by Mary Daheim
“At whose knee have you studied history, mistress?” queried the elfin man between curling lips. “Your Lady Mother’s?”
Sorcha tossed her head, the black hair flying about her shoulders. “Aye. And my father’s, since he was at Corrichie Moor when the battle took place between clan and Queen. He loved the Gordons, but he prized loyalty more highly.”
There was a pause on the part of her listeners. Before any of them spoke again, lain Fraser’s affable, yet incisive voice cut into the group: “So I was and damned near died for my trueheartedness. The late Earl of Moray cared less for his half sister’s victory than he did to send me to an early grave.”
The tale of Iain Fraser’s attack by an assassin after the battle of Corrichie Moor was a legend in the Highlands. Though he had fought for the Queen, her villainous half brother James had been determined to rid himself of any competitors for his role as Mary Stuart’s favorite counselor.
George Gordon had ambled over to Fraser’s side. “That was a confusing occasion, My Lord.” He grinned. “God knows my sire never held it against you for fighting with the Queen. He often spoke of that sad day.”
Fraser put a light hand on George’s wide shoulder. “Indeed, I urged him to flee, lest your entire family be destroyed. Had he not agreed, I doubt that you would have ever been born.” He gave George a kindly pat. “Show my eldest daughter how gallant a Gordon can be, George. I must attend to Father Napier.”
George’s perpetual, faintly lopsided grin remained fixed in place as the others melted away in Iain Fraser’s wake. “Don’t tell me my kinsmen were being unpleasant?” inquired George in a voice that always seemed just a bit too soft for his burly frame.
Sorcha’s green eyes followed her father as he joined Father Napier. Though the priest stood almost the full length of the hall from Sorcha, she could have sworn his gaze locked with hers for just an instant. “Unpleasant?” Hastily, she turned to George, vexedly reminding herself it was he, not Napier, upon whom she should be concentrating. “Oh, nay, merely tedious. Are the salmon running at Strathbogie?”
The bland blue eyes sparked with interest. “They were, a fortnight ago. I took six within an hour just after first light. ’Twas wondrous sport.”
Sorcha brightened visibly. “How large?”
George spread his hands a good twenty inches. “Mayhap more, at least two of them.” He sighed and shook his head. “The next day, they started to turn color.”
“A pity.” Deliberately, she moved closer to George and put her hand through his arm. “I don’t think we’re ever going to eat,” she grumbled, noting with vague chagrin that her hem had become unraveled just where it met the ivory underskirt. “I could devour at least one of those salmon you caught all by myself about now.”
Somewhat to Sorcha’s surprise, George placed his hand over hers where it lay in the crook of his arm. “Shall we walk, then?”
“Walk?” She wrinkled her nose up at him, catching a glimpse of Father Napier over her shoulder. He was moving toward her, with Rob at his heels. “Yes,” she replied. “It’s overbright in here. And too warm.”
A moment later, they were in the entrance hall of the manor house, the sounds of the guests muffled behind them. Sorcha gazed at the whitewashed walls, the graceful stairway, the Fraser coat of arms cast in silver and etched with gold leaf above the door. Now that she had escaped, she was uncertain what to do with her companion. “Would you like to see Father’s antlers?” she inquired.
George’s silky blond eyebrows lifted curiously. “Antlers? Nay, I thought perhaps we could speak of more … intimate matters.”
Caught off guard, Sorcha took a deep breath and regained her composure. Whatever did the braw laddie have on his not-so-agile mind? “Well, George?” Her smile offered encouragement. “Feel free to speak your piece.”
He shifted his burly frame. “ ’Tis Rosmairi.” He swallowed once, but seemed relieved to have spoken her name. “She’s so bonnie, yet timid as a doe when I try to speak with her alone. I was wondering if … you might … remind her what a good fellow I truly am.”
So, thought Sorcha with a surprising sense of irritation, it was Rosmairi who had captured his fancy. She should have known it would be. “You mean to sue for Rosmairi’s hand?” Sorcha asked, trying to keep the chagrin from her voice.
“Hand?” A puzzled expression crossed George’s florid face. “I hadn’t thought so far into the future. Rather, I felt we should each learn more of the other first.”
