by Alex Dylan
He was gratified to see Ross shift in his seat and pull himself upright as he continued, “I need hardly say to you that when the time comes, His Highness will want to reward diligence in an appropriate way.”
“What might that entail?” Ross asked.
“Entail. Indeed,” said Mark A’Court. “I can speak for His Highness when I say that what is most dear to his heart would be an end to the rapacious activities of the reivers and a return to law-abiding godliness. A servant of the crown who could provide peaceful continuity would be a most valuable asset.”
He paused to sip his wine and let his words sink in. From inside his richly-embroidered doublet, he pulled the thick package of the warrant and placed it on the table between them without speaking. He pushed it to Ross.
“What is this?” Ross asked suspiciously.
“This is a summons for you to answer for hot trod on the next Truce Day. So that would be tomorrow, by my calculations.”
Ross snorted derisively and pushed it back at him. “Give His Highness my best regards and advise him to tear this up. Who will collect the double or triple-fold penalty on anyone found guilty? I ride against none, nor never have done, who have not harmed me.”
Mark A’Court didn’t take back the warrant, contemplating Ross’s response. He waved away the overly-persistent serving woman clearing the table and waited until he was certain they were alone.
“This is a royal warrant,” he reminded Ross.
“True,” Ross agreed, “but a warrant currently only executable in Scotland, since King James is not yet also crowned king in England, and it’s a long way from the Borders to London. The last time I checked, Carlisle was in England, and I am the Lord Warden of the Border Marches here.”
Mark A’Court smiled imperceptibly. “Do I understand you correctly? You are refusing to enact this warrant and denying the authority of His Highness King James.”
Ross shook his head, “No, I am refusing to enact the warrant of his Highness King James of Scotland on English sovereign territory,” he said smoothly. “There is a discrepancy. And until such time as His Highness makes the safety of a proclamation at Westminster Palace and instructs otherwise, I will continue to carry out my duties as Lord Warden of the Border Marches on this side of the Borders only, with concern solely for my legal jurisdiction. Now, if His Highness ever makes it to London, and then sees fit to increase the extent of my influence…” Ross left the sentence unfinished and smiled at Mark A’Court, his eyes glittering with avarice.
“Do I understand that you doubt His Highness will reach London safely?” Mark A’Court asked.
“This is, as you said yourself, a lawless place,” Ross shrugged. “I lack men and resources to cover such a large area. I can’t be responsible for every attack by thieving bandits.”
“And yet in the same breath, you ask for your shareholding to be increased,” marvelled Mark A’Court.
“It’s a question of men and arms,” snapped Ross. “I could do better with more of both.”
“Indeed,” replied Mark A’Court reflectively. “However, you would have no objection to me presenting His Highness’s writs and using my own resources to try to enforce them?”
Ross beamed expansively with the sort of smile that said he found Mark’s notions so inane as to be terrifically amusing.
“If you have manpower to spare and time and resources to waste, you can chase about the hills all day and night trying to outfox the bastards,” he said. “Good luck to you. It will be a fool’s quest.”
Mark A’Court allowed a tight smile to flash across his face as he pushed another document in Ross’s direction. "This confirms me as His Highness’s emissary. I have responsibility for His Highness’s personal safety. In this capacity, I thank you for your generous invitation to assist you with securing the Borders.
“I enjoy the hunt but I have found that in the matter of foxes, it is often more expedient if I simply leave the chicken house open and keep watch. Sooner or later, they will be tempted inside and then I shut the gate. I may lose a few chickens, but I’ll get all the foxes and it’s just a matter of picking them off one by one.”
Chapter 12: Star-Crossed Lovers
Carlisle Castle
As the party broke up and guests twisted down the staircase into a vortex of hospitable departure, Heughan slipped into the company of other shades, banished by the torchlight. Amidst the confusion of farewells, he was confident that he would not be missed.
The sheer height of the night-clad fortress walls cast slender shadows of deception to cloak him and so unseen he made his way to the Ward Stables. Horses snickered friendly acknowledgements. He stroked a nose or too, missing Aluino. A reliably fast partner was always a bonus in troubled times. Tonight, he would have to trust that his wits alone would be swift enough to carry him out of danger.
He recovered the bag he had earlier stashed and exchanged his finery for ordinary work-a-day clothes. No one would see any resemblance to the erstwhile nobleman who had earlier dined with the Lord Warden. He would be just one more domestic retainer engaged in a humble mission for the great and the good. Melisande herself had proven the truth to him that no one bothered to scrutinise the servants. Heughan smiled to himself. Carpe diem, indeed.
He bundled the remainder of his clothes back into the sack. He didn’t want to leave his sword behind but a servant carrying such a weapon would be instantly suspicious. In the end, he decided to strap it diagonally across his back and disguise it further by shouldering the sack, confident that no one would stop a man who looked like he was labouring to move a heavy weight, in case they were instructed to help. His strategy worked, and he made his way across the vast courtyard unchallenged.
Although the hour was late, the Castle was still alive with activity. Heughan kept his head lowered with deferential servility and was careful not to rush. He matched his pace to others moving about him, joining the flocking throng until he was an indistinguishable part of the choreography. The usual complement of guards and men-at-arms were bristling with security issues at the Outer Gatehouse and so the Inner Ward was unusually deserted.
