Gosford's Daughter

by Mary Daheim

  Jamie’s small eyes grew quite wide. “You?” He licked the moisture from his lips. “Oh—well—there’s usually some distant Stewart kin seeking a bride.” A sudden glint of suspicion flickered across his homely face. “Do you think you need a husband after being abducted by the Master?”

  Sorcha flushed. “Nay, Your Grace! It’s merely that I’m of an age to wed, which is part of the reason I am going to Edinburgh. And,” she went on, after taking a deep breath, “I’ve been jilted by Johnny Grant.”

  “Grant.” Jamie spoke the name without much interest. “His appearance doesn’t move me.” The King dismissed Johnny Grant with a wave of his hand. “Surely there is someone more suitable.” He gave Sorcha a superior, yet conspiratorial wink. “We shall mull the matter over in our leisure,” Jamie declared with a majestic intonation.

  “Excellent,” murmured Sorcha, hoping she sounded sincere, but wondering precisely how much real power Jamie had in such affairs. She was about to give further voice to her gratitude when the door burst open; Sorcha spilled gravy on her bodice and swore aloud. Jamie swiveled in his place, then leapt to his feet. Simeon all but fell into the room, followed by a dozen other men, including the Master of Gray, who dropped on his knees before the King.

  “Your Grace,” he exclaimed, his head thrown back, the firelight catching the copper glints in his hair, “am I to be slandered by the Earl of Arran after my selfless attempt to preserve his life? He is guilty of ingratitude as well as treason!” Another man, shorter and more squarely built than Gray, but seemingly possessed of equal audacity, also came forward to fall before King Jamie. “When did I ever do anything except to serve Your Grace? I desire no great rewards, though I’ve assuredly not earned the calumny spread by my enemies.” Sorcha, discreetly trying to wash down her supper with a swig of wine, decided that the second man must be the Earl of Arran. His assertion of not wanting any reward struck her as strange, since he’d already wrested his title from another noble who still lived; though a Stewart, Arran had been made head of the House of Hamilton.

  Jamie, appearing so young and insignificant beside the other two men, gazed fretfully at them both. “Your incessant quarrels distress us,” he declared with more force than Sorcha had expected. “If you would truly please me, pray desist.”

  Arran all but growled his response: “I’ve tried to make peace with this two-faced scoundrel, but each time, he betrays me. My life is in danger as long as the Master of Gray lives!”

  The Master got to his feet. For the first time, he saw Sorcha, sitting behind Simeon, a tray in her lap, a wine goblet in her hand. “By Christ’s beard, what have we here, a serving wench dining with a king?”

  To Jamie’s credit, he never flinched. “Mistress Fraser is my guest. And my cousin. I find it soothing to have at least one relative to whom I can speak without fearing the consequences.”

  Gray threw Sorcha a furious look, but quickly composed his features. She had a fierce desire to stick her tongue out at him but controlled herself. Once this unpleasant scene was over, she would somehow have to express her gratitude properly to King Jamie.

  Arran had also stood up. “My Lord,” he intoned, ignoring Sorcha altogether, “I can no longer tolerate the presence of this man in Scotland.” He gestured harshly at Gray but kept his eyes on the King. “He has deceived every man and woman he has ever dealt with, including the wife he abandoned. The Master has conspired against your mother, against Elizabeth of England, against the Protestants and then the Catholics. If he betrays me today, will he do less with you tomorrow?”

  Sorcha didn’t hear the King’s reply. Sir William Stewart and at least six other men hurtled into the room, filling it with hailing bodies. Gray went down under the assault, but Bothwell was in the doorway shouting, “No more! The banished lords have returned!”

  The room froze in a bizarre tableau. Gray lay under Stewart and two henchmen. Arran loomed over them, his hand on his dirk. The King had a finger pressed alongside his nose, as if contemplating a move in a chess game. The others remained in varied states of animation, apparently depending upon whose badge they wore.

  Arran broke the spell with a snap of his blunt fingers. “Christ Almighty, we are done for!” With a heavy sigh, he bowed to King Jamie. “I ask your leave to retire.”

  Stewart and the others stood up, while Gray stretched his long legs and gazed up at Arran with malicious satisfaction. Jamie waved a hand at the room in general. “You may all go. Swiftly, I command you.”

  They obeyed, Gray and his men departing through the door to the winding staircase, Arran and his followers leaving from the other exit. Simeon trooped after them, though he gestured to the King to indicate he’d remain outside.

