by Jill Barnett
“There is a meal waiting for you and a bath. In your chamber.” Mairi extended an arm. “Come. We will see to your needs.”
Glenna followed her, pensive, but no longer tentative, and wondering if she could be so very wrong about the people in her future.
* * *
Nights were cooling off and the sun setting earlier, signs of autumn and the changing of all things about them was edging out summer. Owls flew across the sky, landing on trees near the river, calling to the moon. But within the walls, noisy frogs had left the water ponds in the last weeks, making the air in the baileys quiet and peaceful but for the hum of insects. The air was brisk enough to make the ground cold and wet early in the morn, to turn the grass in the meadows silver with dawn dew. The time of year to think about what had passed and what was coming. A time for changing with the season.
There was slight wind when Ramsey opened the thick oaken door to the eastern wall and found his stepson leaning against the stonework with his elbows resting on a parapet, hands relaxed, face reflected in the moonlight as he stared out at the countryside.
Only if he could get inside his stepson’s head and his thoughts. Perhaps he could understand the demons driving him to commit the worse of mistakes and pretend he did not care. Lyall was not that shallow. The lad had not been, and the man could not be, though at that moment he was still angry and disgusted enough and ready to beat some sense into Lyall.
Ramsey closed the door and walked along the wall. “I have been looking for you.”
“And I have been avoiding you.” Lyall turned away from the parapet and faced him, that cocksure attitude in every nuance of his body.
It angered him, how Lyall would go out of his way to not let anyone help him, to not change but continue on some bitter, self-destructive path to a hell of his own making. Ramsey believed life served up its disappointments. How one dealt with them proved the measure of the man. “You are a thick-skulled son of a bitch,” Ramsey said, aware of the sunken, angry depths to which their conversations had come.
“You think so little of my mother?” Lyall quipped.
“Nay, I think so little of her son.”
His cruel words hit their mark. Lyall chewed his lip and his jaw tightened. Ramsey regretted saying them the moment they came from his mouth. Yet nothing moved his stepson. So their conversations were insults and anger, barbs and truths hidden behind sardonic comments meant to stop the talk between them.
“I am sorry for that. It is not true. My anger speaks before my head can.” Ramsey sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I am weary of this hostility between us, Lyall. I want to understand you. You stop me at every turn. Where is the lad who pestered me senseless, the one who was determined to prove his worth and his honor?”
“Buried under a yellow cloak of dishonor. Ironic is it not? I am held fast amidst the black muck of disloyalty by the family name: traitor. Bad blood breeds bad blood.”
“You will let the words of a young woman with no knowledge or life outside a nunnery define who you are?”
“Life has its lessons. There is the truth of what people think, but don’t say. That is what follows me and my name. The name of Robertson is like carrying manure on your boot, except it does not wash off.”
“I have never believed that,” Ramsey said and tapped his fist against his heart. “You are still here, son. Despite all that you do otherwise, I believe in your good soul. Would that you were not so determined to prove me wrong.” Ramsey paused, then added, “But that is not why I have come.”
“Why then? To tell me why I cannot be wed to the fair Canmore first born?”
“I suppose there is that, too. But I desire information. I want to know how you knew I was ordered to escort and protect Glenna.”
Lyall straightened, frowning, clearly surprised by the question. His expression changed from sardonic to serious, signaling he was willing to talk straight. “De Hay told me. He knew of the orders and papers and letters. He knew about her, where she was. I knew nothing of it or her existence until he summoned me.”
Ramsey was afraid of that. He began to pace and took a long breath. “Then there is a traitor among us. A spy for those tied with de Hay, someone with close access to information, even the most secret communications between Sutherland and myself. The existence of the king’s daughters was kept between only three of us and those trusted with protecting them for years. But now the truth suddenly comes out after so many years. Something reeks.”
“What of the other two?” Lyall asked. “Her sisters. You think they are in danger? De Hay was the one who told me Glenna was not the only daughter. He seemed to have plenty of information.”
