Lady With the Devil's Scar

by Sophia James

  ‘Sir Marc goes a long way to hold up the surety of your disposition, Lady Dalceann. Is this what you would also will?’

  ‘I would, sire.’ She hated the way her voice shook.

  ‘Do you swear your allegiance to me here and now in this court?’

  ‘I do, my liege.’

  ‘Very well. You shall abide here in the House of Bruce for the next month. If you appear genuine and biddable, I shall marry you to one of my barons. And if not...’

  He left the other option unspoken.

  ‘De Courtenay, I shall for ever be in the debt of your patron Philip the Sixth of France for sending you to me. I will hold a feast in the castle tomorrow in honour of the victory. I shall expect you to attend.’

  A flick of his fingers and they were shepherded out another door to their left, a new group of people coming before the king.

  Isobel felt Marc at her side and the fall of his embroidered bliaud touched hers, though when he stopped to let her move in front of him the moment was lost.

  At the next door a servant of the king gestured her to follow him.

  ‘Will it be safe?’ she asked of Marc in her quietest voice, their argument from yesterday lost beneath the weight of an unfamiliar court.

  ‘For now,’ he answered. ‘But do not let your guard down.’

  Then he was gone and she was alone, walking through the corridors of a castle in the company of her servant and two court maids who had fallen in behind her, both dressed in garments so very much more elaborate than her own.

  Marc strode back through the anterooms with purpose. He had seen the way she looked at him when his name had been called.

  The Wolf of Burgundy.

  Usually the epithet was useful in his maintenance of distance from others, the legend of stories about him affording a fright that held questions at bay.

  With Isobel he had only seen the anger.

  He had also seen the look of surprise on her face when he had drawn out the tooth on her chain—the yellowed whale’s ivory, with its ornate silver casing, exactly right. But lies required careful management and it was his experience that using part of a lie always made the facts so much more believable. People wanted the myth explained, and the best way to do that was with the showmanship of half-truths.

  Half-truths to save her life, but have her married off to one of David’s barons? Caution beat hard as he tried to reconcile her safety with such an outcome and failed.

  His head ached with the complexity of it all. He had little sway here apart from a reputation in battle and an unacknowledged family connection with Philip of France.

  It was not enough to stand forth himself and ask for Isobel’s hand in marriage. He was a bastard and he was half-French. He had never been part of the fabric of the society of Scotland and Isobel would need that if she were to survive here.

  He hoped like hell that David would adhere to the protection promised and that the House of Bruce did not hold an assassin who might profit from the death of a known dissenter, even given the king’s leniency.

  Madeline.

  His wife’s name came unbidden, a good decade of years after her murder. He had thought her safe, too. The wind in the corridors of the castle whistled cold against stone, just as they had in Burgundy when he had found her lifeless body swollen with a child who would never be born.

  Madeline. Soft and pliant. Trusting and open. Such goodness had killed her in the end.

  The hard core of Isobel Dalceann was part of the reason he was attracted to the Chief of the Dalceann. She would not be duped by treachery and she could fight better than many a man.

  He smiled. With her at his side he could probably rule the world.

  A group of men walking the other way stopped to let him pass. Marc recognised the face of Stuart McQuarry, the new Earl of Huntworth, the sly look in his eyes exactly the same as his brother’s.

  With ten others around him in a public place

  McQuarry stepped forwards. ‘You may think to trick David into sheltering Lady Dalceann, de Courtenay, but two of my family lie dead at the keep of Ceann Gronna with no justice for either of them. Believe me, someone is going to pay.’

  ‘Isobel Dalceann is under David’s protection. Be careful how you tread with such accusations, or there may not be any Huntworth brothers left.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  Marc shook his head. ‘Nay, it is a fact. The king does not take too kindly to those who would advocate harm to his guest.’

  ‘The Dalceann woman is here to dupe him. Likely she will run her knife through someone before the week is gone, given her reputation.’

  ‘Then let her discredit herself. No point in your sacrifice for a cause which is lost anyway.’

  The mood changed around him. Subtly. Had he bought Isobel time or just lost her some? She would need to be warned, of course, and the group standing before him would require watching. He catalogued their faces for his future reference. The court in Scotland held as much intrigue as the French one and he had always been adept at navigating menace.

  McQuarry, however, was not finished.

  ‘Others might be scared of you, de Courtenay, but I am not one of them and an interloper sent here by the French king can only be tolerated for so long.’

  ‘I agree.’ Smiling, he stepped back to let them past, these men of poor judgement and poorer diplomacy, but by experience he knew that those who felt marginalised were always dangerous. His mind returned to the arrow which had almost killed him at the Ceann Gronna keep. Was treachery a trait born into the sons of McQuarry?

  His left hand gripped the dagger at his belt as he watched them go.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Margaret, her maid, primped her hair until it fell in a full plait down her back, the sides drawn into fine strands and fastened with a brooch of gold.

  Everything on her person was borrowed for the afternoon’s feast. The gown of red brocade, the belt of ornately beaded dark-blue silk and a surcoat to match. They had been left in her chamber without explanation and Isobel knew the king would expect her to wear such luxury.

