A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan)

by Bale, Veronica

  The king’s rash and violent act also fuelled the rumours that the fiery birthmark upon his cheek was a mark of his fiery temperament. Thereafter, references to King James as “Fiery Face” became even more commonplace—when he was not around to hear it.

  “And now there is the matter of the lands being forfeit to the Crown,” Lord Kildrummond added, referring to the recent seizure of Douglas lands and the imprisonment of William Douglas’s successor.

  “Who kens what further lands Fiery Face intends to seize? The name of Douglas isna a friend to the Crown right now, that’s for certain.”

  “That,” Lord Kildrummond stated with an odd, uneasy look, “is what I wish to speak wi’ ye about, Edward.”

  Lord Albermarle assessed the old earl with an odd, uneasy look of his own. “Why do I have the feeling I’ll no’ like what ye have to tell me?”

  “I daresay ye willna... because I have decided ye’ll no’ be my heir upon my death. Glendalough will go to another.”

  “Ha!” Lord Albermarle chuckled. “Ye nearly had me there, John. ‘Tis no’ a funny jest, that.”

  “I agree, ‘tis no.’ ‘Tis also no’ a jest, Edward. I willna be leaving Glendalough to ye.”

  The younger earl’s face fell serious. “By God, why? What have I done to displease ye so?”

  Lord Kildrummond knew his kinsman well, and recognized the need to proceed with caution. Though Lord Albermarle had not shouted or grown angry, there was a steely edge to his calm, controlled manner. He was a man of great power and influence, after all, accustomed to leading men and giving orders.

  He was not accustomed to being denied the things he wanted.

  “Ye’ve done nothing to displease me, Edward. I plead wi’ ye to hear me out, for I ken—we both ken—that ye can easily protest my decision wi’ the king. And ye’d probably win yer petition, too, for ye are the rightful heir to Kildrummond. I dinna dispute that.”

  Lord Albermarle stared at the old earl, frail and ashen beneath his furs. A muscle worked at his jaw as the silence lengthened. Eventually he answered, “Go on, then. I’m listening.”

  “My decision, Edward, is only for the good of Kildrummond. While I’ve no doubt ye’d be a fine steward of its people, ye are a Douglas.”

  “As ye are,” Lord Albermarle observed tersely.

  “That is my concern. Who kens whether the king will take more Douglas land in the course of this wretched feud? Who kens whether he will decide to take Kildrummond?”

  “’Tis speculation. Ye dinna ken anything is at risk. This feud may blow over by the end of the year.”

  “And it may no’. Edward, I havena much time left on this earth. I dinna care to go to my grave worrying about what the king may or may no’ do. It isna as if ye need Glendalough’s coffers to add to yer own. Ye’ve lands and wealth enough as it is. I beg ye, Edward: let my title and my lands pass to another. For the sake of the great name of Douglas; for the sake of the clan. If James is set on making enemies of us all, we must do what we can to protect our own.”

  Lord Albermarle considered the old man’s proposition in palpable silence. He did not like it. In all his adult life he’d thought of Glendalough as his, had measured his own wealth with the inclusion of Kildrummond coin. These lands had a significant advantage over his own: where Kinross was a landlocked parcel of territory, Kildrummond possessed a valuable sea port on its northern edge. It was a prime acquisition, not only in terms of economy, but also military strategy.

  Yet old John Douglas’s logic could not be ignored. All the military and economic advantage of Kildrummond was for naught if King James seized it. This feud between the Crown and the Douglas clan was carrying on far too long, and many a noble speculated on the king’s sanity—what monarch in his right mind would brutally murder one of his subjects by his own hand? In view of witnesses, no less, for indeed the pair had not been alone that night. There was no telling how far he planned on carrying this quarrel.

  After several long moments, he spoke. “If no’ me, then who?”

  “Lachlan Ramsay,” Lord Kildrummond stated.

  A shout of laughter burst from Lord Albermarle’s barrel chest. “Lachlan Ramsay? Now ye must be jesting. Lachlan Ramsay, as in Viscount Strathcairn?”

  “Aye, the very same. He is my wife’s nephew, but more importantly he isna a Douglas. The king willna have any grounds to take Kildrummond, if it comes to that, because it will be in the hands of a Ramsay.”

