The Border Lord and the Lady

by Bertrice Small

  The chair in which Cicely sat was sturdy oak with carved armrests. It had a padded back of leather, and a loose cushioned seat with a rough woven cover. The girl seated in it sighed sadly. Her head fell to one side as her eyes closed and an exhausted sleep overcame her, her cheeks still wet with her tears.

  Old Mab crept silently into the hall with an armful of wood. She added some to the fire, and stacked the remainder on the hearth. She pulled a large woolen shawl in the black-gray-and-white Douglas plaid from her hunched shoulders, and tucked it about Cicely. Then, sitting down in the smaller chair near the fire, the old woman drew her own worn shawl about her shoulders and settled down for the night. Now and again she would awaken and throw another log on the fire.

  When the false dawn touched the sky Mab rose from long habit and, going down into the kitchen, took a bowl of dough from the table where she had left it to rise beneath a damp cloth several hours back. Kneading it with half-crippled fingers, she fashioned several loaves and put them into the oven to bake. Her lady would have fresh bread each day from now on. Her nephew’s lad came into the kitchen bearing a basket of newly laid eggs. “Good morrow, Gabhan,” Mab greeted the boy.

  “Good morrow to you, Auntie,” the boy replied. “Bethia returned to the village last night. She has gone from cottage to cottage saying the laird’s new whore threw her from the house and threatened to kill her. She showed us the bruises the whore inflicted upon her. She says she fears for the laird, for he has been ensorcelled.”

  Mab snorted. “Bethia’s bruises are probably from the beating her husband gave her when she returned home to tell him the laird sent her away for her slovenly ways, and ill temper towards the lass he means to wed. The laird went bride stealing, Gabhan, and brought back a fine lady from King James’s court.”

  “She is not a whore?” The boy sounded almost disappointed. He had never seen a whore, but they did sound both dangerous and exotic to him.

  “Nay, Lady Cicely is a grand lady, laddie. Bethia has been dismissed because she is lazy and dirty, and was sullen and rude. It was the laird who sent her from the house. Go to the cold larder now for me, and get me both milk and cream,” Mab said to the boy. “The bread is baking, and I am making eggs with cream sauce to go with the porridge.”

  “Bethia says no one should come into service here until the whore is driven out,” Gabhan said. He went into the cold larder and brought out a pitcher of milk and one of heavy cream, which he set on the large oak table. “Mmmm, that bread smells good, Auntie. When will it be done?” He grinned at her.

  “ ’Twill be done when it’s done. Now go back to the village and tell all the young lasses and lads to whom we are closest related that the laird needs new servants for the house. There will be a nice slice of fresh bread and butter—with jam—for you when you return with our kin. I’ll do the first choosing. Then it’s up to the laird and his bride. Off with you now,” Mab said, shooing him from her kitchen with her apron. There! she thought after he had gone. Our own kin will fill the places needed. I want none of Bethia’s people here, and neither will the lady.

  Cicely awoke surprised to find a warm fire still burning, and a thick plaid shawl wrapped about her. Where had they come from? She stood stiffly, and stretched in an effort to ease the soreness from her limbs. Her nose twitched at the distinct smell of baking bread. She needed to pee, but had no idea where to perform such an act, so she directed her steps to the kitchens, for she knew Mab could help her.

  “Oh, my lady, you’re awake,” Mab said. “Good morrow to you.” She curtsied.

  “I need somewhere to freshen myself,” Cicely said shyly.

  “Of course,” the old lady replied. She led the young woman to a tiny room off her kitchen. “In there. I’ll bring you some warm water.”

  She relieved herself in the pot, and was glad for the basin of warm water Mab brought her. She washed herself as best as she could. Her hair was filthy, and filled with dust from their long ride. She wondered if a bath was possible. Removing her caul, Cicely let her hair fall loose about her, then, combing it with her fingers, tucked it back into the bejeweled gold net. Cicely brushed her green velvet gown with her hands, shaking her skirts, pulling the embroidered surcoat straight. She had never worn the same gown for so long. She stepped from the small room back into the kitchens and was surprised to see a dozen young men and women now crowding into the warm gathering place.

