“I cannot think of my own desires, any more than I could when Mama was alive and I awoke every morning to see to her needs and try to bring her some happiness.” Fiona met the caring gaze of her aunt. “Now that Mama is no longer with us, I may be more needed than ever by Da and my brothers.”
“Do you suspect men are weaker than women, and unable to fend for themselves?”
“Aye. Aren’t they?” Fi wondered if Aunt Tess were playing her a bit, like a fish on a line. “The men at our castle would doubtless forget to eat a proper meal or even wash if I weren’t there to remind them. They’d be content to live like animals. And I fear, without me to add a voice of reason, they would rashly engage in bloody battles with neighboring clans until all of them were dead.”
“So now, you’re responsible for their very lives?” Tess arched a brow ever so slightly.
“Perhaps it is only Highland men who can so easily lapse into uncivilized ways…?”
“Nay, but whether they behave well or not, I hardly think it’s up to you to sacrifice your own future or your happiness for theirs.”
“Ah, Auntie, have I mentioned that you put me in mind of Mama? She had a way of bringing me back down to earth, much as you’ve just done. I see your point…I should not imagine that I have such power over Da and my brothers, yet I know that they do truly need me.” She sipped more of the whiskey and sighed. “And Da would be furious and hurt if he thought I ever dreamed of leaving Skye.”
“He means to keep you there on that cliff above the sea until you are an old woman?”
“Nay.” Hot blood suffused Fiona’s cheeks. From a distance, she heard her own voice explaining, “He has made a plan for me to marry a Highland warrior named Ramsay MacAskill. His father was once the captain of all the MacLeod galleys, and my father and grandfather seek to restore the alliance between our clan and the MacAskills.”
“I see!” The tone of her voice indicated that she did not understand a bit. “And how do you feel about this Ramsay fellow?”
It almost made Fiona laugh out loud, hearing him called a “fellow” as if he were a gentleman. “He is handsome enough. And Da reminds me that we suit in every way, which may be true…in the view of the men, at least. If I wed Ramsay, we might even live at Duntulm Castle, where I could continue to look after my family.” Pausing, she finished the whiskey and felt tears sting her eyes again. “But I cannot care for him.” She bit her lip. “Da says I would learn to do so.”
“Will you tell me what it is about him that repels you?”
It was unnerving, the way her aunt continued to softly ask these probing questions. “Ach.” Fi wrinkled her nose. “He pretends to be nice enough, but I can feel that he wants to pin me under his thumb.” She paused. “Do you understand? It’s hard to explain, this feeling, but I can sense that Ramsay has a darker side.”
“Yet, all the same, you are considering this marriage. Clearly, you do not want to disappoint Magnus.”
“Da has already suffered a terrible loss. He’s like a great wounded bear. I fear it would kill him if I left Skye to live elsewhere, and of course, if I can give Da grandchildren, that would be wonderful…”
Tess had just opened her mouth to reply when the door to their apartments flew open and Magnus MacLeod strode into the room.
“Did I hear my name?” His tone was jovial, but Fiona knew the watchful glint in his eyes. “Were ye lasses planning together to outwit me?”
“Oh, Magnus,” scoffed Tess, rising to her feet. “Do ye imagine that every conversation is about you?”
He didn’t seem to have heard his sister-in-law. Instead of replying in kind, he went to the window and stared out over the courtyard below.
“What is it, Da?” Fiona asked, and rose to join him. To her surprise, she saw that the cobbled expanse was virtually empty. Most of the court and the stonemasons had gone to eat a midday meal. “Are you expecting someone?”
He continued to stare. “I’m merely having a look outside! Is there something wrong with that?” When the wind disturbed some trees on a nearby hillside, Magnus immediately lifted his eyes to track the movement.
A cold shiver ran down Fi’s back. “Come away from that window. Wouldn’t you rather see the gown Aunt Tess has brought for me to wear to the ball tomorrow night?”