  “Jesu,” gasped Sorcha, setting down the tray and brushing crumbs from her skirt, “were they going to murder Gray?”

  Jamie flopped onto the bed. “It would seem so, just as my mother’s secretary, Rizzio, was done to death before her very eyes.” He put a hand over his forehead. “I was in her womb then, you know.”

  Sorcha nodded vigorously. “My own mother was there, too. My brother Rob was born that night at Holyrood.”

  “Oh?” Jamie peered at Sorcha with renewed interest. “We do have much in common, Coz. Do you think I ought to ran away from here?”

  Sorcha wrinkled her brow. “Isn’t it more likely they’d run away first?”

  “Arran will. The lords who have returned are his enemies. But I’m not so certain I want to see them, either. They’re yet another passel of nobles who think me too young to rule.” Jamie sat up straight, considering his plan. “Yes, I’ll go to Edinburgh. Will you come with me?” There was an oddly plaintive note in his voice.

  Getting to her feet, Sorcha paced the room. The past few hours had been the most disconcerting of her entire life. First, she’d been kidnapped, then she’d ridden some ten miles to Stirling Castle at breakneck speed, she’d mistaken the King of Scotland for a page, and witnessed a near murder. The idea of tearing off again into the night struck her as impossible.

  “It must be well on to midnight,” she began, wondering how to phrase her lack of enthusiasm for taking part in Jamie’s escape plans. “Perhaps you ought to sleep on your idea.”

  But the King shook his head vehemently. “Nay, I go now or not at all.” Hesitantly, he put a large, clumsy hand on Sorcha’s arm. “Come. We’ll take Simeon with us.”

  It was, after all, a royal command. Sorcha forced a smile and agreed. Ten minutes later, the three of them were walking with careful tread down a flight of stairs that led to the postern gate. Enveloped in the cloak she’d borrowed from one of Gray’s men, Sorcha hugged it closely around her as they stepped outside. There, high on the hill at the castle’s edge, the wind shrilled through the battlements, making Sorcha’s teeth chatter. Simeon went to the postern gate, testing the latch.

  “My Lord,” he whispered in alarm, “it’s been locked!”

  “It’s never locked,” Jamie retorted sharply. “It must be stuck.”

  Simeon’s head wagged in denial. “It’s locked. Your Grace, I swear it.”

  Helplessly, the King looked in every direction. “The water gate, then,” he said at last, but a voice from behind him cut against the wind.

  “The water gate is also locked,” said the Master of Gray. “Though it was not a few minutes earlier when ruthless Arran scurried through it.”

  Jamie whirled on Gray, his cape flapping like the tail feathers of an angry rooster. “How dare you! Arran escapes, but you prevent your King from doing the same! I shall have you both proclaimed traitors!”

  Gray smiled down on his king. “Nay, My Lord, I only sealed off the castle to protect you. The banished lords are but a mile away. You could easily fall into their hands. We must discuss what course of action to take with them. If I may humbly suggest it, let us all go to our beds and rise early to chart our course.”

  Jamie seemed to wither under Gray’s persuasion. “Very well.” He motioned to Simeon and
Sorcha. “I’m tired, in any event.” He uttered a small, strangled laugh. “I loved Arran once. Why couldn’t he have been more kind?”

  Gray put a proprietary hand on the King’s shoulder. “He doesn’t know kindness. He never understood you. He always put his own interests first.” The Master turned to Simeon. “Take gentle good care of our sovereign lord. I’ll see to Mistress Fraser.”

  The King made as if to protest, but thought better of it. Docilely, he let Simeon lead him away without another word. Sorcha, still holding her cloak fast around her body, looked directly at the Master but winced slightly at the compelling hazel eyes. “If you think I intend to sleep with the horses, you’re sadly mistaken, My Lord,” she announced boldly.

  “I had no such thought.” He didn’t bother to offer his arm but strode to the castle door and pushed it open. Sorcha dutifully preceded him up the staircase. “This way,” said Gray, nudging her arm. “What did you talk about with His Grace?” The voice was smooth, almost unctuous.

  “Mutton.” Sorcha clamped her teeth together.

  Gray emitted an exaggerated sigh. “I can’t trust you. You spend an hour or more with the King, then try to help him escape during a most delicate political crisis, and insist you only talked of mutton.”

