by Mary Daheim
“We’ll play when the weather is better,” Moray said. “Winter is a trying time for me. I grow bored indoors.”
“So do I.” Sorcha set the club down and gathered her cloak around her. “The city pens me in. I miss the Highlands.”
Moray eyed Sorcha thoughtfully. “I see that. You possess remarkable energies. A child of nature, perhaps?” He saw Sorcha’s blank expression and frowned. “Nay, you are no longer a child,” Moray asserted and uttered his self-deprecating laugh. “I’m reminded more of Diana, or Artemis. I’ve seen a most wonderful sculpture of Artemis with a magnificent stag. It’s a perfect rendering of the Goddess of the Hunt.”
The words nettled Sorcha. No bronze or marble figures came to mind, but rather herself, angry and rain soaked, mourning the Master of Ness. And looming over them both in her mind’s eye was Gavin Napier. She had tried not to think of him in the past few days, and now she resented Moray for unwittingly bringing him to mind.
Nor could Moray be blamed for misreading her reaction. “It seems you find me too forward, mistress,” he declared, wearing a shamefaced expression. “I intended no dishonor.”
“What?” Sorcha snatched her cloak even closer to her body. “Oh, no, I suppose not.” In her attempt to exorcise Gavin Napier’s image, she had forgotten what Moray had said to evoke it. She looked sheepishly at her host. “I was thinking of my … my pet. He was a stag, in the Highlands, and was killed this past autumn by a … hunter.” Sorcha forced herself to smile. “I miss him too,” she added rather lamely, and didn’t know if she spoke of the great stag—or of Gavin Napier.
It had just started to drizzle when she got outside, a fretful rain mixed with a few flakes of snow. The clouds hung close in over the city, casting a gray gloom on the Canongate and the Girth Cross. Nevertheless, Sorcha was relieved to be gone from the Earl of Moray’s company. As charming and kind as he was, his presence had a peculiar effect on her. Perhaps Moray was a born womanizer, skilled in the arts of enchanting ladies, capable of flattery designed to provoke flirtatious banter. It was an art practiced by many, and often quite harmless. Certainly Moray’s name had never been tainted by scandal. But, Sorcha thought as she waited for a coach and four horses to labor by, she didn’t wish to offer him any encouragement.
Looking across the street through the drizzle, Sorcha sucked in her breath. Gavin Napier was directly opposite her, wrapped in a long black cloak, bareheaded and staring straight toward her. He didn’t move, but waited for Sorcha to join him.
“You come from Moray’s.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.
Sorcha rearranged her hood to keep the rain off her face. “Aye, for Rob’s sake and yours.” She misliked his stern tone and willed him to smile at her as easily as Moray did. “Moray will intercede. Aren’t you pleased?”
Napier started walking quite fast, forcing Sorcha to fall into step beside him. “I ought to be,” he replied, his voice very deep. Napier gave Sorcha a sidelong glance. “What wiles did you use to convince him?”
Sorcha started to balk but shrugged instead. “ ’Twas simple enough—I offered him my body. It rarely fails when dealing with men.”
They were passing the Canongate Tolbooth, where a half dozen beggars huddled by a brazier next to the edifice’s gray walls. Napier all but stepped on one of the men as he whirled around to confront Sorcha. “Christ! You did no such thing!”
It never occurred to Sorcha that Napier would take her seriously. The blazing brown eyes told her otherwise, however. She backed off a pace, one heel splashing into a puddle. “And if I did? Wouldn’t it please you if it meant gaining your objective?” Her chin shot up, the hood falling from her hair.
In the folds of his black cloak, Sorcha could see Napier’s hand tighten into a fist. His face was grim. “Don’t talk drivel,” he growled, lowering his voice as the beggars looked on with interest. “Whatever you did was for Rob, not for me.” He glanced over his shoulder, started to tell his ragged audience to mind their manners, but instead, dug inside his cloak and tossed out a few coins. The beggars scrambled among themselves amid a mingling of vile curses aimed at each other and grateful cries directed at their benefactor. Napier, however, had grabbed Sorcha by the arm and was steering her along the Canongate.
