The Highlander's Virtuous Lady: A Historical Scottish Romance Novel

by Fiona Faris

Sir Gilbert was not long in cutting to the chase.

  “We must thank you for your lavish hospitality, Sir Simon, and the charming company of your wife and daughters.”

  Sir Simon nodded acknowledgment of the courtesy.

  “As I said at dinner, we must depart on the morrow to raise our men-at-arms for King Robert’s enterprise. So we must have your answer this evening as to whether you have decided to support King Robert’s great cause. And, of course, you too would need time to raise your liegemen for the coming battle. So, what say you, Sir Simon? Will you join with King Robert’s host to free his realm?”

  Sir Simon drew down his features into an unreadable mask. He let out a long, tired sigh.

  “This has been a bloody business,” he began, “this whole affair, through which I have tried to steer a safe course for the Frasers.”

  “As we all have, each for our own families,” Patrick agreed. “It has been like a tricky game of chess at times.”

  Sir Simon eyed him carefully.

  “Aye, well,” he continued. “As you know, I supported King John in his dispute with Edward over the war in France. We were defeated at Dunbar, and I was taken in captivity to London, where I judged it prudent to swear fealty to Edward and serve him in Flanders, which I did with distinction. I was made a household knight and part of the royal bodyguard. All this to preserve my family’s estates.”

  “The Bruce himself swore fealty to King Edward at that time, as did many Scottish knights and noblemen,” Gilbert observed. “It was needed to survive. There was no shame or dishonor in it.”

  “I fought with the Bruce, Earl of Carrick, against Wallace at Falkirk.” Sir Simon sighed. “But then Edward’s man, Manton, one of his treasurers, embezzled the money that was to pay my wages. I cut the bastard’s throat at Roslyn, fighting alongside the Red Comyn, Lord of Badenoch. Edward pursued us to Dunfermline, where Comyn submitted Edward’s terms. I then helped Edward hunt Wallace down, whose luck had run out. As you know, Sir William was hung, drawn and quartered at Smithfield at the back end of last year.”

  Sir Patrick gave an involuntary shiver.

  “Aye, a terrible fate to befall any man,” he said. “Strangled, castrated and disemboweled alive, before the mercy of beheading. A grand gory entertainment for the London mob.”

  Sir Simon picked up the wine jug and refilled their goblets.

  “Well, as I now see the lay of the land, King Edward has been able to exploit the dynastic dispute that has divided the realm since Alexander took his drunken somersault down the cliffs at Aberdour. However, with both Balliol and Comyn now retired from the field, this leaves Scotland united at last under the Bruce. Edward’s true interests lie in France; Scotland is but an irritating distraction, a horse-fly that bites his arse as he pursues his claims across the sea. With his main forces in France and Flanders, he will not be able to withstand a force united under King Robert open battle. Either he will withdraw his occupation, or we will drive him from King Robert’s realm.”

  Sir Patrick looked up quickly.

  “‘We’, you say?”

  “Aye,” Sir Simon confirmed. “I am minded to wager on the winning side and join my destiny to that of King Robert.”

  The release of tension in the room was palpable. Gilbert and Patrick blew out huge sighs and relaxed in their chairs. Sir Simon folded his hands across his stomach with a self-satisfied smile, as if he had concluded a particularly good piece of business.

  “Let us drink on it!” Gilbert declared, snatching up the jug and pouring a generous measure into each goblet.

  The three men raised their goblets and kissed them together.

  “To King Robert, to the houses of Fraser, Fleming, and Hay, and to your very good health, sire.”

  The drained their cups and slammed them down on the table.

  Sir Simon pushed back his chair and rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “Now, if you will excuse me, sires, it will be a busy day tomorrow, and I would retire to bed…”

  Both Gilbert and Patrick looked up in alarm. They both began to speak at once.

  “Sire, there is another matter…”

  They scowled at each other in confusion. Patrick yielded to Gilbert as the more senior of the two.

  “There is another matter on which I would speak with you.”

  “I, too, have another item of business to discuss,” Patrick added.

  Sir Simon sighed wearily and retook his seat. He looked from one to the other of the young knights.

  Gilbert began.

  “Since the matter of the Frasers’ allegiance has been settled…”

  “For now,” Sir Simon interrupted, raising his finger to emphasize the provisional nature of his decision.

  “For now,” Gilbert acknowledged, “I would seek your daughter’s hand… Margaret’s, that is.”

  Patrick shot Gilbert a look of utter amazement.

  “I have been particularly taken by her during my short stay at Neidpath and would take her as my mate.”

  Sir Simon considered Gilbert for a moment, narrowing his eyes and nodding slowly, as if he were making some careful calculation. Then he shifted his attention to Patrick.

  “And you, Sir Patrick? Are you perhaps thinking of offering to take my other daughter off my hands?”

  “As it happens,” he replied, looking from Sir Simon to Gilbert and back again in astonishment at the turn of events, “I am! Or at least…” He hastened to correct himself. “… I would ask for your consent to our marriage.”

