by Lee Arthur
CHAPTER 7
The wooden double doors to the hall were thrown open from within. There, framed in the opening, stood three bagpipers dressed head to toe in the blue green tartan of the Campbells. The courtiers, peering over their monarch's shoulder, oohed and ahhed and applauded. Never before had they seen anything like it! A whole suit of tartan! Many immediately decided they too must have the same. James V, King of Scotland, his hostess the Lady Campbell on his arm, was speechless. Not more man a month before, he had secretly ordered such a suit for himself in the red blue royal Stewart tartan. Now, here in a desolate castle in the Lowlands, before his suit even had been delivered, the Campbells had stolen a march on him. Treason! Treachery! .
Before James could roar his wrath, the pipers shrilly drew breath to launch, with a 'wabble and a warble, into the Bodaich nam Brigisean, the clan's pipe music. Inside the massive three-story-high dining halls were more tartan-clad attendants. Poverty makes good mathematicians out of kings in constant need of borrowing funds. James, multiplying their number by the cost of his suit—214 ells of variant-colored velvet for the short coat at six shillings the ell, and three ells for the threws at four shillings the ell—the result made him gasp. His hostess interpreted his reaction as complimentary and preened accordingly. Carefully, she neglected to mention that the Countess of Seaforth had arranged for the clothing and supplied most of the attendants, too.
Despite the newly lime-washed walls, the hall itself was dark and gloomy. The windows of thin polished horn, sited up high, effectively kept out both light and enemy invaders. Rush dips and flares burning in crude sockets only emphasized the gloom. However, in honor of the royal guest, Lady Campbell had ordered down the candle beams. Diners above the salt would eat by fine beeswax candlelight. Lighting those below were candles of tallow that swiftly melted into rancid fat and overflowed the grease pans to drip onto the hats of those farmer down.
At the far end of the hall, out of reach of wayward sparks from the central hearth was a low dais with—luxury of luxuries—four box chairs. Of the four chairs, only one was owned by the Campbells, the others lent by Lady Islean. The balance of the court made do squeezing onto bare, backless benches and low wooden chests, their hardness softened only by the spreading of a lady's voluminous multilayered skirts and petticoats.
No sooner had the court been seated than the dark brown homebrewed ale began to flow. As the pipers desisted with a wheezing bray, the trumpeters announced the arrival of the warner. Three men staggered under the weight of this two-foot-high masterpiece of sugar and plaster—courtesy of the Seaforths—which depicted the king with his crown of gold, hunting the hart on the copse with his court. Genuine plaudits and compliments greeted it, even from the royals; and the Lady Campbell, basking in the limelight, not only was glad Lady Islean had been delayed but prayed the countess might never make the banquet at all.
Even as the warner was completing its circuit about the hall, the trumpets sounded again for the arrival of the first course: a porpoise roasted whole, an entire salmon, a mammoth dish of stewed eels and oysters in Bastard Gravy, the king's favorite dish, as the Lady Islean knew. She had even helped make the gravy, carefully adding salt, pepper, sugar, and ginger to the mixture of ale and oyster liquid. Carefully she supervised as Lady Ann added, strand by golden strand, the precious saffron worth its weight in gold. Only when the gravy was pronounced just right, were the oysters lowered gentry to bask in the spicy golden liquid. If things had gone differently, this was the dish Lady Islean planned to poison, the king being so, fond of it that he never failed to eat at least two servings, and if it were particularly good, a third, or even a fourth.
Tonight was a four-helping night. Sated, James passed up the next several courses, not being tempted again until the swan was served. Its wings spread and tied open, its neck gracefully curved, its feathers, head and feet left intact although the meat had been cooked and minced and mixed with rice before being stuffed back inside. A piece of camphor held within the gilded beak was lit just before the bird, poised as if to fly, was carried in on a charger. Out of deference to his young hostess, the king allowed himself to be served a small portion. It was his experience that elegant as it was on the water, the swan at table was most often a tough old bird. Wonders of wonders, this swan was tender, moist and lightly spiced. It made James uncomfortable. Like everything here at Castle Dolour, the swan was too good, the servants too many, the servers too attentive, the ale too free-flowing. Only the hostess, to his way of thinking, was just right; she hung on his every word, blushed at his every compliment, and ignored her husband completely.
