by June Francis
‘You dare to speak to me in such a tone?’ said the queen, looking furious. ‘I am the queen of England.’
‘And I am a Scotsman, who has answered my own king’s order to come to your husband’s aid.’ Mackillin bowed before her. ‘Forgive my hotheadedness, but Mistress Cicely is a loyal servant of both your majesties, as was her father. I speak the truth to you now. Her father gave her to me to be my wife. We are betrothed.’
Cicely drew in her breath with a hiss. Did he realise what he was saying?
The queen would have spoken, but the king signalled her to be silent. ‘But you are not wed to her yet, Mackillin, and it is not seemly that your betrothed dispenses with her feminine attire to wear that of a youth.’
Mackillin stood straight as a ramrod. ‘No, sire, it is not. I left her behind in the north when I obeyed my king’s command to fight for your freedom, but she followed me—and in this garb so as to escape notice on the road and the battlefield.’ He inclined his chestnut head. ‘I ask for your understanding and…your mercy.’
Cicely stared at him, marvelling at his honesty. She wondered what the royal couples’ response would be and turned her attention to them.
The king returned her regard and muttered, ‘Most unseemly, Mistress Milburn. We must do what is right here.’ He turned to Mackillin. ‘I suggest you marry Mistress Milburn immediately. Whether she is still a maid I know not, but her name is besmirched and, for her father’s sake, my chaplain can perform the deed here and now.’ He looked towards the cleric seated a few places up from him on the high table. The man’s expression was disapproving and he seemed about to refuse, but the king said firmly, ‘You must do this. Her father was a friend to us and Lord Mackillin has risked his life for our cause.’
‘I will do as your Majesty insists, but…’ The cleric stared at Cicely in distaste ‘…but surely this…maid will change into raiment more suitable for such an occasion.’
Cicely felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Should she be honest and say Mackillin did not wish to marry her? That he had refused her father’s offer and was only saying that they were betrothed to save her face? Besides, she had no women’s garments with her. Perhaps if she told them that, then the wedding might not take place. She did not want Mackillin marrying her because he was forced into doing so.
But she had delayed too long. The queen said, ‘Take Mistress Milburn to my apartments and find her some feminine apparel to wear.’
Cicely turned to Mackillin. ‘Is this really what you want?’ she whispered.
‘I could ask you the same question, but it would be pointless,’ he answered in a low voice. ‘I should have sent you home when I could, but now we have no choice but to do as the king says, otherwise we both might be thrown into prison.’
Her spirits plummeted. She had hoped he might have said yes! It was his dearest wish to make her his bride, even if it were not true. Instead he was marrying her purely because it was a royal command. There was no chance for them to speak again as she was hurried from the hall by two of the queen’s attendants and along a passage, around a corner and then along another passage. During that time not once did they speak to her.
They came to a large oak door guarded by men-at-arms, who obviously recognised the two women and allowed them to enter the rooms set aside for the king and queen. They were not as sumptuous as Cicely had expected royal apartments to be but, of course, these were their temporary quarters.
‘Come, this way, Mistress Milburn,’ said one of the ladies-in-waiting in a cold voice. She picked up a candle from a wooden tray near the door and lit it from one of the candles in a sconce in the passage. Then she set a flame to a four-branched candelabra and led Cicely across a small antechamber into a larger chamber where there were several chests and a couple of armoires. She lit more candles and tapped a chest.
‘You are fortunate that those who lived here fled and left their belongings behind. There are several gowns in here. Do not dally, for their Majesties have more to do with their time than waste it on the likes of you.’ She turned her back on her and left the chamber.
Cicely could feel anger burning inside her chest and would have given it utterance if it were not that she wanted out of the building as soon as possible. She would not allow that woman to make her feel guilty and ashamed. What did it matter what she wore? Wearing breeches did not turn her into an evil person. She lifted the lid and, reaching inside, brought out the first garment to hand. Holding part of the skirt close to the candle, she saw that its colour was green and the fabric was linen.
