnight.”
“Where’s the laird?” Mary asked.
“By her side, although I think if it were me I should not like my man there,” Orva noted tartly.
“Some do, some don’t,” Agnes said sanguinely.
The three women entered the large bedchamber. Neither Agnes nor Mary had seen it since it had been built.
“Thank God you are here!” Kier Douglas said nervously.
“I’m having a baby, Kier, not dying,” Cicely said rather sharply.
“Go down into the village, my lord, to the Mass. Ambrose will want to know. Then the two of you return and break your fast. You’ll be here for the bairn’s birth, I promise you,” Agnes told him. “But it cannot hurt to pray that the lady’s labor is quick, and a man’s nerves are always better for a good meal,” the midwife said, with a reassuring smile at the laird and a pat on his arm.
“Go!” Cicely told him.
Kier Douglas left quickly. When she had birthed Johanna he hadn’t felt so nervous. What the hell was the matter with him? You love her now, the little voice in his head said. You love her. “Aye, I do,” the laird muttered to himself. May God have mercy on me, I love her, and I can feel my strength draining away even now because of my weakness, he thought. “God’s balls!” he swore softly to himself as, taking the midwife’s advice, he left the house, heading for the church and his cousin Ambrose.
In the bedchamber Cicely let herself be examined by Agnes, who nodded and said, “You are just where you should be, my lady. A few more hours and you’ll have the bairn in your arms, I promise. Do you want to walk now?”
“Aye,” Cicely said. “And I’ll use the birthing chair we found in the attics. I’ll not bloody the bed with my bairn, nor birth it on the high board as I did Johanna.” She looked to Orva, and beckoned her to her side. “Stay with Johanna today, and tell her that if she is very
good she will have a baby brother by nightfall.”
Orva nodded, her lips pressed together. “Forgive me, my lady, for being such a coward,” she said, low. “I cannot bear to see you in pain. I was with your mother when you were born. You went from your mother’s womb into my arms,” Orva said, as she recalled how Cicely’s beautiful young mother had not even had the opportunity to hold her child, but had bled to death before their eyes. From that moment on Orva had not been able to watch any woman give birth.
“I understand,” Cicely said softly, “but I am not my mam. However, I need you to be with Johanna, dear one.”
Orva nodded again and then, kissing Cicely’s hand, hurried from the chamber.
“Why?” Mary Douglas asked.
Cicely explained.
The clanswoman nodded her head, understanding. “Poor woman,” she said.
Through the beautiful summer’s day Cicely labored to bring her child into the world. Kier returned with Father Ambrose. When the two men had broken their fast they asked permission to come into the chamber. The priest prayed with the women, but Kier held his wife’s hand, and, his courage returned now, he encouraged her in her travail. Finally, in late afternoon, the sun still high in the heavens, Cicely pushed the baby forth from her womb with a mighty shriek of more effort than pain as she squatted on the birthing chair, her hands gripping its arms.
Agnes caught the child easily, handing it up to Mary Douglas so she might attend to her mistress and the afterbirth to follow. The child was howling at the top of its lungs. One look and Mary Douglas grinned broadly. Holding the naked, squalling infant in her two big hands, she showed it to his father. One look and Kier shouted with triumph.
“A lad, Cicely! You have given me a fine, big lad!” he told her, and he bent to kiss her mouth.
“Let me see him! Let me see him!” Cicely cried, holding out her hands. They put the bloody, crying baby in her arms, and she looked down at him. “Oh, my,” she said softly. “He does take after his da, doesn’t he?” But her eyes were not on the baby’s face. Then she looked at Kier. “What would you call him, my lord?” she asked.
“Ian Robert,” Kier answered her without any hesitation. “Ian for my late cousin, and Robert for your father.”
Cicely smiled warmly at him. “It pleases me very well, my lord,” she told him.
The baby ceased his howling and, opening his eyes, looked at his parents hovering over him. His eyes were light blue.
“Take him back now,” Cicely said, handing her son to Mary Douglas so she might clean the baby up and swaddle him in warm cloth.
“I’ll fetch Johanna,” Kier said.
Cicely nodded.
When he quickly returned carrying her daughter, Orva behind him, Kier took Johanna to the cradle where her baby brother now lay. “Look, sweeting, your mam has given us a wee lad for Glengorm. ’Tis your brother.”
Johanna looked down at the infant, her thumb in her mouth as she studied him. “Nay,” she finally said. “Jana is Mam’s bairn.”
“Indeed you are, my little love,” Cicely assured her. “But now you have a brother, and he will be Mam’s bairn too.”
“Nay,” Johanna replied. “Don’t want!”
“Oh, dear,” Orva said nervously. “She is jealous, my lady.”
“She will get past it,” Mary Douglas told them sensibly. “The first bairn is always jealous of the next one to come. After a time she will see she still has your love, my lady, and in another year the lad will be old enough for her to play with, and everything will change. Do not fret yourselves over it.”
Orva removed the little girl from the bedchamber, promising to take her to see the Midsummer fires that evening and give her a sugar cake. Satisfied, Johanna kissed her mother and stepfather good night. Agnes and Mary had seen to the afterbirth, which would be taken out to be planted beneath a large oak tree. Cicely was bathed and, in a clean chemise, settled in the bed. The two women bade the laird and his wife good night.
