by Fiona Faris
Duncan looked away modestly.
“I could not stand by and watch you drown,” he said simply. “It would have been against my nature.”
“But you risked your own life,” she insisted, looking him full in the face and meeting his look.
Duncan was the first to break their gaze.
“My life would be worth nothing had I not done the right thing.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. His reply had confirmed her suspicion; the man was a knight. He had just evinced the knightly virtue of courage.
“Then I thank you, sir, for it would be ungracious of me not to acknowledge my gratitude and your worth.”
“My, what a pretty dance!” Mairi exclaimed, half-mockingly. She glanced around the squalid room in amazement. “I didna ken I was at court, in the presence of royalty.”
She gave an exaggerated curtsy, sweeping her baby in a wide arc before returning it to her breast.
Elizabeth laughed, and Duncan grinned. She liked that grin, she decided; it lit and transformed his otherwise dark, grim face. His brown eyes glinted in the firelight, and a dark thrill lanced through her body as his plaid fell away from his leg to reveal a pale and shapely muscled calf and a thigh lightly downed by dark hair.
“Listen!” Mairi broke the silence that had descended over them.
They listened. The only sound to be heard was the gentle crackling of the fire.
“The storm is over,” Duncan observed.
“I telt you it was just a squall,” Mairi said. “It didna ha’e the feel o’ a storm that was settlin’ in for the day. The wind has blown it over. It will batter itself out in the mountains.”
Elizabeth rose again from her stool. She seemed stronger, restored.
“I really must be getting back now,” she said, gathering her dry clothes from the line.
She held her gown against her face and wrinkled her nose.
“Aye,” Mairi confirmed apologetically, “they might stink a bit from the salt an’ the smoke, but they’ll get ye hame.”
Duncan rose too and reached for his breeks and sark.
“I’ll see you safely back.”
Elizabeth’s eyes grew round in alarm.
“No, no! There is no need,” she insisted hastily.
“But thon is some climb, up the cliff path,” Mairi observed in surprise. “And after your ordeal…”
“I’m quite alright,” Elizabeth assured her, with a note of desperation in her voice. “Thank you, again, for your hospitality and… and… all that you’ve done for me, for helping…” She turned to Duncan. “Heavens, I don’t even know your name, sir.”
“Duncan Comyn,” he offered.
Elizabeth paled.
“Comyn?”
“Aye,” Duncan replied, inclining his head and looking at her curiously. “And yours, milady?”
“Bryce,” she told him. “Elizabeth Bryce.”
Duncan gave a little bow.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Elizabeth Bryce. I will take myself outside to dress and leave you a little privacy.”
He ducked through the door.
Elizabeth climbed out of the kirtle Mairi had lent her and into her own robes.
Outside, Duncan again took his leave of Elizabeth and watched her walk quickly along the high-water mark towards the foot of the path that wound its tortuous way up the cliffs. The sky had cleared and shone a deep azure blue. A stiff breeze was all that remained of the storm that had passed, and it whipped the calm surface of the bay into a field of little whitecaps. He contemplated the slight figure that picked its way across the shingle, the long red tresses that rose and fell in the gentle wind.
Mairi appeared at his elbow, her child still at her breast.
“And who is Elizabeth Bryce?” he wondered out loud.
Mairi shielded her eyes against the bright sunlight and watched the receding figure.
“All I know of her is that she bides at the castle. She has just lately arrived with the new earl and his wife.”
Duncan’s face contorted with a brief grimace of angry frustration at her reply.
“But what is her connection to the Hays?” he asked, a mild air of impatience inflecting his voice. “Is she a daughter of the house or just retained as a servant?”
“That I dinna ken, maister,” Mairi replied regretfully. “Though, if her name’s ‘Bryce’, I doubt she’ll be ony o’ the Hays’ ilk.”
Duncan watched as Elizabeth began to mount the path.
“I’m kind of glad she wouldn’t let me convoy her to the castle,” he remarked thoughtfully, “given that it would be like walking into the lion’s den. But I wonder at her reluctance…”
“Maybe she didna want ye to find her selkie claes,” Mairi said with a smirk, and she turned and passed back into the cottage.
A selkie, Duncan reflected, straining his eyes to make out the small distant figure trudging up the steep path. Something that is not quite what it appears to be.
Do you have any secrets, Elizabeth Bryce? And, if so, what might they be?
Chapter Three
Slains Castle
Solar
A week later
“And don’t forget, Elizabeth. Keep a close hand on these keys. They must never leave your belt.”
Margaret handed Elizabeth the keys to the castle’s storerooms with great ceremony. It was as if she were marking a rite of passage; it was the day that Elizabeth finally graduated to being in charge of a household.
