by June Francis
He lifted the wet garment over her head and dropped it at their feet. Drawing her against him, he cupped her breasts in his strong hands and freed a contented sigh. She was utterly confounded and thrilled at the same time by an even more delightful sense of pleasure. Something firm brushed against the secret place between the top of her thighs and she started up instantly in shock. Was he completely naked, too? Dear Mother of God, how did she ever confess this to the priest? But then all thought of confession and conviction of mortal sin went out of her head as his fingers caressed her nipples. She moaned and rubbed herself against him. She felt something jerk upright beneath her.
‘You’re playing with fire, my sweet honey,’ he said with a hoarse laugh.
‘But I did not do anything. You are to blame, Mackillin. Anyhow, I didn’t know one could create fire in water.’ Her voice was breathless. To have such power over him made her suddenly feel marvellous and she was tempted to behave recklessly. Seizing hold of the sides of the tub she swooshed in the water, laughing as she did so. He laughed with her, kneading her breasts before teasing her nipples with fingers that were surprisingly sensitive, rousing that melting sensation in her loins again. He pressed hard up against her and gasped in her ear. ‘Do you realise if we carry on like this I will not be able to resist you—is that what you want?’
It had been such fun and she had not wanted to stop, but now…‘Why did you have to ask me? Why?’ she asked, almost savagely.
‘Because you once called me a barbarian and I would not force you against your will.’ He was astounded that she did not understand his reasoning. ‘I am no saint, but I have never forced a woman. I’ve been fond of several, but never wished—’ He stopped abruptly because he had been about to say to possess and share my life with any but you. Why had he had to remember that he had to make Killin safe for her before he could take her as his wife?
‘What do you wish?’ she asked, confused by his silence and sudden lack of movement.
‘I cannot tell you,’ he muttered, disentangling his legs from beneath hers.
Her disappointment burst like a bubble inside her. ‘You deem I’m a wanton,’ she cried. ‘I should not have allowed myself to forget that you need a Scottish bride. I know that you desire me, but I should not have encouraged you to surrender to that desire.’
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ he growled. ‘I needed little encouragement. The trouble is that you’re too damned comely to resist. Especially after the rigors of the last few days.’
She turned and knelt between his hunched legs. Water dripped from her hair and breasts as she gazed into his unshaven face. ‘What are we to do?’
The water dripped on his naked chest and for a moment he could not speak and then he managed to say, ‘Get out of this tub for a start.’
She nodded and stood up. For an instant she loomed over him. The breath caught in his throat as he viewed her from that position and then she climbed out of the tub. He watched her dry herself and then take a jar of salve from her saddlebag and spread some on her grazed arm, managing by using her teeth to fasten a strip of cloth round it. He took a deep breath and ducked his head beneath the water, thinking a cold dip in a river would have been more appropriate to cool his ardour at that moment.
A knock sounded at the door and a voice informed them that supper would be served within the hour. He began to wash himself and was out of the tub in time to see Cicely pulling on a clean pair of breeches. ‘Don’t forget,’ she said in a cool voice. ‘I am your cousin Nathaniel.’
‘So d’you think we’ll begin the march on London tomorrow, Lord Mackillin?’ asked the young knight, seated across the table from Mackillin and Cicely.
‘I don’t know the minds of your king and queen or those of their captains,’ answered Mackillin, dipping his greasy fingers in a fingerbowl.
‘I doubt it will be on the morrow,’ growled a burly man a couple of feet away. ‘The sensible move would be for the king and queen to head for London and get safely behind the walls of the Tower before it’s too late. The citizens will have heard of our Scottish allies’ deeds and be trembling in their beds.’
Cicely glanced at Mackillin and remembered the first time she had set eyes on him and called him a barbarian. He had proved he was not and now she was wishing that she could ride with him to the Border as his wife.
‘You consider it a possibility that the citizens of London will close their gates to its king and queen because of your allies?’ said his lordship.
