by Sondra Grey
James blinked at the impertinence of being questions but Brandon waited patiently, knowing his face was blank of any telling emotion. Behind him, he could sense that Argyll had gone still with interest.
“But you know why I chose you, Bastard Black,” said the King, sitting back and crossing his arms, looking up at Brandon as if he were ordinary as a crow who’d landed on a fence.
Brandon inclined his head. “In that case,” he said. “How may I be of service?”
Behind him, he heard the Earl of Huntley snort. “No, the question is whether we can trust you to be of service.”
“Not knowing your motivations, Cameron, it’s difficult for me to trust you at all.”
Ah, but the King had need of him. Brandon had no reason to lie and so he spread his hands. “My motivations are simple. Before betraying my brother, I wanted only to serve the Cameron cause. Family is everything to a Cameron.”
“And yet you betrayed yours,” said Argyll, his dry voice as emotionless as Brandon’s.
“And yet, I did do that,” said Brandon. “When I was on Ruim, my only goal was to get off it.”
“And yet you never tried.”
“If you seek an honest motivation, highness, my motivation is not to die. My father might not wish to murder his sons, but my brothers, other family members, people who loved Eudard are not so discerning. On Ruim I was both exiled and safe. In your court, highness I am an exile, but I am safe.” He spread his arms. “As long as my father plays your game.”
“And so your motivation, sir?”
“To stay alive,” said Brandon, simply. “And be as useful as I can be. My father is one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the highlands. It would be in my best interest to endear myself to one of the few people more powerful than the Cameron who sits at Tor.”
James watched him shrewdly, no doubt to see if the flattery was false. It wasn’t. Brandon had been waiting for a chance to be useful to James. His father might think that Brandon had a black heart, but Brandon was simply a slave to his own self-interest.
“In other words,” said Huntley, with a grunt. “You’ve no loyalty, but will act in self interest.”
“It’s in my best interest to serve the King,” said Brandon, glancing over his shoulder. “So, tell me, majesty, how I may best serve you, and I will.”
James seemed to weigh him a moment, and Brandon let himself be weighed. More than anything, he wanted the freedom he’d enjoyed in the highlands, the freedom he’d given away when he’d betrayed his brother to the Campbells. Send me somewhere, he begged silently.
“What price would it take for you to act against your father?” said James, after a moment.
Brandon didn’t dare speak. When he was younger, he’d been to Lochiel the dog that licked the hand and never knew if it would be pet or smacked. Brandon’s usefulness as a spy had been born of necessity to stand out, to make himself valuable to his father. Could he betray Lochiel?
“What if I gave you your freedom?”
Brandon inclined his head. “It is a commodity I greatly desire,” he admitted. “But what would I do with that freedom? I have no trade to fall back on.”
“Employment then?” asked Argyll, coming to stand behind the King’s desk.
Brandon licked is lips. “Knighthood,” he said, after a moment. “And income enough to purchase land. I’m happy to serve and happy to prove myself. But Tor Castle is my home. To betray it, I’d need the promise of another.”
“His wishes are simple,” murmured James. “All right, Master Cameron. I will offer you the assignment, and it’s conditional: I seek Angus Dubh. Find him, bring him here alive, and you will have all you seek. Fail to find him, and you are of no use to me. I will return you to your father, who will no doubt intern you back on Ruim.”
Brandon knew he looked confused. “Forgive me majesty for seeking clarification, what does my father have to do with the Macdonald Pretender…”
“Perhaps nothing,” interrupted Argyll. “But the MacDonald is hell bent on sewing rebellion in the highlands, and rebellion in your father’s favorite past time. Perhaps Lochiel hides Angus Dubh. If he does, will you turn him in.”
Brandon nodded. It was an easy promise to make. Lochiel had committed so many treasonous acts…one more would hardly add to the price that was once on his head.
“It’s no small task,” said Huntley. “We learned that Angus was staying with the Macleods of Lewis. They were supposed to turn him over months ago, and their ships never turned up. When we sent ambassadors to retrieve him, he was not there. Rumor has it he was island hopping, soliciting promises from the Island chiefs to take the Isles from the Crown. They say he’s may be on Skye, now, or on the Mainland.”
