by Sandy Blair
At the mention of the queen’s henchman, Lyle turned his full attention back to Britt. “Yes. And what, pray tell, goes on between you and the Armstrong wench? And don’t tell me naught, for I read it on both your countenances when we met on the road.”
“Truthfully, I wish I—”
A flash of blue near the stairwell caught Britt’s eye. His heart nearly stopped seeing Yolande de Dreux and her court gliding into the hall. “When did Her Highness arrive?” And where was Genny?
“She arrived at midday. Why?”
Good God almighty. He must have been at the bottom of the cliff when her entourage rode past. “Excuse me.” Without another word, his thoughts only on Genny, Britt strode to the stairs, waving off those who tried to draw him into conversation.
Reaching the queen’s chamber, he nodded to the man standing guard. “Sir Britt to see Lady Armstrong.”
The Frenchman shrugged. “She is not here.”
Cursing under his breath, a hand grasping the hilt of his side sword, Britt shouldered past the shorter man. Finding the presence chamber vacant, he strode into the solar, his gaze raking every corner in search of Genny.
Where in hell could she be? He’d been very specific when he told her not to leave this chamber until he came for her.
Had she lost her courage when Yolande arrived and gone into hiding? Mayhap taken refuge in his chamber? Aye, that made sense, and any of the maids could have pointed her in the right direction.
He bolted around the corner only to find his chamber door open and his room’s only occupant a maid. “Have you seen Lady Armstrong, lass?”
“Aye, this morn’.”
“You’ve not seen her since?”
“Nay, though she was behaving most oddly for the bit that I did see her.”
The hairs on his neck rose. “How so?”
The lass bit into her lower lip. “The woman usually primps the better part of a day, but this morn’ she was in and out of her hip bath, hair whipped into a simple braid and gowned as fast as you please. And all with a ‘thank you kindly’ at the end.” As if befuddled, the lass shook her head. “As I said, ’twas most odd for one usually as slow as snails.”
Relieved to learn only Genny’s hasty ablutions had caused the lass concern, Britt unlock the carved chest at the foot of his bed. Going about the room, he picked up Genny’s bow and quiver, which he’d dropped in a corner, scooped up the few precious books he owned from the windowsill and tossed them along with his spare boots atop his clothing and relocked the chest. Satisfied he’d emptied the room of valuables, he said, “Please ask for my squire to carry this to the bailey.”
He bid the lass good day and worked his way down the keep, checking each chamber, cubby and garderobe without catching sight of Genny. After checking the kitchen, awash with the scents of roasting meat, baking bread and boiling ham being readied for His Majesty’s wake, he strode into the garden and, hands fisted on hips, looked about. To his right, two keening crones stood before Saint Margaret’s chapel splashing whitewash—symbolic tears of a people in mourning—on its heavily carved doors. Soon slivers of hammered silver would be imbedded in the cracks where the tears from the more affluent would flicker in the sunlight. Without warning, the image of another, far more distant and simple chapel door, sparkling like a crown in the early glow of dawn, filled his field of vision. And beyond the door, a wee pine…
Tears sprang to his eyes, burned at the back of his throat. Dear God, no more. He’d thought he’d put this pain finally to rest.
He abruptly turned and tripped over one of the king’s wolfhounds, kicked from the keep lest evil spirits embody them and steal the king’s soul.
He gave himself a good shake. He had to focus on the living, not on the dead. On finding Genny. So, where the hell could she be?
Ah! The stable. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? The woman had an unnatural affection for beasts and in particular that wee doe-eyed palfrey she’d ridden in on.
He wove his way through the torch-lit chaos that was now the upper and lower wards to the stable, where he grabbed a passing groom by the arm. “Have you seen Lady Armstrong?”
The lad looked up in alarm. “Been too busy with these mounts to notice a lady, m’lord.”