Heughan hesitated at Lady Mary’s Tower. He stowed his sack out of sight in a dark nook and decided to follow his nose. His luck held true as he spotted a bronze-haired girl carrying a night tray to an open wooden door. He remembered what Kitty had said and felt instinctively that Melisande was close at hand. Silently, he crept up behind her and followed inside, easing along the furthermost corners where the flames from the hearth failed to reach, allowing the shadows to envelope him once more.
Sorcha placed the tray carefully on a small table and went to attend Melisande, who sat brooding by the fire. She turned cards idly but he sensed the tension of her thoughts. As Heughan gazed at the way the dancing flames caressed her profile, he was startled to think that he could have failed to notice her beauty even disguised with a servant’s rough clothes. Perhaps she was a witch after all and had put a píseog on him that made her invisible to him? The thought made him smile. She was bewitching, but he didn’t believe for one moment that she had any sort of power over him.
Melisande watched the flames and willed herself to relax, calming her breathing. Even if the cards hadn’t warned her, she had sensed a presence come through the door. The disturbance was dizzying, just as every time she came into contact with him. She turned to the cards she had drawn for him once more.
The Hanged Man. Someone had betrayed her. She should be on her guard.
The Six of Swords. Something in the past concerned him.
The Chariot. He was being pulled in different directions. He wanted her to make his mind up for him.
She debated if seduction was on his mind, and if so, to what purpose. She stayed Sorcha’s hand as she bent to untie her hair, brushing her lips to the inside of her wrist, “I want to be alone,” she said. Sorcha looked hurt, but Melisande kissed her on the forehead, then lingeringly on the lips.
Heughan watched from the shad
ows and stored the revelation away for future discussion with Rodrigues. Melisande’s ambivalent tastes complicated the situation for him. Heughan frowned, thinking how best to handle this unexpected, and most diverting, development.
“I need to be alone and undisturbed tonight,” Melisande said simply to Sorcha, who nodded understandingly, although she did not. She was accustomed to Melisande’s peculiar ways and did not think to question if she chose to roam the Castle alone at night, or even, as she had done before, to leave by the postern gate. She went through to the smaller alcove room obediently and shut the door behind her, resigned to spending an unaccustomed solitary night on a servant’s hard truckle bed.
Melisande waited another long minute and then whispered, “The darkness can’t hold you forever. I have waited too long for you.”
“And yet you ran away like a shy maiden just when we were just getting to know each other,” he said with bravado, stepping forwards.
She said nothing, just raised an eyebrow in delicate disbelief. Heughan frowned. For a brief instant, a look had flashed across her face that said she had been expecting another. Then, just as swiftly, it was gone and she wiped her expression blank.
“What do you want from me, Heughan?” she asked. “I assume that you do want something? Otherwise, you would have more sense than to be here. Did Roddy send you?”
“I keep telling you that I’m not his servant,” Heughan said. “I’m here on my own account. Your message was too vague for a country boy like myself.”
“I have nothing more to tell. Just a conversation overheard.”
“Between Ross and Mark A’Court?” Heughan asked.
She shook her head. “No. A message to Mark A’Court, brought when we were already at table. Not Ross’s concern.”
Heughan wondered if she was still toying with him. “I have a challenge for you,” he said. He saw the momentary glint in her eyes quickly shuttered, which said that he had successfully divined the measure of her.
“You accepted my posy, so that makes you my Queen of the May. As Lord of the May, it’s the custom for us to spend the night together.”
She smiled. “You think a borrowed title and some mutual indulgence entitle you to share my bed? Think again, fool.”
“Spend the night with me, and I’ll show you something more,” he replied. She laughed at him, as he thought she might.
“Again, you misjudge me. A lesser man would be wounded by your cruelty. I realise that I may not appeal to your tastes,” he said, “so I’ll just sit by the door and promise I won’t move unless and until you ask me to.”
Melisande narrowed her eyes to look at him, but she could detect no guile in his manner. He was either being very clever or very honest. She could not fathom which.
“But when you do ask me, you have to answer all my questions,” Heughan added.
“And I’m supposed to trust you?” she said disbelievingly.
“My will is my own, my word is my bond,” he replied.
“Meaning what, exactly?” Melisande asked.
“It’s an oath we swear. A reiver oath, yes,” he affirmed, as she raised an eyebrow enquiringly at him, “a binding oath, nonetheless. It means that I am my own man, I bow to none, but I will do what I say I will do.”
She was sceptical and voiced her concerns with a proverb she knew he would recognise, “Three things never to trust: the advice of a fool, the oath of a villain and the honesty of a thief.”
He folded his arms across his chest and stood to his full height so that he could look down on her. "That’s insulting, Melisande. I’m here in your chamber yet you haven’t called out to the guards. One word from you and I’d be a dead man, hanged from the Castle Walls before sun up.