  “We began with beef,” Sorcha said with impatience. “I want to leave this place.”

  “I told you we cannot.” Gray sounded as if he were talking to a recalcitrant child. “You may leave tomorrow, after the King and I decide how to deal with the banished lords.”

  Sorcha swooped around, hair and cloak flying behind her. “You! Why should it be you any more than Arran or whoever else wants to control that poor laddie? He’s the King; leave him be!”

  “Christ’s Beard,” Gray exclaimed in mock wonder, pausing by a torch which still flickered fitfully. “The urchin wants to tell the Master of Gray how to conduct himself! Do they not teach you manners in the Highlands! They surely don’t teach you grooming.”

  “You, sir, may put your manners up your arse,” Sorcha raged, fists on hips. “If my father were here, he’d skewer you for speaking so to me!”

  Gray leisurely moved to within a half foot of Sorcha. Deliberately, he reached out to pull the cloak from her shoulders. “Your dress is not only hideous, it’s dirty.” He put a finger on the gravy stain that rested against the cleft of her bosom. Sorcha pulled back, infuriated by his audacity.

  “Don’t touch me!” Sorcha’s eyes darted from one end of the hall to the other. She lunged for the torch but Gray’s long arm snatched at her wrist.

  “Stay, urchin. I’m not going to deflower you, merely detain you.” He gave her arm a little jerk, and Sorcha swore under her breath. Resignedly, she let him lead her past a pair of narrow windows where the wind blew through the cracks in the embrasures. They rounded a corner, all but crashing into Gavin Napier.

  Napier’s hand went to his dirk. Momentarily taken aback, Gray recovered his aplomb at once. He struck an indolent pose, half leaning against the wall, regarding Napier and Sorcha with an insolent smile. “Don’t be a fool, man. If you kill me within these walls, you’ll be just as dead within the hour.”

  Napier’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but his fingers were still wrapped around the dirk’s hilt. “Here or elsewhere, it matters not to me.” His other hand lashed out, catching Gray sharply just below the left ear. The Master reeled and slumped against the wall but saved himself from falling to the floor.

  “Whoreson!” breathed Gray, venomous eyes not quite in focus.

  Napier grabbed Sorcha by the wrist. “Come, before I decide to kill this whelp of hell after all.”

  Sorcha shuddered and instinctively moved closer to the priest. Gray was pulling himself to his feet as Sorcha and Napier hurried down the corridor. “He’s evil,” she whispered, picking up her skirts in order to keep apace with Napier’s long stride. “Bothwell, too. Poor Jamie!”

  Napier’s grip on her wrist grew tighter. “Did he harm you?”

  “Oh, no—he was pleasant enough. For a villain.” She craned her neck to look up at Napier. “But you—he won’t forget, priest or not.”

  They had reached the east side of the castle, by the entrance to the great Parliament Hall. “Rob’s outside,” said Napier, ignoring her words. “He bribed the guards.”

  Anxiously, Sorcha peered back down the dimly lighted corridor. Despite all the tumult of the past hour or more, the castle was deceptively quiet. Sorcha saw no one. Not even the Master.

  Napier had released her wrist, but Sorcha made no move toward the stout oak door. “I said you are in danger. I’d wager Gray is a vengeful sort.”

  “He doesn’t know who I am.” Napier tested the iron bolt; it slid back easily. “Quickly, before Rob grows apprehensive.”

  Sorcha still didn’t move. She wanted to thank Gavin Napier for rescuing her, yet she was afraid to encourage any familiarity. With another man, she’d offer a kiss on the cheek, a hug, at least her hand. But she dared not touch this volatile priest for fear of leading him—and herself—into temptation. Abruptly, Sorcha turned away. “I’m grateful to you, Father. You were brave to come here.” To her surprise, the words were a mumble.

  Napier, however, acknowledged her appreciation with a shrug as he shoved the heavy door open. “Your care was entrusted to me by your parents. I’d have been derelict in my duty if I’d acted otherwise.”

  He spoke offhandedly, but as Sorcha passed over the threshold into the brisk night air, she felt Napier’s hand press against her back as if to provide direction. Yet even as she saw Rob’s form outlined against the castle battlements, Sorcha’s flesh tingled from Napier’s touch, and she cursed herself for nurturing what seemed to be a shameless, impossible desire.

