He felt his cock swelling within his breeks. Jesu! She was going to love as fiercely as she had lived. The thought was intoxicating, and he held her even closer, wanting her to know his need. Pulling her head away from his, Maggie’s surprised eyes met his. “I think they all know we have made our peace now, madam,” he said to her in a level voice. “If we kiss any more, I fear yer grandsire will have to throw a bucket of cold water over us, Maggie mine.”
“I’ve never known a man, for all that’s said of me,” she responded softly. “Ye’ll be gentle, Fingal, my lord?”
“ ’Tis December, Maggie mine, and the nights are long,” he replied for her ears alone. “I’ll be gentle, and we’ll love at our leisure, for we have a lifetime ahead of us.”
“I’ll want to bathe and change my battling clothing for wedding finery before Father David blesses our union,” Maggie told him.
“Then I shall do the same,” he said as the circle of grinning men surrounding them broke open to allow them to pass through.
They walked up the stairs to where her grandfather still sat. Dugald Kerr was smiling broadly at them both. “Well done, both of ye,” the old laird said. “I’m proud that my great-grandchildren will come from such strong stock. Make me a lad first.”
“With yer permission, my lord, we will want to bathe and change into more suitable garments before the blessing,” Fin said to Dugald Kerr.
The laird nodded. “Go along then,” he said as with his consent they turned and left him. Dugald Kerr stood up now. He looked at his English kinsmen. “Go home,” he told them. “There is nothing for you here at Brae Aisir.”
“I’d prefer to remain until the morrow,” Lord Edmund told his kinsman. “Surely ye will want yer relations at the blessing, the feast, and to attest to the honesty of the bride,” he said in silky tones.
“Da!” Rafe was not pleased, for he realized his father had not yet given up on his impossible dream of uniting the two families and thereby putting the pass under the control of a single person, namely himself.
Dugald Kerr laughed harshly. “Jesu, Edmund, was being party to the challenge not enough for ye? Very well then, stay. But fair or wet, ye’ll go on the morrow if I have to escort ye myself.” Then turning, he stamped back into his warm hall.
“Are ye mad?” Rafe asked his parent. “ ’Tis over and done with, Da. They’ll bed tonight, and from the look of them both, Brae Aisir will have an heir in less than a year.”
“Aye,” his father said. “But a bairn is a fragile creature, Rafe. I’ve fathered enough of them and buried enough of them to know that.”
Rafe Kerr looked hard at his father. “If I thought you would dare such a thing, Da, I’d kill you myself,” he said.
Lord Edmund looked at his eldest son in surprise. “We could control the whole Aisir nam Breug. Why would you not want that? Our power in the Borders, both sides, would be enormous. We would collect the tolls going both ways. What do you find repugnant about that, Rafe?”
“Everything,” his son replied. “Have you no wisdom about this, Da? We borderers own but scant loyalty to our kings. We rule ourselves on both sides of the border. The traverse has been kept honest and free of strife because the two branches of our family have controlled it over the centuries. No king has told us what to do. We decided together long ago that the pass would be used only for peaceful travel. We set the tolls together. Together we built the watchtowers that oversee the route. We have stood together against any who would use the Aisir nam Breug for illicit purposes.
“Do we not have enough strife among our families here in the Borders, Da? One family on either side of the march controlling the pass would open it to all manner of evil. A king could interfere and claim the land for his own. They dare not do it with two families in control. Bribery would ensue, and not necessarily with the lord ruling the pass, but among the men guarding it who would look the other way if paid to do so. They would open the Aisir nam Breug to smugglers and raiders. But with the two families ruling the road, it is too difficult for such dishonesty to flourish. It might have been us, Da, whose direct line expired. Would you have wanted old Dugald Kerr to take your responsibilities away from your designated heir?”
“We could be richer than we are if we had the entire traverse,” Lord Edmund said.
“I am your heir, Da, and I will not support you in this foolishness,” Rafe said. “I like Lord Stewart, from what little I have learned of him in our conversations. When old Dugald dies or decides to give up his responsibility, Fingal Stewart will manage his end of the road well. He’s an honorable man.”
“You’re a fool,” his father replied. “How fortunate that I have other sons.”