James snorted. “He’s not on Skye. The Macleods of Dunvegan are loyal to me.”
“But the MacDonalds still linger in the south at Dunscaith,” said Argyll. It sounded like an old argument.
Brandon raised his brows. He was familiar with the fate of the MacDonalds. They’d feuded for decades with the Macleods and were Lords of the Isles until John MacDonald’s bastard son, Donald, challenged his father for the title. MacDonald turned on MacDonald until their ships and their men were decimated. Then the King swept in, taking the title and bestowing it to Huntley and Argyll, gifting the Macleods and the Macleans a good deal of MacDonald land. In the years after they were lifted of their title, the Macdonalds had come to the Camerons a time or two for aid, when Brandon was a boy. Brandon remembered Angus Dubh, Donald’s son, who was close to Brandon’s own age. He’d been a nasty little red-headed boy and Lochiel had turned him and his cousins away – The Cameron had no wish to concern himself in the politics of the islands. Not when he was working to expand through the Northeast. But now that Lochiel had secured a good chunk of Mackenzie lands, he might just turn himself to disrupting the peace on the Isles. The man seemed drawn to chaos.
Then again, Brandon’s father was getting older. He’d lost two sons. He might be ready for peace. That might well have been the reason he settled with the King. Brandon rubbed his jaw. There was no way he could return to Cameron lands to see. He’d have to operate under the assumption that the Camerons were innocent in the whole affair until he found evidence to the contrary. But where then, would he start looking for Angus Dubh
“You’ve three months to find Dubh and deliver him to me,” said the King grimly.
“Might I request a bit more time, majesty?” asked Brandon, politely. “It will take long enough to reach the highlands and then find and track down Angus, let alone kidnap and bring him back. Six months and I might be able to do it,” said Brandon, and even that was stretching it. “The highlands are large and wild, and there are many, many places to hide.”
James frowned but beside him Argyll was nodding.
“Six months,” said James. “Argyll will give you what information we have. You may go.”
Dismissed, Brandon bowed to the gentlemen and made his exit.
Chapter 4
N ed came back from the castle the next morning with word that our audition was going to be after the two o’clock bells. That gave us the morning to fill our bellies and wander the city. Glenna decided to go shopping and dragged me with her, hauling me past the fish sellers and down onto the high street.
Robin came with us, holding the parcels that Glenna picked up. “I don’t understand why you don’t get anything for yourself,” said Glenna, tying up her strawberry blond hair in the new crimson ribbon she’d purchased. “You could certainly use a spruce up of your wardrobe!”
I looked down at my serviceable gown and rolled my eyes at her. My gown was plain and practical, chosen just so that it would last and I wouldn’t have to constantly shop for a new one. I’d been travelling with the orchestra for three years, but who knew when my luck might run out. Where would I go then?” It was best to save my money. I knew that one day I’d need it.
I was delighted when we stopped finally to eat. There was an abundance
of places to choose from, each offering a deal better than the one before it.
“Stay away from the oysters,” I warned Glenna, who licked her lips at the sight of the oyster stand. “Half the time they make you sick.”
Glenna pouted at me and opened her mouth to argue, but I beat her to it. “If you get sick, then I’ll be the one singing for the King.”
Glenna turned her nose up at me but swept past the oyster stand. “As if the King would pay attention to you,” she said. “No offense, of course.”
“None taken,” I said, wryly. I don’t suffer from false modesty. I know I’m beautiful. It was my saving grace, my father always said. “I should thank God you are pretty. You’re worth nothing to me otherwise.” My father had said it enough. It was part of the reason I spent so much time in Glenna’s company. She was pretty as well, and did much more to showcase her assets than I – and so when people looked at us. They looked at her, and I preferred it that way.
We ate lunch at an inn near the mouth of the Mile and made our way up towards the palace, where Ned would have driven the cart. We’d get ready there. No need to rehearse. We’d played the same songs dozens upon dozens of times. Ned had it in his head that we’d play highland music, harp, drums, pipes, and fiddle. Robin could even do a sword dance if the need arose.