  “My lady, these young people are from the village. They have come to see if they might fill the positions vacant for so long in our staff,” Mab said. “How many of them shall I bid remain?”

  “All of them,” Cicely responded. “There is a great deal to do to put this house back to rights and keep it well. Please feed them, Mab, and then after the laird has broken his fast send them up to the hall.” Then, with a nod of her head and a smile, Cicely ascended the stairs and was gone from their sight.

  “She seems a nice enough lass, though she be English,” a voice commented.

  “She’s a good lady,” Mab said.

  “And she asked you to feed us first,” said another voice.

  “ ’Twas well-done,” remarked a third approvingly.

  “Well, sit you down at the table,” Mab said. “I’ve fresh bread, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs, as well as a nice pot of porridge. Eat up now, and then two of you can serve the hall. The laird is always up with the sun. And you want to get started with your work as soon as he’s spoken to you. Gabhan, you’re still small enough to sweep a chimney,” Mab told the boy as she put the bowl of eggs on the table and began cutting slices of bread. “The one in the room her ladyship will occupy has a nest in it that needs removing. Do you think you can do it?”

  The boy nodded agreeably. “Aye,” he said. “I’ll be the house’s sweep, and you’ll need a knife boy too, Auntie. I can fill both positions.”

  “You’re a good lad,” Mab said as she handed him the promised bread with butter and jam. She looked about the table. “Tam, you and Artair can serve the hall this morning. Sine and Sesi will clean the apartment that once belonged to the laird’s poor mam. The lady will live there. The poor lass slept last night in the hall. The rest of you will go before the laird and his lady after they have eaten. Eat up now! There’s work to be done here. Who among you will serve in the stables?”

  Cicely returned to the hall just as Ian Douglas entered it. “Good morrow, my lord,” she greeted him, curtsying. “Thank you for putting the shawl about me last night.”

  “Good morrow, ladyfaire,” he replied, “but I gave you no shawl.”

  “Then who did?” And then Cicely smiled. “Of course! It had to be Mab, and she will have kept the fire going, bless her! The meal will be served shortly. The fresh bread was just about to come from the ovens, my lord, and the kitchen is full of young people eager to serve you. You will help me choose after we have eaten.”

  Ian Douglas could not remember the last time he had been greeted so pleasantly in his own hall in early morning. And even from here he could smell the freshly baked bread. He smiled broadly. “You see, ladyfaire,” he told her. “A woman’s touch is just what has been needed here at Glengorm.”

  “And you will remember that I will not bide long with you, my lord. The king will send a troop of men-at-arms to rescue me from your clutches, and I will go with them. You cannot hold me here forever.”

  Before he might reply, however, Mab appeared in the hall carrying bowls, spoons, and two silver cups that had been newly polished. She set the high board, saying, “The meal is coming behind me, my lord, my lady. Please be seated. With your permission I have assigned two young men from the village, Tam and Artair, to serve at table. If they do not suit I will find two others.”

  Tam and Artair now came into the hall carrying a bowl and two platters. Behind them Gabhan carried a board with fresh bread, a crock of sweet butter, and a small wedge of cheese. He sneaked a long look at Cicely, deciding whether she was a whore, as Bethia said she was. But if, as his old auntie re
lated, she was to be the laird’s wife then Ian Douglas was a fortunate man, for the lady was certainly the prettiest lass he had ever seen.

  The hot food was set upon the table. One platter held slices of ham, the other eggs poached in cream sauce with dill. The bowl was filled with steaming porridge.

  “My lady?” The lad called Tam offered to spoon some porridge into Cicely’s bowl. When she nodded he spooned in a small but adequate amount and then looked to her. “ ’Tis enough, my lady?” he inquired politely.

  “Aye, ’tis perfect. Thank you,” Cicely responded.

  “Cream?” Tam asked, holding a small pitcher, and when she nodded he poured some, again seeking her approval, and smiling when she nodded once more.