  Sir Simon pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes still further. He raised a crooked finger and stroked it down his nose. For some minutes the silence drew out and deepened in the small room.

  “I see no disadvantage in an affinity between the Frasers of Oliver and Neidpath and both the Hays of Lochorwart and the Flemings of Boghall,” Sir Simon cautiously conceded. “In fact, I see several advantages.” He suddenly beamed at the both of them. “I gladly give my consent to the matches you propose.”

  Gilbert and Patrick let out their breaths and grinned broadly from ear to ear.

  Sir Simon stood again and extended his hand to each of them. They both rose hurriedly and took it warmly, then clapped each other heartily on the shoulder.

  “I would congratulate you.” Sir Simon smiled. “But I suspect that neither of you appreciates just what you have taken on.” He winked at Patrick. “You, sire, shall have your hands full. So I offer my commiserations instead.”

  He turned and staggered from the room with a broad grin on his lips, the wine having gone to his head.

  Margaret and Joan were both betrothed. He would inform them of the fact on the morrow.

  Chapter Eight

  “We shall have a double wedding,” Lady Maria announced. “Here in the private chapel of the castle, with the wedding feast being held in the hall. We must have the hangings taken down and brushed and new linens prepared for the tables. You must have new gowns made, unless…” She smiled at Joan. “… you propose to be married in jerkin and mail.”

  Joan grinned back.

  “I shall be married in a fine gown just to please you, Mother,” she said and turned fondly to Margaret. “After all, it would not do to be outshone by my ugly sister.”

  Margaret delivered a playful slap to Joan’s forearm.

  They were in Lady Maria’s boudoir. Gilbert and Patrick had departed to raise their men-at-arms; Sir Simon was sending messengers out to all his squires, calling them to furnish the men and supplies that was their obligation to him as their feudal overlord, the very men and arms that Sir Simon himself was obliged in his turn to supply to the king. The women were leaving the men to get on with their business; they had their own campaign to plan and prepare. A wedding, let alone a double wedding, was no small undertaking.

  “It is a pity we cannot be married right away.” Margaret pouted. “I would that we could have our lords safely wed; it would not do for them to escape our nets.”

  Joan looked up, a smo
ldering look in her eyes.

  “The bee always returns to the honeypot,” she observed. “I trust you have given your Gilbert at least a lick of the spoon.”

  “Joan!” Lady Maria cried. “A virtuous lady remains chaste until after the marriage vows have been made.”

  “Thank goodness I am not a ‘virtuous lady’, then,” Joan said archly.

  Lady Maria shook her head in despair. But she was determined that her errant daughter would not spoil her happiness.

  “Sir Gilbert has plighted his troth and is an honorable knight,” she reassured Margaret. “He will not jilt you. He just has his duty to his king to perform before he can embark on the responsibility of forming his own household. You must just be patient, my heart; your father says it will only be a matter of weeks until the realm is again settled, and peace restored.”

  “And if you cannot wait, there are any number of servants in the castle who can serve you in the meantime,” Joan added helpfully.

  “Joan! That is enough,” her mother shouted, in a most unladylike manner which she instantly regretted.

  Margaret fell silent. She bit her lip.

  “Mother, do you really think it will be over soon. I fret that the battle might not go well.”

  Lady Maria reached out a reassuring hand. She stroked her elder daughter’s arm.

  “You must trust your father in this,” she said. “He has successfully steered the family through these turbulent years. His judgment is sound in such matters, and he would not have risked his lands and titles had he been uncertain of the outcome. He says that King Edward’s position is untenable, and it may well be that no battle will even have to be fought, that the English army will just disappear south like snow from a dyke. He has much larger fish to fry in France, according to your father. He has only been able to maintain his occupation of our kingdom because of the divisions within the realm. Now that the kingdom is united under King Robert, he will have no stomach to continue.”

  “But what if there is a battle and what if Gilbert – or Patrick – or the both of them are slain?”

  Lady Maria gripped Margaret firmly by the upper arm.

  “That is always the risk a lady must take,” she replied grimly. “The world is made up of three classes of men: those who fight, those who pray, and those who work. The most distinguished are those who fight, the class to which your father and your future husbands belong.” She turned to Joan. “That is why you are indeed fortunate not to have been wed to a bonnet laird, who labors on his farm, which would have been a great fall in your station. I would rather have seen you in a nunnery, which would not have been so far a fall for you.”

  Joan looked sheepishly down at her hands.

  “For that I thank you,” she said sincerely, in a low, almost 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,” Margaret remarked.

  “That, too, is part of a lady’s virtue, perhaps its greatest part,” her mother replied. “To succor her husband in his constant sojourn in the valley of death.”

  Then Lady Maria clapped her hands and rose.

