by Mary Daheim
Sorcha assumed a bland expression. “He’s lived abroad for years. He arrived at Gosford’s End only recently.” The evasion wasn’t quite a lie, Sorcha told herself, and wished Moray would let go of her hand.
Moray considered the explanation for a moment, then nodded. “And has come to court to seek his fortune?”
“Ah … not precisely.” Stalling, Sorcha smiled back at Moray. “He and Rob plan to travel.” She hesitated again, wondering if she should name their destination. Moray had the ear of the King; perhaps he could serve as her emissary. Yet she hardly knew the man. With ambivalent feelings, she looked away from her host to the hem of her black mourning gown.
“A shame,” Moray remarked, giving her hand a squeeze. “Napier struck me as the sort of ally I would like to have at court. He’s intelligent, forthright, and brave. I should have been the one to chase after Gray and Bothwell, not Napier.” The blue eyes had turned rueful, apologetic.
“He promised our parents he’d give us protection,” Sorcha replied casually. She inclined her head toward the gallery doors. “Such gay music! Don’t you feel like dancing?” Indeed, Sorcha had heard that Moray was a superb dancer, yet another asset which had earned him the soubriquet “the Bonnie Earl.”
But Moray assumed a self-deprecating air. “Let us merely say that I’m less clumsy than some.” He uttered a little laugh and moved another step closer to Sorcha.
The sudden, intimate silence was awkward. Sorcha gave her hand a slight tug, but Moray didn’t seem to notice. The blue eyes were unblinking, fixed on her face as if they’d been searching for something that had long been lost and finally was found.
“Those drumsticks filled with Flemish cheese,” Sorcha said, overenthused, “have they all been devoured?”
It took a moment for Moray to focus on Sorcha’s query. She was about to repeat it when he laughed again, this time more heartily, if self-consciously. “Nay, unless your Lady Aunt stuffed the rest in her bodice.” He kept her hand in his, but swung back toward the banquet hall. “I forget what hearty appetites Highlanders possess,” he added lightly. “Have you tasted the candied fig tarts yet?”
The tension that had begun to creep over Sorcha like a chill began to drain away. Yet, except for holding her hand, and the lingering warmth of his gaze, Moray had done nothing to disturb her. Nor would he, Sorcha reassured herself—the Earl of Moray’s vaunted reputation had been earned not just by athletic ability and a gift for the social graces, but by his unblemished gallantry with women.
Edinburgh lay under a thick blanket of snow that first week of December. From the pinnacle of Castle Hill to the gates of Holyrood Palace, residents slowed their pace and muffled their voices against the swirling snow that blew down from the north.
At Linlithgow, the King had brought his new Privy Council together. Many of the previously banished lords were restored to favor. Arran was said to be in hiding on the western coast. And plying the strings, as if the realm’s most important personages were mere puppets, was the Master of Gray.
To Sorcha, these political events had but one significance: she could not reach the King to ask permission for Rob and Father Napier to join Queen Mary in England. By mid-December Rob was growing as impatient as his mentor. Immediately following a scripture lesson delivered by Uncle Donald, Rob and Sorcha fled the McVurrich house to the snow-banked streets of the city. The snow had stopped falling just before supper, but the few barren spots on the cobblestones had already iced over. Keeping close to the lanterns that hung along the Canongate, brother and sister walked carefully in the direction of the High Street.
“As soon as the weather improves, I’ll ride with you to Linlithgow,” Rob said as they approached the Nether Bow Port that marked the end of the Canongate and the beginning of the High Street.
“If I’m to beg a favor of the King,” Sorcha replied peevishly, putting a gloved hand over her nose as they passed the Fish Market, “I'd rather wait until he returns to Edinburgh. You could hardly make the journey to England now, with snow barring the roads.”
“We’re heading south, not north,” Rob retorted, equally pettish. “Once this thaws a bit, we should get through.”
“God’s teeth, Rob, I don’t see why you’re so eager to exchange one prison for another. I can’t imagine anything more gloomy than sitting around all day in a dank English manor house, listening to the Queen of Scots bemoan her fate and recite French sonnets.” Sorcha ploughed purposefully through the virgin snow, leaving deep footprints. Her black skirts were already wet but her booted feet remained dry.
