“Nonsense.” Tess shook her head, smiling. “It’s only right. But I do fear that you may outshine the new Queen of Scots and all her fancy French ladies.”
* * *
“Why is it impossible for a royal court to arrive at the appointed hour?” Christophe asked rhetorically. He couldn’t help feeling annoyed, for there were a thousand better ways for him to spend his time today.
“You are asking the wrong person, monsieur,” replied Bayard. “You’ve a great deal more experience with such matters than I!”
The courtyard of Falkland Palace was crowded with servants, palace guests, and important citizens of the village, all waiting to welcome King James V and his new queen. Surveying the noisy masses, Christophe knew that his short spell of relative solitude was about to end. The court train had dozens of people attached to it, not to mention the cartfuls of household possessions that traveled with the royal family wherever they went.
Because of this looming invasion, Christophe had been plotting to find alternative lodgings, so he could enjoy real privacy. The sort he was used to. He couldn’t imagine trying to focus his creative energies while living in a palace beehive.
Christophe’s thoughts were interrupted by a commotion near the Gatehouse, where William Barclay and his family were waiting for the king and queen. Hearing a trumpet blast, he knew that the royal court must be about to enter the courtyard.
As some of the people who were gathered in rows began to move forward for a better view, he noticed a beautiful young woman clad in rich crimson velvet. With her shining black hair and diminutive form, she wasn’t the sort who usually caught his eye, but the girl was lovely all the same. And there was something about her that prompted Christophe to walk closer.
“Ah, monsieur, you do have excellent taste,” remarked Bayard from a few inches away.
He pretended not to hear him. Instead, he stared at the girl, more curious by the moment. She glowed with a fresh vivacity that was rare among the sophisticated ladies of the French court. Standing beside her was a handsome, middle-aged man wearing the plaid of a Highlander. The girl put her hand on his arm and spoke to him excitedly in a language Christophe recognized as Gaelic.
* * *
Fiona was standing in the palace courtyard with her father, her cousins, and their servants, trying to see through the crush.
“Da, can you see them?” she exclaimed, rising on tip-toe.
Just then, a low, ironic male voice spoke behind her. “It’s you.”
Fi felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. She wanted to dart between her cousins and escape, but that was impossible. He was standing so close that she could feel the energy from his body against her. Why had she not sensed his presence sooner?
Straightening her shoulders, Fiona lifted her chin and turned to look up into the splendid face of the Chevalier de St. Briac. “Have we met, sir?” she inquired coolly.
“Oh yes, and well you know it.”
She blinked and tried to step back, but people were crowded around them on all sides. “Ah, now I perceive the reason for your mocking tone. You are a Frenchman.”
Unfortunately, nothing she said seemed to faze him.
Lightly, he taunted, “Why are you playing this game, Robbie of Skye?”
Fiona was saved from having to reply when her father reached back for her arm, drawing her forward so she might enjoy a better view of the King and Queen of Scots as they entered the palace courtyard. She stared, trying to forget the vexing man at her back.
The royal couple were on horseback, both of them richly garbed, and Fiona thought they looked contented together. The king was quite attractive, tall and slim, with a neat reddish beard. The new Queen of Scots carried herself with confidence. Mary of Guise was a stately woman with a unique beauty, and even though she found herself wed to a virtual stranger and living in a strange land, she smiled as if she were completely at ease.
Following them into the courtyard were the countless members of the royal household, most on horseback. Next came numerous mule-drawn carts and packhorses, laden with royal tapestries, coffers, tableware, clothing, portable beds, and other furnishings. Fiona realized that she had been completely unprepared for the sheer scope of this incursion.
“Da,” she said, “what does the king need with so many courtiers and servants?”
Her father looked distracted. “’Tis an extravagant way of life, beyond our ken. Do these hoards cause ye to miss our quiet life on Skye?”