“Let go; I can walk,” Sorcha rasped, using her free hand to struggle with her hood. “God’s teeth, did you truly think I’d give myself to Moray—or any other man?” She darted Napier an angry look. “What must you think of me!”
“What I think of most women,” Napier snapped back as a scruffy mongrel scampered close to his feet and shook himself, water flying from his fur. The animal yapped noisily, but Napier paid no heed. “Why should you be different?”
The mongrel had raced away after a rooster that had strayed from a nearby close. Napier’s response had further nettled Sorcha. “It sounds as if you’ve heard too many lewd women in confession.”
Napier’s profile was stony, though his grip remained firm on Sorcha’s arm. They passed the Canongate Kirk, where an angry woman scolded two young boys who had been taunting a tearful little girl. “You comment on matters of which you know little,” Napier finally said in a harsh note of reproach. “At the very least, your notion of humor is perverted.”
“At least I have a notion of humor,” Sorcha retorted, and yanked her arm free. “Whatever became of fat, jolly priests with rosy cheeks and rotund bellies?”
“They went the way of Chaucer,” Napier replied, but his voice had lost its edge. He glanced to his right, toward a deserted close that was sheltered from the rain by an archway. Abruptly, he pushed Sorcha over the cobbles until they both stood under the protected entrance. Beyond, a fallow garden lay at the front of a house with closed shutters and dormant chimneys. “Tell me,” he implored, more solemn than stern, “do you find me disagreeable?”
Sorcha gave the query the consideration it deserved. “I find you strange,” she answered after a moment’s reflection. Pausing, she searched the long, wolflike face. “There are tiny lines of laughter around your eyes—I think you were happy once. But there’s sadness, too, and somehow, I sense a contradiction, as if ….” Fretting her upper lip with her finger, she made a frustrated face. “I don’t know. I think perhaps you find faith and charity easy to come by. But not hope.” She shook her head slowly as she saw Napier retreat behind the familiar mask. “As for being disagreeable, you do tend to disagree.” She shrugged. “But I don’t mind arguing. Just don’t be unreasonable as well.”
The glimmer of a smile tugged at the corners of Napier’s mouth. “For such a young lass, you speak freely to your betters, mistress.”
Sorcha flicked at the end of her nose in dismissal. “Pah! I’m a Highlander—there are no ‘betters.’ Or,” she went on, feeling a vague sense of remorse, “if there are, it must be proved.”
Napier considered her statement. His dark brown hair was soaked, and it curled slightly over his ears and forehead. Just a few yards away, in the street, the heavy wheel of a hay cart fell off and rolled down the Canongate toward the entrance to the close. It careened into the archway just as Napier pulled Sorcha flat against the wall.
“Jesu,” Sorcha breathed, as the wheel bounced off the stonework a scant foot away and crashed onto the cobbles. “How fortunate there were no small children playing nearby.”
The driver of the cart was huffing and cursing in his pursuit of the wheel. He was followed by a lad younger than Sorcha, whose coloring and build resembled the driver’s. The two of them righted the wheel and began rolling it back toward the cart.
Sorcha moved as if to step from Napier’s protective embrace, but he didn’t seem ready to yield her up. His reluctance was considerably less astonishing than his words. “Did he suggest a price?” The inquiry was hoarse, almost diffident.
“What?” Sorcha craned to look up at Napier’s face, her hood slipping off her head again. It occurred to her that what was most bothersome about Napier wasn’t his intransigent, solemn nature but
his unpredictability. “Did who do what?”
The dark eyes were focused on the unruly tangles of her damp hair. “Moray. Did he suggest such a payment as you mentioned?” Again, Napier’s words didn’t come easily.
“Moray?” Sorcha was incredulous. “Naturally not! His reputation is spotless! Really, Gavin, you have the most—” She jerked up her head to stare at him, as startled as she thought he would be by her use of his Christian name. “Forgive me, Father … I meant no disrespect.” Sorcha was flushing, her hot cheek suddenly pressed against his chest.
But Napier said nothing, nor did he seem shocked by her lapse of etiquette. One big hand moved to pull away the mass of hair from where it lay caught in the fallen hood. “Still,” he said, ignoring her apology, “doubtless Moray has the usual masculine weakness for virgins. No man is to be trusted, under certain circumstances.”