The older man hesitated. ‘There are many Yorkist supporters inside the capital. Trade has suffered for years and it’s said that the young Edward of York has sympathy with the merchants of the city and would bring stability to the country.’
There was a silence as the servants arrived to clear away the plates. A sweet cheese flan was served next with a full-bodied tawny wine. When conversation was resumed it was no longer of London and what the royal couple’s plans might be, but was about armaments. Mackillin told them about the hackbut he had upstairs and the men showed an interest that Cicely did not feel. She offered to go upstairs and fetch it, thinking after she had done so that she would excuse herself and go to bed.
The tub had been removed and someone had placed more wood on the fire and there was a truckle bed a few feet from the larger bed. Most likely a servant had put it there—at least it answered the question she had asked herself earlier. She took the hackbut and bag of shot downstairs and then returned to the bedchamber.
Despite her weariness she felt restless and filled with a sense of foreboding. Instead of undressing and getting into bed, she stood a while, thinking of Husthwaite and his dying words. She wondered whether to suggest to Mackillin that she left here and went with his courier back up north in the morning. There seemed little point in extending the agony and temptation of being in his company when there was no future for them together.
As she slowly undressed, she considered how to frame the words, so they would sound right. The most sensible thing to do was never to see each other again, but she had trouble putting that suggestion into words.
Wearing just a shirt, she slid between the cold sheets of the truckle bed and turned on her side to gaze at the fire. She blanked out all thought and her eyelids began to droop and soon she was asleep.
Not half an hour later, Mackillin opened the door and slipped inside the bedchamber before closing it quietly behind him and locking it. He placed the hackbut and bag of shot on a chair, then noticed the truckle bed and Cicely’s humped shape and frowned. In the past he’d often slept on one and knew that when it came to comfort they left a lot to be desired.
He whispered her name, but there was no response. Removing his shoes, he padded over to the bed and gazed down at the delicate features of her slumbering face. His mouth eased into a tender smile. He had been right to allow himself to be drawn into further conversation with their supper companions. He brushed her forehead with his lips before undressing down to his shirt. For a moment he clutched the crucifix she had given him and then he removed it and placed it on the chest. He pulled back the bedcovers before returning to the truckle bed and bending down. He slid his arms beneath her and lifted her up with the covers and all and carried her over to the larger bed. She stirred in his arms, but did not wake even when he placed her down and covered her with an extra blanket. Then he removed a couple of the blankets, and closing the bed curtains, went over to the truckle bed and lay down. He turned on his side and thought about those moments in the tub and what he needed to do. Then, weary with all that had taken place that day, he fell asleep.
Mackillin drew back the curtain and bent over the bed. Cicely stirred and opened her eyes. She pressed her eyelids tightly together and then forced them wide. ‘You’re safe. I was having a dream.’ Suddenly she realised where she was and sat up. ‘How did I come to be here?’
‘I carried you. I thought you’d be more comfortable.’
She glanced at the other pillow, but saw no indention on it
and said accusingly, ‘You slept on the truckle bed, my lord?’
He nodded and smiled. ‘What were you dreaming?’
She did not answer him, only saying, ‘Why? You’re so large. You must have been cramped.’
‘It’s of no importance.’ He moved away to fetch her clothes and place them on the bed. ‘Get dressed. I need to find out what plans are afoot and whether the queen and her captains will march on London today. Tell me, how is your arm this morning?’
‘It still hurts a little, but it could be worse.’
He looked concerned. ‘Can you manage to dress?’
She nodded. He moved away and she reached for the clothes she had taken from the chest at Rowan Manor and began to dress. It was as she was putting on her boots that she noticed her crucifix on the chest. She looked up at him. ‘You’re not wearing it?’
‘It’s yours and you must wear it now.’ He picked up the crucifix and placed it about her neck, unable to resist kissing her nape. ‘There, it’s back where it belongs.’
