The Night Side

by Melanie Jackson

  Of course, begging for his indulgence didn’t appeal to her either, so that left honesty and an appeal to his better nature.

  However, the amount of truth she told—and when—was still negotiable. She would likely begin by suggesting that most of the men were away taking cattle to market, which would conveniently explain why there were no cattle at Noltland, or else she could say that they were looking after sheep in faraway crofts. It wasn’t a completely preposterous tale to tell a city-dweller from England, especially if everyone told the same story.

  Of course, convincing everyone that they must be discreet was going to be a difficult matter. Desperation was mounting with the approach of winter. Hope that the survivors from Noltland Castle would return home had faltered with word of the English invasion at the Borders. The last of the poor crops was being harvested now. If the winter were light, they would be well enough situated—but if it were long and harsh?

  Many of the women felt that it was better to surrender to one of the other clans than to risk starvation. Frances did not agree. The local chieftains were apt to go to war upon Noltland the moment control passed into a neighbor’s hands, through sheer bloodymindedness at being denied the castle for themselves. They would then be not only invaded but also besieged. Besides, she was not ready to sacrifice her freedom and George’s birthright just yet.

  Frances bit her lip. It bothered her to lie to Colin Mortlock. It would be difficult to look into his knowing eyes and utter half-truths—well, quarter truths—but it simply had to be done. He was from England, not part of the politics of the North, and therefore might be sympathetic, but until she knew whether his loyalties would lie firmly with Noltland and George, she could take no other chance.

  Frances sighed again and turned from her narrow window. It was a bother, but she changed her gown before going in to dine. Part of keeping up the pretense that all was well at the castle was her acting the role of confident mistress. Ladies did not receive guests—even those who would be working members of the household—at their tables with woolen lint clinging to plain homespun.

  She chose a dress of dark uncut velvet in deep sanguine red to wear over her willow green chemise. The unboned bodice could be worn with a modest bumroll, and did not yet show signs of wear. It would also be warm in the drafty hall.

  Frances paused near the base of the stairs and surveyed the room before her. The air was more festive than it had been since her arrival from France, but it still seemed oddly uncomfortable and cold. She would never get used to the unpleasant atmosphere of the castle.

  It wasn’t that there were too many shadows. The dining hall was fitted with dozens of flaring torches and a bright fire in the hearth, so only a few precious candles were needed on the table. Frances tried not to fret that there were a dozen more candles burning than she would have liked to have seen. She knew that they still had a reasonable supply, but they had to be made to last, at least until she found someone to send for supplies. At present, she dared not let any of the castle occupants leave, for once it was known to the outside world that unescorted women were seeing to such tasks, the speculation about Noltland’s weakness would begin.

  Annoyed, she snatched up the hem of her skirt and started down the stairs. Immediately her foot tangled in the thick velvet, and without a banister nearby to check her fall, she began a headlong tumble down the remaining steps.

  But in less than the blinking of an eye, Colin Mortlock was before her, receiving her into his strong arms and restoring her balance with a swift embrace. His hands were firm but gentle as he set her on the floor.

  “You look flustered, mistress,” he said, taking her gently by the elbow and guiding her toward the table. “Please allow me to see you to your chair.”

  “Thank you,” Frances answered, still a little breathless from her averted tumble. She smiled gratefully, much struck by Colin’s grace and swiftness.

  She also had to admit that her gallant rescuer looked quite comely by firelight, which flattered his dark hair and brows.

  “I am but a little tired by my day out on the moor. Usually I do not play for so long,” she added truthfully. “I fear fatigue has made me clumsy.”

  He hummed sympathetically, studying her face in return. “In that case I shall have to make certain not to tire you out with such long games. I have no desire to see you harmed through my offices.”

  Colin seated her carefully, his hands touching fleetingly in the middle of her back. It was of course impossible that she could actually feel the temperature of his palm through the thickness of her clothing, but her imagination said that his hands were very warm. She flushed, aware of the eyes upon them.

  Confidently, he took a seat at her side and leaned down to greet a pale George, who suddenly looked quite small and thin seated behind the massive board. His all too apparent vulnerability made her heart clutch. How was she going to keep him alive?

  Food was brought at once. Frances recognized the oysters en gravey and wondered where the wine for the dish had come from. A quick sniff told her that it was heavy with leeks and missing aromatic spices, but it had some almonds for decoration and would probably pass.

  There was bread, too. She knew it would be good if rather heavy. They did still have eggs and flour, and a bit of ale and honey for flavoring.

  Next came the chawettys. The pies, made without suet because there was little left, could have anything in them. They were what became of all the kitchen scraps that could be mixed with crabapple cider that had gone to vinegar and stuffed into a coffin crust.

  The last dish brought to the table was a pair of chickens. They were not served with pears and grapes for none were to be had, but the chopped parsley, hyssop, and savory smelled nice, stewed and prepared with more wine.

  At first there was little conversation, as the women were busy devoting themselves to their meal, but presently they began to speak among themselves and to answer MacJannet, who had set himself the task of putting everyone at ease. She noted carefully that even the servant had the manners of a gentleman. Perhaps it was the English way. If so, she liked it. In her experience, Scottish men were too rude and direct. Some, like her father, were even brutal.