“One is Sutherland’s own ward, and I am certain she is safe. The other is in a convent. Both have protectors. But we thought we were working without suspect, and to have the knowledge of their existence in the hands of the king’s enemies…” Ramsey shook his head. “Who knows what is happening as we speak. I have sent word to Sutherland, but I fear we might be too late, that other plans are in motion.” Ramsey paused again and looked at Lyall. “I would have wished that you would have come to me after de Hay summoned you.”
Lyall was silent, staring at his hand.
“We could have worked together to fool them into thinking you were working with them and still have kept Glenna safe. But then ‘twas all for Dunkeldon.”
“At first. Now the land does not seem so important. That has surprised me.” Lyall gave a short laugh. “I have a writ to the lands and I no longer care.”
Ah! There was the sad truth of it. “That is often the way of things, son.” What he saw in Lyall could only make for more pain, pain Ramsey had known for all too many years to count. “She is the daughter of the king. Far from your reach, Lyall.”
His stepson said nothing.
“Do you love her?”
“Aye.”
“Then make the sacrifice and stay away from her. No good can come from this, no matter what has already passed between you.”
“She is not defiled. She lied,” Lyall admitted.
Ramsey was relieved and surprised, but he masked it, still acutely aware of what that cost Lyall to admit, and it gave him hope that the young man standing before him was not lost. “You need to keep her that way. She is not yours for the taking, no matter where you believe your heart is. Whom she weds is her father’s choice. And he is my liege and I will protect his right and his daughter, even if from my own stepson.”
They exchanged a long look, not unlike two hounds, each sizing up the other. Lyall gave him a quick nod.
“Were she anyone else, I would be happy for you,” Ramsey told him.
“Were she anyone else, there would be no reason to be happy.” Lyall did not look at him, but continued to stare out at something or nothing.
“Come, lad. Your mother has ordered a meal for us.”
“I need more air. ‘Tis quiet here.” He gave a sharp laugh. “I had thought this spot was one where I would not have to answer for my actions.”
“We always have to answer for our actions, son. Our choices in life can help us or haunt us.”
“Or haunt those left behind,” Lyall said pointedly. “Go. I will be down shortly.”
Ramsey nodded and crossed the wall walk, but he paused at the door and looked back at Lyall, and he saw not his stepson, but the tall, golden ghost of his closest friend.
* * *
“This is your chamber while you stay here," Mairi said as Glenna followed her inside, then stood with her back pressed against the door.
“Glenna?”
“Like it? Lud!” She laughed and faced Mairi. “’Tis a far cry from two room cottage with a grass roof, built into the side of a hill on the outermost edges of a remote island.”
Giant timber beams crossed the high ceilings, and in the room’s center, a circular iron candelabrum as wide as a trestle table well hung down from heavy chains bolted into the beams. Near a stone hearth that climbed clear upward to
the roof, stood a large wooden tub filled with water, and a stool nearby held a bowl of small round soaps with flower petals in them, rare lemon citron with a long iron file, and a stack of towels folded while others warmed from a wooden rack set in front of the fire.
“The servants will bring more hot water for your bath, but there is food here.”
The table in a corner near the windows was laden with a feast large enough for five of her. She bit into a hard, sweet apple and her belly rumbled loud enough to make Mairi giggle and say, “Look at the sweets, honeyed figs, candied plums, and these spiral wheels are Catherine cakes, made with currants, almonds, cinnamon and caraway. Cook has unlocked the spice coffers in your honor.” She plucked up one and popped it in her mouth, humming as she chewed, and exchanging a gleeful look with Glenna, who tore off a piece of crusty bread swiped it over the butter, and dipped it in dark red jam. She was in heaven!
Mairi grabbed two more honeyed figs and crossed the room, moving past a large bed, where Glenna’s gaze stopped and the bread fell from her fingers.
On the bed was a gown made of the most glorious deep crimson velvet like that of her infant coverlet, but the gown had an embroidered silk panel of vines and roses made of silver thread, and the neck was trimmed in white snowy fur, as were the long sleeves. She walked over to it and touched the silken fabric, then stroked the fur, unable to believe what she saw before her eyes.