She darted him a questioning look. When he was silent and turned away, her fingers strayed to where his lips had touched her skin. She felt tears prick her eyes and blinked them back and said, ‘I was thinking that perhaps—’
He looked over his shoulder and now his expression was dour and her heart sank. ‘Later you can tell me your thoughts. Now let us break our fast.’ Without another word he opened the door and led the way downstairs.
She’d hoped to speak of her plan over the breakfast table but, since they were not alone, this would have to wait. After the meal was over, he insisted on her accompanying him in his search for news. As they walked around the town, he stopped and spoke to several people. She was aware of curious eyes upon them and one man in particular stared at them both with anger in his eyes and whispered to his companion. Cicely pointed him out to Mackillin and was informed that the two men were Armstrongs and, if he was not mistaken, one was the father of Mary Armstrong, who was keeping his mother company at Killin.
‘I’m surprised he did not come across and speak to you,’ said Cicely, wondering about this Mary. She glanced towards the abbey where the two men lingered.
‘It’s of no importance,’ said Mackillin shortly and suggested that they return to the house for the midday meal.
It was then that the opportunity rose for her to bring up the matter of her returning north with his courier. She was flabbergasted when he calmly told her that he had already sent a courier to not only Milburn Manor but Merebury as well before she had got out of bed that morning.
‘But it would have suited me fine to go straight home,’ she said, further taken aback. ‘Why could you not have roused me earlier and I would have gone with him?’
He glanced at the others sitting at the table and frowned her down. ‘It suits me that you stay with me for now,’ he said in a low voice.
‘But why?’ she whispered.
He took a deep draught from his cup of ale and then said in her ear. ‘Think, lass. You might be dressed as a lad, but if the courier was to discover your true identity I cannot vouch for your safety.’
Her cheeks reddened. She had not considered this when she had come up with the notion of travelling in a stranger’s company. Indeed, there had been times that day when she had completely forgotten the role she was playing. After begging his pardon she fell silent, wondering whether Mackillin had asked Owain to send someone to accompany her home.
By late afternoon Mackillin was still in the dark about the exact whereabouts of Edward of York and his army with presumably Diccon in its ranks, but envoys had arrived from London to speak to the queen. Apparently they had offered to open the city gates to her and the king if she would send her Scottish allies home. Some had already marched on the suburbs across the river and plundered the area.
By evening it was obvious to Mackillin that there would soon be no Scots left to dismiss. Loaded with booty, they were deserting in droves.
‘Perhaps we should leave, too,’ suggested Cicely, watching Mackillin load the hackbut with lead shot. They were in the bedchamber and it was an hour short to supper.
Mackillin nodded. ‘We will go tomorrow.’
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than there came a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’ he called, putting down the weapon.
‘A messenger has come from the queen, who wishes to see you both,’ shouted a man’s voice.
Mackillin swore beneath his breath. ‘I had hoped she had forgotten about us.’ He reached for his sword and buckled it on.
Cicely whispered, ‘What do you think she wants?’
‘Can you tell me why the queen requests our company?’ shouted Mackillin.
‘It is no request, Lord Mackillin, it is an order, and if you don’t wish to earn her disfavour then I would not delay,’ came the voice from the other side of the door. ‘She’s already had two heads chopped off since we arrived here.’
‘Tell her Majesty we shall be with her forthwith,’ said Mackillin, eyes glinting with anger.
There was the sound of retreating footsteps.
Mackillin and Cicely stared at each other and then he reached out a hand and caressed her cheek. ‘Pray God, all will be well. I should have done as you said and let you go with the courier.’
‘It is too late for that now.’ She did not know if her safety was an issue here at the moment. But surely she had not betrayed herself and revealed herself a woman to any one? She could only pray that the queen only wished to speak to Mackillin about her father, King René of Anjou, and Cicely’s role was simply that of a listener.
