by Mary Wine
Very tight.
“Och look at that puppy dog look of affection.” Cullen moaned.
Brodick threw a broken loaf of bread at him. “Yer daft to joke about her. Fate has blessed me and I’ve no desire to tempt her to take it back because I’m nae grateful.”
He was too. His wife was taking command of Sterling. She was doing it with kindness, something that was far too rare in English noblewomen. He could sit and watch her for hours, absorbing the way she moved, the way she dealt with difficulties without temper.
Aye, fate had been kind and he was grateful.
Chapter Eleven
“Oh now, don’t ye look lovely.” Helen fussed over the fire, poking it when it was blazing very well already. “I suppose I should leave ye to awaiting yer husband. Good night.”
Await her confession…
Anne swallowed roughly, trying to maintain her resolve to do as she’d promised herself she would. She had to do it. Find the courage to trust in the love he’d offered her.
There was no more time for her. Besides, she did not have the heart to deceive him further. She could not do that to the man she loved.
But the candles burned low and the fire became a bed of coals blanketed by thick ash. The warm coverlet lulled her into slumber long before the chamber went dark.
Anne awoke at dawn, a sleepy yawn on her lips. She was the only one in the bed, the sheet beside her still smooth. A patch of scarlet caught her attention even in the dim light. Moving from the bed, she pulled the window curtain to let the rising sun shine in. A piece of silk was carefully folded around a box, a parchment sitting on top of it that bore the wax seal of the Earl of McJames. Her hand shook when she reached for it. The wax snapped in the chilly morning air, the sound as piercing as a pistol shot.
Dearest wife—
With regret I must go to court by royal command. Be very sure that it took a King to summon me from yer side.
Write to me…Yer letters will strengthen me.
Brodick.
She traced his name with a finger. Never once had she had a love letter. Today she did.
Brodick.
Only that name that she used in their bed. It was a sweet intimacy that touched her heart. Setting the letter aside, she unwrapped the silk to find a lady’s writing desk. It was smooth and crafted with skill. Two hinges allowed the top to lift up. Stored carefully inside were sheets of paper. A small pottery jar with another piece of expensive and rare cork stood there. Two bone quills lay near the ink well. There was a scarlet strip of wax and a small brass seal along with it. Lifting the seal, she choked on a sob when she noted the rampant lion of the McJames. There would be very few of these seals because they represented the earl. Each one would be carefully guarded.
It was a gift worthy of the mistress of the manor.
Anne carefully closed the lid. She finally understood her mother completely. Ivy Copper was in love and that emotion blinded her to every insult or slur the world cast at her. She could no more stop loving than she could cease breathing.
“Och, I thought I heard ye moving about.” Helen lacked her normal joy this morning. “I see ye found the lord’s letter. He was most distraught at leaving ye. But those toads from court wouldnae hear of waiting. Kept him up most of the night arguing with him over this and that until the earl just mounted his horse and rode, wanting to end the matter the soonest. He wrote that letter with his own hand.”
That was a gift of intimacy. A man of Brodick’s station normally did not write his letters himself. She had written most of Philipa’s. There had been a time when a part of the value a noble bride brought to her husband was her knowledge and finesse of being cordial with all the other great houses. She would carefully dip her quill and pen letters that maintained friendships with all the correct people.
Helen bustled about, pointing the two maids with her toward tasks. “Still ye’ll have to get used to it. Being an earl means answering to yer king. Ye must have learned that in yer years at court.”
Anne lost her focus, losing track of what Helen was saying. Her stomach rolled violently, sweat beading her forehead. There was no mastering the nausea this morning. She flew towards the garderobe, the contents of her belly rising.
Anne was trembling when Helen gently pulled her off her knees.
“I don’t know what happened. I don’t feel ill.”
Helen led her back across the chamber, using a wet cloth to soothe her brow.
“I see now why ye had naught but stale bread in yer chamber.” Helen looked up, snapping her fingers at one of the maids. “Fetch some bread and be quick.”
The girl smiled so broadly all her teeth showed. “Aye, right away.”
Anne stared at the empty doorway, trying to understand why the girl was so happy. Sickness in the castle was cause for alarm.
“Such a shame the lord was called away.” Helen was practically dancing. “But better now than when yer time comes.”
“My time?”
Helen turned, confusion on her face. She stared at her for a moment before a similar bright smile covered her face. “Och now, I forget that yer so newly wed. But a blessed union it is. You havenae had any monthly curses since leaving England, have ye?”
She hadn’t.
Anne felt her eyes go wide. If she hadn’t just retched, she would now. Philipa’s ugly, evil, twisted face filled her thoughts. For sure she was breeding. Being a maiden didn’t mean she was ignorant of the facts surrounding a woman’s body. The kitchen at Warwickshire was often ripe with talk about pregnancy and its symptoms. How else had she learned of French kisses? Despair filled her because now there was an innocent babe to think of as well.
But it was replaced by the sight of Brodick waiting in the yard for her. The way he stood so proud and strong. Giving him a child was the greatest gift she might ever bestow on anyone. He was worthy of that.
