by Border Lass
“Then I should not have interfered,” he said. “Had I not, mayhap you would have clouted him. I’d like to have seen that.”
“Would you? I tell you frankly, sir, I enjoyed seeing you strike him down, but I’d never have a chance to do such a thing. Not only is he larger and taller than I am, but he is also much more ruthless.”
“I can show you some tricks to even the match if you like.”
“As tempting as that offer is, I fear I must decline,” she said. “In any event, I doubt we shall see much of each other after today. Why do you smile, sir?”
“I should not,” he said. “I’d be sorry if your prediction were to prove true.”
She had to admit, if only to herself, that she would be sorry, too, because for once, to have a man pay her as much attention as he had made life more interesting. In general, such attention made her nervous and uncomfortable, and she could not recall any gentleman’s attentions eliciting such strong feelings in her as his did.
To be sure, there had been one young man at Dunfermline who had flirted with her most enjoyably before the incident with Simon. But now she scarcely remembered what he’d looked like, because after Sir Garth had felled Simon . . .
Inwardly, she shuddered at the memory.
Simon had been so angry afterward that she had feared he would accuse her of striking him. He had not, but he had demanded that she name his assailant. When she’d said truthfully that she hadn’t the least notion, Simon had not believed her.
He had commanded her to ride straight back to Elishaw from Dunfermline, declaring that he would escort her there himself. He had also said, as if it had been a compliment instead of news that horrified her, that his father was considering a most advantageous marriage for her.
“To another who stands well with my lord Governor,” Simon had added.
“As if that would recommend any man to me!”
Simon had nearly slapped her then, she knew. But too many people had been there, any one of whom might have challenged his right to do so.
And Simon, despite his loyalty to his so-admired master, had a healthy respect for Archie the Grim. He would not have wanted to arouse the Douglas’s ire by causing such a scene at his heir’s wedding. Simon knew as well as she did that Archie would not hesitate to deal severely with such insult.
That thought made her wonder if Sir Garth had suffered the Douglas’s wrath after knocking Simon down.
She had opened her mouth to ask him when he smiled and said, “What is it?”
That smile was more than just pleasant. It was as charming as his nephew’s, but she ignored her reaction to it and said bluntly, “I was just wondering if you had faced any consequences after knocking Simon down. Did no one tell the Douglas?”
“If anyone did, Archie said nowt about it to me. I must suppose, however, that Simon had a few things to say to you.”
“He demanded to know your name. But since you had not told me, I could not tell him. And no one else admitted knowing you.”
“Earlier you said that he wanted you to obey him. Do you not always obey your brothers?”
“Does your sister obey you?”
“She is married, so I don’t command her. She obeys her husband, I hope.”
“That is not an answer to my question.”
“Aye, well, I asked about you first. But you rarely answer my questions.”
She chuckled. “I suppose I should not be so difficult. That’s what Simon calls it if he does not call it my damned recalcitrance.”
“Fine language from a well-bred lady,” he said with a smile. But it faded as he added, “Are you going to tell me why he demanded your obedience?”
“He had taken it into his head that I ought to marry someone. It is not important, though, because I said I would not.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Someone? Anyone at all, or a particular someone?”
“Simon did not say the man’s name or even that he wanted to marry me. He just said he—the other man, that is—enjoyed the favor of the Governor of the Realm and that he—Simon—could easily persuade my father to accept the match.”
“So Fife means to use you as a pawn in one of his games, does he?”
“I should say, rather, that it is Simon who means to do so.”
“Nay, lass, ’tis Fife who decides all. His minions just obey him.”
She raised her chin. “It is possible, though, that the whole idea is Simon’s. It would be to his benefit, would it not, to arrange a marriage for me with someone who enjoys Fife’s favor?”
He shrugged. “That may be so, but if Fife did not see considerable benefit to himself, he’d never go for the idea. And if you think Simon would arrange a marriage of that ilk without Fife’s approval, I can only say it sounds most unlikely.”
It did sound unlikely, she had to admit. But the thought that the Governor of the Realm might think about her, for any reason, was even worse than Simon’s wanting to use her to advance his own position.
Not that she intended to cooperate with either of them, for she did not.
Gently, her companion said, “Did you suffer consequences afterward, lass? I’d be gey sorry if Simon hurt you because of what I did to him.”
“He didn’t,” she said. “He did threaten to take me right home with him, but Isabel intervened. She said that, as I was the nearest of her ladies in age to her, she would miss me too much to bear, so I must stay with her. That was not even true, because Sibylla Cavers is only a year older, whilst Isabel is four-and-twenty.”
“Do you not miss your home?”
“I miss my younger sister, and I miss certain things about Elishaw,” she admitted. “But I do not miss being constantly under my mother’s thumb.”
They were approaching the princess Isabel’s party, and Amalie saw no sign yet of the King or the Queen. But the other ladies had taken their seats, and carvers were beginning to carve the meats for the royal table.
“They will serve soon,” Sir Garth said. “We had better join them.”
Amalie made no objection when he increased their pace, although his choice of pronoun made her wonder if he expected to hover over her while she attended to her duties. She was astonished, though, when he escorted her to the royal table and then, in response to a gesture from Isabel, took her right up to the princess.
