The Royal Mile

by Mary Daheim

  Salmon were coming up to spawn in the River Beauly and the leaves had begun to turn amber gold. The house itself was comfortable, if not as lavishly appointed as Fraser’s residence in Edinburgh. She and Sorcha had slipped into friendship, bound together by the babe, by kinship and by Iain himself. Sorcha often told Dallas stories of Fraser as a youth, of his prowess with the dirk and claymore, his expertise at Highland sports, his fondness for animals, in particular a shaggy Highland pony he called Muc.

  “It means pig, in Gaelic,” Sorcha explained. “He named the pony that because it ate so much.”

  Dallas listened to the stories avidly, but never without an ache in her heart. Sorcha’s recollections made Fraser seem closer and at the same time further away. Dallas might be learning more about him now, but if she never got him back, the loss would only seem the greater.

  Indeed, her emotional state seemed to change from day to day, sometimes almost from hour to hour. Rocking her son in the nursery, she could imagine Fraser returning to embrace them both and assure her of his love. Then, when the rains pelted the mullioned windows of her bedroom and the sky turned a moribund grey, Dallas could visualize her husband raging into the manor house, cursing her temerity, turning her out into the storm.

  Frustration was the worst of it, for Dallas could do nothing to alter Fraser’s true reactions. She prayed, she thought, she walked the hills around the manor house, and everywhere she looked, she could imagine her husband having passed that way before her. The way he stood, thumbs hooked in his belt, one long leg slightly braced in front of the other, the twisted, mocking grin, the black hair just brushing the neck of his shirt, the hazel eyes glinting with amusement or blazing with anger—but most of all, the lean, hard, brown body pressed next to her, arousing responses she’d never imagined she possessed.

  There were times when she could have sworn that if she turned around, Fraser would be standing behind her, cloak blowing in the north wind, gazing intently out toward Beauly Firth. She would stare at the place where her eyes had sought his phantom spirit and ache with loneliness. But despite her unhappiness and inner turmoil, Dallas never once blamed Hamilton. She could no more fault his love for her than she could damp down her own feelings for Fraser.

  The fortnight stretched into a month. Neither woman mentioned the passage of time. Dallas would never voluntarily leave Magnus, and Sorcha found the other woman’s company too welcome a break in the lonely routine. Yet it was October now, with the heather darkening on the moors and the beeches shedding their crimson leaves. Fraser would soon be home.

  The first frost had silvered the rooftops of Beauly Manor when Father Beathan came to the door, asking to see Lady Fraser. Niall, the serving man, admitted the old priest, leading him upstairs to the nursery where Dallas and Sorcha played with Magnus.

  “Father!” Sorcha cried in greeting. “I’ve not seen you for so long! To what honor do we owe this visit?”

  An arthritic finger pointed at Dallas. “If that be Lady Fraser, ’tis honor enough.”

  Dallas confirmed her identity. Both women helped the old cleric into a chair and Sorcha hastily brought wine, for Father Beathan was overexerted by his trip up the stairs. “I come from the priory,” he said after he’d regained his breath. “Some months ago I wrote a letter to you for Lord Hugh. Later I heard you’d come to Beauly.”

  Dallas nodded as she rocked her baby against her breast. Suddenly, she was overcome by guilt. “Father, has my child been baptized?”

  The old man looked puzzled, but Sorcha broke in. “Aye, Father Dughall baptized him when Iain first came. He assumed you’d found no priest in London—under the circumstances.”

  Dallas smiled with relief. “You understand, Father, it’s only in isolated places like this that priests can be found to perform the sacraments.”

  Bitterness flickered in the watery grey eyes. “I understand too well. But I’ve come on another matter.” He turned to Sorcha. “Child, what I say is confidential, but you can be trusted. Did I not marry you long years ago to Lucais MacSymond?”

  Sorcha smiled at the memory. “Oh, yes, in the chapel. More than twenty years ago, Father.”

  “A good man, Lucais.” He paused in recollection, his mind appearing to travel through time to happier days. “But now my own course is almost run. I know, I’ve had dreams .... Before Advent, I shall join our blessed Lord.” The women accepted this statement of faith in silence. Father Beathan had the look of a dying man, and one who wasn’t particularly concerned about the prospect. Dallas noted that Magnus was asleep but didn’t wish to interrupt the priest by putting the babe in his cradle.