“We finished it yesterday,” Mairi said with pride in her voice. “It is the gown for the daughter of a king, the ermine fur, the fine silk velvet, and it is yours.”
Glenna lifted the gown and held it up to her body, moving and watching the skirt dance with her. The hem was perfect. The gown was hers!
“Behind this curtain is your clothing rod, and there hang the gowns we have made so far, and the cloak, but you will need more. I particularly like the deep blue. My mother chose the fabric and her handmaiden who is the finest seamstress in a hundred leagues did the embroidery on the sleeve edges. But the green is lovely, too. Your shoes are in that chest along the wall, my favorite are the green embroidered slippers with the satin ribbands but you can certainly decide your favorites. There are a dozen or more to choose from, and the cobbler is still at work. Your sleep gowns and chemises are here. The silks are so wonderful to sleep in. I stitched the red birds along---” She turned around and stopped abruptly. “Glenna? What is wrong?”
Glenna was no longer standing. She sat cross-legged on the carpet, clutching the red velvet gown to her, the ermine against her neck felt as soft as the breath of angels, and she broke down sobbing, loud throat-catching sobbing. She pointed to things in the room but sobbed nothing coherent.
She could not speak the words. After her grand fears and doubts, to stand in a room so big one could fit inside the whole cottage in which she grew up, to see the fine, large hanging tapestries, the heavy carved furniture polished to shine like metal, a stone floor not needing rushes to cover the hard dirt, but huge deep carpets with rich designs woven into them, so clean, and a bed like that on which she had awakened with fine linen sheeting as white as snow and pillows of silk and goosefeathers, fur throws and deeply embroidered heavy draperies to keep out the cold.
Even the food on the table was beautiful, apples and plums so polished she could see her reflection on their skin, the bread’s crust shining with some kind of glaze, meat of a rich dark color in a sauce that smelled of wine and thyme, small whole carrots cooked with their green tops, long beans and turnips in bright colors, a slab of the palest butter she had ever seen, and apple and pear compotes, a small cup of bright marmalade made from bitter orange, pork and cabbage, and hard boiled eggs topped with salmon roe, marzipan birds and hares and swans with candied wings atop small golden meringue boats.
Food for a royal table.
She was unable to stop her silly crying, pointing around the room, and she shook her head at Mairi, who looked horrified. Nay! Nay! All is wonderful, she thought, and raised a hand for Mairi to wait until she could get control and find her voice. “Please. These gowns,” she croaked, her breath shuddering in her throat. She took another long and deep breath and hiccupped.
“I am so sorry. What is wrong with them? I swear to you. We will fix whatever is wrong. Please do not cry.”
“Wrong?” she gasped out. “Nothing is wrong! They are perfect. More than perfect. I am such a goose.” She wiped her eyes and sniffled.
Mairi cocked her head, still frowning but clearly ready to listen.
“My story is…difficult to admit,” she stared at her lap and began. “I grew up with two older brothers, Alastair and Elgin Gordon. I adore them. I know nothing of kings and courts and nobility. When you curtseyed to me I was secretly horrified. Truly. My brothers raised me after our father died when I was barely four. The cottage I spoke of was smaller than this room, and it is the only home I have ever known. My days there were spent in the paddock or the stables, or roaming the moors and coves. For most of my life I have only worn trouse like these.” She pulled on the homespun fabric covering her legs.
“To everyone here I am the daughter of the king. But I am not. The truth is I am a thief,” she admitted. “We were thieves. Al and El and myself. Until I stole a gown, I never had one to wear. The only things I own I did not steal are my dog, my horse and my infant coverlet made for me by my mother, and I only just saw it for the first time when your brother came to the island.
Mairi’s look softened with kindness and understanding and she gave her a wan smile. “Glenna, what happened to you was certainly out of your hands.”
