The King's Mistress

by Sandy Blair

  As Genny reached for the door latch, Greer shouted, “Nay! You can’t leave me.”

  Oh, but she could.

  Genny closed the door as her sister stomped a foot like a petulant child, shouting, “Genny, come back here!”

  Downstairs in the Lady and Lord Macintyre’s hall, she scrubbed her arms as she strode toward the fire before which Britt and her aunt sat in conversation. Apparently sensing her distress, Britt rose and glanced at the stairs. “Is something amiss?”

  “Please ready the horses. We’ve dallied as long as we dare.” Without a word, he kissed her forehead and left to do her bidding. Genny, relieved he hadn’t asked for an explanation, knelt before her obviously puzzled aunt. Pressing her pouch of hard-earned coins into her aunt’s frail hands, Genny said, “Lady Margaret, I cannot thank you enough for taking Greer under your wing in her time of need. Please accept this meager gift of appreciation.”

  Her aunt shook her head and tried to return the coins. “Oh, you needn’t give me anything, dear. I was most happy to be of assistance. Your blessed mother was such a dear friend. Besides, having Greer here has proved a godsend since Lord John and our sons are forever traipsing off hither and yon, leaving me with naught but the walls to speak to. Greer, bless her heart, is such a good listener. And such a lovely voice that child has. But did I hear correctly? You’re taking your leave already?”

  “Aye, and I’m truly sorry. We came to be reassured that Greer was all right, and finding that she and the babe are, we must now leave. With our king dead, Britt has many pressing matters he needs to attend.” ’Twas the truth, albeit in an around-the-hillock sort of way.

  Lady Margaret’s pale blue eyes, rheumy with age, grew decidedly glassy. “I imagine he does, and God bless His Majesty’s soul, may he rest in peace. Will Greer and the babe be leaving now as well?”

  The dear sweet woman was so lonely. “Nay, Auntie. I fear you must put up with them underfoot a wee bit longer. ’Tis too soon for either of them to travel.”

  Lady Margaret pushed to her feet. Threading her thin arm through Genny’s, she smiled up at her as they crossed the hall. “Your handsome husband tells me you’ll be making a new home on Skye.”

  “Aye, with his clan.”

  She looked about, then whispered, “Now, do be careful, dear. I mean no insult to your husband, for he seems normal enough, but I hear tell that many a Canteran has selkie blood, that they only eat raw fish and oysters, which you ken will make you deathly ill.”

  Genny managed to keep a straight face. “I shall be very careful, Auntie.”

  “Very good. Now do be sure to write as soon as you arrive, and I promise to do the same with news of your sister and nephew.”

  Genny could only hope so. God only kenned what tales Greer would now spin once she was out of hearing. But that was no concern of hers. She and Britt kenned the truth and now had to make a life of their own.

  Entering Waterford and spying the wee smithy shop he’d noted upon their earlier arrival, Britt veered left. Beside him, Genny—rousted either by their change in direction or the port’s cacophony, pulled out of her silent musings long enough to point a listless hand toward the nest of masts poking up beyond the treetops. “Britt, you’re going the wrong way. The harbor is yon.”

  Their long ride from Benbirk had been punctuated by Genny’s heavy sighs, teeth grinding and silent tears, but Britt knew better than to ask why. He had no wish to end up the target of her wrath. Better he just wait her out. Frank to a fault, she’d eventually tell him what had transpired betwixt her and her sister. He was simply grateful Genny was still at his side.

  “Aye, but I’ve something most important to tend to first.”

  Apparently not caring, reins limp in her hand, Genny murmured, “As you lust.”

  “This way, then.” Thank God her palfrey was content to follow Valiant wherever he went and the land they traveled was flat, or Lord knew what dangers she might have fallen into in her distraction.

  Stopping before the thatched shop, he dismounted and handed her Valiant’s reins. “I’ll be but a wee bit.” When she only nodded, her mind apparently again on what had transpired betwixt the sisters, he left her to it.

  Inside, the scents of molten metal and coal greeted him, along with a stout redheaded man with a bulbous nose, who asked, “How may I be of service?”

