Francis opened his mouth once more to speak, but closed it and looked at the servant again. “Th-thank ye. Ye may leave,” he said, swallowing hard.
The servant departed and Francis, without saying a word, made his way to the bench and sat beside Arabella, where he opened the letter to read it more fully.
Tempted to lean over and read it from the corner of her eye, Arabella restrained herself, understanding that she had to give Francis some privacy, even if she would have loved to have understood why this letter was so important and left Francis so strained.
He sat quietly and she watched subtly as he read the letter what must have been three times. With each reading, his face grew more and more strained. Something about it was painful for him.
Finally, he folded the paper back into its original shape and looked at Arabella, then cleared his throat. He gave a false, half-smile before standing and walking out of the garden without another word.
* * *
Arabella had taken her sewing back inside and was now once more in the gallery. A cold wind had begun to blow in the garden and unexpected rains had come. She hadn’t seen Francis again since two hours before, when he had vanished from her side.
She wondered what it was about his faither that consistently seemed to leave him uncomfortable. They must not have a terribly good relationship, but then again, he should be grateful that his faither is at least nearby and wishes to see him.
Missing her own faither deeply, and not knowing if she would ever see him again, Arabella wished she could take a journey to the eastern lands where he indulged in the warmth of the sun. Anything if it meant she could see him.
“There ye are!” greeted Emily, coming through the door and seeing Arabella sitting on her own, not really sewing anymore, but still holding the needle and fabric in her hands.
“Emily, how are ye? How were yer visits?” Arabella asked.
“Fine, fine. It was a nice time to spend with everyone. And ye? It doesnae seem like ye got very much finished,” she commented.
Arabella rolled her eyes. “Thank ye for that encouragement! As it happens, it’s been a rather busy day and I’ve had other things on me mind,” she said, pursing her lips.
“Such as?” Emily prodded.
Arabella breathed in and heaved a frustrated sigh. “Oh, ye ken. That man and all his confusion. It’s only gotten worse for me. I’ve seen him moving most beautifully and I found meself utterly distracted by him. Then in the next moment, he’s standing before me, stammering like I’m not worth his time at all. And again in another turn he’s all distracted by a letter and doesnae even say goodbye,” she recounted.
Emily’s knowing smile returned to her face and she eyed Arabella as if she were a fool.
“What’s that look for?” Arabella asked.
“It’s because ye’re nonsensical in every bit of the word. Do ye really have to play so daft as to not understand that ye make him nervous? I’ve got to see ye with this man. Are ye ever going to tell me who it is?” Emily asked.
“Nope. Certainly not,” Arabella replied stubbornly.
“Why?”
“Because ye’d humiliate me to be sure. I’ve no doubt ye would make inquiries about him or start trying to push me into situations of being around him. I dinnae want anyone to make anything of it. I just want him to be willing to speak to me in his own time,” Arabella said.
“That is wise I suppose. When I met me husband, I didnae want others to push us together, but in some ways they did. Still, I love him utterly and I kenned well that we’d marry one way or another,” Emily said.
Arabella thought about the beauty of such a certainty. Would she ever have that confidence about Francis?
Chapter 6
A Fight Of Deadly Intent
The wind and rain had ceased and the sky had settled into cloudy hues of pink and gold. The long days of summer were always a comfort to Francis. He felt so at peace during the season of warmth and perpetual light save for the few hours surrounding midnight.
Today, he was not comforted. Today the beauty of the sky above did nothing for him. He was still overwhelmed, beautiful or not. There was little that could be done to ease the burden that he felt overwhelming his soul.
“Dark night of the soul, indeed,” Francis commented, thinking of a book he had read when he was younger. During these difficult times, when he grew weary of the lies, he often found himself crushed by the weight of confusion.
He had received the letter and could not deny that he had seen it. He’d been told by a servant of its contents and read each word in the presence of Arabella. So a lie that he was unaware of his duty would not be even the slightest bit possible, he knew.
Oh Arabella! He had been so awkward before her yet again! Rude even. He hadn’t meant to, he had gone with true intentions of simply engaging her in conversation, but the moment she looked up and saw him and spoke coolly toward him, his only thought had been some nonsense excuse.
“Ye’re awkward enough with women,” he said to himself. “Ye dinnae need to make it worse by always feeling helpless. She’s a lass with her own difficult life. She’d never judge ye.”
Francis wished he could go back and do it all over again, to speak plainly with her, confidently and comfortably. He wished he could comment on her excellent work as a seamstress and even perhaps commission something small of her to show his appreciation for her work. It would have given him something to say. Maybe he could ask her another time.
Instead, he had allowed his grief to overtake him in her presence. She had seen him turn white as a sheet and run off like a frightened little lad. She had seen him act as a coward immediately following his inability to speak to her.
That cowardice was exactly why he feared getting closer to her. She might learn the truth. She might come to see why he hated going to Court with his faither.