Recalling Napier’s impassioned kisses all too vividly, Sorcha was about to respond that she understood his words well enough. But she could feel his heart beat against her ear, and she smelled the virile warmth of his body next to hers. It was not the moment for rancor.
Nor was this the man for romantic dreams, Sorcha reminded herself sharply. Better to moon over the married Moray than the forbidden Father Napier. She made a tentative effort to pull away, and to her surprise, the priest released her at once. “I still feel responsible for your safety—spiritual as well as otherwise,” he declared in a tone Sorcha found unconvincing. Apparently, her reaction showed; Napier scowled and kicked at a piece of masonry dislodged by the runaway cart wheel. “You have every right to despise me, you know.”
They had taken up a brisk pace, moving back through the Canongate toward Panmure Close. “And you, me,” Sorcha replied in a dismal voice. She didn’t bother to put her hood back. They were only a few steps from the McVurrich residence, and Sorcha suddenly felt as if she deserved to catch cold.
They concluded their brief journey in silence. At the wrought iron gate that separated Uncle Donald’s fine house from the Canongate, Sorcha stole a glance at Napier from under the wedge of unruly hair that all but covered one eye. “I’ll hate it when you—and Rob—go away.” She swallowed hard, but still couldn’t quite look directly at Napier. “Yet it will be a good thing, I think.”
The hunter’s gaze was compelling. “Will it?” He bit off the words and made as if to reach out for her. From somewhere on the second story of the house a shutter slammed, making both Sorcha and Napier jump. “I must go,” she breathed. “Uncle Donald mustn’t see you.” Whirling, she pulled open the iron gate and raced along the flagstone path to the McVurrich front door and Presbyterian sanctuary.
Chapter 10
The muddy roads slowed their pace as Sorcha, Rob, Ailis, and Moray rode to Linlithgow the third week of January. The weather had turned unusually mild, melting all but the most sheltered patches of snow along the route. They arrived at the castle shortly before noon. The King was closeted with his council, but Moray assured Sorcha and Rob that he would grant an audience later in the day.
“The Master will try to thwart me as he always does, but Jamie will be gracious,” Moray said as they shared their noon meal in the earl’s quarters. “I like to think he finds my undemanding company pleasurable.”
Moray’s prediction proved accurate. King James sent for his cousin just after four o’clock. Two hours later, however, Moray had not returned.
“I considered Moray a most persuasive man,” Rob fretted, pacing the chamber as the shadows crept across the rushes.
Sorcha looked up from a book of Italian sonnets she’d been scanning. “I suspect he must prove entertaining as well. They may be playing cards or draughts.”
“While my fate hangs in the balance,” Rob retorted with unusual impatience. He snatched his cape off a peg and threw it over his shoulders. “I need some air. Do you wish to join me?”
Sorcha gave him a caustic look. “Not when you’re so cross. I’ll go see if Ailis is still napping.”
Rob nodded tersely, then left the chamber. Sorcha returned the book to its place on the shelf, paused to gaze out the window into the dusk, and wandered to a sideboard, where a silver bowl filled with dried fruit sat next to a miniature of Elizabeth, Countess of Moray. Examining the little portrait closely, Sorcha noted that the artist had given his subject more animation in his brush strokes than she possessed in real life. Absently picking up a date and popping it into her mouth, she chewed thoughtfully, the miniature still in her hand. She turned abruptly as Moray entered the room, an anxious expression on his face.
“His Grace wishes to see you,” he said, then noticed the little portrait. “Ah,” he said, his voice softening, “you’re admiring my Countess?”
“It’s a reasonable likeness,” Sorcha replied noncommittally, setting the miniature down and hastily swallowing the date. “Why does the King want to see me?”
Moray laughed, though without his usual ease. “I believe he wishes to have feminine wiles worked on him, Cousin. Thus far, he’s proved obstinate.”
Sorcha sighed. “I’m not very guileful. Candor and camaraderie are my strong suits.” And little good they’ve done me, she thought, turning to a small oval mirror to survey her image. The black riding habit, borrowed from Aunt Tarrill, was too long and too large, though the cut of the bodice set off her bosom and the small ruff around the neck provided a satisfactory frame for her face. She had bundled her hair into a heavy jet-studded net, which had looked well enough under the high-crowned riding hat, but without it, now seemed incomplete. Experimentally, she piled the hair on top of her head, but realized she had no pins to hold it in place.
