by Mary Daheim
Gavin Napier moved forward in two long strides. He and Gray were of a height, but the priest was more solidly built. “She is no serving wench; she’s Mistress Fraser of Beauly. Go with your minions; no one will chase after you and your petty plots.”
Gray still held Sorcha’s arm as his eyes seemed to dissect her. “If this ill-kept chit is Lord Fraser’s daughter, I’m the King of France! I don’t know you, sir, but if she’s your bedmate, you’ll have to sleep alone this night.”
Moray made as if to speak, but Sorcha saw Gray’s men behind him, quietly filing into the dining hall. She had no idea how many retainers Moray housed at Doune Castle, but at least fifty armed Gray followers now flanked the arched entrance.
“I’m not afraid,” Sorcha declared. It wasn’t precisely true; she had not yet had time for fear to take root. “If we can trust in the Master of Gray’s honor, I should soon be back.”
Moray appeared uncertain, Rob’s face had turned alarmingly pale, and Stewart was clearly dubious. Gavin Napier brought the side of his hand down sharply on Gray’s wrist. Elizabeth screamed as Sorcha felt Gray release her arm. Napier’s fist struck out at Gray but it never connected. Bothwell leaped forward to slam the butt of his pistol against the priest’s head. Napier crashed to the floor.
Gray grabbed Sorcha around the waist, pressing her tightly against him. Bothwell stood with his pistol aimed at the others, while at least a dozen Gray supporters also cocked their weapons. “I’ve cast my lot with you before, Patrick.” The Border earl laughed gratingly. “We’ll call on King Jamie together.”
Gray’s sardonic expression revealed pleasure at the other man’s decision. But it was to Moray that the Master spoke. “My Lord, I want no bloodshed! Let us take the wench and depart.”
With a sigh of resignation, Moray moved back a few paces. Stewart seethed next to Elizabeth, who was crying softly. Reluctantly, Sorcha allowed herself to be half carried out of the dining hall, through the entrance way, and into the damp October air. The image that lingered was of Rob, bending over the sprawled, inert form of Gavin Napier.
Chapter 7
It was only after they had traveled about five miles that Sorcha stopped worrying about Napier and began to consider her own predicament. Riding next to Gray and wrapped in a cloak one of the men had given her, Sorcha tried to recall what she knew about the strange, elegant sixth Baron Gray, a schemer, like Bothwell, given to convoluted, cunning plots to ensure his influence with King James. That, naturally, would put him at odds with Arran, who had been Jamie’s closest confidant. But Arran was also a conniver who had managed to acquire his title and properties from a demented Hamilton scion. As far as she could remember, her parents favored neither Gray nor Arran, considering them both self-seeking, ambitious, unprincipled scoundrels. Dallas despised Bothwell and his Douglas wife, who, she insisted, dabbled in black arts.
Yet Moray had welcomed them all. Perhaps Moray’s open, gracious nature would have welcomed the devil himself. Sorcha glimpsed Gray’s perfect profile and shivered. There was something Lucifer-like about him. All she could do was pray that the Master would keep his word and return her unharmed as soon as they reached court.
“Where are we going?” she called to her captor as they galloped along a road lined by short, sturdy, stone fences. Obviously, they knew the route well, for there was no moon to guide them.
It was the first time she had spoken since leaving Doune. Gray didn’t hear her, so she spoke again, this time more loudly. “Stirling Castle,” he answered, eyeing her with mild interest. “Will you be awed?”
“Doubtless.” Sorcha spoke without inflection. Hopefully, someone at court would know her and put an early end to the masquerade. Sorcha was angry with herself; if she had dressed appropriately, she might still be at Doune, basking in Moray’s charm and feasting on roast capon. And Gavin Napier wouldn’t have fallen victim to Bothwell’s vicious blow. Glancing up ahead at the Border earl’s narrow back, she marveled at his wiry strength and loathed his wicked meddling.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Gray’s smooth, yet incisive voice. “You handle your horse well. Were you brought up in the stables?”