As if on cue, Isbeil came in from the other side of the chamber, holding the violet gown up in one hand with the skirts spread over her other arm. “Ah, lass, how bonnie ye will look in the mistress’s gown…” The old woman broke off at the sight of Magnus, standing in the middle of the room, staring as if he’d seen a ghost.
“By the saints,” he breathed. “That’s the dress my Eleanor was wearing the first time I laid eyes on her, thirty years ago in Edinburgh.”
Seeing the tears that welled in his eyes, Fiona put her arms around him and leaned against his big chest. “Da, if it causes you too much pain to see me wear it, I will not.”
“Nay.” His heart thudded against her cheek. “Ye will be lovely, Fi. I want ye to wear this gown at the ball.” After a pause, Magnus added, “’Twill be fitting.”
Something about the tone of his voice as he said the word fitting sent another chill down her spine, but Fiona sensed that she shouldn’t press him. Perhaps some questions were best left unanswered…
Chapter 9
Christophe was glad to be sitting at the table in the guardroom, studying the faded plans for the old castle that had given way to the newer palace. He would have gladly closed himself somewhere even more secluded that afternoon, away from anyone’s questions or curious glances.
As usual, he craved solitude.
Today, he missed Rêves, his peaceful manor house, and especially longed for Raoul, the faithful dog who never judged or argued with him. Raoul was perfectly happy for his master never to change or reorder his days. And he certainly didn’t want Christophe to fall in love and bring a stranger into their exceedingly well-ordered world. The old hound seemed to understand that Christophe had suffered a trauma beyond understanding, and the most he could manage was to be a comrade to his male friends and a casual lover with the women who passed through his life.
He missed talking to Raoul about such matters. When a woman tried to get too close to him, he could retreat to Rêves, put his feet up on his desk, sip brandy, and tell his troubles to Raoul. The Grand Bleu hound would lift one eyelid from time to time, and if he sensed that Christophe was especially upset, he might amble over and lean against him.
If he could just finish this project, perhaps he could return to France ahead of schedule.
“How do ye fare, St. Briac?”
He glanced up in surprise to see John Scrymgeour, the Master of Works, standing in the arched stone doorway. “Very well, sir,” Christophe replied.
“I see ye have made yourself comfortable in my little office!”
He began to rise, wondering if he had offended the Scotsman by sitting at the little desk, but Scrymgeour waved him back into the chair. The older man walked closer, peering over Christophe’s shoulder at the building plans.
“Ach, I see ye have found the old drawings,” said Scrymgeour. “The original Falkland Castle was once the domain of the Robert Stewart, Earl of Fife, before it was confiscated by the first King James, more than a century ago.”
“I have been trying to decipher the plans. How much of the old castle is left, I wonder?”
“Very little. As ye know, much of the stone from the old castle has been used to build the new one. Ye may be interested to know there’s a bottle dungeon under that carpet. The prisoner was lowered in through a very small opening, then it widened out somewhat, far below, like a bottle. Once a man was put down there, he might as well have been in hell.” He pointed to a woven carpet that spread out from the table where Christophe sat. “It may date back to the first castle, when my kinsmen say a gated tower stood here. The Earl of Fife imprisoned King Robert’s eldest son, David, in the bottle dungeon in 1402, in dreadful conditions. Then, wh
en David’s younger brother became King James I in 1425, he did seize Falkland Castle for the crown.”
“What a tale! You don’t suppose the prince’s body is still down there?”
Scrymgeour shrugged. “A terrible thought…but I could not say.”
Fascinated, Christophe returned to the drawings. He could see the faded outlines of the bottle dungeon, and what appeared to be a passageway connecting to it from one side. “What’s this, I wonder?”
Scrymgeour leaned forward to peer over Christophe’s shoulder. “I expect there was once access from the storage cellars to the dungeon, but it’s all closed off now. Mayhap they needed a way in to retrieve a dead body.” He shivered with distaste. “No one even knows about this bottle dungeon except a few of the builders…but the one at St. Andrews Castle is still in use, I’m told.”