His host, on the other hand, James disliked more with every new proof of his wealth, immediately, he began planning how to neutralize Campbell's obvious importance in this corner of Scotland.
The new Spanish ambassador to Scotland from the court of Charles V was also impressed by the magnificence of the banquet. Already he had begun mentally drafting his next report to his master. If minor lairds, which was what Campbell seemed to him to be, had such wealth, Scotland should be accorded a role bigger than that of a mere pawn in the international game of chess which the Holy Roman Emperor now pursued.
Oblivious to this little sallow-complexioned man in their midst, the court of Scotland was enjoying itself. Drunkenly and loudly. Servants, charged with filling the cups, went wary of the suddenly outstretched foot of knight or lady attempting to ease a cramp or pursue a caress. Hounds added to the confusion as, watching for droppings from the table, they grew ever more bold and fought among themselves for each tidbit. To add to the air of Donnybrook Fair, someone took it upon himself to add another armful of wood to the fire burning in the center hearth. It burned fitfully, the wood obviously being fresh-cut and giving off thick billows of smoke. Taking a roundabout route to reach the smoke-hole in the roof some
thirty feet above, the smoke gradually engulfed the hall in a gray haze.
The king, whose eyes were smoke-sensitive and inclined to weeping, cursed himself for choosing Castle Dolour for a hunting trip. "The hunting best be good," he said to himself, "if I am going to have to put up with smoke-hole and outhouse. Outhouse! In this day and age—how old-fashioned! And if that hunting isn't good, I'll just take to my bed and extend my visit another two week. That will bleed Campbell's treasure chest a bit!" He smiled at his host at the thought, and pompous, stupid Campbell smiled right back.
Just then, James noted a stirring among the courtiers nearby. Many had half risen and were craning necks to get a better view of the other end of the hall, now totally obscured by smoke. James turned to his hostess for explanation. "Lady, have you planned entertainment for us?"
"Nay, sire. This is not my doing. I am as curious as you." Yet, no sooner had James's glance moved from her, than she bit her lip in annoyance at a sudden thought.
Like an apparition, the stout body of the chamberlain materialized through the smoke. Behind him came a couple more richly dressed than any seen at court. The woman was slender and regal in her bearing, holding her head high, her bejeweled hand resting ever so lightly on the arm of her tall companion. So extraordinary were her gown and parure that none spared a glance at the man dressed in black from the high heels of his satin shoes to the lofty plumes on his hat.
She wore nacre satin so heavily embroidered and re-embroidered with gold thread mat from the hips up not a thread of white showed through. From wrist to shoulder, the sleeves of her gown were slashed and lined with white revealing the tight, wrist-length sleeves of her tawny gold farthingale.
Unlike the fashion at court, her gown was not square cut nor low cut, but rose high about her neck, ending in a multilayered, gold-edged raff very like a lion's mane, totally framing her pale, patrician face. Her dark hair was dressed high on her head and crowned with the first toque of jewel-studded gold velvet ever seen in Scotland. From her neck hung a heavy gold chain. At its end, with eyes of gold white diamonds, hung a Mer-Lion.
Murmurs of approbation accom
panied her slow and stately progress. Even James was so taken aback by this singular beauty that he decided he was in love. A feeling in his gut told him so. One between his legs convinced him of it.
His dream was shattered by his mother. Margaret Tudor had glimpsed the jeweled ornament the woman wore between her breasts and interpreted it correcdy. "It's Islean," she whispered to her son in a voice harsh with hatred.
Since that was her usual tone of voice when speaking of other women, he ignored it, concentrating only on what she said while never taking his eyes from the vision before him. "Who?"
44The Dowager Countess of Seaforth," she replied. When that did not elicit its intended result, she added triumphantly, "Your bastard half sister!"
