by Amy Jarecki
A chambermaid grasped her other elbow. “This way, m’lady. We’re all agog with the wedding. The queen has appointed you with the finest chamber in the White Tower.”
“Thank you,” Margaret mumbled, allowing the maid to pull her through the bustling courtyard into a dimly lit, whitewashed square tower. Her feet moved, but she felt as if she were floating. All that lay ahead was a bad dream. Certainly, she must wake soon.
At least they’d allowed Margaret the evening to become accustomed to her surroundings. The only word to describe her chamber was ornate. The ceiling frieze alone must have cost a fortune. A deep forest green, embossed with gold leaf, the opulence numbed her mind. Rich tapestries of purple, green and burgundy shrouded the walls, each one woven with gold thread.
She’d slept in a four-poster bed with purple velvet curtains. Unfortunately, she couldn’t enjoy the luxury. In all honesty, this room stifled her breathing like the wooden slats sewn into her new gowns.
Ever since the king’s men had visited Dunalasdair Castle, Mother hadn’t stopped preparing for the fast-approaching wedding. The morning’s doting had driven Margaret to the brink of insanity. She could handle no more of her mother’s endless prattle. Did Ma not understand how nervous she was, how utterly devastated her world had become?
Dressmakers and their assistants filled her chamber, and even now, they sat in every available chair, embroidering and stitching seams with the finest silk thread, all of which must be completed by the morrow.
The tension in the room crept over Margaret’s skin and attacked her shoulders, clamping them like a vise. Trepidation of marrying the Black Knight worsened, if that was possible. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined a grizzly old man snarling at her with yellow teeth and an unkempt beard.
She needed fresh air. “Mother, I should like to visit the fair below the palace grounds. Did you see all the tents? I imagine there are a great many wares on display.”
Mother looked up from inspecting a worker’s embroidery. “How can you think of traipsing through a muddy fete at a time like this?”
“And why ever not?” Margaret pulled away from the tailor, crossed to the window and drew the furs aside. She craned her neck for a chance to spy the activity. I need a moment of respite even if I go alone. “Please, Ma, come with me, just for a little while. I cannot stand being poked and measured for another moment. Master Tailor has it in hand.”
The man’s bony fingers stopped stitching for a moment. He glanced to Margaret with a thankful smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
It appeared she wasn’t the only soul in the room who needed relief. One more minute in this stifling chamber, being prodded, poked and pinned was more than she could bear.
Mother wrung her hands. “I don’t know. I should really…”
Margaret grabbed Ma’s arm and tugged. “Come. I’ll go mad if I remain inside—Black Colin won’t want to marry a lunatic. Mayhap you’ll find a suitable fur to replace your winter cloak. Pleeeease.”
Mother smoothed her hands over her white wimple and reached for a woolen mantle. “Very well—but only a quick walk around the grounds, and then straight back. I think ’tis best to keep you hidden from the nosy nobility. Let their eyes behold your beauty on the morrow.”
Margaret snatched her green velvet cloak and slipped the hood over her head. She cared not if she was covered—she was escaping this chamber and all the worrisome thoughts that had her innards twisted in knots.
Margaret looped her arm through her mother’s as they paraded out Stirling Palace’s fortified north gate, with two of her father’s guardsmen following at a respectful distance. The throng below hummed. White tents flapped in the breeze with a mass of colorfully costumed nobles and not-so-colorfully dressed commoners. They moved in a web of activity, accompanied by minstrels playing lutes and wooden flutes. Smells of humanity burned her nostrils—how invigorating it was to be out of doors. Everywhere Margaret looked, something was for sale—pigs, fruit and food to her right. Bright textiles, leathers, knives and everything imaginable ahead and to her left.
When she spied a bowl full of red apples, her mouth watered. She hastened to the display. “The fruit looks delicious.”
A dirty-faced vendor with brown teeth grinned at her. “Fancy a peck of apples, m’lady?”
