by Faris, Fiona
Sanderson held up his hands in horror.
“My Lord, I would never suggest that for a moment. I only meant that, as you say, she might have been an unwitting accomplice in all of this. I’m sure she is devoted to you and the Lady Margaret.”
Gilbert narrowed his eyes, no longer sure what his steward was saying or insinuating and what he was reading into his words.
“Leave us, Sanderson, and take Farquharson here, and give him some reward for his intelligence. It has been very useful to us.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Sanderson bowed and withdrew with Farquharson plodding happily in his wake.
As far as both were concerned, their work was done: for one, revenge had been reaped; for the other, a seed of suspicion had been sown.
Now, Sanderson thought, I need only sit back and wait for that seed to come to fruition.
Chapter Twenty-One
Cruden Bay
The Cullen’s Cottage
Elizabeth lay nestled in the crook of Duncan’s arm. Mairi had taken her baby and gone out to help her husband, Micheil, repair a long tear in the boat sail, leaving the lovers alone in the cottage. They both lay sated after their lovemaking, Elizabeth’s fingers stroking the broad flat muscles of Duncan’s chest, his arm curled around her shoulders, and his hand against the curve of her flank. A banked-up fire smoldered in the hearth, filling the rafters with fragrant peat smoke.
“What are we going to do?” Elizabeth asked with a sigh.
She knew that her benefactors would be none too pleased if they had known where she was. Both Margaret and Gilbert had set their heels against her having anything to do with Duncan; Margaret because she considered him to be a poor marriage prospect for her protégée, and Gilbert for no other reason than his being a Comyn. She doubted that she could win either of them around, let alone both; yet she also felt in her very essence that Duncan was the man for her, her destiny, the missing piece that would complete her. She had never felt more complete, more whole, than she did in the aftermath of their lovemaking. They belonged together, and she knew that she could not keep away from him, no matter what her patrons might decide for her.
Duncan let out a long breath.
“I have been thinking,” he began slowly. “My business here is not going well; in fact, I feel that I’m wasting my time here.”
Elizabeth gave his chest a playful slap, and she turned a look of mock affront on him.
“Oh, no!” Duncan laughed, drawing her closer in an affectionate hug. “I did not mean you. You are the best day’s business I have ever conducted,”
“Thank you!” Her chuckle sounded like a tinkling burn to his ears. “You make me sound like a fine yowe you’ve bought at the market.”
“Wheesht, lassie, let me speak. You know fine that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what do you mean, Duncan Comyn?”
He grew serious. He lifted himself onto his elbow and leaned over her, fixing her eye with an earnest look.
“I mean to return to France, and I would that you came with me.”
“You mean… elope?”
Elizabeth’s eyes grew round with fright. That would be an awfully big adventure. She would be stepping into the unknown, while all her bridges crumbled behind her. It would be a step from which there would be no turning back. The happiness and security she had known since Lady Margaret had taken her under her wing would be gone, and who knew what the future would replace them with? It was a terrifying prospect.
“I’m not sure I can,” she said in a small hesitant voice, which betrayed a quiver of anxiety. “I love you, Duncan, I really do, with all my heart and soul. But… elope?”
“I would look after you,” Duncan offered. “You may not have all the comforts and dainties you enjoy with the Hays, but you would not want for the means of a happy life, and we would have each other always. What do you say, lass? Will you come away with me?”
Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably in his arms.
“I don’t know, Duncan. I am beholden to Lady Margaret. She has been so good to me. She lifted me out of the mire; she saved my life.”
“Do you not think she would want you to be happy?”
“She wants what is best for me,” Elizabeth agreed. “But I don’t think she would consider the life of an exile to be what is best—”
“No, she would rather see you wed to a wealthy popinjay or belted knight,” Duncan replied bitterly.
“Oh, let’s not fight,” Elizabeth pleaded. “I would like nothing more than to be your wife, rich or poor, for better or for worse. But I cannot repay Lady Margaret and Sir Gilbert so thanklessly. I cannot betray their kindness and charity. Let me speak to them again. I am sure I may win them around. Lady Margaret will be disappointed, but I would not have her distressed by my ingratitude.”
Duncan snorted.
“You will be wasting your time, I’ll wager. From what you say, she has her mind set on molding you to her will. You are her project, her pet, a straw poppet she can dress up, her plaything. She cares for you as a child might care for a toy.”
“That is not true,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth. “You have no idea what Lady Margaret and I have been through together. It is a special bond that has been forged between us.”
“If she really cared for you, she would not stand in the way of your happiness. Nor would she use that ‘special bond’ as a chain with which to thirl you to her.”
“It is not like that. You are being unfair…”
Elizabeth sprang up and began to scramble from the straw palliasse on which they were lying. The woolen blanket slipped from her, revealing her small firm breasts and the faded white welts that crisscrossed her slender back.
“Lassie!” Duncan reached out and held her back by the arm. “Let’s not quarrel.”