Rafe Kerr laughed. He was the most capable of all Edmund Kerr’s sons, legitimate and born on the wrong side of the blanket. When they were all children, his father had made it a point to teach the younger of his siblings unquestioned loyalty and obedience to Rafe, for Rafe—as his father was constantly pointing out to the others—was the heir. And Rafe had enforced their sire’s teachings as he had grown. Each of his brothers had his trust and loyalty in return. And if there was one thing of which he was entirely certain, it was that not one of them wanted all the responsibilities that went along with being the heir to Edmund Kerr, and overseeing their part of the Aisir nam Breug. “Give over, Da, and enjoy the day,” he said. “The laird’s wine cellars will be open wide today.” Then putting an arm about his father’s shoulders, he walked with him back into the hall.
Around them the servants were dashing about setting the high board. The trestles and the benches were brought from an alcove of the hall where they were stored when not in use. Barrels of October ale were rolled in. Small wheels of hard yellow cheese were placed on each trestle. A linen cloth edged in lace was laid over the high board. A large silver gilt saltcellar in the shape of the sun in its splendor, which was the Kerr family’s crest, was set upon it. Silver goblets studded with green agate were placed at the six places being set with round silver plates, spoons, and forks. Each guest had his or her own knife.
“Old Dugald has forks,” Lord Edmund noted. “Why don’t we have forks in our hall?” he grumbled.
“Aldis suggested them, but you wouldn’t pay the cost,” Rafe reminded him. “You said the Florentine merchants were smiling thieves in silk clothing.”
“Humph,” Lord Edmund said. “Tell her she can get them. And I want a dozen. Dugald probably has a dozen. We can’t be lacking.”
A servant brought them wine, and they joined their host by the fire as they awaited the bride and bridegroom.
Maggie had hurried to her chamber to find her large tub set up, the serving men just bringing in the last buckets of hot water. When they had poured it into the oak tub, Grizel shooed them out. Then she pulled off Maggie’s boots and socks. The girl stood, slipped her breeks down over her hips, and, kicking them away from her, unlaced her shirt, drawing it off, and finally her short chemise. Then without a moment’s hesitation she stepped up the wood steps and down into the tub. “God’s blood!” she swore softly. “I ache in every joint, Grizel. I must soak a moment or two before I wash.”
“Ye fought hard,” Grizel said proudly. “It was a grand contest and will be spoken of in the Borders for many years to come.”
“Few saw it but our own,” Maggie reminded her tiring woman.
“They’ll repeat it to their kin who were not here today, and they will pass it on to others throughout the Borders,” Grizel said.
“God only knows how the tale will end up, for it will be embellished by each person who repeats it,” Maggie said, laughing softly.
“He’s a fine man, and will give ye strong sons and daughters, mistress,” Grizel said. “Is there anything ye would ask of me now that ye face yer wedding night?”
“Nay,” Maggie replied, a faint blush touching her cheeks. “I’ve seen enough lasses and lads in the hay and out on the moors to know just enough to make a beginning of it. And what I don’t know I
expect that my husband will tutor me in to make up for my deficiencies.”
“Aye,” Grizel agreed. “ ’Tis better that way, for ye’ll learn to please him. And ye’ll get yer way more often than not pleasing a husband than displeasing him.”
“Help me wash my hair,” Maggie said, changing the subject. “My scalp is soaked wet with all my efforts this morning.”
Grizel brought her mistress a small stone jar filled with scraps of soap that had been melted soft in a bit of water. Taking a small pitcher, she dipped it into the tub and poured the water over her mistress’s head. Then Maggie dipped her fingers into the jar, bringing up a handful of the mixture, which she rubbed into her head. The sweet-smelling mixture foamed up quickly as she scrubbed her head. Grizel rinsed the soap away, and the two women repeated the process. When all the soap was finally erased from Maggie’s hair, she took her tresses into a hank, wringing it out. Then Grizel pinned the wet hair atop the girl’s head so she might continue her bath.
“I can’t decide whether to wear the burgundy or the deep green velvet,” Maggie said to her companion as she scrubbed herself.
