by Mary Daheim
After Tarrill had played for a while with Magnus and cuddled Robert, she suggested that Dallas join her in a shopping expedition. To her astonishment, Dallas refused. “I’m a bit fatigued today, it’s been warm,” Dallas explained unconvincingly. She wouldn’t admit even to her sister that she scarcely left the house these days in case Fraser should arrive and find her not at home.
Tarrill set off alone and had not gone more than a hundred yards beyond the thatched houses of Beith’s Wynd when she saw Donald McVurrich’s tall figure striding towards her.
“Donald!” she called out in greeting, quickening her step. He waved and hurried to take her hand. “Congratulations! Dallas told me about your new post. I’m so happy for you,” Tarrill said with her warm smile.
“It’s a goodly opportunity,” Donald said modestly. “I’m learning much there, and my new employer is kind—though he has sent me to outfit myself in a manner more befitting my new situation.” Donald pulled a wry face. “I’ve never cared much for fancy fripperies but must try to please him.”
Tarrill had allowed Donald to steer her back in the direction she’d just come from. They both paused in front of the hatmaker’s, where he fingered the plush velvet of a feathered bonnet.
“Are you going to buy that one?” Tarrill asked, nonplussed by Donald’s sudden gaudy taste.
“Nay,” he laughed, “ ’tis too sumptuous for me. Serge, maybe, with the smallest of feathers.”
Tarrill picked up another bonnet, also blue, but darker, with a small pair of swan’s feathers tucked inside the band. “Like this one?” she inquired, turning the bonnet in her hands.
Donald considered the item carefully. “Aye, that’s more like it.” He removed his own worn beret and took the bonnet from her, adjusting it carefully on his blond hair. “Well?”
“Oh, I like it! It goes well with your eyes!” Tarrill nodded several times in enthusiastic approval.
The hatmaker had emerged from his shop, ready to exert his powers of persuasion. But before he could utter a word, Donald had produced some coins. “How much?” he asked the merchant.
“Four royals,” the man replied, too surprised to remember the higher price he usually started out asking for such a model.
Handing over the money, Donald gave Tarrill his arm. They strolled along in companionable silence, past the Mercat Cross, St. Giles, the Tolbooth, and the meal and corn sellers’ stalls. When they reached the canvas booths of the Lawnmarket, Tarrill decided that since they were so near Nairne’s Close, she ought to call on Walter and Glennie.
“Join me,” she urged as they stepped aside to make way for a top-heavy wagonload of peat. “They’ll be glad to see you.”
But Donald declined. “I should buy some shirts here, mayhap a new doublet, too.” He glanced across the way to the fine houses of Riddell’s Close. “I’m told the Queen is visiting the Exchequer’s soon to go over the royal accounts and make arrangements for Prince James’s guardianship. Will you be joining Her Grace?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I assume the Queen will only bring two or three ladies with her, since the Exchequer’s residence isn’t large. Whether I’ll be one of them, I can’t say.”
Donald laid a hand on her shoulder. “I see you seldom these days. If it’s possible, I’d be most pleased to have you join the Queen’s party.”
His formal speech startled Tarrill. It also made her glance waver slightly. Knowing Donald, he hadn’t spoken without a definite purpose in mind. Tarrill thought she knew what that purpose was and felt a sudden surge of unprecedented joy.
Robert had learned how to crawl; he was scampering across the nursery floor to torment Magnus’s dog, Caesar. Magnus had learned to accept his new brother but still found him a nuisance. He was also impatient about how soon Robert could play with him, instead of just scrambling about on the floor, eating, sleeping and crying. Dallas assured him that before long Magnus would find his brother a most willing companion.
“You’ll have to teach him, of course,” Dallas said. “Big brothers are so important to little brothers, they must show them what to do with toys and games. I’m sure you’ll be very good at that.”
Magnus brightened momentarily, then raced off to rescue Caesar. Dallas smiled at her sons, looking away from them only when distracted by Ellen’s arrival.
“Cummings says a message is waiting for you downstairs, madame.” Ellen turned quickly as Robert began to howl. Magnus had given his brother a good clout for mauling the dog. The governess moved purposefully across the room to remonstrate with the older child.