Sorcha kept her eyes on what she could see of the road. A mental picture of Niall flashed through her mind. “Aye, much of the time. I helped the grooms.” There was no point in arguing, at least not while riding swiftly through the night to meet the King of Scotland. Sorcha had seen her royal cousin, Jamie, just once, at Holyrood, when he was no more than ten years old. A sniveling, gawky lad, she recalled, who looked more like a pot-boy than a monarch. He was only a year or two older than Sorcha, but had been King since babyhood, when his mother was forced to abdicate. Until recently, he had been the pawn of various mentors and opposing factions, relying almost completely on whoever was his current favorite. Sorcha wondered if the Master of Gray was determined to perpetuate that arrangement.
“Have you been at Doune long?” For all that Gray regarded her as a servant, his tone was cordial. Perhaps, when he wasn’t wreaking havoc, his manners were as elegant as his appearance.
“About three hours,” Sorcha replied with a touch of asperity. “I came with the others from the Highlands.”
“Ah, I should have guessed from your voice.” Gray slowed his horse to a canter and the others followed suit. Sorcha scanned the horizon, barely able to make out a jutting hill on which a huge building seemed to be perched like an eagle ready for flight. Gray noted the direction of her gaze. “Stirling.”
Sorcha had passed it on at least one previous journey south, but always in the daylight. “Is the King in residence there now?”
“He is,” remarked Bothwell, who had drawn up beside them, “if that villain Arran hasn’t kidnapped him.”
The possibility wasn’t an idle thought. Jamie had been abducted at least once before. Indeed, Sorcha knew there was some connection between that incident and the enmity between Gray and Arran. But the complexities of Scottish politics being what they were, she wasn’t quite certain who stood in opposition to whom, let alone why. Growing up at such a distance from court, it seemed to Sorcha that her countrymen played at politics as other men might play at games. They needed no great principles or moral causes to provide a confrontation; they seemed to quarrel, intrigue, and even murder for the sheer excitement.
Under the protection of the cliff on which the castle rested, a small village lay in darkness, save for a handful of rushlights burning behind cottage windows. The men’s voices hushed as the horses slowed to a trot. The Master guided his mount in front of the others, beginning the climb up the Carse of Stirling to the castle entrance. Sorcha glanced down, somewhat unsettled by the long, sheer face of the basalt rock that rose like a truncated mountain above the town.
Moments later, they were halted by the guards. Sorcha wondered if Gray would resort to arms as he had done at Doune. But after only a minute’s discussion, the guards stepped aside to let the Master and his men pass. As they dismounted, Sorcha turned to Gray. “May I ride back now?”
Gray, absorbed with whatever plan he was concocting, didn’t answer directly. When he finally looked at Sorcha, he seemed momentarily puzzled. “What? Oh, aye. Nay,” he contradicted himself, “you might get lost, and I can’t spare men to accompany you. Wait until morning. I’d not have it said I didn’t keep my word where a lass was concerned.”
Sorcha’s eyes snapped in annoyance. From what she’d heard, the Master of Gray wasn’t one to worry about keeping his word. Perhaps the Earl of Moray evoked honor even from rogues. “What am I to do, then? Sleep under the King’s bed?”
Bothwell had sidled up next to her. “You may sleep in mine,” he said, his wily gaze resting on her bosom.
Sorcha emitted a snort and refused to look at him. But now that Sorcha had served her purpose, Gray had no further interest in her, nor in Bothwell’s lewd suggestion. “Go to the kitchens. They’ll see to you.”
Not having yet had supper, Gray’s idea suited Sorcha just fine. Reli
eved that her brief captivity was over, she simply walked away, wondering where the kitchens were located. Behind her, she could hear Gray giving orders to his men. It occurred to Sorcha that it might be amusing to watch the confrontation with the King, particularly if Arran had indeed sought royal protection. But her stomach was growling, and she had no real desire to become involved in politics, even on the periphery.
Stirling Castle was large, however, and while Sorcha had passed at least four guards and two servants, she hadn’t troubled to ask for directions. Now, close to a quarter of an hour had gone by and she was growing ravenous. At last she caught up with a lad of short stature and a stealthy if shambling step. If he were up to no good, Sorcha reasoned, he’d only be too glad to send her along to the kitchens to be rid of her.
The lad jumped when she called to him and turned around, his homely face wearing a suspicious look. His clothes were well cut, but he seemed faintly imbecilic, with his gaping mouth and wary eyes. As Sorcha drew closer, she noted a spark of keen intelligence that surprised her.