“Humph.” Britt strode down the line of tethered destriers, some with sides still heaving, steam rising like ghosts off their slathered backs and haunches. Finding the gray sedately munching in a small enclosure but no Genny, he surveyed the bailey once again. Lord, she wouldn’t have been so foolish as to just walk out alone, would she? Given what he knew of her, aye, she just might.
At the gatehouse, he asked his sentries, “Has Lady Armstrong passed?”
When both shook their heads, Britt huffed in exasperation. At least she was still within these walls. Well, there was no hope for it. He would have to ask the conniving witch where her lady-in-waiting might be found.
In the great hall, he bowed before the queen consort, who appeared hollow-eyed and tired. When she finally deigned to acknowledge his presence, he murmured, “My deepest condolences, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you.”
“I need ask where I might find Lady Armstrong.”
She arched a thinly plucked eyebrow. “Her services are no longer needed.”
Britt’s breath caught in his chest. “She’s been dismissed?”
“You of all people should understand why.” She grinned without humor and turned her attention to John, Earl of Atholl, who stood not a foot from her elbow.
What the bloody—?
“When was this, Your Majesty?”
Yolande’s exchange with the earl ceased for only a heartbeat—long enough for Britt to understand she’d heard his question—before resuming without so much as a glance in his direction. Jaw muscles twitching at being so summarily dismissed, Britt bowed and backed away.
If some harm had come to Genny—
He scoured the hall’s perimeter, looking into every shadow, then bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time before coming to a stop before the king’s bedchamber, the only room he had ignored during his earlier search.
As he stood on the threshold—the door had been purposely left open so the king’s soul might easily escape when it was wont to—he took a deep breath, readying himself again for the pain of seeing his once-vibrant liege still as stone. And despite the preparation, his breath still caught in his chest at the sight.
He pulled his gaze away and looked about the darkened chamber, praying he would find Genny lurking in a corner but finding only two of his most trusted guards. He asked, “Have either of you seen Lady Armstrong?”
When both shook their heads, he glanced again at Alexander and made the sign of the cross. He had only one place left to search.
Britt pulled one of the two lit torches from its bracket and crossed the room, where he removed the pin securing the secret panel. As the narrow door swung open, exposing the narrow escape route into the bowels of the keep, he said, “Should anyone ask, you’ve not seen me.”
Under ordinary circumstances, a lady-in-waiting had no reason to know about the passage, but then Greer Armstrong had been the king’s mistress, had used the passage to move unnoticed betwixt the queen’s chambers and the king’s. And what Greer knew, so likely did Genny.
Britt thrust the torch into the gaping blackness, his hope of finding her huddled on the narrow plank walkway betwixt the two royal chambers dissolving, seeing it vacant. His hope then sprang back to life, seeing a faint glow at the bottom of the stairs where the door stood ajar and where a few stools, a table and a pallet could be found for a guard on those rare occasions when a prisoner needed a constant watch…or their king was on the prowl. At the moment, there was no reason for the lower chamber to be lit. The cells were empty, their last prisoner having been found guilty of murder, then unceremoniously tossed over the castle mount wall, where he fell to his death in the moat some four hundred feet below.
Behind him, MacDougall,
the larger of the two guards posted in the room with the king’s body, murmured, “Be careful on yon stairs.”
Britt nodded. “Close the door behind me, but do not lock it.”
The steep stone steps, only a palm’s width in depth, appeared to undulate under the torchlight dancing about the close walls and sloping ceiling. Knowing his shoulders were broader than the pathway, Britt twisted sideways and made his way down.
At the bottom, he pushed wide the door. “Damn it.” The passage was vacant. He pulled on the door to the central staircase and found it locked as it should be. So she hadn’t gone that way. Bile churned in his gut. “So where the hell are you, Geneen Armstrong?”
As his voice echoed down the damp stone walls, he heard a soft thud. Then another.
“Genny?” Please God, don’t let the thudding be my imagination.
