The Royal Mile

by Mary Daheim

  A serving man was setting a tray of food down by Fraser. “Finally—I was well nigh weak from hunger.” He took out his dirk and began cutting the big slab of beef. “You mean well, I know, but I’ve got to take my chances.”

  “Think it through, Iain,” Bothwell urged. “There will be a confrontation, if not all-out war. Dammit, man, this is serious!” Bothwell kicked at one of the hounds making a play for Fraser’s supper. “James knows you’re a friend of the Gordons and he’ll find some way to bring you down with the rest of them. So you’re better off out of Scotland for a while.”

  Fraser shook his head, pausing to swallow a mouthful of goat’s cheese. “I’ve been out of the country, remember? I’ve no mind to leave again so soon. Besides, I’d rather keep my eye on James than sit around Chenonceaux or Amboise wondering what he’s up to next.”

  Bothwell swore under his breath. “You’re an obstinate man, Iain. Have it your way, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Fraser shrugged and threw some scraps to Bothwell’s hounds who scrambled ferociously in the rushes for their prize. He’d made up his mind, he would leave again in the morning and by nightfall would be in Stirling, the court’s first stop on its way to the north and Gordon country.

  Chapter 9

  The September mists settled over the Highlands, protecting the wooded mountain glens from the human eye. This was lonely land, with only a few scattered cottages and a handful of poor farms. Food was scarce, the corn had not ripened, and the weather was as wet and dreary as it had been the previous year.

  On the hillsides, mountain sheep grazed on the tough grasses. Occasionally, a few shaggy Highland cows wandered across the rutted roadway, forcing the royal cavalcade to halt. The animals gazed suspiciously at the intruders, with almost the same look that many of the human inhabitants displayed when the courtiers came by.

  The royal caravan traveled into the foothills of the Cairngorms, whose majesty was captured only in fleeting glimpses of cloud and mist. Across the Spey, through Buquhane, Grange, Balvaney and Elgin they went, their numbers now augmented by a sizeable army.

  Neither the foul weather nor the dismal harvest could dispel Iain Fraser’s pleasure in being back on his native terrain. The special feel of the rocky ground beneath his horse’s hooves, the damp smell which blew in from the sea, the sudden lush green specter of a wildwood glen seemed to make his blood run just a little faster.

  But the Highlands stirred the blood of others in a different way. Mary Stuart had ordered the Earl of Huntly to meet her in Aberdeen. He came as requested but brought some fifteen hundred Gordon troops with him. The Queen was furious at Huntly’s bold show of military strength and spurned the earl’s offer to stay in his home at Strathbogie.

  In retaliation, she gave her bastard half-brother, James Stuart, the title of Earl of Moray—a title which had belonged to the Gordons for years. As far as Huntly was concerned, such an inciting gesture equaled a declaration of war.

  On the eve of the court’s departure for Inverness, tempers were raw throughout Darnaway Castle. Tension seemed to drip from the stone walls as the soldiers made ready to march and the courtiers warily watched each other.

  Iain Fraser’s mood was no better than the rest. He had been ill pleased when James had been given the Moray earldom. As James strutted about the castle accepting the deference of the other courtiers, Fraser found his arrogant posturing insufferable.

  Restless, tense and unable to sleep, Fraser prowled the corridors of Darnaway. He despised the idea of fighting Huntly and his Gordons. George Gordon had been his friend for years, Catherine had been his mistress for some time, and all of Huntly’s brood were closely linked in some way. Fraser cursed the heritage of clan rivalries and wondered for the dozenth time if he should not have sailed the Richezza away from Scotland and its ominous atmosphere.

  So deep in thought was he that it took a moment to recognize the woman coming towards him in the gloomy passageway: It was Dallas, carrying a lone taper in one hand and a decanter in the other. As she drew closer and he saw her face in the candlelight he noted that she looked weary.

  “You’re up late,” he said, stopping in the middle of the narrow passageway so that she could not brush quickly by him as had become her habit since the progress began.

