Tamed by a Laird

by Amanda Scott

  Fortunately, as Jenny noted to Hugh, the sheriff was not there to hear them.

  “Someone is bound to tell Maxwell what they said about him, though,” Hugh said. “Those two should take more care to mind their tongues.”

  “But it is the nature of fools to say what they think,” Jenny said.

  “A fool who doesn’t mind his tongue, lass, is likely to lose his head.”

  The play came next, so their discussion went no further.

  Everyone laughed when Gawkus strolled out to perform the wedding ending the second act. He wore priest’s garb and his eared and belled fool’s cap, but Jenny stopped watching when the ceremony began. Somehow, Gerda became even more irritating as a bride, managing somehow to simper at Hugh even through her veil.

  The Joculator had changed the order of things, so that Jenny’s songs with Hugh followed the play, and the change felt odd to her, as if Hugh had left his bride to sing love songs with her. When he smiled warmly at her in the midst of her favorite song, she wondered if it felt the same to him.

  The audience loved it, though, so she decided that, as usual, the Joculator had known what he was doing.

  When the applause began to fade, Gilly stepped forward to announce that they would do the entire play on Thursday night, from beginning to end.

  The audience roared its approval.

  When Hugh awoke early Thursday morning, the sun was peeking over hills to the east, the day was clear but crisp, and again the feeling of imminent snow touched the air. His persistent grogginess of the day before had vanished, leading him to think he had simply grown too old to enjoy drinking into the night after a busy day.

  As to the likelihood of snow, its supposed imminence having misled them now for nearly a sennight, he decided the weather gods were just playing their usual spring pranks on the inhabitants of southwest Scotland.

  In the mood for a brisk walk, he went first to the cook fires, where women were taking hot bannocks off flat iron griddles. Taking three bannocks for himself, he accepted generous slices of warmed-over beef to go with them and headed away from the camp, into the woods. A short time later, catching a glimpse of a blue skirt on the path ahead of him, he lengthened his stride.

  Minutes later, he realized the woman he followed was Gerda’s mother Cath, the eldest of the gleewomen. His spirits sagged, making him laugh at himself.

  The reminder that he might spend much of the day practicing the farcical third act of the play with Gerda made him turn back to look for another blue skirt.

  Seeing Jenny with Peg near their sleeping place, he strode toward them, saying casually when he reached them, “I’d like a word with ye, Jenny, about the new song we have practiced. Will ye walk with me for a spell?”

  “I have not yet broken my fast,” she said.

  He hefted his bannocks. “I’ve plenty for two. Come along now, for shortly I’ll have to be practicing yon play with that Gerda.”

  She nodded, spoke quietly to Peg, and then joined him, making no comment as he guided her back to the path he had followed earlier.

  “Did you bring your dirk, lass?” he asked then.

  “Aye, sure,” she said. “Will we have time for me to practice?”

  “We will. In troth, I want to spend an hour speaking freely. I dreamed the other night that I’d lost my self to become one of the characters I’ve pretended to be. That is, I think that was what happened. ’Twas a strange dream, withal. In any event, I want to be myself for a while. Art still enjoying your grand adventure?”

  She was silent for a moment, as she looked to the left and right of the path.

  “No one else is near,” he said. “I saw Cath earlier, but she returned whilst I was talking to you. So, tell me, have you had enough of this yet?”

  “I have not yet learned what I want to know,” she said. “I expect this life could grow tedious, though. Also, it will soon be time for planting at home, and I do not know if the steward his lordship installed there knows his business.”

  “I warrant he does, or Dunwythie would not have put him there.”

  “I suppose,” she said, and they went on talking about crops until they came to the hilltop where she had practiced throwing her dirk before. Finding a flat rock, they ate his bannocks and beef, and then practiced flinging their dirks at deadfalls.

  As they walked back in companionable silence, Hugh tried to recall any other time that he had talked as easily about planting and crops with a woman as he had with her. He hoped Reid would appreciate her knowledge, but he had a strong feeling that his brother did not appreciate her at all.

