The King's Mistress

by Sandy Blair

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Everyone and their cat knows you were in his bed more often than you were in your own.”

  So this was the sort of abuse heaped upon her sister? “And you and the cats ken this how exactly? Did you see us together?” Gen jabbed a finger at the women’s chest, forcing her, alarmed, to take a step back. “How dare you accuse me of committing the sin of adultery when here you are bearing false witness? I’ll have you ken I was never in His Majesty’s bed, and I defy anyone to prove otherwise.”

  The woman, mouth agape, blinked like an owl for several heartbeats before running off, her skirts clutched in her hands.

  Gen, hands shaking, clutched the silver cross that hung at her breast. She shouldn’t have lost her temper like that, should have bit back her retort, but then…it served the witch right.

  “What was that about?” Britt asked from behind her.

  Startled, her heart still thudding from her confrontation, Genny managed a smile. “Nothing of import. What did Ross want? I hope he’s not sending you off on a mission.” Not only did she not want to be left alone among these vipers, but she had little enough time left with Britt to accomplish what was beginning to feel like an impossible task: getting Britt MacKinnon to ask for her hand.

  “Ross wanted to know how I garnered your release.”

  Oh no. “You didn’t tell him the truth, I hope.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “I see.” Now Ross would be angry with her too. How on earth did her sister tolerate living with all this hostility? She should say as much to Greer when next they met. Perhaps her voicing some compassion would help close the gaping glack that now stood betwixt them.

  Britt’s hand settled on the small of her back. Propelling her forward, he said, “You looked like you could use some fresh air. Let’s go outside.”

  “But we just got here.”

  “And we shall return.”

  Once in the bailey, he guided her toward the stable. “Shall we visit your palfrey?”

  “That would be lovely.” She hadn’t had the opportunity since she’d arrived, and patting the beast might help restore her shattered confidence.

  Spying her, the gray nickered and came to the fence, making her laugh. “He recognizes me.”

  Britt ran a hand along the gray’s neck. “He should. You’re his mistress.”

  “Not after a week, although I would dearly love to someday own such a horse. He’s truly lovely.”

  “And what would you name him?”

  “Silver. ’Tis the color of his mane and tail in sunlight.”

  “As good a name as any, I suppose. Very well, then. Lady Armstrong of Buddle, please make the acquaintance of Silver, once of His Majesty’s royal stable and now of Lady Armstrong’s stable.”

  She laughed. “If only it were true.”

  “He’s yours, Genny. You now own him.”

  The saints preserve her! He was serious. “But how?”

  “Ross agreed that the gray would serve as fair compensation for you being falsely imprisoned. And he’s taking the next week’s board out of Her Highness’s allowance. ”

  “Oh Britt!” She threw her arms about his neck, not caring that others were around. His arms came about her, and to her already excited heart’s delight, his lips met hers. Warmth spread through her veins, and the world withdrew. Only Britt existed. His taste, the feel of his tongue as it swept past her lips, the feel of his strong hands as one slid to her neck and the other slid to her waist, pressing her firmly to his core.

  Too soon his lips left hers and his arms fell away, taking with them the heat and scent she’d come to love and associate with him. Reality returned as he cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at her. “We need go in.”

  Feeling unaccountably bereft, she nodded.

  He said not another word until they were again in the hall reeking of meat, sweat, perfume and intrigue, whereupon he hailed a serving lass. “Ale for my lady and me.”

  She sighed. Would she ever understand this man?

  The lass returned with two lead tankards in hand just as lilting piping started and a lute-strumming troubadour began a sad lament, extolling King Alexander’s virtues and legacy. Britt handed her a tankard and guided her to a long, fully occupied bench, where only a look from Britt caused men to rise, making room for Britt and her. Genny, thinking his action rude, murmured her thanks to those who gave up their seats.

  Britt settled beside her and whispered, “Why did you do that?”

  “Because now they must stand.”

  “As well they should when a lady is present.”

  Why was he now so grumpy? “I was simply being polite.”