We met the others at the back of the castle, where we were certainly not the only act to be auditioning that day. I hadn’t realized just how many people would be here.
“Ooo are you nervous?” asked Glenna, reaching in to pinch my arm. Her eyes were wide, looking at all the musicians tuning their instruments, the jugglers tossing their balls, the actors practicing their lines.
“Not in the slightest,” I replied honestly. I was never nervous performing. When I lived at home, music had been my way of escaping. I could practice my harp for hours on end and it was seen as a womanly occupation.
“I don’t know how you keep so cool,” said Glenna. “Honestly, if you didn’t play with such heat in your blood, I’d think you were ice cold! No nerves, no interest in men, no taste for oysters…” She shook her head and wandered off to get changed.
There were three costumes we used when we were playing. There were our highland dresses with their decorative broaches and wool arasaids (which were beginning to look at bit threadbare) and there were our ‘fine’ gowns. Which had been handed down from performer to performer. Mine was a bit too large in a bust and the waist, though it was the right height. We had to cinch it extra tight and we had to stuff the neck whenever I wore it. Ned had decided we would wear our finery for the audition in the hopes that it might set us apart from some of the other acts.
Glenna’s gown was a muted blue that made her strawberry blond hair look even redder, and brought out the depth of blue in her eyes. Yes, the gown was out of fashion, and a bit too simple for the gaudy tastes of court, but it was attractive and nobody would be looking too hard at the costume itself.
My dress was a dark green, and made me look lovely. Whenever I wore it, I got exactly the attention I didn’t want. I came out in it, hoping to avoid Babette and her flour sacks. No such luck. “Let’s turn these apples into gourds!” She crowed, sticking her hands down my blouse and adjusting the ruffles to cover the sacks.
“There,” said, fixing my arasaid about my head, “You look delicious.” She reached up and pinched my cheeks to bring color to them, staring at me almost crookedly, she shook her head. “You’re a very pretty girl, Meg. In France you would have been an ingénue. And men everywhere would have fought violently for the right to deflower you.”
I felt my cheeks heat. Babette wasn’t French herself, her mother was, but to hear her talk you’d think she’d have grown up in Paris. “But you forget, Babette…”
“Yes, yes, my dear, you’re not as innocent as you appear. But you are a beauty. You try to hide it, but it’s clear enough for those who’d look twice at you.”
I pulled away from her. It was best, then, not to make anyone look twice. Babette chuckled as I unpacked my harp and climbed down the stairs. I’d lied to Glenna – I was dreadfully nervous about the concert, but it wasn’t the crowds that made my heart beat.
I found an overturned crate that was clean enough to sit on without soiling my gown. Placing the harp between my legs I gave it a quick tune. It was a Celtic harp, not the beautiful, larger harp that had sat in the great hall of my father’s house. Humming to myself I began to pluck idly at the strings, practicing one of the songs that Glenna liked to sing. Truly, her voice was better than mine – but I liked to think mine had merit as well.
“You’ve a light touch.” The deep voice sounded over my head startling me enough to pluck on the wrong string, ruining the melody of the song. Trying not to gasp out loud from surprise I glanced up quickly, thinking, for a fearful moment, that was Roger come to bother me.
But it was a stranger. The man had dark hair, like Roger, and the kind of face that women made fools of themselves over. But where Roger had a hard, sly look to him, this man had a calm patience, and eyes that stared down, almost emotionlessly.
“Do you play?” I heard myself ask, resisting the urge to stand and back away. He had the look of a predator – there was something dangerous about him, barely caged. Indeed, he seemed to prowl as he walked down the stairs I’d been seated beneath, entering the courtyard. He wasn’t a courtier, I thought, sizing him up. He was impressively built, lean and strong looking, with narrow hips and wide, capable shoulders. He had an angular, deeply tanned face and a nose that had been broken at least once but did nothing to diminish the handsomeness of his face. It was a hard, unyielding face that that softened only at his eyes and their thick, almost feminine lashes. His eyes were the deep, unlit black of coals.
