by Tamara Leigh
“What good can come of my sight being impaired, Marguerite?”
She hesitated for what her answer would reveal of her, then said, “Do you not resist, mayhap it will hold you here so you may serve a king far better than William, so the worthy D’Argents of Normandy and now of England spread their influence and skills to Scotland, so you…” Unable to tell of her hope he would grow in love with her, she stood and said in Gaelic, “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat.”
As she swung away, he rose. “Marguerite!”
Taking advantage of his poor eyesight, she hastened away.
“What does that mean?” he demanded.
“Nothing you wish to hear,” she whispered.
“I will not remain in Scotland!”
Upon reaching her palfrey, she was grateful to discover Dubh had stayed behind. Evading Hendrie’s gaze, she mounted.
“’Tis his loss, Sparrow,” the Scotsman said as he passed the reins to her. “Soon he will be gone, and yer own loss will be small sorrow when you wed one of your own, and even smaller when ye have a babe in arms.”
She nodded and spurred away. For the sake of her heart, she tried not to shine love back upon that to which she wished to return, but at the last moment, she looked around.
Theriot was where she had left him. Though she would see him again before he departed Scotland, it would not be—could never be—the same as coming home.
Chapter Twenty-Six
How she meddled!
Theriot had been grateful that to accommodate great lords from all over Scotland, Princess Margaret arranged for him to be seated at one of the lower tables placed perpendicular to the dais. He would not dine alongside Cristina during the feasts preceding the wedding, but neither would he find Marguerite on his other side.
He was right about the former since royalty sat at high table, but a short while later proved wrong about the latter.
Though Marguerite was the king’s ward and well-loved, on such an occasion and with too few places of honor, her rank did not warrant dining among those who sat above others. No meddling that. The meddling was Malcolm’s betrothed ensuring her friend shared a bench with this Norman as told by Marguerite’s whispered protest and the one who escorted her informing her he followed the princess’s instructions to adhere to the seating arrangements.
Godly though the queen-to-be was, she suffered few qualms seeking her own end instead of letting happen what would, whether by the actions of those directly involved or the Lord’s intervention for which she professed much faith.
Thus, more difficult it would be for Theriot and Marguerite to go their separate ways. And already both made it exceedingly difficult by Marguerite wishing him to remain graveside with her and his yielding. Were that not enough, he had allowed empathy and curiosity to draw him nearer when he should have remained an observer.
Once he had lowered beside her, he had wanted more—and gained more when questions given too little thought were answered by her hand guiding his to the name shared with her mother. He was no youth, but the impulse to carry her fingers to his lips had been strong. And even lacking understanding of the Gaelic words with which she departed the graveyard, he did not doubt she continued to feel much for him. What he doubted was being able to leave her behind as easily as he had assured himself he could during her absence from court.
Now as she settled beside him, silently he repeated what he had cast at her like a boy determined to set out on a journey for which his parents refused permission—I will not remain in Scotland!
“Sir Theriot,” she said, voice nearly drowned by the din.
He turned his face to her and saw she wore a cream-colored gown that contrasted well with dark hair fashioned into plaits, their ends secured with red ribbons.
Feeling Dubh move into the space between master and mistress, he said, “Lady Marguerite.”
Though the light did not fall well enough to glimpse any of her expression, he knew she did not smile when she said, “I am sorry. I know you wish this no more than I.”
He should agree, being cruel in the moment to be kind later, but he said, “With whom would you prefer to take meal?”
“I do not know, though I suppose I should not waste this opportunity with so many here for the wedding, some of whom may be in want of a wife.”
Jealousy kicked him, but he said, “I believe it would please Malcolm.”
“It would, though methinks his betrothed would not be pleased. For all Meg must attend to, she keeps us in sight.”
“She meddles,” he muttered and set the flat of his right hand on the table and slid it forward until his fingers confirmed the base of his goblet was where the shifting light of torches told he would find it. Gripping the stem, he raised the vessel. By heft and what could be seen of drink dark against pewter, he gauged the level to ensure when he set the rim to his lips the tilt did not send wine streaming down his tunic.
“Oui, the princess meddles,” Marguerite said, “but she means well.”
That was the end of their exchange, the Saxon priest announcing it was time to bless the meal. And much he blessed it, doubtless causing guests to exchange sour expressions over the princess’s influence over Malcolm that could do far more than delay the abatement of hunger.
She who would be queen meant to reform not only her coarse husband and his court but the worship and practices of Scotland’s churches that were not in accord with Rome. Ultimately, religious reform might lead to bloodshed, but despite Theriot’s annoyance with the princess, he believed her motive pure and this country and its people would be blessed when a daughter of England sat beside a son of Scotland. And if their union produced children, possibly those whose blood straddled the border between the two countries would wrought change in England—perhaps even the world.
Hours. Certain middle night approached, Marguerite peered out of the alcove into which she had slipped following a meal of many courses. The entertainment that followed was excellent, from jugglers to bards to beautifully costumed puppets prancing across a curtained stage to reenact the arrival of Princess Margaret and her family in Scotland.