Jamie closed his eyes and clenched them. He could have wept in disappointment. Another dream dashed. Again by his mother. For a moment he hated her, but then remembered she was indeed his mother. His voice was cold and devoid of emotion when he eventually replied, "Oh, her." Now, through disillusioned eyes, he could see the fine lines about her eyes. He guessed that she must be about his mother's age or older, but unlike the Dowager Queen, she didn't look it. He rationalized this by reassuring himself that Islean had not led the monstrous life his mother had: widowed early, separated from her son for years, all the tribulations that made her seek comfort in her cup. Without turning his head to look, James knew his mother's drink-glazed eyes had hardened, her face turned white and drawn with jealousy. She loved fine clothes and jewels but had had very few in her lifetime. James vowed that she should receive her due; the prelates had promised to pay off his annuity in a lump sum if he withdrew his mother's petition for a divorce. Once those monies came, he'd buy Margaret some trinkets and a dress with three changes of sleeves.
So closed was his face, that not by a grimace could mother, court, or half sister read his thoughts. He made it even blander as the couple came to a stop before him. Calmly, quietly, serenely, they awaited his notice so that the chamberlain could announce them, which really was not necessary. Margaret Tudor was not the only one at court to recognize the Lady Islean, but the identity of her companion prompted a buzz of speculation among the seated courtiers.
The king was in no hurry to satisfy their curiosity. Deliberately, he searched the Lady Ann's plate for a last morsel or two. Today, his astrologers had assured him, would be longer than yesterday; thus, there would be plenty of time for hunting later. Since that was so, he could play with this couple a while longer. Surreptitiously, he studied the man, who was much younger, obviously, than the Dowager Countess. Was Islean eager, like his mother, to take a younger man into her bed? Damn women, why couldn't they pick out one man and stay with him? Then he remembered: Islean's husband had been assassinated. Anyway, who was this fellow? In stark contrast to the Dowager Countess, his all-black outfit was without embroidery. Of course, well-turned legs like that could be shown off without stripings or patternings. But the cut, the fabrics, the fit—that took money, lots of it—but nowhere was there an embroidered badge of family. Not even a family crest or signet ring on the long elegant fingers.
King though he was, James himself would not have gone abroad without wearing the thistle of Scotland. Even when he went out among his peasants disguised as a humble tenant farmer, the Goodman of Ballengiech, he wore his signet ring. He turned it inward of course so it wasn't readily apparent; but it was still there if he should need to identify himself quickly. So who was this young man that he felt no need for such a device?
More openly now, James studied the face before him. The man was young, but there was something ageless about the expression on his high-bred face. Was it the eyes... or the arch of the brow... or the set of those thin lips? James could not decide. Islean had it, too. James settled back in triumph. He had solved the problem: the two before him were the dexter and the sinister of the same beauty... the two were sister and brother... no, mother and son.
As he studied them while pretending not to, they studied him quite openly. They saw a thin, young man; much younger than de Wynter in appearance if not years; dark of hair, which was not too profuse, the beard confined to his chin quite scraggly. His eyes were dark as was his complexion v which had been too much exposed to the sun. There were sun marks about his eyes and laugh marks about his mouth, hi all this, one could clearly see the legacy of his father. The sensuous mouth and the heavy eyelids were Margaret Tudor's most obvious contribution to her son.
It was his dress, however, that was shocking. From where they stood, they had almost a full view of his seated figure with its wrinkled hose, soiled doublet, the patched boots. But when he sat up and gestured to the chamberlain to announce them, he carried himself like a king, and his bearing demanded the respect due any monarch.
While the scrutinizing was going on, the chamberlain had availed himself of the opportunity to clear a small space in front of him on the thick sodden rushes littering the floor. Now, he smartly rapped his ebony stave of office upon the bare stone floor. The resulting crack was satisfyingly sharp. With it, the two sank down into low courtly obeisances:
"Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, Duke, Lords and Ladies and Baronesses: The Earl of Seaforth, Viscount Rangely, Baron Alva and also of Alais of France—James Mackenzie—and the lady, his mother, the Dowager Countess, Lady Islean, also of Alva."
