Gosford's Daughter

by Mary Daheim

  As Moray slumped in the grasp of his assailants, Sorcha’s screams pierced the dank air of the cave and echoed in her ears even after Armand had rushed to her side and put a hand over her mouth. “We can do nothing for him,” he said in a thick, shaken voice. “Come, let us leave this grisly place before we are also made victims.”

  But the blood lust bred into generation after generation of Highlander had been sated. It was the hour of exultation for the Gordon clan, the making of a legend, which would be handed down to kinsmen yet unborn. Stumbling through the darkness, Sorcha thought she could hear laughter rumbling behind her, penetrating the haze of shock and terror that seized every inch of her body. She leaned on Armand, who swore at intervals, not having stopped to strike a light to guide them. After what seemed like an unendurably long time, they reached the entrance of the cave. Fresh salt air swept over their faces as they paused to revive themselves and adjust their eyes to the frail moonlight.

  “Sweet Jesu,” whispered Sorcha, still clinging to Armand, “I hope Jamie hangs George Gordon high as Haman!”

  Armand was about to utter his total agreement, when a tall, hooded figure emerged from the other side of the large boulders that guarded the cave’s entrance. With an effort, Sorcha disengaged herself from Armand and tried to focus on the shrouded apparition. With the swift movement of one hand, the hood was flipped back, revealing Marie-Louise, the moonlight tipping her long blond hair with silver.

  “Has your bonnie bridegroom gone to meet his Maker?” she asked insolently.

  Armand started forward, a low growl in his throat. But Marie-Louise held a long Italian dagger, and several Gordon retainers had materialized from behind the rocks. One of them had Rosmairi firmly in his grasp. Armand cursed volubly, then stepped back next to Sorcha. “What evil game do you play now, whore of Satan?” he hissed with such intensity that Sorcha jumped.

  Marie-Louise didn’t flinch. She uttered a throaty little laugh and waved the dagger at Sorcha. “A bride should be with her groom, think you not? Was I not with mine the night he died in the fire at d’Ailly?”

  Armand went rigid at Sorcha’s side, then frowned in puzzlement, before exploding once more at Marie-Louise. “Speak not of d’Ailly to me, Mistress of Death! What do you mean, you were with your groom? You’d left him long years before you came to d’Ailly!”

  Marie-Louise’s broad shoulders lifted in an indifferent shrug. “Ah, yes, that groom—the father of your child, eh?” She was regarding Sorcha with amusement, not unlike a snake playing with the mouse it planned to consume for supper. Her malignant gaze shifted back to Armand. “I speak of another groom—your brother.” She smirked as Rosmairi called out for Armand to hold his tongue, lest Marie-Louise and the Gordons murder them all.

  Armand, however, was not so easily intimidated. “You couldn’t have married my brother! You already had a husband!”

  The laughter that rolled out of Marie-Louise’s throat held a genuine sound of amusement. “I’ve had many husbands, mon cher Armand—one way or the other. Your poor, deluded brother didn’t know that, of course.”

  Enlightenment suddenly dawned upon Armand, but it was Sorcha who spoke. “You tricked Armand’s brother into deeding the property to you! Then you set fire to the house and killed them all! Vile trollop, why did you commit such a terrible deed?”

  Marie-Louise casually waved the dagger from side to side. “I was impatient for my inheritance. And bored with my so-called husband. I always grew bored with them.” She spoke matter-of-factly, as if admitting to no worse a flaw than biting her nails.

  A commotion from inside the cave momentarily distracted Marie-Louise as well as the others. George Gordon and his men were filing out, dragging Moray’s bloody corpse behind them. George walked within a foot of Sorcha but didn’t give her a glance. Instead, he hailed Marie-Louise, a broad smile on his ruddy, dirt-stained face. “This night we have triumphed over villainous Moray! The King will thank us for ridding Scotland of such a viper!” He paused, huffing noticeably, and scanned the shingle for his followers. Several more were descending down the sea cliff path, while the glow from the fire was beginning to fade. Gordon leaned toward Marie-Louise, making certain his bulk didn’t obtrude between the dagger and her quarry. “We ride on to Aberdeen now. What do you claim as your reward?”

  Marie-Louise gestured at Sorcha and Armand with the dagger. “I’ve claimed it.” Without ever taking her eyes off her intended victims, she threw a wide, triumphant smile at George Gordon. “Leave me an escort, and I will join you shortly.”

