by Tracy Brogan
Up the aisle they rushed, but before they reached the door leading to the corridor, it opened and Father Darius stepped through. Fiona crossed her arms over the bundle as Vivienne stepped in front of her to shield it from the priest’s view.
His smile was warm, and Fiona thought once more how unlike Father Bettney he seemed. But that might change, once he realized she’d just stolen something from his sacristy.
“Father Darius.” Vivienne’s voice bubbled with enthusiasm. “How lovely to see you.”
“And you,” he answered. “I did not see you at mass this morning.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Or nearly any morning this week, if my memory is correct.”
“I’m sorry, Father. Mornings are such a sad time for me. ’Tis when I miss my dear dead husband the most, and I fear my weeping would distract your congregation.”
Priests should not scoff and roll their eyes, but this one did. “Vivienne, the Lord is everlasting in his patience, but even He must be getting tired of your fibs. However, come to mass tomorrow, and both He and I may forgive you. You wound my pride when you do not listen to my sermons, you know.”
Vivienne’s lips turned up in humor. “Isn’t pride the work of the devil, Father?”
Father Darius laughed, a rich, warm sound that echoed through the chapel. Fiona had never heard a priest laugh before. In fact, she could not recall a time when Father Bettney had done anything other than scowl and scold.
“Your wit has bested me, my lady. But I should like to see you at mass occasionally nonetheless. Now, what brings you to the chapel today? Is there something I can do for you and Lady Fiona?”
He nodded at Fiona, and she gripped the bundle more tightly still. She felt like Herod snatching the baby Jesus from his manger.
“No, thank you, Father,” Vivienne answered smoothly. “We are done. We came to offer prayers for Lady Fiona’s mother and father.”
“Ah, yes. I’m sorry for your loss, my lady. I will add them to my prayers this evening.”
“Thank you, Father.” Fiona could not seem to raise her voice above a whisper, choked as it was with a myriad of emotions.
“Thank you, Father,” Vivienne said as well. “That is kind of you, indeed. And I vow to make more effort to attend mass. But now we must be going.” With a fast smile, she pulled Fiona the length of the aisle and out the chapel door.
Shutting it behind them, the women leaned back against the wood. Fiona’s heart raced as if she’d run for miles, and the bundle of letters weighed a stone and plenty.
Vivienne took them from her. “Best let me carry these.”
They quickly made their way back to Vivienne’s chamber and sat upon her bed. She unwrapped the bundle once more.
“Would you like to be alone to read these? Or shall I stay?”
Fiona stared at them, as if each letter might turn into a snake and writhe around in a dark and twisty pile. She dared not touch even the crimson ribbon binding them together.
“I should like you to stay, please. But first, you must tell me how you knew of them, locked up as they were.”
Vivienne rose up off the bed and poured herself some wine from a pitcher sitting on a table. She took a hearty sip before filling another cup and handing it to Fiona.
“Before Father Darius arrived, there was another priest here. A debauched old lecher, much too fond of drink. But what a font of information that one was.” Vivienne’s shoulders rose and fell in a delicate shrug. “One evening, when he was well into his cups, he told me of the letters. Cedric put them there so my sister might never know of them. And once the priest told me...Well, I confess the temptation to read them was far too great.”
“You’ve read them? All of them?” It should not be a shock, and yet it was. The action felt like betrayal of the deepest cut.
But for once, Vivi demonstrated some display of shame, dipping her head and looking to the floor. “I’m sorry, Fiona. I know I shouldn’t have, but I never thought to know you. It seemed like such an appealingly wicked game at the time, until your poor mother turned up murdered, of course.”
Bile roiled inside Fiona at the mention. “Do the letters hint at anything about that?”
Vivienne shook her head. “Nothing that I recall. But it’s been years since I read them.”
“And no one knows you’ve seen them? Or that they even exist?”
“I have no idea who knows of them. That old priest could keep no secrets. ’Tis why I gave up confession altogether.”
Breath was hard to come by as Fiona stared into the pile once more. Love letters. From her mother to Cedric Campbell. The desire to read every word equaled her fear of what she would learn. To think of her mother as a young woman, a woman longing for a man other than her husband, made Fiona’s skin flush and her throat tighten. She sipped at the wine Vivienne had given her, then set her glass on the table next to the bed.
“Of course, these are only the letters Cedric received from your mother. There is no telling where his letters back to her might have gone,” Vivienne added.
Fiona looked to her at once. “His letters to her? I had not thought of that.” Of course she had not, for until that very morning, she’d had no knowledge of any such communication between them. And indeed was still not certain this pile of scraps before her proved a thing. She could not know unless she read them.
So she must.
CHAPTER 27
HER MOTHER AND Cedric had been lovers at court. Of that truth, Fiona now had little doubt. At first, she’d hoped the letters might be forged, written by another’s hand for some diabolical purpose, but each one revealed the tiniest details of life at Sinclair Hall, things that only her mother might remark upon and things only she could have known. She wrote about her garden where she tended flowers and the orchard out behind the wall. She wrote of a deep abiding love for each of her children, but also of how she longed to be back at court and with Cedric once more.
