The Royal Mile

by Mary Daheim

“Scorpio,” Tarrill answered. “I’ve already won twice.”

  Rizzio’s wide eyes displayed admiration for her acumen. “Excellent, but I am not so fortunate. Already I’ve lost ten times that much this afternoon!” He made an exaggerated grimace and raised his hands to heaven in mock despair.

  A pistol shot sent all heads craning towards the starting place. Far down the sands, they could see the horses thundering up the course in a cluster of color and speed. At the end of the first furlong, three of the riders had spurred their mounts ahead of the others.

  “Donald is up there!” Tarrill cried excitedly.

  “You can’t see that far back,” Dallas objected.

  “I can so!” Tarrill shouted, for the crowd noise was growing louder as the horses approached the halfway point. “He’s the only fair-haired rider in the race!”

  Unable to argue that point, Dallas fell silent until she could make out Donald and his mount. Sure enough, he was in second place, behind Lord Robert. The third horse, ridden by the Queen’s page Bastien, was losing ground to an outsider, spurred on by the Douglas lad.

  “Go, Donald, come on, Scorpio!” Tarrill was shrieking, clenching her fists and all but falling over the ropes which separated the observers from the race course. Just as Scorpio moved to pass Lord Robert’s mount, the Douglas horse drew even with them both. Thundering across the finish line, Tarrill announced in a shrill voice that Donald had won by a nose.

  The crowd grew silent, uncertain of the result. Then a rumble of contention began to swell as the riders cantered along the sands to cool off their mounts. Maitland had been chosen as presiding judge and he stood next to the royal dais, fending off a group of courtiers who were anxious to give him their expert opinions. Waving them aside, he mounted the three steps and held up his hands for quiet. “The winner is Scorpio, ridden by Donald McVurrich of the Queen’s household!”

  Cheers mingled with hoots of derision. Maitland smiled dryly as he descended the dais, thinking he’d rather face the most dangerous and intricate of foreign negotiations any day than a partisan group of racing enthusiasts.

  Tarrill hugged Dallas and squealed with delight. “I told you! He did it!”

  Rizzio was smiling at the women. “Congratulations, dear ladies,” he said gallantly, kissing their hands in turn. “I should have followed your lead—my own money was on Lord Robert.”

  “I think Donald had an extra incentive,” Dallas smiled as her sister slipped through the crowd towards the riders’ area. “Oh, Davie, I’d like to see my sister happily married. What do you think?” She nodded her head towards Tarrill and Donald, who were greeting each other jubilantly.

  Short as he was, Rizzio had to stand on tiptoe to see the couple. “He’s a fine young man, I’ve heard good things of him from the almoner. But he lacks confidence with women.”

  Dallas had respect for Rizzio’s perceptions. Not much passed by the little man. “That’s so,” she agreed. “Mayhap I should have a little talk with him.”

  “Mayhap you won’t need to, mayhap I was wrong,” Rizzio said, pointing to the couple. They were easing their way from Donald’s admirers, moving out of the crowd towards one of the refreshment tents. Donald’s arm was around Tarrill’s shoulders.

  “His victory has probably done more for him than my talk would,” Dallas laughed. “I suppose I should assume the guise of discreet sister and disappear for a bit. Good luck on the last race, Davie.” She allowed Rizzio to give her hand another kiss before she wandered off down the sands.

  Dallas had not won a race until Donald’s victory, but the sum she’d wagered on him made up for her losses. The final contest did not interest her much, since she knew none of the riders except Delphinia Douglas’s brother, and Dallas certainly wasn’t going to waste her money betting on him.

  Away from the crowd, she felt the salt air on her cheeks and a soft breeze in her hair. No more nausea now, but her gowns were beginning to feel tight around the waist. She strolled on, the sound of the crowd growing fainter with every step. Up ahead, a strange formation caught her attention. Curious, she walked a little faster but the sun was still in her eyes. Some fifty feet away from the curious object she stopped and gasped. It was a gibbet and a half-naked man dangling in chains, with much of his flesh pecked away by sea birds. Though she could not read the lettering at the top of the gallows, Dallas knew the man had been a pirate.

