The Royal Mile

by Mary Daheim

  Dallas screamed and flailed away, but the young men merely seemed amused by her efforts. Panicking, she thought someone would have to hear her, open their shutters or come running down from the Lawnmarket. Yet the narrow little wynd was ominously deserted. It was a night for shouts and shrieks and carryings-on; it was also time for good burghers to be abed.

  Her feet suddenly went out from under her as two of the revelers lifted her off the ground. One of them had his hands under her cloak, groping her breasts. Dallas felt a physical revulsion. With her arms suddenly freed, she lashed out, raking the face of the redhead with her nails. But though he jerked away, he only howled with laughter. “A she-cat, a real hellion!” he gasped with delight. “Let’s make for Robbie’s, lads!”

  Breathless from exertion and terror, Dallas was reduced to writhing helplessly in their grasp. They had passed the second row of houses on the hill when a voice that sounded oddly familiar called out behind them, “Kidnappers end up in the Tolbooth, you know.”

  Drunk as the young revelers were, they recognized authority in that cool, almost casual tone. They stopped in their tracks, dumping Dallas unceremoniously onto the cobblestones. Struggling to her feet, she looked up to see that her savior was the dark man she had encountered near Holyrood Palace. He stood outlined against a whitewashed house, his hands at his hips, his head to one side.

  “We—we’re handfasted,” blurted the redhead. “We’re just having a bit of fun, my mates and I.”

  “Handfasted?” One dark wedge of eyebrow lifted. “No, I think not.” The man took a step forward, and though he moved indolently, there was something menacing in his attitude. His hands remained at his hips but the eyes of all four revelers fastened like magnets on the lethal-looking dirk shoved into the stranger’s belt. There was only the briefest hesitation before the four young men took to their heels and scuttled off down the wynd and into the sanctuary of the night.

  Dallas had remained huddled against an iron railing while the brief exchange took place. She was still out of breath, her thick brown hair half-covered her face, and a wild trembling had overtaken her limbs. The dark man approached her and gently took her hand.

  “You should not have stayed out so late without a proper escort, lassie,” he said reproachfully. “Unless,” he added with a glint of mockery in his hazel eyes, “it is to your profit to do so.”

  Dallas pulled her shaking hand away and felt her spirits revive with a jolt. “Pox on you for such impertinence!” she railed. “I go where I please, and never has any man pestered me until this night.”

  He lifted one shoulder in a gesture of indifference. “As you say. You live nearby?”

  “Aye,” she muttered. The shaking had stopped and her hands worked at pulling the thick hair from her face.

  “Then you won’t call out the watch if I walk the remaining distance with you to your door?” He saw a stormy look but went on before she could speak. “My name is Iain Fraser and I live close by, in Mungo Tennant’s former home. You know the house in Gosford’s Close?”

  “Aye, it’s a beautiful place,” Dallas asserted, trying hard to keep a check on her emotional turmoil. “Though I’ve heard it said that Mungo Tennant had torture chambers in the cellar and engaged in strange doings to gain his wealth.”

  Fraser shrugged. “He accumulated sufficient funds to take over the house when the monks were turned out.” He glanced at Dallas. “Why do you look so puzzled, lassie?”

  “Your name—Fraser ... why is it familiar to me?” But her thoughts were still muddled by the encounter with the drunken youths.

  “It’s not an uncommon name, even this far from the Highlands,” Fraser said lightly. “Is this Nairne’s Close?”

  “Aye.” Dallas paused by the winding stairway to her home and belabored her brain for an appropriate leave-taking. In those anxious seconds, she looked her rescuer full in the face for the first time. He was clean-shaven, with black hair and brows. His mouth seemed to mock even when it was shut tight, and those hazel eyes made her wince inwardly again. He wore heavy riding boots and a dark brown cloak which was held in place by a big silver clasp. On his left hand was a signet ring, a stag’s head set in topaz.

  “Well,” she said at last, “thank you. Thank you very much.” She stood poker-stiff, her little chin thrust out like the prow of some doughty fighting ship.

  For a fleeting moment, Fraser appeared as if he were going to burst out laughing. But, Dallas noted gratefully, he had turned as serious as she. “You’re most welcome, lassie. By the way, I still don’t know who I have had the pleasure of rescuing.”

