by Mary Daheim
The summer rainstorm had worn itself out before dawn, leaving the city fresh and clean, with patches of steam rising from the cobbles where the morning sun struck. Sorcha set out at a brisk pace, from time to time glancing over her shoulder to make certain Ailis and Doles were still behind her. Both Clockmill House and Croft-an-Righ were part of the affluent neighborhood north of Holyrood Palace. Most of the courtiers who lived in the area were with the King and Queen at Falkland. Sorcha had no idea who resided in either of the houses, but vaguely recalled that one of the numerous Stewarts was connected with Croft-an-Righ, and either an Erskine or a Douglas owned Clockmill.
As she supposed, Croft-an-Righ seemed closed up. It was an elaborate house with corbeled turrets on the south gables and dormer windows that ran the length of the north front. It stood three stories high, with an attic as well. A wall surrounded the house, but Sorcha could make out a garden with handsome shade trees and carefully clipped shrubs. She was admiring a dovecote toward the back of the property when a tall, slender youth swaggered toward her from the direction of the royal bathhouse. There was something familiar about the lad, and Sorcha frowned in the effort of recollection. But from ten yards away, a glimpse of golden hair told Sorcha that this was no laddie, but the same disguise Marie-Louise must have used to gain undetected passage from France to Scotland.
“Forgive me if I don’t doff my cap,” Marie-Louise said by way of greeting. The honey-edged accent didn’t seem as pronounced as it had in the forest at Compiègne. Indeed, attired in dun-colored breeks and a plain-cut brown doublet, Marie-Louise had assumed quite an ordinary air. The scar on her neck was camouflaged with a foppish cream-colored scarf, and the jaunty cap sported a jeweled brooch.
“I can’t imagine what you have to say to me,” Sorcha began, having no desire to engage in idle conversation with the loathsome woman who had all but destroyed Gavin Napier, “so let us dispense with pleasantries.”
Marie-Louise’s brilliant azure eyes widened, then narrowed. “Ah, but why not? We are both women of good sense, are we not?” She noted Sorcha’s sour expression and ran a pink tongue over her full lips. “But then, you and I have much in common, c’est vrai? We have both thrilled to the embrace of the same man.” She flicked the tip of her tongue with her little finger in a provocative gesture that made Sorcha’s green eyes spark.
“Your prattle wastes time,” Sorcha declared, aware that she sounded like a cantankerous old woman. “I have better things to do than listen to your maudlin memories.”
“Oh, la, la,” exclaimed Marie-Louise with a burst of tinkling laughter. “How stern you Scots all are! Not that Gavin was always so—why, in my arms he was as frolicksome as a child!” She erupted into laughter again, one hand stroking the curve of her bosom which was ill-concealed by the brown doublet. Suddenly, like a storm that gathers without warning, Marie-Louise’s expression turned menacing. “I do not bring up these memories merely to titillate you, Mistress Fraser. They are a reminder that I am Gavin’s wife and always shall be. If somehow your Scots mind, so typically legal, had led you to think of annulments and such, disabuse yourself. Oh,” she continued, waving a long, languid hand at Sorcha, “don’t deny it, I know how you Scots use the law to seek your own ends. As for that fool, d’Ailly, does he truly think to lay claim to his family property?” She smirked and patted her doublet. “Here, safely tucked away, is the deed to d’Ailly’s land—made over to me, in gratitude, by his late brother.”
A string of invective sprang to Sorcha’s tongue, but for once, she held back. She could demand to see the deed, but no doubt it existed. If it was binding was another matter. Whether d’Ailly’s brother could have handed over his family holdings while his parents still lived struck Sorcha as unlikely but not impossible.
“The law, which you so lightly dismiss, should disprove your claim,” Sorcha said with forced calm. “French law, at that.”
A faint breeze stirred the rowan trees behind the walls, and a dozen starlings took flight toward the turrets of Croft-an-Righ. Looking beyond Marie-Louise, Sorcha tried to spot Ailis and Doles. She had last seen them lurking in the vicinity of the tennis courts. While in the course of a normal day, the thoroughfare would be quite busy, the absence of its tenants lent a ghostly aura to the place, reminding Sorcha that she was in the company of a woman who didn’t flinch at murder.