“Perhaps.” Margaret mulled over the assortment of pears, dates and nutmeats. A young tot peeked out from behind the vendor’s cart. His blue eyes sparkled from beneath a layer of dirt. The child’s hair was matted, his cheeks sunken. Why, he appeared half starved. Margaret’s heart squeezed. She smiled at the child and snapped her gaze to the vendor. “I’d like a half-dozen each, apples, pears and dates, if you please.”
The man’s grin spread to his ears. “Aye, m’lady. Have ye a basket?”
Margaret bit her lip and glanced back to her mother. In her haste to leave, she hadn’t thought to bring one. “Have you a basket for sale? It appears I’ve left mine behind.”
“Honestly,” Lady Struan groused in Margaret’s ear.
The vendor held up a gnarled finger. “I’ve just the thing, but I’ll have to charge ye a penny.”
Mother gasped. “Thievery.”
Margaret held up a hand. “’Tis only fair. I should have thought to bring mine.”
The man filled the rickety old basket and held it out. “Four pennies, m’lady.”
She dug in her leather purse that hung from a cord on her belt, and handed him the coins. “Thank you, sir.” Margaret shifted her gaze to the laddie and plucked the largest apple. “This one’s for you.”
A huge grin lit up the child’s face. “Ta.” His darling little voice peeped when he accepted the gift with both hands.
Mother grasped her elbow and led her into the throng. “How could you allow that man to take advantage of you so?”
Margaret twisted her arm away. “I did no such thing. Did you see the half-starved child hiding behind the barrow?”
Mother frowned.
“I was simply buying the lad enough food to last through winter. Had I a mind to barter, I would have paid no more than one and a half.”
“Thank heavens someone else will be providing your allotment in the future. It pains me to see coin tossed away with such frivolity.”
Margaret tightened her grip on the basket handle. She loved her mother dearly, but the woman thought charity was giving alms at Eastertide and that was the end of it. She’d seen plenty of hardship, collecting rents from the estate’s crofters. A master with figures, Margaret knew full well her father could support a number of starving commoners without feeling the slightest pinch to his coffers.
Mother led her toward a tent filled with textiles. “Cloth from the east is more worth your coin, my dear.”
Margaret sighed. She’d spent the past week up to her eyeballs in cloth, standing for hours on end while the tailor pinned and snipped an entire new wardrobe. Dutifully crossing the grassy aisle, Margaret followed her mother’s lead. A juggler caught her attention. Dressed in bright yellow and red with a pointed hat, he tossed three balls high in the air.
A midget, clad in matching costume, held up another ball. “One more, master?”
“Toss it up.”
The little man threw it in and the juggler miraculously added it to the pattern of colorful flying balls. Margaret slid the basket over her wrist and clapped her hands. She rarely got to see jesters and players near Loch Rannoch. The juggler’s balls spun in a tantalizing circle that appeared to blend into one ring.
Margaret reached into her purse to pluck a farthing when horse hooves pummeled the ground. Looking up, she scarcely had the chance to dash aside. Two riders thundered through the fete at a brisk canter. She tripped over her gown. The fruit flung from her basket as the horses sped past. Margaret crashed into something sturdy and hard. Her hands whipped around it, saving herself from falling. The hood flew from her head and dropped to her back.
It wasn’t until a pair of massive arms encircle
d her that she realized she’d fallen into a man—a very large, very strong man. She inhaled. The heady and exotic fragrance of cloves laced with a hint of ginger and male toyed with her insides. Struggling to drag her feet beneath her, Margaret made the mistake of grasping him tighter. His back muscles bulged beneath his quilted doublet. Her heart fluttered.
“Forgive me,” she uttered breathlessly.
His enormous hands held her shoulders firmly and helped her gain her balance. “Are you all right, m’lady?”
Flustered, Margaret pushed away and smoothed her fingers over the white ribbon encircling her crown. She brushed her fingers down the length of her exposed tresses, cascading over her shoulder to her waist. First, her gaze leveled on his red tunic, with a white cross emblazoned on the center of his very broad chest. Then her eyes drifted to his face, framed by dun-colored curls. Beneath his cap, they shone like silk in the sun, and she wanted to reach up and touch them to see if his hair was actually as soft as it looked.