Elizabeth sat on the edge of the mattress, curling one slim leg beneath her and clutching the other to her breast, resting her chin on her knee. He long auburn curls fell free about her thin shoulders. She said nothing, offering him only her back and a petulant silence.
“Look, speak to the Hays,” Duncan resumed in a quiet calm voice. “But I do not think you will prevail. There is no doubt that Lady Margaret loves you and wants what she believes is the best for you, but you must follow your own heart. That is all I am saying. You must decide what you want and let that be your guide. If that coincides with what Lady Margaret wants for you, then all well and good. If not… then, be assured that I will be here, waiting for you.”
“But you cannot wait forever,” Elizabeth added and what Duncan had left unsaid.
“No, I cannot wait forever.”
Duncan sat up and wrapped Elizabeth gently in his strong arms, resting his cheek on the nape of her neck.
A plume of desire drew itself down her spine.
“There is no place for me here,” he said mournfully. “My future lies in France, where I must make the best that I can. You must decide where your future lies. I pray it will be by my side.”
Elizabeth’s thoughts flew to Margaret, the deep affection she felt for her, and all that she owed her.
How on earth was she going to be able to decide between them?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cruden Bay
The Cullen’s Cottage
Sanderson led Gilbert and his three lieutenants, Aonghas, James, and Matthew, along the beach. They kept to the shadow of the cliffs, where the afternoon sun no longer reached as it descended over the distant mountains to the west. The three warriors were dressed in light mail tunics that reached to their knees and soft boots that made little sound on the shingle. Each carried a short broadsword and a dirk.
“There,” Sanderson whispered as they approached the cleuch where the Cullen’s cottage nestled. “I have seen the Comyn chiel come and go from the fisherman’s hut. I believe he is lodging there.”
Gilbert’s eyes narrowed.
“If this Cullen has been harboring a traitor, he will hang as well.”
W
ith practiced stealth, the warriors crept around the rocks at the mouth of the ravine and approached the blind gable end of the cottage. Peat smoke seeped through the turf thatch, and a chicken scratched and pecked the ground on the threshold of the cottage door. The door provided the only entrance to and exit from the biggin; Gilbert and his men knew that, if the Comyn were inside, he would be trapped like a rat.
The men approached the door. Once they had gathered, Gilbert, James, and Matthew slipped inside, leaving Aonghas to block the only means of escape. Sanderson remained outside, at the gable end of the cottage, peeking fearfully from behind its corner.
As Gilbert and his men poured into the room, Elizabeth gave a shriek and jumped to her feet. Duncan reached around, and his hand found his sword, behind the palliasse, between it and the wall. In a flash, he too was on his feet, pushing Elizabeth behind him, his sword pointing at his three adversaries.
“You little whore!” Gilbert cried, seeing Elizabeth in her nakedness.
Duncan too was naked, his skin gleaming in the half-light, his manhood exposed. He crouched down to retrieve his dirk, bobbing quickly back to his feet before any of the others could press an advantage.
“Come ahead, then, Hay!” he challenged with a low growl.
The three foes fanned out in front of him. He moved the point of his sword from one to the other, keeping them at bay, while he held his dirk closer to his chest, poised to strike like a cornered adder.
“Yield!” Gilbert demanded. “We are three and have more men outside. You are only one. You have no chance of escape. Yield, and you will live a little longer.”
“And die on the end of a rope?” Duncan spat back. “Never!”
There was a sudden commotion outside the door: a grunt and a strangled gurgle. All eyes in the room shot to the stark aperture of light, through which Aonghas stumbled backward and fell onto his back. The handle of an awl, like one with which a fisherman would pierce the canvas of a sail, projected from his throat. Aonghas’ blood-drenched hands clawed at the tool, while his legs kicked at the ground. Micheil stepped over the struggling body and into the room, a length of broken oar in his large callused hands.
Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Duncan leaped and grabbed onto one of the crossbeams in the roof. In a flash, he was crouched on the beam and had his shoulders pressed against the turf. The muscles in his legs knotted as, with a roar, he heaved the turf upwards, sending down a shower of earth, grass, and heather on Elizabeth’s head and shoulders.
The three warriors turned and raised their swords to sweep at Duncan’s legs, but with a roar that was the echo of Duncan’s, Micheil swung his oar at the nearest adversary, Matthew, and clattered him across the crown of his head. Matthew went down, with blood gushing from an ugly wound on his scalp.
Gilbert and James rounded on Micheil. Micheil swung again, but James parried the oar with his sword and took a step towards the fisherman and plunged his dirk into his breast. Blood spilled from Micheil’s mouth as his legs buckled and he dropped on his knees to the floor. With a downward cut, James buried the edge of his sword’s blade deep in the crook of Micheil’s neck and shoulder, and the fisherman fell lifeless at his feet.
Meanwhile, Duncan had burst through the turf roof and slid to the ground at the rear of the cottage. Barefoot and naked, he began to scramble up the ravine, leaping surefootedly from rock to rock, grabbing at handfuls of heather and marram grass to boost his progress.
