by Arnette Lamb
Clare. Relief poured over Johanna and she thought her sister’s name had never sounded sweeter. She grabbed a snippet of his conversation. “I am committed to supplying grain to the overlord. I have no spare pasture for cattle, Spanish or otherwise.”
“That and other things are changing.”
Only the Second Coming could have altered her life more than the arrival of Drummond Macqueen. “I would have things stay as they are.”
His brows shot up and his mouth dropped. “For heaven’s sake why?”
Determined to have the last word, she picked up her basket. “I rather like being a widow.”
Certain that the plan he had devised last night would now work, Drummond bowed from the waist. “And I rather like friskiness.”
To his delight, her pretty mouth pursed in frustration. If he could keep her off guard, he could get her into bed. Once there, she’d tell him what he wanted to know, for she’d never been able to keep her secrets from him in the dark.
“Who’s frisky?” demanded Alasdair, staring at the both of them.
A cunning smile blossomed on her face. “The horse your father is going to buy you.”
She marched off, leaving Drummond to deal with an excited Alasdair and a brooding Sween.
Alasdair gulped down a mouthful of spoon cake. “Father said I could nail the horseshoe over Longfellow’s door. That’ll keep the witches away from him.”
Johanna opened her mouth to caution him about the dangers involved in scaling a ladder, but paused, for advice would sound like another lecture. Feeling left out of his life, she raked the garnishing hazelnuts to the edge of the bowl.
“I doubt a spirit would go seeking the beast,” said Brother Julian. “God made few provisions in the scriptures for beasts of burden.”
Drummond rested an elbow on the table. “Then what was Noah doing?”
Eager to defend his territory, the cleric pushed the trencher toward Alasdair. “He was obeying the will of God and preserving all of his creatures.”
Huffing, Drummond said, “Sounds like a provision to me.”
“I meant to say that animals do not merit further concern, my lord. They lack souls.”
“What say you, Clare? Does Longfellow have a soul?”
How delightful that she’d been consulted on something other than the reasons for Glory’s jealous nature or the cause of the cobbler’s wife’s fainting spells. Hearing the peevishness in her own thoughts, she glanced at the man beside her. “I believe that God put animals here to serve man.”
Interest twinkled in his blue eyes. “Not for his own purposes? Surely God can appreciate a fine hound or a skilled falcon. They are also his creatures.”
So, Drummond Macqueen fancied himself a philosopher. She, too, enjoyed a lively discussion on the higher purpose of man. “True, but they are trained by man to do our bidding.”
Drummond waved his spoon. “Dogs are not trained to hunt. ’Tis natural for them in the wild. Domestication only trains them to obey the will of man. There’s a difference.”
“A subtle one,” murmured Brother Julian.
Scanning the others at the table, Johanna saw proof of how easily Drummond commanded attention. Alasdair stared, enraptured; Brother Julian looked keenly attuned, and Bertie seemed unable to turn away. Once they had preyed on her every word. She knew that jealousy fueled her ill-humor, but Johanna couldn’t help saying, “When it comes to domination, man is seldom subtle.”
His faith engaged, Brother Julian said, “My lord, next you’ll have me shriving animals and Lady Clare setting a place at table for them.”
“Is Longfellow going to Mass with us?” said an incredulous Alasdair.
The cleric huffed, “Of course not.”
“’Twould be a waste.” Drummond leaned close to Johanna. “Since he doesn’t speak Latin.”
“Do you?” she challenged.
“Nay, Latin is for the frisky at heart. I’m but a simple man.”
She scoffed. “And I’m Robert the Bruce.”
Joining in, Alasdair declared, “And I’m a landless adventurer.”
“You’re an exhausted, landless adventurer. Find your bed,” Drummond said. “And rest well.”
The boy’s excitement vanished. Something passed between father and son. A moment later, Alasdair grew animated again. “Mother, will you tell me a story?”
Bertie rose, bless him. “Come along, lad. It’s late, do you see, and we’re all toilworn.”
As if to verify his loss of interest in her, Alasdair murmured good night and left the table. When Brother Julian excused himself, Johanna rose.