  Jenny had likewise enjoyed their discussion. Hugh clearly cared as much about Thornhill as she did about Easdale, and from what he had said, the size of the two estates was similar. He had also given her some more tips to improve her aim, and had promised to teach her the best way to hone her blade.

  When they returned to the encampment, Gerda waved to Hugh.

  “Like a wife already,” Jenny said with a chuckle.

  Hugh shook his head. “That’s why I mean to stay single.”

  Still smiling, she watched him go, and then turned her attention to tasks of her own. One of the dancers had offered to help her furbish up her old blue kirtle for the remaining performances in Dumfries, and she wanted to practice some new songs to add to them. They would keep the love song that she and Hugh always sang, but everyone else was adding new things, and she wanted to do likewise.

  The evening’s performance went well. Some of the tumblers and two of the jugglers appeared in whiteface, wearing colorful caps without ears or bells. In the minstrels’ world, Jenny had learned, the latter such trappings were for fools alone.

  Gawkus and Gilly jested again about tax collectors and such to the delight of most of the audience. However, the sheriff was there with a large party of his own, and Jenny noted that he did not look as amused by their jests as he had before.

  When the Joculator had finished his turn, the audience, which always fell silent to watch his juggling and sleight of hand, burst into applause and then fell as quickly silent again when Jenny walked into the clearing alone with her lute.

  After the first two songs, she gestured to the children to join her, and they soon had the audience singing along with them. Thus, the mood was merry when the players ran in to begin their play.

  The action moved swiftly through the first two acts. Gawkus drew much laughter by playing the priest with a solemnity wholly at odds with his clownish appearance. At the end of the wedding ceremony, when Gerda grabbed an astonished Hugh by his ears to kiss him soundly on the lips, the audience roared its approval.

  The third act paraded the troubadour’s lady loves, all played by Gerda. Her costume changes were little more than the addition or deletion of a scarf, hat, apron, or wig. To each of these ladies, Hugh’s reaction was the sorrow of love lost. When Gerda returned as herself at the end and led him off with a collar and leash, the audience laughed, hooted, jeered, and otherwise expressed strong appreciation.

  As Hugh joined Jenny directly afterward to sing, he murmured, “We’ll do the comical song first instead of the love song. In troth, I’d prefer that Maxwell hear only my character voices tonight.”

  She smiled and nodded as if to the audience and began to pluck the tune on her lute. Hugh let her play it through, joining in with his lute only as she began to sing the first verse.

  The evening ended as the previous one had, although the sheriff glowered at the fools when they reappeared to pass baskets as the audience prepared to depart.

  But the following night, midway through the second act of the play, it became clear that something was amiss. Gerda played her role and said her lines correctly, but she lacked the spirited attitude she had displayed before.

  As Hugh and the other two players argued about the upcoming wedding, one trying to talk him out of such a false step, the other encouraging him to take it, the Joculator approached Jenny and drew her well away from the stage to say, “Ye�
��ll ha’ to take Gerda’s place for the rest o’ the play. The poor lass be puking up her guts behind yon trees and canna finish.”

  “But I don’t know the play,” Jenny protested. “Surely, Cath—”

  “Nay, she’d be too old for it. Ye’re of a height wi’ Gerda, and ye’ll put on a veil and a padded gown, so none will ken any difference till ye take off the veil.”

  “But I don’t know the lines!”

  “The priest will tell ye what to say, just as they do in real weddings,” he said.

  “And for the third act? What then?”

  “Why, ye’ll take off yon veil and reveal yourself as Bonnie Jenny. Then ye and Hugo can sing that love song ye do so well. Nae one will think aught but that we’ve changed the ending from farcical to romantic. Trust me, lass, they’ll love it.”

  Jenny did not think that she was going to like it at all. And what Hugh would think, she could not imagine.

  Chapter 11

  Apparently the company kept costumes ready for any emergency, because Cath and another woman quickly swathed Jenny in a red dress that added pounds to her figure, and a thick veil that concealed her face. Meantime, Hugh continued to argue with the other players onstage, adding considerably to the audience’s delight by playing his own father and arguing with himself.