  “For over thirty years I’ve held a secret,” the old man was saying, his gnarled hands resting against his gaunt chest. “I swore I’d keep it always, but such vows must be tempered by human needs and God’s will. I see it as both that I should break my silence now before I die.” He coughed then, deeply, rackingly. Sorcha offered more wine, but he refused.

  “I was summoned to the convent one night while Iain’s mother lay dying. Her child, she told me, was no seed of her husband’s but of another man, far greater than Malcolm Fraser. Her lover didn’t know she was with child when he left Beauly, but before they parted he gave her an amulet.” Father Beathan paused to cough again. “He had two amulets made, one for Catherine Fraser and one for himself. But he was called away precipitously; the amulet he would have kept for himself was left within the Fraser house. It was, I heard later, stolen by the Camerons after Blar-na-Leine.”

  Dallas grimaced, ashamed of her kinsmen’s crime. “I’m sorry for their villainy. But what happened to the amulet?”

  Father Beathan’s grey eyes looked faintly perplexed. “But I thought you would know, Lady Fraser. A tinker—no, it was a Gaberlunzie man—came to the priory several months later and said someone named Daniel Cameron from Edinburgh had come north and taken the amulet away from his kinsmen.”

  Dallas frowned deeply. She felt the stares of both Father Beathan and Sorcha; but she could remember nothing of importance surrounding her father’s long-ago visit to the Highlands. “I don’t recall anything about an amulet. In truth,” she said on a sigh of frustration, “I know nothing of Iain’s parentage. My father told Iain the truth the night he died. But my husband would not share the knowledge with me because there was no proof.”

  “Ah.” Father Beathan nodded slowly. “But there is proof somewhere. The amulet is the proof. You are certain you recollect no hint at all as to what your father might have done with it?”

  Magnus was beginning to squirm in his sleep. Dallas caressed his back to quiet him. “No, I’ve thought about it before. Even though I was but a child at the time, I remember his return vividly. He never spoke of an amulet or mentioned any Frasers.”

  “Could the amulet be hidden in your family home?” Sorcha asked.

  Dallas considered the suggestion for only a brief moment. “My sisters and I know every nook and cranny of that house. What few hiding places there are we’ve used over the years for games. So have my sister’s boys. No,” Dallas assured them, “I would swear the amulet is not in the house.”

  Silence fell on the little group, broken only by an occasional small noise from Magnus. “If Iain’s father was a great lord,” Dallas finally said, as much to herself as to the others, “my father might have entrusted the amulet to the man himself. Or his kin.”

  Both Father Beathan and Sorcha mulled this idea over for a few moments. “That’s very likely,” Sorcha declared. “Yet why would the man not then acknowledge Iain as his son?”

  Father Beathan lifted a frail hand. “Lady Fraser may be correct in part. But other conjectures are ... irrelevant.”

  Dallas gave Father Beathan a puzzled look. “Father, you sound as if you know more than you told us. Am I right?”

  The old priest fumbled at the cross on his chest. “Aye. I know who your husband’s father was. But,” he continued quickly as Dallas leaned forward in eager anticipation, “the knowledge w
as given me in Catherine Fraser’s dying confession. I cannot reveal his name.”

  Dallas stifled an oath. The one man alive who could bear witness to Fraser’s parentage sat before her—-and his vow of silence was inviolable. Yet the old priest’s very presence indicated that there must be some urgency about resolving the question. Dallas’s rocking motion had become so jerky that the babe awoke and began to cry.

  Father Beathan got up on uncertain legs. “I’d best leave you to tend the bairn. I am glad to have told my tale. It is one more burden shed before I leave this world. And remember, there were two amulets. If the wet nurse who tended Iain could ever be found, she might well answer all your questions.”

  “Moireach?” Sorcha’s fine silver brows drew together. “She went away years ago, when Iain was a wee laddie. No one knows what happened to her.”

  “A pity.” Father Beathan was raising his hand to give a blessing before his departure. But Magnus had begun to cry and Dallas handed him to Sorcha.

  “Thank you, Sorcha, I must beg a favor of Father Beathan before he leaves.”

  The old priest’s gaze was steady. “Yes, my child?” he asked softly.