  “Oh.” She shifted uncomfortably on the rounded cobblestones. “I’m Dallas Cameron.”

  It was Fraser’s turn to stiffen. But he relaxed almost at once and grinned crookedly at her. “Then you are Daniel Cameron’s daughter—or one of them?”

  “The middle daughter,” Dallas replied, wishing he’d go away. Now that she had seen the Queen and had begun to recover from her fright with the young revelers, she was extremely anxious to resume her vigil at her father’s bedside. She was even more anxious to be rid of Iain Fraser.

  Yet as his name crossed her troubled mind a responsive chord suddenly struck. Though she said nothing, Fraser’s perceptive gaze seemed to read her thoughts.

  “Camerons and Frasers are linked in the most precarious of ways,” he said on a serious note. “You’ll pardon me if I seem curious about your own kin.”

  Dallas sighed. “The most important thing about my kin just now is that my dear sire is dying. So if you’ll grant me leave ....”

  Fraser instinctively reached out his hand to offer physical comfort. But Dallas took a sudden step backwards. “I’m sorry, lassie, I had no idea.” He let his hand fall to his side as a frown etched itself on his tanned face. “Is there aught I can do except offer my condolences?”

  Confronted with what appeared to be genuine sympathy, Dallas’s defenses crumbled slightly; she could not help but make a quick comparison between Fraser’s apparent compassion and George Gordon’s total indifference. “Nay, though I’m grateful for your offer. Still ....” Her tongue flicked over her full lips, uncommonly dry now. “ ’Tis strange I should meet you today .... Father has rambled in his illness, he mentioned the name of Fraser and—let me think ....” Dallas put a hand to her little chin and closed her eyes. “Aye, he spoke of a wrong that should be righted ... and the battle of Blar-na-Leine ....” The big brown eyes opened and looked up at Fraser. She was surprised to see that his own hazel gaze seemed to have kindled into flame at her words.

  “Then I must beg a favor.” All mockery had fled from his face. He glanced up at the Cameron house, the frown growing ever deeper on his lean features. “I would like to hear what your father says of the past.”

  Dallas hesitated, torn between her desire to be rid of Fraser and her recognition of the obvious urgency in his attitude. I owe him a debt, she thought, looking away from him to the toes of her unmatched shoes. “Come along then,” she said over her shoulder and Fraser followed her up the winding staircase.

  Dallas opened the front door and stepped into the entry hall. “This way.” She gestured with an unsure hand towards the well-worn wooden staircase. Fraser followed her wordlessly into Master Cameron’s bedroom. The family’s old friend and physician, Dr. Wilson, sat in the only chair.

  Glennie was at the head of the bed, one hand resting gently on her father’s shoulder. Tarrill stood by the window with Will Ruthven, who had been one of Daniel Cameron’s favorite pupils. Master Cameron’s eyes were closed and his breathing was labored. He was the only one who did not turn to stare when Dallas entered with Iain Fraser.

  “How is Father?” she asked, removing her cloak as she quickly crossed the small space to his bed.

  “He is very weak,” answered Dr. Wilson. “He hasn’t spoken since you left.”

  Dallas knelt beside the bed, taking one of her father’s pale, veined hands in hers. She let her heavy hair fall over her fa
ce so that the others could not read her expression. I went where you wished me, Father. I saw our bonnie Queen; I felt her magic and I rejoiced for your sake. But most of all, I regretted that Mary Stuart will never know what a devoted champion she had in you. She somehow felt better just through this silent expression of her thoughts.

  Glennie cleared her throat three times before Dallas looked up. “You have brought a visitor, Dallas.” Glennie gave Fraser a ghostly smile.

  “Oh!” Dallas reluctantly let go of her father’s hand before scrambling to her feet. “This is Iain Fraser, who lives in Gosford’s Close. We ... we met during the Queen’s appearance at Holyrood. I told him about Father’s ramblings ... about someone named Fraser. He thought perhaps ... somehow ....” Dallas floundered, not sure what Fraser did think.

  “I had reason to believe your father might know something about my family,” Fraser explained just a bit too smoothly. It occurred to Dallas that perhaps he wasn’t certain himself about what he expected to learn.