  When Jenny was ready, the Joculator guided her to the stage, and the actor playing the bride’s father escorted her to an altar that had appeared as she dressed.

  The priest was yet another fool in whiteface, cap, and bells. When Jenny stood before him, he turned to the audience and said in stentorian tones, “Look ye all on these two. If any amongst ye ken just cause or impediment why this marriage should not go forward, speak now or forever keep a still tongue in thy head.”

  Silence.

  “Aye, good then,” the priest said. Turning to Hugh, he said, “Now, lad, d’ye take this lass for your wedded wife, to have and to hold, for fair, for foul, for…”

  When he finished reciting the familiar phrases, Hugh declared loudly, “I do!”

  To Jenny, the fool-priest said, “Lass, will ye have this man for your wedded husband, to be meek and obedient to him in bed and at board from this time forward till death ye depart and if holy kirk will ordain?”

  “I will,” she murmured.

  “Louder, lass,” he said in stentorian tones. “They canna hear ye in the back.”

  “Aye, I do then; I’ll tak’ all o’ him,” Jenny shouted back, trying to mimic Gerda’s accent and manner. The audience responded appreciatively.

  She could barely see through the thick veil, but she saw Hugh’s quick frown and knew he had just realized she was not Gerda. Whether he knew who had taken Gerda’s place or thought she was someone else, she could not tell.

  When they had finished reciting the vows, the priest said, “I now pronounce ye man and wife. Will ye kindly sign the marriage lines declaring this union, sir?”

  “Aye, sure, I will,” Hugh said. Taking the quill the man handed him, he signed with a dramatic flourish.

  “There now,” the priest said. “If ye’ll be so good as to turn and face the congregation, I’ll present ye to them as man and wife. ’Tis proper at this point, madam,” he added sotto voce, “to put back your veil.”

  Grateful for the cue, Jenny faced the audience and with an exaggerated gesture worthy of Gerda herself, flipped back the veil to reveal her face.

  The reaction was a mixture of raucous cheers and laughter that increased greatly when Gerda ran up to the edge of the clearing in a tizzy, fully recovered from her ailment and apparently trying to tear her hair from her scalp.

  The Joculator strode forward with two lutes, handing one to Jenny and the other to Hugh.

  As Jenny began to pluck the notes of the love song, Hugh quickly picked up the cue. The audience reacted as the Joculator had predicted, and as Jenny and Hugh took their bows afterward, the fools, jugglers, and tumblers ran about, filling their collection baskets and hats with generous offerings from the appreciative crowd.

  As Jenny and Hugh walked from the clearing at last, the priest-fool walked up to Hugh, grabbed his hand, and shook it fervently.

  “ ’Twas a great pleasure, sir,” he said. “A more entertaining wedding I vow I never have performed. I want to thank you for letting me take part in such an unusual and inspiring event.”

  Jenny stared at Hugh, who was staring in shock at the man in whiteface.

  “See here,” Hugh said curtly. “I don’t even know you, and this jest has gone far enough. Who the devil are you?”

  The man looked from him to Jenny and back again. “Why, who else should I be but Father Donal from the abbey kirk? You sent for me yourself, did you not?”

  Jenny swayed as if the ground had heaved beneath her feet. Had it not been for Hugh’s firm hand catching her elbow and steadying her, she was sure her knees would have given way.

  As they walked on, Hugh tried to discern the priest’s features under their chalk coating. The man’s whiteface lacked the details that Gawkus and Gilly added to theirs, such as the teardrops under Gilly’s eyes and the tiny hearts under Gawkus’s. This man’s whiteface lacked all such detail. Only his eyes and mouth showed color.

  “I want an explanation,” Hugh said. “That wedding cannot have been real.”

  “But it was,” Father Donal assured him. “Your letter spelled out your wishes, sir. And the Bishop of Glasgow, who chanced to be visiting Sweetheart Abbey when your application for a special license arrived, approved it himself.”

  “Then he must unapprove it,” Hugh said. Glancing at Jenny’s face, which was nearly as white as the priest’s, he realized that although by rights he ought to be furious, he wanted only to protect her.