“Neither,” Grizel surprised her by replying. “I’ve been working for weeks on a gown for ye to wear on this day, my lady.” She chuckled, well pleased by the look of excitement that bloomed on Maggie’s face. “Finish with yer bath,” Grizel said, smiling.
“Do ye think my lord has bathed too?” Maggie wondered aloud.
“Aye, he has,” Grizel answered her.
“How can ye know?” Maggie inquired.
“Archie is a man who enjoys a bit of chatter,” Grizel said, chortling. “He said he was putting sandalwood oil in his master’s bathwater today.”
“My lord’s manservant likes ye,” Maggie teased her tiring woman.
“Do ye ache less now?” Grizel asked, avoiding the subject of Lord Stewart’s man.
“Aye,” Maggie replied, but her hazel eyes were twinkling. “I don’t think I have ever in my life fought so hard as I did this day. My husband is very skilled with his claymore. Not once did he give me the opportunity to slip beneath his guard and blood him,” she said admiringly.
“Did ye want him to?” Grizel inquired slyly.
Maggie smiled almost to herself. “Nay,” she admitted. “I didn’t.”
“He’s a bold man, and an honorable one too,” Grizel said, nodding approvingly.
Maggie finally emerged from her tub. The water was cooling, and she was beginning to ache again. She dried herself thoroughly, wrapping the cloth about herself. Then she sat down by her hearth to get warm again while she toweled her hair with another cloth and began brushing it out before the fire.
“ ’Tis past noon,” Grizel said at last. “Ye must dress, and then go to the kirk for the blessing. The Netherdale Kerrs haven’t left. They’re staying for the blessing and the feast. Lord Edmund is not happy about yer marriage, but Rafe, yer cousin, seems a good lad. Not at all like his da. Imagine the old fool telling yer grandsire that he wanted to wed ye and bring the two families together,” Grizel said indignantly.
“He wants to control all of the Aisir nam Breug,” Maggie said. “I seem to be the answer to his desire. I’d nae wed him if he were the last man on earth, and as fair as a May morn,” Maggie said. “I’ve never liked him, even as a child.”
Grizel took the hairbrush from her mistress, and running it through the girl’s hair said, “Yer dry now. Let’s get ye dressed, my lady.”
Maggie could see her undergarments laid out upon her bed, but there was no sign of a gown. Grizel handed her mistress a pair of soft woolen stockings that were pale in color and came just below her knee. She drew them on, affixing them with a plain ribbon garter. Standing, she next put on a chemise. It had long sleeves trimmed with gold lace, and a low square neckline also edged in gold lace that would match her gown’s neckline. Next Grizel added two silk petticoats that tied in the back with ribbon.
The tiring woman went to the wardrobe and drew out the bodice, which already had its sleeves affixed, and the skirt that made up the gown that Maggie would wear. The lower half of the gown was a funnel skirt of orange tawny velvet brocade edged in brown fur. The matching velvet bodice had a square neckline edged in gold embroidery, and the sleeves had deep turned-back cuffs of rich brown marten, the gold lace from her chemise sleeves just barely visible. “Well?” Grizel said, smiling.
“It’s beautiful!” Maggie exclaimed. “It’s perfect!” She threw her arms about the older woman. “Thank you, Grizel! Thank you!”
“I want the king’s kinsman to see what a fine lady ye are,” Grizel said. “I want him to know yer the kind of wife he can take to court one day when the king takes a wife. I want him to be proud of ye as all here at Brae Aisir are proud of ye.” She wiped a tear or two from her warm brown eyes.
Maggie was close to tears herself after Grizel’s declaration. “Help me finish dressing,” she said, a catch in her voice. What on earth was the matter with her today? She supposed it was the shock of actually losing the contest. Before this day no one seeking her hand who had dared to take up the challenge had ever gotten past the footrace, although she had raced her stallion just to make a point with Ewan Hay. The contracts had been signed weeks ago. She was already wed to Fingal Stewart. But now he had gained her respect. He had proved himself worthy to be her husband this day, to inherit control of the Aisir nam Breug eventually, to sire bairns upon her.