Pushing aside the tinge of unreasonable jealousy his words had evoked, Sorcha considered. “Rosmairi’s only fifteen. And while she may not find your attentions unwelcome, my parents may feel differently.” With a beguiling smile, she patted George’s arm. “A year or more, then seek Ros out. The wait will do neither of you any harm and may prove beneficial.”
George’s thick lower lip protruded stubbornly. “I’d no mind to wait that long!”
His obvious impatience nettled Sorcha. She didn’t give a fig about George Gordon as a potential match for herself, but having just been jilted by another, it seemed unfair that Rosmairi should acquire a suitor before she did. However, that was scarcely an explanation that would carry much weight with the determined young clan chieftain. Sorcha was trying to extricate herself as gracefully as possible when the sound of heavy knocking and barking dogs erupted outside the carved main entrance. Ordinarily, servants would have rushed to admit visitors, but this evening all the Fraser retainers were attending the guests in the dining hall.
Briskly, Sorcha went to unlatch the door. She took no precautions, since few strangers came to Gosford’s End. A moment later, Sorcha wished she had used the rusted iron peephole. Johnny Grant stood on the threshold, while three of the Fraser dogs yipped at his feet.
“I presume upon your hospitality,” he said in his quick, choppy manner of speech. The autumn breeze ruffled his pale hair, and his gray eyes were somber. Though only seventeen, he had the air of a much older, more rigid man. “My kinsmen will wait outside.”
Sorcha yanked the door all the way open. Down the drive, near the well, she could barely make out the forms of two men and three horses. Shooing the dogs back outdoors, she stepped aside to let Johnny enter. He stopped abruptly when he recognized George Gordon.
“I’ll not speak in front of any Gordon,” declared Johnny, bearded chin thrust out. “What I say must be directed only to Frasers. Only Frasers,” he repeated doggedly.
For George, any aspersion cast on his family name drew instant ire. “By the saints, brash Johnny Grant, guard your tongue lest I hack it out!” George’s hand had gone to his dirk.
“I come in peace,” Johnny asserted truculently. “But I’ll speak only to Mistress Sorcha and her kin. Spare us an ounce of courtesy, sir!”
“Spare us all,” Sorcha murmured to George. “If there’s mischief to be made, I’ll be the maker.”
George eyed Sorcha with vague surprise, then squared his shoulders, glared at Johnny, and stamped into the banquet hall. When Sorcha turned back to her unwelcome guest, she noted that he was flushing under his beard. “Well? What brings you here to visit a maid you’ve treated so shabbily?”
“Sorcha ….” Johnny sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “It seemed the manly thing to tell you face-to-face that despite my fondest wishes, I am unable to marry you. Quite unable.”
“It is me or my religion you find unpalatable?” Sorcha demanded, feeling the stiff ruff agitate her skin.
Johnny’s faint smile revealed his slightly crooked teeth. “I have always found you most bonnie. Alas, I cannot take a Papist to wife. For me, ’twould be a grave sin.” The smile faded. “A very grave sin.”
Sorcha flicked the end of her nose with her finger in that unconscious gesture of dismissal, then stared at Johnny Grant’s youthful, compact form and pleasant bearded face. In days gone by, he had been good company, a good sport, and sometimes a good friend. But Niall’s hard-muscled body, and even the hunter’s eyes of Fathe
r Napier, stirred something more exciting in Sorcha than did Johnny Grant’s camaraderie.
“I’d not invite you to sin on my account,” Sorcha said rather stiltedly. Suddenly she laughed and put out a hand. “Don’t fash yourself, Johnny. The match was made for us before we cut our second teeth. I’ll not hold a grudge.”
Tentatively, he took her hand. “I’m relieved. Most relieved. I thought you might be angry.”
She wrung his hand, then withdrew her own. “I was. Infuriated, actually. But since you’ve taken the trouble to explain, that changes my feelings. Though why religion and politics must muddle up people’s lives, I can’t understand. You, however, believe otherwise, and I should respect that. At least I’m not being thrown over for some simpering, dimpled ninny.”
“Oh, no! Lilias isn’t like that!” Johnny stopped, flushed even more deeply, and clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Lilias?” Sorcha’s eyes narrowed. “Traitor! Reiver! Knave!” She flew at him, nails going for his eyes.
