by Mary Daheim
Though avoiding Sorcha’s inquiries, Moray was otherwise talkative. Now that she had arrived safely under his roof, he planned to hold their wedding the following afternoon. “The preparations have been completed,” he told Sorcha as servants removed their plates from the table. “Now that you’re here, I see no reason to delay.” His warm fingers stroked her palm, and the blue eyes twinkled.
“I suppose that’s so,” Sorcha responded, trying to work up an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. Gazing at the high, timbered ceiling, she changed the subject by remarking upon the excellent proportions of the house. “Doune is barnlike, by comparison,” she said, catching Rosmairi’s sympathetic eye across the table. “I should think it more pleasant to reside here.”
Moray nodded, his hand still on hers. “Elizabeth thought so, too,” he replied, referring to his first wife without the least bit of self-consciousness. “The children also prefer it.” He paused as a moon-faced youth with pale blond hair refilled their wine glasses. “Tomorrow I shall formally introduce you to the wee ones. They miss their mother very much, but I know they’ll come to love you, Sorcha, as I do.” The smile broadened but receded when Moray saw one of his household guards hurrying toward him. The man leaned over the earl’s chair, while Sorcha discreetly turned in the opposite direction. She caught only two words: “sheriff” and “Huntly.” A flicker of fear crept along her spine, though Moray was still smiling when he let go of her hand and stood up from his chair.
“There’s some sort of minor fracas going on outside,” he said, carefully placing his napkin down on the table. “I must speak with the sheriff.”
Sorcha watched him leave the room, each step increasing with urgency. After he’d disappeared through the timbered doorway, she allowed herself to be drawn into conversation with the elderly gentleman on her left, a distant Stewart cousin. Indeed, most of the other guests were somehow related, either to Moray or the late Countess. Among them was the earl’s elderly, ramrod-backed mother, Lady Margaret, a Campbell by birth. Upon meeting Sorcha, she had presented a polite, yet appraising façade. There were no more than ten others in all, but Moray had promised that by the same time the next evening, the dining hall would be jammed with celebrants from the town of Aberdour and its environs.
With such a full day ahead of her, Sorcha wished Moray would return soon so that she might excuse herself and retire for the night. The journey from Gosford’s End had wearied her, and she wished that her groom had allowed for a few days’ respite before the wedding ceremony. On the other hand, Sorcha would be relieved to have it over and done with. Postponement might give her false hope that the marriage would never take place. Not only was that highly unlikely, it wasn’t in her—or the unborn child’s—best interests.
After almost a quarter of an hour, Moray returned. The guard had been supplanted by a bluff-looking bald man of middle age, and Moray introduced him to Sorcha as William Dunbar, the sheriff.
Moray, aware that his other guests were regarding him with curiosity, stood behind Sorcha’s chair and raised a hand. “Honored friends and kinfolk,” he began, smiling pleasantly, though his casual tone was forced, “it appears that there is some trouble brewing outside. George Gordon, the Earl of Huntly, has accused me of sheltering the Earl of Bothwell.” He stopped speaking for a moment as some of the guests chuckled richly. “While I’ve been known to offer my lord of Bothwell hospitality in the past, he has not visited here recently. Indeed, I would think it more likely that he would call on George instead of me.”
Again, Moray’s words evoked laughter among his guests, except for Sorcha, whose anxiety had mounted to disturbing proportions. She was certain that Moray wasn’t being completely frank; she was also certain that if George Gordon was stirring up fresh trouble, Marie-Louise lurked in his shadow. For the first time since she’d conceived, Sorcha dipped deep into her reserve of common sense and energy to emerge from the cocoon of pregnancy.
“My Lord,” she said quietly but firmly, a hand on Moray’s arm, “I think there is more cause for alarm than you’ve admitted. Is George Gordon actually here at Donibristle?”
Moray avoided her direct gaze and looked to the sheriff instead. “He is rumored to be in the vicinity, yes.” Sorcha sensed rather than saw something pass between the two men. “Under those circumstances,” Moray went on, taking Sorcha’s hand to assist her in rising from her chair, “it would probably be a wise precaution to withdraw to a safer part of the house.” Gracing his guests with a reassuring smile, Moray led Sorcha out of the dining hall, the others straggling behind, voicing opinions ranging from amusement to outrage. Lady Margaret was the most indignant of the lot, declaring that her sire, the late Earl of Argyll, had always said the Gordons were a muddled-brained, irresponsible passel of fools. The indictment sounded so much like Dallas that Sorcha decided that her mother and mother-in-law would get on very well.