Before Fiona could reply, her aunt said, “Lass, there are royal servants you’ve never imagined. Such positions as Pursemaster, Clerk of the Closet, Keeper of the Dutch Horses, Henchman, Sword-slipper, Yeoman of the Spice-House, and the Keeper of the Silver Vessels, to name but a few. And the queen has brought dozens of new servants of her own from France.”
Fiona thought of the handsom Frenchman she had met, who seemed to have come on ahead of the royal party. Christophe de St. Briac. She was almost afraid to look back to see him, waiting to confront her again. However, as the onlookers were forced to make room for the court train, Fi had to turn—and she discovered that the tall figure of St. Briac had disappeared.
* * *
“Will ye sit with me for a bit, lass?” Magnus asked when they had returned to their chambers.
That night there would be a festive banquet to properly welcome the royal couple, so there was no reason for them to change out of their fine clothing. Instead, Fiona joined her father as he reclined in a chair with a high, carved back and accepted a cup of ale from a young page.
“How are you feeling, Da?” she dared to ask, her tone carefully soothing.
He looked away and shrugged. “Ach. There’s nothing to be done. Your beautiful mother has left us and right now I’d rather do battle with a lot of savage MacDonalds than feel anything at all.”
She watched as he drank down his ale, all the while staring out the mullioned window. When Fi saw his strong jaw tremble just a little, she couldn’t hold back. She knew he desperately wanted her to stay at a distance, but she came forward in one fluid movement and knelt beside his chair. Resting her face against the folds of plaid covering his lap, Fi felt her own tears well up from deep inside.
“I know what you mean, Da, because I feel it too. Grief is the worst sort of pain, but surely we must confront it.” She lifted her head to look up at her father.
Magnus smoothed back her black curls with one big hand, but when he opened his mouth to reply, the only sound he made was a choked sob. “I cannot,” he managed to whisper at last, swiping away tears with the back of his sleeve. “Do not ask it of me, darling Fi. I’ve done all I can to carry out your mother’s wishes. I’ve brought ye across Scotland, far from our fair Isle of Skye, so ye could dwell in your ma’s home and know her clanfolk. Now we’ve come to this royal court, just as she wanted.” He paused. “The one place I cannot go is here.”
Fiona watched as he stabbed a forefinger at the center of his chest.
Her own heart overflowed with compassion. “Oh, Da, I am so very sorry.” She climbed up onto his lap and put an arm around his shoulders, holding his big head against her throat until she felt his hot tears on her flesh.
“You’re a good lass,” he rasped. “It means everything to have ye by my side. And ye were a great blessing to your ma.”
When she felt him take a deep, calming breath, Fi knew she could relax her embrace. She stayed on his lap, though. As a little girl, it had been her favorite place, and Magnus had often risen with her in his arms and carried her about the castle as if she were no heavier than a kitten.
“We are all blessed to have each other,” she replied.
“I count on ye. When this is over and we are finally able to go home again, I will need ye more than ever. All of us will. Even though your ma has been ill these past years, her spirit was still strong in our family. Now it will be your turn to lend feminine guidance to your brothers and me.”
Fiona looked into her father’s trou
bled eyes. Of course, she had known that her role at Duntulm Castle would be more valuable than ever, and she wanted that. But it did feel a bit strange to sense that she didn’t have a choice in the matter.
As if reading her mind, Magnus put up a rough hand to cup her cheek. “Don’t fret, lass. I don’t want ye to give up the prospect of a family of your own. I’ve thought about it more than ye know.”
Smiling, Fiona moved back and gingerly rose from her father’s lap. It wouldn’t do for him to sense how uncomfortable she was with this topic of conversation. Reaching into a nearby bowl of purple plums, she took one. “Mmm. This looks delicious. Have you seen the orchard?”
“Did ye hear what I said?” he said gently, leaning forward. “Would ye not like a man of your own, and a wee bairn to love?”
Fi considered his words. She imagined herself in the castle where she had been raised, where her spirit was so deeply rooted, carrying a cooing babe and perhaps watching an older child crawl up the tower stairs. Her father would be sitting in the Great Hall as he liked to do, stroking Dougal’s shaggy head, and her brothers would live nearby. In this image there also was a shadowed figure of a man in the distance, returning home to her and the bairns, waving, and her heart would lift instinctively for just a moment.
