The Last Heiress

by Bertrice Small

  She wanted more wine, and she saw another carafe in the middle of the board, but when she reached for it, it wasn’t there at all, and the two carafes become an empty one. Elizabeth giggled, tipsily lurching to her feet. There would be wine on the sideboard in her chamber. She stumbled, but her legs didn’t seem to want to go in the right direction. She practically fell into a chair by the fire. It was so quiet. Why was it so damned quiet? Oh. Yes. She was alone. Lord Cambridge was gone home, and Will with him. And Baen MacColl had left her. Elizabeth began to weep again, and it was there that Nancy found her.

  The young serving woman put a strong arm about her mistress, prodding her up out of her chair. “Come along, Mistress Elizabeth, ’tis past time you found your bed,” she said. “I have a nice bath for you, but I think not tonight. ’Tis straight to sleep for you, I’m thinking. Come along now.” Gently she pushed and pulled Elizabeth from the hall and up the stairs to her chamber. Safely inside the room, she began to loosen the garments her mistress was wearing and pull off her boots.

  “He’s left me, Nancy,” Elizabeth said mournfully.

  “So you said, mistress,” Nancy said.

  “We were lovers.” Elizabeth giggled.

  “I know,” Nancy responded.

  “You do?” Elizabeth seemed surprised. “How do you know?”

  “You ain’t slept in your bed for weeks, mistress. You’ve been sleeping in his. ’Twould follow that two healthy young people sharing a bed were lovers,” Nancy said dryly.

  “Why did he leave me, Nancy?” Elizabeth was swinging back to maudlin now.

  “You’d know that better than me, mistress,” Nancy said. She gently pushed Elizabeth into her bed, tucking her feet beneath the coverlet and pulling it up.

  “He’s a fool,” Elizabeth muttered.

  “Yes, mistress.” Nancy blew out the taper stick. “Good night,” she said.

  “A bloody Scots fool,” Elizabeth mumbled, and then she was silent.

  Listening carefully, Nancy heard her mistress’s even breathing. Poor thing, she considered as she left the room. Robbed of her virtue by a duplicitous Scot. Unfit to be any man’s wife now. What was going to happen to Friarsgate now? What was going to happen to them all?

  Chapter 12

  Elizabeth Meredith awoke with a throbbing head. In all her life she had never had such a headache. She groaned softly. Why did her head hurt so? She struggled to marshal her thoughts. Then she remembered. Her uncle was gone home to Otterly. Maybel and Edmund were retired to their cottage. And Baen MacColl had deserted her. She was alone, and last night she had finished an entire carafe of wine by herself. Her mouth tasted like a stable floor. Suddenly her stomach rebelled. There was no time to get out of her bed. Elizabeth leaned from the bed, almost screaming with the pain that knifed through her head. Grabbing at the chamber pot, she vomited the contents of her belly into it. Then, setting the chamber pot on the floor again, she lay back. Her forehead was speckled with sweat. She felt clammy all over. She was going to die, and she resolved then and there never to drink wine again. Elizabeth closed her eyes.

  “Are you awake, mistress?”

  How long had she dozed? Had she slept at all? “I’m suffering from too much wine, I fear,” Elizabeth answered in a weak voice.

  Nancy swallowed a giggle, then, seeing the chamber pot’s contents, said, “I’ll empty this. You’ll live. No one ever died from a single carafe of wine.” She picked up the vessel and hurried from the room.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes again. She still had her headache, but she was actually feeling a little bit better. She didn’t think she could do the book work awaiting her today, but a ride in the fresh air might help her. She considered getting up, but she wasn’t really quite ready for that, she decided. The sun was streaming into her bedchamber, and it hurt her eyes. “Nancy? If you are there, close the draperies.”

  “You’ll feel better if you get up,” Nancy said as she drew the heavy fabric across the casements. She came over to the bed. “Let me help you, mistress.” She pushed pillows behind Elizabeth’s back, aiding her to sit up. “How is that?”

  “My temples throb,” Elizabeth complained, “but it is no worse sitting up than lying back,” she admitted to her serving woman.

  “You need a bit of food in your belly,” Nancy said.