  “So ye’ll hand over yer earldom and all it entails to an insignificant young viscount—wi’out lands of his own, I might add—over yer own Douglas kinsman.” Mirth still tugged at the corners of Lord Albermarle’s lips. “Alright then, John, I concede. Pray, tell me, what other reasons have ye for this mad scheme of yers? Nothing ye’ve ever done before had only one purpose to it.”

  Lord Kildrummond chuckled as well. “’Tis tied to the first reason, I admit. Ye see, Edward, ye’re married. Ye’ve a beautiful wife in yer Rosamund, and ye’ve been devoted to her since the day ye wed. Lachlan Ramsay, on the other hand, isna married. Or at least he wasna the last time I inquired.”

  “I’m certain he still isna,” Lord Albermarle put in dryly. “From what I remember of the lad, he isna the type to settle into matrimony wi’out being dragged to the altar.” When the old earl’s eyes sparkled mischievously, he added, “Ye dinna mean to drag him to the altar. Tell me ye dinna mean to drag him to the altar, John. I’ll have no part in that.”

  “Of course not. Ye said it yerself, the lad has no lands of his own. He’ll drag himself there, I’m certain. For the earldom of Kildrummond, and its lands and wealth, he’ll do it.”

  Lord Albermarle’s eyebrows knitted together as he worked out the old man’s plan. Then a wave of understanding swept over him.

  “Ah, I see. Ye wish for him to marry yer Moira.”

  “I wish for him to marry my Moira. I want to ken my daughter is provided for when I’m gone. I want to ken she’ll always have a home in Kildrummond. I owe it to my Lilian to do this for our lass.”

  Lord Albermarle groaned. He could have contested his kinsman’s wish to preserve Kildrummond from the king’s greedy hand, and maintained an easy conscience. But not this, not Moira’s security. Edward Douglas, Earl of Albermarle, was a father several times over himself. Illegitimate or no, Moira was still the dying earl’s only child.

  “I’ll think on it,” he said evenly.

  In truth, though, he knew how that thinking would go.

  Two

  THE WIDE, DUAL doors to the stables at Slains Castle in Aberdeenshire stood ajar. Daylight seeped lazily through the entrance, weakened by a sky that was heavy with the threat of snow. It cast a colourless pallor over the lone bay gelding housed within and the figure stooped beneath it. The rhythmic melody of a hoof pick scraping against an iron shoe was the only sound to be heard.

  It was this peaceful atmosphere that greeted William Hay, Earl of Erroll, as he stepped into the doorway across the path of the grey daylight.

  “Lachlan, ye’ve a visitor.” His cultured voice echoed off the low, slatted wood walls.

  Lachlan Ramsay’s gelding whickered at the noise, and pulled its front hoof from its master’s hand. A puff of steam emitted from the animal’s snout, condensing against the sharp chill in the late winter air. Rather than fighting, Lachlan let the leg go and stroked his bay’s thigh reassuringly. When the beast settled, he peered around its rump to determine the source of the voice.

  The Earl of Erroll peered back at Lachlan, a look of pure distaste on his noble face.

  “I shall never understand why ye insist on doing that yerself,” he stated, nodding at the dung-coated scraper which Lachlan held in his hand. “Yer squire should be doing that for ye.”

  Lachlan chuckled. Lifting the bay’s hoof again, he resumed his scraping. “There’s a great many foul tasks I leave to my squire, my Lord. This task I keep to myself. My mount and I, we have a bond. One which I nurture so that he willna fail me in battle.”r />
  “He hasna failed ye yet.”

  “I havena let a squire near him yet.” Finished with the hoof, Lachlan focussed on the Earl. “I have a visitor, ye say?”

  “Ye have. He waits for ye in my private chamber.”

  “If I may, my Lord, why have ye come to fetch me yerself? Dinna mistake me I am flattered, but why not send a servant for me?”

  “I wasna doing anything so important that I couldna deliver the message to my best knight in person. Besides, yer visitor is of great power and wealth. I were obliged to see his summons safely delivered.”

  Lord Erroll’s statement, infused as it was with a playful sense of mystery, piqued Lachlan’s curiosity. He raised a dark eyebrow inquiringly.

  “’Tis Edward Douglas, Earl of Albermarle,” Lord Erroll explained.

  “The Earl of Albermarle is here to visit me, my Lord?”

  “Aye, I could hardly believe it myself, but ‘tis so. I’ve seen it wi’ my own eyes. Do wash yer hands before ye come, though. I’d wager ye’d no’ want to bring the smell of horse shite wi’ ye when ye meet him.”