Kier came and lay on the bed next to Cicely, taking her hand in his. He kissed it. “Thank you for the lad,” he said to her.
“Do you love me?” she asked him wickedly.
“Aye,” he answered, surprising her, for she had not thought to gain her victory over him this easily. “I love you, wife.”
“If I had birthed a daughter would you still love me?” she pressed him.
“Aye.” He sighed. “I would love you no matter, Cicely, and my love for you weakens me, I fear.”
“Nay, Kier,” Cicely said wisely. “Love does not weaken a person. Love makes you stronger. The love we have for each other will but strengthen us, my lord. Wait and see. We are one now, and nothing—no one—can stand against us.”
And as she spoke the words he realized that she spoke the truth, and he was amazed. All of his adult life he had believed that loving a woman would make him weak. But perhaps it had been loving the wrong woman. Cicely was obviously the right woman. She stood proudly by his side, and was loyal to him. He sensed she would always stand by him and give him that same fealty. Leaning over her, he touched her lips with his, kissing her deeply. “I love you,” he told her when he broke off the kiss. “I will always love you, Cicely, my fair wife.”
“I know,” she responded to his declaration, maddeningly certain. “And I will always love you. We must send to the queen with our news tomorrow.”
“Aye,” Kier agreed, and then he recalled the king’s command to him. He was to remain at Glengorm until his wife had birthed a son. But once she had given him an heir he would be liable to heed the king’s call to arms whenever it was time. Part of him was excited that he could answer that call now. But another part of him prayed that the Highland chiefs would yield without further ado, so he might remain at Glengorm with his wonderful wife and their children.
Chapter 18
A full year passed and Kier’s wish was almost granted. It wasn’t until the following summer that James Stewart planned his trip north into the Highlands. He had been king of Scotland for over four years. He had instilled just the proper amount of fear in his lords and earls with his swift and impartial justice. They knew now that this king would not be ruled by them, but rather would rule them. And while the Highlands remained relatively peaceful, the lord of the isles and his allies had had more than enough time to come to terms with James Stewart. The rest of Scotland was at peace, and beginning to show signs of true prosperity.
So the king sent his emissaries out to Alexander MacDonald, the lord of the isles, and to all the clan chieftains in the north, many of whom had not yet sworn loyalty to the Stewart king, inviting them to meet with him at Inverness in mid-July. To his irritation James Stewart learned that the MacDonald, upon receiving the king’s messenger, had sent out his own messengers ordering the clans to obey and join him at Inverness.
“This lord is overproud,” he complained to the Earl of Atholl.
“He is dangerous, which is worse,” the earl replied.
There were certain lords among the borderers that James Stewart wished to accompany him. He sent to Sir William, and Sir William sent to his son at Glengorm to meet him with his borderers at a designated spot. Kier had been expecting to be called eventually, but Cicely was not pleased.
“The Highlands have nothing to do with us,” she said to her husband.
“The king is my liege lord, and he has requested a show of my fealty,” Kier told his wife. “You are no cotter’s daughter, unfamiliar with this duty. I have been called. I must and I will answer unhesitatingly.”
“Oh, I know,” Cicely grumbled, “but I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“A gathering of the clans at Inverness is not likely to be particularly dangerous, sweetheart,” Kier assured his wife. “The king will come with a great show of force. The MacDonald will come with a great show of force. Then they will make peace. Alexander MacDonald is no fool, I am told. Having kept James Stewart waiting for four and a half years, he will finally bend his knee, an
d then the rest of the northern clan chieftains will fall into line and follow suit. Everyone’s feelings will be soothed. We will eat and get drunk, and then go our separate ways when it is over. I’ll be home quickly enough, but you shall have to see to the haying and probably begin with the harvest before I am back.”
“I will,” Cicely promised him with a kiss. She found her current situation very different from what she had been taught to expect of life. She was the daughter of an earl, and had been raised by a dowager queen. Yet here she was, the wife of a simple border lord, concerned with her own children, haying, harvesting, and the well-being of a village full of good folk. She didn’t envy the mighty among whom she had once walked. She didn’t envy the queen who had yet to give her husband a son. And she was happier than she had ever been in all of her life.
“Will you miss me?” he teased her lovingly. Cicely had been right, he realized, when she had told him that loving each other would make them stronger. It had.
“Mayhap,” she teased back as she brushed her long auburn hair in preparation for bed. He would be leaving on the morrow, and she was so used to his presence in her life now that she knew she would miss him dreadfully.
He took the brush from her hand and began to slick it down her tresses. “I am leaving Frang behind with a dozen men. The border has been quiet. England is at peace with us and busy with its own affairs. You should be safe.” Setting the brush aside, he wrapped an arm about her waist while his other hand moved to fondle her breast.
Cicely leaned back against him with a small sigh. The passion between them had not died, nor even mellowed after their son’s birth. It had grown deeper. “I’m safer with you by my side,” she murmured. Then, pulling away from him, she slipped her chemise off and lay back upon their bed, holding out her arms to him with a smile.
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