Darling Jasmine

by Bertrice Small

  “The marquis of Hartsfield hae been in Scotland since early last winter. He hae a royal warrant wi yer signature, Jamie. It is for the arrest of my stepdaughter and her husband on a charge of treason. Now, I dinna believe ye signed such a document, nor hae any unkind intent toward the Leslies of Glenkirk, but St. Denis would appear to hae yer permission in this evil unless ye say otherwise. If he can capture Jasmine and her Jemmie, the law will seem to be on his side.”

  “Ohhh, the wicked devil!” the queen cried. “Jamie, ye must do something this very minute! Poor Jasmine and Jemmie. Have they not had enough troubles these past few years?”

  “I dinna sign any warrant,” the king said slowly. “Piers did surely importune me to do so many, many times, but I dinna.”

  “Nonetheless who is to say in Scotland that it is nae yer signature, Jamie?” BrocCairn replied to the king. “Did ye nae get Glenkirk’s message? A man was sent south weeks ago, and we know he got as far as Queen’s Malvern in safety. The rest of the journey would have been surely easy. And he knew where to find ye.”

  “Steenie, fetch Barclay to me,” the king said, then turned to his cousin. “He is my secretary, and will know what messages came, but since Stokes was killed, the workings of my royal office are nae so efficient, Alex.”

  When the king’s secretary entered he was immediately questioned as to the arrival of a message from the earl of Glenkirk.

  “From Scotland?” Barclay sniffed. “One of my assistants would have seen to it. Was there to be a reply? If there was, the messenger would have been told to wait at the court.”

  “Find that message at once!” the king thundered in a rare show of spirit. “How dare ye keep it from me! ’Tis a matter of life and death, Barclay. This willna do, mon. This inefficiency willna do at all.” And when Barclay had run off to find the message, the king muttered ominously, “There will hae to be changes made, I can see that.”

  “My lord?”

  “Aye, Steenie, my sweet love,” the king answered.

  “A day ago Kipp St. Denis sought an audience with me,” Viscount Villiers said. “Do you think it might have something to do with this matter? I did not see him, fearing to offend you, but I know he is about the court, my lord. Shall I find him for you?” His handsome face looked anxious, as if he feared he had done something wrong.

  The king nodded. “What can my poor Piers hope to gain by arresting the Leslies of Glenkirk?” the king wondered aloud.

  “He means to murder them, cousin,” BrocCairn said bluntly. “He believes he can gain our wee grandson and thus hae power over ye, the damned fool! And, he hae nae forgiven Jasmine for choosing Glenkirk. What on earth ever made ye even offer her to him, cousin?”

  “Because he’s a meddlesome old fool!” the queen snapped.

  The king shrugged helplessly, seeming to agree with his wife’s sharp assessment. “ ’Tis past now,” he said.

  “Nae for the marquis of Hartsfield,” BrocCairn replied. “Jasmine was forced to be parted from her bairns, Jamie. We brought the little Lindleys to Cadby, and my Charlie is wi them. As for our mutual grandson, and the infant heir to Glenkirk, he hae to hide them at Glenkirk Abbey for fear of St. Denis. They should nae be parted from their mother, cousin, but we could do nae else gien the situation. Ye maun stop St. Denis before he does a serious damage to our family.”

  The king’s secretary, Barclay, returned, and sheepishly handed the king an unopened message from Glenkirk. Glaring at him, James Stuart broke the seal on the missive and, opening it, read it through. He had no sooner finished than his favorite returned, Kipp St. Denis in tow.

  St. Denis knelt before the king, head bowed.

  “Speak,” said the monarch.

  “I ask your pardon, my liege,” Kipp St. Denis said quietly, and he raised his eyes to the king. “I am nothing more than my father’s bastard, but he gave me his name and raised me with his heir. I promised my father, when he lay dying that I would always look after Piers. Now I have no choice but to break that vow, my liege, for my poor brother is surely mad to have done what he has done. Have mercy on him.”

  “And what hae he done?” the king said softly.