  He made a thick sound at the back of his throat, then studied those about them. “On your right in the dark green breachen feile is the MacDonald, Lord of the Isles. To his left is his second son. To his right, Magnus, Earl of Orkney. The man laughing is Comyn, and the man next to him is James, steward of Scotland.”

  So many and so regally dressed. She’d never seen the like and could well imagine herself enjoying the spectacle had it been under other circumstances. She looked about the room, trying to find an older version of Britt. “Is your father here?”

  She looked up at him and found his countenance darkened. “He and I agreed long ago to never again be in the same place at the same time.”

  Oh dear. What on earth could cause such a rift? She’d had no love lost for her father but still managed to tolerate his presence while he lived. Deciding now was not the time to ask, she said, “Have all of these chieftains come just for the funeral?”

  “That and to decide who among them will now be regent.”

  “I thought Longshanks was destined to be regent.”

  He looked at her blankly for a moment. “Ack. In the rush to set you free and tend to…our other problem, I forgot to tell you the queen is with child.”

  She gasped. Had he turned into a goat before her eyes he could not have taken her by more surprise. “Oh my, this is the best of news. God’s many blessings upon her.” She must write to Greer as soon as possible. The news would greatly ease her mind.

  Or would it?

  What if their roles were reversed? What if it was she carrying Britt’s bairn? Would she feel better knowing that whilst he professed love to her that he’d made love—and a bairn—with another woman? Nay, she most certainly would not. But then again, she—unlike Geer—would never have lain down with a man who could not commit to her.

  She heaved a sigh. By now her sister was settled and growing plump and pink under their aunt’s care. To tell Greer about the king’s heir apparent would serve no purpose, possibly only cause her distress. So, better that she forget the letter. When the bairn was safely born would be soon enough.

  At her side, Britt whispered, “Your reaction surprises me, given what the queen tried to do. You must be kindness itself.”

  She smiled. “The babe is an innocent, unlike me. I’ve been accused of being one who could pluck and dress a bevy of quail before their blood had a chance to cool.” He laughed, and she arched an eyebrow. “Trust me on this, MacKinnon. I’m quick to anger and slow to forgive…if ever.”

  At least whilst I’m in my world.

  Here it would behoove her to speak from her head and not from her heart, the Lady Campbell being a hard lesson learned. The woman was doubtless now berating her character from one end of the hall to the other.

  A guard approached, and Britt stood to speak with him. Hearing only Gael and losing interest, Gen looked about and caught the eye of the strumming troubadour. He winked and started a new ballad. Deciding he had a lovely voice, her thoughts returned to Greer. Oh, how she missed her sister’s voice. The woman could put a nightingale to shame. She struggled to recall the last song she’d heard Greer sing, but the words to the troubadour’s song intruded. As she listened more closely, the fine hairs on her neck rose. He was singing not only to her but of her, extolling her—actually, Gre
er’s—voice and beauty!

  Alarmed, she flapped her hands, signaling him to stop the nonsense, and looked about. To her horror, others had taken note. Too many were obviously as displeased as she, albeit for a far different reason.

  Not knowing what else to do, she tapped Britt’s arm. She made a quick apology to the man with whom he spoke, then pulled Britt close. “Please make him stop.”

  Britt bristled, his chest expanding. “Him who?”

  “The troubadour. Listen.”

  Britt did, apparently for the first time. Before she could catch her breath, he was looming large over the singer, appearing ready to separate the man’s head from his shoulders.

  Oh, nay, Britt! A fight will only make matters worse.

  Around her, the room grew still. Without looking, she knew all eyes were on the pair. Waiting. Watching.

  She strained to hear what Britt was saying, but failing, prayed it had naught to do with the severing of limbs. When he reached out and only patted the man on the back, her relief knew no bounds. The troubadour managed a shaky laugh, and the room let loose their collective breaths. There would be no fight on the second eve of His Majesty’s wake. Leastwise, not one over her presence.

  Britt, a smile in place but his eyes still shooting flames, returned to her side and, bending toward her, whispered, “He apologizes for any discomfort he caused and shall refrain from any further reference to you.”

