by Mary Daheim
The white and yellow roses glowed with vibrant beauty against the grey stone marker which designated the resting places of Daniel and Eva Cameron. Four years since her father’s death, Dallas thought as she got up from her knees and turned to where Flora was standing with a wicker basket over her arm. Sometimes it seemed to Dallas as if her father had been gone forever; sometimes it seemed as if he were with her still. She never opened a book without hearing his voice make some pungent comment; she never entered the house in Nairne’s Close without half-expecting to see him emerge from his study to greet her warmly. And she never thought about her husband’s ancestry without wondering what her father had told Fraser but had never confided in his favorite daughter.
“The nuns tend this graveyard well,” Flora commented, her critical gaze appraising the haphazard placement of tombstones and markers. “They were fortunate not to be turned out.”
Dallas only half-heard Flora’s remarks. Her mind was still on her father, and she wished that Glennie and Tarrill had come, too. But her younger sister was in attendance on the Queen, and her eldest, having forgotten that it was the anniversary of their father’s death, had been immersed with Marthe in putting up pear preserves for the winter. So, as it was a fine August day, Dallas and Flora had walked the short distance from Edinburgh to Newington, carrying the basket of roses and intending to stop for supper at the town house in Gosford’s Close.
Two grey-clad nuns were gathering herbs in the convent garden as Dallas and Flora came out of the graveyard. Beyond, where the road dipped out of sight, dust swirled in brown billows as a coach rumbled towards the capital. Both women stepped well off the road as four horses cantered towards them and stopped.
“Lady Fraser,” called a voice from inside the coach, “may I offer you a ride?”
Dallas saw the Earl of Morton’s face framed by the coach window. “It’s a fine day for walking, thank you just the same.” Morton, she noted, looked as porcine as ever, the heavy jowls sagging slightly under the red-brown beard.
“It’s clouding over, we’ll have rain within the hour,” Morton said, looking skyward. “You’ll not make it to Holyrood without getting drenched.”
Morton was right, dark clouds were gathering on the northern horizon, settling down over the Ochil Mountains. Dallas had been so absorbed during her half-hour in the graveyard that she had not noticed the sudden shift in weather.
“I’m going to my own house for the evening,” Dallas replied, wavering slightly in her refusal. Much as she disliked Morton, there was no point in catching cold, especially now that she was pregnant. “If you could let us off in Gosford’s Close ....”
The coach door swung open. “Certainly, pray get in.” Dallas and Flora sat opposite Morton, the maid rigid with disapproval. The earl spoke of inconsequential matters, though his words were slow and measured as ever. Dallas answered him cordially, but her thoughts were still shaded by her father’s memory. A quarter of an hour later, the coach pulled up in front of the town house, where Cummings was standing on the stoop, ordering some tradesmen to go around to the rear entrance.
“It’s the fabric for your new gowns, madame,” Flora said, quickly opening the coach door. “I’d best see to it at once.” The maid stepped down onto the cobbles without waiting for the footman to assist her.
Morton chuckled. “I don’t think she cares for my company,” he commented, leaning over to close the coach door. “But then I was hoping for a moment’s privacy with you, my lady.”
Dallas sat up straight, hands folded in her lap. The ride had made her queasy and the air had turned humid as the rain clouds pressed in upon the city. “To what purpose?” she inquired.
The earl leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Ladies in distress move me deeply,” he said in a confidential tone. “Your husband’s predicament must put you under great duress.”
With effort, Dallas refrained from making a nasty retort. If ever a man was not touched by “ladies in distress,” it was Morton, who had a reputation for outright cruelty where defenseless women were concerned. “Iain’s plight upsets me, of course,” Dallas said calmly, “but the winds of politics change. I’m sure he will be permitted back soon.”
Morton’s pudgy thumb gestured towards the coach window and the town house beyond. “How sad it would be for you to lose such a charming residence. Have you thought of selling?”
“Selling!” Dallas made the word sound obscene. “Sweet Virgin, neither of us would ever do that.”
