by June Francis
They both fell silent, wondering what he would do when he heard of their wedding.
Cicely’s head began to nod and weariness overcame her. Aware that she had gone limp in his arms, Mackillin’s hold on his bride tightened. It did occur to him that if Armstrong was lying in wait anywhere he was ill prepared to defend either Cicely or himself. So he steered his mount closer to his kinsman and spoke to him of his lack of a weapon.
‘I will have a sword found for you,’ said Harry. ‘Although I doubt Armstrong will attempt an attack in daylight. I intend seeking shelter at the house of Sir Thomas Stanley’s kin in Staffordshire before nightfall.’
The news satisfied Mackillin; although he felt a need for haste to reach Killin Keep, he did not expect them to arrive there without breaking the journey several times. His heart lurched uncomfortably when he thought of his mother and her duplicity. He was still undecided what to do with her when he arrived home, yet now was not the time to give it thought for his head ached and he was weary.
‘No doubt they will be laying in supplies in case the king and queen should decide to stop by at their manor,’ said Harry, rousing Mackillin from his reverie.
For a moment Mackillin did not know what his kinsman was talking about, then he realised and said, ‘The royal couple are heading north?’
Harry nodded. ‘No doubt they wish to have words with young King James and the dowager queen once again. This conflict is not over yet.’
Mackillin decided that it was over for him and Cissie. He had risked his life once for the Lancastrian cause, but he would not do so again; he had his bride to consider. He did not voice his feelings to his kinsman, knowing Northumberland’s involvement in the Lancastrian cause was far greater than his. The Percys were sworn enemies of the powerful Neville family of whom the most famous was the Earl of Warwick, kin to Edward of York and his close advisor. Harry had no choice but to continue the struggle to be on the winning side in the fight for the throne of England.
By the time they arrived at the manor in Staffordshire where they were to spend the night, Cicely was awake and Mackillin had informed her of his kinsman’s plan. Her face brightened. ‘Kate is related to the Stanleys. One of Sir Thomas’s uncles was her father.’
Mackillin said, ‘I remember her mentioning Sir Thomas.’
Cicely lowered her voice. ‘Kate’s mother went through a form of marriage with him but they were young and his parents declared the marriage null and void, so they were both married off again to someone else.’
Mackillin was thoughtful. ‘You realise, Cissie, this means that we are both related to the Stanleys now by marriage?’
Her lovely eyes widened. ‘Indeed, I hadn’t. Do you regard this as important?’
He smiled. ‘It’s always useful to have powerful allies, even if in this case they are English and unlikely to be of help to us once we cross the border into Scotland.’ He dismounted and then lifted her down. She slid through his hands and their bodies touched in a way that roused him despite his weariness. ‘I pray that our host provides us with a comfortable bed,’ he murmured against her cheek.
Her heart seemed to flip over at his mention of bed, but she told herself that she had naught to fear from him. Had she not thrilled to his kisses? And those moments in the tub with him had been pleasurable and exciting.
A groom approached and led their horse away. Mackillin took her hand and, despite her outer calmness, it trembled in his grasp as they walked across a paved courtyard into a stone-built house with black-and-white plasterwork and wood beneath its eaves.
Northumberland had gone ahead of them, so that by the time they entered the hall, the lady of the house had already sent for refreshments and ordered bedchambers to be prepared for her guests. Harry made Mackillin and Cicely known to her. She led them over to the fire, bidding them to be seated and warm themselves. No sooner were they seated on cushioned chairs than a servant hovered into view, bearing a tray of steaming goblets and a plate of simnels and wafers.
Cicely could scarcely contain herself from scoffing the sweet cakes, but good manners prevented her from doing so. She had not eaten since the meal after her wedding and was famished. The mulled wine was fragrant and tasted delicious, but she had the good sense to refuse a refill. She was feeling light-headed and did not wish to nod off before the evening meal was served. The lady of the house made polite conversation, enquiring after her home in the north. Cicely told her that she was but newly married and had yet to be acquainted with her husband’s manor. Instead she described her previous home in Yorkshire and experienced a stab of homesickness. She was aware of her husband’s eyes upon her from time to time—he was conversing with the lady’s uncle—and hoped Mackillin considered she was acquitting herself well. Hopefully she would do so when she came face to face with Mackillin’s mother.