  Lachlan released the gelding’s hoof, and whispered a kind, gentle word to the animal, which responded with another steamy snort. Then he stepped out of the stall into the long, central corridor, and bent to the bucket of water that his squire had placed there less than a quarter of an hour ago. Already the liquid, which had been searing hot when the lad had delivered it, was uncomfortably chilled; it stung Lachlan’s chapped hands, and he was forced to make quick work of removing the offending muck from his fingers and under his nails. When he was finished, he shook off the excess ice water, and followed the earl out of the stables and over the grounds to the castle.

  Overhead the sun had broken through the slate of cloud, and patches of golden light streamed onto the snow-covered hills below. A frigid wind stirred, biting at Lachlan’s cheeks and the tip of his nose. He pulled the upper swath of his plaid over his black hair and around his face so that only his dark eyes could be seen.

  Inside Slains Castle the cold did not recede. Nobles, knights and servants alike were bundled in all manner of garments as they wandered the corridors on their way to and from heated chambers.

  When they reached Lord Erroll’s private chamber, a guard posted outside the room opened the door. Lord Erroll stepped through first, followed by Lachlan.

  Indeed, as Lord Erroll had announced, Lord Albermarle of Kinross waited within. He was seated at a centre table of imported Scandinavian ash wood—a luxury Lord Erroll could well afford. A pewter goblet was clutched in the visiting earl’s jewelled hand, both of which rested on the polished surface of the table in an easy manner.

  It had been many years since Lachlan last saw the Earl of Albermarle, and when Lord Erroll had announced his presence in the stables, he recollected vaguely the image of a regal and intimidating figure.

  Confronted with the man in the flesh once more, he was every bit as formidable as Lachlan remembered. His thick, dark hair, which drifted to his shoulders and pillowed there, was elegantly streaked with silver threads. A fine fox-fur cloak was fastened across his breast and drawn back to reveal a stylish tunic of pearl-crusted black velvet. He smiled when Lachlan approached.

  “Viscount Strathcairn,” he acknowledged with a slight teasing tone.

  “Yer Lordship,” Lachlan answered, bowing. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Lord Albermarle sat forward in his chair, releasing his grip on the goblet. Assessing the young Viscount’s tall, lean form he said, “I come wi’ summons.”

  “Wi’ summons, my Lord? Who summons me?”

  “Lord Kildrummond; he requests an audience wi’ ye.”

  “My aunt is no’ ill, is she?

  “Nay, lad. Lady Glinis is well. As beauteous as ever.”

  “I am glad to hear it. If it isna my aunt, then what other reason can Lord Kildrummond have for summoning me?”

  A secretive smile passed over the earl’s lips, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “That, Lord Strathcairn,” he said enigmatically, “I canna tell ye. As much as I’d like to, the old goat forbade me to breathe a word of it. Says he wants to speak wi’ ye personally. And I, being the loyal kinsman I am, have acquiesced in consideration of his health.”

  “I’d heard he were poorly. He’ll recover though, nay?”

  Lord Albermarle glanced to Lord Erroll, a shadow passing over his handsome face. “Nay, he willna.”

  “Oh... I see.” Lachlan shifted from one foot to the other, unsure of the proper response. Lord Albermarle and Lord Kildrummond, he knew, were close. Not only in proximity, for theirs were neighbouring lands, but each man was in high esteem of the other. The pain in Lord Albermarle’s statement was thick. Almost tangible. He looked like a man deeply affected by his kinsman’s impending death.

  He also, Lachlan thought, looked like a man that would not appreciate an offer of condolences from a lowly Viscount such as himself. Wisely, he decided to keep quiet.

  “Given that there isna much time left for Lord Kildrummond, ye’ll come wi’ me on the morrow to see him,” Lord Albermarle concluded. “If ye be willing, that is. And also if Lord Erroll be willing to part wi’ ye.”

  “Of course I am,” Lord Erroll answered.

  “My Lord, are ye sure this is the best time? Wi’ things the way they are at present—”

  “Dinna worry about all that, lad. We’re no’ on the eve of war just yet. I havena given Moray my answer. Indeed, he’ll no’ have it any time soon, for I wish to consider it in great detail.”

  “Moray?” Lord Albermarle questioned. “Ye mean to say that Douglas seeks the support of Clan Hay? So he’s determined to keep the feud wi’ old Fiery Face alive then, is he?”

