by Arnette Lamb
“Curly and her little sister have quinces.” Walking backward and facing her, Alasdair pouted. “May I please have one?”
Thinking he was due a haircut soon, she reached out to scruff his head. “Will you promise to keep your appointment with Brother Julian?”
He dodged her admirably. “I gave you my word of honor. ’Tis a manly thing.”
In another few years he’d grow away from her. In manhood, he would make her proud. Later he would bring his children to visit. Engulfed in motherly love, she wanted to hug him, but he’d balk at so public a display. “You’re to be there before Vespers.”
He nodded. “I’m hungry, Mother. I’m as starved as a mouse in Glory’s pantry.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“From Sween.” Looking back over his shoulder he steered himself to the clean edge of the lane. “But he says she can keep her sweets to herself.”
The latest episode in the ongoing war of the lovers promised to outdo the rift at Whitsunday last. Whitsunday. Drummond’s birthday. How many of those days had he spent alone and hungry in the Tower of London? The grief returned to weight her shoulders and prick her conscience. She should have inquired, for she knew the old king practiced brutality against his enemies. It followed that he would hardly account for their needs or address the concerns of their families. That still didn’t excuse her, she could have asked through a third party.
“Mother, what’s wrong?”
Everything. Alasdair had stopped to stare at her. His fretful expression mirrored a worried frown from Drummond. “Nothing’s amiss, dear, and yes, you may have a quince, but only one.”
“And one for Longfellow.” He spun around and darted down the cross path that would take him to the market.
Johanna dodged a herd of yearling sheep and continued on her way to the tanner to find a protective glove for the cook. Merchant stalls and larger businesses lined either side of the lane. As they displayed their wares, the craftsmen and the castle folk exchanged morning greetings. It was still too early in the day for visitors from the surrounding hamlets, but by noontime the bailey would be filled with carts and wagons and the thoroughfares clogged with customers.
The baker called out to her. “Have a scone, my lady. Lord Drummond said they was as good as his aunt Fiona’s. Ate an even dozen of ’em and said I should deliver up a batch to the keep every morning.”
The aroma of fresh baked bread teased her nose, but she doubted she could swallow even a crumb. She had succeeded in avoiding Drummond this morning, and knowing his whereabouts would allow her to keep it that way. Facing him would come later.
She smiled and hoped she didn’t sound like a woman who’d lost her wits over a man. “When was Lord Drummond here?”
The baker raked his forearms, stirring up a cloud of flour. “Just ’afore he and Sween set off for the tanner. My lord said you’d want to look for him there.”
So much for going to the tanner. She had expected Drummond to be at the carpenter’s shed and had planned her errands to avoid that establishment. That he wanted her to look for him didn’t bear addressing.
“Elton Singer left his harnesses to dry-rot,” the baker was saying. “Sween brought ’em in with him this morning. Mistress Glory’s still in Eastward Fork, y’know. Suppose he’ll fetch her in a day or two. I look for a pleasant makin’ up from ’em.”
Sween and Glory’s troubles were their concern; Johanna had problems of her own. “Thank you.” She put the scone in her basket, which already contained a broken trivet and several jars of honey; then she bade the baker good day and set out for the smithy.
On the way, the shoemaker waved her into his shop. His mouth puckered, he aimed a coarse thread through an outsized needle. Behind him, his fragile wife lounged on a bench.
“Lord Drummond’s at the tanner,” he said, concentrating on his task. “He said you’d be asking after him.”
Johanna would as soon inquire after a doomed hog. “He did?”
When he’d succeeded at his task, the shoemaker smiled and, with a flair, rolled a knot into the thread. “Finer man you couldn’t want. Commissioned Alasdair a pair of boots.”
Wishing Drummond were sending messages from the Highlands and spending money there, she thanked the cobbler and moved on. Just ahead and coming toward her, Morgan Fawr led a basket laden donkey. She’d never met the man, but Alasdair had described the rail-thin fellow perfectly. His closely cropped brown hair and chest length fiery beard made him easily recognizable.