  Tam then filled the laird’s bowl almost full with the hot cereal and heavy cream. Then he stepped back to await further instructions.

  They ate in silence, and when the bowls were emptied Tam removed them swiftly, and his companion, Artair, offered the eggs and the meat while Tam sliced bread.

  “I’m astounded by this meal,” the laird finally said to Cicely.

  “Why?” she responded. “Mab is a wonderful cook, but she was being bullied by Bethia, who I will wager was stealing from your larder, so that you ended up being poorly fed while she profited by selling in the village what she stole,” Cicely reasoned, and, seeing the quick look pass between the two young servants, she knew she was right.

  “You know I love you, for I have said it,” Ian murmured to her. “Now do you see how much I need you to care for me, ladyfaire?”

  Cicely was forced to laugh at his declaration. “While I am reluctant to admit it, you have charm, my lord,” she said. “But Glengorm is not at all the home I envisioned for my married life.”

  “Then make of it what you want,” he said to her. “Have you been to Fairlea’s home? Is it any better?”

  “I have not been to Andrew Gordon’s house,” Cicely admitted, “but I am certain it is clean, and his servants well trained. A man who keeps himself neat will surely have a well-ordered domicile, my lord.”

  “Would you marry into such a house knowing that though you are mistress, its lord would always have the last word?” he inquired of her. “In my house you would have full autonomy over the servants, for as a man I am but interested in a hot meal and a warm bed. Fairlea, I will wager, is concerned with every small detail of his life and his possessions, ladyfaire.”

  Cicely was silent. The truth was, he did make a strong point about the laird of Fairlea, and how could he have come to know the man that well in such a short time at court? That was a question she asked Ian Douglas.

  “I know men, ladyfaire,” he said quietly. “Life here in the borders is not easy, and you need to be able to read other men quickly to know if you deal with friend or foe. The laird of Fairlea is a proud man. Proud of his name and of himself. It is obvious by the way he dresses, by the way he speaks with others that he holds himself in high regard. And he judges others by his own standards. He considers your beauty and wealth worthy of him, but he is not quite as sure of himself as he would have all believe. That is why he kept other suitors from your side, ladyfaire. And that is why it was necessary for me to resort to such reckless measures.”

  “Andrew is a proud man, but the Gordons are one of the finest families in Scotland,” Cicely defended her other suitor. But Ian Douglas was right about his rival. Still, did not a man have a right to be proud of himself and his possessions?

  “Fairlea is a fool,” Ian Douglas said frankly. “If he were not he would have swept you off to the priest long since, ladyfaire.”

  “Priest? Who speaks of a priest in such bold tones?”

  A tall man in a long black robe tied with a white rope belt strode into the hall. “God’s balls! Is that decent food on your table, Ian? I had heard you finally sent Bethia back to her husband, poor fellow. Ahh, and this will be the bride.” The tall man grinned and gave her a scant bow. “Father Ambrose, at your service, my lady.” He settled himself at the table next to Ian, shoveling the remaining eggs onto the platter that still contained two slices of ham, and then he began to eat.

  “I did tell you that we had a priest,” Ian Douglas said.

  “Bless me,” the priest said, “old Mab hasn’t lost her touch in the kitchens.” He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sauce on the eggs.

  “He looks like you,” Cicely finally said.

  “I should, my lady,” Father Ambrose, said with another grin, “for I am this rascal’s uncle. The last of the wenching Douglas’s bastards. It was only natural I go into the Church to make up for my old father’s sins.” He chuckled. “Welcome to Glengorm! I will wager no one has said that to you yet.”

  “Nay, they haven’t, thank you,” Cicely replied, warming immediately to the priest. “Now I should be most appreciative if you would tell your nephew to return me to Perth. He probably won’t even have to go the entire way, for the king will have sent after me by now, you may be certain.”

  “Regretfully, my child, Ian does not take direction well, I fear.” Then he turned to the laird. “Why in the name of all that is holy have you stolen a bride that King James will want to retrieve, nephew?”