  “Her Grace’s stomach is all astir over what may happen tomorrow when we arrive at Inverness. I brewed some barberry bark and white wine for her,” she said, indicating the decanter. “She is also upset because Queen Elizabeth refuses to release Lord Bothwell.”

  “It was bad luck for Bothwell that his ship got caught in that squall off the English coast.” Fraser spoke in a conversational tone, but Bothwell’s plight was another source of deep concern; when he reached shore, English soldiers had arrested the earl on piracy charges. The incident had made Fraser realize how precarious his own position was.

  But Fraser said nothing for a long moment. Dallas watched the hazel eyes that seemed to spark in the light of the taper—and then the flame was extinguished, leaving them in virtual darkness. “Why did you blow out ....” Before Dallas could say more, he had taken both taper and decanter from her and set them on the ledge of a small window embrasure. She could hardly make out his expression as his arms went around her, and she felt her face pressed against the fine cambric of his white shirt. Dallas stiffened, waiting for what she assumed to be the inevitable assault upon her body. She would resist him, if for no other reason than that a passageway in Darnaway Castle was hardly an appropriate place for Iain Fraser to gratify his lust. There were other reasons, of course, but somehow they seemed to evade Dallas at the moment. Fraser was holding her close, not too tightly, only enough to keep her from bolting without a bit of effort.

  “Dallas?” Fraser murmured into the mass of heavy hair.

  “Yes?” Her voice was muffled against his chest; she could hear the steady beat of his heart.

  “Are you all right? You look peaked of late.”

  She was surprised at the genuine note of concern in his voice. “Aye, I’m fine. Weary, of course, and upset.” She managed to pull away enough to look up at him. “But we all sire these days.”

  “Aye.” He sighed and one hand moved to smooth the hair from her forehead. “You now have cats, I’m told.”

  “I brought them from St. Andrews.” She wondered what to do with her hands; they hung limply at her sides, feeling awkward. She reached up and traced the faint scar on Fraser’s cheekbone. “You healed nicely. I’m glad.”

  His grip tightened just a bit. “I also heard you put Delphinia in her place.”

  “What?” She frowned and saw he was grinning at her. “Oh—well, I couldn’t help it, she baited me in the most insufferable ways.”

  “Hmmmm.” He leaned down and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “We quarreled because of that, you know.”

  “No. I mean, I knew you’d quarreled. Why because of that?” Dallas felt herself leaning against Fraser, felt her arms actually holding onto his shoulders.

  “She complained to me about your remark—I would not endure her bad temper regarding my wife.”

  Dallas could hear her own heart beating, too—a very rapid rate at that—and she was unnerved by Fraser’s words. “She does have dreadful manners,” Dallas said at last, in a voice that was low and breathless.

  “And an even worse temper. Worse than yours.”

  “Iain!” The comment momentarily broke the spell. She pulled back again to look into his face. He was laughing very softly. At her? At Delphinia? At himself? He looked so human, Dallas thought, so unlike a ravaging pirate or a cynical philanderer or even the dashing courtier. “I must go to the Queen—truly, I must.”

  The note of desperation made Fraser waver. But she was right—she had her own obligations, and service to the Queen of Scotland was one he could readily accept. He released her reluctantly; Dallas was astonished to discover that she was just as unwilling to leave him. But already he was handing back her taper and deca
nter.

  “I can’t relight it for you, lassie. Can you see well enough?”

  She assured him she could. Bidding him a somewhat formal good-night, she resumed her walk down the passageway. But after a few yards, she paused to look back. Fraser stood where she had left him, watching her. He raised his hand in salute and Dallas had a sudden, overpowering urge to drop taper and decanter and rush back to the sanctuary of his arms. But she could not surrender to such a whim, she told herself sternly, and began to walk briskly towards the Queen’s chamber.

  Inverness Castle was more fortress than dwelling place. It stood on a rise above the River Ness, and commanded a splendid view of the surrounding Highland country. But when the Queen’s company arrived at the castle gates on a September afternoon with the sun breaking through grey clouds, there was no sign of greeting. Huntly’s son, Alexander, was keeper of Inverness Castle. While it was a royal establishment and not officially connected to the Gordons, Alexander was in charge, and he brazenly refused the Queen admittance. He was promptly taken captive and hanged from the battlements.