It was a relief when a servant announced that the meal was ready. Cicely remembered her mother saying that hunger was the best appetiser and this proved true as she ate everything set before her: a bowl of pottage, baked lampreys in a syrupy sauce and a dish of junket sweetened with honey. She sipped sparingly of the excellent raisin wine, but the small glass of hippocras, flavoured with what tasted like cinnamon, ginger and cardamom pods, was delicious and the amount enough to cause her eyelids to droop.
‘I deem my lady is ready for her bed,’ murmured Mackillin.
Immediately Cicely forced her eyelids open and begged pardon. ‘It has been a long day,’ she said.
‘Of course. We have been hearing of your abduction,’ said the lady of the house, rising from her chair. ‘Such a frightening experience, Lady Mackillin. I will call a servant to take you to your bedchamber. I pray that you sleep well.’ Cicely thanked her prettily and accepted Mackillin’s arm.
A fire was burning on the hearth in their bedchamber and candles had been lit and placed on a table. There was a stand with a pitcher of water and a porcelain bowl, as well as two drying cloths; a chest and a screen as well as a bed, which appeared narrower than the one in their lodgings at St Albans, occupied the rest of the space. Cicely considered the bedchambers at Milburn far superior. It did occur to her that maybe not all members of the Stanley family were as wealthy as Sir Thomas, but she was grateful for their hospitality, none the less.
The bed drew her eye. She found herself imagining lying alongside Mackillin, thinking she might have to cling to him, so as not to fall off it. She regretted not having her best silken night rail with her, knowing she would have to make do with the kirtle she wore. A sigh escaped her. It would have been good to bathe, but that was out of the question which was a pity. She would have liked to have come to him sweet smelling and wearing her prettiest nightwear. She stifled a yawn.
‘Do sit on the bed, Cissie,’ ordered Mackillin.
Her stomach quivered as she obeyed him. To her surprise, he knelt in front of her and proceeded to remove her boots. ‘You should not be doing this, my lord,’ she remonstrated. ‘I should be helping you off with your boots.’
He grinned. ‘No, lass, I would not punish you in such a way. They are heavy and you might topple over.’
His words amused her and she reached out and caressed his unshaven jaw. ‘You jest, but you are kind. How is your head? Does it ache?’
‘Not as much as it did.’
‘You must rest,’ she said with concern.
‘It is naught for you to fret about.’
‘I cannot help but be worried. That Jamie Armstrong was of a mind that you might not have recovered.’
‘Sir Malcolm thought the same.’
She smiled. ‘You proved him wrong, but even so you must rest.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘That is my intent—amongst others.’ There was a gleam in his eyes that brought a flush to her cheeks. ‘I will leave you and return shortly,’ he said, getting to his feet.
She wondered why he was leaving her alone and then it occurred to her what he might be about. Her heart beat unevenly as she undressed and washed as much
of her person as she could in the tepid water. After drying herself, she undid her braids. Unfortunately she had no comb to tidy her hair and so made do with her fingers to bring some semblance of order to her long tresses. When she heard his footsteps outside the door, she sat on the bed in her kirtle and attempted to calm herself.
Mackillin entered the bedchamber, pausing in the doorway when he saw her. Then he closed the door behind him and shot the bolt. Without a word he walked over and sat beside her, reaching out a hand to lift a strand of her hair. He curled it round his finger. ‘I did not think this moment would come so soon when we left Rowan Manor,’ he murmured. ‘You know there is no need for you to be frightened? I will be gentle with you.’
Despite her apprehension, Cicely nodded and said, ‘Now all the excitement of the day is over I feel strange and not sleepy at all.’