  Gordon saluted Marie-Louise, then joined his men, who dragged Moray’s battered corpse behind them over the wet, rocky sand. Sorcha watched with renewed horror and felt as if she were going to be violently ill. She was only vaguely aware that Armand was pulling her along with him as he edged an inch at a time closer to where Rosmairi stood with her captors.

  After Gordon and the others scrambled back up the sea cliff path, Marie-Louise tossed her flowing blond hair and laughed, a rich, ribald, jarring sound. “I’ve waited such a long time for this,” she said in that pleasant, throaty voice. “Who will not believe that Moray’s bride and her relatives were murdered by George Gordon?” The blue eyes darted in the direction of the remaining Gordon retainers. “Not you, my good fellows, since if you disclaim the crime on your master’s behalf, I shall take credit for the Bonnie Earl’s death. Or blame you for what becomes of these three pathetic creatures.”

  Already suitably cowed by the formidable Frenchwoman, at least two of the men mumbled their acquiescence. Marie-Louise turned smug, then commanded the soldiers to move d’Ailly out of her way. “I’ll deal with you later, cher Sieur. I’ve yet to decide whether it would be more amusing to let you live, a poor—and possibly blind—wanderer, or to dispatch you with your simpering wife and her obstinate sister.”

  Strong arms were hauling Armand away from Sorcha. Rosmairi let out an ear-splitting wail before a hand was clamped over her mouth. Struggling against his captors, Armand kicked one in the groin, sending the man sprawling onto the strand. “Enough!” Marie-Louise cried out, springing at Sorcha. The dagger flashed in the moonlight, but Sorcha leapt to her left. The soft sand had grown mushy where Sorcha and Armand’s feet had dug in to edge toward Rosmairi. While they might not have ever reached her side, the damage had been done. Marie-Louise slipped in the muddy sand, her cloak flying about her like the wings of a great malevolent bat. Her hand still held the dagger tight, and it was those clutching fingers that Sorcha went for, dropping beside the other woman, wrenching at the dagger with a frenzied, clawing grasp. Marie-Louise rolled over, refusing to surrender the weapon. Sorcha sunk her teeth into her adversary’s wrist and at last Marie-Louise let out a howl of pain. Tasting blood, Sorcha ground the clasped hand against a rock as Marie-Louise’s other fist pounded her back. The babe fluttered in Sorcha’s womb, and she froze, her fingers still clutching at the dagger.

  One of the men who was not engaged in restraining Armand and Rosmairi rushed to aid Marie-Louise. Grabbing a handful of Sorcha’s hair in one hand, and her right arm in the other, he pulled mightily, at last forcing her to let go. Sorcha kicked her feet and swung her arms wildly, but the man held her just off the ground in a virtually helpless position. Cursing under her breath, Marie-Louise, her blond tresses caked with muddy sand, struggled to her feet. The beautiful azure eyes blazed hatred as she once more raised the dagger and with an exultant cry of “Bitch!” sent the steel slashing down toward Sorcha’s heaving breast.

  The night seemed to come apart in a volley of thunder as the dagger dropped onto the sand only inches from where Sorcha’s feet swung ineffectually. Marie-Louise screamed and staggered, her momentum carrying her several yards down the strand. Yet she didn’t fall; with a superhuman effort, she kept on her feet and straightened her body. Head flung back, she stared beyond the others to the running group of men whose booted feet reverberated in Sorcha’s ears like church bells on a festival mom.

  The hackbu
t’s muzzle gleamed in Gavin Napier’s hand as he drew closer. Shouting at Gordon’s men to release their prisoners at once, Napier raced toward Sorcha, whose captor was unceremoniously dumping her on the sand. Dazedly, she shook her head, which throbbed in tandem with the pounding surf and the tramp of the other men following Napier. As her eyes came into focus, she saw the Italian dagger almost touching the bruised fingers of her left hand; to her right, she could make out Napier’s calfskin boots. Then she felt his sure hands lifting her carefully to her feet, his arms wrapping around her trembling body. “The babe,” she whimpered, “the babe! Did I harm our child?”

  Napier smoothed her tangled hair with one hand. “Don’t fash yourself. Nothing matters except that you’re safe.”