  Britt whipped out his prized sgian duhb, a gift from Alexander for services rendered, from beneath his chain-mailed arm.

  “Whoa now.” The man’s hands were high in the air. “Take whatever ye like, but leave me throat intact.”

  Britt blinked at the man, then laughed. “My apologies, sir. Britt MacKinnon of Skye. I’ve not come to rob you but to ask if you might take the stone and gold from this”—he held out the blade hilt first for the man’s inspection—“and make them into a ring.”

  The smithy, blowing through crooked teeth, took the blade and then eyed Britt from head to toe. “Someone your size should know better than to go about waving blades and frightening honest men.”

  “My apologies again. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  The smithy snorted, then held the blade to the light to examine the weighty amethyst. “I can.”

  “Before the next high tide?”

  “’Tis doable, but ’twill come dear. And your hand is large. We’ll need more gold than ye have here.”

  “The ring is not for me but a surprise for my ladywife. How much, then?”

  “That depends on her size.”

  Britt shrugged. “She sits on yon gray palfrey before the shop.”

  The man, muttering to himself, poked his head out the door, then, looking back at Britt, said, “Will ye be trading? If so, I’ll take the big black.”

  Only over my dead body. “Coin.” After more haggling, they finally came to an agreement, and the smithy pulled a clay jug from beneath his workbench. After pouring a dram into two wee cups and handing one to Britt, he said, “To your lady, may she remain as lovely to men’s eyes in her dotage as she is in youth.”

  Genny broke into a broad grin seeing Darby issuing orders on the Turoe’s deck. “Permission to come aboard, mistress?”

  Her friend peered over the rail. “Genny! Now aren’t you a blessed sight for these sore eyes?”

  Genny, grinning in response, jogged up the gangway. “So lovely to see you as well.”

  Given how distracted she’d been, her spying Captain O’Neil in the chaos that was Waterford’s waterfront had been naught short of a miracle. That the Turoe was ready to set sail and that Britt had managed to talk O’Neil into taking them to Skye had been more than she’d dare hope.

  Onboard, Darby caught her in a tight embrace. “What a great surprise. When did you make Ireland?”

  “A week past.”

  “So, did you not find your sister?”

  She’d found her, all right. “Aye, and found someone else as well.” She pointed to the quay where Britt was trying to coax Valiant onto the gangway.

  Darby, eyes squinting against the water’s reflection, pressed a hand to her breast. “Nay, that can’t be who I think ’tis?”

  Genny grinned. “Aye, ’tis, and we’re now handfast.”

  “Oh my word. I’m so pleased for you.” Giggling with the joy of it, they hugged again, then leaned over the rail. Genny hailed Britt, and he looked up. At her side, Darby gasped. “My, he certainly is handsome, isn’t he?”

  “Aye, that he is and so much more.” With a contented sigh, she turned her attention back to Darby. “I’m so pleased to find you onboard. I feared your husband might have found a new cook by now.”

  Darby grimaced. “Found and lost one, more’s like it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Watching Britt give up on his reluctant stallion, grab Silver’s reins and lead the gray quietly up the ramp, Darby said, “Such is life. At least this way I get to keep a better eye on his nibs.”

  On the quay, Valiant, apparently thinking he was being left behind by his
master, issued a shrill, strident whinny, then reluctantly set a hoof on the ramp. After two tentative steps, the horse bolted up the ramp, coming to a clattering, wild-eyed stop on deck, where he snorted in derisive fashion. As they laughed, Britt, muttering under his breath, grabbed Valiant’s reins. After securing their mounts, he came to Genny’s side, and she introduced him to Darby.

  Britt took her hand and, bowing, brought it to his lips. “’Tis a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mrs. O’Neil. I’ve heard much about you.”

  Darby, her hand pressed to her breast, blushed to her hair roots. “All good, I hope?”

  Grinning, he assured her, “To be sure.” Britt then took Genny’s hand. “A ghraidh, I’ve one more thing to do before we set sail.”

  With that he was gone.

  Three hours later, as the sun set and Ireland faded behind them into the mist, Genny hissed, “Britt, I can’t read a word he’s written. ’Tis all in Gaelic.”