“The fiddle,” he said, and the way he hung on his ells suggested he was a northerner. The way he was watching me was making me uneasy. My fingers fell to fidgeting on the strings, picking out a random chain of melodies.
“Are you here to audition?” I asked him, for he seemed to be waiting for me to carry on a conversation. Perhaps he was a fiddler with one of these other troupes.
“I’m simply here to watch,” he said. “I liked your playing, please don’t stop on my account.” His accents were certainly village accents, but tapered slightly, as he’d spent some time travelling. He leaned against the side of the stairs and crossed his arms and waved an imperious hand. It was a gesture of someone used to being obeyed and, for a moment, I wondered who he was.
I felt my cheeks color at his regard and didn’t like feeling flustered. This is why they called me an innocent. I’d no idea how to be anything other than straightforward with a man. Sighing, I thought it best to pretend he wasn’t there. Fixing my gaze on a spot a few feet ahead of me, I began to hum to myself again, plucking the strings and adjusting the tuning when I needed to.
“Meg, darling, are you coming?” I heard Glenna’s lady’s drawl, the one she puts on if she’s ever called to monologue with the audience. She’s a great mimic, she sounded, for a moment, almost like one of the lowland ladies.
I didn’t glance over to my audience, but didn’t need to in order to understand that his eyes had landed on Glenna and were most likely trained there. She did look rather impressive, even if the gown was old. She’d powdered her hair and it shone blonde in the midafternoon light.
I stood, turning and expecting to see the stranger staring at Glenna with the same interest she was giving him. But he was looking at me instead, his gaze polite. “Good luck ladies,” he said, only, before strolling off into the crowd.
“Tell me who that was!” Glenna gasped, grabbing my arm and tugging me to her, her blue eyes hungrily gliding over the man’s broad shoulders. “Lord, he’s dressed like a stable lad. I’d love a good tumble with a stable lad! I haven’t had one in ages.”
I felt my cheeks start to heat and pulled away from Glenna. “I don’t know who he was, a fiddler player in one of the troupes, I suppose. Where is Ned?”
“This way,” said Glenna, dragging me off.
There were seven of us in the band, though not all of us played when we were performing highland music. Roger fiddled and I harped on almost every song. Ned played the tabor, Babette played flute, Tamhas and Robin were our piper and lute player when the songs called for it, Glenna sang and played hand cymbals. Ned decided it would be nice to have Robin dance while we played – since we didn’t need a lute on the highland pieces. We had a few ballads we would do, if they allowed us more than one song.
We waited in a line fifteen minutes and were escorted in by one of the palace guards. The receiving room was a miniature hall off the courtyard, and while Will and Robin went about setting up chairs, Roger lay the swords on the floor until they created four corners.
I sat on the chair in the back watching the three men in the King’s crimson, and one who was dressed in yellow, take in our preparations. Above the hall, there were a few people watching in the galleries, but it was clear they were only lingering to hear and were there in no official capacity. When we were all seated, Ned asked what we’d time to perform.
“Just one song,” barked the man in yellow, muttering the name of our group to one of the men in crimson, who scribbled it down.
“All right troupe,” said Ned, turning. “In that case it best be The Willow.” He glanced at me meaningfully. I cracked my fingers.
Chapter 5
Brandon listened with interest as the pretty harpist’s fingers danced the opening chords to The Willow. He knew the tune. It was a lively highland tune, damn difficult to play, but fun to dance to. She was as talented as she appeared, that harpist. He was surprised at his attraction to her. He’d no interest in village lasses, never had. Perhaps it was the blackness in him – being the bastard that he was – that made him aspire to bed ladies of gentler birth.
But there was something about the harpist that had drawn him. She was pretty, of average height, with dark brown hair and eyes that may have been hazel (he’d glimpsed them only through her lower lashes). She had fair skin, a few freckles over her nose, and a mouth that looked just right for kissing. It had been an age since Brandon had thought about the pleasures of kissing a lass. But the harpist was making him think hard.