The piglike eyes squinted at Dallas. “You may lose it anyway. I have kin who’ve often admired the house.”
“It’s well worth the admiration, but definitely not for sale,” Dallas asserted, making a move to get up from the cushioned seat. The coach seemed confining, overly warm, and outside the rain pelted the cobblestones. “Many thanks for ....”
Morton’s hand grasped Dallas’s knee in a firm grip. “You’re a brave little wench. You ought not bear the burden of defending your lord’s properties alone. A man, one with influence at court, could help you in your husband’s prolonged absence.”
Dallas jerked her knee away from Morton’s touch. “I need no help,” she avowed, standing up so abruptly that her head struck painfully on the low roof of the coach.
The earl’s small eyes gleamed with amusement. “How spirited of you! Yet I recall you have not disdained the protection of at least one other powerful lord in the past.”
“You’re impertinent, sir!” Dallas put out an unsteady hand to open the coach door but he grasped her by the wrist.
“With James outlawed, I’m in a position to intercede with the Queen on your husband’s behalf. Think, madame,” he went on, giving her wrist a little squeeze, “even if Darnley won’t allow your lord’s return, I can see to it that when Parliament meets, his properties are kept out of the Crown’s hands.”
Dallas’s head was throbbing from where she’d struck it, but she’d never yield an inch to him, not for all the threats or promises he could muster. Her eyes glared defiance, evoking a curt little nod from the earl. “Have it your own way, Lady Fraser,” he said in an ugly voice as he let go of her wrist. “You’ll be the sorrier for it.”
Dallas didn’t waste time replying; she shoved the carriage door open and jumped down onto the wet cobbles. Before she could get inside the house, Morton had shouted to his driver and the horses began to trot out of Gosford’s Close.
Dallas had collapsed on the settee in the little supper room. “The man’s a swine,” Flora sniffed, using a perfumed handkerchief to wipe her mistress’s brow. “I should never have left you alone with him.”
“He’s a loathesome opportunist.” Dallas closed her eyes, tried to relax, and gave Magnus a hug before he jumped out of her arms and headed for the silver comfit dish. “I’ll not tell Iain about this incident. He has enough enemies as it is.”
“I should have guessed what Morton was up to,” Flora said in self-reproach. “I saw him watching you all the way from Newington, lust-filled as a wild bull.”
Dallas took a sip of whiskey and gingerly touched the bump on her head. “No wonder the Douglases are detested by so many, if Morton is like the rest.”
Flora snorted in agreement but said nothing. Dallas drank again, more deeply this time, and felt herself reviving. Morton’s odious proposition would have to be put out of her mind. But she could not erase the fact that Fraser was far away and that she was very much alone. In a moment of uncustomary bleak despair, Dallas wondered how she could go on battling for her husband and herself, for Magnus and the tiny being she carried in her womb. She took another drink, squared her shoulders, and then felt her lips tremble as she saw Fraser’s empty armchair across the room.
Some forty miles east of Scarborough, on an unusually placid North Sea, the men of the Richezza had fired a signal volley to the English frigate which lay several hundred yards off the port side. Dipping the ensign, orders were given to bring the two ships side-by-side. It was common practice, since
vessels often rendezvoused at sea to exchange supplies or information. It was also a common ruse used by pirates.
The battle was short and decisive. Piracy was not unusual and all but the most stout-hearted crews had learned it was wiser to yield their cargos than their lives. MacRae had taken command of the Richezza’s men and, following his captain’s orders, made a cursory check of the frigate’s bounty. As Fraser had predicted, there was little of interest, since the English crew had recently sailed from Leith, ladened with wool, whiskey and a few unexceptional trinkets to sell in the London markets. MacRae appropriated several casks of whiskey but let the rest of the goods remain aboard. The English captain, however, was another matter: Bound and blindfolded, MacRae and Corelli led him across the gangplank and onto the Richezza.
Fraser, who ordinarily would have been the first to board an enemy vessel, waited indolently in his cabin. Since his purpose was not loot but information, he had wanted to take no chances of being recognized by the English crew.