  She swallowed the tears of embarrassment burning at the back of her throat. “I only made matters worse by soliciting your help, didn’t I?”

  “Nonsense. You did the right thing, and as you can see, all has returned to normal.” He raised a hand to hail Ross across the hall, who nodded in response. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I need speak with Ross about this eve’s security.”

  “Of course.” Every liege lord in Scotland, friend and foe alike, would soon be standing shoulder to shoulder in the chapel for the requiem mass whilst their many guards, bristling with steel and sot with ale, milled outside it.

  Britt followed Ross into the privy chamber and closed the door. “Someone, determined to start trouble, paid the troubadour a handsome sum to sing about Lady Armstrong.”

  Ross rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised? Your lady draws trouble to herself as fast as shit draws flies…no insult intended. Did the troubadour say who his generous benefactor was?”

  “He claims not to know the man but describes him as being about my age, a head shorter and having brown hair, which describes half the men in the hall. I asked the color of the man’s breachen feile, and he had no idea. He’s blind to color.”

  “So we know nothing. Grand. In any event, my thanks for remaining calm. I had visions of an all-out war in the hall when you strode toward the fool.”

  “I’m sure some were hoping for it.”

  “Have you yet told your lady I know the real reason she’s here?”

  “Are you daft? She’d have my head. And she’s not my lady, and you knowing why she shall never be, please do me the courtesy of refraining from calling her such.” Britt raked his hands through his hair. “Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect to be in so untenable a position.”

  Lyle, appearing sadder than Britt had seen him look in a long while, shook his head. “Women will rot the soul if given half a chance, and well you know this.”

  “Not Gen. She’s here not for herself but to protect her sister, and in doing so also protects Scotland.”

  “And in doing so, she’s also turned you into a shipwreck.”

  “’Tis not so bad as all that.”

  “Isn’t it? The whole of Scotland sits only feet away—the most important of them in any event—and are you among them forging bonds so you might someday rise above knighthood? Nay. You’re in here, your gut in knots, your head full of golden tresses, blue eyes and skirts.” Lyle heaved a sigh. “Just tup the woman, will you? Please. For God and country, if not for yourself.”

  With that, Ross walked out.

  Britt returned to the hall and found Gen hadn’t moved, although even from a distance he could see how uncomfortable she was as others kept their distance for fear friend and foe alike might think they’d befriended her. To the casual eye she appeared neither angered nor frightened by their disapproval. If anything she looked quite regal as she sat in her borrowed gown with her back arrow straight, her hands in her lap and her countenance serene. ’Twas heartbreaking, really.

  He strode to her and, smiling, held out his hand. “Come, my lady.”

  Somehow she managed a radiant smile as she placed her hand on his wrist.

  Hildy looked at Genny as if she were daft. “You’re not going to watch the funeral procession?”

  “Nay. I already paid my respects at the mass for the repose of His Majesty’s soul.” God kenned his soul would need all the prayers it could garner, given what a knave the man had been, and all while she hid in the back of the little chapel after Her Highness unexpectedly arrived, taking her place upon the raised dais where her husband’s ornate coffin sat before the altar. Gen, having been nearly caught once, dared not tempt fate again by having Her Highness spot her in the crowd.

  Hildy placed her hands on her cocked hips. “Oh, but you must go! ’Twill be grand, I promise.”

  “I’m sure it will be.” Her countrymen did tend to celebrate death as they did life. The processional would be quite a sight to see, the vendors would be out selling their wares, and there’d be drummers, pipers and trumpeters…

  “When Queen Margaret passed to her heavenly reward, the processional was more than a mile long.” Hildy bent in the sunshine and ran her fingers through her wet waist-length curls in an effort to untangle them.

  Oh, to have hair like that instead of her horse-straight mane. “You have lovely hair.”

  “Thank you.” Hildy straightened and, eyeing her, grinned in mischievous fashion. “So tell me, how is it that you’ve gone from being the king’s mistress one minute to being MacKinnon’s the next? Have you gold tucked betwixt those thighs? Or were you tupping both without the other kenning?”