  “But this is far too gloomy a subject. We have a wedding to celebrate, gowns to sew and flourish, menus to prepare, guests to invite. The time will fly, just you wait and see. Before we know it, our men shall be returned to us as conquering heroes, and we must have great festivities ready for them.”

  Chapter Nine

  Margaret stood on the rampart of Neidpath Castle, gazing longingly west towards the heart of Scotland, whence she hoped and prayed her Gilbert would return someday soon from his service to King Robert, the Bruce, in his quest to free his realm from the tyranny of the English king, Edward. She stood as she had done every day for the past three weeks since Gilbert’s departure to raise his men from the estate of Lochorwart, to the north of Neidpath, her heart aching with her want of him and her nerves jangling with fear for his safety. Her father had been confident of an easy victory, but even the small risk he was willing to concede was not one that Margaret was comfortable to accept.

  Her eyes traced the course of the Tweed as it emerged around the bend of the broad ravine and into the dale over which Neidpath stood sentinel. The trees that tumbled down the castle’s braes were in full leaf, and the foliage was buffeted by the same fresh breeze that streamed Margaret’s long silken hair. The scent of water and meadow-blossom was carried on the breeze in tantalizing wisps that teased her nostrils with hints that were snatched away from her just as soon as she discerned them. She watched the flash of a magpie as it flew low clumsily over a shingle bank, and she shivered as it called to mind her bad dream.

  Suddenly, from the courtyard below, a clamor arose. She rushed to the edge of the parapet that looked over the bailey and saw a rider clatter through the gate and onto the cobbled yard. His horse was slick with sweat, and its muzzle spumed with frothy white foam. Two grooms immediately rushed forward to grab the bridle and calm the frantic gelding, as the rider slid from the saddle. The rider staggered as if his legs were numb and unused and could not take his weight. A third groom hurried to steady him. The rider threw back his hood.

  It was Patrick.

  Margaret looked down in dumb astonishment. The blood ran cold in her veins. Patrick’s eyes were wild, his features drawn and strained. He took in great gulps of air, his reddish hair plastered in wet tangles to his head. Margaret’s worst fears rose to fill the gorge of her throat.

  Joan ran out into the courtyard from the door to the keep, and pushing the groom aside, Patrick stumbled towards her. Margaret turned and made for the stairs. She descended them two at a time, birling around the spiral of the staircase till her brain whirled in its skull. She emerged at the door to the keep and had to pause and steady herself against the rough stone jamb as her head continued spinning. Then she was off and sprinting across the cobbles, heedless of the piss and horseshit that seeped between the slick rounded stones.

  Joan was supporting Patrick, who leaned heavily on her shoulder. He was physically exhausted but, thankfully, otherwise unharmed. His eyes were swimming and kept sliding out of focus as he fought against fainting. His face was grimed with soot and dust from the road. Tears were streaming down Joan’s cheeks as she kept imploring him to stay with her, that she was with him, that he would be alright.

  “Gilbert?” Margaret demanded, as she hefted Patrick’s other arm across her shoulder and the two women half-carried, half-dragged him towards the door to the keep. “Where is Gilbert? Is he safe?”

  “And Father,” Joan added. “Is Father safe too?”

  Gilbert tried to speak, but the effort was too great. The words he attempted subsided into a great groan, which bore despair as well as utter exhaustion.

  “He cannae speak now,” said Geordie, the steward, as he arrived with two elderly indoor servants to relieve the women of their burden. “We maun carry him upstairs to the hall an’ get some warmth an’ vittles intae him.”

  The servants carried Patrick upstairs and deposited him on a bench. Patrick immediately flopped forward onto the table, pillowing his head on his folded arms.

  Two kitchen maids scurried in with a pitcher of small bear and victuals – bread and cheese – closely followed by Lady Maria.

  “Brandy,” she ordered, waving away the steward. “Go to the cellar and fetch a bottle of Sir Simon’s good French brandy.” She turned to the other manservants. “And get him out of those clothes. They’re soaking wet; he’ll catch a chill and fall foul of a fever.”

  The two indoor servants who had carried him upstairs right away moved to strip Patrick of his sodden surcoat. But Joan intervened.

  “No, let me,” she insisted. “It is my place to see to my husband.”

  She began to peel the sodden surcoat from his shoulders.

  “You a
re not married yet,” Lady Maria reminded her sternly. “Let the men do it.”

  “Fuck off, Mother,” Joan replied calmly and continued to strip the wet clothes from Patrick’s strengthless body. “Margaret, fetch a warm blanket to wrap him in.”

  Without a word, Margaret flitted from the room and went to fetch a blanket from their own bed.

  When she returned, Patrick was sitting naked and shivering; Geordie was dribbling brandy between his quivering lips, straight from the bottle. He looked pale and fragile in his nakedness.

  Joan took the blanket from Margaret with whispered thanks. She draped it over Patrick’s shoulders and wrapped it around his torso. She could not bear how cold he felt, like a corpse. She began to rub his chest and shoulders through the thick woolen cloth.