The best-fortified part of the house was a small sitting room on the second floor built inside thick turret walls. It was there that Moray herded his guests, stopping along the way to collect his five children and their nurses. Once crammed into the dark, unheated room, Sorcha and the others began to realize that their plight was far more dire than Moray had indicated.
“Are we under attack?” asked Rosmairi in a whisper.
Sorcha didn’t dare respond, but Armand, wedged between the two women, was craning his neck in the direction of one of the turret’s two narrow window slits. “I hear voices outside,” he said keeping his own words low so as not to frighten the others. “It is, I think, someone calling to Moray.”
Moray had also heard someone shout from below. He pressed his way through the others, ignoring the wails of his two youngest children and the warning offered by his mother. Tall as the earl was, he had to step up onto a chair to get a clear view. Sheriff Dunbar had squeezed in behind him, burly shoulders tensed as he waited for Moray to tell him what was happening. The nurses shushed the children, the adults turned silent, and even Lady Margaret kept still.
“It is George Gordon and his followers,” Moray finally announced, speaking over his shoulder from his perch on the chair. “He is demanding that I surrender in the name of the King.”
Lady Margaret snorted with contempt. “Paugh! By what right does that puffed-up pig issue such an order? He ought to be outlawed, along with that silly Bothwell.”
Moray descended from the chair, his face grave but his manner respectful. “I’m afraid, my Lady Mother,” he said with a note of bitterness in his voice, “that George has a letter of Fire and Sword from King Jamie. It appears he intends to use it against me rather than Bothwell.”
“That’s nonsense!” snapped Lady Margaret while several others echoed her opinion.
“Perhaps,” Moray conceded, picking up his steel helmet with its silken plume, “but George is carrying out his threat by setting fire to some sheaves his men have piled against the house.”
Sorcha heard Rosmairi gasp and Armand utter an indecipherable French oath. For her own part, she was reminded all too vividly of the recent night at Holyrood when Bothwell had tried to burn the King out of the palace’s gaming room. There was much irony in both earls attempting to flush out their prey by fire, but there was also too much coincidence. Sorcha’s eyes darted to Armand, who was tight-lipped with fury. Perhaps he, too, guessed that this latest conflagration bore the mark of Marie-Louise’s dastardly handiwork.
Indeed, the flames could now be heard crackling below, and the cluster of faces inside the turret were illuminated by the dancing light that filtered through the narrow window slits. The young ones were crying again, and immediately Moray ordered the sheriff to lead them and the women to safety. As Sorcha grabbed Rosmairi, who was trying to cling to Armand, Moray leaned down to brush his betrothed’s cheek with his lips. “I hadn’t expected such a rude prenuptial celebration,” he whispered with a self-deprecating little laugh. “Will you forgive the interruption?”
Sorcha didn’t feel like laughing, but she manag
ed a sound that passed for mirth. “George always did have a terrible sense of timing,” she said and started to lead Rosmairi away. Abruptly, she stopped, her sister almost falling over her. Staring up into Moray’s candid, kind blue eyes, Sorcha bestowed a genuine smile upon him, born not of love or desire, but of respect and affection. “You are a braw gallant, My Lord,” she declared with fervor. “I intend to make you a well-contented husband.” Impulsively, she kissed him on the lips, then smiled again as he stared back with pleasurable surprise. A moment later, she and Rosmairi were following Lady Margaret’s ramrod-straight back down the winding staircase.
The sheriff took them through the kitchen, where the smoke from outside mingled with the cooking odors that lingered from earlier in the evening. “They’ve ringed the house with fire,” Dunbar called out as he gestured for the servants to test the kitchen door, “but since the wind has died down, we should have a better chance of escaping back here where the house faces the sea.”
