by Arnette Lamb
Drummond wondered if Clare had fostered that plan or if the men had taken it upon themselves to protect her. “Aye, she is bonny, and I shall talk to her very soon about that sister.”
Alasdair’s nod was quick and emphatic. “Brother Julian says she toils overmuch and that she needs a husband. Now she has you back.”
She didn’t want a husband, of that Drummond was certain. The only time she approached him was out of necessity or when he’d displeased her. Which was often, especially where Alasdair was concerned. “She has you, too.”
Alasdair sat straighter and smiled mischievously. “Did you know she was a prankster as a girl? Bertie told me about her dressing up like a boy and sneaking out of the abbey to watch the villagers dance ’round the harvest fire.”
“You have it wrong, Alasdair. She tells that tale about her friend Johanna. Your mother was afraid of everything.” Clare had been the timid one, too shy to wander about at night. But not too shy to wallow in a royal bed.
His face pinched with incredulity. “Mother, afraid? No. She’s as brave as anyone.”
Drummond saw his mistake; any lad should think the best of his parents. Perhaps Clare had outgrown her fears. “She is brave, Alasdair, just don’t put a lizard down her dress or expect her to pet a dog.”
“She always liked lizards, even as a girl. Sister Margaret sent the baskets she used to catch them.”
Again, the lad had gotten confused. “Nay, ’twas Johanna who caught lizards to eat the insects in the abbey’s kitchen garden.”
Slowly, succinctly, Alasdair said, “Mother tended the garden, same as she does now. She also fawns over the puppies and brings bones to the dogs.”
The lad seemed so vehement that Drummond did not protest.
“Father?”
At Alasdair’s serious tone, Drummond grew alert.
“Did Douglas tell the truth about you?”
Drummond took a deep breath and hoped for the best. Scooting back, he straddled the log so that he faced Alasdair. Futile hope shone in the lad’s eyes. “Aye, Son. He did.”
Alasdair’s mouth tightened, an expression very much like his mother’s. “I thought you were with the angels in heaven. Were you truly in a hellhole?”
Ugly images rose in Drummond’s mind, and although the fire radiated warmth, he felt chilled. “I was in a prison.”
“Elton Singer says he’s in prison, but it’s just the barracks. Were you in a barracks?”
“Nay. I was in a keep called the Tower of London.”
“What was it like there? Were you ever lonely?”
His first thought was to fall back on the teaching of his own father and keep his feelings to himself. Instinct told him to speak from the heart. “Aye, Son. I ofttimes was lonely.”
Eyes brimming with concern, Alasdair rested a comforting hand on Drummond’s knee. “I would have scaled that tower and rescued you, had Mother told me where you were.”
Drummond didn’t question where Alasdair had learned compassion. It was one of many fine qualities Clare had instilled in the lad. Drummond intended to praise her for it. “Your mother did not know I was there. She thought I’d been—” He searched for benign words for the cruelty he, and now Clare, had expected.
“Cut up in pieces?”
Drummond’s guards had often threatened him with the “fate of the Welsh princes,” as they termed dismemberment. Even now he shivered with revulsion. “Your mother thought I’d been hanged.”
“Why?”
“Because I fought against the old king.”
“But I cried when he died and said prayers for his soul.”
Drummond had cursed the monarch every day and wished him to hell more often. “Old Edward hated the Macqueens.”
“Mother says hating is no reason for a man to die, especially if he has a family who will miss him. We missed you.”
They’d also kept Drummond’s memory alive. Considering the events of the past, the noble tribute was an unwarranted gift. “I missed you, too.”
Leaning back, Alasdair braced his hands on the log. “Did the king capture you?”
“Aye, ’twas a black day for the Macqueens. My clan had been skirmishing his army for weeks, but fortune left us, and we were separated.”
“What happened?”
Regrets and better tactics whirled in Drummond’s mind. “I was outnumbered.”
A skeptical frown made Alasdair look endearingly young. “By how many men?”