It suddenly occurred to her that this could be her wedding gown. Never had she imagined that it would be chosen in such a manner. Tears rolled down her cheeks. In her dreams she would have chosen primrose or turquoise silk such as her father might have brought back from Venice. But what did it matter now what she wore—Mackillin would not care. It might be true that he lusted after her body, but she was not the bride he would have chosen.
Still, they were to be wed and she would do her best to make him a good wife. And he would gain by marrying her. After all, it was her father’s wish and her dowry would be of use to Mackillin.
She wasted no more time, but searched for a kirtle and then stripped off her youth’s disguise and donned a cream woollen kirtle and gown of green. Then, carrying the candleholder, she left the chamber; her tread was light despite she was wearing boots.
The two women were talking in low voices, but stopped and turned when they heard her coming. They looked her up and down with disdain and one said, ‘I hope his lordship knows what he’s doing.’
The other one said, ‘What does it matter? He’s a Scottish lord and they don’t count. Let’s go. We’re missing the feasting.’
She led the way. As Cicely followed her along the passage, trailed by the other attendant, she experienced a moment of panic and wanted to run away, but then she stiffened her backbone. She would pretend that she and Mackillin were marrying because they loved each other, not because of her reckless foolishness in dressing as a youth and following him. Then she remembered that this wedding was taking place due to the rumours started most probably by her Milburn kin. A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth. No doubt he had not reckoned on King Henry remembering her father’s name, so that instead of punishing her and Mackillin as he intended, his plan had backfired.
They had reached the hall and Cicely’s heart increased its beat. Mackillin was talking to a man she recognised as his kinsman, Northumberland. She wondered what the earl thought of Mackillin being forced into marrying a merchant’s daughter. Her arrival caused a sudden hush and for an instant the panic she had experienced earlier gripped her. Then Mackillin turned and stared at her. A smile broke over his rugged features and her panic subsided as she walked towards him.
He took her hand and drew it through his arm. ‘I know this is certainly not how Nat intended our wedding to be, but I’m certain he would be delighted that it is taking place,’ he murmured against her ear.
‘I agree,’ she whispered, her hand trembling on his sleeve. ‘But it seems odd that it should come about due to the deeds of our enemy.’
‘His mistake. Northumberland tells me that he has seen him with the Armstrongs, but right now he has vanished.’
‘What do you plan to do about them?’ she whispered as he led her slowly towards the high table where the king and queen were seated. The priest awaited them.
‘I’ll ponder on that later. Look happy, sweet Cissie, as if you are a willing bride.’
If only he knew how willing she was to be his wife, she thought, and smiled as he had requested. She sank in a deep curtsy before the royal couple, her green skirts billowing about her. She was bid rise by the king, who smiled and rubbed his hands together. ‘Now you look as God intended you to do, Mistress Milburn. Let us get on with the ceremony.’
With Mackillin’s upper arm touching her shoulder, she took a deep breath as they faced the cleric. She remembered the last wedding she had atten
ded had been that of her father and stepmother and she had not forgotten the seriousness of the vows they had made. As the ceremony began she was again aware of all the eyes of the royal attendants and the Lancastrian lords, knights and servants upon them.
‘I, Rory, take thee, Cicely, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, for fairer, for fouler, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, for this time forward, till death us do part, if holy church will it order…and thereto I plight thee my troth.’
Mackillin’s words sounded loud in the hall and so binding that Cicely was filled with trepidation. There was no going back now. The priest muttered some words that she did not catch, but she guessed he was asking her to repeat them after him. She did not need him to tell her what to do in that cold voice of his, so hurried into speech. ‘I, Cecily, take thee, Ma—’ She corrected herself. ‘Rory, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, for fairer or fouler, for better…for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to…be meek and obedient in bed and at board, for this time forward, till death us do part, if holy church will it order…and thereto I plight thee my troth.’