“I’ve just arrived,” she began, hoping to sound amiable. “Where are the kitchens?”
The lad blinked. “Kitchens? Why do you seek the kitchens?”
Sorcha wondered if she’d been mistaken about the intelligent spark. “I’m hungry. I’m afraid I was kidnapped before supper.” Annoyed, she hoped her unconventional approach would swiftly elicit the information she wanted.
“Do you jest?” He spat as he spoke, and the eyes, which were very deep set, glowered at Sorcha.
“I do not. I seldom jest about being kidnapped. Or being famished. If you’d prefer bringing me food, I’ll rest content. But one way or the other, I must eat.”
“Who kidnapped you? Was it the Master of Gray?” The lad’s face leaned closer. He had big hands and feet for his size, Sorcha noted, and one foot turned outward.
“Jesu, yes, yes, it was. News races swiftly at Stirling, I see. I wish victuals did the same.”
“Who are you? Why were you kidnapped by Gray?”
Sorcha felt like boxing the impertinent lad’s ears. “If you’d like to hear the tale, bribe me. Like a Gaberlunzie man. If you feed them, they’ll tell you a story. So will I. Please.” Sorcha sounded desperate.
“Mistress, do you know who I am?” The lad drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much greater than Sorcha’s.
A dim recollection of a homely, furtive boy at Holy rood stirred Sorcha’s memory. “Oh, sweet Jesu!” she gasped, at least remembering to bob a curtsy as her stomach growled like an active volcano. “Your Grace?”
King James of Scotland looked severe, his face taking on the wizened appearance of a waspish old man. “That is correct. I, mistress, am your sovereign lord.”
Sorcha clapped her cheeks with the palms of her hands. “And I, sir, am an idiot. Why, may I ask, are you skulking about your castle? Oh, by the saints, I’m not supposed to put such questions to you. Forgive me!”
Jamie’s features softened. “They’re all looking for me. Gray. Arran. Hamilton. Bothwell. No doubt half the nobles of Scotland are rambling about Stirling like cats searching for a mouse. I’m tired of people telling me what to do. I’m nineteen years old, with a God-given right to rule. I wish they’d all go away and leave me alone.”
“If you’d had two parents instead of a councilful, maybe it wouldn’t be so bothersome.” Sorcha bit her tongue, chiding herself for her complete lack of courtly manners. But Jamie seemed unperturbed by her words. Indeed, he was nodding.
“They forget I’m grown up. I should have a wife, not a teacher.” Jamie struck a fist into his palm. “Someone small and blond, with dimples and blue eyes.” He cast a sidelong, diffident glance at Sorcha. She noticed that he seemed to spit a great deal when he spoke. “Would she have to be a Swede?”
“No, not necessarily. We could discuss it … over a bit of food, perhaps?”
“Oh! I forgot, you’re starving. I must remember, I’m to watch over my subjects with more concern.” Jamie warily looked around the empty hallway. “I know, we’ll find Simeon. He’s my manservant. He’ll bring us something to eat, and we can talk, and perhaps I can figure out what to do with odious Arran and worrisome Gray.”
“How very clever of Your Grace,” Sorcha murmured, bobbing another curtsy, just in case it was expected. “Have you any rare beef with hot juices?”
Jamie was leading the way toward a winding staircase. “Alas, no. We seem inundated with mutton lately. I must issue a command to the cooks. I’m not fond of mutton, are you?”
Sorcha shook her head. “Not terribly. But I’d eat an old saddle about now.”
The King giggled, a high, giddy sound that made Sorcha jump. She steadied herself against the stone wall as Jamie pushed open a door. It led into a small chamber where a young man with very fair hair reposed on a bed reading a book. He looked up and smiled when he saw the King, but suddenly stared when Sorcha entered.
“I found a hungry lassie wandering about the castle,” said Jamie, going to the small fireplace to warm his hands. “She’s starving to death. Could you bring her something? I’ll have wine, of course, Simeon.”
Simeon put down his book, first carefully marking the page where he’d left off. He bowed courteously to Jamie, nodded at Sorcha, and left through the room’s other door, but not before the King called out to him: “If anyone asks, don’t tell them where I am.”