They were standing in the solar of Slains Castle, their new home. A large log crackled in the grate, the wind outside drawing the flames roaring up the chimney. Gusts of rain pattered on the small painted panes of the leaded windows, and never was Elizabeth so glad of being indoors. The scent of the freshly strewn herbs on the flagged stone floor, her mistress’ perfume, and the occasional waft of woodsmoke escaping the broad canopy of the mantelpiece mingled to give her a deep sense of contentment and comfort. She did not envy her mistress’ journey.
“You must be excited that you are finally going to Court,” Elizabeth enthused.
Truth be told, she was more excited about it than her mistress was.
“As long as I can be confident that the household at Slains will not go to wrack and ruin while I am away,” Margaret said, glancing around the solar, certain that something had been forgotten, some final arrangement, some last-minute instruction.
“You may rest assured.” Elizabeth smiled indulgently. “I have the measure of the business.”
Margaret smiled at her fondly and made a face. “I know, I know. I am finding difficulties where none exist. I know you are a capable mistress, Elizabeth. Heavens! I have taught you myself.”
Elizabeth beamed.
“Only…” Margaret added, despite herself.
Elizabeth cocked an inquiring brow and smiled, indulging her mistress’ groundless anxieties. She was fond of her benefactor; she loved the little crease that appeared at the bridge of Margaret’s nose when she was pensive like she was then. Margaret was still the striking beauty that she had been when they had first met, six or seven years earlier, in a place and in circumstances very different from the ones they found themselves in that rainy morning on the Formartine coast. Their fortunes had certainly risen, Elizabeth reflected: Lady Margaret was now a countess and wife to one of the most powerful men in the realm, and Elizabeth was a lady’s maid and no longer an abused mawkin.
“Only, remember to keep Nicholas on a short leash,” Margaret continued in a rush. “Do not give him any liberties or he shall take more. You are his keeper, Elizabeth, and do not let him think otherwise.”
As if on cue, Nicholas scampered into the solar, a lanky six-year-old with startling blue eyes, a mop of blond curls, and his mother’s pellucid complexion. He was dressed in a plain belted kirtle, his feet and legs bare. He pulled up short when he saw his mother.
“Oh, you are still here,” he said, his face falling. “I thought you would be gone.”
“And I shall miss you too,” Margaret said ironically.
“Lizzie, can I go down to the beach with Tam?” Nicholas inquired, ignoring his mother’s pointed sarcasm.
“‘Lizzie’? ‘Lizzie’? Do we have a scullery maid called ‘Lizzie’? I do not recall. It is ‘Elizabeth’ now, Nicholas,” Margaret corrected him. “Show your mistress some respect. Elizabeth is to be in charge of the household while I am away.”
Nicholas scuffed his heels and shrunk his head into his shoulders, chastened. He reminded Elizabeth so much of his father, with his dark coloring and mischievous nature.
“‘Elizabeth’,” Nicholas tried. “So… can I, Lizzie? Please, can I?”
Margaret gave a long-suffering sigh.
Elizabeth tittered.
“Very well,” Elizabeth told him. “Providing you are back in good time for your lessons with Father Martin and providing you give no trouble to Tam, who has his work to do.”
Nicholas turned on his heel to dash from the room, a huge grin splitting his face.
“And providing,” Elizabeth stayed him, “you bring me back a rope of mussels for supper. Do you hear me?”
Nicholas nodded impatiently.
“Alright, you may go.”
Nicholas clattered from the solar and down the turret stairs, chased by the fond smiles of his mother and adopted sister.
Elizabeth’s smile froze on her lips when she turned her attention back to Margaret.
“You see?” Margaret remarked. “That is just the sort of thing I fear. You are too indulgent of the boy, and he is far too familiar with you. You need to be stricter, more mindful of your position and your authority. You should have insisted that he finished his lessons with Father Martin first and made that a condition of his liberty. Now he has got what he wanted without first having to pay the price. I doubt you will now see him back before dine. It is the same with the servants; you are too deferential to the older, more senior, servants in the house and overfamiliar with the potboys and drudges in the kitchen. I doubt you can command either them or their respect.”
Elizabeth’s smile faded, and her eyes dropped slowly to contemplate the pointed toes of her slippers. She looked so forlorn and downcast that Margaret relented.
“I know; this is all so strange and new to you, even after these past years. I am only saying that, perhaps, you are not ready yet to assume responsibility for the household. Perhaps I should leave my husband’s steward, Sanderson, in charge. The other servants fear him, and he has no good nature for them to take advantage of. Your only fault is that you are sweet and kind. Those are maidenly virtues that become you, but they are not the virtues of a mistress.”
Elizabeth raised her eyes.
“I am capable of doing this,” she said in a clear, steady voice.