But he wanted Mary’s child, not a bastard half-sibling’s child.
“Och now, look at ye. ’Tis a happy time. I’ve waited so long to see this day. I cannae wait until your belly is plump and round.”
Helen chattered away while Anne tried to feel the tiny life growing inside her.
“We needs get the seamstresses to plying their needles at once. No more long stays for you.”
Helen turned to reveal a creamy sheet of paper laid out squarely on the writing desk. The ink well was carefully placed in a small cutout made for it so that it would not spill while the cork was removed.
“You must write to the earl. Once a fortnight his messenger will bring you a letter and you may send yers back with him. He’ll be so very happy to learn of the babe.”
“I shall write, but not just this moment.”
Helen shook her head, turning to replace the cork in the jar of ink. “Och, listen to me. Yer belly is heaving. ’Twill pass. We’ll send the lads for Agnes.”
Anne placed a hand over her mouth, horror filling her. She could not condemn her child to being bastard born.
If she remained at Sterling, that would be what happened. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she looked at the writing desk. She could not confess who she was. Not now.
Not ever.
Two weeks later a letter arrived as Helen promised. Anne didn’t think she had ever been so happy to receive anything. To be sure, her sire never wrote to his wife when he was away at court. For that reason, she had tried not to expect a letter. Brodick was at court after all, and he had important things to attend to. All wives had to endure being second to the monarchs.
There was much to do and she threw herself into the fast pace of spring. There was planting and early harvest, lambs being birthed and soap to make now that the weather was good enough to use the large iron caldrons. They built fires beneath the huge pots and stirred the soap with boat paddles. Time had dragged on, in spite of her best efforts to fill it. She still awoke at night, searching the bed for Brodick. She told herself a hundred times to stop thinking about him, stop longing for him, that
it was impractical and even insane to love him.
Her heart refused to listen.
Instead she impatiently saw to making sure the messenger was fed and new clothing brought up for him. She paced while he lingered in his bath, refusing to ask for the letter before she had shown the man good hospitality. When at last the night was creeping over Sterling, he untied his leather bag and handed a sealed parchment to her.
“Oh now, yer nae to read that here.”
Helen whisked it out of her grasp before she closed her fingers. “Helen!”
“Nay. Ye listen to me. Wait. ’Twill be much better if ye wait to read it in yer chamber.”
Anne frowned. She did not want to wait. Helen smiled gently at her.
“Follow me, mistress, and I’ll show you how to read a letter from yer true love.”
Her face transformed into a tapestry of sensitivity. Her eyes shimmering with a knowledge that was both deep and sultry. It was not about mistress and maid. It was a moment when Anne looked into the eyes of another woman who understood love for a man.
Helen held the letter up, beckoning her towards her chamber. The maid left the parchment on the bed as she removed her clothing, leaving her in only a chemise. Spring was well on its way to giving over to early summer so the air was warm. The fire kept the stone floor inviting for her bare feet. Helen removed the pins from her hair, brushing it out. But she didn’t braid it as she normally did.
“There now. That’s the way to read the letter. Just as ye would welcome him at night.”
Helen replaced the brush on the vanity. The two maids with her pulled the bed curtains to close the sides. Sitting on the foot of the bed, Anne fingered the seal. Helen sent the maids away, pausing to extinguish the candles. She left a single one burning on the vanity. Its yellow flame danced over the sheet of paper she had laid out on the writing desk. The quill sparkled in the candlelight, looking magical.
“Enjoy it, mistress, and make sure ye write him back. The carrier will leave at dawn.”
The chamber was left in deep quiet, the sort that allowed you to hear the crackle and pop of the wood as it caught fire. She heard the whistle of the wind outside the window. Anne still sat upright but Helen had tucked the coverlet around her.
The parchment crinkled as she broke the seal and opened it wide. The black ink danced across the page, in neat letters. She drank in the words, for the first time getting to know the man who had taken her from Warwickshire. They had never spoken of simple things. Brodick wrote of them now. Telling her about his likes and dislikes. That he preferred small beer to ale and heather to rosemary. The letter had many dates on it, like a diary. He would date the top of each entry, letting her know that he thought of her each night. Several drops of wax shone on the parchment, proving that he’d remained up past sunset to write to her.
The way they loved when together was exciting, their bodies creating heat and passion so hot it might even be explosive. But his letters were a different sort of intimacy. There was tenderness and trust as he shared things with her that were neither noble nor politically correct. They were often silly or whimsical. That endeared him more to her heart.
Crawling out of her cocoon, Anne went to the writing desk. It was as if he was there with her. As she dipped the quill into the ink, she felt the loneliness fade away for the first time since awaking to the news that he was gone. The sharp tip scraped softly against the paper as she returned it to the ink well over and over. She was careful to not smudge the drying ink, waiting to begin the next line until the candlelight no longer glistened in it. She did not care that it was a slow process. She lingered over her composition, savoring the next line. The candle burned lower as she began a second page, writing of small things just as he had, sharing who she was with him.
A tap on the door broke the mood. Helen held a tin lantern in one hand as she peeked in.
“I’m just finishing.”