When he finished, having uttered the whole thing in one breath, the dowager bowed her long, regal neck still farther and her son doffed his large plumed hat. At once the king knew why this man had no need of embroidered badge of household. He, like his fathers before him dating back to the reign of the first Plantagenets, need only bare his head for all the world to know his name, rank, and lineage. Shortly after the age of sixteen, his thick, heavy mane of black hair had, like theirs, turned white. Not a dead white, nor an albino white, nor even a pure white, but a living lustrous white intermingled with shades and streakings of silver and pewter.
The murmurs of those who had wagered on the unknown's identity and won were now drowned out by the gasps of those who were seeing the famous head of hair for the first time. None were more obviously shocked than the two female occupants of the dais: Lady Ann, who had spent a long afternoon and evening in conversation with this man and had seen him only with his hat on; and Margaret Tudor, who was bound by-her greatest single preoccupation to wonder if the hair elsewhere were! white or black.
The king himself rose and came down from behind the table to raise the dowager countess to her feet.
"My court is honored by your presence and bedazzled by your appearance," he said. "Come join us at table."
Unceremoniously, he gestured at the Lady Ann and her husband to relinquish their places so that the Seaforths could have the seats of honor. Frantically, Lady Ann looked about for a stool for herself, but there was none. So she and her husband stood awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot while servants scurried about looking for searing for their master and his lady. Eventually, rough three-legged ones were brought up from the kitchen, but not before de Wynter had refused his chair and offered it to the Lady Ann. Gratefully, she sank into it, only to be treated to a glare from the Lady Margaret, who found herself seated, much to her dislike, between two women.
Reaching for her cup, as was her wont whatever the occasion, she studied the two men standing to one side. The two men were a study in contrasts. As Campbell ventured awkward conversation, Mackenzie appeared quite comfortable and at ease. Campbell was short and fat and gross. The man next to him was not a giant, but he was so lithe and lean that he appeared taller. His shoulders were wide, his waist narrow, his stomach flat, his buttocks small and squarish... and from what Margaret could see, his codpiece was not padded as Campbell's so obviously was. As for those black-clad legs, they were as shapely and well turned as any she'd ever seen, including— Margaret hesitated for a moment and then regretfully concluded— including her brother Henry's.
At last, to Campbell's relief, the tools came. But to Margaret's displeasure, de Wynter was seat
ed to Lady Ann's left, which made it necessary to talk across her, if Margaret were going to satisfy her curiosity. Ignoring the young woman, Margaret spoke up rather more loudly than was called for.
"My lord, I could not help but hear you are titled in France as well as Scotland. I did not know the Seaforths had land on the continent."
"They did not," the man replied with a slight smile, but volunteered no further information.
"Then, these are new acquired?" Margaret continued, not at all undaunted.
"They are."
"Bought or earned?" Margaret's smile was brittle, her sneer obvious even to the naive Lady Ann. "Earned, my lady."
"We too have congress with France, but I do not remember any great exploits by a Scots Baron of Alais. But perhaps that is because there were none?1' Margaret Was taunting him now. Challenging him. Seaforth, mentally weighing the advantages or disadvantages of taking up her gauntlet, remained silent for a moment. The Lady Islean watched him with concern; this was the first time she had seen her son at court, and she knew Margaret to be a formidable antagonist. She considered rushing into the fray herself, but she' held her tongue. For eight years her son had been at a court known for its standards of wit and repartee; he must have learned something there to have survived at all.
"Queen Claude chose to give me another sobriquet" was his measured reply—not answering, yet not evading entirely the thrust of her comment.
Now, it was Margaret's turn to drop the subject or pursue it. Even in her slightly drink-befuddled mind, she sensed something amiss. The young man was, although polite enough, not at all cowed by her comments. And his reply was an open invitation for her. She feared she was not going to like the answer to her next question. But she put a bold front on it. "And what might the sobri—" Her thickened tongue twisted on the word. She started afresh. "And what might that name be?"
"De Wynter."
De Wynter. The court knew the name well. It conjured up different images for different people. Lover. Swordsman. Adventurer. Soldier. Horseman. Courtier par excellence. Men imagined setting a lance against him. Women envisioned his setting a lance against them.