  The elder and often sourly disposed Anne Balfour would say that it was typically English, and that it was objectionable. But she had a deep-rooted dislike of all things foreign, Frances’s clothes among them. Nor did her dislike stop at the border; she disliked Lowland Scots, too. Many days, it seemed that it was all she could do to tolerate George.

  Frances glanced several times at her new companion while they dined, but could not think of any harmless conversational topic to inaugurate with those thoughtful eyes always upon her. Of course, she was also uncomfortable eating while under scrutiny. After her clumsiness on the stairs, she feared she might well upset her plate with her careless hands.

  Finally she sighed and turned slightly in her seat so that she faced her Master of Gowff head on. She tried to think of something intelligent to say.

  “Mistress Balfour,” Colin said quietly, also leaning slightly in her direction. Their cuffs touched and the embroidered threads clung to one another. “If you will forgive me for being forward…?”

  Frances blinked and raised her eyes from their hands and entangled linens. “But of course.”

  “I think it might be a reasonable precaution to invite Sir William Kirkcauldy to visit Noltland,” he said unexpectedly.

  “The Bishop of Orkney?” she asked with understandable surprise, and even a bit of confusion. “But—I am a devout Catholic, sir. He might not accept.”

  “True, he does not love Catholics, but the rest of your people are not so devoted. And neither is George.” Colin picked up the ewer, which had been left on the table, and poured out a measure of wine for her. His tone was soothing. “The bishop isn’t a bad fellow, really. And previous bishops have had ties to Noltland.”

  “But why would he come to see me? Is he not very busy vilifying the Catholics to the south
?”

  “Just Beaton, who has plainly begged to be vilified,” Colin said with a fleeting smile, which Frances found most appealing in spite of the subject of their conversation. “And he has a new apprentice named John Knox who may carry on the harangue in his absence. As to why he would come to Noltland, as it happens I have had some dealings with this man and believe that he would be willing to visit me and to make the new laird’s acquaintance.”

  Frances shook her head, not in negation but in an effort to shake loose from her jumbled thoughts, which impeded the route of logic through her tired brain. “Again, I must ask why. Even if you have some familiarity with him, why would he come here rather than asking you to visit at his convenience? And why should we ask him? As you know, I am yet in mourning and we invite no one to the castle.”

  Colin’s face grew serious. “It would be a good thing for the Balfours to be seen with strong friends. And there is nothing wrong with turning to a man of God in your hour of need.”

  “And why should we need strong friends?” Frances asked, assuming an easy pose, though she was rather alarmed by the trend in their tête-à-tête. It was disturbing to think that her new Master of the Gowff could claim intimacy with someone like the Bishop of Orkney. It suggested that he was very aware of the region’s politics and even had preformed sentiments. Perhaps she should have expected this, coming as he did from a Protestant nation, but she had hoped that his being English would mean a high degree of ignorance of politics in the North.

  “Everyone needs friends, mistress. The Balfours more than most. And I could not, in good conscience, recommend asking any of your neighbors for support, for it would likely embroil you in their old feuds and bring suffering to your home.”

  Frances was not happy to have her own concerns voiced aloud. And if he was this aware of local dealings, then obviously tales about distant crofts and cattle markets were not going to serve. Her heart began to thud.

  “You seem to know a great deal about our affairs for one so newly arrived from the South.” She took up her goblet and drank, trying to decide what was best to do. Her impulse was to send this man away immediately. But was that wise when he already knew their weaknesses? And how could she transport him back to Dunnvegan? He would surely demand an escort, and there was none to be had.

  “We have politics in England, too,” he answered wryly. “I’ve seen a great deal of political machination in my time. And I must tell you, mistress, that you have done a magnificent job of keeping the wolves at bay. I know of no one who has ever done better at outwitting her foes.”

  Frances blinked at the praise, pleased at the recognition but again feeling off balance. He was sly, this one!

  “What I cannot understand is how you have managed to convince everyone that the castle is still inhabited by men.” Colin shook his head. “The MacLeod has no notion of your diminished population.”

  Frances sucked in her breath, rather alarmed that she was unable to formulate her lie with those intelligent eyes gazing into her own.

  “You needn’t answer if you prefer not,” Colin said kindly. “But the matter is an obvious one. There have been no men here for some time. There is a great deal of work that needs doing…Well, I should have to be blind not to see how things are, and though I have many faults, blindness is not among them.”

  “Is it so obvious then?” she asked hollowly, again picking up her goblet and drinking down the sweet wine. It was far easier to look into the red depths than into Colin’s eyes.

  “Aye, to anyone who has been inside the castle for any time. Thatching is an art that cannot be well-faked by inexperienced hands.”

  “I see. And you do not think that I should ask the MacLeod for assistance?” she asked. Her mind was racing with ways to prevent Colin’s leaving, now that he knew their secret and was so obviously informed of northern politics. “How odd, as it was he who recommended you. I should think that you would be all admiration of him, even if he does not care to play gowff.”