Gilbert and James rushed from the cottage and set out in pursuit. However, unencumbered by mail, Duncan made the better progress and was soon at the head of the corrie and on the edge of the moorland. By the time Gilbert and James had labored to the top, no hide nor hair of Duncan was to be seen.
The two warriors returned to the cottage. Mairi was keening over the body of her man. Elizabeth had hurriedly slipped back into her robes and was tending to Matthew, who had a broken head but who was at least alive. Aonghas’ lifeless eyes stared up at the rafters in surprise.
“Bastard!” Gilbert spat, as he surveyed the scene. “The Comyn will pay dearly for this day.” He turned on Elizabeth. “Do you see what your willfulness has done? A good man dead and another injured.” He glanced at Mairi, who rocked on her knees and wept over her man. “Aye, and a woman widowed and an infant orphaned as well. I hope you are proud.”
Elizabeth looked up from Matthew. She had folded her hood into a pad and was gently staunching the blood from the wound on his broken skull.
“This is not my doing,” she said in a low resolute voice. “This is your doing. What harm has Duncan ever done you? Eh? Apart from being his father’s son.”
Gilbert frowned.
“He is a traitor, an agent of the Disinherited,” he returned. “Ah, you did not know that, did you? He is here to foment dissatisfaction and unrest among those still loyal to the Comyns.” His eyes flickered towards Sanderson, who had snuck in the door and now stood horror-struck just inside the threshold. “He might also have had designs on my life and those of my family.”
“Never!” Elizabeth protested. “He would never harm an innocent woman and child, I know he wouldn’t.”
“You know nothing of him,” Gilbert replied, not unkindly. He was prepared to accept that she had just been a foolish child, led astray by the charms of a devious criminal.
“I know him better than you do,” Elizabeth insisted. “And I know that he is a chivalrous man, like yourself, only on the side of another cause. You only think so ill of him because you have become accustomed to making demons of your enemies. Well, he is not a demon, any more than you are an angel. He is, like yourself, a man who is dedicated to a cause, but he would not serve that cause unscrupulously. He is, above all, a good and virtuous knight.”
“He is a Comyn, though, milady,” Sanderson piped up, “and the sworn enemy of our kin. Whatever else he may be, an angel or demon, a gentleman or a scoundrel, a good man or a bad, he is still a Comyn, and that is enough to damn him—”
“Shut up, Sanderson!” Gilbert snapped. “There is honor and respect among knights, even on the battlefield. Unless he shows otherwise – and he has not shown us anything yet, apart from his evident daring and valor – this man is entitled to that honor and respect. Now, get yourself up to the castle and arrange for a couple of litters to be brought down to remove Aonghas and Matthew.”
Touching his thumbnail to his forehead in a sign of deference, Sanderson spun on his heel and left to carry out his master’s orders.
“I can’t believe you defended Duncan’s honor there,” Elizabeth said.
“I won’t let my steward have the audacity to pass judgment on a fellow knight, enemy or no. But,” he added sternly, “this Duncan Comyn is a traitor and a risk. You have been very foolish, consorting with him. He could have used you to get at me.”
“He would never…” Elizabeth began.
“Oh, he would, Elizabeth; believe me, he would. It would have been remiss of him not to. Whatever else this Comyn is, and however misguided he may be in his loyalties, he is a very resourceful man. If I had been in his shoes, I would have used you too.”
Suddenly, Elizabeth’s world turned upside-down. Was her Duncan a traitor? Had he been using her all along? She could not think such a thing of him, but yet…
Surely, she should be able to trust Gilbert in this matter. She knew him to be a just and chivalrous man. Never would he falsely accuse another of such a terrible crime.
She did not know what to think.
Would she even see her Duncan again?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Slains Castle
Solar
Margaret wept softly. She was devastated by the discovery that Elizabeth had been consorting with that Comyn fellow. Not only was he a completely unsuitable match for her, but she had also defied Margaret’s wishes and shown a total disregard for her own best interests. There was also Elizabeth’s dignity and position to consider. What would the servants think of her, giving herself
like a scullery maid to a common chiel? How could she continue to command their respect when she lowered herself to such unladylike behavior? Not to mention the fact that this Duncan Comyn was a traitor and possible would-be assassin, engaged in some conspiracy against the Hays and the king. That Elizabeth had disobeyed Gilbert’s express command, forbidding her to have anything to do with the Comyn creature, was perhaps the most distressing part of the whole misadventure.
“But I love him,” Elizabeth protested. “And he loves me.”
Gilbert, who was pacing in a wide half-circle in front of the fireplace in the solar, snorted in disgust.
“Love? What do you know of love? You’re just a mere slip of a lass, a child. Love doesn’t just ‘happen’, like it does in the minstrel ballads. Love is something that is cultivated over years of marriage. Don’t confuse love with lust. This man has roused your animal appetites, warmed your blood. You no more ‘love’ him, and he you, than do the rutting deer love one another.”