Dark brown, wide-set eyes gazed upon her with a glint of humor. They were so friendly, her tension immediately eased. His features were undeniably masculine; his bold nose slightly bent toward full lips that grinned, revealing a row of healthy white teeth.
“I…I am unscathed, thank you.” Margaret inhaled a stuttered breath and hoped to heaven she wasn’t blushing. “Please forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. Those lads had no business riding through the fair at full tilt. I shall have a firm word with them.”
“I’m sure they are long gone…” Margaret peered up at his feathered ermine cap—a fur only worn by Scottish barons like her father. “…m’lord.” She stepped back, taking in the whole picture. She’d seen the square white cross on his tunic somewhere before—it definitely identified him as a knight, though she could not place the order. Unusually tall, he had to be at least eighteen hands—six feet was enormous, especially compared to her five. He wore a stylish doublet of black beneath the sleeveless tunic. His woolen hose were also black, and they clung to his thighs like a second skin. His muscles bulged when he stepped toward her with fashionably pointed shoes.
Mmm. ’Tis said clothes maketh the man.
He bent down and retrieved her basket. “I believe this is yours.”
“Thank you.” Margaret spotted apples and pears scattered everywhere. “But I’m afraid the fruit I’ve purchased is ruined.”
He frowned and stroked his bold chin. “Most unfortunate. Please allow me to replace it.”
“That should not be necessary. I only wished to help a poor man feed his family.”
“Most charitable of you, m’lady.” He offered a polite bow. “If you no longer require my assistance, I shall be on my way.”
“Very well. Should I fall again, I shall simply find another gallant knight to keep me from dousing myself in the mud.”
“A lucky man indeed to rescue a lady as bonny as you.” He bowed again and tapped his fingers to his hat. “Good day, m’lady.”
Margaret swooned, watching him walk away. Broad shoulders supported by a sturdy waist. To her delight, the knight’s doublet was short enough to give her a peek at his muscular buttocks. With a sigh, she smacked her lips while the crowd swallowed up the magnificent warrior’s form. If only her betrothed could be half as handsome.
“Margaret,” Mother called from across the aisle. “Come, I have something to show you.”
This time, she looked for racing horses before she set out. God forbid she fall into another knight. And heaven help her. On the morrow, she’d have to look upon such magnificent specimens with disinterested eyes. How on earth would she do that?
4
Stirling Palace, 7th October, 1455
Returning from the stables, Colin found Argyll on his way to the castle. “Have you seen her?”
The younger man shook his head. “Nay. I could only come up with a sentry who confirmed she’d arrived with her parents. I’ll wager they’re keeping her hidden.”
“Blast.” Though Colin fully intended to go through with the wedding, he would have preferred a report on Margaret’s looks from a disinterested party. Nonetheless, on the morrow, he would wed a plain woman who undoubtedly had matronly, child-bearing hips. Duncan would love a mother be her comely or nay.
Argyll regarded Colin’s casual dress. “Will you be attending the feast in the great hall?”
“I’d prefer to take my meal in my rooms. Though it would be acceptable for you to make acquaintance with Margaret Robinson, I fear it would be awkward to meet her the night before our wedding.”
“Aye.” Argyll slapped his back. “Her feet might grow cold and she could request a reprieve.”
Colin cringed. “That too—at least I shan’t give her the opportunity.”
A pair of giggling lassies walked past, batting their eyelashes. A muscle in Colin’s jaw twitched. Beautiful women seemed to be everywhere at Stirling. He wanted none of it. Soon he’d head home to Kilchurn with his portly wife, and all the sweet-fragranced lasses who flitted their wares around court would be left to their own tantalizing devices.
Argyll headed in the direction of the giggles. “I’ll see you on the morrow, then?”
“On the morrow.”
The following morning, Margaret stood in the center of her chamber holding her arms out to her sides. She’d been in that position so long, she could have sworn the tailor hung two stone weights from her wrists. From the glimpses she could steal in the looking glass across the room, the gown was everything her mother had hoped it would be.