He was far from feeling that all the excitement was over, but refrained from saying so. Instead he proceeded to remove his boots and outer clothing before drawing her against him. He kissed the side of her neck before turning her round so that she faced him.
Cicely’s mood had altered as soon as he had begun to undress and she felt a tide of desire sweep over her. She reached out to him, placing her arms about his neck, causing her breasts to brush the hard wall of his chest. One of his knees pressed her inner thigh. Then his mouth covered hers in a kiss that began with such gentleness that her lips were easily persuaded to part beneath the lazily wandering tip of his tongue. Instantly there came a change in him and now he kissed her with a passion that spoke of a hunger within. She responded with like hunger, instinctively arching her back and thrusting her lower body against him. She felt the low growl in his throat long before he gave it utterance.
‘Do you know what you’re doing to me?’ he whispered.
‘Tell me, show me,’ she murmured dreamily.
He barely hesitated before tumbling her backwards on to the bed. He kissed her mouth again, plumbing its depths and tasting the sweetness of the mulled wine on her tongue. His fingers caressed the curve of her shoulder, but his attempt to ease down her kirtle proved difficult without lifting himself off her to undo the front fastenings. To do so without breaking off the kiss tested his ingenuity, yet somehow he managed it, but would not have done so without her compliance. Eventually he had to tear his mouth from hers so he could pursue other pleasures. She sighed as his lips blazed a trail of heat down her throat and between her breasts.
He gazed upon them and breathed, ‘Perfection.’
‘What’s perfection?’ she whispered.
‘Your breasts.’
Her eyelids fluttered open and she stared up at him in the firelight. Her hand wandered down her throat to her bare breasts and the tip of her tongue darted over her swollen lips and she said unsteadily. ‘I am glad they please you.’
‘All of you delights me.’
He touched the rosy tip of a breast with a finger and then replaced his finger with his mouth. She had never felt such pleasure and then all thought faded and she was in a world that contained him and her alone, caught up in a storm of rising passion that threatened to overwhelm her in its intensity. Its strength took her unawares and was vaguely frightening, whilst at the same time it was exciting being swept away into unexplored physical realms.
His mouth held her captive and it swallowed the gasp of the momentary pain of his possession. Then he was moving slowly inside her and she felt as if that precious centre of her was unfurling like a rosebud opening its petals to reveal its heart to the sun. She was filled with a delightful warmth and wanted to draw him deeper and deeper inside her. She found herself moving in response to his rhythm, which was so tantalisingly slow that it aroused in her such a yearning that she was desperate for a fulfilment of which she had no conception.
Yet she gasped, ‘Please.’
‘What is it, sweeting? Am I still hurting you?’ he murmured against her mouth.
‘No. The pain was of no consequence. I have already forgotten it. I—I just don’t want you to…’
‘Stop?’ he asked, a hint of laughter in his voice.
She buried her head against the warm skin of his shoulder. ‘You will think me a wanton.’
‘No, lass. Never that.’ He drew back before plunging deeper inside her, thrusting again and again.
She responded by pushing towards him, until such a well of pleasure surged up inside her that she needed to cling on to him, feeling she might float away on a tide of bliss. ‘I…I…’
‘I know,’ he declared unsteadily, and, with a final thrust, filled her with his seed.
Afterwards, he drew her close and buried his head against her breast. ‘Next time there will be no pain and it will be even better for you,’ he reassured her in a drowsy voice. Cicely wondered how it could be better. It had been wonderful! She lay a moment, listening to his steady breathing before drifting into slumber.
There was no time for lovemaking the following morning as they were still asleep when a servant came to rouse them at dawn. The earl wanted to make an early start, desirous of reaching his own castle at Alnwick as soon as possible. Mackillin was of the opinion that it would take longer than a day to do so.
