He reached up and lifted a gleaming blade from the mantel, gripping the leather-wrapped hilt of the claymore almost reverently. He detected Darra’s flinch from the corner of his eye, and chose to ignore it. By contrast, Gil perked up, stepping forward for a better view.
“Scathach,” Gil breathed, looking at the steel now balanced across the flats of Ran’s upturned palms. “’Tis been a long time since she graced us with her presence.”
Ran nodded. He had not held the weapon since … och, maybe it was better not to remember. He brushed a thumb across the dusty steel and remembered how it looked when it was coated with blood instead. How long had it been since Scathach sang a tune of simple vengeance?
Vengeance, aye. Ran thoughtfully slid the double-handed claymore into the scabbard at his side, adjusting himself to the feel of its weight at his side, absent for so long. Far too long. It felt like an old friend come home to stay.
Darra looked on with disapproval, distaste reflected in her eyes. Yet she held her tongue in check, either for Gil’s sake or simply to maintain the fragile truce of peace. Instead, she sighed.
“We must attend your appearance first,” Darra said to Gilbert as she stepped forward, reached out and smoothed his hair by habit. She ignored Gil’s attempt to duck and evade the hands straightening his collar and checking his laces, and she untied and briskly relaced his shirt until it met with her approval.
“Such disarray!” Darra clucked her tongue as Ran looked on, smiling a little, and Gil squirmed in unabashed misery. “One might suppose you have been living in the mews, Gilbert, not with the mighty Earl of Crawford.”
“Would I lived here at Auchmull always,” Gil muttered, either to spite his sister or express his unhappiness with his current status, a lad subjected to motherly fussing.
Ran chuckled, and felt the impact of Darra’s piercing glance.
“This is what comes from letting a lad run wild without measure.”
“Gil asked if he might stay on after the funeral, and you and Kinross agreed,” Ran reminded her. “Would you change the tale now to ease your conscience, lass?”
Darra frowned. She hated it when Ran called her lass; it made her feel younger than he, when she was the elder by fact of maturity. Also, she did not care for the niggling truth behind his words. He was ofttimes so blunt it startled her.
“Pierce and Thierry miss their uncle” was her somewhat evasive reply. “Gilbert kept the boys well occupied. I note there is nothing here at Auchmull to similarly engage young minds. Gilbert’s education has clearly suffered.”
“Rather you imply there is nothing of import here to learn,” Ran said. “I would disagree.”
“’Tis your prerogative, of course.” Darra nodded curtly. “Yet you must admit Gilbert has benefited from sharing Thierry’s tutor over the past year. In my opinion, his progress and his manners have noticeably declined whilst he’s been here.”
Gilbert made a protesting noise. “There is more to learn of life than Latin and theology.”
“Well said.” Ran smiled at his little brother, and their gazes met in a moment of perfect understanding. Darra noted the exchanged glance and felt a twinge of envy and a sudden compulsion to bring them both back to earth.
“Ross and I have spoken, and we are agreed upon one thing. We wish Gilbert to live with us at Edzell … permanently.”
Ran looked at Darra as if she’d slapped him. Whether he was appalled or simply stunned, it was clear he was not pleased by the prospect.
“Nay.”
The flat, harsh reply left no room for negotiation. Darra hesitated, doubting he deserved any explanation and yet feeling compelled to provide one.
“’Tis not any reflection upon your character, Ran,” she said. “However, Gilbert needs a stable family, a permanent place where discipline and love are measured in equal doses.”
Gilbert protested at the mention of discipline. “Am I allowed no say in this? I have seen fifteen winters, and being Highland winters, they should count even more.”
Ran gave a grudging chuckle, but Darra shook her head. “Go find Hugo, Gilbert. Ran and I must needs talk alone.”
“No.”
“No?” She looked at Gilbert sharply, not only hearing defiance but seeing it in his dogged stance, an imitation of Ran’s. Her gaze traveled from brother to brother, frustrated. “Even Father Pettigrew agrees ’tis the wisest decision. You would not gainsay your own confessor, I trust.”