  “I’m afraid his eminence returned to Glasgow yesterday,” the priest said. “In any event, I do not think he can annul your marriage, sir. Only the Pope can do that—or mayhap a papal legate when one is at hand. But why would you want an annulment after going to such lengths to marry so quickly and so publicly?”

  “Because I did no such thing,” Hugh told him. As he said the words, he recalled that his odd, ale-induced dream had included the signing of documents. Nevertheless, he said firmly, “I sent you no letter or application, Father. ’Tis you, I fear, who have been fooled. This marriage cannot be valid.”

  “I brought the application and special license with me, in the event that anyone from the local kirk should desire to see them,” the priest said as they drew to a stop. “I also have your letter of instructions. Moreover, earlier, when I asked you to sign the marriage lines, I specifically noted that in doing so you would be declaring yourselves married. That precaution was necessary, of course, as you had requested that your names not be mentioned as you took your vows.”

  “But surely, the marriage cannot be valid if our names were not used.”

  “On the contrary, sir, your vows themselves were sufficient. Forbye, the declaration by itself satisfies Scottish marriage law. You and this lady are legally wedded and may now enjoy all the rights and privileges of marriage.”

  Feeling Jenny tremble, Hugh firmed his grip under her elbow to steady her again. As he did, a male voice behind them called out, “Hold there, Sir Hugh! We would congratulate you and your bonnie bride!”

  Jenny stiffened and looked at Hugh. He was grimacing, but even as he did, she saw his facial expression alter to a most un-Hughlike look. As he turned to face the shouter, she braced herself and turned with him.

  He called out, “Was ye shoutin’ at me, sir?”

  Recognizing the two men approaching them, Jenny nearly turned to flee.

  Sheriff Maxwell held out his hand to Hugh. “Thorn-hill,” he said. “One would never expect to meet you in such circumstances as these. Indeed, sir, I have twice now attended these most amusing performances, and I trow, I never did recognize you. However, my man here knew you straightaway.”

  To Jenny’s amazement and right beside her, Hugh had turned into a wide-eyed bumpk
in in nobleman’s clothing. He gazed in astonishment at Maxwell’s outstretched hand and then at his minion before saying in the distinctly common phrasing he had used before, “Gor, me lord, I dinna ken neither o’ ye. I’d be glad to shake your hand, but I’m thinkin’ one o’ them fools ha’ set ye on to me as a jest.”

  The sheriff looked dumbfounded, but his minion peered more closely at Hugh and said, “I dinna understand the jest, sir, but I’d ken ye fine anywhere. Sakes, I collected your taxes last year. Ye be Sir Hugh Douglas o’ Thornhill.”

  “Nay, then,” Hugh said, passing a hand across his mouth and then grinning.

  To Jenny’s shock, his grin revealed a number of blackened teeth clearly on the verge of rotting. “Just ye wait till I tell me brothers and all that a sheriff-depute o’ Dumfries mistook me for a laird!” he exclaimed. “Ay de mi, how they’ll hoot, all six o’ them. Next, I warrant, ye’ll be beggin’ me to pay the laird’s taxes, withal.”

  Sheriff Maxwell chuckled and clapped his man on the back. “I told you, you were mistaken, lad. Nobbut what this man’s nearly the spit and image of Thornhill.”

  Hugh leaned closer to him. “Did we look into that, sir, happen we’d find the laird and me be kin. Sithee, I dinna ken who me da were. Mayhap this laird and me do be brothers, as ye might say. I dinna look a mite like me own da. And me mam… Aye, well, she were a rare lass for the lads, that ’un. Scarce knew where she slept night to night. And I ha’ nae doots that some o’ her mates was nobles and the like.”

  “Come along, lad,” Maxwell said. “This man is not Thornhill.”

  The younger man nodded. “Aye, he’d never say such a thing even in jest. Prideful as a cock on his own dunghill, the laird be, like most Douglases. Sorry to ha’ troubled ye,” he said to Hugh. “You go on about your business now. I expect ye’ll soon be bragging that your acting impressed the Sheriff o’ Dumfries.”