“You are in good time, Sir Garth, which pleases me,” Isabel said, smiling. “It pleases me, too, that you found our wandering Amalie and brought her back. You must be sure to thank him, my dear, for looking after you.”
“Yes, madam,” Amalie said, suppressing rebellion. Turning to her escort, she said, “I do thank you, sir, for seeing me safely back. Even so, I trust you will forgive me for adding that it will be pleasant not to have you constantly waylaying me in future. Such a habit could become most annoying.”
Looking far too interested for Amalie’s comfort, Isabel said, “Has he waylaid you before, then?”
Realizing that she ought to have chosen her words with more care, Amalie said, “Like many men, madam, he is certain that all females require shepherding.”
“Well, I’ve no doubt that you can look after yourself, my dear, but you will be seeing more of him, even so. Sir Garth is joining my household to replace Sir Duncan Forrest, who must leave us as soon as we return, to attend to some private affairs.”
Stifling a gasp, fearing it came as much from delight as from shock, Amalie managed to say, “How . . . how unfortunate that Sir Duncan must go! I like him.”
Garth had been watching for her reaction and had all he could do not to smile at the emphasis she gave the word “him.”
But he knew he’d better watch his step with the princess.
Isabel was amused and clearly would not object if he cultivated a friendship with the lady Amalie. But to do so would mean danger of distraction at least, because he was attracted to her as he could not recall being attracted to any woman before.
He could not have said exactly why she attracted hi
m. She was not only unlike women who had drawn his notice before but also definitely unlike any he would someday—a day far in the future—consider taking for his wife.
The former had all been comely sorts who boldly flirted with him, were merry companions, and—married or not—expected nothing more than amusing repartee or mutual pleasuring. The wife he chose would be a beautiful noblewoman of cheerful demeanor, who would be pure of heart and mind, completely virtuous, and as constant and true as the sunrise. She would be gentle of mood, courteous, kind—and always, always obedient to his will.
He had yet to meet such a paragon, but he was certain she existed and just as certain that when the time came to marry—which would not be a day sooner than absolutely necessary—she would quietly present herself to him.
The lass trying to compose herself now was none of those things. Well, in fairness, she was virtuous insofar as anyone still a maiden must be virtuous. And she was pleasant enough looking, he supposed. Her rosy complexion was flawless, but her figure, although rounded in all the right places to make her the sort of cozy armful he most enjoyed in his bed, was not the sort to stop other men in their tracks to stare at her and envy him his good fortune. Not to mention, there was that extraordinary something about her that reminded him of his mother.
When the lass had collected her wits, excused herself to Isabel, and hurried off to attend to her duties, he accepted his dismissal with a bow and found a place at one end of a nearby knights’ table. As he waited for his food, he thought more about the nagging, inexplicable resemblance that puzzled him so.
To imagine even a similarity to Lady Napier was patently absurd. His mother was never sneaky or unduly curious about other people’s conversations.
The lady Amalie possessed both of those unfortunate traits.
His mother would never lie, either. The lass believed that everyone did.
His mother was, however, a comfortable woman.
Therefore, he decided, it was no more than the comfortable look of the lass. But she could hardly be a comfort to any man. She was saucy, disobedient, and of a nature possibly more stubborn than his own. She refused to answer plain questions and delighted in verbally dueling with him. Moreover, in his new role as knight to the princess, the lady Amalie would doubtless prove to be a damnable nuisance.
As his restless gaze found her again—accepting a platter from a gillie and passing it with a smile to one of the older ladies to offer the princess—he reminded himself that he still wanted to know all that she had overheard in Abbots’ House.
He was in a better position now to pursue those details and to glean any helpful information that the princess possessed. Isabel was markedly approachable and seemed to approve of him, so he did not doubt he would soon be privy to all she knew about James Douglas’s death, and Will’s, as well.
He studied the knights he could see at the table, most of whom served the royal family, and wondered which two belonged to the princess’s household.
Their knightly ranks were reduced, because only the King’s numerous sisters and their husbands—those who had husbands—had attended the Queen’s coronation. There were, nonetheless, a dozen men seated there.
Drawing the one next to him into conversation, he soon learned who the others were, but on finding that the two from Sweethope were at the other end of the table, he knew he was unlikely to discover anything of use to him before they all left Scone. Therefore, ever practical, he applied himself to his meal.
Isabel’s party did not leave Scone Abbey until nearly three that afternoon and rode only as far as Stirling Castle. The twenty-six-mile ride took them across flatlands, on well-traveled tree-shaded tracks along the river Earn, and then Allan Water. So even with a long string of sumpter ponies carrying their baggage, they made good time and arrived before nightfall.
Amalie had expected to see many others who’d attended the coronations on the road. But those who had stayed for the festivities on the Inch, two miles east of town, must still have been celebrating when the princess’s party skirted Perth’s western wall, because few other travelers appeared.
Isabel and her ladies spent the night in Stirling Castle, where she had rooms of her own. The men in her party found lodgings below Castle Hill, in the town.