  “Alasdair has many fine qualities, though play at sports that don’t involve bloodshed is not one of them,” Colin said diplomatically. “And by all means, ask the MacLeod to come to Noltland if you wish an outsider to manage your affairs. But I promise that you shall never be rid of him thereafter.”

  “He cannot be bargained with?”

  “No more than a beast,” Colin answered frankly.

  “You see no difference between the two?” Frances didn’t, either, but was shocked that Colin would speak so bluntly of his kin.

  “Aye, of course I do. A beast, though perhaps vicious, will not lie to you. Nor does it covet everything it sees.”

  “This is very plain speaking.” Frances realized that she was whispering, her voice the thinnest of threads.

  Colin, all apparent sympathy, poured her another goblet of wine. “Aye, it is.” He smiled suddenly. The creases in his cheek held her gaze riveted. “So will you not then be equally plain with me? I am most curious. How have you carried on this ruse? You move the pikes about at regular hours to suggest there are guards, I suppose?”

  “Aye, and light watch fires at night.” She quickly drank down the deceptively sweet draught. It made her a bit light-headed; she had grown unused to wine. “And we keep watch as well. We are always prepared to lower the yett during the day if someone approaches, and it is down every evening before nightfall.”

  “But that is not all, surely?” Colin asked, breaking off some bread and setting it on her plate.

  “Non. Every score of days we take an old cow hide and smear it with the blood of a chicken or a hare and then hang it from the castle wall as though drying the pelt from a freshly slaughtered animal.”

  “And so everyone outside believes that you are regularly slaughtering cattle. And where there are cattle, one supposes there are men to tend them. And you also use the forge so the smithy seems occupied.” Colin shook his head and added mostly to himself: “And that is why Tearlach is tolerated. None but a man with soldiers in his care would order the daily playing of those pipes. Mistress, you have my admiration. And these were all your stratagems?”

  “Oui. Except Tearlach.” Frances frowned at her blunt admittance, and looked at her goblet as though blaming it for her loose tongue. “I have grown unaccustomed to wine. I did not mean to speak of that. You must not either if you value your safety. Your connection to the MacLeods would not save you from the MacKays. It would, in fact, condemn you if you were captured.” She turned stern eyes upon him and lifted a brow as she waited for his answer.

  “You may be certain that I shall not speak of it to your neighbors,” Colin promised as he smiled down at her. “Truly, I’ve no wish to be invaded either.”

  “No, you would not, would you?” she said slowly, some nervousness abating.

  “Of course not. Now, why don’t you tell me who our enemies are? I know what Alasdair thinks, but it is plain that he has been rather misinformed about the situation.”

  “Enemies?” Frances felt stupid.

  “Aye. Why is everyone so fearful about nightfall? Every room is brightly lit with torches. The servants even go about in twos and threes, glancing worriedly at dark corners as though searching for assassins.”

  “Oh.” Frances dropped her eyes. The urge to confide her worries to Colin warred with the church’s teachings that Protestants were the tools of Satan and often in league with demons who were sent to corrupt and murder good Catholics. Such Godless men, with their rationalism, would not understand about spirits of evil. They would sneer and possibly even laugh at tales of spectral hounds and evil hauntings.

  “Come! Surely it is not so bad a thing that it cannot be named,” Colin said.

  “But it is,” Frances assured him. “For three nights now someone has heard the Bokey hound in his hole beneath the stairs. Always this hound bays when there is to be a death in the house.”

  Colin sat back in his chair, his mobile face at last arrested. “Have they now? But what unusual timing.” T
he words were said aloud, but Frances knew that he wasn’t really speaking to her.

  “Oui.”

  “This is most interesting.”

  “It is more than interesting, monsieur,” she said with a touch of indignation. Discretion was abandoned as anger licked through her, though she kept her voice pitched low as she answered. “The hound always appears in the flesh when the master of the castle is to die. I am very afraid for George and do not know how to protect him from this evil.”

  “Pshaw! I shouldn’t be too alarmed yet. A hound, or something, has been heard but not seen. It is likely some beast living on the heath, kept by a cruel master, and it howls at night because it is lonely. We shall have to make an effort to find it and see to its liberation. However, in the interest of avoiding panic until we determine which is the shrieking beast, I think you should put aside these stories of the hound and instead set about discovering how many of your human enemies are lurking about the castle environs and spying upon you.”

  “How are we to discover the spectral hound if he is outside the castle?” she demanded, then, considering Colin’s other point, added thoughtfully: “Or an enemy that controls such a one?”

  “I doubt we shall have to. I am fairly certain that the hound—spectral or otherwise—shall discover us in the fullness of time,” he said calmly.

  “Oui, and so am I certain of this.” Her tone was tart. “It causes me much alarm, this threat of discovery. I do not wish George to die. I have a great fondness for him.”

  “Have some more wine,” Colin said, resuming his soothing air. “You should eat. Have some of this excellent chicken and you shall feel better presently.”

  “Have you no fear of evil and its minions?” Frances asked, baffled by Colin’s attitude of calm.

  “Oh, aye, a lively fear. But I do not think it is true evil we are facing here. I have some experience with the supernatural realm in my own country, and so far I have seen nothing to suggest that George is endangered by anything spiritual or demonic.”