  “It’s just history,” Glennie said as if apologizing for their father’s incoherent ramblings. “Everything to him was—is—history.”

  “No!” Dallas interjected in a voice so loud that the others all were startled. “That’s the point—you know as well as I do that though our father loved his Scots heritage and its history, his real passion was ancient Rome and Greece. If he talks of Frasers and Blar-na-Leine, there must be a reason.”

  Glennie pursed her prim little mouth and was about to refute Dallas’s argument when Fraser intervened. “I think your sister may be right, mistress. If so, the Queen’s arrival makes it incumbent upon me to learn what I can. If you’ll permit my intrusion, I’d like to bide awhile.”

  Both Tarrill and Will were staring unabashedly at Dallas and Fraser. How unlike Dallas to bring a man to the house, let alone at such a time! Tarrill would have given vent to her thoughts but an icy stare from Dallas stilled her tongue.

  “Where’s Marthe?” Dallas asked to break the awkward silence.

  “She’s with my boys,” Glennie replied, referring to her sons, Jamie and Daniel. “The poor bairns have already bade their grandsire farewell. As if they hadn’t suffered enough already with their father’s passing just a year ago ...” Glennie put a small, plump hand to her face and turned away from the others.

  Dallas bit her lip as another silence filled the stuffy little room. Will had taken Tarril’s hand. A full ten minutes passed before anyone spoke and then to everyone’s astonishment, it was Daniel Cameron.

  His once keen dark eyes were open and he was staring at Iain Fraser. “Oh ... ’tis you ... It is fitting that you came ....”

  Fraser leaned forward as the others stared at Daniel Cameron who was desperately trying to sit up.

  “Nay, nay, Father,” protested Glennie, “stay still.”

  “Fraser?” Daniel Cameron’s voice was very weak. The mind that had been so brilliant seemed to be battling through a fog as thick as any Edinburgh haar.

  “Aye,” replied Fraser and moved around the side of the bed next to Dallas. “Iain Fraser of Beauly.”

  “So.” Daniel Cameron’s speech was distorted by the paralysis which had claimed the right side of his body. “Or so you are called. Yet ....” He motioned for Fraser to lean closer. A few whispered words which no one else could hear brought a perplexed and then astonished expression to Fraser’s dark face. Dallas leaned forward, straining to hear. “An amulet ... his own name affixed ....” Dallas frowned as the rest of the words eluded her.

  In a voice that was fraught with emotion, Fraser spoke low: “Sir, I can’t tell you how much this means to me—and to others, as you must know. For almost thirty years I have wanted to know the truth.”

  “You should have known before now,” Daniel Cameron said in an echo of his usually vibrant voice. “But you understand why I could not tell you ....’’ He clutched at the counterpane with a feeble hand. “You understand the danger?”

  “Aye.” Fraser was solemn. “A danger which could outweigh the opportunity.”

  “But ...” Daniel Cameron interposed weakly, “not the responsibility.”

  Dallas saw Fraser nod. Then her father turned to his favorite daughter and the attempt at a smile was pitiful. “You brought him here .... I should have known you would manage it somehow .... You always do ....” Dallas looked in puzzlement from her father to Fraser. Then Daniel Cameron’s dark eyes flickered—and went dim. He slumped back against the pillows, eyes closed, hands slack against the counterpane.

  Dr. Wilson felt for a pulse, then bent down to listen to Daniel Cameron’s chest. It seemed to take an enormous effort for the elderly doctor to right himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in a shaky voice, “but Master Cameron is dead.”

  All except Will Ruthven crossed themselves. Tarrill sobbed aloud and turned to the comfort of Will’s arms. Glennie fell down beside the bed, her entire body shaking convulsively. Dr. Wilson rubbed his eyes and sank wearily into the chair. Dallas remained on her knees by the bed, her little chin set resolutely, her gaze fixed on the lifeless features of her father.

  Iain Fraser’s hazel eyes scanned the mourners. Dr. Wilson and death were old if incompatible companions. Tarrill had Will Ruthven to comfort her. Though Fraser realized that Dallas needed consolation even more than the others, he sensed she would not readily accept any overt efforts on his behalf. So instead, he moved in long, silent strides to Glennie and put an arm around her shaking shoulders.