Rosmairi appeared dubious, but there wasn’t much choice. From somewhere at the front of the house, they could hear the crackling of timbers. Feeling the babe kick in her womb, Sorcha pressed forward with the others. Just ahead of them, Lady Margaret and another elderly woman who appeared to be her maid were exchanging irate commentaries about George Gordon’s reckless audacity. Sheriff Dunbar was standing by the open door, urging his charges to hurry. The children and their nurses went first, their frightened cries carrying back into the kitchen. Sorcha could see the flames licking at the doorway, the brilliant glow turning night into day. At the threshold, she held Rosmairi by the arm as they both put handkerchiefs over their faces.
“Now,” murmured Sorcha, as the two women plunged straight ahead. Tongues of fire leapt out at them, but except for some sparks that showered on their skirts, neither was burned, though both were flushed with the heat, and coughing from the smoke. They joined the others close to the edge of the sea cliff, just as several men wearing the green Gordon plaid approached with swords drawn. Sorcha turned to Rosmairi who was sobbing softly, begging the Virgin to preserve Armand.
Her prayers were answered almost immediately as Armand and several other men hurtled out of the house. Despite his command for Rosmairi to keep back, she rushed toward him, hurling herself into his arms. The dagger that he had worn with his supper finery was more ornamental than lethal; he now held a club in one hand. Steering Rosmairi back toward the other women and children, Armand hurried to aid the sheriff, who was making a futile effort to throw up a barricade between Gordon’s men and the cliff.
Sorcha, Rosmairi and the rest were now encircled by Gordon followers, their backs to the sea. The wind had suddenly picked up again, and Sorcha shivered in her yellow taffeta gown, with its deep, lace-edged neckline. Yet while the enemy soldiers stood within a few yards of the frightened, chilled little band, the men made no move to come closer. To their left, a horseman leading another dozen riders cantered toward the house, then halted as the heat became too intense. It took Sorcha several moments to recognize their leader as George Gordon.
“Swine!” called Lady Margaret, though Gordon couldn’t hear her over the crackling of the flames or the sound of timbers breaking in the house. “Bloated son of a pig,” she railed, “fight with men, not bairns and women!” She raised a thin arm and swung her fist in Gordon’s direction.
But George Gordon paid no heed. He, too, was shouting, calling for Moray to show himself. At last, the Bonnie Earl appeared at a window toward the far end of the house. For several seconds, he teetered on the sill, then broke the glass with his sword and jumped through the lapping flames to land on his feet several yards from Gordon’s horse. With a bold salute of his hand, he raced for the sea cliff’s edge, untouched by the fire, except for the silken plume of his helmet where sparks danced like fireflies. Gordon spotted his adversary and cried out to his men. Sheriff Dunbar, a handful of Moray followers at his heels, charged straight for Gordon, who wheeled his horse about and swung his sword with deadly intent. Dunbar dived for Huntly’s reins, just managing to catch them in his burly grasp. George Gordon swung again with the sword, striking the sheriff in the chest. He staggered, dropped the reins, and crashed onto the ground, rolling over twice before landing on his back and staring wide-eyed up at the smoke-filled sky. Sorcha gasped and would have run to aid the wounded man, but Rosmairi grabbed her by the arm.
“It’s hopeless,” she whispered in a choked voice. “He’s dead.”
Noting the awkward angle of Dunbar’s motionless body, Sorcha knew that Rosmairi was right. Yet she shook free of her sister’s grasp, and though Rosmairi cried out after her, she ran not toward the inert sheriff, but down the path that Moray had taken to the sea. Now afoot, Gordon and several other men plunged over the cliff in tenacious pursuit. Gathering the taffeta skirts in her hand, Sorcha picked her way over the rocks, heedless of anyone who might be following her.
While Sorcha might know the forests and the glens by heart from her youth in the Highlands, she was ill acquainted with the vagaries of the seashore. However, during the course of the supper conversation, she had heard one of Moray’s cousins remark upon the caves that had been carved out of the cliffs just below Aberdour. It seemed a likely hiding place for the Earl of Moray, who seemed to have disappeared.
Stumbling over a large rock, Sorcha righted herself and said a little prayer, asking the Virgin to guard her bairn. Regardless of what happened to Moray, Sorcha would not risk the life of the child she carried. Nor, she realized, making her way around a shallow tide pool, did she have the remotest notion of how she intended to aid her future husband against a swordwielding company commanded by George Gordon.