To this day, Drummond was haunted by his poor judgment. “Twenty to one.”
“But you battled fifty heathen Vikings to save the church’s holy relic. Why could you not slay a mere score of Englishmen?”
Compared to fable, the true story became what it was: a desperate young man’s tactical error. “My sword was broken and my horse lame.”
“You could have used your dirk. You killed the terrible boar with it.”
Knowing the discussion could go on for hours, Drummond told another truth. “Your mother may have embellished the tale of the boar hunt.”
“That’s what Sheriff Hay said.”
Drummond’s anger rose. Ramsay would pay for his sin of omission, not to mention the crime of coveting another man’s wife. “In future, you will listen to me, Alasdair, not Sheriff Hay.”
He nodded. “You might not know it yet, so it’s best I tell you. I’m an easy lad to teach and clever.”
“Who told you that?”
“I heard Mother say it to Brother Julian.”
“Were you hiding behind a door?”
He stiffened with righteous indignation. “I was in the solar tallying my accounts. The door was open.”
“Your accounts?”
“Yes. Grain for my six chickens and oats for my pony. I must be prepared for manhood.”
“What kind of man do you think you will become?”
In imitation of his elders, he rubbed his chin. “A respecter of persons, I should think.”
“’Tis a commendable ideal.”
All seriousness, Alasdair folded his arms over his chest. “A man must protect the poor, the sick, and the contrite.”
He sounded so worldly, Drummond couldn’t help but say, “Know you much of contrite?”
Alasdair sighed and stared at the sky. “Only that I’m a poor master of it”
To hide a smile, Drummond scratched his cheek. “Well said.”
“Father? When we return, will you talk to Mother about that sister for me. She isn’t at all interested in getting me one.”
“I shall endeavor to change her mind.”
“Will you also take me to the Highlands?”
Drummond hesitated. Dreams of returning to his home and family had sustained him through the bleak nights in that wretched tower. Now Scotland was forbidden to him unless he defied the new king. If he did, Alasdair would become a traitor’s son and Clare the wife of a fugitive. Unless Edward II intervened. Would he agree to ignore Drummond’s flight if she again yielded her favors? Would she agree?
Why had she said yes so many years ago? Or was the long-ago affair, as Drummond had so often rationalized, a single act performed for the purpose of embarrassing a young and popular Scottish chieftain?
Drummond despaired, for what had once been a foregone conclusion had now become a complicated dilemma.
“Will you take me, Father?”
Drummond dodged the issue. “’Tis too cold there for you to swim.”
“Whatever do the lads do for pleasure in summer?”
Pleasure. With Edward I bringing army after army into Scotland, life had offered scant recreation for the children of the Highlands. “’Tis much better here, Alasdair.” Drummond knew it was true; yet he felt disloyal to the depths of his soul.
“I’m glad you’re here, Father. Will you tell me a story?”
No fairy tale would do; Drummond wanted to teach Alasdair about the Highland spirit. He searched for an event that would hold the lad’s interest, but most of the stories ended unha
ppily. Except one. “I’ll tell you a tale about the Tablet of Scone.”
“What is it, and what does it do?”
“’Tis a block of stone that once resided in Scone Abbey. By tradition, the kings of Scotland stand on the tablet to receive the crown. But the old king Edward took the stone and put it in Westminster Abbey. At least that’s what everyone believes happened to the stone.”
“What did happen?”
“Therein lies the tale, my eager friend, but before I tell you, you must promise never to speak the lad’s name or reveal his secret.”
“Oh, Father, I swear on my oath,” Alasdair gushed and jumped up and down. Then he grew pensive. “I wish Mother was here. She loves stories and she’s ever so good at keeping secrets.”
“If, after hearing it, you decide to tell her the story, you may.”
He looked toward Fairhope, longing in his eyes. “Mother will miss us.”
According to his mother, Alasdair had never spent the night away from home without her. Drummond felt compelled to say, “Do you want to go back?”