“Sit him down there,” he commanded MacRae, indicating a carved armchair. “Welcome, Captain, have we been made rich by our plunder?”
The Englishman sat awkwardly with his hands trussed behind him. His blindfolded eyes turned in the direction of the deep voice. “Scarcely. I fear you’ve wasted your time, sir.”
“A pity.” Fraser poured himself a cup of wine. “If you can’t make me wealthy, perhaps you can amuse me instead.” He picked up the pistol from the table and cocked it. The click made the other man jump and Fraser smiled slightly. “Your name, sir?”
“Richard Miller of Portsmouth, captain of the Sea King these past four years,” he replied, feeling the sweat break out on his forehead.
“Ah.” Fraser still held the pistol aimed at Miller, knowing that if he set it down the other man would hear the sound and relax. “Let me see how you might amuse me best … You look too clumsy to dance and I doubt that you can sing, so why not tell me some entertaining yarns? You sailed from Leith?”
Captain Miller licked his dry lips. “Aye, two days ago, the twenty-eighth of August.”
Fraser used his free hand to take another drink of wine. “That’s hardly hilarious,” he said dryly. “What news of Edinburgh, then? Oh, I know you must have figured me for a Scot by my accent and you’re quite right. Perhaps you can give me the latest gossip from home.”
The English captain snorted. “Gossip consists mostly of speculating how long your Queen can put up with that oaf she married.” He stopped abruptly, wondering if he had offended his captor. “At least, it seemed to me that the people of Edinburgh care little for their new sovereign lord.”
Fraser rubbed his finger along the bridge of his nose. So the Queen had actually married the simpering fop after all. He’d hoped against hope that at the last minute she might have seen Darnley for what he was. And the Englishman had referred to the “new sovereign lord”—the silly lass must have conferred kingship on Darnley. Fraser’s lean mouth drew into a taut line. “Interesting enough in itself,” he said mildly. “What else?”
Captain Miller was racking his brains. What in Christ did the man want to hear? And why? Was he just a homesick sailor, eager for news? “George Gordon has returned to court, complete with his father’s Huntly earldom. Bothwell’s back, too. The Queen’s half-brother, James, has been put to the horn and has led the Queen a merry chase about Edinburgh.”
Fraser leaned forward. So James had turned rebel. In spite of himself, his opinion of his old adversary went up a notch. “Who caught whom?” he asked in a noncommittal tone.
“It’s undecided,” the captain replied, somewhat relieved to note that his captor was at least sufficiently diverted to go on talking. “James Stuart flirts about the edges of the city with his troops, while Queen Mary and her men give chase. Old Chatelherault and Argyll were informed that they would be outlawed, too, if they helped Lord James.”
Miller felt the perspiration trickle into the blindfold as he grimaced in an effort to recollect any other scraps of information which he hoped might save his skin. “Yes, and one other, Baron Fraser, was also outlawed along with Lord James. Apparently he was out of the city when the proclamation was read.”
Fraser’s fist clenched so hard against the table that his signet ring left a dent in the wood. “My, my,” he said lightly, after a pause to regain his composure, “it sounds as if being at sea is more peaceable than being in Scotland these days. All those poor lords falling into disgrace over a lassie’s wedding.”
The Englishman had gained confidence through gaining time. He began to recall all sorts of items, suddenly spewing them out in a rush of words: “Though Lord Argyll is out of favor, his wife remains with the Queen—but they’ve been estranged for years. James Stuart announced his intent to turn his rebellion into a religious war, but the Queen would have none of that. Lennox tried to convince the Queen that James wanted to kidnap the earl and his son and ship them both back to England, and now James is rumored to be seeking help from Queen Elizabeth. Fraser’s lady is with child, but said to be at court, pressing for her husband’s reinstatement ....”
Miller blathered on, but Fraser had ceased listening. He put both the wine cup and the pistol down on the table very slowly, his shoulders suddenly slumped. MacRae and Corelli, who still stood behind their captain’s chair, watched him with compassion. But he rallied quickly, to cut the Englishman off.