“Hmm.” Christophe rose and went over to pull back the carpet. There he saw a large, flat stone that fit into a round opening in the stone castle floor. Just the thought of what he might smell were he to dislodge the stone and open the dungeon made him recoil slightly, and as he thought of the men who had been dropped and then forgotten in a pit of blackness, he abruptly stepped back. “I hope they didn’t leave Prince David or any other dead prisoners down there.”
Scrymgeour chuckled as Christophe replaced the carpet. When he looked up, he saw King James V standing next to the Master Builder.
“You are a curious one, Frenchman,” said the king. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he indicated to the Scots builder that he should leave them.
“I merely desire to understand your palace as thoroughly as possible,” Christophe replied. “Including its history.”
“Perhaps, you already know it was my father who began to rebuild here, nearly four decades ago.” the king said. “His Majesty envisioned a grand hunting lodge in the French style, constructed south of the remains of the old castle. Of course, he was struck down during the Battle of Flodden when I was just a wee bairn.” Pausing he bit his lip. “I was less than two years old when I became king…a difficult situation, as you doubtless understand.”
Christophe noticed that the king was still wearing his hunting clothes. It was odd that he looked more like a woodsman than a monarch, but odder still was the fact that he was completely alone. What had become of his men-at-arms?
“Difficult indeed, Your Majesty. Is it true that when you were young, you were a virtual prisoner of the Regent for years?” Christophe spoke carefully, not wanting to offend the king.
“Aye.” Suddenly there was fire in his eyes. “After my father’s death on the battlefield, my mother married Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, and that blackguard undertook to manage the throne. Soon, control was turned over to your countryman, the Duke of Albany, though the struggle continued. Of course, most of this strife happened beyond my view. Throughout my childhood and youth, I was never allowed my freedom. I suppose the villains were afraid I’d cast them out—which, eventually, I did.”
Christophe nodded. He’d heard the tales of the armed confrontations between the Earl of Angus’s men and those who sought to free the adolescent King James V. “I realize that young monarchs are often controlled by regents, yet it’s terrible all the same to imagine that you were kept prisoner by those who would wield power in your stead.”
“Aye. Angus’s brother George once told me they would hold onto me even if it meant tearing me to pieces…” James paused for a moment, closing his heavy-lidded eyes, before continuing, “It was here at Falkland Palace that I managed to escape my Douglas minders, after they imbibed too freely. I waited until they had fallen into a drunken slumber before disguising myself as a yeoman of the stables. I took only two faithful servants with me. Traveling in the dead of night was reckless enough at the age of sixteen, but to have done it without my usual men-at-arms was sheer folly.” A light came into his eyes as he declared, “Never have I felt more alive! As we rode through the night to reach my mother at Stirling Castle, I tasted liberty for the first time.”
Christophe watched as the king drew on soft doeskin gloves. He was clad all in green, like a huntsman, and a single jaunty feather rose from his bonnet. No one who might encounter him in the village would suspect this was the King of Scotland.
Perhaps it was understandable that James reveled in such pastimes as wandering among his people in disguise and having his way with fair ladies. He’d been raised by a group of men who took turns keeping him prisoner and teaching him to read and play the lute. It was a wonder he hadn’t become an utter sybarite, once he was free.
“Do you mean to go out alone now?” Christophe ventured.
“I do…” The king wore a mysterious smile. “I find the temptation to walk at liberty among the common folk quite irresistible. The best part is that usually, they don’t know who I am.” As he spoke, he came toward the table to stare pensively down at the plans for the castle, with the bottle dungeon and its connecting passageway. “When I was a boy, they put someone down there. There was a special cover of solid stone, and we never heard a thing as he screamed.”
A cold chill spread over Christophe. “Did someone finally release him?”
“Oh, nay!” James V paused in the arched doorway, smoothing his reddish beard. “The fellow died a horrific death, closed in that tiny, dark, place, with no hope of escape and almost no air to breathe. I was just a wee lad and would lie in bed upstairs, imagining his torment. It made such an impression that I decided then never to use that particular form of punishment. The bottle dungeon has been closed off since I gained the throne.”