For once, Dallas didn’t interfere. She blew her sons a kiss and flew down the stairs, hoping the message was the one she’d been waiting for so eagerly.
Cummings was standing in the entry hall, a small piece of paper in his hand. “Some stranger brought this just now. He says it’s from Baron Fraser.”
Dallas snatched the paper from Cummings. “I’m at the Mermaid Inn by Burghers Wynd in Leith,” it read. “Come at once. Iain.”
“He’s back!” Dallas glowed as she handed the note over to Cummings.
“Hmmm.” Cummings frowned at the piece of paper. “I mislike the fellow who brought the message.”
“Oh, fie, Cummings, Iain is in no position to be choosy about whom he sends with a note. The man probably can’t read anyhow.”
Since Cummings had no logical reason for his misgivings, he made no further effort to dissuade Dallas. But he did suggest accompanying her to Leith. “The man’s waiting outside with two horses, I’ll go ’round and fetch a third.”
Before Dallas could assent, the Fraser cook came charging into the entry hall, swearing volubly in his native French. “Quelle Flora! Elle est une dame terrible!” He waved his arms wildly, waxing on into the usual tirade about Flora’s meddling, which always ended with his resignation and Cummings exerting sufficient flattery and threats to change the volatile cook’s mind. But such sessions took time and Dallas couldn’t wait.
“Don’t worry, it’s broad daylight, I’ll be quite safe,” she shouted at Cummings as the cook continued to vilify Flora. Dallas ran to get her light wool summer cloak and hurried out into the street.
The man waiting outside was about her own age, rather short but burly and dressed plainly in jerkin, shirt and boots. He pulled deferentially at his cap when Dallas walked towards him.
“Clark, madame, at your service.” He handed her up onto a docile grey mare. “ ’Tis not far but Baron Fraser thought you’d rather ride than walk.”
Dallas wondered why Iain hadn’t thought about her taking the new coach she’d purchased just before Robert’s birth. Perhaps he’d forgotten about it, since he’d never used it himself.
They made the short journey in silence up the High Street, through the Canongate, down Leith Wynd and across the arched bridge over the Water of Leith. Dallas was too excited to pay much attention to her companion; she found herself smiling several times as they walked their mounts through the busy thoroughfare connecting Edinburgh to the harbor town.
It was a bright, crisp September afternoon, with the first feel of autumn in the air. Summer’s end was officially a week away; Fraser had kept his promise. Dallas savored the blue sky, the smell of peat fires, and the occasional splash of heather growing in a well-tended close. But most of all, she thought about her husband.
The Mermaid Inn was just off the Paunch Market. A young boy came out to take their horses, but before they could enter the inn, a man with a deep scar across the bridge of his nose came to meet them.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said, “your husband was forced to change the meeting place. But don’t worry, it’s close by, near the harbor.”
Dallas fell into step with the two men. They turned at the King’s Wark, just above the sands. “There,” the second man said, pointing to a ramshackle house with broken shutters and a tumbledown chimney. “It looks a mean place,” he added as he opened the battered door for her, “but Baron Fraser thought it woul
d be safe.”
Rats fled across their path as they entered the house, but Dallas didn’t let them dampen her enthusiasm. She ascended a stairway which creaked beneath their feet and then turned into a musty corridor. The second man opened the door at the top of the landing, revealing a shabby little room with a table, two chairs, a fireplace that hadn’t been used for a long time—-and no sign of Iain Fraser.
“Where’s my husband?” Dallas turned to Clark, feeling the first spasm of fear.
Clark’s hand propelled her into the room as the second man shut the door. “Sit, madame,” Clark said, indicating one of the chairs. “Your husband is not here.”
“Where is he?” Dallas demanded, anxiety mounting by the second. “What have you done with him?”
The second man chuckled unpleasantly. He was at least ten years older than Clark, somewhat taller, with pointed ears and a splayed black beard. “We haven’t done anything to your lord. We don’t know where he is any more than you do.”