“I have no doubt,” Margaret assured her, laying a hand on Elizabeth’s wrist. “But ‘being able to’ and ‘actually doing’ are two very different things.”
She considered the young girl for a moment, gnawing lightly on her bottom lip.
“I tell you what,” she decided. “I shall leave you in charge on one condition, and that is that you promise to call on Sanderson to enforce your authority should it ever be challenged.” She smiled. “Let him be the hand that cuffs their lugs for you, should they want cuffing!”
Elizabeth did not know how she felt about Margaret’s proposal. It made sense to have her authority backed by the fear of Ewan Sanderson, but she nevertheless had a lingering sense of being patronized. She would much rather rule on her own account. But she recognized that Margaret was right; she had not yet earned the fear or the respect of the other servants, and she never would if she failed in this, her first test. She acknowledged that the servants would use this opportunity to test how much they could get away with. She also acknowledged that almost all of the more senior servants looked down their noses at her, on account of her sordid beginnings.
Also, in common with the other servants, she feared and disliked Ewan Sanderson. He was a devious man, who skulked the shadows of the castle and its estates, appearing just when he was least expected, and, more often than not, just when some mischief was afoot, or some mishap had occurred. And he was merciless in his punishment of misdemeanors, however minor they may have been. He had struck a dairymaid across the face with a strap when she had accidentally upset a pail of milk in the castle’s milking shed. He ruled through fear and an iron fist, and Elizabeth was intimidated by that fist as much as any of the household’s retainers, with the exception, perhaps, of the men-at-arms.
Nevertheless, she was crestfallen and resentful of Margaret’s lack of faith in her. She had a burning desire to better herself, and she had seen this as an opportunity to prove herself worthy of Margaret’s trust. At the same time, she was desperately anxious not to let Margaret down.
“I promise,” Elizabeth said to Margaret, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.
“You will make a fine lady,” Margaret remarked, drawing a bashful smile of self-satisfaction. “I am determined to find you a fine knight at court who will be worthy of your virtue.”
Elizabeth’s smile and color deepened.
“I’m not sure that I would want to keep table and house to a knight,” she ventured.
“Elizabeth!” Margaret was appalled. “Why ever not? There is no finer calling for a lady than to manage her lord’s household.”
Elizabeth fell silent and pensive for a while.
“They say there will be war again,” she said in a low anxious voice. “In Ireland, perhaps. How can you bear the constant danger Sir Gilbert puts himself in? The victory at Bannockburn was supposed to bring us peace, but there has been no peace. King Robert has taken the war to King Edward’s northern provinces and to Man as well as Ireland, and Sir Gilbert has accompanied him on every campaign. There is even talk of King Robert fulfilling his pledge to the Pope to join a crusade to the Holy Land. When will it ever end?”
Margaret sighed, remembering her mother’s words, which had been uttered, it seemed, a lifetime ago.
“The world is made up of three classes of men,” she explained to Elizabeth. “Those who fight, those who pray, and those who work. The most distinguished are those who fight, the class to which Sir Gilbert, and with God’s grace, your future husband belong.” She turned to Elizabeth. “That is why you are fortunate that you will not be wed to a bonnet laird, to labor on his farm and have his children sired upon you like a broodmare. If that were the case, you might as well have been left as a scullery maid.”
Elizabeth looked down sheepishly at her hands.
“For that I thank you,” she said in a low, penitent voice.
“But the price a lady must pay for her station in life is the ever-present danger that her lord shall be killed in battle. That is the great burden we must carry, and carry bravely, for our husbands’ sakes.”
“It is a terrible responsibility,” Elizabeth remarked. “It is not one which I am sure I can bear.”
“That, too, is part of a lady’s virtue. Perhaps its greatest part. To succor her husband in his constant sojourn in the valley of death, and to bear the suffering of his absence.”
Then Margaret clapped her hands and turned towards the door.
“But this is far too gloomy a subject – almost as gloomy as the day – and I must depart for Perth, where the Court awaits. The time will fly, just you wait and see. Before we know it, our men shall return as conquering heroes, and we must be here for them.”
Elizabeth wondered just how long she would have to wait for her man and was startled when a vision of Duncan Comyn was conjured up by the thought.
Would he turn out to be her lord?
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About the Author
I am Fiona Faris and I am an author of authentic Historical Scottish romance stories. My books have received startling reviews about
the humor, the darkness and the romance they have.
I started my professional career as a writer, after a trip to Scotland where I had an accident that made me dedicate my life to writing romance novels.
I live in Dallas, Texas with my husband and our two sons. Before I started writing historical romance, I experimented with various occupations: computer programming, dog-training, and book editing. But nothing could ever compare to writing stories with a background of the Scottish Highlands.