Blowing on the last line, Anne made sure it was dry before folding the parchment to conceal what she had written. Holding the wax over the candle, she turned it round and round until it shimmered then pressed it firmly onto the place where the edges of parchment met. The heated portion puddled into a round glistening circle of wax. Anne pressed the seal firmly onto it, holding it still while the cool metal drew the heat out of the wax setting it.
When she pulled the brass seal up, it left a mold of the rampant lion in the scarlet wax.
“Thank you for waiting, Helen.”
“’Twas a pleasure.” She set the lantern down and went to the bed. Pulling the coverlet to one side, she waited for Anne to get back into bed. She went, enjoying the comforts because who knew when they might end. For tonight it was enough to simply enjoy.
Helen blew out the candle. She took the letter and left. The chamber was quiet and dark. But the babe inside her began to move. A tiny, soft motion like a flutter of butterfly wings inside her belly. Her breath froze in her lungs and the movement came again, confirming that she was not dreaming it. Laying a hand over her slightly thickened waistline, she cradled their child.
It would be born in love even if she had to see Mary cradling it. Many mothers gave up as much for their children. Tears fell onto the pillow as she refused to lament the ache in her heart. She would not repent for loving. Even if it broke her heart. To love was to taste life for the first time.
But her babe needed more than that. Her life was an example of what happened when you tried to pit love against the way the world was organized. Mary was the rightful mistress of Sterling. If Anne confessed to Brodick, she might remain as his leman, but her children would lead the same life she had when Mary was found out and was forced to take her position as wife.
But if she returned to Warwickshire and allowed Mary to pretend that her babe was hers, her child would enjoy all the benefits of legitimacy. Brodick would keep the dowry land.
She wiped the tears from her eyes. It would be done. Yet not until right before the babe was due, because Brodick would come for her. Bonnie had seen it. So she would have to deceive him for the sake of their child. It was the greatest gift she might give her son.
That thought lulled her into sleep. Brodick’s face was there in her dreams.
The Scottish court
Arriving at court was not an easy thing. Brodick spent five days just finding a place to lay his head. With the king in town, most of the better homes were rented and he didn’t keep a town house. His father had avoided court as well. Riding hellbent toward the royal castle hadn’t gotten him any closer to seeing his king. His clothing had to follow, making it longer still until he was at last ready to present himself at court.
At least the royal hounds were off his back. They left him the moment he began setting up house. The city was teeming with people. The different clan tartans denoted other titled men. Some clansmen still clung to their plain wool kilts without plaid striping. Not all clans had adopted the newer kilts.
It was a full fortnight before he was ready to appear at court. Showing up any earlier would have been a waste of time. The first thing he needed to do was send a formal message to the King’s chamberlain advising the man that he’d arrived as summoned.
James Stewart had been raised by courtiers. His mother had long ago lost her head in an English castle. It was an ironic twist of fate that left him the heir to Elizabeth Tudor’s throne, since she had signed his mother’s execution order.
But that didn’t seem to matter much now. Brodick walked into the main receiving hall to find it bursting with ambassadors from all over the world. They were dressed in fine clothing, attendants trailing them. Foreign languages bounced around the hall—Portuguese, French, Italian and even Spanish. His temper strained against his control as he viewed the number of men waiting to see the king. This was the outer hall. They weren’t even in the main court yet. James might keep him waiting for a month if he was of a mind to do so.
“It seems we Scots have gained a wee bit o’ favor since I was last here.” D
ruce looked around, his face pensive. “Now that’s a change.”
“It explains why Jamie is so concerned with raiding these days.”
“Aye, it does.”
Brodick watched the blending of new fashion with Celtic tradition. Kilts were still worn by at least half the men but now there were velvet slops and Venetian pants as well. Many of the ambassadors wore lavishly decorated short capes that shone with gold and jewels. He and his men were wearing doublets with sleeves, the green wool a mark of the McJames clan for a century. But he didn’t think even being in the presence of his monarch meant he should have sewn gold baubles onto his clothing. Such frivolity was for women and fops who eyed young men for trysts.
“But I must admit that I’m a bit surprised at the fashion on display.”
His brooch was gold and set with twin rubies for the lion’s eyes. It had been his father’s and someday it would be worn by his son. On his right hand was a signet ring with the seal of the Earl of McJames. It did not leave his hand unless he handed it to a man willing to defend it with his life. That was a promise his father had extracted on his death bed.
Druce scoffed at him. “I’ll remain a happy man in my kilt.”
“Agreed.”
They all froze as McQuade came into view. The man stood with his retainers, frowning at the great number of men waiting to see the king. The royal guards kept the door barred while everyone awaited the call of the chamberlain announcing their name. Without that, they stood waiting.
“Thieving mongrel McQuade.”
“Easy, Cullen. We’re here to defend the fact that we nae started the fighting.”
This time.
Brodick had to give the man his due; there had been a few nights that he strayed onto McQuade land. But he didnae fire the homes of the farmers.
Druce slapped Cullen on the back. “What’s the matter, lad? Don’t ye like the look of yer future father-in-law?”