Still, Sorcha refused to bend to Marie-Louise’s will. “You abandoned your husband years ago,” she remarked in a tone meant to sound bored. “I find this conversation tiresome.”
When Marie-Louise spoke again, it was as if she hadn’t heard Sorcha. “You have noted that those who defy me earn an early grave,” she said evenly, each word more honeyed than the last. “It matters not who they are or how highly placed.” The beautiful azure eyes gleamed down on Sorcha. “The French learned that. So will the Scots.”
Sorcha could barely believe the brazenness of her adversary. To admit openly her complicity in the assassination of a king and to boast about undoing other important personages clearly demonstrated Marie-Louise’s confidence in her own powers. Sorcha stared up into those arrogant eyes and marveled at their clarity and steadiness. Somehow, she half expected them to roll about, like dice on a gaming table. But if Marie-Louise was crazed—and Sorcha was sure she must be—the evil that infected her was within and had no doubt long ago eaten away her heart and soul. “Why?” asked Sorcha, unable to control a little shake of her head, as if still doubting Marie-Louise’s intentions. “Why such destruction?”
The lovely features hardened, though the voice remained sweet and husky. “If you Scots deify the law, we French worship fair value.” Marie-Louise’s fingers fluttered at the knot of her cream-colored scarf. “Wicked men took away someone I loved. Now I repay them. And all men are wicked.” Her beautifully defined mouth curved upward in a smile that was almost confidential. “All” she repeated, her voice low and breathy.
In spite of herself, Sorcha looked away for a brief moment. Before she could respond, Marie-Louise had resumed speaking, this time on a more natural note. “You’ve heard how your king’s ship was almost sunk by storms off Norway?” she asked in the same tone another woman might have remarked upon a loaf of bread that had failed to rise. “Some silly women who mumble nonsense over boiled cats are being held accountable.” Her jaunty cap swayed atop the blond curls as she laughed derisively. “What folly! Yet they have served to frighten King Jamie and that suits my purpose very well.”
The morning sun was growing warmer, and despite the faint breeze that rustled the nearby trees, Sorcha had begun to perspire. Her breakfast shifted unhappily in her stomach, and her legs felt vaguely unsteady. This tall, lovely creature who stood before her, whose femininity was poorly disguised by the masculine garb, whose mellifluous voice spoke Scots almost as well as French, might have brought her gifts of intelligence and grace and beauty to enhance a tawdry world. Marie-Louise could have been the chatelaine of an elegant home, the doting mother of happy children, the generous benefactress of the poor. And above all, a loving wife and companion to Gavin Napier. Instead, for whatever twisted reasons, she had chosen evil. It was a waste, a sham, a cheat—and yet, from somewhere deep inside, Sorcha was perversely grateful to Marie-Louise. Had she fulfilled the brighter side of her destiny, Sorcha would never have met Napier, never known the wonder of love, never have given her heart to the hunter. If she never saw Gavin Napier again, she still owed Marie-Louise a great debt.
Deliberately, Sorcha turned away and headed back toward the Water Gate without a further word. She sensed, even if she could not see, Marie-Louise’s startled reaction. “Wait!” the Frenchwoman cried, the honey melted from her voice. “Where is Napier? Where did he go?”
Sorcha kept walking, urging her uncertain legs to maintain a brisk step. Just ahead, by the entrance to the royal tennis courts, Ailis and Doles wandered casually into the street, seemingly absorbed in their own conversation while keeping several yards ahead of Sorcha.
“I
know he is in Scotland!” The voice was receding into the wind that had picked up off the Firth of Forth. “You’ll regret not telling me! Where is ….”
Grateful that Marie-Louise’s words were swallowed up by the distance that separated them, Sorcha slowed her pace and took a deep breath. She had been certain that the other woman wouldn’t follow her back into the bustling Canongate; even if she had, she could do no more than rant. As Ailis and Doles sauntered up to the McVurrich house, Sorcha paused by White Horse Close, oblivious of the pigs that rooted for food among the debris dumped by local residents.