  “When we went into Scotland I did not know that the signature upon the royal warrant was forged, my liege. It was at Glenkirk that my brother admitted it to me. His desire to revenge himself upon the Leslies is so overwhelming it has certainly rendered him demented. He took the warrant off your secretary’s desk, signed it, added the names of James and Jasmine Leslie, and then sealed it with your seal. I did not know this when I went to Scotland with him. I only went to protect him, as I have always tried to protect him from himself.

  “We were caught in Edinburgh over the winter, and I thought to dissuade him during that time, but I could not. He hired a group of cutthroats to take with him, and when the roads opened in the spring we marched north. When we arrived at Glenkirk, and found the Leslies gone, I realized we should never find them unless they chose to be found. The summer, I thought, and my brother would grow bored, and seek to return to court; but Piers’s talk became more wicked, more evil, and when he spoke of hanging the Leslies, and making little Lady India Lindley his wife, and that perhaps her brother would not reach his manhood and he would then control his fortune, I knew I could no longer influence him; that he had become crazed and evil beyond all.

  “I went to Master Adali, the castle steward for help, and he saw that I was able to reach Your Majesty safely. You must not allow my brother to continue on along his wicked path, my liege. You mustn’t!”

  “Ahhhh, my puir Piers laddie,” the king mourned, “but I think ye are overfearful of yer brother’s actions. I nae ere saw that much wickedness wi’in him, Kipp St. Denis. I dinna believe my sweet laddie would murder, even if his puir heart was broken.”

  “My liege,” Kipp St. Denis said quietly, “my brother, Piers, murdered the earl of Bartram with his own hand. He lured him outside of his gates and drove a dagger into his heart because he feared that you might grant Lord Stokes custody of your grandson, Charles Frederick Stuart. He coldly removed his rival, then he attempted to place the blame upon the Leslies of Glenkirk. Fortunately Your Majesty was too wise to believe such ill of them. Then he made certain that the message telling the Leslies to remain in England, which Your Majesty sent to the Leslies, was never dispatched. That is why they were gone from England when Your Majesty, again at my brother’s suggestion, I would remind you, invited them back to court.”

  “Ohh, the wicked devil!” the queen cried.

  George Villiers, however, listened, not without some admiration for the marquis of Hartsfield’s machinations. No one, except the clever old Madame Skye, had considered him the culprit in Stokes’s murder. He would have gotten away with it, too, had not his brother confessed. He might have gotten away with it all had he not been so impatient for his revenge. It was a lesson to be learned. Sometimes revenge must wait, even if it meant a very long time.

  “Cousin,” the earl of BrocCairn said, “ye must do something else Jasmine and Jemmie be killed at St. Denis’s hand!”

  “Ye must write to your governor in Edinburgh that the Leslies are innocent of any crime and that it is the marquis of Hartsfield who is the traitor,” the queen insisted.

  “And I will carry the message myself for Your Majesty,” George Villiers said. “This matter requires a bit more authority than a plain royal messenger, my dearest lord.”

  “I will accompany him,” Alexander Gordon added. “They dinna know yer pretty favorite in Edinburgh, Jamie, but they know me.”

  “Barclay!” the king snapped. “Where are ye, mon?”

  “Here, my lord!” the secretary said, stepping quickly forward.

  “Ye hae heard,” the king told him. “Write it down, but keep it simple, for my Scots are simple people. Do it now, and then bring it back to me wi my seal to sign.” He slumped against his cousin. “I am weary, Alex. I canna take this excitement any longer. My years tell upon me, I fear.” He loo
ked at the still kneeling Kipp St. Denis. “Ye may rise, mon. I know how hard it was for ye to come to me, but giving yer loyalty to yer king first was the proper thing to do. Ye will nae suffer for it, laddie.”

  “I only ask mercy for Piers, my liege,” Kipp said. “Let me take him home and look after him. His mother was frail of mind, and I fear he has inherited her tendencies.” He brushed his knees off.

  “We will see,” the king responded. “We will see. For now I would hae ye remain here at court, Master St. Denis, where I can speak wi ye when I need to again. Answer me one question before ye go. Why did ye nae kill Lord Stokes for yer brother?”

  Kipp St. Denis almost recoiled at the query. “I could not harm an innocent being, my liege,” he said. “I vomited afterward, for Piers insisted that I accompany him. I shall never forget the look in the earl of Bartram’s eyes when he realized what had happened.” He hung his head in shame. “God forgive me that I could not prevent my brother from his wickedness.”