Relieved at having managed to make her vows with scarcely a fault, she was aware of Mackillin gazing down at her with a faint twinkle in his eyes. She told herself that all would be well as she watched him remove his signet ring from the little finger of his right hand. He took her left hand in his. ‘With this ring I thee wed…and with my body I thee worship.’
She scarcely heard the next words because she was recalling those moments in the tub when they had been naked together and the thrilling excitement she had felt. Then she became aware that he was holding the ring over the tip of her thumb. ‘In the name of the Father—’ over her index finger ‘—in the name of the Son—’ over her middle finger ‘—in the name of the Holy Ghost—’ and finally he said, ‘Amen’ as he slipped the ring on her third finger. It was still warm from his hand and was slightly too large for her. She touched it as he bent his chestnut head and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘May God bless our union, Lady Mackillin,’ he murmured.
‘Aye, my lord,’ she responded, feeling quite odd at being addressed by her new title.
‘Try calling me Rory, wife,’ he said in a good-humoured voice.
Cicely felt a soaring in her spirit at his use of the word wife. It was going to take some getting used to, being his spouse; as for using his Christian name, so accustomed was she to addressing him as Mackillin that that might prove impossible. ‘What do we do now?’ she whispered, knowing that if their wedding was a normal one in church it would have been followed by a nuptial mass, but she doubted that would happen here.
‘We did not have time to eat earlier, so perhaps we should eat, drink and be merry?’ he suggested.
Before she could agree, the king beckoned them to come forwards. ‘Lord and Lady Mackillin, we invite you to be seated.’
Mackillin thanked him and they both sat down where indicated. Bowls of creamy leek soup were placed before them and wine poured into cups. As Mackillin picked up his spoon, he glanced in the direction of his mother’s cousin, Harry Percy, who had taught him swordplay at Alnwick Castle and received a mocking smile. Mackillin returned the smile before allowing his gaze to wander round the hall. He stilled suddenly as he recognised Sir Malcolm Armstrong, whose expression was ugly with fury.
Mackillin had little time to worry about him or to pay attention to his new wife now because the royal couple were eager to hear more of his time in France and of his travels. He was surprised by their interest, but came to the conclusion that perhaps they needed to be distracted from the decisions that would soon have to be made concerning their next step in the power struggle to rule England.
When at last they switched their attention to someone else and the meal came to an end, his kinsman signalled to him. Mackillin had hoped he and Cicely would be able to escape and return to their lodgings, but he could not ignore Northumberland, so he turned to his wife of a few hours. ‘Hopefully, I will not be long. You will be all right here for a few minutes?’
‘Is it possible that I excuse myself and return to our lodgings? The noise is giving me a megrim and I do not wish to be indisposed when—’ She stopped abruptly, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks and realising the wine had freed her tongue too much.
A chuckle resonated in his deep chest. ‘Whatever you wish, sweeting. I will speak to the king. I’m sure he will excuse you and have a man-at-arms escort you to the house.’
It was done as Mackillin requested and within minutes, he was making his way over to his kinsman, determined to keep their conversation brief. He was impatient to be alone with Cicely; it appeared to him that she was willing to consummate their union and he felt a stir of arousal at the thought. He would handle her tenderly, so as to reassure her that now they were wed his aim was to please her, but that he also wanted her safe. He was of a mind to escort her to Milburn Manor where she could gather her belongings together. She could remain there until Mackillin could have all made ready for his lady’s arrival at Killin. He needed to check his defences and strengthen them if need be, as well as setting about forming other alliances rather than the one he had planned with Armstrong. His mother might be disappointed, but he had made no promises to her or Mary Armstrong.
‘My congratulations, Rory,’ said Northumberland, poking him gently in the ribs. ‘I wager you never thought you’d be leaving here with a bride this even?’
It was obvious to Mackillin that his Grace had been imbibing freely of the excellent burgundy, for he had made a similar comment earlier. ‘If that is all you wish to say to me, Harry, then I’ll be on my way,’ he said with a smile.