“Aye, ’twould seem to be my destiny.” She took a breath. “I suppose.”
Clearly, this was what Magnus had been longing to hear. “Ah, ye have always been devoted.” He was watching her face as he continued, “The one thing that would make for a perfect future for all of us is your union to…”
Please, Da, don’t say it!
“Ramsay MacAskill.” Quickly, he leaned over and reached for her hand. “I can see that ye resist this choice, but I ask that ye trust me, as I trusted your mother when she begged me to bring you here.”
“It’s not the same thing!” Fiona’s heart was racing. She tried to pull her hand free. “You are asking me to wed a man I do not love.”
“Love will come with time,” Magnus insisted, brow furrowed.
“How can you say that, when we all know that you and Mama shared a great romance? What if you had been forced to wed someone you did not love?”
A cloud passed over his face. “Ye may not believe this, but your ma and I had our dark moments. A marriage takes patience…and Ramsay has vowed to be a good husband. Ye must give him a chance!” Quickly then, her father steered the conversation to safer ground. “When ye two wed, it will enable our clan to restore the weakened alliance with the MacAskills, who have always been responsible for the MacLeod fleet of galleys and birlinns. Ye may know that Ramsay’s father, Murdo, was captain of all the MacLeod galleys before his murder at the Battle of Glendale, where your grandfather was also grievously wounded.”
“Aye, Da, of course I know all about that battle.” Fi almost sighed aloud, fearing he would recount every detail. She had grown up, repeatedly hearing the story of the younger Alasdair MacLeod being struck in the back by a battle axe wielded by Evan MacKail, resulting in a deformity that earned him the name of Crotach, the Gaelic word for ‘humpback.’
Magnus nodded, continuing, “Since that time, we MacLeods have been occupied with repairing the damage to our own clan, and perhaps we neglected to tend to the old bonds with the MacAskills. It will greatly please your grandfather when ye marry Ramsay, and our two families are firmly reunited.”
It came to Fiona that this was really about Magnus’s relationship with his own father, the revered chief of their clan. She felt compassion for Da, who was the natural son of Alasdair Crotach, but who had not been acknowledged until after he reached adulthood, long after the MacLeod had other sons from a late-life marriage. It seemed that Da felt he could never do enough to please his father, even though he’d been made a trusted lieutenant and given the keepership of Duntulm Castle.
Fiona had been raised to hold up the well-being of their clan as her first priority, and she also knew how much her father needed her support. Her dreams of romantic love felt selfish…yet her heart yearned desperately for more.
“I cannot like him,” she whispered.
“That will come, with time.” Her father’s face hardened. “’Tis the only way, lass. Any other man will want to take ye from us, to live miles if not days away! Your mother would not want ye to leave us. What do ye suppose would become of us without our Fi?”
She stood up and walked away, then circled back to stand before his chair. “I will think on it.” There was a raw pain in her breast.
“Ah, that’s my bonnie lass!” Magnus was on his feet, embracing her. “I know ye will do the right thing, Fi. Ye always have.”
Chapter 4
The long banquet was Christophe’s idea of torture. He found the conversation among the courtiers to be inane. The food was too rich. The courses went on and on, accompanied by freely-flowing wine that had the effect of making everyone boast even more loudly about their estates, possessions, and marriageable daughters.
Across the Great Hall, he glimpsed the girl who had pretended to be a falconer named Robbie of Skye. She was once again with the man wearing Highland tartan, which meant perhaps they really were from the wild Isle of Skye. What, he wondered, was the connection between her and the man?
In spite of himself, Christophe couldn’t help feeling drawn to the winsome girl, which was curious because he wasn’t a bit comfortable with the more sophisticated guests. Perhaps it was the way she was eating with uninhibited pleasure while laughing and chatting with a large lady seated nearby. Or perhaps it was the wistful expression that occasionally transformed her features when she thought the man in plaid wasn’t looking.