“A wise decision, sire.” Suddenly, Christophe wanted to get out of the shadowy little room. “I know that you are anxious to enjoy your outing, sire. Au revoir.”
Just as he finished rolling up the plans, the king reappeared.
“You are coming to the ball tomorrow night?” he said. It seemed to be more a command than a question.
“I had not planned to do so, sire,” Christophe replied.
“But of course, you will. You were a childhood friend of the queen, so it will please her to have you there. And it will be a fine tale for you to take home to my friend, King François.” Once more, James started off but moments later he again peered around the stone doorframe. “You must tell him that my new queen is enjoying life in Scotland.”
“Indeed.” St. Briac gave the monarch a wry smile. He was about to say farewell once more when an impulse prompted him to ask, “Sire, no doubt you’ll think me mad, but I wonder how you might receive the notion of a tennis court here at Falkland Palace?”
“A tennis court?” James repeated, blinking in wonder. “Ach, ’tis a brilliant idea—one no Scotsman would entertain! No wonder my queen wanted to bring you here. Build away, monsieur.”
When he was certain the king was truly gone, St. Briac gathered up his papers and left the room. Through a window, he could see that the sun was shining in the courtyard, and he longed to be in the fresh air and warm light.
As he went out, a powerfully-built man with dark hair emerged from the shadows behind a huge tapestry hanging over a corner in the guardroom. Crossing the stone floor, he lifted the carpet and stared down at the square stone cover that marked the entrance to the bottle dungeon.
His expression was brutal as he continued to ponder, until he rose to his full height and dropped the corner of the carpet. Slowly, his mouth began to twist into a smile.
“Ach,” he muttered. “’Twill be child’s play.”
* * *
“Might I offer an opinion? Wear the black doublet with the gold embroidery,” pronounced Bayard as he held up a looking glass. “Show these barbaric Scots how a dashing French knight wears court finery.”
St. Briac had temporarily returned to his palace rooms so that he might have a proper bath and a place to dress before the royal ball. Now, as he stared at his hazy reflection in the Venetian mirror, he wished he could find a way to avoid this crush of people, all of whom would doubtless be shout
ing and perspiring and stepping on each other’s toes as they danced.
Only the prospect of seeing Fiona tempted him.
“Why don’t you go in my place?” he suggested only half in jest. “We’ll put a mask on you.”
Bayard shook his head emphatically. “Impossible! The stonemasons are having a little celebration in our village of Freuchie. There’s a bonnie lass called Mary who waits for me there…”
“A bonnie lass? They’d all laugh if they could hear you saying that with your French accent.”
“Mais non.” Bayard puffed out his chest. “Mary tells me that she loves to hear me speak Scots words in the French way. It makes her feel warm, if you take my meaning.”
“I beg you to keep further details to yourself.” St. Briac shook his head in amused disbelief. “Go on then. I don’t want to keep you from your latest conquest.”
“Merci, monsieur. I shall just prop the mirror here on this chest, for your use. But of course you need no further embellishment…unless you should want to add a jeweled pomander? Truly, you are magnificent. A credit to France.”
“You’re giving me a pain, right here.” St. Briac tapped the side of his head, trying not to smile. “Now get out.”
“Oui. Of course. As you command, monsieur!” Laughing, Bayard bowed and backed out the door. “I wish for us both an evening of pleasure and romance.”
When the stonemason had gone, Christophe stood for a moment in the flickering candlelight. Already, he could hear the sounds of loud voices, wafting up through the open windows.
There was no good reason for him to dread going downstairs to the Great Hall. Yet, as long as Christophe could remember, he had always avoided crowds of people, especially if they might press against him and block his avenue of escape. If he stood there and pondered the icy hand that clenched his heart, he realized it was connected in some way to the death of his mother.
And if he thought about it too much, it became even harder to breathe, so it was a subject best pushed away.
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 10