Any official gathering he was taken to was a parade of pomp in which he did not belong. It was a time for him to be among men of true breeding, of a station he was not true to inherit. Men whose birth had not been a falsified claim, but blood-born lineage.
It was far, far worse when his uncle was nearby, as he was sure to be at the Court in Edinburgh. Any others who might know the truth as his uncle had assured him they did were also a threat.
Every time his uncle was near, all Francis could remember was that little word that had come to define his being. That hurtful, hateful word.
Bastard.
An illegitimate child not belonging to his faither. Something untrue, a lie by his very existence. What unkind world had brought him to this?
Francis pushed the thought aside. It was not his fault.
Yet, how could he push aside something so very intricately woven into his being and his birth?
Francis kicked a stone and looked to the sky again, with all its changing colors. It was beautiful, but all he saw was the rage of a storm that had gone but would return at any moment, given a slight change of the wind.
He heard the sound of someone approaching behind him. It was the shuffle of guard boots and he wondered what the guard may want, but was unwilling to turn and address anyone when he was in a mood like this. Besides, there was no way of knowing whether the guard came for him or not anyway.
Francis took a couple steps forward, as if to get out of the way of the man behind him. He also hoped that it might prevent the man from bothering to speak with him.
“Laird!” the guard called, stopping Francis.
Why was it that everyone here already referred to him as the laird? That was still his faither’s office. He cringed at being spoken to in this moment, but even worse for being referred to by a title that he did not deserve, nor ever would.
Francis turned and faced the young man. He inhaled deeply to remain calm and remember that there was no need to be as angry as he felt in the moment.
“Forgive me for intruding, but Hamish mentioned that ye are an excellent swordsman. I had rather hoped we might have a chanc
e at fencing this evening?” the guard asked.
Francis stood for a moment, unsure what to say in response. He was in no mood and he knew that his muscles still needed to recover from earlier in the day.
“I’m afraid ye’ll have to wait, lad. I’m in no mood for it just now,” Francis replied, not wanting to admit that his body was tired. He turned away from the guard again and looked back to the sky.
“Just a bit of sparring. I’m not looking for ye to do anything much. But I cannae be going around without any training and Hamish said ye are by far the best we have at the castle just now,” the boy said, trying his hardest to convince Francis for just a small time.
“I said ye’ll have to wait,” Francis replied, assuming his word would make it final. He didn’t want to be as angry as he was, and he knew it wasn’t the lad’s fault, but he was in no mood to be pushed like this.
“But Hamish said ye were the best,” the guard insisted.
“Maybe that’s true, but there are other men worth sparring,” Francis growled.
“I dinnae mean to be rude, but I really do need the practice. Hamish agreed that I need it more than the others and ye see, I cannae be going around with the reputation that I’m not as much a man as the rest of them,” the guard said.
“Well ye will just have to for a couple more days. I’ve no time for it just now. Please, be on yer way,” Francis replied.
“Did ye hear what I said about me reputation?” the guard pushed.
“Aye, I heard ye, and for the moment that doesnae concern me,” Francis said more harshly, putting his face near the guard’s. He felt his rage increasing every moment. Who was this man that thought himself important enough to waste Francis’ time?
“And what if ye’re own reputation followed ye around?” the guard spat angrily. “What if everyone was always talking about ye in derogatory ways? As if ye wernae a man who deserved anything at all?”
Francis breathed deeply, feeling paralyzed by those bitter words. His own reputation. A truth that followed him, haunted him daily. His own reputation. That shame and embarrassment. Oh, he understood it well. He knew his own reputation. He knew the whispers. He knew that his uncle had made it clear that his own reputation was respected far and wide.
With that, Francis felt a snap.
“You want a fight?” Francis yelled. He pushed the guard back with intense force, causing the lad to stumble backwards. With all his strength, he ran after the boy, knocking him down.
Once he was on the ground, shocked by the force of what he had unleashed, Francis kicked him in the side before running up the steps to the door, where two guards stood. He pushed through the door and into the entry, where ancient swords lined the walls from battles fought long ago.
Francis grabbed two of them and made his way back into the dimming light of the courtyard.
The guard was nearly up off the ground when Francis threw a sword at him.
“Take it!” he ordered, raising his own.
The lad looked at Francis with terror, but obeyed.
He would give the lad a fight. He would give him what he wanted, a chance to practice his skill, an opportunity to prove himself to the other guards.
Then he would be crushed. Francis would humiliate him and the lad would never push him this far again; he would never ask him. No one would. No one would ever come to him suggesting an issue with their reputations.
Standing with evident pain from the kick, the guard held the sword steadily in his hand and waited. It was only a moment before the attack came.
Francis struck and the lad blocked the blow, making an effort to strike back. It would be an easy fight, Francis could feel it. The lad was weak, after all. He did not know his way around a sword. He was lucky that Francis’ muscles were sore from the earlier fight, slowing him down.
Francis continued to thrust his sword, intentionally missing the lad by only a fraction. The boy was clearly frightened and didn’t know how to use the heavy weapon. It was not the same as the foils and it would have been easy to kill him.