Thinking she might have taken refuge in a cell, he pulled on the iron ring on the first cell. Rusty hinges screeched as he jerked the thick door open. Finding the cell empty, he raced to the next. “Genny!”
“Hello?” The voice, decidedly female, was little more than a muffled croak.
He ran to the last cell. “Genny!”
Hands beat on the door. “Help!”
Please, St. Bride, let her be unharmed. He jerked on the iron ring. Locked! Cursing, he turned to fetch the key and saw that the peg where the key usually hung was empty. He slid the wooden cover from the viewing window and peered into the cell, blocking out what little light he had. “Genny?”
“Britt! Thank God. Please let me out.”
“I would, but the key’s gone.”
Ignoring that important detail, she said, “You came back.”
“How could you doubt I would?” His fingers reached through the bars for her. “Woman, I’ve been ill with worry. Come closer so I might touch you, know that you’re all right.”
She reached through the bars. He closed his fingers over hers and was alarmed to find them cold.
“I’m well,” she told him, “but I’ve been so frightened. The queen ordered me seized. They grabbed me—”
The queen. His fingers squeezed hers. “You can tell me the details after I get you out of here. Do you know which guard has the key?”
“The queen told the guards to bring it to her.”
He swore under his breath. Taking the key from a guard would have presented no problem. Taking it from Yolande, however…
“Do you have food and drink?”
“Nay, but why will I need such now that you’ve found me?”
He had no choice but to tell her the truth. “It may take some time to get you out of here.” He would have to go before the Privy Council, which had yet to convene, but then the constable and justiciar of Scotland was above stairs.
She shook her head in vehement fashion. “Nay, please, you can’t leave me here.”
“Hush, a ghraidh. I know you’re frightened, but take heart. You’re a Scot and innocent of any crime. Comyn will hear me out. The queen will have no choice but to hand over the key.”
Blue eyes still wide with alarm, she asked, “How long might this take?” She turned from the wee window to look behind her and mutter, “The rats…”
“Mayhap an hour or two. ’Tis all.” An hour that would likely feel like a lifetime for her.
She rose higher and pressed her cheek to their entangled fingers. “You’ve been naught but kind and brave. I’m so sorry.”
He frowned in confusion. “For what?”
She nibbled on her lower lip. “I thought…nay, I feared that you kenned what might befall me but knew you could do naught when you kissed me good-bye. You’d looked so forlorn, and then this happened, and being locked away in the dark…”
“How can you even think—” He took a deep breath. “Tha gradh agam thu.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
His heart thumped heavily within his chest. “You have not the Gaidhlig, then?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, no.”
Praise God. He’d told her he loved her. At what point his feelings had shifted from pure lust to so much more, he could not have said. They just had. Worse, had she understood his words, then she would hold him in no higher regard than she did their dead king when she finally learned the truth about Cassandra. Of that he had no doubt. Losing her high regard he could not bear. ’Twas all he’d ever be able to claim, truly have.
He managed a smile. “Woman, how can you be a Scot and not ken your native tongue?”
She laughed, husky and sweet. “’Tis because I’m Scot, you heathen, that Scot is my tongue.”
He laughed then. “Brave talk for a lass behind bars.”
“Aye, and I’d much appreciate you putting an end to it.”
He kissed her fingers, all he could reach with a four-inch-thick door betwixt them, then reluctantly stepped away. “A ghraid, I shall get you out if I have to tear down the walls with my bare hands.”
As his footsteps echoed down the corridor, Genny sniffled back the tears that had been threatening to spill since hearing Britt shout her name. How could she have ever doubted him? What a goose she’d been to think he’d abandon her after all they’d already been through. “’Twas just fear making me as addle-brained as Greer.”
She put her back to the door, thankful Britt had left the wee window open, and looked about her filthy cell. How many had anguished, wasted away and died here?