“I’m not sure, and you haven’t told me the story.”
“You can decide later.”
Absently, Alasdair nodded. “I wonder where she is now?”
Johanna entered the darkened hall and peered into the shadows to be sure she was alone. Her fingers gripped the heavy iron. The metal felt cool and smooth against her skin. And harmless. The tables had been dismantled and put away and the fire banked. Certain all had retired, she walked to the hearth.
Before she could again change her mind, she knelt and plunged the rod into the coals. Sparks flew. She jumped back to protect her best dress.
The coward in her urged reconsideration. She couldn’t be certain Drummond would notice a difference in the brand; Clare had said he paid the mark little mind. Neither had he been repulsed. But what if he noticed that the imprint of the tiny blunted sword was upside down on Johanna’s shoulder? When he’d stormed into the pantry and watched her bathe, she had managed to cover the mark with a towel, but she could not always hide the brand. Even if he did not grasp the difference the first time he saw the mark, he could the next, or the next.
She must get rid of it and only a hot iron would do.
What of putrefaction? If the burn fevered, she could die.
Not from so small an injury. As an infant she’d survived the burning from the branding. She would dress the new wound quickly and well and sleep warm and cozy in Alasdair’s bed. Her discomfort would be small. She wasn’t in the forest bereft of aid and mortally wounded. Heavens no.
In the time it would take to ink a quill, she would lay the thumb-size rod on her skin. She would obscure the one physical trait that marked her as Johanna Benison. Her stomach roiled.
She wasn’t afraid of illness. She feared losing her own identity.
As her hesitance grew, she stared at the hearth. The handle of the rod protruded from the coals. Farewell Johanna.
No. She couldn’t. So she ran from the hall. At the stairway, she pulled a lighted torch from its sconce and raced to the top of the keep.
The cooling wind sharpened her senses. The sky twinkled with stars, and moonlight blanketed the land. She could hear the village sleeping, the creatures settling, the wind soughing through the trees.
This place had been wild before she came and the people poor beyond measure. Now the demesne bristled with life and prosperity.
The watchman at the main gate swung his lantern in a wide arc. In answer, Johanna waved the torch, then thrust it into a brace on a merlon. The familiar ritual fueled her sense of accomplishment, for she often came to this spot She grew melancholy, thinking of the progress her leadership had wrought.
From behind her, she heard footfalls. Turning, she saw Bertie framed in the threshold. “Would you like company?”
Gratitude flooded her. “Please.”
Wearing a dark cape and holding another, he came to stand beside her. “Here.”
She took the wrap and draped it over her shoulders. Together they surveyed the village below.
After a companionable silence, she said, “I was just thinking about how much this land has changed since we came here.”
“’Twas forest and moor and little else, save the naysayers who had of it that you would fail.”
A sense of accomplishment comforted her. Bertie’s support had always been a given, a constant. He had been with her during every dark moment. It seemed fitting for him to be with her now. “I could not have succeeded without you.”
“Bother it,” he scoffed, his kind features pulled into a self-effacing grin.
“More than anything, I wanted a home of my own. Remember how jealous I was when word came that Clare would marry before me? I hated the king for that.”
“’Twas God’s will, not His Majesty’s. I’m thinking that’s also why Drummond was freed.”
At the mention of his name, her heart ached. She had doubted her feelings for him, but after tonight Johanna faced the sad truth that she had fallen in love with Drummond Macqueen. Rather than bolster her confidence, the knowledge added weight to her burden.
“He deserves better, Bertie.”
“Better than what?” he challenged, waving an arm over the battlement. “A prosperous estate? A strapping son? A capable and beautiful wife?”
Battered by doubts, Johanna felt the old misery return. “I wasn’t pursuing compliments, Bertie. I was thinking about what he feels in his heart. You should have seen him at table. A lesser man would have crumbled beneath Douglas’s harsh words, but Drummond thought first of Alasdair.”