Retreating, Johnny grappled with Sorcha, vainly trying to utter words that would soothe her. “It’s nothing … I merely meant … Lilias is but fourteen.”
Sorcha had him backed up against the wall. He averted his face, gripping one of her wrists but feeling the blows she rained against his temple. Johnny was again attempting verbal appeasement when he felt Sorcha being pulled away from him and heard her shriek in protest.
“Enough!” commanded Father Napier, one arm slung around Sorcha’s waist. He had lifted her off the floor and her feet swung free above the flagstones. “You seem to be having problems getting along with your guests this evening, mistress.”
“Let me go!” cried Sorcha, now directing her blows at Napier’s arm. “This churl has shamed me most dreadfully! Swill-sucking pig!” she spat at Johnny. “I’ll marry a man twice as noble, thrice as rich, or see you rot in hell first!”
Apprehensively, Johnny straightened his dark brown doublet. “I had wished to see your sire …. Ah!” He gasped in relief as Iain Fraser came into the entrance hall.
“Christ,” muttered Fraser, “what’s amiss now?” He glanced angrily from the combative Sorcha and Father Napier to the rumpled Johnny Grant. Napier set Sorcha on her feet but kept his arm tight around her waist. She quieted down in her father’s presence but still strained to escape from the priest’s firm hold.
“I came to apologize,” Johnny explained swiftly. “I meant no dishonor to your daughter or your family. No dishonor at all. Despite what Sorcha may think, I am not betrothed to any other lass. Though in consideration of all these years I’ve spent paying her court and thus depriving myself of opportunities to find a more suitable bride, I must ask for your daughter’s dowry of Stratherrick as recompense. Stratherrick,” he repeated and licked his lips nervously.
“Why not ask for my ears as well, you greedy little swine?” screamed Sorcha, who was promptly muzzled by Father Napier’s hand.
Iain Fraser had stiffened, though his face remained impassive. With a lazy jab of his thumb, he indicated the banquet hall. “The first course is about to be served. I don’t wish to detain my guests any longer. You are dismissed and will never be welcome again at Gosford’s End.” He turned his back, brushing past Sorcha and Father Napier on his way to the banquet hall.
“Never,” Johnny breathed, his gray eyes fixed on the double doors that had just closed behind Iain Fraser. Taking a deep breath, he managed to glower at Sorcha and the priest. “Now it is my honor that has been impugned.” Johnny put one hand over his heart, the other on the latch of the front door. “My honor,” he repeated in an ominous voice, and was gone into the brisk October night.
Slowly, Father Napier released Sorcha. Her temper had burned itself out, rendering her limp. “I’m sorry, Father,” she began, “I must explain why I behaved so badly ….”
Napier shook his dark head. “No. It was all quite clear.” He started back to the banquet hall, but Sorcha called after him.
“It’s a matter of shame,” she persisted, “and injustice.”
Napier looked at her over his shoulder, the hunter’s eyes deep and shadowy. “I doubt that you know what shame really is. Or injustice. And certainly not pain.”
Sorcha paused, watching him stalk away. For one brief moment, she had seen not the look of the hunter in Gavin Napier’s eyes, but of the hunted.
The cheerful voices and bursts of laughter inside the banquet hall made Sorcha feel as if the past half hour had never occurred. Iain Fraser was herding his guests to the long trestle table as Dallas eyed her daughter questioningly.
“My Lord Huntly,” she called over the throng, “pray sit by our Rosmairi and your humble hostess.” With a flash of amethysts at one wrist, she motioned to Sorcha. “Your place is with Magnus and Father Napier.” Dallas seemed to gaze at her eldest daughter a bit longer than was necessary, then smiled graciously in Napier’s direction. “It is our wish that you give the blessing, Father.”
Gavin Napier nodded once, then began intoning a familiar prayer in Latin. As he raised his hands over the table, Sorcha’s eyes strayed to the strong, long, brown fingers that appeared too rough to belong to a cleric. Certainly they’d had the strength to subdue her fury only a few minutes earlier. Many priests and monks, however, were forced to earn their own living in these perilous times. The meanest, most common labor was often the only sure source of sustenance.