  Dallas was appalled at the Queen’s show of cruelty. But Mary Stuart was a monarch, after all, and had to assert her authority over rebellious subjects. And, once ensconced at Inverness, the Queen put this grim incident behind her.

  She was intrigued by the Highlanders, their strange garb and their stranger tongue. “I had no idea they were so different,” she confided to Fraser as she sat outdoors on a mild September night to receive the Fraser clan’s allegiance. Mary had dressed in the Stuart plaid for the occasion, with a velvet bonnet on her head.

  “They think you a fairy queen,” Fraser said. He himself wore the dark red and green plaid of his clan. “See now, Your Grace, here come the Frasers, led by their young chief, Lord Hugh of Lovat.”

  Dallas stood apart from the others, watching Lord Hugh bow to the Queen. The Highland dusk settled down over the sharp-faced hills as haunches of venison were roasted over an open pit. Dallas ate heartily, savoring both the tangy flavor of the meat and its accompanying aroma.

  To Dallas’s surprise, Fraser left the Queen’s company and strolled over to join her beneath the tall pines where she stood alone watching the others. He handed his empty plate to a servant and paused to listen as the sweet notes of a clarsach sounded in the distance. “My aunt used to play the harp like that when I was a lad,” Fraser said with a nostalgic smile. “Well, Dallas, what think you of my native ground?”

  “It’s wild but beautiful in places,” she conceded. “I prefer the city, I was raised there, after all.”

  Off to their right, several Fraser clansmen had begun a traditional Highland dance. The clarsach song died away, replaced by the heartier music of a half-dozen bagpipers. “Yet your own parents came from the north,” Fraser pointed out. “I’m surprised you aren’t drawn to this country in spite of your citified rearing.”

  “It’s too untamed, too uncivilized,” she replied firmly. “I don’t feel at home here in the slightest.”

  The courtiers who had been eating and talking nearby now moved forward to watch the dancers. Dallas took a step as if to join them, but Fraser put a hand on her shoulder.

  Fraser moved his hand to the back of her neck. She wore her hair piled high, crowned by a jaunty crimson hunting hat with a black feather. “I’m sorry to hear that, lassie,” he said, running his fingers up and down behind her ear. “I’d hoped it might appeal to you.”

  “It does not,” Dallas asserted, pulling away from his touch. “Corpses hanging from battlements, war about to break out, and a possible ambush in every copse—I find the place downright barbaric.”

  “And what token will you give this barbarian when I ride away to offer my life in the Queen’s service?” Fraser’s mouth mocked her, but the hazel eyes seemed unusually still.

  “Token?” she blinked at him, telling herself she ought to turn on her heel and stomp away, yet somehow unable to do so. “Do you mock me?”

  “Nay. But if you can think of nothing suitable, I’ll take one of my own choosing.” With startling swiftness, he pulled Dallas into his arms and brought his mouth down roughly on hers. She felt his tongue force her lips open, felt his body pressing hard against hers, felt as if she’d fall over backwards if he weren’t holding her. But her own arms had gone around him, and she wondered hazily why she didn’t try to wrench away. He finally lifted his mouth from hers. “Oh, lassie,” he grinned, “I chose well. I’ve a mind to try for more.”

  “Don’t be greedy,” she whispered shakily, wondering vaguely what had happened to her hat. “You’d presume upon my generosity.”

  “I would indeed.” In the distance, the clarsach played a haunting melody. The laughter of the courtiers seemed very far away and the wind flirted with the tall pines as the autumn moon hung like a wedge of gold in the cloudless night sky.

  Fraser sought her lips again, and Dallas realized that he had not had to force her mouth open this time. She seemed to melt against him, feeling that lean, hard body pressing into the softness of her own flesh. The consuming hunger of Fraser’s kisses touched off that not-quite-forgotten fire in the pit of Dallas’s stomach. She was clutching at his back, her fingers digging into his plaid-draped shoulders.