She stood silently as Grizel fastened the skirt of her gown. It fell in graceful folds over her petticoats. She slid her arms into the bodice, waiting while Grizel carefully laced it up the back with gold ribbon. She sat carefully, letting her tiring woman brush out her long rich chestnut brown hair. It would be worn loose, attesting to her virginity. A gold ribbon embroidered with tiny glittering bits of gold quartz was fastened about her forehead to hold her tresses in place. Maggie stood and took the soft leather gloves Grizel handed her. They would be riding to the kirk. Her servant slipped a fur cape about her shoulders.
“Yer ready,” Grizel said.
Maggie descended into the great hall where the men of her family awaited her. Her grandfather was dressed in a long, dark brown velvet coat with full-puffed sleeves, and a large fur collar. She smiled at him, but then her gaze went to her husband, and her eyes widened with both approval and surprise. If as Grizel had said, she was fine enough to appear at the king’s court, then so was Lord Fingal Stewart.
Chapter 6
She had always thought him passing fair for a man, but looking at him now, she realized how handsome he truly was. At five feet ten inches, she was considered extremely tall for a woman, but he topped her by at least half a foot. His thick wavy black hair was cropped short. His gray eyes looked out at her from beneath thick bushy black eyebrows. He had a long face with an aquiline nose, and while his mouth was big and thin, when he smiled it changed the severity of his countenance. He smiled at her now, and Maggie smiled back.
“Ye are beautiful, madam,” he gallantly told her, taking her hand up and kissing it.
“As are ye, my lord,” she said, admiring his deep green velvet doublet with its bit of gold embroidery, padded sleeves, and fur cuffs. He had matching slashed breeches, silk stockings that showed his shapely calves, and embroidered shoes.
“Archie seems to have some magic that grants him proper garments for me when the occasion demands it,” Fingal Stewart answered. He had fully expected to wear the black and brown canions he wore to court. He tucked her hand into his arm.
“Can we get to the kirk for the blessing?” the old laird asked impatiently.
“I could do it here, Brother,” Father David Kerr said.
“Nay! I want the blessing pronounced in the kirk,” Dugald Kerr replied. “The kirk is full of Kerrs now waiting for this.”
“We should not keep them waiting another minute then, my lord,” Fingal Stewart said. Then he turned to Maggie and said mischievously, “Do ye want to race?”
She laughed loudly. “
Nay, my lord. We shall proceed through the village upon our mounts at a docile pace as is suitable for this day.”
In the courtyard a fine chestnut gelding and a cream-colored mare with a dark mane and tail stood waiting patiently. Lord Stewart lifted Maggie onto the mare, waiting while she pulled on her riding gloves and adjusted her skirts; she did not ride astride this day. Then he swung himself up on the gelding next to the laird and the priest, who were already mounted. Slowly they descended the hill path and into the village. The street was lined with villagers who then fell in behind the riders escorting them.
The priest hurried into the church building with the villagers behind him eager to find places among the keep’s servants where they too might watch the ceremony. Lord Stewart lifted Maggie from her saddle. When her feet had touched the ground, she found herself flanked by her grandfather on one side of her and Fingal Stewart on the other. Together the two men escorted her into the kirk and up the aisle where Father David Kerr stood awaiting them. Without a single word, Dugald Kerr, laird of Brae Aisir, placed his granddaughter’s hand into the hand of Lord Fingal Stewart. Then he stepped back and aside to watch the proceedings as Edmund Kerr glared, angry to have been foiled.
“Kneel,” the priest said. When they had, he pronounced the church’s blessing upon the union of Margaret Jean Kerr of Brae Aisir and Lord Fingal David Stewart of Torra. A hand rested upon the head of the bride and of the groom as he spoke. Then Mass was celebrated for all within the small kirk. When it concluded, David Kerr announced, “Fingal Stewart and Maggie Kerr are now man and wife in the eyes of the church as well as the laws of Scotland.”
“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” those within the church shouted with one voice.
“Long life and many bairns to our Maggie and her man!”
They arose from the velvet-cushioned kneelers. Fin swept Maggie into his arms and kissed her quite thoroughly to the delight of the clansmen and women. Then they hurried from the church together, the old laird coming behind them, accepting the congratulations of his folk. Rosy with blushes, Maggie was already seated upon her mare.
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