  Craning her neck, Sorcha saw Armand give Rosmairi a reassuring hug before he left her to see what was happening to the men who held Marie-Louise. To Sorcha’s surprise, she recognized several Fraser kinsmen, including Magnus, rounding up George Gordon’s outnumbered soldiers.

  “Your shot only grazed the witch’s arm. Do we carry out justice or not?” Armand had taken over custody of Marie-Louise, with a firm grip on one wrist and his dagger at her throat.

  Over Sorcha’s head, Napier frowned. “With the sheriff dead, there is no one to act in the King’s name. I suggest we take her into Edinburgh.”

  As far as Marie-Louise was concerned, Armand was done with mercy. “She’s not to be trusted! You of all men know that!” Aghast at Napier’s apparent lack of fortitude, Armand yanked Marie-Louise by the wrist. “She calls herself a witch! Let us prove we believe her! Up there where the fires of Donibristle still burn, let us roast this sorceress and forever destroy her evil-doings!”

  Fleetingly Napier gazed at Marie-Louise, who wore an expression of mingled contempt and rage. Her muddied hair fell over her smudged cheeks, her billowing cloak was torn in several places, and blood ran down her right arm.

  “We have no right,” Napier asserted, his expression suddenly haggard. “At least,” he added in a hushed, shaken voice, “I do not.”

  Sorcha felt his arm tighten around her. She knew she ought to say something, either to encourage his sense of equity or at least to support his magnanimity. Yet she could do neither. Marie-Louise was his wife, and her fate was held solely in his hands.

  Bristling with self-righteousness, Armand propelled Marie-Louise toward Sorcha and Napier. Magnus, with Rosmairi at his side, had joined the little group. “In Scotland, every person has the right to a fair trial,” he told his brother-in-law. “Judgment may be a foregone conclusion. But the process is still maintained under our laws.”

  Armand waved his little dagger at Magnus. “Was that justice that sent the honorable Moray to his death? Did this villainess deal fairly with my family or the King of France? Was she, right here on Scottish ground, going to give your sisters and me a fair trial? Come, come, my good Magnus, such altruistic talk of the law is a farce!”

  Magnus pulled at his long chin and regarded Armand ruefully. Yet before he could speak again, Marie-Louise, taking advantage of Armand’s diverted attention, broke free and raced toward the sea, her cloak flying behind her. With a stunned cry, Armand started after her, Magnus on his heels. Napier would have joined them, but Sorcha held him back. “They’ll never catch her,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Napier swallowed hard and nodded once. At the water’s edge, he saw Armand and Magnus waving their arms and calling out to Marie-Louise. She had plunged into the waves, and the moonlight shone on her golden hair.

  “What are they doing?” demanded a shaken Rosmairi, whose face was blotchy with anxiety.

  Neither Sorcha nor Napier answered her. Marie-Louise’s cloak spread out behind her on the water as she moved purposely out to sea, then let the outgoing tide carry her away. Armand had waded in up to his knees, but Magnus, always the family’s strongest swimmer, had dived into the water. They could make out his rapid, sure strokes as he swam after his elusive prey. He was within a few yards of Marie-Louise when her head disappeared in the wake of the undertow. Magnus’s shouts could be heard over the waves; he swam out further, then dove and dove again. Mesmerized, the others watched in silence. At last, they saw Magnus heading back toward shore, much more slowly, his strokes laboring in acknowledgment of defeat. Armand waded out farther to meet him; then the two men walked back close together over the damp sands of Aberdour.

  Leaning against Napier, Sorcha shuddered violently. She tried to speak but found no words. Napier was still staring straight ahead, out to the undulating waves where he had last glimpsed Marie-Louise. “Fire was a tremendous force in her life,” he said at last through lips that barely moved. “Mayhap she should have died at the stake as witches do. Yet, somehow, it seems fitting for the sea to claim her. After all, water quenches fire.”

  Rosmairi was running toward Armand, her arms outstretched. Sorcha watched husband and wife reunite with great joy, and suddenly the enormity of what had just transpired struck Sorcha with the force of a hurricane. For all the horror of the past few hours, despite the tragedies she had witnessed, one fact suddenly overwhelmed her: Gavin Napier was freed from his awful burden, liberated at last from the evil spell cast by Marie-Louise.