Dallas pulled the note from her little silk purse. This time she read it carefully. It looked like Fraser’s writing—but then she noticed the reference to Burghers Wynd—the r’s were identical, as they had been in the forgery of Fraser’s name on the bogus Rizzio bond. So this was James Stuart’s doing! Dallas cursed herself for being such a fool and shredded the note into tiny bits. “Who are you? What do you want?” She stood with her hands on her hips, hoping she looked more imperious than terrified.
“My name is Maclnnes, though that matters not,” the second man replied. “As for what we want, be a good wench and sit down as you were told.”
Dallas’s temper had ignited, acting as an antidote to fear. “How dare you! I’ll do as I ....”
But Clark had come up beside her, pulled her arms behind her back and shoved her down onto the chair. Maclnnes held her tight as Clark bound her hands to the chair back.
“Now let’s see if you’re in a more docile mood,” Maclnnes said, unsheathing his dirk. “What did you find in the library at Edinburgh Castle?”
Dallas had found the jewel case in June; it was now September. James’s inaction had lulled her into a false sense of security. But hadn’t Fraser always told her that James Stuart was a patient man?
“I found a jewel case,” Dallas replied tartly. James would know that much anyway. “By accident, I knocked a piece of masonry loose from the wall. The jewel case was lying inside.”
“And?” Maclnnes leaned back against the table, flicking the dirk against his dirty fingernails.
Dallas ran her tongue across her lips. They were going to kill her, no matter what she told them. James had tried to kill Fraser more than once; now he was after her. It would be simple enough to slit her throat, then wait until after dark and row her body out to sea. She wondered fleetingly if these were the same men who had killed Kennedy and thrown him into the Nor’ Loch.
“And what?” Dallas responded, feeling the perspiration begin to dampen the back of her yellow lawn gown.
Clark was standing next to her. He grabbed a handful of her thick hair and pulled hard. Dallas winced but refused to scream. “Just answer the question,” Clark said roughly.
“There’s nothing to answer,” Dallas declared. “The Queen went into false labor, I left with Lord James—” She paused at the name but neither man reacted. “Later, well, I didn’t go back. The jewel case was locked anyway.”
The two men looked at each other. Then Maclnnes spoke again. “What do you know of your husband’s father? Don’t lie, don’t evade me.” He made a sudden slashing motion with the dirk.
What little Dallas knew, James must know even more. If the amulet was the key, then he had learned the answer long ago, probably after Marie de Guise died. “Iain was illegitimate, of course,” she said, wondering if they could tell she was trembling. “He may have some inkling of who his father was, but he has never told me.”
There was another exchange of glances between the two men. This time Clark broke the silence. “You mean your husband never confided in you at all? That’s hard to believe.”
“He had no proof. He felt it unwise to burden me with knowledge he couldn’t substantiate.” The reply was vague, but true. Yet Dallas refused to mention the amulets. But she knew her failure to provide further information meant that her usefulness to them had run out. It was time to take a desperate initiative. “See here, I know you’re in James Stuart’s employ. If you plan to kill me, I must tell you that I have the real bond that Lord James signed before the Rizzio murder. If it’s made public, your master faces disaster. Let me go and I’ll give it to you.”
Maclnnes frowned at Clark. There had been whispers of such a bond, but their master had never discussed it with them. How could the wench have gotten hold of it? But then, she had been at Holyrood the night Rizzio was killed. Fraser had been there, too, and had helped the Queen escape. If that fool Darnley had taken the bond and given it to the Queen, might she not have entrusted it to Fraser, who then had given it to his wife?
Clark gripped Dallas’s chin in his stubby fingers. “We can make you tell us where, we don’t have to bargain with you.”
Dallas tried to pull away but failed. “You can do what you like, I’ll die before I tell you!”
Clark let go. “Well?” He turned to Maclnnes.
“I’ll ride to Stirling,” the other man said. Their master was not the type to let his underlings make independent decisions, especially one like this which could ruin his political future. “I’ll be back by nightfall. You guard the wench.” He shoved the dirk into its sheath and left the room.
Neither Dallas nor Clark spoke for at least five minutes after Maclnnes had departed. Clark moved restlessly about the room, finally extracting a leather flask from his jerkin. He took one deep swallow, then spat onto the worn floorboards. “Drink?” he asked Dallas. She shook her head, wishing her hands hadn’t gone numb. She’d bought a few hours but they’d go for naught unless she managed to get untied from the chair.