“Neither will I allow a churchman’s meddling to disrupt Gilbert’s future,” Ran said. “The lad is in dire danger of becoming a useless ornament, a courtly decoration with neither mind nor courage. The greatest danger to this land is her lack of true defenders. Gil must learn the gentle art of war from the only warrior remaining in the Lindsay clan.”
Darra laughed. “Gentle? You?”
Had her short laugh been twice as cutting, it would not have made an impression. Ran was used to insults; they bounced off his armored emotions like so much chaff. He regarded his sister, his gaze coolly assessing.
“Gilbert will not join the legions of mealy-mouthed courtiers, Lady Deuchar. I forbid it.”
Darra bristled at his faintly sarcastic emphasis of her title.
“Oh, I see. You forbid it …”
“I am the laird of Lindsay, am I not? As you so oft remind me. Therefore my word is law, and I hope you take it to heart gracefully, for I do not intend to sit back and watch you and oh-so-gallant Ross turn a bright mind into some hideous mocking caricature of masculinity. If a man was meant to bow and scrape, surely Destiny would have sewn altar cushions to his knees.”
Darra gasped. “Ran! ’Tis blasphemy!”
He shrugged. “I speak not of the Church, though I suppose it may be applied there as well. I refer to those ill-favored fops like Wickham who drip lace from every edge and gush compliments as ceaselessly as a burn.”
“I was not aware compliments were out of fashion,” she said shortly, still ruffled by his cavalier comments about courtiers and the Church. Honestly, sometimes his manner was so devilishly cold.
She respected Ran, but she could not fathom him raising Gilbert alone. Gil needed to secure position at Court to keep the family in a favorable light. Ran disdained the entire ritual of pomp and circumstance, and although Darra was graciously acknowledged whenever she appeared, she did not wield the power of title Ran so contemptuously ignored.
Already he had dismissed the topic as unimportant and turned to Gilbert. “What of the riding wager with Hugo?”
Gil perked up. “I won!” The youth dug in his surcoat to show off his winnings, while Darra frowned in disapproval.
“This is the sort of example you would set?”
“Aye, and why not?” Ran did not spare her the courtesy of a glance, but chuckled as Gil, flushed with pride, displayed the glint of gold against his palm.
Darra whirled and left the great hall in a rustle of skirts. The slamming of the double doors behind her caused Gil to jump, but Ran was used to his sister’s fits of pique and did not flinch.
“’Twould appear the grand Lady Deuchar disapproves of my influence, Gil.”
Gil’s violet-blue eyes darkened. “Dar would keep me tied to her apron strings forever.”
“Now, you cannot blame her, lad. She took over the care of you when we lost Mother. I was away too much to be of any help, I fear. However much she might irk us both, she has a good head and heart. I know her to be a far better chatelaine than I shall ever aspire to.”
“She rules her own home like a self-righteous tyrant,” Gil said unhappily. “I think she has been reading far too much of the Virgin Queen and fancies herself a similar Scottish termagant.”
Ran laughed at Gil’s wry observation. He would admit a secret admiration for Elizabeth Tudor, and aye, his sister as well. It did not mean he agreed with their strong-arm tactics, but an intelligent lass was to be admired. If only from a safe distance.
Chapter Two
A fortnight lat
er
near Cardigan, Wales
“WHAT D’YOU MEAN, THE road is impassable?”
Meredith Tanner sounded petulant as she poked her auburn head from the window of her uncle’s fine coach, and regarded her driver and the man he was speaking with in frustration and dismay.
The serf quickly doffed his hat, visibly awed by her elegant attire and no-nonsense demeanor, while Jem merely nodded at her statement.
“Aye, miss. The spring rains have washed out the main route. The streams are bursting, running amuck. We must choose a safer course.”
Merry’s gray-green eyes flashed, and Jem braced himself for a familiar flurry of brisk orders. Mistress Tanner had a sweet, even temperament when content, but proceeding cross-purposes to her wishes was never wise. Already he recognized the stubborn set of her lips and inwardly sighed, resigned to another fruitless argument.
“Jem, y’know I must return to Court directly. Her Majesty will be cross enough as ’tis, since I lingered overlong at Falcon’s Lair. Her permission to visit Kat was granted with the clear provision that I return to London and resume my duties as soon as possible.”