“He has a father’s fondness for the lad, and he’s too clever to lose Alasdair’s admiration. He’ll make a fight of it, do you see?”
“I do not envy his task.”
“And what of yours, Lady Friend?”
“He deserves a truthful wife.” Then she told him what she planned to do.
“Sweet Jesus!” he cursed. “You cannot put a hot iron to yourself. What if you take a fever?”
Defending herself had never come easy to Johanna, but Bertie was her friend. “I will not. What are they saying in the village about Drummond?”
“They’re saying that Edward the Second should be canonized for freeing your husband from prison. I’m saying ’tis foolishness you contemplate.”
Under different circumstances she would have cherished Bertie’s advice. “I was little more than a girl when we came here. When have I never listened to you, Bertie?”
“Now.”
“I cannot.”
“You’ve a good soul, Johanna Benison, and given the time, Drummond Macqueen will see it. Then you can tell him the truth.”
“But what of the danger to Sister Margaret? The old king was emphatic about keeping secret the fact that Clare had a sister, especially a twin. Sister Margaret gave him her word.”
“Why would he ask for such a pledge unless your existence threatened his rule? He’s dead, and who’s to give a gelded goose now?”
“You’re missing the point, Bertie. Sister Margaret stood over that grave and wept for me.” She tapped her breastbone. “With the entire village looking on, she prayed aloud to God to take Johanna Benison into heaven. She accepted condolences from the people. There are witnesses aplenty to swear that Johanna Benison died and was buried. If word gets out, do you think the church will sit by and do nothing? I’ll wager they’ll strip Sister Margaret of rank and privileges.” Sorrow choked her. “I cannot allow that to happen.”
He opened his mouth, but closed it and bowed his head. “Nay, Lady Friend, you cannot. ’Tis a nettle.”
She knew the way out. She had but to find the courage.
An hour later, she knelt before the hearth, her bliaud bunched at her waist She slid shaking fingers into the cook’s thick leather glove. Then she picked up the iron. The tip glowed red, and a thin line of smoke floated upward.
Bile rose in her throat, and a dozen new objections came to mind. Thoughts
of Sister Margaret held sway.
Resigned and braced for the pain to come, she moved the iron close and whispered, “Farewell, Johanna.”
Chapter 12
Drummond leaned against a plum tree on the periphery of the kitchen garden and watched his wife. At one time she hadn’t known celery from heather and now she looked perfectly at home, sitting on a pallet among the maze of flourishing plants. She wore a smock of coarsely woven linen over a faded blue underdress. Sans coif, her hair had been loosely restrained with a green ribbon. In a gilded waterfall, it trailed down her back and past her waist to pool on the mat.
On her left hand she wore a stained glove and, with little vigor, wielded a small spade. Her right arm was cradled against her breast, as he expected. But she didn’t look sorely ill, as Sween had insisted. She looked endearingly young and far too tempting.
Nearby Evelyn used a clawed hoe and fierce determination to hack at the soil around a waxy leafed bush.
Clare lifted her head and sighed. Then she caught sight of him. Holding the pouch containing Glory’s medicine, he walked into the sunny garden. Her smile seemed forced, and on closer inspection, her eyes were rimmed with fatigue.
“Fare you well, my lady?” he asked.
“Very well, and you, my lord?”
Why would she forswear her injury and not ask about Alasdair? When last she had seen the lad, he’d been distraught. Why was she unconcerned? Or was she angry at Drummond for staying away all night with their son?
Determined to find out, he moved closer, snapping off a leaf as he went. “The sorrel thrives.” He sniffed the lemony smelling plant but didn’t take his eyes from her.
“The plant’s well rooted. I brought it from the abbey garden.”
Still no mention of her son. “You’ve become a fine gardener.”
Her gaze wavered and she went back to working the soil. “None of us here favors bland food. Did you know that the sheriff and Douglas are anxious to speak with you?”
Where was her vibrancy, her constant motion? Where was the kind concern he’d seen at table last night when Douglas spewed his venom?