“Stay.” Drummond put a hand on her arm.
With gentle pressure he kept her there until Evelyn had cleared the table, banked the fire, and excused herself.
“I’m sending Sween to Spain to purchase a bull.”
Her heart jumped. Had he discovered her carefully hoarded savings? “How will you pay for a bull?”
Looking very much like the chieftain, he said, “I have my own funds.”
“Shouldn’t you go yourself? Who will lead the hunt?”
He shot her a who-do-you-think look. “According to you, I can fell a hart with a blunted arrow from three hundred paces.”
Had she erred? On reflection, yes, but her intentions had been pure. Same as Clare. Oh, dear sister, she thought, did your heart beat fast and your logic flee in the presence of this compelling man?
Feeling like a fool, Johanna caught him staring at her. “Can you fell a hart with a blunted arrow?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t had the opportunity, but rest assured that in Sween’s absence, I will contrive to keep meat on our table. We will not starve.”
“I’ll sleep ever so much better knowing that. Did you find Alasdair a horse?”
“Nay. The blacksmith says Red Douglas has the best stock. I’d like for you to write to him and say we’re coming to visit—you, me, and Alasdair.”
“As a family?”
“Aye. I have no other wives or sons hidden away.”
He hadn’t the one wife anymore, much the pity.
“I also intend to discuss your grain obligation to Douglas. ’Tis unfair.”
“He lent me money when I had none.”
“According to the ledgers, you’ve already given him a fair return and more. He’s taking advantage of you.”
If he continued to usurp her authority she’d soon be relegated to supervising the porter, the cook, and Evelyn. “I will abide by my agreement”
“I’ll renegotiate it.”
Just as she was about to object, Alasdair returned. Wearing his long nightgown and cap and a forlorn expression, he straddled the bench and laid his head on her shoulder. “I cannot sleep, Mother. Will you tell me a story?”
Her heart melted, and she embraced him. “I would, but we’d awaken Bertie.”
Drummond got to his feet. “I’ll say good night.”
Deciding that Alasdair could sleep in his bed and she’d make a pallet on the floor, she led him away.
Giving them time to get settled in Alasdair’s room, Drummond paced the rush-strewn floor of his chamber. The dried grasses had been liberally laced with basil and thyme, and the pleasing odors permeated the room.
Nowhere, he thought, were the changes in his wife more evident than in this cozy chamber. She’d lost her penchant for expensive looking glasses and fancy silken tassels. Instead of bouquets of rosebuds in delicate vases, she now favored clay pots from the wheel of a local potter, filled with bundles of heather.
The spacious bed sported linen sheets and woolen blankets, rather than lace and ruffles. To his great relief, she no longer slept on a mountain of pillows, for he’d often awaken with a painful crick in his neck. But he’d been young and his wiry body quick to recover from minor discomforts. After seven years on a hard cot, he shuddered to think of how he would feel after a night on a cloud of goose down.
He’d brave it, though, for the chance to possess her agai
n.
Wait, his conscience said. ’Tis too soon yet.
Resolved, he strolled to the waist-high table by the window. On a finely embroidered cloth lay an assortment of keepsakes from her son. Among them were an almost square box containing a lock of curly black hair, a leather pouch filled with dried rose petals, a faded red ribbon, and a sheet of vellum with the words A Joyous Day printed in a lad’s scrawl above the date of her birth, 19 March 1286. Drummond remembered the day for another reason, same as all Scots did; their beloved and capable Scottish king, Alexander III, had died that night. Some said he was rushing to see his new wife, Yolande; others told of a breakneck ride to witness the birth of his illegitimate twin daughters, delivered of a noblewoman named Margaret.
A search for Alexander’s lover and his identical lassies yielded only the rumor that Edward I, in his quest to claim Scotland, had spirited them to England. Alexander’s favorite and his offspring were never found, and the tale was relegated to fiction.
Drummond was reminded of the tales Clare had spun to amuse Alasdair. The lad had responded by laboring to make the items on the table. Loving gifts, gifts to warm a mother’s heart. Upon Drummond’s arrival, she had removed her book of days and her prayer book and left her treasures. She had wanted him to see them. Why? To soften the heart of a husband wronged?