Then came music and dancing that often moved her gaze to Theriot who stood on the opposite side of the hall among a gathering of Malcolm’s Normans and Scotsmen with whom he seemed mostly at ease.
They had not spoken again following the priest’s blessing, but once their hands had touched beneath the table when each sought to assure the whining Dubh who moved her head between their laps. Brief though the contact, it had made her heart beat so fast it hurt.
“Lady Marguerite?”
She blinked at a young lord of Perth who approached, a man she had met several times in years gone though she could not recall his name. “My lord?”
“Princess Margaret requests a performance to honor her upcoming nuptials.”
Though there had been no time for the two women to speak before the feast, Marguerite had thought it possible she would be called upon. However, as night deepened, she had begun to think it would not be asked of her.
“However, she tells only if you feel of a mind and body, Lady.”
In Theriot’s presence, she interpreted that.
The young lord smiled in a way that reminded her of her talk of using this opportunity to seek out a man in want of a wife. “I pray you feel well enough, Lady. When last I was here, I was entranced.”
Would Theriot be entranced? she wondered.
“Will you perform for the king and princess?”
She inclined her head. “How could I refuse my liege and his love?”
His eyes moved over her face as if seeking to discover some hidden land, then he offered his arm.
She allowed him to forge a path among the many toward the dais whose central table had been removed to form a raised stage that allowed not only the great nobility seated both sides a good view, but others in the hall.
Which song best serves in lyrics, tune, and mood? she pondered again those she had earlier considered. She had thought se
veral appropriate, but as she neared the dais, deemed all unworthy of what she believed would grow into a great love—and too late wished she had composed something as deep of heart as what Malcolm and Meg had composed for her father and mother.
She caught her breath, smiled. “Aye, that will do well.”
The youth stared. Minutes earlier, he had accepted the only thing of import he would take from here was a conversation overheard after he entered the cavernous hall—that on the morrow King Malcolm would convey his betrothed across the estuary to Edinburgh to present a gift in advance of their wedding. But there was something of greater import.
As reported by the scout who weeks past observed a young man of silvered dark hair walking the outer garden with a lady—and now verified by the one entrusted with infiltrating King Malcolm’s court—Sir Theriot was here. As not told by the scout, though surely suspected, this D’Argent was no captive.
Or so it appeared to Eberhard Wulfrith who had persuaded his adopted sire he could more easily enter the King of Scot’s fortress than any of the baron’s men. Not only was his youth an advantage, giving few cause to consider him a threat, but the length of his hair and facility with the Saxon language allowed him to pass as one of those Malcolm had herded out of the harried North to serve the Scots—a form of slavery but preferable to death by starvation, exposure to the elements, and barbaric Normans.
Sir Theriot was not well known to Eberhard who had labored in the kitchen alongside servants preparing the feast, ever keeping watch for an opening to steal away and search out the missing D’Argent. However, despite what could be seen of the man on the opposite side of the hall, it was hard to believe he had deserted King William’s service and sent no word to his family to assure them he lived. The warrior whom Eberhard now claimed as an uncle boasted the same reputation as others of his family—as courageous in the face of enemies as he was honorable.
“Hear all!” boomed the bard whose performance a quarter hour past had nearly caused King Malcolm to topple his chair when he thrust upright to applaud. Once more standing center of the dais, the bard whose shoulders were draped in a plaid of bright colors repeated, “Hear all!”
More heeded him, but not everyone as he ought not expect since it was a rare performer who could enthrall all—and only then after a demonstration of the value of silence.
The lowering din proved of benefit to Eberhard who was finally able to make sense of a nearby conversation that had caught his attention when he heard the D’Argent name. It had been spoken by one of several Saxon nobles likely granted sanctuary with Prince Edgar.
“For one who professes to be our ally, little evidence of that with Malcolm continuing to hold that Norman prisoner when he ought to cut off his hands and feet as Le Bâtard does his enemies.”
Eberhard glanced at Sir Theriot who stood in profile, appearing more an observer than participant in the celebration for how little he interacted with those around him—as if he were unseen. Surely these Saxons did not speak of the one who wore a D’Argent dagger?
“Prisoner?” another scoffed. “Does the miscreant who sought to deliver the Aetheling and his men to Le Bâtard look a prisoner to you?”
Eberhard breathed out relief. They did speak of his uncle who had most recently served as a scout to uproot the resistance, the greatest prey of which was Edgar. He had not deserted but been captured.
“These days he is even afforded a weapon,” said the grizzled Saxon, “and as many have learned, the chevalier is not harmless despite—”
“And yet the Aetheling says Malcolm has decided against ransoming him,” a younger Saxon interrupted.
The aged one growled. “D’Argent is dangerous, but mostly in close quarters. What think you his liege would pay for the return of a warrior no longer a warrior, eh?”
Trying to make sense of what did not fit his uncle who looked as much a man of arms as ever, Eberhard shifted his regard to him.