  “I love her,” Ian Douglas answered his uncle. “It is said our king fell in love with his queen at first sight, and so it is with me. I saw my ladyfaire on the road to Perth the day I pledged my fealty to King James. And in that moment, Uncle, I knew no other woman would do for me. I went to court to woo her, but some damned Gordon had already marked her for himself. No other man could get near her. I had no choice but to abduct her and bring her to Glengorm.”

  “Are you betrothed, my child?” Father Ambrose asked Cicely.

  “Nay, Father, I am not. I made no promise to Andrew Gordon, though he did beseech me to pledge myself to him,” Cicely replied honestly.

  “Do you love this Andrew Gordon?” the priest inquired.

  Cicely hesitated. Then she answered candidly, “Nay, I do not believe that I do. But you know that love is not the point of marriage. Marriage is for procreation. Matches are made for wealth, land, power, good Father.”

  “More’s the pity,” the priest answered her, thinking she was a true daughter of privilege and had been well taught. “It is said that the king loves his queen. Is that so?”

  “Oh, yes, he loves her deeply, and she him,” Cicely said. “And my own father loved my mother, but when he married a second time it was for more practical reasons.”

  The priest sighed. “So you have two men who would have you to wife. One has declared his love for you. Has the other?”

  Cicely shook her head in the negative. “Nay, Andrew has not said he loves me.”

  “You say you would wed for sensible reasons,” Father Ambrose said. “And you claim to love neither of your suitors. Yet you must wed, so why would you not wed the man who claims he loves you as opposed to the one who has not said those three words so dear to a maiden’s simple heart?”

  His argument gave Cicely pause for thought.

  “At last!” Ian gloated. “Someone to take my side in this matter.”

  “Of course he would take your side,” Cicely snapped. “He is your blood kin.”

  “If Mab is going to continue to cook like this,” the priest said, “I shall take my meals with you.” He snatched up the last crust of bread, scraped the remaining butter from its stone crock with his thumb, and spread it over the bread before popping it into his mouth, chewing with great relish.

  When Tam and Artair had cleared the table, Mab returned to the hall with a group of young men and women. “Good morrow, my lord, my lady, Father Ambrose,” she said. “I have brought you this group of men and women eager to enter your service, my lord, my lady. They are hardworking and honest, and will not steal, like some others who shall remain unmentioned.” Tam had told Mab of Cicely’s intuitive remark. She curtsied to the laird, and waved half a dozen girls forward. “I should like Bessie and Flora to remain in the kitchens with m
e. Sine, Sesi, Una, and Effie are more than competent to work above stairs, if it please Your Ladyship.” She curtsied again.

  Cicely turned to Ian. “My lord?”

  “ ’Tis your choice, ladyfaire,” he replied.

  “They are all Mab’s nearest kin, and good choices,” Father Ambrose murmured softly.

  “The laird is pleased to welcome these girls into his service. And Tam and Artair have done well this morning. Who are the others, Mab?” Cicely asked the old lady.

  “My nephew’s lad, Gabhan, who will sweep the chimneys and keep the knives sharp,” she said, pulling Gabhan forward. He ducked his head to the high board.

  “He looks a fine lad,” Cicely responded. “He is welcome.”

  “The other lads will care for the stables, my lady,” Mab told her.

  “You have done well, Mab, and the laird thanks you. Thank you all.” She stood up from the high board. “Come along, lasses. We have a full day’s work ahead of us.”

  “You will work with them?” The laird was surprised.

  “I am nobly born and nobly raised, Ian Douglas,” Cicely said. “But I was brought up in the household of Queen Joan of Navarre, who did not tolerate sloth or idleness. She believed that for a woman to direct her household she must know exactly how all that needed to be done was done. I will teach these lasses the proper way to keep your household so that when I return to Perth your home will not fall into slovenliness again.”

  “Ah, nephew, I see your lass is a stubborn girl,” the priest said softly, and he chuckled wickedly. It was a most unpriestly sound.

  “When that time comes, ladyfaire, you will not want to return to Perth,” the laird said, “for your heart will be mine, as mine is already yours.”