The boy ducked just in time when Francis tried to graze him and Francis gave him a wicked smile. It was the lad’s own fault for pushing him to this. It was the boy’s fault for bringing about this unholy rage.
With every strike, Francis felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Finally he could see that the young guard was growing weak. Even weaker than Francis, who felt the ache wretchedly. He knew that he was going to win this battle, but he wanted to prove a point more than anything. He wanted to show the lad that it wasn’t worth all his pushing just to be humiliated. He should have settled for his poor reputation as it was.
Francis continued to push and push. He raised his sword higher with each strike so that the lad would have to raise his in order to defend himself. It atrophied his muscles with every block, giving Francis more and more pride each time.
Finally, the boy couldn’t hold the sword anymore. He leapt back from the blow that was to be landed upon him and dropped his sword. He was barely out of Francis’ reach.
The bastard laird stepped toward the guard, causing him to walk backwards out of fear. Francis sensed that the two guards at the door were watching them, but felt too frightened to intervene. Francis proceeded onward until the boy was backed up to the wall.
There, Francis dropped his own sword and stepped nose to nose with the guard.
“F-forgive me,” the boy stuttered, his breathing shallow.
“Why should I?” Francis asked. “Ye want to learn, dinnae ye?”
The boy nodded. “I do. But not like that,” he replied.
“Then how?” Francis asked.
“Anything but that,” he said.
“Is yer reputation worth it?”
The lad was quiet for a moment. “I have to prove it somehow…”
The wicked smile came over Francis’ face again. He pulled back his elbow and made a fist, before launching it into the boys gut.
“Like that?” he challenged. “Ye want to prove it like that?”
The young guard sunk to the ground, where Francis moved on top of him. With every strike of his fist, he bloodied the boy’s face more and more.
Finally he stood and walked to where he had dropped the sword.
“Do ye want to be a swordsman or no?” he shouted.
The lad could barely see for his swollen eyes and his movement was limited, but he pushed himself up out of sheer pride and spat a tooth at Francis’ feet.
“I want to be a swordsman. I want to be an asset to the Laird of Dunmore. I want to prove that I am worth ten of ye,” the lad said with hatred in his voice.
The words boiled under Francis’ skin and he knew that he had lost control completely. With a yell of rage, he raised his sword and charged at the boy.
“Stop!” came a shriek of fear from behind him.
Francis paused instantly at the sound of her voice. Shame overwhelmed him immediately. Had she seen all of it?
Turning and lowering his sword, Francis saw Arabella, standing terrified with her hand over her mouth. He dropped the sword to the ground and let his arms hang limply.
“What are ye doing?” she asked through agonized breaths.
Francis opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. What was he doing? He could hardly answer for himself. What a shameful man he was!
Francis heard the sound of the guard behind him as he tried to steady himself, to be more of a man as he so desperately desired.
When Francis turned back, the lad had taken the sword in his hand.
“Ye can do all ye want to me. But this is for ye,” he replied through bloodied lips. With a quick swipe, he grazed Francis’ arm enough to draw a small streak of blood. Immediately, the man dropped the sword again.
Francis looked between the man and Arabella. There was nothing he could do now. He had sealed for himself a very different reputation.
It was even more shameful than the other.
Chapter 7
Learning Abou
t A Broken Man
“Here, let me help ye,” Arabella said, rushing over to the injured guard. Francis had run off within moments of her appearance. The lad was still in a horrible state.
“Dinnae touch me!” he screamed, righting himself into standing position. “I dinnae need any lass trying to help me. Ye shame me by even considering it,” he said with hatred.
Arabella was taken aback. She had only hoped to help the poor guard, but it appeared that she had wounded his pride. Was it always a man’s pride that led him to such foolishness? Was this guard just one of many--and Francis among them as well?
Were they always like this?
Nevertheless, Arabella stepped back and watched as he so pathetically attempted to stand firm. He left the two swords on the ground and also left his mark in blood from where Francis had nearly beaten him to death.
It had been a shocking, frightening thing to witness.
Arabella nodded to the two guards by the door and they finally came and helped the lad sort himself out. He seemed far more willing to accept help from fellow soldiers than from a simple woman like her.
Arabella saw one of the messenger boys passing and urged him to go quickly to Joanna and have her come to the castle. If she came, the guard was likely enough to allow her beauty to allure him into accepting help.
“Be quick about it,” she instructed the lad, pressing a coin into his hand.
From there, she made her way across the courtyard and to the doors of the castle. She could go in. She could go to her room and read and try to forget everything she had just witnessed.
Or she could try and find Francis. She could pry and push whether he liked it or not and learn the cause of all this nonsense and violence.
Being the woman she was, Arabella chose the latter option, knowing she would not be able to rest until she was given a satisfying reason for why he should be so cruel to a mere lad whose duty it was to keep the castle and all of its occupants safe from any intruders.
Love Saves A Highland Spy: Ladies of Dunmore Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 5