Jem nodded. There was nothing he could say to counter her statement. He knew their monarch’s infamous temper well enough from having served as the Tanner driver for years, whilst his master Sir Christopher danced attendance upon Henry Tudor’s little virago often enough.
He bit back a smile, however, as a mental comparison between the two redheads came to mind. Mistress Tanner was far younger, of course, and fresh as a hawthorn blossom in comparison to Elizabeth’s time-worn Tudor rose, but there was some intriguing likeness between maid and monarch. A keen wit, ready laughter, and a love of dance, mayhap.
Merry impatiently rapped her jeweled fan upon the windowsill of the coach, and Jem’s fleeting muse passed under his lady’s summons. He almost laughed. A comparison of the two redheads’ volatile natures was bound to be accurate, as well.
“How much extra time will a detour cost us, Jem?”
Jem looked to the peasant he had waylaid for directions. The other man provided a hedging estimate that only increased Mistress Tanner’s anxiety.
“’Twill never serve,” Merry fretted aloud. “We cannot risk so great a delay. A missive came from Father before I left Falcon’s Lair, and my betrothed is at Whitehall. He may head home any day. I cannot risk the chance of missing him.”
“Surely he would linger long enough to make your acquaintance, miss.” Jem knew she had never met her intended. Tanner curiosity being a natural trait, he knew the prospect of not meeting her future lord husband until the day of the wedding did not rest easy with Mistress Merry.
“Aye, I am sure he would if he could, but the borders are so dangerous nowadays, and he daren’t leave Braidwood unattended err long.”
As she spoke, Merry absently toyed with a flaming curl which had escaped her coiffure. Jem saw the peasant lad’s cautious if somewhat dazed admiration. Mistress Tanner was no beauty by Tudor standards, red hair accounted unfashionable and her features a trifle sharp for a woman’s, but there was no denying her sheer force of presence.
She did not blend into the background, but rather dominated it. Her traveling gown of cream-and-green silk velvet suited her fair complexion, as did her fawn-colored cloak, though her coloring was presently heightened in proportion to her distress.
“It simply cannot be endured,” Merry said firmly. “Jem, we must press on. Proceed cautiously if need be, but I remind you we must needs make haste once the road has cleared.”
Jem frowned at this order. “There is great risk the coach might become bogged, miss.”
“Far greater risk of Her Grace’s wrath should I fail to appear by the appointed hour. You should know by now our queen’s moods flux with the wind, Jem.”
He nodded. “Yet Her Majesty has always been most benevolent with you, miss.”
Merry smiled at Jem’s words. It was true she stood high in Elizabeth Tudor’s favor. She had followed in her paternal grandmother’s footsteps, carving out a cozy niche for herself among the ranks of the chosen few. Only Essex and perhaps her uncle occupied greater favor at present, merely because they were men and so could lavish Her Grace with jewels and romantic sonnets.
But she had also heard rumor before leaving Whitehall that Elizabeth was annoyed with Robert Devereux. Something to do with Ireland. A tiresome topic in itself in Merry’s opinion, who, although half-Irish herself, was never desirous of being reminded of it.
Reluctantly, Jem bowed to her demand. He had learned long ago never to argue with a Tanner. By virtue of blood or by sheer tenacity, somehow they always won.
* * *
AS THE COACH SET off with a bone-jarring lurch through the thick spring mud, Merry settled back into the plush velvet cushions with a sigh.
Bad enough she had darted hither and yon upon her sister’s whims over the past months, finally coming to Wales to effect a truce between Lord Trelane and her dear, proud, stubborn little Kat, but now her own future was at stake because she had lingered overlong.
Merry shuddered. The miserable, wet weather did not aid her mood nor her outlook on life in general. Despite her happiness for her twin, something in her nature prompted a twinge of envy for Kat’s position. Not just the title she had claimed by the act of wedding Morgan Trelane, but the love itself. It shone so clearly in Kat’s beautiful green eyes whenever she spoke about her dark Welsh lord.