“But it does not change who I am and how I have lived.” Glenna looked at the crimson velvet gown in her arms. “Look at this. ‘Tis the loveliest gown I have ever seen. For me…the lass who can muck out a stable, groom, feed, saddle, and break a horse. The thief who can cut a purse from a man’s belt in a heartbeat and steal even lint from his pocket without him knowing.“ She ran her hand along the seams and looked up. “But my skills matter little, because I cannot sew a stitch. To see all of this. To have it made for me, I am…” she paused searching for words. “I am…more than grateful, particularly when I feel unworthy and so wanting.”
Mairi came and joined her on the floor, settling easily next to her so their shoulders and knees almost touched. She straightened her work apron as if it were a gown as fine that the one Glenna held. “You do not have to be grateful, dear Glenna. We made them for you, our gifts, gifts we wanted to give you, and now that I have heard your story I want to give a hundred more!” She leaned her head a little closer and said quietly, “I am certain thievery is a most helpful talent. Would that you could teach me to lift the cook’s keys to the sweets coffers!”
And when Glenna laughed, Mairi patted her hand and laughed with her, then said, “But the best secret is this: you are a king’s daughter. You do not ever have to sew a single stitch.”
30
Glenna sat by the fire with Mairi, belly full, bathed, a maid combing her long clean hair dry, and listening to Lyall’s mother talk about her son.
Beitris Ramsey was a thin and delicate woman, who had greeted her kindly, but seemed cautious and curious like a bird on a window sill, which made the meeting more than awkward at first. As the women ate together and attended Glenna, Lady Beitris soon relaxed.
Her first impression was striking and unique, made so perhaps by what she chose to mask. Dressed beautifully, in a gown of deep blue and gold brocade with velvet braided trim, she moved around the room with grace and elegance, a quiet step and straight, high back. Her belled sleeves long and elegant, yet she wore a tight silken glove on one hand. To cover the burnt, puckered skin? That she was scarred was made apparent by her manner of dress. But Mairi had warned her, and Glenna understood it was to protect Lady Beitris as much as to prepare Glenna.
Half her face was covered with a dark veil connected to a circular cap that tied tightly under her chin and again at her neckline with a wide collar. The visible half of her face was love
ly with her soft white skin, wide eyes the exact blue color of Lyall’s, and a full mouth that showed little age and was as pink as late summer’s campion bloom. Her red curly hair hung down her back in a bright, thick braid encased in a slip of icy blue silk and wrapped with gold and copper braided ribbands. As she sat near Glenna, the braid draped over her shoulder, hanging past the chair on which she sat, and there were small gold pendants in the shapes of crosses, stars, suns and birds decorating the twists of ribbands.
“What he shows the world is a mask to protect who he is inside,” Lady Beitris said, a woman who certainly understood the art of masking things. “The idea he is a coward?” She shook her head. “That is not my son.”
“Not the brother who saved me,” Mairi said, and when Glenna asked a question, the women told her the whole story of the day Dunkeldon burned.
“He was ten years old,” Mairi finished, “when he carried me on his back and took mother’s hand and we traveled alone to Rossi. He was ten years when he faced the wolves who attacked me. He saved me,” Mairi said quietly.
“And lost Atholl,” her mother added.
“Atholl was his beloved hound,” Mairi explained. “They were always together, my brother and that big hound. It slept at Lyall’s feet, followed his shadow, obeyed his every command.”
“We had been walking for two days by then, and we were resting against some tree at the edge of the great woods,” Lady Beitris told her. “My burns were so painful, I could not go on, and Lyall was trying to cool my skin with a cool rag. I was crying. My skin felt as if it was still on fire.” Lady Beitris looked down, the memory obviously still painful in a different way. “Mairi wandered off into the woods.”
“I was chasing butterflies, or something equally foolish.”
“Atholl followed her,” Lyall’s mother continued. “We had not noticed she was gone, until we heard the wolves. My heart was in my throat. All we had lost and then Mairi, too? ‘Twas too much for me.”