By evening they had reached Yorkshire, enabled by Cicely riding a mount of her own at speed. The wind whipped bright colour into her cheeks, but she was weary and aching by the time they dismounted outside the abbey, where they were to break their journey. Frustratingly, there was no opportunity for them to make love as they had to sleep in separate quarters in the abbey’s lodging house. Cicely wondered if she would have to wait until they reached Scotland before her husband could show her that their next coupling would be even better than the first time. At least he was able to write a message and send a courier to Milburn Manor with their latest news.
By late afternoon of the following day they had reached the wild but hauntingly beautiful landscape of Northumberland with its extensive forests and moors and its brooding castles. Mackillin spoke to Cicely of the time he had spent there, flying hawks, fishing and being taught how to fight with sword and lance, as well as studying languages, mathematics and ancient history under the auspices of his Percy kin’s tutor. She listened, having spoken earlier of the pilgrimage she had taken with her mother to the priory at Whitby, founded by St Hilda. It was there that the decision had been made that England follow the Roman way of worshipping God, rather than the Celtic. A decision still disputed by some, thought Cicely.
It was dusk when Alnwick Castle came into view. Cicely felt a shiver ripple down her spine as they rode towards the edifice, which stood apart from the town, overlooking the river. The huge fortification looked eerie against the darkening sky. As they approached the gatehouse a guard challenged them, but he soon realised it was his master leading the company. They passed through a stone gateway into an enormous courtyard that was soon crowded with people welcoming the earl and his men home. Cicely gazed at the huge many-towered keep at its centre and shivered again.
‘Are you cold?’ asked Mackillin with concern.
‘No. The castle is just so…’ She grimaced.
‘There is naught to fear despite it is rumoured that the castle was haunted by one of its former masters,’ said Mackillin, his eyes twinkling.
Cicely shot him a glance. ‘But not now?’
He dismounted. ‘Not once have I seen a ghost here despite having wandered its passages at midnight.’
‘So tell me of this ghost.’ She placed her hands on his shoulders and he swung her to the ground.
Mackillin whispered in her ear, ‘His crimes were so evil that it was said the devil enabled him to rise from his tomb and his ghost wandered the castle and town, spreading pestilence in its wake.’
She slipped her hand through his arm. ‘What happened to stop it?’
‘They dug up his body and burnt it to ashes. Afterwards the plague departed and the ghost was never seen again.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘So naught to worry about spending the night here.’ Ci
cely thought that was a relief, but kept her arm firmly in her husband’s as they entered the keep.
Despite the logs blazing in the enormous fireplace in the great hall, the air struck chill. The earl, who was standing by the fire with his lady, turned and said, ‘Tidings for you, Rory. A messenger has been here from Killin Keep. Apparently none of the fighting men who answered the summons of Scotland’s king have yet returned. Your mother was anxious about your safety and wondered if I and my men were back and whether I had seen you.’
Mackillin was filled with a sense of foreboding. ‘Where is this messenger?’
‘He left here this morning.’ Harry hesitated. ‘I did not mention to you that I dispatched a courier whilst in Stafford with news of our victory and your wedding. Naturally my lady—’
‘Has informed my mother of the news,’ said Mackillin in colourless tones.
‘Aye.’ Harry shifted uncomfortably. ‘She thought only to relieve your mother of worry.’
‘Of course,’ said Mackillin, forcing a smile. He turned and thanked Lady Northumberland, adding, ‘Lady Mackillin and I will ride for the border at first light.’
Harry looked relieved. ‘I will provide you with an escort. With Armstrong still at large, who is to say that he has not gleaned men from those who deserted before the battle took place and might make an attack.’
With Cicely’s safety uppermost in his thoughts, Mackillin accepted his offer.
Cicely found her husband distracted as they undressed. She had spoken to him twice and he had made no response. The third time she asked tentatively, ‘Are you worrying about your mother and what she will think of your marrying me and the manner of our wedding?’
He did not answer immediately, but after a few moments he drew her down on to the bed beside him and said, ‘I am certainly concerned about my mother and what she is thinking, but not in the way you suggested. I must tell you for your own safety that my mother is not to be trusted.’