Sorcha had not yet penned her message about Marie-Louise to send north. She had intended to write it as soon as she returned from meeting her nemesis. But as she stepped around two piglets who were trotting after a huge, lumbering sow, it occurred to Sorcha that a letter wouldn’t do. Marie-Louise’s threats weren’t meant just for the King of Scotland, but for Gavin Napier as well.
Sorcha made up her mind to head for the Highlands that very day.
Chapter 24
While Gosford’s End was abuilding some twenty years earlier, Dallas had set her heart on the inclusion of a solarium. She had mystified her husband and frustrated the architect by her persistence in putting the room at the north end of the manor house to capture the view of Inverness. Even with its perpendicular windows, which filled one wall almost from floor to ceiling, the sun penetrated only about three months of the year. Iain Fraser had called it “Dallas’s Folly,” a name that had clung over the years, much to his wife’s chagrin.
But that August there were several rare, hot, brilliant days when Dallas could indulge herself by opening up the much-maligned solarium. She had supervised the cleaning and refurbishing of the room, ordering new upholstery for the divan, an armchair to match, and Delft tiles for the fireplace, which had never been quite finished to her satisfaction. Now, surveying the fruits of her creativity and the labors of a dozen workmen, Dallas went off in search of her husband, who had returned only the previous day from a voyage to Norway. To Dallas’s consternation, she found him closeted with visitors.
“Who’s in there with him?” Dallas demanded of Cummings as she jabbed her thumb in the direction of her husband’s study.
Cummings’s expression remained as imperturbable as ever. “I believe Lord Fraser is meeting with the priests from France. Unless,” he added with an uncharacteristic lack of confidence, “one of them is not a priest.”
Dallas bore down on Cummings, her ruby-studded choker catching fire from the sunlight that streamed through a recessed diamond-paned window at the end of the hall. “Priests? From France? Jesu!” she exclaimed, whirling around toward the study door, but thinking twice about barging in. “Not Gavin Napier and his brother?”
Cummings coughed delicately. “I believe so, yes.”
Dallas tapped her cheek with her fingers. Had Napier managed to shed his odious wife and make an honest woman out of Sorcha after all? Dallas doubted it; such good fortune didn’t seem destined for her elder daughter. Not that Dallas was convinced Gavin Napier would make Sorcha a suitable husband. As far as Dallas could see, he had no inheritance, no property, and no visible means of support. She could hardly wish an indigent husband on Sorcha. At least Armand d’Ailly owned land in France, and with any luck, Donald McVurrich would see that he profited handsomely from it.
“How long have they been in there?” Dallas asked at last, again gesturing in the direction of the study.
“Nigh on an hour,” Cummings replied. He was about to add that Lord Fraser had requested supper in the study for all three of them, but was interrupted by a breathless serving lad who caromed around the corner of the hallway and almost collided with Lady Fraser.
“Have a care, Wee Willie,” Dallas cried, gathering her pale green lawn skirts around her, “you all but toppled me!”
Wee Willie took no umbrage. “There’s great excitement at the front door, My Lady!” The boy’s red curls hopped up and down. “Some of the servants will offer hospitality and some will not. What shall be done?”
Dallas and Cummings exchanged bewildered glances. “That depends on the visitor’s identity,” said Dallas, turning back to the boy. “Who is this questionable character?”
The lad’s blue eyes were as lively as his curls. “ ’Tis the Laird of Freuchie, madam—he that used to be called Johnny Grant.”
“Oh, a pox on Johnny Grant!” cried Dallas, shaking her head vehemently at Cummings. “Iain and I swore he’d never darken our door again! Come, let’s throw the gap-toothed gargoyle out!”
Dallas was already around the corner of the hall before Cummings, favoring his painful bunion, could hobble after her.
Wee Willie trailed behind, determined not to miss out on what ought to prove a first-rate entertainment.
In the four years since Lord and Lady Fraser had seen Johnny Grant, his youthful affectations had grown into mature pomposity. His body had altered, too, broadening in the shoulders and even in the paunch. The beard he sported was thick but too long for fashion, though the gap between his teeth seemed less noticeable now that his face had filled out. His riding clothes were somber but well cut. While he assumed an air of dignity, the flickering of his eyes betrayed his inner apprehension. Indeed, as Dallas bore down on him, he unwittingly took a step backward, almost stepping on one of the Fraser collie pups that dozed in the sun on the doorstep.