Chapter Twelve
The royal couple were seated at table and servants were scurrying here and there with large salvers of food and jugs of wine and ale. Mackillin and Cicely bowed before the king and queen, aware not only of their scrutiny but that of numerous pairs of eyes upon them.
‘You may rise, Lord Mackillin,’ said King Henry, indicating that he do so with a fluttering, be-ringed white hand. His hair fell to beneath his ears and he had thin lips. ‘Please, join us. The queen tells me you are not only from Scotland, but have recently spent time in France, where you spoke to her father in Angers.’
Mackillin straightened. ‘That is true, sire.’
‘You are also related to my Earl of Northumberland, so you are doubly welcome here. He tells us you have sailed the seas and done much travelling. Sit down with us. We would hear more from you.’
‘That is kind of you, sire.’ Mackillin felt relieved, but hoped it was not going to be a long evening.
The king turned to his wife and gave a sharp nod. Queen Margaret fixed her eyes upon Cicely. ‘Lord Mackillin told us that you were his cousin, but did not tell us your name. What are you called, young master?’ There was a derisive note in her voice.
Cicely squared her shoulders. ‘My name is Nathaniel, your Majesty. Nathaniel Milburn. I am but a distant cousin to his lordship, but he has always shown me great kindness.’
A murmur rippled through the hall, but the king raised his hand and there was silence. ‘Nathaniel Milburn, I seem to know that name.’
‘You might remember my father, sire,’ said Cicely, turning to him. ‘He never wavered in his allegiance to you. He was a merchant venturer and proved his loyalty many times.’
‘Ahhh!’ The king smiled. ‘I knew I knew his name. He was very generous with gifts of money. How is your father?’
Cicely cleared her throat. ‘He is dead, your Majesty. Murdered in Bruges by members of our own family. If it had not been for Lord Mackillin, then my brother would have died also—and that is why I am here with his lordship now. I owe him my gratitude and loyalty.’
‘Well said,’ murmured the king. ‘I am sorry to hear about your father.’
The queen nudged him with her elbow. ‘This is all very interesting, but have you forgotten, my liege, the rumours that have come to our ears?’
King Henry looked baffled for a moment, then he tugged o
n his lip before saying, ‘Are you certain your name is Nathaniel?’ His voice was gruff. ‘I find it hard to believe, but they are saying you are not a youth but a woman. I cannot see how this can be true, but…’ He stopped as if uncertain how to continue.
Cicely’s heart had begun to thud in her chest and she was lost for words. She looked at Mackillin for help and swiftly he responded with the words, ‘Why should you believe these rumours, sire? Who started them? Let him stand before me and we will sort this out man to man.’
‘No, no, no, no,’ bumbled the king, fluttering his hands. ‘I hate the sight of blood. I’ll have no fighting in my court. Just tell me the truth, Mackillin. Is Master Nathaniel a wench or youth? On your word, mind you, or on holy writ.’
Mackillin opened his mouth, but before he could perjure himself, a voice shouted, ‘I saw them together, saw how they looked at each other. Besides, I recognise her. She is Mistress Cicely Milburn, my kinswoman.’
‘Who is that? Who is that who spoke up?’ demanded the king.
No one answered, but there was a babble of voices and the queen turned to Cicely. ‘Is this true? Are you Mistress Cicely Milburn?’
Cicely felt a peculiar calmness come over her and she removed her hat and allowed her braids to ripple down over her shoulders. ‘Aye, it is true, your Majesty. I am she.’
The queen gasped and gripped the arms of the carved oak chair. ‘You dare to admit this to me?’
Cicely was pale, but she held her head high. ‘You would have me speak an untruth, your Majesty?’
‘Non, mais je…’ The queen seemed lost for further words, but then appeared to pull herself together and scowled at Cicely. ‘It is not seemly that you should be dressed in such a fashion and share Lord Mackillin’s bedchamber. It is against holy writ. You will need to be imprisoned and brought before the justice.’
‘No! This would be wrong, your Majesty,’ burst out Mackillin, starting forward.