How surreal it was bearing witness to her mother’s innermost thoughts, the secrets of her heart, and her passionate longing for a man she could not freely love, for they’d both been married when first they’d met. It seemed Cedric had answered each letter, too, for her mother responded to questions he must have posed and instructions of where they might meet when he traveled to the North. So it seemed the affair had continued after James had claimed the throne and Hugh Sinclair had been banished. Fiona could think of few times when her mother’s whereabouts were unaccounted for, but she had been a child then and had not given thought to her mother’s whereabouts. Vivienne sat silently, reading the letters as they were passed to her. At first, Fiona had wanted to keep them to herself, but quickly found she could not bear this burden alone. She was glad for the other woman’s presence and the way Vivienne passed her a fine linen kerchief when Fiona’s tears flowed fast and steady. She knew not which aspect of the letters prompted tears, so varied and vast were her emotions.
Betrayal, that her mother had deceived her father in such a manner. Though he’d been a harsh man, no one deserved such treatment. Sympathy, for a woman who had not the freedom to live life as she would have chosen. And anger, that this secret, or the revelation of it, had somehow caused her murder. For certainly the manner of her assault spoke of anger and retribution. If there were letters from Cedric, perhaps her father had known.
And if he had, what might he have done? She thought of the brooch, Cedric’s brooch, a token from a lover stuck through her mother’s skin. Her belly recoiled. That was an act of jealousy if ever there was one. And yet, she could not accept that thought. There must be someone else to blame.
The last letter, dated just a few weeks before her mother’s death, left Fiona robbed of breath and full of still more questions.
My darling,
My heart leapt with joy for your news. How proud you must be to have been appointed James’s constable at Dempsey. You’ve done well to earn his respect and he is most fortunate to have you as a friend, as am I.
Things ar
e changing here of late. My husband grows more watchful. There are moments I fear for myself and the safety of the children. There are things I would discuss with you about the future I dare not put into a letter. The time to act is drawing near.
My sons grow tall and strong and I am so proud of them both. But Simon is turning away from me. I fear he may cross a bridge from whence I cannot call him back. John is ever my observer, my philosopher, but he is still so young, and more sensitive than the rest. I am not certain he is ready for whatever may come to pass. My girls are a joy, playful and sweet. I pray each night that one day things will be set to rights, and your Myles and my Fiona can be joined as we had always planned.
Darling, how I long to see you. I need your advice. But more than that, I need your kiss. It has been near on a year since we last met and my heart grows heavier each day. Send word and I shall count the moments, as I count the memories of our times together.
Yours in love,
A.
The time-yellowed letter fell from Fiona’s hand and floated to the bed. Vivienne looked at her, sympathy and curiosity mixed in equal measure upon her face; then she reached over and picked up the paper. She read it quickly.
“The time to act is drawing near? What can she mean by that?” Vivienne asked.
Fiona’s heart fluttered like a hummingbird, frantically flapping its wings just to stay in place and not plummet to the ground. “I don’t know. I don’t understand any of it. Except that she hoped Myles and I would one day be married.”
“Can you see now that he would not have harmed her?”
Fiona’s head ached. “I can see there was love between them. Still, it doesn’t explain everything that happened. Some of my clansmen said they’d seen him on our land the very day she died. He admitted to Myles he was with her then but swears he left her alive.”
“Then someone must have come upon her after he left.”
“But who?” Tears swelled in Fiona’s eyes. She could deny the truth until her own dying day, but everything she’d learned supported Cedric’s claims. And made her father the most plausible culprit.
CHAPTER 28
JOHN SINCLAIR SAT in the great hall and looked across the scarred wooden table at the council of Highland chiefs, each man a king in his own right, defender of his piece of rock and willing to fight for it to the death. Each eager to hold tight his grip on the illusionary power that came with it. Sutherland, Ross, Mackay, and Gunn, and a few of the lesser chiefs. Those willing to discuss their collective fate had gathered at Sinclair Hall at his brother’s request, and the arguments began before they’d even sat down.
“Why should we trust you, Simon? You’re in bed with the Campbells now. What’s to say you’re not leading us into treason?” ’Twas Sutherland who spoke, his white hair bright in the dim light of the hall.
Simon stood at the end of the table, his booted foot upon a chair and a tankard in his fist. “I’m no more in bed with the Campbells than I am with your wife, Sutherland.”
Ross barked out a laugh, a raucous sound that scraped John’s good ear. The man’s jowls flapped like a hound’s when he spoke. “I’ve seen Sutherland’s wife. I’d not bed her either.”
“As if she would have you, you louse-bitten cur,” Mackay jibed. He was the youngest, and anxious to prove his place among them.
Soon they all joined in with their crude jokes and boastful insults. Like rams butting horns, they postured for dominance over nothing more important than rocky crags and empty pastures where little grew and nothing bloomed.
John let them crow, these coarse men and their pompous sense of purpose in the world. Simon had called them here to plot and scheme, but what did it matter if they swore fealty to James when he sailed around the Highlands? Here in the North, they were insulated from the politics of Edinburgh. They could promise one thing yet do another, and the royal court would be none the wiser. The king was a fool to seek loyalty here among these beggars and thieves, but they were even bigger fools to stir up trouble by refusing him.