Once, as Christophe rose to make his way over to speak to the king and queen, he sensed that someone was watching him. Turning in the crowded hall, he discovered it was the girl in the crimson dress. He met her intent stare and for a moment, they remained thus, frankly appraising one another until Christophe lazily arched a brow. Color washed her pretty cheeks and she glanced away.
He was intrigued by her artlessness. She was the antithesis of the mannered, painted, women he had known in the royal court of François I.
As the boards were finally being removed, a parade of jugglers, musicians, fools, and dwarves came capering into the hall. Christophe wanted to approach the king and steal a quiet moment with him before the lutenists, taborers, and fiddlers began to make their music.
“Ah, it is the Chevalier de St. Briac,” exclaimed Mary of Guise as he drew near to their chairs. She pretended to fan herself and looked toward her husband. “Sire, I must tell you that every woman in the French court is missing him tonight.”
Christophe shook his head, bowing to them both. “Your Majesty, you flatter me.” It pleased him to see the roses in her cheeks. His task here at court would be so much easier, and hopefully over more quickly, if he could report to King François that his goddaughter appeared to be happy and healthy.
“Ah yes, the builder you regard so highly,” murmured King James to his bride. Turning to Christophe, he added, “Greetings, good sir. Since our first meeting in St. Andrews, you have been in Scotland now for more than a fortnight. How do you find our country? Perhaps it is very rustic compared to Paris.”
“I like it very much,” Christophe was able to say honestly. “And Falkland Palace has already enchanted me. I look forward to assisting with the improvements.”
“St. Briac studied with the great Michelangelo and has created the most distinctive and breathtaking châteaux in France,” Mary declared. “Sire, I beg you to give him leave to work his magic on our palace.”
Christophe was struck by her use of the word our. He had heard that Falkland Palace had been included in the new queen’s jointure, which stipulated that if the king died first, she would keep Falkland Palace for her lifetime. No wonder she had been able to bring so many masons of her choosing to Frenchify the royal residence.
King James studied Christophe under his hooded lids, then slowly nodded. “Whatever y
ou need, I shall see that you receive it. Tomorrow, John Scrymgeour will come to you. He is my Master of Works and controls all the building accounts.”
This was a great relief. As the musicians began to play, Christophe dared to ask one more question.
“Your Majesty, is it possible that I might have a separate place to work, apart from the chamber I’ve been given in the palace? I am used to sketching and making building plans in solitude, and I feel rather…confined in my upstairs room.”
The king looked at his queen, who inclined her head and smiled. “I shall speak to Scrymgeour,” he said. With that, he turned his attention to the jugglers who were performing for his pleasure just a short distance away.
“I am grateful, sire.”
As Christophe bowed to the royal couple and left their presence, he was reminded again of the reason he avoided court functions. The performance one must engage in with royalty was absurd. He would rather converse with plain-spoken Bayard de Nieul.
When it seemed that no one was looking, Christophe slipped away and left the Great Hall. Emerging into the starlit courtyard, he breathed deeply of the cool night air and felt a sense of peace.
* * *
Fiona woke early, while the rest of her family and their party were still sleeping. Isbeil, like many personal servants, lay on a pallet near her mistress’s bed. Quiet as a mouse, Fi crept around the old nurse and slipped into her boy’s breeches and doublet. If she hurried, she could meet the other falconers in the mews and take Erik for some exercise, returning in time to change and have breakfast with her father.
As she rounded the corner near the Gatehouse and emerged into the courtyard, Fiona used both hands to stuff her long curls under a big feathered cap. The Scots called such caps bonnets and she had brought two of Robbie’s from Skye. Now, distracted by the effort to conceal her hair, she almost didn’t see the tall man who blocked her path until she bumped into him at full speed.
“Ah, Robbie, we meet again,” he said, amused.
Fi was somewhat alarmed to feel a rush of physical pleasure when he gripped both her forearms to save her from falling. This St. Briac fellow had the power to enchant her in the most unsettling ways.
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 5