  Covering her eyes with her hands, Dallas fled blindly away from the grisly sight. Collapsing against some old pilings, she discovered her nausea had not left her after all and became violently ill.

  She didn’t know how long she sat there, shivering and weak. But when she glanced back down the beach, the crowd was dispersing, the sun was beginning to set and a heavy mist was rolling in over the harbor. She could never catch up with the others, she must have walked close to a mile.

  One arm clinging to the piling, Dallas fretted over what she ought to do. There was no one headed in her direction nor did she see any fleet-footed youth who might race off with a message. Picking up her skirts to mount some rickety wooden stairs which led up from the sands to the town, Dallas tried to blot out the image of the executed pirate and concentrate on more practical matters. Tarrill and Donald would figure she had simply been tactful and left them alone. If they asked, Rizzio would confirm the notion, and everyone would naturally assume that Dallas was returning to Holyrood with some of the other courtiers. Since it was only a little over a mile from the town up through Leith Wynd to the Canongate, Dallas reasoned that she ought to be back at the palace shortly after the others arrived.

  Her step was slow, however, as she moved along the narrow street which ran parallel to the harbor. A few local citizens glanced at her elegant mauve gown and Flemish lace shawl, but since they all knew of the court’s presence at the races that day, she attracted a minimum of attention.

  Wearily, she trudged away from the harbor and into Leith. Still shaken by the sight of the corpse on the gibbet, she paused near an ale house, wondering if she should go inside and purchase a tankard of ale to quiet her shattered nerves. No, she decided, certainly not unescorted in a town frequented by rough seamen. She’d have to keep walking until she reached Holyrood.

  But Dallas had not counted on the encroaching darkness or the heavy mist filtering into the wynds of Leith. She didn’t know the town well and soon realized she wasn’t entirely certain how to reach Leith Wynd. She also had the vague feeling that someone was following her.

  Turning to look unobtrusively over her shoulder, she was almost sure she saw a man’s outline in the mist. Being the supper hour, there were few others abroad now and Dallas was suddenly reminded of the night when the young roisterers had tried to attack her after Mary Stuart’s entry into Edinburgh. Forcing herself to walk faster, she heard nothing but her own footsteps echo over the cobbles.

  But when she turned a corner which she hoped led out of the town, the unmistakable footfall of booted feet assailed her ears. She didn’t dare turn around now and the fog had grown so thick she couldn’t see for more than a foot. Whoever it was had almost caught up with her; panicky, she vacillated between flight and confrontation. Before she could do either, an arm went around her neck and a hand closed over her mouth. Dallas kicked, pummeled with her fists and strained against the steel grip, but in vain. Her feet were off the ground and she was being lifted into a darkened, mist-filled close.

  Her assailant had put her back on her feet but kept his hand over her mouth and her arms pinned to her sides. Dallas began to renew her struggle but went rigid when she felt her captor’s hand move down to feel the outline of her swelling stomach. Then the familiar voice sounded low in her ears and she slumped against her abductor’s chest: “Hush, lassie,” he whispered, “it’s just your husband. I thought you might fancy dining out this evening.”

  “Ooooh ....” Dallas groaned as he withdrew his hand from her mouth but kept one arm around her shoulders lest she fall. She turned slowly to face him. He wore a heav
y cloak with the hood pulled up to conceal his sharp features. “You fiend, you frightened me so!” She wanted to be angry but began laughing instead.

  He signaled for her to be quiet. “Whisper, lovey. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep you from giving me away. Now come along, there’s an inn just a few doors down where we can talk. Corelli is posted outside to keep watch.”

  He took her hand and they hurried along the street, now completely swathed in fog. A few feet from the inn’s entrance, another man muffled in a cloak made an almost imperceptible nod to Fraser.

  Inside, noisy voices argued over the outcome of the day’s racing event. Heavily Protestant though Leith might be, it seemed as if half the town had been wagering that afternoon down on the sands. Fraser propelled Dallas between the crowded tables to an inglenook which he had kept waiting for them.

  After they were seated, Dallas sat with her chin on her hands, feasting on her husband’s presence. “I’m so glad to see you—how did you find me?”