  Dallas actually felt dizzy as Fraser released her mouth long enough to let them both catch their breath. “Iain ....” She had virtually collapsed against him, her arms still holding him tight.

  But another voice was calling Fraser’s name. The Earl of Morton, accompanied by young Lord Hugh, had come barreling towards Dallas and Fraser. Lord Hugh looked embarrassed at the sight of his clansman holding a rather disheveled but obviously willing young lady in his arms. The Earl of Morton, who recognized Dallas at once, was astonished. Iain Fraser making love to his own wife? The earl’s porcine features puckered as he spoke:

  “The Queen has been searching all over for you, Iain. She commands you to join Lord Hugh in teaching her the Highland dance steps.”

  Fraser suppressed a terse oath. Dallas felt herself being carefully set upon her feet. Her husband put an arm around her waist and began to lead her towards the Queen. “Morton,” he called over his shoulder, “would you mind retrieving my lassie’s hat? She seems to have lost it in the heat of the evening’s excitement.”

  Dallas waited a long time for Fraser to return. But the Queen kept him at her side for the remainder of the festivities. At last, feeling weary and depressed, Dallas headed back towards the castle, telling herself that she didn’t really care whether Fraser rejoined her or not.

  But once in the quarters she was sharing with Mary Seton, Dallas realized she had no desire for sleep. In fact, she knew she would not be able to sleep. After putting the crimson hunting hat away and removing her dark blue velvet jacket, she stared out the slitted window at the revelers below. Several others were leaving, too; Mary Seton would no doubt be back shortly. Dallas did not want to talk to Mary—she considered undressing and feigning sleep, changed her mind, and headed out into the corridor. Walking aimlessly, she encountered only an occasional servant or courtier and one of the Queen’s terriers seeking its mistress.

  After ten minutes or more, Dallas realized she was lost. The passageway ahead was in total darkness. Apparently the torch had been blown out by a draught. She was about to turn back when someone called her name very softly. Startled, she looked around to see a hooded figure in the window embrasure.

  “It’s me, George Gordon,” came the low voice. “Don’t say anything, Dallas, or these priestly robes will be my shroud.”

  Dallas hurried towards Gordon and peered at him incredulously. He was indeed attired as a priest and only the blond moustache made him recognizable. “What on earth ...?” Dallas began, but Gordon signaled for her to be silent.

  “Where is Iain’s room?” he whispered. “Just show me.”

  But Dallas had no idea where her husband was quartered. And she refused to admit this to George Gordon. But the fact that Gordon had dared risk his life
by appearing within Inverness Castle made Dallas realize that his presence signaled an utmost urgency, not only for himself but perhaps for Fraser as well. Fear overcame pride and Dallas started down the corridor with Gordon following noiselessly at her heels. Perhaps a servant could tell her where Fraser’s room was located.

  But it was not a servant whom Dallas encountered as she reached the west wing; it was David Rizzio, carrying his lute and looking at Dallas and her companion with large, curious eyes.

  “I’m lost, Davie,” Dallas said with a forced smile. “This priest has come to hear the Queen’s ladies’ confessions on the morrow. I thought perhaps he could bide with Iain tonight, but now I can’t find my way back to his room.”

  Rizzio still looked puzzled but graciously gave directions. “Strange, ma donna,” he added with his infectious grin, “your lord was just looking for you.”

  It was Dallas’s turn to stare. But she recovered quickly, bade Rizzio good-night and led George Gordon towards Fraser’s quarters.

  “You and Iain seem to have problems keeping track of one another,” Gordon murmured. “How is it that you two ever married?”

  “That’s hardly your business, sir,” Dallas snapped. She gave Gordon a swift, sharp look over her shoulder. Muffled as he was, his features were difficult to distinguish. But Dallas suddenly realized that his presence had made no emotional impact on her. She could regard him dispassionately, without feeling or regret. She could not, however, help from making a scathing comment: “As far as our marriage is concerned, I might point out that Iain doesn’t suffer from superficiality as some men do.”