  Chapter 8

  “How fortunate!” cried Aunt Tarrill, leading Sorcha and Rob into the McVurrich parlor. “It’s Donald’s birthday! We’re having a party!”

  Sorcha and Rob exchanged bemused glances. The idea of dour Uncle Donald enjoying a celebration, even in his honor, seemed incongruous. However, the five McVurrich children, Aunt Glennie, and an elderly couple were indeed gathered around the fire, eating saffron cakes and drinking brandy wine.

  “You must change,” Aunt Tarrill said after the introductions had been made to the old people, who were Donald’s parents from Dunbar. Tarrill inclined her head, looking thoughtful. She was a tall, statuesque woman, her dark hair streaked with gray, her aquiline profile softened by time. “You’ll take the room over the Canongate, Rob. And, you, Sorcha, the one above the garden.” She stopped speaking as Aunt Glennie sidled up to her niece and nephew, blue eyes bright, faded blond curls bobbing. “Well, Glennie,” said Tarrill, “what do you think of Dallas’s bairns?”

  “A handsome pair, I must confess.” Glennie smiled, blinking rapidly as she always did when agitated or excited. “Yet very different, with Rob’s red-gold hair and Sorcha’s dark locks. But then, the three of us were unalike. In many ways,” she added wistfully.

  Within minutes, Sorcha was upstairs with Ailis, sorting through their luggage. Having noted that the household was in mourning, no doubt for Glennie’s late husband, Sorcha hoped she would not have to purchase an entire wardrobe of black. Such somber garb could hamper attracting rich, handsome suitors. For now, a crimson gown made over from one of her mother’s dresses would have to do. Sorcha had been disinterested during the fitting sessions at Gosford’s End, but now she appraised herself critically in the bedroom’s three-quarter mirror. The color suited her, but the dated style did little to set off her figure, except for the bodice, which revealed the curve of her bosom and just a hint of the cleft between her breasts. Another gown in the same shade, with the new V-neckline and a wide ruff fanning out behind the head would be more fetching. A narrow-waisted dress with a small farthingale would add height, too. As for her hair, she supposed she’d have to buy some caps, or at least veils and nets to keep it in place. It was hopeless to attempt taming the long, unruly strands at the moment. Sorc
ha stepped into the only new item she’d brought, a pair of black calfskin shoes with dainty heels.

  Rob had already changed and joined the others by the time Sorcha returned downstairs. Henry, the eldest of the McVurrich offspring, was playing the pipes while the others sang a hymn. Sorcha slipped quietly into the group, between the youngest boy, Thomas, and Aunt Glennie. The hymn seemed to last a very long time. Sorcha noted that Glennie didn’t join in, though Tarrill did. Rob, of course, was silent but wore a pleasant smile, as if to prove that he was enjoying the music.

  The last notes died away in a minor key. Donald McVurrich rose from his place next to the hearth, a psalter in his hand. He was a tall, rawboned man in his forties; his blond hair had darkened over the years, and his beard reached his breastbone. Though he opened the book of psalms and gazed down at the page, the words he spoke were his own. “Sorcha Fraser, this is a godly house. Gentlewomen do not expose their bosoms, nor do they wear brazen colors. Particularly while mourning a loved one.” Only upon conclusion of his reprimand, did Donald look directly at Sorcha. The eyes held no warmth, and Sorcha felt herself blushing.

  “I’m sure she hasn’t had time to go through her wardrobe, good husband,” said Aunt Tarrill mildly. “Indeed,” she went on, turning to Sorcha with a fond smile, “I remember your mother wearing that dress when she was in Edinburgh the last time. Or at least one very like it.”

  “I should expect Dallas would,” Donald commented dryly. He ignored his wife’s vexed look. “Let us recite the psalms.” It seemed to Sorcha that Uncle Donald intended to recite all of them. An hour later, he was still droning on, though by then, the rest of the family responded only fitfully. Sorcha and Rob exchanged impatient glances. They were both hungry, not having eaten since breakfast in Dunfermline. To Sorcha, it seemed like much longer, though she had been relieved when Gavin Napier and the others had parted from them near the Netherbow Port, where Edinburgh’s High Street met the Canongate. Both Sorcha and Rob remembered how to reach the McVurrich house in Panmure Close. Father Napier had left Rob with assurances that in a few days’ time they would meet to discuss their plans. Sorcha considered it might be best if she didn’t see the priest again.