  Lord Erroll shrugged. Lachlan looked between both men, confused. “I thought James Douglas were the ninth Earl of Douglas.”

  “He is, lad,” Lord Albermarle replied.

  “Then who is Moray?”

  “Archibald Douglas. James’s brother, and the Earl of Moray.”

  “Isna Lord Albermarle from Moray?”

  Both lords laughed heartily at Lachlan’s naivety.

  “Edward Douglas, Earl of Albermarle who ye see before ye, holds the lands of Kinross which are in Moray,” Lord Erroll explained. “Just as John Douglas, Earl of Kildrummond, holds lands which are also in Moray. But that isna to say that either is the Earl of Moray. Honestly, Strathcairn, ye’ll need to learn who’s who in this business wi’ the Black Douglases where ye’re going. And soon.”

  “Lord Douglas—that is James, the ninth Earl of Douglas—seeks support in his opposition against King James, since he doesna seem to be getting any help from John of Islay.” Lord Albermarle clarified gently. “Islay, that is the chief of Clan Donald, is the last pillar of the triad alliance wi’ William Douglas, murdered by Fiery Face himself, and the Earl of Crawford—Alexander Lindsay—dead these two years past.”

  “Aye, I ken all that,” Lachlan’s cheeks reddened.

  “Dinna take offense, lad,” Lord Erroll put in. “Ye havena had the benefit of court and noble society since ye’ve been in my employ. We dinna hold that against ye; ‘tis only a bit of fun.”

  “I took no offense, my Lord,” Lachlan assured. It was truth—he was not offended. He was embarrassed. His lack of political understanding was a product of his landless title, and it humiliated him at times.

  Shooting a knowing look at Lord Albermarle, Lord Erroll said, “Perhaps this journey comes at a fortuitous time.” When Lachlan raised his brows questioningly, the earl answered, “Aye, lad, I ken the reason for the summons. Lord Albermarle has told me, for I insisted on knowing why my best knight were being taken from my service. ‘Tis worth yer while to go, I promise ye. Ye’ll take a man of yer choosing wi’ ye, of course.”

  Lachlan knew immediately who he wished to take. “If yer certain, my Lord, then I’d request Sir Alexander MacByrne.”

  Lord Erroll groaned. “Of course he’d have to ask for my secon
d best knight. Alright, so be it. I’ll send word to MacByrne that he is to pack his belongings.”

  “And ye canna give me even the smallest hint why I’m being summoned?”

  “Of course I could,” Lord Albermarle answered, “but I willna. Ye’ll ken the reason soon enough. For now, see to yer affairs; we leave at first light.”

  “Yer Lordship,” Lachlan acknowledged, bowing to Lord Albermarle. Then doing the same to Lord Erroll he repeated, “Yer Lordship.”

  He exited the chamber, and the guard outside closed the door behind him. The solid thud of oak colliding with stone, followed by a metallic click as the door latched shut, echoed along the corridor. Within the chamber deep male voices hummed in resumed conversation. Lachlan longed to press his ear to the door that he might hear what was being said, but when he paused, seriously considering it, the guard eyed him discouragingly. Raking his fingers through his thick, dark hair, Lachlan strode away.

  He was not sure what to make of this journey. On the one hand he was wary of leaving Slains. He rather liked the life he’d carved out for himself here. A nobleman without the benefit of lands (thanks to his grandfather for pishing away the family’s wealth and vast holdings), Lachlan, like his father before him, had been forced to take a knighthood with the Earl of Erroll. One needed food, coin and shelter, after all.

  Under William Hay’s leadership he’d risen in the ranks, proving himself a trusted and worthy servant. His life was by no means luxurious. But it was comfortable.

  On the other hand he did not like that the feud between King James and the Black Douglases had reached Lord Erroll. Lachlan liked the action of training and battle as much as the next man, but this was different. If Lord Erroll were pulled into the fray, the earl would be siding against the king.

  Which meant Lachlan would be siding against the king.

  Which meant treason.

  Perhaps, then, this summons to Kildrummond had come at a fortuitous time, as Lord Erroll said. It was a notion which his friend, Sir Alexander MacByrne, agreed with.

  “I’ve no wish to fight the king,” Alex said as the two knights sat together in a tavern later that evening. “I’ve heard that Lord Erroll considers standing wi’ Douglas.”