Her ploy had worked, for Drummond did feel closer to her, and with each passing day he found that he liked her more. He smiled, thinking about their first meeting this morning. Lord, she’d come to the tiltyard ready to brave the lion himself to defend her kit. As if Alasdair needed her defense. Clever beyond his years, the lad had carried out his part of tonight’s plan to perfection.
Anticipating the gratifying meeting ahead, Drummond extinguished the lamp and went in search of her.
He heard her voice before he reached the open door to Alasdair’s room.
“… women and children, and even the clansmen trembled in fear of the crazed boar, but not Lord Drummond.”
“It was the biggest and most enormous boar of all times, wasn’t it?” Alasdair put in.
Looking at his wife’s back, Drummond leaned against the doorjamb and made not a sound. He couldn’t see Alasdair, Clare sat on a stool near the head of the bed, blocking the lad from view.
“Yes,” she said, drawing out the word for added drama. “It was the meanest boar that ever lived. His tusks were razor sharp, and his nose and eyes were as keen as the best hound in the land. Alone, with only his dirk for a weapon, your father stalked the beast, night and day, for a week.”
“But Father never tired, did he?”
“Of course not. He was the best hunter in Scotland, and he was on a great quest.”
Alasdair peered around her until he spied Drummond. The lad’s eyes widened; then he snuggled deeper into the mattress. His mother noticed and turned around. Surprise enhanced her youthful appearance, and Drummond wished, for the hundredth time, that she’d been constant in her wifely devotion. Even as he admired her beauty, her expression changed to acceptance, then suspicion. She glanced at Alasdair, then back to Drummond.
“Please continue,” he said, stepping into the room.
Alasdair sat up straight. “Oh, hello, Father. Fancy seeing you here.”
Drummond winced at the practiced cadence of his son’s words.
Clare gave him a smile that smacked of punishment to come. “Do join us, my lord. I was just about to tell Alasdair a new tale about you.”
He didn’t like the sound of that, but followed his plan and sat on the edge of the bed.
“You have to finish the tale about the boar, doesn’t she, Father?”
Stiff with anger, she arched her brows. “Perhaps your father would care to do the honors himself.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Drummond said.
“Well, good. Now.” She fairly wiggled with satisfaction. “This is the tale of the flying, fire-breathing dragon that once preyed upon the Macqueens.”
Alasdair gasped. “A flying dragon?”
She sidled a glance at Drummond. “That breathed fire and wreaked havoc upon the land.”
Second thoughts turned to misgivings.
“Once upon a time, Lord Drummond was out collecting berries so his stepmother could make him a pie. He was a dutiful son and always obeyed his father’s second wife. Didn’t you, my lord?”
Her skin shouldn’t glow so prettily in the lamplight. Her mind shouldn’t work so quickly, either. “Aye.” It came out as a squeak.
Folding her hands primly in her lap, she continued. “His search led him to a forbidden cave. He knew he wasn’t supposed to go in, for his stepmother had told him not to. But the berry vine had spread and grown into the opening, and the fattest fruit lay just out of his reach. So he ignored the advice of his stepmother and crawled inside to pick the vine clean.”
“Did the dragon come after him?” Alasdair said.
“Most definitely, and Lord Drummond ran as fast as he could, but the enormous dragon flapped his wings and took to the air.”
Enthralled, Alasdair clasped his hands and drew them to his chest. “Wha-whatever did Father do?”
She snapped her fingers. “Quick as could be, he ripped a limb off a tree and, with his trusty dirk, fashioned himself a bow and an arrow.”
“And he killed the dragon dead!” cheered Alasdair.
“With only one shot, straight through the heart.” Giving Drummond a cheeky grin, she added, “He was dubbed the finest archer in all of Scotland.”
Lord, he’d underestimated her. But beneath the guilt, deeper emotions stirred inside Drummond. His convent-bred wife had grown into an exciting and challenging woman.