“Enough, I grow bored with politics. You’re short of plunder, short of entertainment, Captain. You’d best return to your dull English dogs and take your trinkets on to the Thames.” He signaled to MacRae. “Unbind him, but leave the blindfold in place. At least we’ll get something decent to drink out of this miserable expedition.”
Captain Miller, now sweating with relief rather than fear, was trundled out of the cabin by Fraser’s two crewmen. When they were gone, Fraser poured himself more wine and stared into his cup. Somehow, he’d get back to Dallas, at least for a while. Outlawed or not, he could never abandon her again as he had while she carried Magnus. That folly, however unwitting at the time, had nearly lost her to him. Then he grinned, recalling what the Englishman had said. He could envision Dallas struggling up from bouts of nausea, sailing into battle on his behalf. If ever a lassie was worth risking all, it was his wife, he decided, and left the cabin to give orders for sailing north.
Chapter 23
Every year in early September, horse races were run on the sands at Leith. Though the Protestant leaders decried the sport as unholy, all but the court’s most ardent adherents of the new religion came to the races. The most splendid animals, Arabians imported from Spain, were entered in the competitions, and betting ran high among the onlookers.
The straightaway course was six furlongs and lined with stalls, tents and banners. Riders generally came from the wealthier families or the Queen’s household. When Will Ruthven had sprained his ankle two days earlier, he’d asked Donald McVurrich to take his place on the chestnut gelding, Scorpio.
“I’m not used to these foreign breeds,” Donald complained to Dallas and Tarrill, “but I vowed to do my best.”
“Just don’t fall off and get hurt,” Dallas admonished. She fanned herself briskly, for the late summer sun was warm. Hawkers plied the crowd, selling a variety of refreshments and souvenirs. The Queen stood nearby, disdaining the comfort of a hastily erected dais set up close to the finish line. Darnley lounged at her side, looking bored.
Tarrill avoided looking at Will Ruthven, who was hobbling along with Jon Sempill. Instead, she scrutinized some notes she’d made on a little pad which dangled from her waist. “Let me see, two bays, a black and a grey have won so far. I’ve gleaned forty royals on two winners already; shall I wager it all on you, Donald?”
He studied the big chestnut, which was being soothed by a stable boy. “Horse looks willing, but I’m not sure about the rider.” He grinned shyly at Tarrill. “If you put up all your money, I’ll have to win.”
“Your only serious competitio
n is Lord Robert and one of the Douglases,” Dallas pointed out. “The rest are either drunk already or out of condition.”
Donald acknowledged her observations with a nod, heard the call to saddle up, and turned to Tarrill. “I need a talisman,” he mumbled, his skin turning dark. “Like the knights of old.”
Tarrill looked up at him from under her black lashes. “Oh—mayhap my handkerchief, no, wait.” She unfastened the little note pad from her waist. “Here, take this, it signifies our work together on your letters.”
He took the trinket in his big hand and stuffed it inside his shirt. “Thank you. When I give it back, I hope you’ll be able to write down that a chestnut won this race.” He bowed to both women, then turned towards his mount.
Tactfully, Dallas decided not to tease her sister about the exchange. They moved away from the riders’ area towards the royal entourage. Darnley happened to look in their direction as they approached. He glared at Dallas and spat into the sand.
“Whoreson,” Dallas murmured without breaking stride.
“Please, Dallas,” Tarrill begged, “have a care. I’m so afraid he’ll make the Queen dismiss you.”
Dallas snorted with contempt as she elbowed her way to a better viewpoint.
The horses and their riders were being led down along the sands to the starting place. Dallas shielded her eyes from the sun, noting the masts of several ships out in the harbor. She wondered, as she did almost constantly, where Fraser was.
Tarrill, however, was wondering if she’d lose her forty royals. She placed wagers for herself and her sister with one of the oddsmakers just as David Rizzio edged up beside them. “Buona fortuna,” he greeted the sisters. “Which do you choose?”