  “The thought of food is distressing. I do not think I can eat,” Elizabeth said.

  “Some nice bread,” Nancy coaxed. “I’ll go fetch it.” She bustled off, returning shortly with a single slice of warm bread, which she gave to her mistress. Then, fetching a hairbrush, she began to slowly and gently brush Elizabeth’s pale hair as the girl ate the bread a morsel at a time, chewing it slowly, then swallowing. “Is that better?” Nancy queried as the bread was finished.

  Elizabeth considered a moment, and then said, “Aye. It seems to have settled the roiling in my belly. Thank you.” She closed her eyes again as Nancy continued to wield the brush. Then, opening them once more, Elizabeth said, “I am going riding. Get my breeks. What time is it?”

  “The morning is half gone. ’Tis past ten,” Nancy said. She set the brush aside. “Are you strong enough to ride out, mistress?”

  “Because I am a fool,” Elizabeth said, “doesn’t mean I can entirely shirk my duties as the lady. We have much preparation ahead of us before the winter sets in, lass.” She threw back the coverlet and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “When I return later, have my bath hot and ready for me.” Then, ignoring the ache behind her eyes, Elizabeth got out of her bed.

  Nancy scurried about, quickly gathering her mistress’s clothing. As was her habit Elizabeth dressed herself quickly, lastly pulling her boots on over a pair of knitted stockings. Nancy climbed on the bed behind her and braided the long blond hair up neatly. Without another word the lady of Friarsgate was gone from the room.

  In the days that followed Elizabeth was up early, and either out or in her privy chamber keeping her accounts. Other than to direct her servants or shepherds, Elizabeth hardly spoke at all. She sat alone at her high board each night, ate her meal, and was gone to her chamber. Sometimes she would remain by the fire afterwards for a short time. St. Crispin’s Day came, and bonfires were lit that night to celebrate, but there was no feast in the hall for its single occupant. On All Hallows Eve the hall was silent, as usual. The cook served a dish of crowdie, a sweet apple cream dessert. Elizabeth waved it away.

  “Give it to the servants as a treat,” she told Albert. She knew that within the dessert had been placed two marbles, two rings, and two coins. Whoever found the rings would find love and marriage. Elizabeth laughed bitterly thinking on it. Whoever found a coin would be rich. She was already rich, for all the good it did her. And those finding one of the two marbles would lead a cold and lonely life. That privilege was already hers. As for those who found nothing, it was their fate to lead a life of uncertainty. There was no uncertainty in her life. She would grow old alone.

  The following day it was customary to hold a feast in honor of all the saints. That night her hall was filled with the Friarsgate folk, as she would not punish them for her stupidity. There was a roasted boar, which everyone loved. The next day, All Souls, prayers were offered for the dead, and the children went a-souling, singing and asking for soul cakes, which had been previously prepared and were given them. Martinmas followed on November twelfth, and again the hall was filled with her folk, who this time were treated to roast goose. On the twenty-fifth of the month St. Catherine’s feast was celebrated with cathern cakes in the shape of the wheel upon which the saint was martyred.

  The days were growing much colder and shorter, the nights long and dark. Elizabeth had overseen all the preparations necessary to protect her flocks and her folk. She had ridden out almost every day on some purpose or another. She had collected the herbs and flowers she would need to make fresh teas, salves, and poultices for her apothecary. It was her duty as the lady to minister to any in her care who grew sick. But no matter how busy s
he kept herself she was still bitter at Baen’s defection, and so very lonely. She still could not believe that he had deserted her when he loved her.

  A messenger came from Claven’s Carn inviting her to spend Christmas with her mother, her stepfather, and her half brothers. Elizabeth sent him back with a message that she thought it unwise to leave Friarsgate with winter upon them. But the truth was that she had not felt well at all since Baen had gone. The thought of traveling into Scotland was unpleasant. She did not believe she could bear the happiness that surrounded her mother at Claven’s Carn.