“I’m not joining the Queen to be entertained,” countered Rob, glancing at two footmen who strained under the weight of a heavily curtained litter. “Not only am I committed to serving her, but I can also be taught by Father Napier.”
“He can teach you here.” Sorcha gave her brother a baleful glance. “Though perhaps if you see the Queen in all her human frailties, the experience will dampen your ardor. Then you can look upon lesser lassies without a prejudiced eye, and fall in love.”
Rob shook his head, as if confounded by Sorcha’s simplistic view. “You see things only in earthly terms, dear sister. Can you not raise your eyes heavenward upon occasion?”
“I can hardly raise one foot after the other in this damnable snow,” Sorcha retorted crossly, momentarily slowed by the drifts that had accumulated next to the massive bulk of Saint Giles. “I can’t help it if I’m an earthbound creature who—”
Sorcha’s words were cut short by the sound of loud voices outside one of the entrances to Saint Giles. Several men appeared to be arguing, and her initial reaction was that they were drunken brawlers. But in the still night air, she could hear one of them cry out over the others, “I’ll commit my soul to Christ before I let my body utter your vile confession of faith! Let the Devil take you all!”
The man was cuffed smartly by a stout figure whose back was to Rob and Sorcha. At least two of the others wielded clubs. Sorcha counted the men, discerning that there were four assailants, yet only a single victim. “Where’s the night watch?” she whispered to Rob, as they edged close to the side of the church.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen anyone since we passed the Nether Bow.” He had already felt for his dirk, but remembered he hadn’t bothered to put it on. “Damn,” he breathed, “I wish I knew more people in this pestiferous place.”
The stout man’s words were too low to distinguish, but the reply was clear. “No, by the sweet Virgin, I will not! Do what you must!”
To Sorcha’s horror, the men closed in on their victim, wielding fists and clubs. Frantically, she turned to Rob, gripping his arm tight. “We must stop them! I don’t care who they are, they’ll kill that poor soul!”
She was not encouraged by Rob’s look of complete helplessness. “They may kill us, too. We dare not, Sorcha. The man may be a criminal.”
“God’s teeth,” Sorcha cried, letting Rob go and trudging purposefully through the snow. “Stop!” she called out, within twenty feet of the men. “Stop, for the love of God!”
The men paused, startled at the sound of a woman’s voice. The victim was on his back, legs writhing wildly, emitting strangled groans from his throat. Sorcha was now only a few steps away. The stout man eyed her with contempt. “Make for your bed, wench! We want no meddling here!”
Rob had followed Sorcha, and now stood at her side. “Mind your manners, churl, or I’ll call the watch.”
A roar of laughter greeted Rob’s threat. “Och, ye do just that,” said a second man as the guffaws died away. “I am the watch!”
To prove his statement, the man moved to stand under a lantern that hung from the wall of the church. His chest was emblazoned with the city’s arms, and his headgear boasted Edinburgh’s crest.
Sorcha looked from the men, who still had their prey pinned on the ground, to her bewildered brother. In the next instant, the men fell once more upon the hapless victim as a soul-wrenching scream escaped from his lips before he
lapsed into ominous silence.
The stout man stood up, turning back to Sorcha and Rob to dust off his hands as if he’d just completed a particularly irksome chore. “That’s how you deal with obstinate Papists, my lad and lassie. If they won’t recant on earth, let them do so before the Devil.”
The others had also got to their feet, retrieving caps and clubs and other gear they had lost in the melee. Sorcha moved closer to Rob as the stout man saluted them with a mocking bow. “Let this be a lesson,” he said, waving a hand carelessly toward the inert figure behind him. “And a bonnie night to ye both.” The men were laughing and clapping each other on the back as they turned in the direction of Fish Market Wynd.
Rob moved swiftly to the man who lay on the ground, but Sorcha held back. She could already make out the spreading patch of red that blemished the snow. “Is he … alive?” Somehow, it was very important to form the words in a hopeful voice.
“No.” Rob slowly stood up, fixing Sorcha with a stricken face as white as the snow itself. “Holy Mother of God, he was a priest!”