  He squeezed her to his side as they stood before Captain O’Neil’s ledger. “It says that we’re marrying, and that since your parents are dead, I do not have to pay the bride price of a cow for you.”

  “A cow?”

  He chuckled. “The Irish have what they call Brehon laws, which dictate every aspect of life from birth to death. A cow is the price every common man pays for a wife. Had I wanted you enslaved, I’d have had to pay two milking cows.”

  “Do not for a minute think me grateful I’m worth less free than enslaved.”

  “Never entered my mind. Now hush and sign your name next to mine.”

  Huffing, Genny took the quill—along with it a leap of faith—and carefully wrote her name. Grinning, O’Neil dusted the ink with sand, blotted, then nodded to Darby, who, singing in lilting fashion, took Genny by the hand and led her on deck. Britt and O’Neil followed.

  Once they were situated before the mast, Darby, tears glistening, placed Genny’s hands in Britt’s and carefully draped a lovely set of green marble rosary beads around them. After kissing her cheek, she murmured to her husband, who began the ceremony. In Gaelic.

  As Genny listened to the lyrical cadence of his words, she understood naught but could tell by the look in the eyes of those witnessing the ceremony that O’Neil had a gift to wax poetic, for there wasn’t a dry eye to be seen, including Britt’s.

  Finally he asked Britt a question, and looking at her, Britt said most solemnly, “Tha fios agam.”

  Wishing to understand, she asked, “What did he ask?”

  “If when you fall, if I felt pain? Should your tears take shape, do I taste salt? I told him I have.”

  Captain O’Neil then turned to her and asked in Scot, “Do you, Mary Geneen Armstrong, feel the same?”

  “I do.”

  “Very good. MacKinnon, do you have the ring?”

  Britt reached into his sporran, then, taking her hand, placed a lovely gold ring on her finger. The setting sun’s rays caught and bounced off the lovely purple stone, and Genny’s throat grew taut. “Oh my.” She’d never imagined wearing something so precious and beautiful.

  Before them, O’Neil said, “Then as captain of the Turoe and before these witnesses and God, I pronounce you man and wife. MacKinnon, you may kiss your bride.”

  She looked from O’Neil to Britt. “Does this mean we’re legally wed?”

  “Aye.” Britt, laughing, scooped her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly, much to the crew’s great delight and Genny’s embarrassment.

  Three days later, they repeated the process at Dun Haakon on Skye before the Abbott of Iona, who happened to be Britt’s uncle, and in the presence of his father and his clan. After responding to similar questions posed by the abbot and then signing the family bible on the front step of the kirk, they took their place within for the celebration mass. While relatives and friends settled behind them, Genny whispered, “Love, I do so appreciate this gesture, but we’re already married. Why are we going through this yet again?”

  He brought her hand to his lips. “So you might ken how very much I love you, so that that lovely and gracious heart of yours kens beyond any doubt that you are the most married woman in Scotland.”

  “Nature will withstand the rocks.” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

  Epilogue

  Britt blew through his teeth, studying his account ledger. Genny hadn’t been bragging two years ago when she’d told him she knew husbandries as few did. The proof was in the numbers.

  Valiant’s first colt had fetched a small fortune, and the mare was due to foal again come March. Then Gen insisted the sheep she’d bartered away from the earl and the MacKinnon flock remain in pasture all last winter, setting off a battle royal betwixt her and their shepherd, who insisted all cattle be housed with the coming of the first snow. But come shearing time she’d been proved the wiser. The entire flock had produced unexpectedly dense fleece.

  And she hadn’t stopped there. Oh nay. She spent the spring selecting pullets and goslings and the summer inspecting cattle—bulls and bollocks—from one end of the Isles to the other.

  He rolled his eyes. She’d been so busy hieing hither and yon in an effort to build their treasury—so great was her fear of war and losing all she held dear—that they’d barely had time to talk, much less breed themselves. But they finally succeeded. His joy knew no bounds, while Gen’s was slightly tempered by the fact that she hadn’t heard back from her sister since sharing her good news.

  So now they waited for both the birth and for the Privy Council to decide who among the battling chiefs would become regent for the recently summoned Princess Margaret of Norway, since Yolande had sent word that she’d given birth to a stillborn before fleeing to France.