  The king nodded his head. “Ye may go now,” he dismissed the man. “Does he tell the truth, I wonder?” he said after Kipp had gone.

  “I have heard it said,” Viscount Villiers noted, “that it was Kipp to whom the ladies were often drawn, and not Piers. I have heard it said that he is a decent man, but for his brother. What a pity he was not the legitimate son, my dearest lord. How sad that the house of St. Denis will die out now. It is, I have been told, an old name.” Then, pouring a goblet of wine from a sideboard tray, he gave it to the king. “Drink, my dear lord, and be strengthened,” he said sweetly. Then he turned his attention to the queen, while the king and his cousin of BrocCairn talked together.

  “What plot do you have in your head, Steenie?” the queen inquired.

  The viscount’s fine dark eyes glittered, and he brushed the errant lock of chestnut hair from his forehead. “St. Denis may or may not be mad, madame, but I will wager he will never forget his position. Yet it is unlikely that he will ever have a wife, and the name will die with him and his brother.”

  “Unless?” The queen smiled, light blue eyes twinkling. “What scheme are you contemplating, my fine young coxcomb?”

  “Kipp St. Denis was born first, madame, and someone only recently suggested to me that there might be something he desired above all things, but he did not think he would ever have.”

  “He is a bastard sprig,” the queen said softly.

  “So is your grandson, Charles Frederick Stuart,” Villiers said daringly, “and yet Prince Henry saw that he was ennobled, and had him created a duke. Do you not think Kipp St. Denis has contemplated his accident of birth many times? He would have to be a saint not to have thought about it, and I do not think he is a saint, madame.”

  “You are suggesting that the king take away Piers St. Denis’s title and inheritance, and give it to his half brother?”

  “The marquis is mad, and a danger to himself and everyone else about one who offends the king. He must be confined or executed, madame. The king will have no choice but those two.”

  “Aye,” Queen Anne agreed. “There is no other choice but death or imprisonment for Piers St. Denis.”

  “But what of Kipp, madame? If the king creates him marquis of Hartsfield, the family need not die out. I even have a possible bride for him. Margaret Grey, the widowed countess of Holme. She is just nineteen, has a modest inheritance from her late husband which would serve as a dowry, as well as a two-year-old daughter, proving that she is capable of childbearing.”

  “Such generosity of heart, my dear Steenie,” the queen murmured. “Why do you care what happens to Kipp St. Denis or their family name?”

  “Because, madame,” Viscount Villiers said, “I can think of no greater revenge upon Piers St. Denis for all his arrogance and unkindness to my dear lord than to have him aware that his titles, his inheritance, his estate, and indeed even the bride he thought you would choose for him, have been ripped away and given to his bastard half brother.”

  “If he is mad, will he understand?” the queen wondered.

  “Mad, he may be, madame, but he is not insensible to what will go on about him,” George Villiers said. “It will eat into him each day as the years go by, and he will be incapable of doing anything to relieve his suffering or to regain his former status. It is the worst thing that could happen to him, madame. Execute him, and it is over for Piers St. Denis. Take and give what was his to Kipp St. Denis, and you will inflict upon him a punishment of the subtlest kind, one that will burn into his very soul.”

  “You are cruel,” the queen said.

  “Aye,” he agreed, not denying it.

  “I will think on it,” the queen told him.

  “Convince our dear lord, and the new marquis will be his devoted servant forever,” Viscount Villiers cleverly pointed out.

  At that point in their conversation Barclay returned and presented the king with a document to sign. George Villiers was at once on the alert. The king read the parchment slowly, carefully, and then, taking the quill from his secretary, signed it. Barclay then spread it firmly, and the king dripped the dark red wax upon it, and then pressed first the royal seal, and secondly his own signet ring into the cooling wax. Waiting a moment for the wax to harden, Barclay then rolled the parchment up upon the table and sealed it a second time with wax. The royal seal was again imprinted upon it, and the secretary, looking up, handed the document to Viscount Villiers.

  “There’s time to ride out yet today,” the earl of BrocCairn said to the young Englishman, “if yer up to it, laddie.”