She stopped before him. “I haven’t had the pleasure of welcoming you to Fairhope Tower, Mr. Fawr. I’m Lady Clare.”
“Stories tell you how a person come upon knowin’ ’em.”
Garble mouthed Welshman, Bertie had said. Johanna understood why. “You’re Longfellow’s caretaker.”
“Herdin’ creature, he is for company. Oncet, he shined to a mouser and her kits a-crawlin’ all over him. Skin tougher than a ship’s deck’s next to him.”
She had hoped to glean information about Drummond from this man. Although she already doubted her success, she plunged onward. “Have you known Lord Drummond long?”
“Coming on the time since the wall crumbled at the water gate.”
“The water gate to what?”
The donkey nudged him. With sticklike fingers, he scratched the animal’s snout. “At the piling o’ the rocks the Conqueror threw up on the Thames.”
Garble-mouthed was beginning to sound like a flattering description. Pile of rocks. William the Conqueror. Thames. “You mean the Tower of London.”
“Onliest keep on the river with prisoners wearing out the stairs.”
Now that she was getting somewhere, she jumped on the lucid thought. “You were a prisoner, too?”
His hand stilled. The donkey let out an earsplitting bray. Over the noise, he said, “Wasn’t there hirin’ a room and a bucket o’ eels.”
Even if she did pry information from him about Drummond, Johanna knew she wouldn’t understand much of it. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”
“I’ll run it to ground before it gets away. Plantagenets keep their booty close.”
Ignoring the placement of the words and the verbs, she concentrated on the nouns. “The king keeps you close by. He won’t allow you to return to Wales?”
Miraculously, he nodded. “He’s a-certain I’m after shoveling a mountain of elephant dung.”
Baffled, she said, “Are you?”
He blinked, one lid moving slower than the other. “The new king’ll never wear the leek upon Saint David’s Day.”
She jumped at the chance for common ground, for she knew that David was the patron saint of Wales. “Then you’re a religious man.”
“What’s the church got to do with the king?”
At a loss and wanting to yank out her hair in frustration, she handed him the scone. “Here, this is for you.”
He reared back, bumping into the donkey. “Begged food falls into a meek belly.”
She decided that his thinking was as skewed as his speech. “I always pass out scones to the newcomers.”
He peered into the basket. “Full of glad-you-came’s today, eh?”
“Yes,” she ventured. When he smiled, she thrust the scone into his hand. “Eat hearty. Enjoy.”
He turned it over in his hand and mumbled, “A crown upon your head.”
Picking up her step, Johanna vowed that the next time she tried to converse with Morgan Fawr, she’d insist that Drummond interpret. A foolish thought, for she intended to stay as far away from him as possible.
Approaching the smithy, she drew off her mantle in deference to the heat. At his forge, the blacksmith clutched a clamp that held what looked suspiciously like a small helmet “I hope that’s not for Alasdair.”
The clamp slipped from his hand, and the helmet plopped into the water that hissed and boiled. “Lord Drummond came himself to commission it. There’s to be a mail shirt and a breastplate, too.”
&nb
sp; An acrid smell made her stomach roil; so she moved upwind. “Perhaps for another boy, but not for Alasdair.”
“My lady,” he pleaded, drawing the sweat-soaked rag from around his neck. “Your husband was particular in his instructions. He’s at the tanner now, asking after gauntlets for the lad. Said to tell you he was there so you wouldn’t lose track of him.”
Lose track of him? His whereabouts could be the fourth biggest mystery, for all she cared. She handed the blacksmith the broken trivet. “I suggest you put your efforts into repairing this, should you value my patronage. Eastward Fork has a new forge, or so they say.”
Wearing a downtrodden frown, he nodded and fished the helmet from the water. He gave it a fond look, then tossed it aside.
Ready to do battle with the despotic Drummond Macqueen, she went to the tanner.
“Not to worry, my lady. He said you’d come looking for him. He’s in the tiltyard with Sween. If you take the alley behind the cooper’s, you’ll get there quicker.”