  A long, newsy letter arrived from Otterly. Lord Cambridge asked after her health, and sent his regards to Baen. The new wing of the house was perfect. He was safe from Banon and her noisy brood, and once more had his privacy. A small gallery had been built connecting the main house to Thomas Bolton’s snug wing. But the doors at either end of the gallery had but two keys that fit their locks. And Lord Cambridge carried these keys on his person at all times. The door at the far end of the gallery was fitted into the paneling on both sides, so unless one was aware there was a door, one could not find it. It opened into a secret passage that opened into a little-used hallway in the main house. Banon had no idea it was there, and Thomas Bolton had no intention of telling her until he lay on his deathbed. Hopefully that would be many years hence.

  He was sharing his secret with Elizabeth, he said, in case he be struck down suddenly. She smiled reading this, almost hearing his voice, ripe with glee at having outfoxed her sister Banon. His library was coming along beautifully. He had found some rare manuscripts among his cache from London, including one by Master Geoffrey Chaucer. Will had come upon it among some lesser works, the dear, clever boy.

  I shall not invite you to the Christmas festivities here at Otterly, he wrote her. If you were caught by the weather and forced to remain here, Banon’s brood would put you off having an heir for Friarsgate entirely. Besides, I know that you are happy with everything the way it is now, and will be settling down for the winter. He asked after Edmund and Maybel. And then he closed, sending her his dearest love. Elizabeth put the parchment aside, feeling the tears behind her eyelids. She was feeling so fragile lately.

  Then, looking up, she said to the Otterly messenger, “I will send you with a reply tomorrow. Go to the kitchens and eat. There is a bed space in the hall for you.” Going to her privy chamber, Elizabeth considered what she would say to her uncle. In the end she simply wrote that Master MacColl had returned north in the autumn.

  Reading the missive several days later, Lord Cambridge pursed his lips. It was what Elizabeth hadn’t said that intrigued him far more than what she had. She could dismiss her lover so casually? He shook his head. She was hurt, of course, because she had been foolish enough to make his love a choice between her and his father. But when the spring came Baen MacColl would come south again, Lord Cambridge was certain. He loved Elizabeth Meredith, and she loved him. She would forgive him, and all would be well once more.

  The twelve days of Christmas came, and for the first time in memory there was no celebration in the hall at Friarsgate. Elizabeth herself went from cottage to cottage on Christmas morn, delivering the gifts she had for her folk. But there were no gifts for her, nor feasting in her hall. Twelfth Night came and went. The snows had finally come, and Elizabeth knew that her cotters were busily weaving the fine cloth that helped bring wealth to them all. But there was little for her to do now. Her books were in order. There was, praise God, no sickness among them.

  Candlemas was celebrated on February second. She presented Father Mata with a supply of fine new candles for the church in the new year. Reports were beginning to come to her that the ewes were starting to drop their lambs. Then one night Elizabeth heard the howling of wolves. The next morning she ordered the flocks moved even closer to the house and barns than they had previously been.

  Dressing one morning she said to Nancy, “You must speak with the laundress. She has of late begun to shrink my garments. My gowns are becoming too close fitting.”

  “The laundress does not wash your gowns, mistress,” Nancy said. “I look after them myself, and am most careful. But now that you mention it I have noted that your bodices are stretching across your bosom too tightly these days. And you are developing a belly beneath your skirts.” The words were no sooner from her mouth when Nancy gasped with the realization of what she had just said. “Mistress! I believe you are with child,” she gasped.

  Elizabeth reached out to steady herself. “With child?” she repeated.

  “When was your last moon link?” Nancy said, realizing that it had to be several months since she had prepared bleeding clothes for Elizabeth or taken stained chemises to the laundress. There could be no other explanation.

  Elizabeth sat down heavily. “With child,” she said. What was the matter with her that she had not realized it? Of course she was with child. Although she knew her mother had ways of preventing conception, she had never needed to know them. Rosamund would have told her youngest daughter when she married. But all summer and into the early autumn she and Baen had made love at every opportunity. She blushed, remembering the many places where they had lain, lustily indulging their passion for each other. He was a virile man, and the women in her family were noted for their ability to produce healthy offspring. Aye, she was with child. Elizabeth began to laugh, and she laughed until the tears rolled down her pale cheeks.

  “Mistress.” Nancy’s voice quavered. “Are you all right?” The serving woman thought it odd that Elizabeth found this news so amusing. The heiress of Friarsgate was carrying a nameless bastard child. Surely there was no humor in that.