“Oh, Father. Can I have a bow and arrow? Will you teach me to shoot? I’ll practice until my fingers fall off. I swear by my oath, I will. Please?”
Knowing whatever he said would worsen his lot, Drummond took the easiest way out. “I’ll … uh … I’ll think about it.”
“I’m sure you’ll make an admirable teacher, my lord,” she said. “But let’s not overlook the lesson in this tale. Do you know what it is?”
He was reminded of the time he’d been called to task for using his father’s battle ax to chop firewood. Still, he wasn’t about to grovel, no matter how clever she was. “The moral is, picking berries is woman’s work.”
Disappointment pinched the corners of her mouth, and Drummond knew he’d compounded his mistake.
Calmly, she said, “Picking berries is the work of anyone who wants to eat the pie.” To a confused Alasdair, she said, “What is the moral of the story?”
He screwed up his face and stared at the beamed ceiling. “A lad should always obey his parents?”
“Yes, but more specifically … ?”
The lad brightened. “His mother.”
“You’re the joy of my life, Alasdair Macqueen.” She kissed his cheek. “I shall say good night to you both.”
“Wait.” Drummond rushed after her and grabbed her arm.
She turned slowly, and the lamplight glistened on her shiny hair. Their eyes met.
“Talk to me, Clare.”
“I hope you are proud of yourself. You used an unsuspecting boy for your own selfish reasons. I never thought you’d stoop to manipulating a child.”
“Stop being facetious. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Only one more thing. Let go of my arm.”
He released her, and she walked slowly away.
Her silence lasted three days, and when she did speak, Drummond could not believe his ears.
Chapter 8
“The sheriff holds an affection for me.”
Johanna held her breath and waited for Drummond’s reaction. She had expected his features to harden with disgust. He didn’t disappoint her, but beneath the glaring disapproval she noted regret. It made her want to cry, for life had been woefully unfair to Drummond Macqueen. Greatness had been his destiny, misfortune had become his lot.
“How thoughtful o
f you to prepare me.”
Unwilling to cower or confirm his base speculation, she faced him squarely. “Sheriff Hay is an honorable man, and if you would but try to engage a friendship, I think you will admirably succeed. I have never encouraged his intentions, and I certainly have never—” The words stuck in her throat. When the intensity in his eyes fled, replaced with cool acceptance, she marshalled her courage and told him a truth. “I have never lain with Sheriff Hay, nor any other man.”
“I see.” Fake wonderment tinged his words, and he reached up and grabbed a beam that supported the nearly completed shelter. His upper arms bulged and his naked torso rippled beneath the strain. “We wore out our marriage bed, conceived a son, and after a seven-year absence, God has blessed me with a virginal wife. Hear you that, Longfellow?” he said over his shoulder. “I am truly a son of providence.”
Transfixed, Johanna watched the elephant wrap its trunk around Drummond’s waist in the strangest hug she’d ever seen. When the tip of the animal’s snout mussed Drummond’s hair, her jaw went slack. “He does like you.”
Drummond responded with a halfhearted lopsided grin. “You were telling me about your association with the honorable sheriff who is, as we speak, plodding across our outer bailey.”
Our bailey. Our marriage bed. Nothing in her life had prepared Johanna for this discussion; she was accustomed to people, strangers and friends alike, thinking the best of her. Drummond’s scorn opened a wound, but she hid her pain. “Red Douglas is with him.”
“How cozy.” Drummond’s arms went loose, giving the impression that he dangled from the beam. “Tell me, do they flip a coin or roll the dice to determine who lies first with you?”
Anger shimmered through her, and she balled her fists to control her rage. Ramsey and the overlord seldom came to Fairhope together. Ramsey had been visiting Douglas when Johanna’s message reached him. “That’s preposterous. Douglas is my overlord.”
“Not a king? Tisk, tisk. ’Tis a pity you had to lower your standards.”
The watchmen scrambled for position on the wall. Bertie hurried the dung cart out of the lane. Perched on stilts, Alasdair and another lad raced toward a group of cheering children near the well. Outwardly life went on as it should.