Chapter 9
The Christmas season passed precisely as Aunt Tarrill had predicted. Despite Uncle Donald’s reluctance to join in the festivities, he had been unable to maintain his opposition for more than a day. When Tarrill encircled his head with a garland of cedar, stuck a sprig of holly behind one ear, and tweaked his beard, he capitulated. To Sorcha’s surprise, he seemed to enjoy himself, particularly on Christmas Day, when the wassail bowl turned magically bottomless.
By Twelfth Night, Rob was again urging Sorcha to request an audience with the King. He had not mentioned it since the priest’s murder, making Sorcha speculate that Rob had been frightened out of his vocation. She would scarcely have blamed him. And though she told herself over and over that there was no way they could have prevented the priest’s death, even if they’d acted sooner, she still felt guilty.
But Rob revealed that the incident had only strengthened his desire to join the clergy. “I hesitated; I’m at fault,” he lamented to Sorcha late one night in her room. “You urged me on, but prudence made me stay. Now I must offer up my life for his.”
Sorcha shook her head. “That makes little sense to me. But,” she went on, trying to blot out a wine stain she’d gotten on her black gown, “it’s hopeless, Rob, with the Master of Gray overseeing everything the King does. We must wait until his influence wanes.” Sorcha examined the dress with a critical eye, noting to her chagrin that the stain still showed. “Unless we find someone else to intercede,” she added and tossed the garment onto the bed. “I considered Moray earlier, but decided it would be impertinent. Yet now that Uncle Donald has made him a loan, I don’t feel so cheeky.”
Rob wrinkled his nose at Sorcha as Ailis slipped into the room, candle in hand. She was attired in her nightclothes and looked startled to find Rob in his sister’s room so late. Sorcha contemplated Ailis briefly, then gestured for her to stay.
“Your apparel is sufficiently modest for mixed company,” Sorcha asserted, with a dry smile. Indeed, Ailis was muffled to her chin, with yards of heavy flannel shrouding her body. The maid looked primly from Sorcha to Rob, then moved quietly to close the shutters.
“Uncle Donald was generous with the Bonnie Earl, I hear. But why,” queried Rob, “would Moray want to offer succor to the Queen when his future is in the hands of her enemies—including her ungrateful son?”
“He’s friends with devious Bothwell, who, for all his other faults, is also devoted to his royal aunt.” Sorcha had spoken more to herself than to Rob, as if she were trying to support her argument.
Rob got up from the armchair in which he’d been lounging. “Well, Moray could hardly procrastinate any longer than you have,” he said dryly. Seeing the spark in Sorcha’s eyes, he held up his hands as if to ward off potential blows. “Nay, nay, I tease. Go to Moray. But for the love of Saint Joseph, mind what you say. Especially about Father Napier.”
Sorcha gave Rob an enigmatic look. “Don’t fret, my brother. I already know what I’m going to say. Especially about Father Napier.”
Warmer winds had blown in from the sea to melt most of the snow. The Canongate was full of puddles and slush as Sorcha made the brief trek to the Earl of Moray’s handsome town house. Ailis had offered to accompany her, but as the maid was engaged in a chess game with Doles, Sorcha was reluctant to disrupt the match. She was still smiling inwardly at the sight of the two intent, somber faces poised over the chessboard when she pulled on the heavy brass ring which adorned Moray’s front door.
A pockmarked servant with hair the color of corn silk admitted her. He indicated the drawing room, where Sorcha found Moray, Bothwell, and a sulky youth she didn't recognize practicing putts on the Persian carpet.
“Cousin!” greeted Moray warmly, setting down his golf club and coming to take her hand. “Welcome. Bothwell and Caithness are helping me keep up with my game during this cold weather.”
Bothwell gave Sorcha a sniggering smile; Caithness made a vague, clumsy bow. He was half a foot taller than Bothwell, but fair haired and lanky. All three men were in their shirtsleeves, and tankards of ale sat on a tiny tiered table near the fireplace.
“So you really are Iain Fraser’s bairn,” Bothwell remarked after the formal introductions had been made. “Did you ever convince Patrick Gray?”
“Did I ever need to?” Sorcha snapped and promptly flushed. “Forgive me, but that wild ride from Doune still rankles.” Caithness was looking puzzled. He was not much older than she and, if memory served her, had a most unsavory reputation for mayhem. Moray appeared to take all manner of men under his good-natured wing.