  Yet, noting his grim expression, Sorcha realized this was not the moment to speak of his freedom. As her sister and brother-in-law walked wearily over the strand, with Magnus expressing his regret over not having been able to rescue Marie-Louise from her act of self-destruction, Sorcha jumped as the bairn kicked vigorously. Excitedly, she grabbed Napier’s hand and pressed it against her abdomen. “Feel,” she whispered, “new life. Our life.” Sorcha turned a radiant smile on his anxious face. “Marie-Louise would have taken that life—and mine.”

  Napier looked down at Sorcha, the corners of his long mouth slowly turning upward, though the smile that emerged in the dark beard was bittersweet. “I need no reminding, my love. I know all the things you’d wish me to know.” He paused, signaling for the others to join them. ‘‘But there is still pain,” he said, dropping his voice so that their companions couldn’t hear. “Only time—and you and our child—will ease that for me.”

  Sorcha’s smile didn’t falter. As Magnus put a brotherly hand on her shoulder, she reminded herself that at last she and Gavin Napier had all the time in the world.

  Chapter 31

  A fortnight later, a young lad searching for mussels near Dunfermline found the body of a beautiful woman washed ashore a few miles east of Aberdour. His initial shock was overcome by how perfectly preserved and unmarked she was. Except for a graze on one arm and what looked like teeth marks on the other wrist, she might have been asleep under the old dock’s pilings. Being a responsible sort, he reported his discovery to the local magistrate. Since no one in the vicinity had any knowledge of the dead woman, the magistrate ordered that she be buried in a nearby potter’s field. Two grave diggers set about their work, but the first broke his pick, the second, his shovel. New tools were acquired, but the ground refused to yield, and the day, which had begun in sunlight, turned dark and threatening. The grave diggers retired to a tavern in the town, where they mulled over their difficulties and quaffed several tankards of ale. At last, just as the sun set over the Firth of Forth, they reeled back to the potter’s field. The hastily built coffin had disappeared; the earth beneath it was freshly turned and smoothed over. What appeared to be a tiny silver cross had been stuck into the dirt at one end of the plot, but upon closer inspection, the men were astonished to see that it looked more like a dagger. Utterly bewildered by such a turn of events, they raced back to the tavern to down more ale before collecting their wages, and pledged to each other that they would never discuss the unnatural doings at the grave site. Later that night, shortly before the storm broke, a newly married couple strolled past the potter’s field hand in hand, their pet terrier frisking up ahead of them. As the pair lingered to exchange a kiss, the dog ran off toward the new grave, stopped abruptly just where the freshly turned earth met the old
, and let out a mournful howl. Puzzled, the newlyweds went after the animal, which seemed rooted to the spot. They coaxed and petted and finally became exasperated, but still the terrier refused to budge. At last, a black cat prowled out of the darkness, and the dog barked sharply, then gave chase. The cat seemed to vanish almost at once, and very soon the terrier came panting back to his master and mistress. From that time on, the potter’s field was said to be haunted, and no one ever walked that way again by night.

  The lingering June light guided Gavin Napier all the way to Falkland. For that he was grateful, since he had ridden south only with the greatest reluctance. The bairn was already overdue, and if it hadn’t been for Sorcha’s insistence that he race to warn the King of Bothwell’s mad new intrigue, Napier would still be at Gosford’s End. But with that huge bulge of new life thrust out before her like the bow of a mighty galleon, Sorcha had been virtually impossible to refuse. Indeed, in the four months since Father Adam had married them in the chapel at Beauly Priory, Gavin Napier had found it difficult to deny his wife much of anything. The peace she brought to him, the surcease of pain, the sense of joy that might be marred but never supplanted, all made up the myriad gifts Sorcha readily offered in the name of love.

  To gainsay her, even as the hour of her labor approached, would have been unthinkable. Certainly her request was not only reasonable but of great consequence. Word had reached Gosford’s End that Bothwell, having once more been chased from his Borders by the King’s men, had sought sanctuary with the turbulent Earl of Caithness. In the most northern reaches of Scotland, at Castle Sinclair, Protestant Bothwell connived with Catholic Caithness to make yet another attempt to capture the King’s person. Yet Caithness’s wife, Jean Gordon Sinclair, had dissuaded him from active participation in the plot. While her brother, George, remained at large following Moray’s despicable murder, Gordon lands and holdings had been ravaged by the combined forces of Grants, MacKintoshes, and Frasers. The circumspect Jean, Countess of Caithness, saw any further violation of the King’s law or person as inviting calamity for both her husband and her brother. For once, Caithness heeded her words.