Thanks to the steepness of the track leading up to the castle, the ponies arrived later than the women did. But the princess’s people were efficient. By the time they had finished their supper, their most necessary belongings were in their rooms.
The weather stayed fine for the next two days, and the long ride from Stirling to Linlithgow, then Dalkeith, four miles south of Edinburgh, passed without incident.
The princess being eager to get home, and Douglas of Dalkeith not yet returned from Perth, they spent only one night at Dalkeith Castle.
Departing early Thursday morning, the princess’s party rode on ahead of the sumpter ponies, following the ancient Lauderdale Road into the Borders.
In general, the two older ladies, Averil and Nancy, took turns riding beside the princess, leaving Amalie to ride either with the one not doing so or with one of the princess’s other two ladies. She liked Lady Sibylla Cavers better than Lady Susan Lennox, who believed herself far superior in rank and was quick to take offense when Isabel was kind to Amalie. Even Susan was carefully civil though, knowing that Isabel would dismiss anyone in her service who was not.
Amalie had been riding silently beside Lady Susan for some time. But in the village of Lauder, as they passed below the high stone wall of its famous fortress, built a hundred years before to protect that important approach to Edinburgh from English invaders, Susan said, “I want a word with Sir Kenneth.” As she said the words, she abruptly turned her mount out of the line of riders.
Amalie sighed, knowing that Susan, thin and lanky with a long, horsy face, and still unwed at the ripe age of five-and-thirty, harbored hopes that Sir Kenneth Maclean, an unwed knight of similar age, might be on the lookout for a wife.
Still, Amalie was glad to ride alone for a while, because she found it trying to carry on sensible conversation with a woman who made no secret of her disdain.
She would prefer to rip Susan’s hair from her head and stuff it into her—
“Good afternoon, my lady. ’Tis a fine soft day, is it not?”
Giving Garth a sour look, she said, “Must you always sneak up on a person?”
He grinned, easing his mount alongside hers as he said, “If you think anyone can creep about whilst riding a horse like this one, you’re daft!”
Lady Nancy, ahead of them, turned to look at him with strong disapproval.
“. . . if you will pardon my saying so, my lady,” he added hastily to Amalie. Lowering his voice considerably, he said, “In troth, lass, you must have been lost in thought. I hope you were deciding to tell me what I want to know.”
Since she could hardly tell him what she had been thinking, especially when Lady Nancy might hear, she said, “Why are you not riding with the other knights?”
“Because I was riding with Maclean and Lady Susan ordered me to ride elsewhere,” he said, still smiling. “I think she is laying siege to Castle Kenneth.”
Unable to suppress a smile at his turn of phrase, Amalie, too, kept her voice down to say, “It has been a long one, too. But so far she has failed to breach a wall.”
He chuckled. “I have observed her for only a few days, so mayhap I have much to learn about her. But she chatters enough to drive a man to distraction.”
“I wonder that he allows it,” Amalie said.
“Mayhap he considers it part of his duty to keep her from annoying the princess,” he suggested.
“She doesn’t chatter when she is with Isabel.”
“Then doubtless Isabel has told her it annoys her,” he said with satisfaction, as if he had proven his point.
Giving him another look, Amalie said, “It is also possible that Lady Susan is nervous when she is with Sir Kenneth, and chatters because he does not talk muc
h himself . . . or so I have found. I think he has the wits of a stick.”
“ ’Tis just as well you don’t like him,” he said. “ ’Twould be unseemly if all the princess’s ladies laid siege to her defenseless knights.”
“It would be daft even if they were defenseless,” she retorted. “Isabel keeps two—soon to be three—knights with her only so she has experienced men to protect her, to lead her men-at-arms when she travels, and to keep them in order at home.
“Before James Douglas died,” she added, “Isabel always rode with an armed tail of her own, because he provided one. Afterward, Fife ordered her to dismiss those men, saying it was unseemly for her to travel with so many. But Isabel did not trust Fife. She knew he just wanted her to live under his thumb at Stirling.”
Realizing she might have said too much, Amalie tried to judge his reaction with another quick glance.
He was frowning, but when he caught her gaze, the frown vanished.
He said, “It is most unusual for any woman to travel with a tail that rivals that of many barons. But somehow . . .”
“Somehow it does not seem strange for Isabel,” she said when he paused. “Moreover, her knights have always been loyal to her.”
“I should hope so,” he said, giving her a narrow look. “They serve her, after all. Therefore, they owe her their loyalty.”
“Are you loyal to her, sir?”
“Aye, sure, I am,” he said. “ ’Twould be dishonorable to be otherwise.”
“But you are friendly with Fife,” Amalie said. “Mayhap you are not aware that she believes he murdered her husband.”
“Lass, her husband is Sir John Edmonstone of that Ilk,” he said gently.
“You know I meant James Douglas—or you should know it. It is true that Isabel has been married to Sir John for the best part of a year now. But I have seen him only twice, because she spends almost no time with him. Surely you know that when she says she means to stay at home now that the renovations there are finished, she means she will be staying at Sweethope Hill House, not at Edmonstone.”