‘Nay, coz, don’t go rushing off yet.’ The earl brought his mouth close to Mackillin’s ear and muttered, ‘But leave St Albans as soon as you can. We have delayed here long enough. The queen should have agreed to whatever the capital’s citizens asked for immediately. Once inside the city, we could have taken the Tower and its artillery. Methinks now the Scots are deserting that she and the king will back off. I plan leaving on the morrow. I cannot risk my lands being unattended any longer. You and your bride can ride with us if you wish.’
Mackillin realised his kinsman was not as drunk as he appeared. ‘Thanks for the offer. I accept.’
Northumberland said, ‘Good. I will have my men call on you later.’
Mackillin thanked him and was about to take his leave when a man hobbled over to them. The earl introduced him as Sir Andrew Trollope, the great captain of the Lancastrian army who had ensured their victory and had been knighted on the battlefield for his efforts. Sir Andrew kept Mackillin talking for several minutes, but then he managed to make his escape.
His intention was to return to the house and pack his and Cicely’s belongings ready for them to leave. But before packing there could be a short time for them to consummate their union. As he made his way along the footpath past the abbey and Ye Old Fighting Cocks inn, he smiled, imagining holding Cicely’s body against his own, of kissing every inch of her. Then suddenly he felt a blow on the back of his head. He staggered and reached for his sword, but a second blow ensured he had no time to loosen it and he collapsed on to the ground.
Cicely twisted a strand of golden hair between her fingers as she paced the floor. It seemed an age since she had left Mackillin and she was anxious in case some terror had befallen him after her dream last night. If only he would come, then she would tell him of the nightmare. Suddenly she heard footsteps approaching and in her thankfulness did not listen properly or consider her own safety. Hurrying over to the door, she flung it open.
Instantly she attempted to close the door in the men’s faces, one of whom she recognised. She only wondered for a second how he had escaped Milburn Manor as he wedged the door open by placing his foot in the gap. She backed away and, seeing the hackbut on the chest, picked it up and pointed it at him.
‘Take one step nearer and I will fire,�
� she said.
The Milburn laughed. ‘Fire away, girlie. I doubt Mistress Cicely Milburn would know how to use such a weapon.’
‘Then you would be wrong,’ she said, and fired.
At that distance it would have been impossible for Cicely to miss her target. The bang and the screech made by her kinsman was deafening. He clutched his face and the next moment sank to the floor. His accomplice, a murderous expression in his eyes, wrenched the hackbut from her hand and threw it aside. She tried to escape, but he seized her wounded arm and flung her over his shoulder. Kicking and screaming, she was carried out of the bedchamber. The smell of onions and stale sweat filled her nostrils as he took the stairs at breakneck speed, violently jolting her so that she thought she would vomit up her supper. She caught a glimpse of one of the servants lying in a pool of blood in the hall and was dizzy with fear. If only Mackillin would come, she thought. And where were the rest of the men who lodged in the house?
Outside, the cold air penetrated the linen sleeve of her gown, but she had no time to worry about catching a chill because she was tossed to another man. A cloak was flung over her head, blinding her. Then a rope bound the garment about her so that she could not move her arms. She heard the snorting of a horse and the clatter of hooves. She tried to claw her way upright, but her assailant slapped her down. She was flung on to a horse and someone mounted behind her. The horse began to move and, blinded by the cloak and sick with terror, she had no idea where they were taking her and feared she might never see her husband again.
‘Milburn hit him too hard! I didn’t want him dead, Jamie.’
The words seemed to be coming from the far end of a tunnel.
‘He’s not dead, Malcolm,’ said an impatient voice. ‘Look at his chest. He’s still breathing. I’ve seen men in a stupor like this before and they’ve survived.’
‘Aye, but others never come out of it,’ rumbled the first voice.
Mackillin’s head ached abominably and he seemed unable to move his limbs. He recognised the voices and wished he could remember how he had come here. He must have lowered his guard and was furious with himself. He wondered where Cissie was and felt a chill of fear.