But to Margaret, it was like being outfitted in chains to be paraded in front of the gentry.
The overdress, made of red velvet, had gold thread woven in a pattern that reminded her of icy snowflakes. Fashioned in a V with narrow strips of sealskin, the collar tapered down to the high waistline, also cinched with sealskin. White silk gathered like lace between the gaping V covering her breasts—at least, for the most part. Following the latest fashion, wooden slats had been sewn into the tight bodice. Margaret found them incredibly uncomfortable and stifling, though they made her waist appear a tad smaller.
While she stood being trussed like a peacock, a chambermaid braided her long tresses. She rolled them on each side and secured them with a caul atop Margaret’s ears, where they would form a part of her headdress. Mother had ordered a double hennin in the same fabric as her gown, covered with a sheer red-tinted veil. Margaret eyed the hat on the sideboard. It was a garish headpiece, embellished with gold cording and reinforced on the inside with wire. Margaret would have preferred a simple veil or French hood, but Mother would be disappointed if she said otherwise. Besides, what did it matter? Perhaps Black Colin liked outlandish hennins.
Margaret shuddered. God save her, she had no recourse. This day she would walk across the courtyard and marry a notorious knight in the Chapel of Michael the Archangel.
“May I please lower my arms?” she asked.
The tailor stepped back and examined his handiwork. “Slowly.”
“The way you talk, I’ll never be able to move.” Margaret held her breath and let her arms drift to her sides. “Mayhap we’ll have to conduct the ceremony here, where I can stand in this spot.”
Mother stepped beside him and examined the fashionably long sleeves that extended past Margaret’s fingertips. “She needs to have full movement, of course.”
“Indeed. I first wanted to ensure all the seams and tacks are secure.” He tugged at the shoulders and waistline. “Yes. Miss Margaret, you can dance to your heart’s content this eve.”
After Margaret’s headpiece was in place, her eyebrows plucked, her face powdered, cheeks made rosy with soft ochre and lips reddened to the color of her gown, Mother clapped her hands. “Leave us.”
Margaret regarded her reflection while the chamber emptied. She hardly recognized herself. Her new husband would be marrying Miss Margaret Robinson, courtier imposter. She looked like a painting one would find hanging over a fireplace m
antel. If only she could impersonate a portrait, she wouldn’t be forced to proceed with marrying the most feared knight in all Christendom.
Mother shut the door and turned. She smiled, holding something in her hands. “I cannot believe this time has come so quickly.” She held out a bold necklace with a crystal the shape of a small egg. It rested in a setting of silver decorated with four pieces of red coral alternating with four silver balls. “This charmstone is part of your dowry.”
Margaret ran her fingers over the garish thing. “My, ’tis enormous.”
“With no male heir, this was passed to me. It has been in our family for countless centuries, and is said to bring good fortune to all who wear it. Those who drink water into which it has been dipped will also be protected by its charms.” Mother held it up. “Wearing this today will bring good tidings to your marriage.”
“Och.” Margaret fingered the large stone. “’Tis too precious to give to the likes of me.”
“No. I daresay its shine is far diminished by my daughter’s radiance.” Mother moved behind and fastened the heavy silver chain. “You have learned well, and I’ve no doubt you will be a fine matron of your keep.”
The matron of a keep? That’s what I always wanted, isn’t it? Margaret sucked in a ragged breath. “Thank you.”
“Few women have attained your level of education—men as well. Though the ability to read and write and calculate sums is admirable, do not allow your skills to intimidate your husband.”
Margaret turned and faced her. “Are you saying I should play dumb?”
Mother ran her fingers across the charmstone. “Not at all. I’m only suggesting you pay heed to your husband’s wishes.”
“Do you think he’ll not want my assistance?”
“On the contrary—I think he will encourage it, just as your father has. But you can be opinionated as well as industrious. All I’m saying is to think about how your words might affect him before you express yourself.” She chuckled. “Men may appear tough on the outside, but inside they wound easily.”