Merry was cut of far different cloth from her twin sister, however. She would never risk life and limb to sail upon the high seas like some feckless pirate wench, nor brazenly go into a house of God disguised as another woman so she might wed the man she loved. Part of her had always envied Kat that fearless stance. It was the Irish showing through, Merry reasoned, for all their maternal kin were as feisty and daring, their mother Bryony no exception.
Merry had never felt she belonged among the boisterous clans folk. Despite her flaming hair, and her birth name, Erin, she was like a delicate English rose among the brooding, brawling lot at Raven Hall. Her practical nature longed for manners and order and a good, stiff dose of cleanliness. On her first visit to England she felt she had come home.
Hence Merry, a misfit among the brash Irish clan of relatives, seized upon her sensible English relations with relief. Caution, practicality, and common sense were something she understood. So were wit and the ability to entertain, for if she had inherited nothing else from her Irish ancestors she was quick with a line and clever to a fault. In this respect she resembled her beloved uncle Kit, long one of Elizabeth’s favorites.
Sir Christopher Tanner wielded influence at Court, and was able to win his niece audience with the queen upon her very first visit.
The two redheads in tandem had charmed Her Grace so thoroughly that Merry was offered a position as maid-of-honor right then and there. A rare honor for one so young and untried. Merry prettily begged her doting sire to let her remain at Whitehall and serve the queen, and since Slade Tanner could refuse his daughters nothing, Merry had entered the dazzling world of the Tudor Court at the tender age of fourteen.
Like her paternal grandmother before her, she quickly became one of the few trusted females surrounding the proud, vainglorious Elizabeth Tudor.
Merry’s practical nature had long ago accepted the fact she was no beauty; hence Her Grace did not feel threatened, either, though Bess was known to make a pert comment or two about Merry’s youthful inexperience.
A trusting nature did not equate with naďveté, however. Merry was used to courtly intrigue and the ofttimes cruel little plots which simmered beneath the lively, colorful Tudor arena. Surely Rome herself had never seen the like of so many bishops, knights, and petty pawns always jockeying for position and influence and wealth. Merry found it all thrilling and terrifying and so very suited to her curious and extroverted nature.
How Lady Fortune had smiled on her the day she set foot on precious English soil! She gazed out the coach window at the drear
y Welsh countryside, wishing the coach might somehow magically sprout wings and rush her home. The dark hinterlands of Her Grace’s realm had never appealed to Merry, and she detested the annual sojourn through humble villages and squalid country shires.
She longed to be back at Whitehall, surrounded by adoring courtiers and her fellow maidens in service to the queen … to dance and laugh and while away the hours in the company of a wicked-tongued knave or an overbold swain.
How she had missed such revelries when shut up in her brother-in-law’s dour Falcon’s Lair. Establishing some sort of order amid the chaos reigning in the dreary Welsh keep had kept her mind occupied for a few days, but Merry was easily bored, and challenges, once met, failed to keep her interest any longer.
She sighed and impatiently drummed her fingertips upon the padded armrest. She disliked travel in general, finding it tiresome and tedious, but there would be much required by way of travel as the wife of a border baron.
The disadvantage, of course, was she would be far removed from her beloved Court, but mayhap after providing her lord husband with an heir and a spare, he would permit her to travel as a matron lady with Her Majesty’s retinue. Failing that, Merry was determined to make Braidwood as famous as Whitehall in its own neck of the woods, and hence bring the gaiety and laughter she so loved home to roost in her own hall.
Her head gradually fell back against the cushioned seat, a dreamy half-smile touching her lips despite the coach subjecting her to numerous jolts along the rutted road. She felt the weariness of travel descending over her like a tattered cloak, and closed her eyes for but a moment dreaming of Braidwood, her future home, and the eloquent and fashionable lord she would soon call her own.
Chapter Three
“HO!”
A hoarse shout and excited whinny of horses roused Merry from her slumber with a start. With a cross exclamation she leaned forward to peer out the window but reeled backward as the coach suddenly lurched into a pell-mell pace. Her right shoulder impacted the elegantly scrolled wood frame on the door. As she gasped with pain and outrage, she heard more voices above the furious rattling of the coach’s wheels and the thundering, splashing hooves.
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