Gripped with fear and uncertainty, Sorcha peered up ahead, where she could barely make out George and his men, scrambling along the base of the cliff. Away from the burning house, there was no firelight to guide her, just the slender slip of a moon, hanging on its side over the dark, lapping waters of the Firth. A noise nearby made Sorcha gasp. She whirled and saw more men running in her direction, brandishing a variety of weapons, including a pitchfork and a meat cleaver. With a sob of relief, she recognized Armand, his dagger in one hand, the club in the other.
Breathing hard, Armand raced up to Sorcha. “Where is Moray?” he demanded as the others drew up behind him.
“I don’t know.” Sorcha turned to look over her shoulder. Gordon and his men had also vanished. “I think he must have hidden in one of the caves,” Sorcha said. “Perhaps he’ll be safe. He must know this terrain far better than George does.”
Armand leaned on the club and considered Sorcha’s words. “That’s so,” he replied thoughtfully. “Yet we must try to find him—and the others.” Gesturing with the little dagger, Armand indicated that they should follow him to the caves. Somehow, in the wake of Moray’s absence and Dunbar’s demise, the Frenchman had been designated as their leader. “Which of you are familiar with the beach?” One of the older men, no doubt a Stewart cousin, replied that he’d been down in the caves that very day, playing hide-and-seek with the earl’s older children. Slinging the club over his shoulder, Armand turned to Sorcha. “You must go back with Ros. It’s too dangerous here.”
“It’s dangerous up by the house, too,” Sorcha retorted. “I refuse to abandon my lord at such a time.”
Noting her jutting chin and glittering eyes, Armand shrugged. There was no time to argue, nor could he guarantee anyone’s safety within a mile of Donibristle. He walked swiftly to catch up with the other men, while Sorcha doggedly followed in his footsteps. They had covered no more than a hundred yards when they spotted the first of the caves, an angular opening in the rocks, too small for anyone of George Gordon’s ample proportions. The second cave seemed much larger, and when the group paused to investigate, they could hear voices echoing inside. Sorcha and Armand exchanged anxious stares, then led the way between two big boulders that sat on opposite sides of the entrance like a pair of primitive doorstops.
Within a few feet
, they could see nothing but black, oppressive darkness. Water dripped nearby, and the cave smelled dank and stale. Someone with a stammer—or a severe chill—suggested lighting a torch. Armand dismissed the suggestion; they didn’t dare risk giving themselves away when they weren’t exactly sure of the enemy’s whereabouts. Sheathing his dagger, Armand felt for Sorcha’s hand, leading her over a bed of small rocks toward the sound of the Gordon men’s voices. It was obvious from their questioning tone that they had not yet found the Earl of Moray.
A split second later, a loud, excited cry erupted close by. Rounding a bend, Sorcha blinked against the sudden glow of light. One of the Gordons held a flare aloft, his other hand pointing toward a tendril of flame that dodged and darted straight ahead of them. Sorcha stifled a cry as she realized it must be the Earl of Moray. The sparks that had smoldered in his headgear’s silken plume must have finally caught flame, betraying his presence to his pursuers.
Pausing to pull off the steel helmet, Moray cast it onto the floor of the cave, stamping out the fire with his booted feet. Exerting all of his athletic prowess, he veered toward an opening on his right, easily outdistancing his opponents. Yet as he ducked to squeeze through the slender, jagged aperture, a shower of dirt and rocks came tumbling down over his unprotected head. Momentarily stunned, Moray reeled, then fell against the sheer wall of the cave.
Gordon’s men pounced, their chieftain bringing up the rear. Sorcha screamed and Armand shouted, but none of the green-clad men paid any heed. Even as a half dozen armed soldiers assaulted him, Moray tried to drive them back with his fists. Barking a command for Sorcha to stay where she was, Armand rushed forward with the others, though their every step was impeded by fresh falls of earth and rock. Four Gordon henchmen held Moray fast as George struck to the heart with his lethal dirk, then withdrew the blade and savagely stabbed the Bonnie Earl in the face. With his life’s blood spilling out on the floor of the rock-strewn cave, Moray turned bemused eyes on his enemy and spoke his last words, “Oh, Georgie, I fear you’ve spoiled a better face than your own!”