Jamie sighed when the door closed, then sat down on a battered sea chest that stood at the front of the bed. The room apparently belonged to Simeon; Sorcha assumed the King’s own chambers were close by.
“Do sit,” Jamie said rather vaguely, gesturing to the only chair in the room. Sorcha lowered herself onto the leather-covered seat and felt the legs creak beneath her. Now that they were alone, the King seemed at a loss for words. Strangely, Sorcha did, too, though she reminded herself that Jamie was, after all, a young man. If she didn’t know how to converse with a king, she’d proceed on the assumption that he couldn’t be so different from other lads of his age.
“Do you hunt here?” she asked, resting her chin on one hand.
“Not as much as at Falkland.” He looked ill at ease and seemed even smaller than when he was standing up. “Who are you?”
Sorcha couldn’t help but smile. “I’m Sorcha Fraser, daughter to Lord Iain Fraser of Beauly. We’re kin, Your Grace, in some tenuous manner.”
Jamie turned thoughtful. “Fraser. That Fraser. Another of my grandfather’s bastards. I can’t always keep them straight. Your sire didn’t approve of my mother marrying Bothwell, did he?” Sorcha knew that Jamie had been carefully schooled not to approve of the Queen’s hasty, ill-fated marriage, either. “Nay, the union cost her my father’s allegiance, I’m afraid.” Sorcha did not remind Jamie that her father had also disapproved of Mary Stuart’s marriage to Lord Damley, the King’s own sire. “It may be impertinent to mention it, sir, but the Master of Gray doesn’t know who I am. Or, at least, doesn’t believe it.”
“Oh.” The King frowned, his lower lip sticking out. Absently, he wiped at the saliva on his chin. “You said he kidnapped you. Why, if he didn’t know who you were?”
“As a hostage, to keep anyone at Doune from following him. Arran’s brother was there. And Bothwell, who rode with us.” Sorcha turned to the door as Simeon entered, bearing a tray with covered dishes, two goblets, and a bottle of red wine. She all but fell upon the boiled mutton until she realized she should probably wait for the King’s permission to begin eating. Jamie, however, was telling Simeon to retire. When the servant had left again, the King crossed his spindly legs and gave no indication that he was concerned with etiquette.
“Arran has been good to me, in his way,” he mused, staring into the fire, which burned fitfully. “Yet the people hate him. The Master of Gray is cunning, but beautiful. Don’t you think so?” His wistful gaze fixed on Sorcha.
“Mmmmm.” Sorcha hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of mutton and carrots. “Impressive, to
be sure. Though I would have preferred meeting him under other circumstances.”
Jamie nodded, then once more turned diffident. “And me, Mistress Fraser? Would you have known who I was if you’d seen me sitting on my throne surrounded by fawning courtiers?”
Sorcha smiled at the irony. “Well, certainly. I hardly expected to find my sovereign lord prowling about the hallways. But then, the Master mistook me for a stable wench. It seems to be a day of mistaken identity.”
The King brightened. “How true! We have more than our lineage in common, mistress.” The smile he gave Sorcha was quite winning. “I don’t talk much to lassies; it’s not permitted. What do you like to hear?”
Sorcha paused between bites of potato. “I’m not typical, perhaps, Your Grace. Most lassies want to be told how bonnie they are and how sweetly they speak and that they move like a flower swaying in the breeze. I prefer to speak of other things. For example, I’m told you’re very learned ….”
Putting one hand to his narrow chest, Jamie did his best to puff himself up. “I have had a superb education, that’s true. My elders often forget how shrewd and clever I truly am. I can,” he added slyly, “sometimes be as devious as the next one.”
“I suppose you’ve had to be,” Sorcha conceded. Strange, she thought, until now, her image of Jamie had been almost totally unpleasant. Yet he was a rather appealing, if pitiful, laddie, with his exaggerated sense of grandeur and his naive frankness. Sorcha liked him and knew instinctively that the feeling was mutual. Inspiration struck between mouthfuls of mutton.
“Sir!” she exclaimed, one hand held out as if in supplication. “Would you know of any eligible young noblemen who’d wed with a Highland Fraser?”