  Fraser beckoned for a serving wench to bring ale. “We dropped anchor last night in Leith Harbor so Corelli and I could row ashore. I learned this morning that the court was coming down for the races so I watched from a place nearby, hoping to see you. It wasn’t until you left the others just before the last race that I could single you out. I followed you, hoping you might stop to rest so I could tell you I was here.”

  Dallas accepted a tankard from the serving wench who was winking boldly at Fraser. He pretended not to notice and kept his gaze on Dallas, who was drinking thirstily. “Saucy,” she muttered as the girl left them. “I was so frightened—there was a pirate hanging in chains. I remembered what you told me a long time ago ....” Her lips trembled as her voice trailed away.

  Fraser covered her hand with his own. “Don’t fash yourself, Dallas. I’m here in one piece, though I can stay but a few hours.” He glanced around them to make sure no one was listening. “I know about being declared an outlaw, about James, too. I also know,” he said, smiling and squeezing her hand, “about the babe.”

  Dallas squeezed back but couldn’t resist a bit of sarcasm: “I’m so pleased you’ve shown up at least once while I’m bearing these bairns of yours. I was beginning to think you believed I purchased them in the Lawnmarket.”

  “Why not? You’ve bought everything else they have to offer.” He grinned as she kicked him under the table. “Now let’s eat something before I have the misfortune of being recognized.”

  They asked for stewed beef, bread and boiled potatoes, the most sophisticated offerings of a meager kitchen. Dallas wanted to know how Fraser had kept so well informed about events at court. He told her of his informative exchange with Captain Miller. Fraser, in turn, wanted to know what had happened since. Though he had gleaned some scraps of news that morning in Leith, Dallas brought him up-to-date, including her own efforts on his behalf.

  “The Queen won’t budge to reinstate you yet,” she said, cutting up a piece of stringy beef. “But I have written to Sorcha warning her that your properties there might be confiscated. I also wrote to Lord Hugh Fraser, discreetly suggesting he might marshal the clan on your behalf, if need be. So far, there’s no problem with the town house, though Cummings is prepared to have all the booty in the cellar moved on a moment’s notice through the passageway to my former home.” Dallas took another drink of ale as she tried to recall what else she’d accomplished in her husband’s absence. “Oh, yes, Cummings is considering the possibility of deeding the town house over to Walter Ramsay temporarily so that it would be in his name instead of yours and therefore safe from confiscation. I’ve practiced your signature and can reproduce it almost precisely—I’ve always had a knack for that sort of thing. Now the same ruse might work for the lands at Beauly and Inverness, but that’s a more complicated situation ....”

  Fraser was laughing helplessly. “I should have known you’d not sit idle and let the family fortune be spirited away! But forgery?” He shook his head at her ingenuous lack of scruples.

  “Oh, fie, Iain, it’s hardly forgery under the circumstances. If we truly belong to each other as we’ve vowed, then your signature is as much mine as yours, correct?” Dallas looked so sincere that Fraser began to laugh again. Unable to think of an answer to Dallas’s peculiar logic, he dumped some coins on the table and stood up. “I don’t think I can stand any more devious intrigues this evening from you, Dallas. Since I have so little time, I suggest we spend the remainder of it doing something less cerebral.”

  Dallas carefully pulled her skirts free of the splinters in the aged inglenook. “You chose this place well, Iain, we’re fortunate that no one from the court has come here.”

  “They have better taste.” Steering Dallas towards a narrow stairway, he let her proceed him up to the room.

  “Now,” he said when they were inside the homely little chamber to which the innkeeper had ushered him earlier in the day, “let’s see how you look with my bairn inside you.”

  “Fat,” Dallas declared as she let Fraser unfasten her gown. “You may hate the sight of me.”

  A rushlight burned low on a shabby bureau. The room’s only window was uncurtained and the heavy mist trickled down in uneven paths on the warped, dirty panes. Outside, two angry cats squalled at one another.

  “Oh, lassie,” Fraser asserted as Dallas’s garments dropped to the floor, “you are bonnie and bountiful. See how rounded you are,” he said as his hands caressed the swelling abdomen. “And your breasts—they are fuller and finer than ever.” He cupped each one in his hands, jiggling them experimentally.