During the first courses of leek soup and boiled curlew and mussels in broth, Magnus monopolized Father Napier. That was as well with Sorcha, who needed time to recover from Johnny Grant’s monstrous behavior. Yet as she watched Rosmairi engage in diffident conversation with George Gordon, her concern reverted to her sister. It was obvious that poor, naive, trusting Ros was smitten with the complacent young laird.
Sorcha sighed softly. If George proved persistent in his courtship, she would have to keep close watch over Rosmairi, lest the moonstruck lass lose more than her wits. Moreover, Sorcha was puzzled by George’s choice. Tradition and religion bound Fraser and Gordon clans, yet despite his youth, George had already been involved in several major court intrigues. Slow of wit in social situations and seemingly phlegmatic, the Gordon chieftain was amazingly shrewd when it came to politics. Why would he ally himself with a house that was already part of his Highland power base? Iain Fraser’s personal integrity and sizable wealth made him a man of importance, yet he had deliberately absented himself from the royal circle for almost twenty years.
So, Sorcha asked herself again, why Rosmairi? She seemed like a useless pawn in the scheme of George’s aspirations. Noting her mother cast a disdainful glance in the young earl’s direction, Sorcha recalled Lady Fraser’s damning words about George’s lack of character and abundance of ambition. In spite of the cramped quarters and the heat from the huge fireplace, Sorcha shivered.
Her musings were interrupted as the servants brought on the venison stewed in ale. As she began to eat, her attention was caught by Gavin Napier’s account of his background. As near as she could make out, he had been raised at Inversnaid on the eastern shore of Loch Lomond. Unlike many of the Napiers, his family had not embraced the reformed religion. Their obstinate adherence to the Catholic faith had cost them considerable property, and while Gavin was still a lad, they had exiled themselves to France. Apparently, it was there that Napier had entered the priesthood.
A typical tale, Sorcha reflected, as she chewed on her venison and sipped the French wine from her father’s ample cellar. Her plate was almost empty when Magnus’s attention was diverted by a freckle-faced Gordon to his right. Father Napier turned back to Sorcha.
“Forgive me,” he began. “Your brother’s keen inquiries have made me neglect your company.”
Somehow, his tone seemed too familiar to Sorcha, who frowned into her wine cup and fervently wished Father Napier would sound—and act—more like a priest. “Are you on your way home?” she queried at last.
“There is no home to go to. My parents died in France
several years ago. The kinsmen I have in Scotland would disown me for becoming a priest.” Despite the serious nature of his words, Napier was still smiling, his teeth a white gash in the dark beard. “I’ve come to offer support to Scotland’s Catholic families.”
“Oh.” Sorcha riveted her gaze on her empty plate. “Are you one of those priests who would convert King Jamie?”
Napier shrugged. “I’m not as optimistic as some, especially the Jesuits. Tell me, is a knave such as Johnny Grant worth your obvious distress?”
Coming from Father Napier, a virtual stranger, the question seemed most inappropriate. Sorcha stiffened, shoving back strands of black hair that had escaped over one shoulder. “He humiliated me. Some day he’ll be sorry for it.”
Napier dabbed a crust of bread in the remains of his gravy. “Leave vengeance to the Lord, lass. You’ll find many a man who will give up all for what Johnny threw away tonight.”
Magnus was trying to peer around the priest’s broad shoulder. Sorcha refused to look at her brother, nor would she return Napier’s dark gaze. “The Lord has aplenty to do without fashing Himself over Johnny Grant. I’d prefer sparing Him the bother of divine retribution.”
Father Napier turned somber, staring without focus at a silver tureen near his plate. “Retribution of any kind is only another word for pain. Spare not God but mankind with your petty pouting, Mistress Fraser.”
“You upbraid me,” she retorted, leaning forward and hoping the thick strands of hair would shield her flushed cheeks. “You are a strange, unfeeling sort of priest. Out there, in the entrance hall, you were too rough with me. See here,” she said, lowering her voice and pushing back the ruffed edge of her sleeve, “you bruised my wrist.”
Napier hesitated, then touched the red mark with his forefinger. “Not I, mistress. I had you by the waist.” The shadows lifted from his face as he raised his hand to within a half inch of her lips. “And here, to silence your rampaging tongue.”