“Little he would pay,” the old Saxon answered himself. “If anything.”
The younger one gave a grunt of disgust. “Not until Malcolm exchanges D’Argent for ransom need it be revealed the chevalier is blind.”
Eberhard jerked so hard the back of his head struck stone and his teeth snapped on his tongue. Tasting blood, he narrowed his gaze on his uncle who remained in profile among others and yet detached, but not as if unseen—as if he could not see despite raised lids and the appearance of staring at the distant dais. Was he blind? If so…
For this—having no means of escape—he was not caged? For this he was trusted with a dagger among enemies? For this, a hound at his side to keep watch over him?
As Eberhard roiled over the blinding he imagined done to extract information, the bard bellowed, “I say, hear all!”
Further, the din lowered, among those who closed their mouths the Saxons who had revealed what was more unexpected than would have been the death of Sir Theriot. Though some of the guests continued to disregard the bard, an excess of wine rendering them either senseless or too bold, Malcolm did not call any to account. And Eberhard guessed his calm a result of words whispered in his ear by the princess whose brother, the Aetheling, sat on her other side.
Brow weighted, mouth pinched, the bard looked to his liege. Receiving a nod, he turned back. “In honor of our great overlord and his princess, the Sparrow of King Malcolm’s court shall perform a song of love.” He bowed and strode left.
The lady handed onto the stage by a nobleman was not as lovely as Princess Margaret, but there was something breathtaking about her. Greatly she resembled the healer who had been present at Wulfen Castle when Dougray D’Argent trounced his enemy to win the hand of the rebel, Em. Might she be the same?
He dismissed the possibility. That young woman had been mute, worn a commoner’s garments, and as one of the Rebels of the Pale had to have been Saxon. Doubtless, were he able to draw near this lady who wore a fine gown, he would see she only bore a resemblance to the rebel who returned with Michel Roche to Derbyshire.
Now facing the royals, she said something in Gaelic, then in the language of the Saxons spoke what he guessed a translation. “My king…my queen…for you.”
Her accent was peculiar. Though it sounded of the Scots, Eberhard heard Norman-French as well—further proof she and the mute could not be the same.
Malcolm nodded, then his sparrow turned forward. Drawing breath that raised her shoulders, her eyes flitted in the direction of Sir Theriot. Then instead of parting her lips to pour out song, she pursed them and softly…sweetly…began to whistle.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Theriot barely breathed, as seemed the same for all, even those who had continued to converse despite the bard’s petition they honor a performance many in attendance surely expected to be like any other that passed the time and sought to make the unmerry merry. This was different, and surely the reason those who had the means to keep caged birds did so.
Marguerite was no tiny, feathered creature, but he would have believed it had he entered at the beginning of her performance, though only until her birdsong became something more—music both of the natural and unnatural that spread its wings and soared wider and higher through the great hall.
He whistled well and knew others more accomplished, but just as none were women, none compared to the lady who made her lips into a beautiful instrument. He could not see her beyond an indistinct shape center of the dais, but he closed his eyes to better hear and feel what was not quite bird, not quite human.
She trailed off, and her next replenishment of breath not only carried the tune but Gaelic words.
Theriot lifted his lids, and above the heads of others saw her turn toward those soon to wed. Then came the Saxon translation more softly sung like an echo.
“Here Scotland’s son, defender of all”
The next verse was in Gaelic, then once more Saxon.
“Here England’s daughter, the pearl of his heart”
And so it went, soaring in one l
anguage, drifting in the other as she made sentiments written by Malcolm and Margaret into song meant to bless the king and queen with a love like that of her parents.
“Here tale of their love told one hundred years
Here tale of their love told one thousand years
Oh, blessed this age, so blessed this age
When love seized love
Love walked beside love
Love rejoiced with love
Love mourned with love
Love healed by love
Love parted from love
Love reunited with love
Love walks beside love…”
A deep breath, the silence of anticipation so complete its sweet draw was heard around the hall.
“…again.”
Then once more facing the guests, the tune first whistled was whistled so softly it was as if the bird came down out of the rafters, lit upon her perch, and folded her wings to sing herself to sleep.
The last noted faded, and Theriot wondered if ever there had been so great a still in a place teeming with people. Was it because their hearts pounded as loudly as his? He could be moved by music, but this…
“Now you see the sparrow,” Hendrie said low.
He did, though not as he would have before battling the Scotsman. And for that he could not stay no matter what he felt for Marguerite. “Beautiful,” he rasped in the space before King Malcolm once more led his guests in showing appreciation for a performance.
Hendrie leaned near. “Methinks she could be yers,” he said without sarcasm or taunting.
Theriot watched as, seemingly unassisted, she stepped from the dais and went from sight among those crowding the floor. “Better she is someone else’s,” he said.
“Better for someone else. But her?” The Scotsman shrugged. “I fear even in yer absence ever the sparrow will long for you as her sire would have longed for her mother had she not given him the chance to love her near rather than from afar.”