  “Please, Father,” she entreated, “let me confess. It has been such a long time since I made an account of my sins.”

  Father Beathan took the request in stride; he was accustomed to performing the sacraments on an impromptu basis these days. Easing himself slowly back into the chair as Sorcha left the room, he bowed his head for a brief, silent prayer.

  Dallas knelt down on the floor. She crossed herself and then began: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned ....”

  All Hallows’ Eve was appropriately stormy, with rain pummeling the rooftops and the wind bending the trees behind the manor house. Dallas and Sorcha sat by the fire, making baby clothes for Magnus. The child was growing rapidly, requiring a new wardrobe every few weeks, or so it seemed to the two women.

  The wild night outside had made Sorcha uneasy. She muttered to herself and began plucking out a two-inch row of uneven stitches. “This gloom hampers my sewing,” she complained. “Perhaps I should light more candles.”

  “A good idea,” Dallas agreed with a smile. “They’ll frighten off the witches, too.”

  Sorcha took a taper and held it to the fire, then lighted several candles on the table by her chair. “That’s better, it’s not so dreary now.” But she stood motionless, wrapped in indecision, until Dallas looked up from her own stitchery.

  “Sorcha, are you all right?”

  The other woman raised a hand to her breast. “I’m afraid, I should not mention it, but I’m worried about Iain.”

  “He’s due to return about this time,” Dallas commented reasonably. “Surely you can’t pinpoint any particular day under the circumstances.” Then a new thought occurred to her: “Sorcha, are you upset about Iain’s return or about me being here?”

  Sorcha twisted the plain gold chain at her neck. “Aye, he’ll be angry, I’m sure of it.” She came over to put a hand on Dallas’s shoulder. “I can bear his wrath, I’ve endured it before, but I don’t want him to hurt you again. I’ve grown fond of you, Dallas—you’re like a younger sister or a daughter to me.”

  Dallas patted Sorcha’s hand. “I’ll risk his anger,” she said simply. Then she turned away and stood for a moment, looking out into the night, watching the trees make eerie patterns against the darkened sky and wondering if indeed there were witches riding the night wind over the moors.

  The roofs of Naples shone dully in the pale December sun. Housewives carried their purchases home from the marketplace on their heads and workmen pounded desultorily at the walls of a new church just off the piazza. On a balcony overlooking the wintry grey Mediterranean, Iain Fraser sat on a stone bench and watched the view with disinterest. His feet were propped up on the railing, his left arm in a sling. He balanced a thick copy of Petrarch on his knees but his mind was not on the book. He was not even thinking about the wound in his shoulder which still plagued him. At least he had taken the Spaniard’s thrust cleanly during the fight off Barcelona; but MacRae had taken command during the return voyage to Naples. Two crewmen had been killed and it was cold comfort to Fraser that the Spanish vessel had at last been sunk with all hands lost.

  They had been in Naples for almost a month. MacRae had rented a house near the harbor where Fraser could watch his crew make repairs on the Richezza. But Fraser’s mind was not on his ship that morning. Instead, he was thinking of the previous evening.

  Bored by the weeks of convalescence, he had gone out into the city to a taverna where a dark-eyed dancer had caught his fancy. Her full figure, the mass of dark hair and the sensuous mouth had all beckoned until he realized how much she reminded him of Dallas. When the dance ended and she came to straddle his knee, he had given her a handful of coins instead of an invitation to his bed. Cursing him over her shoulder, the dancer had flounced away to seek a more willing partner.

  Fraser had been about to leave when a scuffle in the corner caught his attention. Ordinarily, he would have ignored such a brawl but an English oath made him pause. A crew member? No, he would have noticed the man earlier. Yet the voice was oddly familiar. He waited by the door until the melee broke up to reveal Octavian Goolsby holding an Italian by the scruff of his neck. “An’ yer Pope can put this up his holy arse!” He picked up a large salami and thumped it over his adversary’s head.

  “Goolsby!” Fraser called out, grinning at the Englishman. “Get out, before these folks figure out what the devil you’re saying!”

  Astonished, Goolsby stepped over the sprawled bodies of two other men and rushed for the door. He and Fraser were out into the night before anyone realized what had happened.