  Ack. “MacKinnon and I do not… He has yet to hitch.” Not yet, at any rate. “And you, mistress, are the last person to be casting stones.”

  Ignoring Gen’s insult, Hildy said, “Hitch?”

  “To promise, propose marriage.” Hildy, born in Oban and having learned Gael at her mother’s knee, spoke Scot and French but neither perfectly. Since Gen spoke no Gael, the women had to keep shifting betwixt French and Scot to make themselves fully understood.

  Hildy laughed, filling the small courtyard with her full, throaty sound. “Men like MacKinnon do not handfast. They marry or they don’t.”

  Suspicion skittered up Gen’s spine. “Ken him that well, do you?”

  She smiled. “Not in the way you mean and not for my lack of my trying, I can assure you. He’s easy on the eye.” She winked, then shrugged. “What I meant to say is men like MacKinnon need to take wives to beget legal heirs but only rent mistresses. You’ve seen my boudoir. You’d do well to get what you can whilst you can.” A smile played about her lips, then abruptly disappeared. “I’m not being cruel, my lady. ’Tis simply that I can tell you’re new at this, despite you having been with the king. I guess what I’m trying to say is that your pretty face won’t last forever, any more than mine will. You need keep that in mind as you pick and choose whom you bed.”

  Oh dear Lord, she thinks I’m a whore…like her!

  Gen opened her mouth to correct the woman’s dreadful misconception, then, thinking better of it, clamped down on her tongue. Here was the perfect opportunity to learn something of value, something she needed…but she must be very careful acquiring it.

  Hildy cocked her head. “You want to ask something. Go on. No need for shyness betwixt birds of a feather.”

  Augh. Gen took a deep breath. “All right. How does one ken for certain that you’ve…uhmm, garnered a man’s interest? That he wants you?”

&nb
sp; Hildy looked at Gen as if she’d sprouted feathers. “Oh my, you are green as grass if you need ask that.”

  Gen waved a dismissive hand. “I ken when a man is in…”

  “Rut?” A grin danced about Hildy’s full lips. “And how might you ken that exactly?”

  Feeling heat rise up her neck, Gen made a vague motion below her waist. “His…uhmm—”

  “Cock?”

  “I was going to say rod.”

  “Ah, as in ‘his rod and his staff, they comfort me’.”

  “Hildy!” Lord God and Saint Bride preserve her. Talking to this woman was impossible. That she even knew the psalm was shock enough.

  Gen turned on her heel to leave, but Hildy reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Stay. Please. I kenned what you meant and was only taunting you. Please stay. I’ve so few women to talk with as it is.”

  Gen huffed. She did want answers. “As you lust, but be warned, not another word of blasphemy, or I leave.”

  “Not another word, I hitch.” She grinned and patted the cottie stool beside her. “Sit and tell me what has you so…perplexe.”

  Gen settled on the stool, her thoughts in a tumble as to where to begin. “I ken the nature of breeding. Do ken which parts go where, as it were, but ken aught about the…heart of it. He lusts, aye.” She grinned sheepishly, recalling her and Britt’s mutual discomforts while riding tandem. “But he has yet to speak a word of his feelings, nor has he tried to bed me.”

  “Hmm. Could it be that he thinks of you only as the king’s property?”

  “Nay, he has kissed me.”

  This was apparently of great interest, for Hildy stared at her. “Has he now?”

  Unable to keep from blushing, Gen looked away. “Aye, and on three separate occasions.” But not once since their time at the stable, and certainly not last night nor the night before.

  “My, my. In my experience, kissing usually leads to bedding. Leastwise with the furry ones.”

  Gen didn’t want to ask but couldn’t help herself. “What furry ones?”

  “You ken the ones donning fox, ermine and such. They like their kissing before they sink their coc—rod.” She shrugged. “The burghers, on the other hand, are usually in a hurry and prefer it like their whisky—quick and neat—but they pay well, so who am I to complain.”