She almost snapped that she knew the way, but the tanner did not deserve her anger. She went in search of the man who did.
Drummond stood in the center of the yard. Shirtless, his hair tied back with a strip of leather and sweat glistening on his muscled back, he looked like the ancient gladiators Homer had immortalized. Garbed in indecently tight trunk hose and soft leather boots, he had drawn a crowd of adoring women. He seemed unaware of their attention, for he concentrated on the task of uprooting the rotted quintain post. Good, she thought; Fairhope needed no weapons of war. The thing was an eyesore, and the men never used it.
Flexing muscles and long sinewy legs drew her eye. Miffed that she could appreciate a man who would turn his perfectly sweet son into a bully, she marched up to him. “I came to speak with you about the items you commissioned the blacksmith to make for Alasdair.”
Glancing at her over his shoulder, he gave her a devilishly inviting smile. “You found me.”
“How could I not when you left a trail of verbal mouse droppings for me to follow?”
Amusement danced in his eyes, and his lips puckered with mirth. “You look lovely in that color. The shade brings out the yellow in your hair. You must have worn it for me.”
That he had, purely by chance, guessed her exact thoughts while dressing this morning miffed her even more. Chance was all it was. She liked the dress, and that was precisely why she’d worn it. For her, certainly not for him. “Alasdair is not to have a suit of armor.”
He straightened and draped an arm over the top of the post. His gloved hand looked large enough to cup her head, and his massive shoulders blocked out the sun. “Are you always so frisky in the morning?” he asked.
How could she both welcome and despise his cajoling tone? Having no answer, she said, “Will you please address the matter at hand.”
He sighed and shifted his weight to one leg. “Were it up to you, our son would only excel at kissing altar cloths and speaking foreign languages.”
Pride stiffened her backbone. “I speak Latin.”
He laughed. “To whom? Evelyn? John Handle?”
Some of the starch went out of her, for he had a point. But Latin was a language of scholars, the very thing she had in mind for Alasdair. “He must be taught.”
Turning over a hand, he said, much too reasonably, “Then teach him something useful.”
He smelled of leather and hardworking man. To her dismay, she found it particularly appealing. “Like killing?”
“He should learn to protect himself.” He swept an arm in a circle. “And defend everyone here. There’s also philosophy, Roman governing, and Scottish history.” The last two words were said with marked emphasis.
She had intended to find a well-versed Scotsman to school Alasdair, but not yet. “I cannot afford another tutor, nor do I think it wise to disrupt his studies at this time.”
He gave her a sugary grin. “Worry not, my dear. I’ll teach him everything he needs to know. Leave it to me.”
Already the craftsmen were deferring to him and the women gawking. Johanna hadn’t the time to go along after him, cancelling commissions or wondering if he’d settled accounts. She couldn’t bring up the subject of money now, not until she learned if he had means of his own. “I insist that you begin by telling the blacksmith that Alasdair has no need for chain mail. I’ve taken care of the helmet.”
He leveled her a smoldering look that could have melted an ice maiden. “Easy now, Clare, or I’ll have him make you a chastity belt.”
Mortified, she gritted her teeth. “You’ll do no such thing.”
Staring at her hips and lower, he murmured, “On second thought, it might be a sin to lock you up. Tell you what—” He rubbed his back against the post. “I could be persuaded to alter Alasdair’s training, if you could be persuaded to …”
Unsaid words hung between them. When the silence grew, she couldn’t help anticipating the rest of his thought. He’d say that she could give him a house full of children, or that she could share his bed starting tonight. Feeling her cheeks flame, she stared at his broad chest “I could what?”
“Scratch my back.”
Her gaze flew to his. “Your what?”
He jiggled his brows, then turned, presenting her a broad expanse of muscle. Loud enough for even the gateman to hear, he repeated, “Scratch my back.”