  “Mistress, you’ve had two cruel blows within the year. Let your grief flow freely, you’ll be the better for it as time goes by.” He glanced at Dallas, who went rigid at the words she knew were meant for her as well as for her sister.

  Glennie sniffed several times and attempted the faintest caricature of a smile. “How ... kind of you, Master Fraser. Your presence is a comfort.”

  Dallas had positioned herself against the bed so that the others couldn’t see that her legs were shaking like reeds in a Highland wind. “I think it best if you would leave us now, Master Fraser—and you, too, Will.”

  “Will is no stranger here,” Tarrill asserted between sobs. She was the tallest of the Cameron sisters and stood almost at eye level with Will Ruthven. “You’ve known us almost seven years, Will,” she declared, squeezing his sturdy hand in her long, tapering fingers. “I don’t believe my father would want you to go.”

  “Pray excuse me,” Glennie interjected, gently moving out of Fraser’s comforting arm. “I must tell Marthe about Father—and I must let my sons know, too.” She sniffed again, straightened her coif and left the bedroom.

  Dr. Wilson also got up from his chair and began to gather up his medications. “I shall take my leave then.” He nodded at Dallas, Tarrill and Will Ruthven. To Fraser, he made a laborious little bow. “My pleasure, sir. Though I would have preferred our meeting under different circumstances. I didn’t know Master Cameron was acquainted with you.”

  “He wasn’t.” Fraser frowned. “But he must have learned who I was, though we never met.”

  The doctor didn’t know what to say; he was too filled with sorrow and fatigue to pursue Iain Fraser’s encounter with Daniel Cameron further. Without speaking again, he made his slow-footed way from the bedroom.

  After the doctor had gone, Will insisted that Tarrill come away and take some refreshment downstairs. Dallas’s mouth twisted slightly as she watched them go, then she turned to Fraser. “Well?”

  He had been looking out the window into the empty street below. “I am grateful to your father,” he said, his back turned to her, an almost eerie figure in his long black cloak etched against the shadows of the guttering candles. “And,” he went on, finally turning to face her, “to you. If it’s any comfort, his words must have relieved him of a heavy burden.”

  “It’s one I knew nothing about.” Dallas stood stiffly, her fists clenched at her sides. “You are obviously satisfied with what he told you.”

  Taking note of the hostile, yet remote ton
e in Dallas’s voice, Fraser could not conceal the pity he felt for this strange, prickly, grief-stricken little lassie. “You must take consolation from having known and loved your father,” he said slowly. “I have never been certain who my own sire was. Now I may know the truth. It will make a great difference, not just to me, but perhaps to others as well.”

  Dallas knew the importance of Scottish kinship and family ties but she also knew that her legs were about to collapse. She wanted to be done with Fraser’s mysterious family background and with Fraser himself. And she wanted very much to be alone with the body of her father.

  “Aye,” she said vaguely, and looked not at Fraser but at the crucifix over her father’s bed, and finally at his corpse. “Sweet Jesu,” she breathed, and had to steady herself by clinging to the bedpost.

  Fraser moved silently and swiftly. He put one arm around her waist and his other hand seemed to engulf her face. “You are going to faint, lassie. Sit down.”

  She did, collapsing on the bed, just an inch or so from her father’s feet. Fraser knelt beside her, taking both of her small hands in his. “Lassie, why don’t you weep?”

  “I—can’t.” Dallas looked at him in desperation. “I never could—after my mother died.”

  “I see.” Fraser looked away from her to their clasped hands. He sighed, wishing there was something he could do or say to help. At last, she pulled her slim hands out of his grasp and swallowed hard. Their eyes caught and held; it was Dallas who broke the intense silence.

  “You’d better go now,” she said in a husky tone.

  Fraser stood up, looming tall in the little bedroom. “So I had.” He paused as if to say something else, found his usually agile mind a blank, reached out to brush the tangle of Dallas’s dark hair with his hand, and then was gone.

  For a quarter of an hour or more, Dallas remained motionless. Her thoughts were mingled with prayer at first, then memory overcame meditation, sending her back through years of vignettes in which her father teased her over forgetting the date of a Spartan battle or argued about which Roman orator was more eloquent.