  Later, on the balcony above the harbor, Goolsby related how he’d gotten to Italy. On the night of Fraser’s escape from the Tower, the other guards had not believed Goolsby’s story, but he’d bargained with them, said he knew where the prisoner would hide out, and led them to a deserted building west of Tower Wharf. Once inside, he’d overpowered the one holding a torch and plunged them all into darkness. He alone knew the layout of the building, having worked there unloading cargo some years before.

  “I left in a rush, while they cursed and stumbled over each other,” Goolsby recalled with a chuckle as he hefted Fraser’s wineskin over his shoulder. “An old friend at Smithfield took me in that night and the next day I rode to Dover. The Queen’s men were so busy looking for you and your wife that they didn’t bother with small change like m’self.”

  At Dover he’d found a Portuguese caravel ready to sail.

  Offering himself as crew, he’d worked his way to Lisbon, and eventually to Genoa.

  “Been in Italy since August,” Goolsby declared with self-satisfaction. “Sun, wine, women, just like I planned. I came to Naples last week, after a month in Rome. Sorrento next, I’ll keep moving south till winter is over.” He took a deep swig from the wineskin. “But about yerself, how come you be here and what’s the decoration?”

  Fraser glanced at his sling. “Oh, aye, this. A souvenir from the Spanish.”

  “Ah, so you were the one with the ship. I thought so,” Goolsby said with a wink. “The piracy charges weren’t so wrong then. You must have some hair-raising tales to tell.”

  Perfunctorily, Fraser recounted the battle with the Spanish ship. Ordinarily the telling of such a story would amuse him enough to make a quiet evening pass pleasantly. But tonight the episode seemed of little interest and Fraser’s audience sensed the lack of enthusiasm.

  “You got other things on your mind, Baron Fraser,” Goolsby commented, squeezing the last of the wine between his lips. “I’d best leave you, ’tis late anyway.” He raised himself with an effort, then turned to Fraser for one last question. “Your wife, did she get back to Scotland? I never even knew she was in London till I heard the Queen’s men were on her heels.”

  Fraser was peeling a peach with his dirk. He looked up briefly. “Aye, she got back.�
��

  Goolsby felt the curtain fall between them. He decided to change the subject quickly. “By the way, you’re not the only important Scot in Italy these days. Lord John Hamilton is in Rome, somebody pointed him out to me just before I left.”

  Fraser’s hand tightened on his dirk. “Hamilton,” he echoed, the hazel eyes flickering up at Goolsby. “In Rome?”

  “Come to live, I hear,” Goolsby replied, wondering what he’d say wrong next. “I’m on my way, Baron Fraser. Good luck to ye.”

  Rising, Fraser tried to shake the shadows away. “I’m glad you escaped. I’ve often wondered how you fared that night. God knows I didn’t like leaving you. I take it you never got the money I’d left behind?”

  “Money?” Goolsby’s squat nose wrinkled in recollection. “Nay, I’d no chance to take that. No matter, as long as my neck’s still the same length.”

  But Fraser was already counting out a large number of coins from a leather pouch. “I don’t recall exactly how much I had in prison, but it was meant for you in case you didn’t get away. Take this, you earned it.”

  The coins clinked together in Goolsby’s square hands. “God’s teeth, you’re a generous man! Hearty thanks to ye, sir!” Goolsby’s gap-tooth grin beamed up at Fraser. “Who knows? Some day I might want to go back to England. Maybe I’ll sign on with your crew next time.” He chuckled richly and headed somewhat uncertainly down the stairs.

  Between them, the tavern dancer and Goolsby had made for an unsettling night. Fraser slept poorly, at first trying to convince himself that his wound was bothering him, at last admitting that his unease came from quite a different source.

  That morning Fraser gazed down on the masts of the Richezza and contemplated his future. So Hamilton had exiled himself to the Continent. Dallas must have rejected his offer of marriage and any attempt to get a papal annulment. The news jarred Fraser. During the months since he’d left Scotland, his revised opinion of her had begun to fit comfortably with his own behavior: Dallas was as faithless a slut as any other, using her wiles to make one advantageous marriage, then using her body to make an even better one. It was not difficult to understand, he’d told himself. Dallas was not well born, she had faced poverty. He himself was a bastard, unrecognized and left to make his own way in the world. Both of them were determined to rise above their humble origins, to stand as equals with any man or woman in Scotland. But in betraying him with Hamilton, Dallas had gone too far.