  “Love, ’tis time.”

  Britt looked up and found Genny standing, plump and lovely with child, in their solar doorway, and smiled. “Time for what, a ghraidh?”

  His wife placed a hand on her bulging middle, a habit he found most endearing. “The babe is coming. Please summon the howdie-wife.”

  Now? “Holy Columba, are you certain?”

  Genny, suddenly grimacing, grabbed the door frame. “Aye, quite.”

  “Oh Lord!” He raced to her side, scooped her into his arms and gently set her down in the middle of their tall, canopied bed. Placing a pillow beneath her head, he asked, “What can I get you? Need something to drink? Another pillow?”

  Curling like a hedgehog, she growled, “The howdie, Britt. Now!”

  “Right! Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” Oh God, his son was on the way.

  He flew down the stairs, raced into the crowded hall and, grabbing the first lad he spied, shouted, “Go fetch the Cailleach. Now!”

  Around him, conversation ceased. Raking his hands through his hair, feeling totally useless, he told them, “Lady MacKinnon is birthing.”

  Three women squealed in delight and, chattering like locusts, fled the hall.

  Good, they would know what to do. He hoped. But what if they didn’t? What if the babe came before their wise woman arrived? What if, despite Genny’s lovely wide hips, the babe had trouble coming into the world? What if Genny started bleeding and the women couldn’t stop it? What if she developed childbirth fever? Oh God.

  He raced back up the stairs. Inside the solar, he found the three women from the hall undressing Genny and cooing encouragement as they readied for the next MacKinnon’s arrival. Spying him, Genny made a shooing motion. Britt, ignoring it, crossed the threshold and kissed her. Tasting salt from fresh tears leaking out from beneath her lashes, he whispered, “I love you more than life itself, a ghraidh, would do this for you if I could.”

  Making a barely perceptible nod, beads of sweat taking shape on her furrowed brow, she squeezed his hand to the point of whiteness. Good God almighty, how could she be in so much pain so soon? This couldn’t be normal.

  When she finally relaxed and produced a wan smile for him, he reluctantly allowed himself to be ushered out into the stairwell, whereupon he bellowed, “Wher
e’s that damn witch!”

  Below, his father came into view. Looking up the stairs, the MacKinnon shouted, “Son, calm yourself. She’s coming. Now get down here and do what any decent husband with any sense does at a time like this.”

  “And what the hell might that be?” If the old man suggested he walked crossways to the sun about the keep muttering incantations, he’d commit patricide.

  “Drink, son. Whisky.”

  Whisky. A brilliant idea if ever there was one. “I’m coming.”

  After three grueling hours of listening to Gen’s distant keening, Britt couldn’t take anymore and rose from his place before the fire. “Da, I’m going to the chapel.”

  If he could do naught else for his beloved, he could pray.

  In the chapel, he knelt before Ian’s marred effigy. “You’ve a brother on the way, laddie. ’Twould be lovely if you could keep an eye on him. And if you’re of a mind, would you be so kind as to say a prayer for Genny? You’d have liked her very much, and she would have loved you.”

  Resting his forehead on the cold stone, he told his firstborn, “I’m so sorry I failed you, lad.” Not once but twice. First, in choosing the wrong mother for him, and then by underestimating the extent of her madness. “I shan’t take anything for granted ever again.”

  As the sun moved across the sky on its journey west and his wife labored hour after hour, he prayed for her safety, for that of their child and for Scotland.

  The chapel was dim when he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Son, come.”

  He shot to his feet. “My lady, is she alive?”

  “Very much so, but I expect you’d like to confirm that with your own eyes.”

  “And the babe? Is it well?”

  His father laughed. “Go on. I’ll not be answering questions you should be asking your ladywife.”

  Taking the steps to the solar two and three at a time, he raced to the top, reminding himself with every step that surely his father wouldn’t have been smiling if something had gone awry.

  At the solar threshold, his heart pounding a frantic tattoo against his ribs, he hesitated in order to drink in the sight of his beautiful wife lying on her side, grinning down at the infant suckling her breast. A more loving and lovely sight he could not imagine. “Hello.”