  Villiers nodded. “Just give me a half of an hour to get ready,” he said. Then he knelt and kissed the king’s hand.

  James Stuart reached out and stroked the young man’s silky hair. “Ahh, Steenie,” he said, “must ye go? Can my cousin of BrocCairn nae take it alone? What will I do wi’out my bonnie laddie?”

  “I promised the Leslies my friendship,” George Villiers said. “It would be a poor promise if I did not help them now when I could, my dearest lord. I will not linger in your Scotland, and I will return to you as soon as I can.” He kissed the royal hand again and, rising, departed the king’s privy chamber.

  “He’s a wee bit too pretty for my taste,” BrocCairn said bluntly, “but Jasmine and Jemmie say he’s a good man. Now tell me, cousin, how is young Charles? Is there a chance I might pay my respects before I leave ye today?”

  “Are ye thinking of the future, Alex?” the king teased him.

  Alex Gordon looked startled at the king’s comment, then he laughed. “I suppose I am,” he said. “Sandy’s married, ye know, but my own Charlie is going to need some kind of living eventually. A place wi yer son might be just the thing for him. Besides, now that ye Stuarts are in England, I fear our great and extended family will begin to separate. We share a grandfather, Jamie, though my name be Gordon. For my family’s sake I dinna want to lose our wee prestige wi the royal Stuarts. I need a son in England, and God knows there is little for Charlie in Scotland. His brother’s wife hae already birthed an heir for us.”

  “Honest as ever,” the king replied with a smile. “There’s time for ye to renew yer acquaintance wi royal Charles before ye must set out for Edinburgh. Annie, will ye take our cousin to the prince? And dinna worry, Alex. We’ll find something for yer laddie before the summer’s end. Farewell now, and God bless ye.” The king extended his hand.

  The earl of BrocCairn took it and kissed it fervently. “Farewell, cousin,” he told the king, “and God bless ye! Hae it not been for yer timely intervention, a great injustice would hae been done in yer name.”

  Chapter 18

  Clan Bruce was hosting a small summer games on the other side of the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh. As late summer approached the weather had turned sunny and warm.

  “We’ll go,” Jemmie Leslie decided. “You’ve seen all that Edinburgh has to offer, darling Jasmine. You’ve seen the castle, and blessed Queen Margaret’s chapel. You’ve visited the markets, and the King’s Cros
s, where my stepfather, Francis Stewart-Hepburn, Lord Bothwell, was sadly ‘put to the horn,’ outlawed by his cousin, our own King James. We’ll go across the water to the Bruce games, then return to Edinburgh to pack up and go back to Glenkirk.”

  “But what about St. Denis?” Jasmine asked him. “We have had no word from England yet, Jemmie. Is it wise for us to go home yet?”

  “St. Denis is in the north, chasing shadows,” her husband said. “We have naught to fear from him, sweetheart. As for our messenger, he will more than likely go to Glenkirk when he finds we are not here.”

  They sailed across the Forth with the earl’s aunt and uncle.

  “Adam still loves the games,” Fiona said. “ ’Tis he who taught Jemmie how to toss the caber. He generally wins, despite his age, when he competes. You’ll enjoy the games. They’ll run about four or five days.”

  The servants had already gone ahead to prepare the tents that would house them. The Leslie griffen flew from their tops and made their lodging easily visible. Fiona had instructed Jasmine how to dress so she would not appear unusual to the clannish Scots who were gathered. All the men wore lengths of plaid wrapped about them, and linen shirts, knit hose, and wide leather belts along with leather shoes upon their feet. The women wore ankle-length skirts and white shirts with plaid shawls, their clan badges in full view, and knitted stockings and leather shoes upon their legs and their feet. It was simple, comfortable clothing.

  Their lodging was equally modest, but comfortable. There were wood and leather camp beds set up, covered with feather mattresses, and comforters. There were braziers to heat each tent. Outside the tent beneath the awning were two chairs. The servants had pallets which were placed at their lord’s discretion, either inside or outside the tents. The earl of Glenkirk did not think it wise that his wife’s female servant sleep out-of-doors, where she would be prey to lechers and drunkards. Maggie would be inside while Fergus and Red Hugh would be just outside the tent’s entry, where they might also serve to guard their master and their mistress.