Praise God and the saints, Greer, by now safely at Benbirk with their aunt, would be enjoying far better accommodations. Had her sister been the one locked away…
Genny shuddered. Her twin, for all her teary blustering and being the elder, was at her core naught but a willful bairn who, afraid of the dark, searched for constant light and laughter. God only kenned how Greer, already frightened out of her mind, would have managed here.
Thank God she had Britt. Recalling how frightened she’d been when she’d first set eyes upon him standing so tall and proud on her stoop, she sighed. That he’d nearly been killed trying to protect her still set her hands to shaking when she thought on it, his chivalry and courage still astounding her but no more so than his kiss. Who could have guessed a kiss could turn one’s legs and brain to pudding and cause one’s blood to run so hot it seared the limbs? She sighed as the truth settled over her.
She’d fallen hopelessly in love with Britt MacKinnon, a man who’d sworn never to love again. Just her luck.
But then again, he did act most fond of her. She’d seen it in his eyes, felt it in each kiss and had heard it in his voice when he’d sworn to set her free. As importantly, his character and form made him the perfect sire for bairns she thought she never craved but now, for some mysterious reason, she dearly wanted…with him. She could well imagine them. Brawny laddies with the look of him, mayhap three, and then perhaps twin girls as fair as she and Greer.
Hmm. Given enough thought, she could quite possibly make this dream come true. All she had to do was convince him that he wanted their union as much as she did.
Out of long habit—and admittedly being not one easily denied once she’d set her mind to a task—Genny methodically divided her problem into logistical parts. When she had each neatly aligned in her mind, she asked the rat eyeing her from the filthy rushes, “So, first I must seduce him.” Given the scarceness of priests, none cared—save those royal—if a couple tupped before signing their names to a ledger. After all, there was no church edict against tupping, for ’twas as natural as heather. There was only a law against adultery and with good reason. She sighed. Greer was certainly paying the wages for that sin and would keep on paying upon learning her lover was dead.
The yellow eyes watching her from the corner blinked.
“So you agree. But how exactly does one go about seducing a man?”
“Twixt the stone and the turf.” ~ Old Scottish Proverb
Chapter Eleven
Britt entered the great hall, which had been emptied of all but two guards and thirt
y-two of the forty-plus liege lords who would eventually make up the full Privy Council. Leaning toward the battle-tested guard manning the main staircase, he whispered, “How goes it?”
Macpherson shrugged. “They’ve agreed on no less than six trumpeter heralds for the processional and to having one bagpiper from each clan preceding the coffin. They’re now arguing over who shall serve as first pallbearers and for how long before the second and third teams take over.”
Britt rolled his eyes, looked around the hall and found Ross, who, having already spied Britt, was making his way toward him. Coming abreast, his friend whispered, “We’re in closed session, Britt.”
“Aye, but I’ve a most urgent petition to put before Comyn.”
Ross waited for an explanation. When Britt offered none, he frowned but walked over to the Earl of Buchan and whispered in his ear. Comyn nodded, which meant Britt would have his hearing, but he would have to wait.
Hours ticked by, men argued, men agreed and men yawned. Finally, Comyn signaled Britt forward. He bowed before the men who’d come together to decide Scotland’s future, most of whom were earls but a few who were landed knights as he himself would one day be upon his father’s death. After recognizing the assemblage, he said, “Our clanswoman, Lady Armstrong, has been locked below in Edinburgh’s dungeon on orders of Yolande de Dreux without due process, without a public declaration of her offense and without redress. I humbly beg you order the queen consort relinquish the key to Lady Armstrong’s cell forthwith, so she might be set free until such time as she—if need be—goes through a proper and public trial before the Privy Council.”
Despite the assemblage considering themselves good and just men, Britt wasn’t the least surprised that not one raised a hue and cry over the injustice he’d outlined. All understood the cause for Yolande’s distaste of Greer Armstrong, and many felt it justified. What they didn’t know, and Britt couldn’t tell them, was that the queen had imprisoned the wrong woman.