Clark was taking another swig. He turned to Dallas and surveyed her critically. “You won’t drink with me, eh? Not good enough for your high-flown tastes?” He reached out to pinch one of her breasts. “Baron Fraser and Lord Hamilton can share your sheets, but not Archibald Clark!”
Pale with revulsion, Dallas averted her face. Of course he’d know her background; James would have filled his ears with every shred of scandal.
Clark was taking yet another pull at the flask. Dallas wished it were bigger: The wretched man might drink himself into a stupor. As it was, he had only grown bolder. Now he squeezed both her breasts hard, breathing whiskey into her face.
“They’re lucky men, you’re a tempting wench, by God. Why should such as they get the fancy cuts of meat while I eat the marrow?” One hand pulled at the high neck of the yellow gown, ripping it to Dallas’s waist. Dallas kicked out at him, but he wedged his stocky body between her legs and laughed. “You can’t stop me, my lady, don’t exert yourself trying. I can be very ungallant, you know.” To prove his point, he pinched her nipples so hard that she finally did scream.
“You see? Wouldn’t you rather be nice to me?” His mouth savaged hers, the tongue thrusting against her teeth. Dallas jerked away violently, but not before she’d bitten his lip.
“Whoreson scum,” she gasped, “leave me be!”
His reply was a stinging blow to her face. Momentarily stunned, she was totally unprepared for the second swing of his fist, which struck her stomach and made the room spin.
“I warned you,” he muttered viciously, “you’ll not like it by the time I’ve finished with you.” Clark reached inside the waist of her skirt and ripped at the flowing material. “Ah,” he mumbled, “your charms don’t stop in the middle, do they?” He plunged one hand between her thighs, brutally pawing her tender flesh. His other hand grappled both her breasts, kneading them roughly, tugging viciously on her nipples.
Still winded and dazed from the blow to her stomach, Dallas thought she
would faint and prayed that she might. All the fears of a man’s touch which she had banished with such difficulty now came surging back. It didn’t matter if the men killed her; if Clark raped her, she’d rather be dead anyway.
His teeth gnawed at her thigh, then he was mumbling words she couldn’t make out at first. “Your arse, I want to see if it’s as fair as the rest of you.” He got up, hurrying around to the back of the chair. Dallas felt the ropes being cut. Slowly, she moved her leaden hands in front of her, noting the deep red marks at her wrists. Clark was standing before her again, breathing hoarsely with desire.
“Stand up, stand up and turn around,” he ordered. Virtually naked, trembling from head to foot, Dallas obeyed.
Clark came up behind her, one hand touching her sore breasts, the other exploring her buttocks. “Aye, I guessed aright. You’re round and succulent as a ripe peach!” He pressed against her, the force of his weight plunging Dallas forward, to fall face down at the dingy hearth’s edge.
Then, with a strength which astonished even herself, she rolled over and began to fight him off, kicking, writhing, flailing away with her arms at his fierce attempts to hold her down. Already some feeling was coming back into her hands. She clawed ineffectually at his face as he tried to pin her to the floor. Finally he succeeded in trapping her arms against her sides with his knees, using his hands to spread her legs apart.
“Open as a barn door,” he breathed. “If you lie still, I’ll make it easy on you. If not, I’ll ride you like the untamed filly you are. Which will it be, eh?”
Dallas was deceptively quiet. As Clark eased up on her to undo his breeches, she lunged to one side, catching him off-balance. He dove at her, but she had rolled just out of his immediate reach, her eyes fixed on an old coal shovel lying against the fireplace. He grabbed for her again, this time clutching at her legs but she had already grasped the shovel by the handle. Clark reached up to stop her but stumbled over the hearthstone. Dallas swung mightily, the shovel crashing against his skull.
Clark dropped to the floor like a bundle of dirty wash. Dallas stared at him with horror and revulsion. Had she killed him? There was blood oozing from a place just above his ear, but she thought he was still breathing. Dallas dropped the shovel with a bang, snatched up her cloak and fled from the horrible little room.