“Braw Caithness here is half brother to Bothwell,” Moray explained, quite unruffled by his guests’ disparate emotions. “Here, mistress, join us,” he urged, picking up one of the tankards. “Or would you prefer wine?”
Sorcha shook her head. “Nothing, thank you. I must keep my visit short.” She gave Bothwell and Caithness a questioning glance. “It concerns a family matter.”
“Ah.” Moray nodded at the other men. “Be good fellows and see if you can find that club with the new shaft. It may solve my pesky problem of veering to the left.”
Bothwell smirked. “Don’t veer too far with the lass. I’m told she’s kin to me.” He gave Sorcha an oblique look and all but shoved Caithness out of the room.
Moray laughed ruefully as he offered Sorcha a chair. “Neither Bothwell nor Caithness has had much formal upbringing. Both their sires died young, you know, and their mother let them run roughshod. Caithness is still a lad, but Bothwell can be an amusing rogue.”
“Oh?” murmured Sorcha, having second thoughts about the wine as Moray sat down opposite her. “Bothwell is a friend of Gray’s as well as yours? It’s all very confusing.”
“So it is,” Moray allowed, rolling a golf ball out of the way with his foot. “Now—what troubles you?” he inquired with kindly concern. “Are you and Rob suffering from a plethora of Presbyterianism?”
Sorcha laughed. “Oh, no—well, from time to time.” She paused, growing more serious. “In a sense, the problem does pertain to religion—and politics. It’s Rob, you see.” She saw Moray’s straight brows lift and hurried on. “My brother has a silly notion about serving Queen Mary in her English captivity. He’s quite a dreamer, and has long fancied himself her champion. I would hope—indeed, I beg—that you would ask His Grace to let Rob join the Queen’s household.”
Moray had grown quite solemn while listening to Sorcha’s request. “It’s very difficult,” he said slowly, fingering his chin. “King Jamie has little influence over his mother’s imprisonment. Queen Elizabeth makes those decisions.”
Sorcha sniffed with disdain. “It seems to me a king ought to have some say when it concerns his own mother. I can’t imagine Jamie is so helpless. Or devoid of spirit.”
Taking a deep swig from his tankard, Moray acknowledged Sorcha’s allegation with a nod. “Our King plays a canny game, knuckling under
to the English queen at one moment, flirting with the Catholic powers the next. But he knows that if he’s to succeed Elizabeth, he must ultimately play by her rules. Just last month, he signed a bond with England to solidify relations between the two countries.”
Sorcha stood up abruptly. “By the Virgin, I’d no idea how weak-willed we Scots really are until I came to Edinburgh! You would think Elizabeth was Queen of both England and Scotland. Perhaps it’s well I’ve never thought of myself as a Stewart but as a Fraser. Highlanders have more pride than to let a foreign hussy lead them around on a leash.”
Moray set his tankard down and also got to his feet. He put a gentle hand on Sorcha’s arm and gave her his self-deprecating look. “You make me ashamed of my heritage. As perhaps I should be. See here,” he said, tapping her nose with his finger, “I’d like to make amends for what happened at Doune. I’ll go to Jamie, if you insist. But you must come with me.”
It was Sorcha’s turn to prove she had the courage of her convictions. She shifted from one foot to the other, as Moray’s hand moved down to cup her chin. “Very well. But you—we—must also ask permission for Gavin Napier to join Rob. My father has refused to let my brother go to England alone.”
Moray’s hand fell to his side. “Napier? Very well. You mentioned they would travel together. So be it, mistress.”
Sorcha felt flushed with triumph, though the idea of going to Linlithgow was not appealing. Still, it was a small price to pay for Moray’s cooperation. She offered him what she hoped was a fetchingly grateful smile, but he waved her thanks aside.
“Never mind; we’re even now. I’ve been all but moping since the Master carried you off from Doune.” Moray picked up his golf club and proffered it to Sorcha. “Do you play?”
“A little.” Sorcha felt the club with experimental fingers. “My father and my brother, Magnus, are quite good. They have a makeshift links near our house, though the sheep get in the way.”