“You are not welcome here, Johnny Grant,” Dallas announced, fists on hips made formidably wide by a deep green farthingale. Over Grant’s shoulder, she glimpsed at least two dozen men wearing the Grant plaid and seated on fleet-footed Highland ponies. Dallas wished she had not been so precipitous in ordering Wee Willie and the other servants to withdraw. “Fie,” she breathed, frowning at the ominous company. “What manner of visit do you pay us?”
Grant pushed out his chest and pulled in his paunch. “On behalf of His Majesty’s Privy Council, I am empowered to search these premises for seditious priests.” He snapped his fingers rather clumsily, and one of the men strutted forward, carrying an impressive sealed piece of parchment. “This,” Grant intoned self-importantly, “is the warrant of my office.” He took the paper from his man, and with a flourish, handed it to Dallas.
Swiftly, she perused the seal to make sure it was genuine, then brandished it at Grant. “How neatly it’s rolled! Pray tuck it back where it belongs, Johnny Grant!” Dallas shoved the parchment back into her astonished visitor’s hands, forcing him to juggle it awkwardly against his puffed-up chest.
“Madam!” gasped Grant, turning quite pink, “do you realize what effrontery you commit? Effrontery!” he repeated, in his familiar quest for emphasis.
“It is you who commits effrontery by coming here in the first place.” Dallas’s eyes blazed with indignation. “My husband and I ordered you never to show your insipid face on our doorstep again.” Dallas was wagging a finger under Grant’s nose. “Now put yourself back on your horse before I summon Lord Fraser.”
But Johnny Grant’s office gave him the right, as well as the courage, to withstand Lady Fraser’s onslaught. “This is not a matter of petty personal quarrels,” he declared, summoning up the vestiges of his dignity. “This is the King’s business. You will permit me—and my men—entry at once.”
Inwardly, Dallas cursed herself for not first informing her husband about Johnny Grant’s arrival before going to the door. Outwardly, she had to stall for time. Casting a swift glance over her shoulder, she was relieved to note that Cummings had slipped away.
“Well.” Dallas remained in the doorway, effectively blocking Grant’s passage. “Are you serious about all your men tramping through our house?” She made a sweeping gesture with one hand, indicating Grant’s troops, who were growing restive under the hot sun.
“Uh ….” Johnny Grant passed a quick glance backward toward his men, then looked upward, as if calculating how many would be needed to conduct a thorough search. “Some half dozen, I’d say.” Grant nodded once, the
overlong beard dusting his expanded chest. “Yes, some half dozen.”
“And the others?” Dallas asked, now looking deceptively benign. “Perhaps they’d care for some refreshment. At least a cool drink.” She worried her lower lip with her teeth, apparently taking mental inventory of the Fraser kitchen and cellar. “We have Dutch beer,” she said brightly, “and something rather strange that Iain has just brought back from Norway in funny little wooden casks. There’s wine, of course, but the day’s so hot, I should think it might give your men spells or headaches ….” Her voice trailed off as she underscored her indecision by twirling a strand of hair that had come loose from under her pert green cap. “Now, sack might please them …. Cummings could fetch that from the cellar.” She turned slowly and caught her breath as Iain Fraser moved toward the front door, a pleasant, indolent expression on his face.
“What have we here, lassie?” he asked mildly. He stood next to Dallas, an arm around her shoulders. “Ah, ’tis Johnny Grant and a company of fine Freuchie fighting men.” He gazed past Grant to the increasingly restless retainers. “They are armed, are they not? What’s happened, Johnny? Are you fleeing From Highland reivers, or do you still have designs on my daughter’s dowry?”
Grant’s pink color deepened to puce. “My Lord, this is not a matter for … jocular behavior. My men and I are empowered by the King to search your house. We come to root out traitorous priests.” He cleared his throat and again waved the sealed parchment. “Catholic priests,” he added, in case there was any confusion.