  “I feel uncomely,” Dallas replied in an almost diffident tone. She was surprised by her own shyness; though this was the second child she would bear her husband, he had never before seen her pregnant body. She could not help but think that he must be comparing her to the flawless beauties he had known—and even to her own usual lithe, slender self.

  But Fraser never took his eyes off her as he undressed. She had moved to the bed where she pulled a worn blanket around her shoulders as much as to hide herself as to ward off the cold.

  “How could I hate the sight of seeing you filled with me?” he asked as he sat beside her. “No man should ever despise the proof of his manhood.” Fraser held her face between his hands and kissed her mouth. Dallas clung to him, keenly aware of her hunger for his lovemaking. Diffidence overcome by her husband’s assertions and her own desire, she fell back on the bed, pulling him down with her. Fraser’s kisses covered her body, from her throat to her breasts, to the soft, firm mound of her belly and at last between her thighs.

  Dallas moaned with pleasure and pressed his dark head even more closely. At last he entered her, but more cautiously than in times past, and though his thrusts were deep and sure, there was a sense of cherishing as well as passion in his embrace. Dallas almost wept with joy as her husband brought them both to the pinnacle of ecstasy. Afterwards, he stayed inside her for a long, lingering moment, and his kiss seemed to draw the very life from her soul.

  “To think I ever fought you off!” she said when he finally released them both and was stroking the curve of her shoulder. “Perhaps I should have read less of history and more of love.”

  “No matter, lovey,” Fraser said with a grin as he pulled the blankets around them. “You learn your lessons very well.”

  Later, she slept dreamlessly, curled up against her husband. But long before dawn, he was awake, dressing quietly in the darkness. Dallas had sensed his departure from the lumpy bed. Half-asleep, she rolled over to feel the patched blanket still warm from Fraser’s body. “Iain?” Anxiously, she peered into the gloom.

  “I’m here, lovey,” he answered low. “I’d have awakened you before I left, but it’s best I go while it’s still dark. In the morning, you’ll be safe to join the usual traffic up Leith Wynd to Edinburgh. Go west from here, to the fowler’s stall, then past the fishmonger’s and you’re in the wynd.”

  Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. Sh
e could make out her husband’s form, already covered by the heavy cloak. “I won’t ask when you’ll come back, I don’t want to coax you into disaster.”

  Fraser stuffed his leather gloves into his belt, then came to take Dallas in his arms. “You’re cold, lassie. Keep warm and well.” He kissed her mouth, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. She held him close, hating to surrender his touch, yet knowing she mustn’t detain him any longer. “Take care of Magnus and this new one,” he admonished, stroking her stomach. “I promise I’ll be with you when the bairn is born.” He kissed her one last time, grinned with sheer pleasure at the look of love in her big eyes, and then moved quietly out into the corridor.

  Delphinia Douglas and Catherine Gordon were two of the last people on earth with whom Dallas cared to spend an evening. Yet she was flanked by both women, playing a game of Sept-et-Un with George Gordon, Lord Bothwell and David Rizzio.

  Naturally, Delphinia and Catherine liked each other only slightly better than they liked Dallas. Catherine not only loathed her former lover’s wife but had grown fearful of her since the night in Fraser’s rooms. For months, she’d worried about poison or a chance encounter with Dallas in a deserted palace corridor. Though she had spoken to Fraser since that terrifying night, and he had assured her his wife was not a potential murderess, Catherine could never look at Dallas without feeling afraid.

  Delphinia’s attitude was quite different. Far shrewder than Catherine, Delphinia knew that Dallas was obsessed with love for her husband and therefore vulnerable. The besotted little chit was swollen with another babe; if she kept that up, she’d eventually look like a sow. With any real luck, Dallas might even die in childbirth. Delphinia had no intention of giving up.

  “My trick,” Bothwell asserted, slapping his card on top of Gordon’s. “Your play, Catherine, or are you woolgathering?”

  Catherine blushed prettily as she turned a knave face up. “My luck is poor tonight. Perhaps I should quit while I’m ahead.”