  “We must send for my mother,” Elizabeth said. “ ’Tis cold, but clear. A messenger is to ride with all haste to Claven’s Carn and fetch her back to me.”

  “Will you write a message?” Nancy wanted to know.

  “Nay. Just tell him to say I need my mother immediately,” Elizabeth replied.

  At Claven’s Carn, Rosamund Bolton Hepburn queried the Friarsgate man. “Is my daughter all right? What has happened?” Elizabeth wasn’t the sort of girl to send for her mother except under the direst of circumstances, and perhaps not even then.

  “My lady, I know nothing more than what Mistress Elizabeth’s tiring woman, Nancy, told me. I was to fetch you with all haste. But I can tell you that my mistress appears well.”

  “What the hell is the wench up to now?” Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn, demanded to know of his wife.

  Rosamund shook her head. “I do not know, but Elizabeth would not send for me in the dead of winter without cause.”

  “I’ll go with you,” he replied, and was surprised when she did not argue with him. She was worried, and Rosamund was not a woman to jump at shadows. “If the weather holds I’ll ride down to St. Cuthbert’s and pay John a visit while you see what it is your daughter wants. When I return we will come home.”

  “Is tomorrow too soon to leave?” Rosamund asked him.

  “I can be ready,” Logan Hepburn said. She was worried.

  They departed Claven’s Carn even before first light the following morning. Rosamund could reach Friarsgate the same day if she traveled early and long. Once over the border her husband left her with their clansmen to travel on to St. Cuthbert’s monastery, where his eldest son was now studying for the priesthood. He had a longer journey than Rosamund, but having made the journey once before he knew he could find shelter tonight with a border farmer who was related to the Hepburns. He traveled alone, leaving his clansmen to escort his wife. Shortly after dark they reached Friarsgate.

  Rosamund hurried into the hall to find Elizabeth already at the high board eating.

  “Come in, Mama!” The younger woman waved the older forward. “Albert! A plate for the lady Rosamund.”

  “What is the matter?” Rosamund demanded, flinging her fur-lined cape at a servant and sitting down next to her daughter.

  “How good you are,” Elizabeth s
aid. “You came immediately, didn’t you?”

  “You have never been a child to ask for my help, Bessie,” her mother said. “When you do then I know it is a serious matter.”

  “Do not call me Bessie,” Elizabeth said softly, but there was an edge to her voice.

  “Tell me,” Rosamund repeated.

  “I know how you have fretted that there was no heir of my body to follow me here at Friarsgate. I wanted you to know, Mama, that come the spring there will be an heir, or perhaps an heiress, for Friarsgate. Are you not pleased?”

  Rosamund heard her daughter’s words, but at first she could not absorb what Elizabeth was telling her. But then the import of her daughter’s announcement exploded in her brain. She gasped, and then she said, “What have you done, Bess—Elizabeth? What have you done?”

  “I fell in love, Mama. Was that not allowed? You loved my father. You loved Lord Leslie. You love Logan. Philippa loves Crispin. Banon loves her Neville. Even Uncle Thomas loves his Will. Am I not permitted the same privilege? ‘You must marry, Elizabeth. We need a husband for you, Elizabeth. Friarsgate must have an heir, Elizabeth.’ Did you not all say it to me over and over and over again? So I went to court to please you all, but there was none for me there. Did you expect me to find a man of the land among those boring perfumed courtiers, Mama?”

  “It’s the Scotsman, Baen MacColl, isn’t it?” Rosamund said.

  “Of course it is Baen MacColl, Mama. Was he not perfect for me? For Friarsgate? But he would put his parent above me, and above what I had to offer him.”

  “He has taken advantage of you!” Rosamund cried.

  Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Nay, Mama. I took advantage of him. I seduced him boldly, and without a thought for what might come of our passion. I thought—nay, I believed—that because I loved him, because he said he loved me, that he would come to understand we were meant to be together here at Friarsgate. But none of it meant anything to him. His damned father, this master of Grayhaven, is more important to Baen than I am. Than Friarsgate is! He could have been the master here, but he chose to remain his father’s bastard. I never want to see him again!” Her voice was shaking.