  The options closed in as she looked at herself. She knew she needed to confuse the court here in order to survive, and tonight she was to play the downcast beauty brought in to show off her family’s regret at disobeying a monarch.

  The woman looking back at her was hardly recognisable. Even the scar on her cheek had been disguised by a potion mixed from clay and the hat with a long and floating veil gave added height to her tallness.

  Only the eyes were hers, steeped in watchfulness and vigilance. She softened her glance, adding in a touch of confusion just for good measure.

  Would Marc de Courtenay be there today? Would she be able to converse with him? Would he take one look at her and know the pretence, the only person in the world who might understand such protections?

  Her Wolf of Burgundy?

  The thought made her smile, for to tame such a one would be to destroy him. She knew it without thinking, for the wild menace was so much a part of what drew her to him.

  Lady Helen Cunningham had been assigned to her as companion, and the woman was most generous with her praise.

  ‘You will take the fancy of each and every man at court who has the need of a wife, my dear,’ she said softly, her eyes a dewy blue. ‘Why, if they do not instantly fall to their knees and declare their feelings, I should be most surprised’.

  Isobel smiled, because it seemed to be expected and because such a thing was exactly what she would not favour.

  ‘No, no.’ The woman hurried forwards. ‘Show no emotion that will pucker the handiwork my maid has applied to your cheek. The clay is oiled, but will crack under any such pressure.’

  Such a directive suited her and she nodded her acquiescence, the necessity of a forced jubilation gone. She wondered if eating might not have the same effect, but did not mention it. She was starving and the smells of the palace kitchens had wafted up to her rooms all morning.

&
nbsp; ‘Everyone will be here, of course. All the most handsome men from Scotland. From what I hear, Sir Marc de Courtenay is the one all the women would prefer, but his lack of land and family name preclude him from being one of King David’s candidates. His reputation also marks him as ungovernable, of course, though there are rumours his father could well be from these climes.’

  Isobel’s interest flared at the new subject of conversation and she was disappointed when the woman switched topics.

  ‘But enough of fancy. The McFadden brothers are more than eligible and the last McQuarry son is on the lookout for a bride. A strangely morose boy, I always thought, but the family lands are extensive and fertile.’

  McQuarry. Her skin crawled even with the thought of the name as she followed the woman along the corridor to the Great Hall. Lady Helen was a gossip, but her love of talking might prove useful in making sense of this court.

  She didn’t seem to harbour any animosity towards the Dalceann intransigence, either, which was a decided boon.

  As the chatter of a large group of people came closer, Isobel felt nervous in a way she seldom did. It was the unfamiliarity of the setting, she supposed, and wished again that Marc de Courtenay might have been at her side.

  * * *

  Isobel Dalceann came into the room like a queen, head held high and in a gown of crimson designed to show off the darkness of her hair and eyes, and her curves.

  The room quietened as the topic of all conversation took her seat at the table of the king. Her back was straight and her face expressionless and from this distance Marc could make out no sign of the scar. A pity that, he thought sagely, for the make-up hid a feature that defined her. Different. Brave. Original.

  He sat at the very end of the same table by the door. It was a habit of his, born from a lifetime of danger, and he did not move into Isobel’s sight as he saw her glance around. No jeopardy here yet, he thought, the dagger in his belt easily accessible should any peril materialise.

  David called for quiet and motioned for Isobel Dalceann to stand. She looked like a woman who was more than grateful to her liege for the unexpected opportunity of proving her worth in a court that was inclined to fear her, and her beauty shone out like a beacon. Marc applauded such a tactic, her feminine docility used as a weapon with points as sharp as any sword.

  ‘Lady Isobel Dalceann comes to Edinburgh as my guest, a woman wronged by the stories which have circulated about her.’ The king’s voice brooked no argument and Marc watched as Isobel bowed her head, her previous defiance now turned into shame. If he didn’t know her better, even he would have believed such temperance. The next words took humour away.

  ‘In the coming weeks it is my wish she be betrothed to one of my lords at court, so that the Ceann Gronna keep in Fife can be returned to the defence of Scotland under my tutelage.’

  Around him the talk mounted, the younger knights at a table to his left saying what all the unmarried men in the room felt.

  ‘If I could get her into bed, I would never stray.’

  ‘If you could get her into bed, you would need a good deal more money than you have and a keep that was at least as large as Ceann Gronna.’

  ‘Do you think David is in love with her himself?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be? She has the face of an angel.’

  ‘And the body of a siren.’

  ‘Enough of all the conjecture, lads.’ An older man who Marc had not seen before sat down. ‘King David will choose her husband, mark my words, and it won’t be the likes of us.’

  Or of him! That truth had Marc lifting a tankard from a passing servant and downing it in one unbroken swallow.

  But the king was not finished. ‘Pray tell us, Lady Dalceann, just what attributes you would find attractive in a husband?’

  Dark eyes scanned the room, and as she shifted her position and turned slightly her glance came into direct contact with his. Had she known he was there all along? Marc was inclined to believe that she might have.