John knew that now, for he’d thought on it in solitude these past few weeks but would share none of these thoughts with Simon. His brother had no sense at all of how his feelings had changed since the day Fiona rode away. Before the Campbells came, he’d thought only of revenge like the rest of these brutes. But now he’d had time to think about the future, his future, and all he’d learned from Cedric Campbell after the wedding.
“Stop pecking at one another, you vain peacocks. We’ve important matters to discuss.” Simon banged his empty tankard against the tabletop. Once they settled and he claimed their rapt attention, he continued. “The king arrives in Gairloch in September. Now, who among you will fall to your knees like a whore and beg for his love, and who will stand like men beside me and my brother and fight for our freedom?”
The chiefs cast uneasy glances at one another, with none speaking up.
“Well?” Simon demanded again.
“If the king defeats us, Sinclair, he will show no mercy,” said Sutherland, looking to each of them.
“Mercy?” Simon spit upon the rushes. “Mercy is for old men and wee girls. ’Tis freedom I’m talking about. He thinks to strip you of it, of your lands and your titles. And he’ll not stop at that. Once James has us in his noose, he’ll tighten it until we must beg him for every breath. My father would not live that way, and neither shall I!”
His passion stirred them.
“Nor will I,” called out Mackay, his fist raised in solidarity. “Sinclair is right. The king plays at being generous by telling us we may keep our lands. But what right has he to grant us permission to anything? The Mackays have occupied this area since before the first Stewart planted his arse upon the throne. I’ll not swear allegiance to him or any king who cannot see past the needs of Edinburgh.”
“It’s not enough to win the battle, you shortsighted fools,” shouted Sutherland over the supportive outburst from the others. “The king will come with a moderate force, but even if we defeat them, we’ll have to take his life. And then we’ll have the Campbells at our throats, along with any who fight to avenge King James. We will be bringing hell down upon our own people.”
“Not if we have help from London.” Simon doled out the words slowly, like each one was a precious gem.
John shivered, as if a ghost had walked through him.
“What help is that?” Ross asked. He was a head shorter than the rest, but twice the width.
Simon refilled his cup, taking his time and seeming to enjoy this moment. “The help of Archibald Douglas, of course.”
Sutherland scoffed. “What aid can he lend us, hiding as he is in England?”
“He knows of our trials. He respected our right of self-governance while he was Scotland’s regent. And the king has no legitimate heirs. With James dead, rule reverts back to the king’s mother, Douglas’s wife, making Archibald regent once more. I should think he’d be thankful—grateful, even—if our efforts put him back on the throne.”
“And he’d let us rule our lands as we see fit,” Mackay added, his dark eyes glaring at Sutherland.
John listened to them banter and sipped from his cup. The ale was sour in his mouth. He thought to get up and find himself some wine. Good wine, not the swill they’d served to the likes of these puffer fishes. They’d go on for hours, debating every contingency, plotting and recoiling, and going through it all again. And all their chatter would be for naught because Simon always had his way. But this time, John had plans of his own.
A movement caught John’s eyes, and he hid his smile behind his cup. ’Twas his Gen, peeking down at him from an archway of an upper corridor. She gave a tiny wave, and he tipped his head discreetly. He’d told her to stay far away from this mass of men, and so she had. She’d spent all morning lounging in his bed instead, letting their child grow big and strong inside her belly. How he wished he could’ve spent the hours there beside her. But he must be here to steer these sheep without Simon realizing.
“Once we have ensured allegiance to our cause from the other Highland chiefs, my brother, John, will go to London. He will take a letter, drafted and signed by each of us, swearing our support to Archibald Douglas as regent of Scotland if he will join us in our plan to remove James from the throne.”
“’Tis bold-faced treason to sign such a letter!” Sutherland slammed his fist upon the table. “I’ll not sign such a thing.”
Simon smiled, an ugly thing that twisted his dark face. “We all sign so that none of us can betray the other. And ’tis only treason if we’re caught, but my brother is a clever man. Aren’t you, John?”
All eyes to turned to him. He held his face steady. “More clever than any of you could imagine. I’ll deliver that letter with none the wiser.”
“There, you see?” Simon brushed his hands together as if the accomplishment were his and victory all but assured. “That is why we married our sister off to the Campbell pup, you dullards, so that my brother might have easy access through the whole of Scotland and straight on to London. He can plead loyalty to either side, depending where he is and who is doing the asking. We’ll sew the letter into the lining of his doublet so, until he takes it out, no one will even know it’s there.”
“Until he’s caught and someone puts a blade to his throat. He’ll spill out our names rather than his own blood,” Ross grumbled.
Simon leaned over and grabbed the little runt by the throat. He squeezed, just enough so John could see Ross’s fleshy cheeks go red. “My brother will not offer any of us up, except for maybe you, if you say the likes of that again.”
Simon pushed him back against the chair, and Ross sputtered and coughed.