Sorcha threw her hands up in the air. “Oh, damn all, I shall go as I am. I was once taken for a serving wench, so why should I fash myself now?”
But Sorcha stiffened as she looked in the little mirror and saw Moray close behind her. “You look like a Gypsy queen, with that black hair and those green eyes. Your skin is sun kissed even in winter, and your smile would melt the deepest snows.”
From any other man, Sorcha would have found such fulsome words insincere. But from Moray, they had the ring of authenticity. She stood as if rooted to the floor as Moray slipped his arms around her waist and brought his lips against her ear. “My Lord!” she gasped, feeling the pressure of his muscular body next to hers, “this is most unseemly! I must go to the King!”
He lingered for just a moment, fingers gently stroking the slender waist. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “You tempt me like no other woman.”
Her breath too rapid, Sorcha turned swiftly as he released her and stepped back several paces. She saw the abject look on his face and felt a pang of remorse. Yet, she told herself sternly, he had no right to make such advances. Nor did she dare believe his words.
“A lamentable lapse,” she said crisply, trying to smile, yet knowing it was a puny effort at best. “Where is His Grace?”
Moray gave concise directions, his manner tense, the blue eyes no longer merry. Sorcha found the King’s chambers without difficulty and was admitted at once.
King James of Scotland sat cross-legged on the floor of his audience chamber, a fur-trimmed robe draped ungracefully about his gangly body, a scowl on his face. He was alone, and several sheets of paper lay scattered in front of him.
“Coz,” he said by way of greeting, looking up briefly. “Why do I have to read all these documents when Gray will tell me what to do?”
Sorcha had made a deep curtsey but remained standing uncertainly as James flicked a sheet of paper with his fingernail. At last he gazed at her fully, shaking his head. “Silly, this business of being a king. Oh, pray sit, Coz, if you can find a place that isn’t covered with the governance of Scotland.”
“I thought you might be composing,” Sorcha remarked, settling down on the floor and arranging her skirts as carefully as possible without disturbing the documents. “I understand you write rather well.”
“Extremely well. Brilliantly at times, if you mus
t know.” Jamie grinned unabashedly at Sorcha, spitting slightly as he spoke. “Why haven’t you been to visit me until now?” He lowered his long chin almost to his chest and attempted looking formidable. “Or are you here only because you want something?”
Sorcha flushed but didn’t falter. “In truth, you’re right. If I weren’t seeking a favor for my brother, I would have waited until I got an invitation. Since one wasn’t forthcoming, it seemed prudent to use Rob’s request as an excuse to see you.”
Jamie brightened. “Is that so? God’s eyes, I should have sent for you sooner. But the Master of Gray and Lord Hamilton and the rest of the lords who had been in exile have all but monopolized my time.” Jamie sighed, tugging at one fur-trimmed sleeve. “In faith, I sometimes think my nobles forget that I have a God-given right as their sovereign to chart my own course for Scotland.”
“How very thoughtless of them,” Sorcha commented, picking up a sheet of paper and scanning the page. “What is this? A letter?”
Jamie leaned over her shoulder, the fur on his robe brushing Sorcha’s cheek. “Mmmm? Oh, yet another plea to Elizabeth, asking her to name me as her successor. As if there were anyone else! But the old hag keeps putting me off, just as she’s done with the suitors who have tried to woo and win her. She’ll never marry, but she will die. And when she does, I shall be King of England as well as of Scotland. Mark my words.” Jamie rocked back on his heels, smiling in anticipated triumph.
Sorcha tossed the letter aside and stretched her legs. She still wore her riding boots, not having remembered to pack a pair of shoes. Indeed, Sorcha had hoped they would not spend the night at Linlithgow, but it was now dark, and obviously they couldn’t return to Edinburgh until the next day.
“How strange it will be when the two countries are governed by one monarch,” Sorcha mused, wondering how she could work Jamie’s complaints about his nobles and Elizabeth to her advantage. “Though your mother maintained she was the rightful heir to both thrones, since Catholics considered Elizabeth a bastard.”