“You’ve cheated me out of money, you’ve drawn blood and committed fornication with me. I’d say that makes us equal parts sinner. So, as to which one of us is the villain or the thief…” he left the sentence hanging. He saw her eyes widen and nodded. She didn’t deny it, and she was too brazen to blush. He liked her for it.
“Who is more foolish? The fool, or the fool who follows the fool? I’ll just be over here, when you want me,” he repeated and taking his low stool with him, went to sit with his back to the door.
Melisande was truly perplexed by his behaviour. She sensed that in spite of all evidence to the contrary, he believed himself to be an honourable man, if such a person really existed. Mentally, she scolded herself; she must not let her prejudice cloud her judgement. Alchemy had taught her that opposite elements attracted and forged unbreakable bonds. The brittle coldness of metal could melt and temper with the heat of the fire. The problem was that she didn’t want to be bonded to anyone. One man on his own might prove too limiting for the woman she was.
She rubbed her eyes and felt suddenly weary. As with all complex problems, a night’s sleep before a decision seemed like the only reasonable solution. Melisande walked round the massive security of the bed until she was farthest away from Heughan and hitched up her skirts so that she could climb onto the middle of the creaking mattress. Deliberately and finally, she drew the heavy curtains and shut herself from his sight.
Heughan unstrapped his long sword and laid it carefully. He pulled off his boots and placed them next to it with equal care. If he had to make a quick getaway, he needed to know where his clothes were. He glanced over to the bed. He heard no further movement and so he had no way of knowing if Melisande was undressing or waiting. He eased himself to standing, making no noise and pulled off his trews, leaving just his shirt to cover him.
He perched his naked backside on the edge of the stool and started to sing softly,
*Translation
’A la claire fontaine By the clear fountain,
M’en allant promener While I wandered on my way
J’ai trouvé l’ eau si belle I found the water so enticing
Que je m’y suis baigné That I lingered there to bathe
Il y a longtemps que je t’aime I loved you once a long time ago
Jamais je ne t’oublierai.’* Never will I forget you.
Melisande grabbed the two edges of the curtain and thrust her head through to stare at him. Heughan stopped immediately. She took in his state of undress and retreated through the opening. He was shut out once more. He sang the second verse about the rejected lover whose flowers wilted.
Melisande snapped back through again and demanded, “Do you even know what you are saying?”
“Of course,” said Heughan with confidence. “It’s the song of a broken-hearted man who has lost his love, whom he has loved for a long, long time and yet can’t forget.”
“Well, aren’t you the surprise romantic? What else are you hiding, I wonder? No. Don’t bother to impress me. I feel certain you would only disappoint.”
“If you don’t let me try, how will either of us ever know? Although,” he couldn’t resist adding, “It does seem unfair that a lady would reject a poor man simply because he gave her the wrong flowers. It was an honest mistake.”
Melisande closed the curtain on him. Heughan laughed to himself under his breath. He sang the third verse, slowly.
Melisande was quite taken aback.
“Who taught you this song?” she asked, her voice muffled from behind the curtain. “It was Roddy, wasn’t it?” she answered for him. “Did he tell you what it really means? I bet he did!” She muttered a few curses that weren’t quite subdued by the curtains.
She was correct. The Spaniard had taught the melody to Heughan a long, long time ago. Heughan thought the song was befitting to the subject. It contained layers of meaning and subtle complexities. On the face of it, simply a lovesick ballad, underneath it was redolent with sexual innuendo. He realised belatedly that he had not thought to ask Roddy who had composed such calculated poetry.
Heughan decided to move a little closer. Quietly, stealthily, he crept across the room towards the bed, taking care to keep out of stabbing length of the curtains, just to be on the safe side.
He lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper, it was all that was needed now, and sang the final verse, completing the seduction,
*Translation
’Je voudrais que la rose I would that the rose
Fût encore au rosier would blossom once more
Et que ma douce amie And that my sweet friend
Fût encore à m’aimer would be my lover o’er
Il y a longtemps que je t’aime I loved you once a long time ago
Jamais je ne t’oublierai.’ Never will I forget you.
He hoped that Roddy had given him good counsel and that he had chosen correctly. From the wrapping of his cloak, he took a strange white flower spike cut earlier from Melisande’s garden and put it on the floor by the bed, before retreating a few paces. She opened the curtains more slowly this time and parted them further. She had undressed too and was wearing a gown of some translucent material. It covered her nakedness without concealing it. Her body shimmered with myriad flickering lights reflected in the cloth. Heughan could clearly discern the outline of her breasts and the erectness of her nipples.
He was immediately and intensely aroused. His faded serge shirt barely covered him and disguised nothing, revealed instead the arrogance in his blue eyes. She looked from him to the proffered flower and back again, taking in his erection.
“And you once wondered why a lady would have need of more than one dress,” she teased, shaking with laughter. She slow-handclapped him, “Oh well done, that was some performance. I am quite seduced.” She put the back of her hand to her forehead and swooned backwards onto the groaning bed.
Heughan didn’t move, so she was forced to spoil the dramatic effect by kneeling up again to look at him. He smiled his lazy smile, one forefinger resting on his lower lip and said, “Ask me.”
He saw her fierce eyes and for a nasty moment, thought he had overdone it.