  ‘Honesty and loyalty, my liege,’ she replied, the message between them so powerful he felt the shock of it burn through his body. All the things that he had not given her. He looked away and the room closed in with laughter and noise as Stuart McQuarry raised his glass.

  ‘To Lady Dalceann,’ he called out. ‘May she choose well.’

  ‘You are implying interest, then, my lord?’ David waited for his answer.

  ‘Indeed, I am, my liege.’

  Other voices called out their claims, too, and the anger that had threatened inside Marc all night boiled over. Leaving his pewter mug on the table, he walked outside, striding along the corridors until he found himself in the courtyard proper, Edinburgh sprawled before him in the afternoon light.

  Placing his hands palm down on warm stone, he felt a sense of impotence he had never known before, as he remembered the feel of Isobel Dalceann against him curled into safety.

  * * *

  She saw him go, a man apart from all the others, his largeness here marking him out as a knight of wars and battle. He had not called his name, though every fibre of her being wished that he might have shouted it out and that David would countenance such a proposal.

  The need for caution and a dutiful appearance tugged at her, too; her dress was tight in the places that she knew were provocative, a deliberate ploy by the king to net the richest baron and the most in the way of tithes. She was suddenly sick of it, this game of politics and coin, as the only man who could have held Ceann Gronna safe for ever disappeared into the sunny afternoon.

  ‘You have created a flurry, Lady Dalceann.’ The Earl of Carr on the other side of her leaned over. ‘And a new problem—how is our king to pick one ardent suitor above others and still manage to keep the peace?’

  ‘I should prefer no suitors whatsoever, my lord,’ she returned and saw the man’s face pucker up into humour. Helen Cunningham was speaking to a woman on the other side of the table, allowing Isobel a moment of unobserved honesty.

  ‘Because your father and husband led you so far astray? Indeed, I can well see your point.’

  Alisdair’s face came before her in memory, a man of logic, reason and good sense. To hear his name slandered here in the court of the king to help her cause was neither fair nor right, and she ground her teeth together, an action that had the effect of dislodging the heavy make-up now dried upon her skin. Small pieces of it fell on to the tablecloth, the mask of Lady Cunningham’s maid being replaced by truth. Wiping off the rest, she did not look away from the face of the Earl beside her. Rather, she enjoyed the consternation of those in close proximity and as

  she smiled she knew the puckered skin would be at its most noticeable.

  This was who she was: the last chieftain of Ceann Gronna now placed upon a bidding block to be sold for the highest offer. Let them know what it was they tendered for, these minions of David with little else to speak of save the beauty they craved. The slice of her father’s blade had only been a part of it; the words he had shouted as he had tried to murder her far more lasting.

  ‘I curse your mother for taking the only son I ever had to his death at sea and I curse you for looking exactly like her.’ Ian had had him around the neck by that stage and so she was spared from hearing more.

  The cut across her cheek, however, had made her much less like the woman he hated and much more like the man he was. Angry. Intemperate and untrusting.

  The people here had been nurtured and cared for, much the same as the plants that Alisdair had grown in the heated houses in the bailey of the keep when the weather grew colder. She could not blame them for the looks they gave her now, their more normal politeness askew with alarm and growing apprehension.

  * * *

  When the meal was finished and the king had taken his leave, Isobel placed the knife she held carefully down in front of her and moved towards the windows on the other side of the room.

  ‘If you stay in the vicinity of another woman at an occasion like this, it makes it muc
h easier to beg an excuse from the unwanted advances of men.’

  Isobel looked around at the older woman who spoke to her. She was tall and thin, blonde curls falling down her back into a heavy net of gold.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It does not pay to stand alone here, Lady Dalceann, especially in your position.’

  ‘My position?’

  ‘The position of a woman who is not in love with any of the suitors the king offers. It makes you fair game.’

  Isobel pushed down the urge to smile. Few people here in court were so honest.

  ‘But forgive me, I am Lady Catriona, the daughter of the Earl of Roseheath, one of King David’s strongest supporters.’

  ‘Then you probably should not be seen speaking with me.’

  The woman ignored her altogether. ‘Fathers have much to answer for. Take my own case, for example. My father married me off to a man who was twenty years my senior and wondered why I then took on a series of lovers to balance the redress. You, of course, could do exactly the same given David’s edicts, for it should be said that politics makes whores of any thinking woman.’

  Again Isobel tried not to smile, the relief of a female who was neither tongue tied in her presence nor full of censure, enormous. Was Lady Catriona always this forthright?

  ‘I am not certain that the ability to argue against the plans of men is something to be lauded here.’ Isobel tried to keep her voice down as the other shook her head.

  ‘They leave me alone because I was the wife of one powerful man and I am the daughter of another. They leave you alone because no one here is certain of you. I can see it in their faces. The court holds its breath to see what it is you might do next.’

  ‘I am a prisoner, my lady. There is little that I can control.’

  Lord, she had no notion of the true connections of this woman and Marc had instructed her to take care and trust no one.

  ‘Myth helps you, of course. The Underworld holds its own superstitions.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The tooth de Courtenay pulled from your neck. You were supposed to disappear in a puff of smoke after such a happening. It was clever of him to use the magic.’