She’d rather tell him to wallow on it in the dirt, but with half the eligible women within hearing distance, she checked the thought. Since she had no choice, Johanna put down her basket and did as he asked. He gave a contented groan and shivered beneath her touch, reminding her of the power she could wield over him. But last night she had glimpsed the control he could as easily exercise over her, a talent she had yet to perfect. The trouble was, he’d had vastly more experience than she. As a consequence, she must approach every encounter with caution. She must also be certain they were never alone.
To better accommodate her, he bent his legs and braced his hands on his knees. “I’m glad you stopped biting your nails. Did Alasdair’s birth change that, too?”
Sister Margaret used to say that bad habits avoided Johanna and flocked to Clare. “You might say that.”
Leaning to the right, he said, “Yes. Just there. Ah. You slept well?”
She’d hardly closed her eyes. In a cheery tone, she said, “Famously.”
“You said you had never in your life been less tired.”
Blast his memory. “It was a fleeting feeling.”
“Hum. Then the next time we dally, I’ll strive to make the experience a lasting one.”
A memory stirred vividly to life; she felt sheltered again, safe in his arms. More disturbing, she had wanted a greater closeness with him and not only the physical kind. Sharing the events, both sad and joyous, of his life, held particular appeal.
“There is no Wares Day,” he said. “’Twas a feeble excuse to run away from me and your vows last night.”
“Feeble?”
“’Twas easily verified.”
“I sought only to comfort you.”
In a husky whisper, he said, “Oh, and you did. I still recall the feel of your head resting on my chest.”
She withdrew her hand. “I met Mr. Fawr.”
Facing her again, he gave her a look that said he wasn’t fooled by her conversational zigzag. “Fawr’s not his family name. ’Tis rather a description.”
“Meaning what?”
He rubbed his stomach. “The great.”
“He thinks well of himself.”
“As he should. He was the last one standing on the Welsh side of a battle.”
“Edward the First took him prisoner.”
“He told you that?”
“I managed to untangle a word or two.”
A mischievous twinkle brightened his eyes. “Careful, or you’ll be gathering up enough double l’s and stretched out o’s to get sight of a friend.”
Laughter burst from her. “You’ve been around him too lon
g. You sound as garbled as he.”
His expression sobered, and he wiped a glove across his brow. “Seven years.”
Sympathy welled up inside her. “What can I say to you, Drummond? Had I been in a position to do so, I would have set you free.”
He paused, his elbow in the air. “Your position with the new king has never been in question. You knew him well enough.”
“That was precisely what I had in mind when I—” She clamped her lips shut. He had tried to trick her. She could not, would not, address Clare’s sin, not to him, not to anyone.
The expression in his blue eyes turned chilly. “When you what?”
His deceptively calm tone didn’t fool Johanna; he wanted a confession from her. He’d go to his grave wanting it. Clare had sinned to save him. Johanna would not belittle her sister’s decision.
She moved away. “I thought you were building a shelter for Longfellow this morning.”
He cupped his hand to his ear. “Hear the hammers?”
With her mind dwelling on regrets about last night, she hadn’t noticed the pounding noises coming from the direction of the main gate. She turned toward the sounds and saw Sween in the lane, a freshly cut post over his shoulder, a skipping Alasdair beside him. They were headed for the tiltyard.
Anxious to conclude her discussion in private with Drummond, she said, “Why are you replacing the post?”
“Because as it stands you could knock it down.”
“I forbid you to teach Alasdair to use it.”
“I say he does.”
“Then you face disappointment.”
“You can forbid until your Roman centurions return. I’ll do as I may.”
“How will you pay for it?”
“With the profits from this demesne, which I intend to double by raising Spanish cattle.”
“Fairhope belongs to me.”
“’Twas left to the widow of Drummond Macqueen. You are not that woman.”
Fear crawled up Johanna’s throat. Had he guessed? Swallowing back the panic, she searched his stern expression but saw no sly motive lurking there. “What do you mean, I am not that woman?”
“She does not exist, for I am hale and hearty.” He peered into her eyes. “And you are as white as snow on ice. What’s amiss, Clare?”
