“When you come to Glengorm,” his sister answered venomously, “I will slay him myself, and his old mother, then blame the deaths upon the English raiders,” Bethia said. “And I will quit Glengorm, then, for the clanfolk have never really liked me. I will come home and keep house for you, brother.”
God forbid! Durwin Grahame thought to himself. I suppose I shall have to see you slain in that raid as well or live out my old age shackled to you. Nay! I intend bringing back some nubile young lass from Glengorm to warm my bed and keep my cottage. The little bitch might even give me a bairn or two. ’Tis past time I got myself a legitimate heir. Aye, I’ll not tolerate my sister any longer than I must. “The Scots king will go into the north eventually, Bethia. And all the good border lords will go with him and take the bulk of their own men, who defend their houses and keeps. By that time I will have rebuilt my own forces, and it is then, but not before then, that we shall attack Glengorm. You will have your revenge, sister. I told you not to wed with your Douglas, but you would not listen, Bethia. You thought he loved you, when all he sought was someone to care for his mam. You were fortunate to be able to insinuate yourself into the laird’s household, sister, else you would have been dead long since.”
“If I must wait, then I must wait,” Bethia said, irritated, but finally resigned. “I’ll cook your supper and stay the night. I don’t have time to return.”
“Won’t your man miss you?” Durwin asked.
“I told him Mab needed extra help at the house because of the queen’s visit, and had called on me because of my experience,” Bethia said.
“He believed you?” Durwin laughed.
“All he could think of was the coin I would receive for my services,” she answered her brother scornfully.
“And when you have no coin to give him?” he queried her.
“I will simply tell him the lady refused to pay me,” Bethia said. “He will not question me further, for I shall feign outrage. Nor will he go to the lady,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll be extra gentle and kind to his old mother, and cook his favorite supper. It’s unlikely he’ll beat me then. Especially if I see that he has enough drink to put him to sleep.”
“You’re just like our mam,” Durwin said. “A nasty piece of work, Bethia.”
Bethia cackled with appreciation, and then began to make preparations for her brother’s supper. Their mother had been a nasty piece of work. “Thank you,” she said to him. “You could not have given me a better compliment.”
The next morning, as soon as it was light, Bethia set out on her return journey to Glengorm. When her husband held out his hand for the coin she was supposed to have earned, she broke into a tirade. Her explanation had Callum Douglas satisfied, if irritated. He cuffed her once to show his displeasure with her, with the lady, and with the world in general.
The queen came into the village that afternoon, and charmed all of the clanfolk. One of the clansmen took her and Cicely out rowing upon Loch Beag, beag being the Scots word for little. The trees about the water were turning their autumn colors. Cicely’s two white terriers had accompanied them and, paws on the gunwales of the boat, they barked at anything that moved upon the shoreline.
“They be good watchdogs, for all their wee size,” the clansman rowing the boat noted dryly. Then he chuckled, for a fish leaped from the waters of the loch, sending the terriers into a frenzy of yapping. Cicely and the queen had to hold on to the dogs to keep them from leaping from their little vessel.
It was almost like old times for the two young women. Happy to be together, they hardly left each other’s side. The queen had put many a nose out of joint by leaving her women behind. Only her beloved elderly tiring woman, Bess, had accompanied her. Bess was spending her days either dozing in the hall by the fire or gossiping with Orva, while Cicely and the young queen amused themselves walking, playing cards, and talking for hours on end. The queen was concerned that she had birthed two daughters. While healthy and strong, neither was the desired prince and heir. And now, pregnant again, she feared another daughter would be born.
“They say it is my fault,” Joan Beaufort told Cicely. “But Jamie’s mother birthed four sisters and three sons, of which only he and his brother David reached adulthood. David was murdered by his uncle, the Duke of Albany. That is why Jamie was to be sent to France, for safety’s sake. His poor father realized too late the duplicity of his brother.”
“There is nothing for it but that you must keep having children until you give Scotland its prince,” Cicely replied. “That is your duty.”
“Your little Johanna is a beautiful baby,” the queen remarked. “Thank you for naming her after me, but why was I not her godmother?”
“I didn’t think the king would allow it, as he still felt anger towards Ian for abducting me when he planned to see me married into the Gordons,” Cicely answered. “Will you be godmother to the first child I bear Kier?”
“Are you enceinte?” the queen inquired, curious.
“Nay, we are not yet wed,” Cicely replied primly.
“But he’s certainly bedded you, hasn’t he? He doesn’t look like a man to take nay for an answer.”
“Once, but I have held him at bay ever since,” Cicely said with a smile. “He has the most amazing effect upon me, Jo. He kisses me, and I become absolutely wanton. It was not that way with Ian. I cared for Ian. I don’t even particularly like Kier Douglas.”
The queen laughed. “It is said that strong dislike often leads to love,” she told Cicely. “Perhaps without realizing it you are falling in love with him.”
“Never!” Cicely said vehemently. “I lust after him. Nothing more.” But Cicely was beginning to wonder if that was true. Could she love a man like Kier? A man who professed distain for her, who thought of her only as a means to his own immortality?
She considered the two Douglas men with whom she was or had been involved. Ian had loved her enough to risk offending James Stewart. For all his reckless behavior he had been honorable, a good man and a good laird. The Glengorm folk had adored him, and his own brother had been willing to die for him. And she had come to care for him. Not with the deep passion he held for her, she admitted to herself. But she had felt affection and respect for Ian Douglas. She knew now that she could have been happy spending her life with him. Why was it one always realized these things too late?
Kier, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. He was a hard man with a strong sense of duty to Clan Douglas. Perhaps it was his nature, or perhaps because of the circumstances of his birth he felt a need to excel, to please his father, to prove that he was as worthy as any. And yet his mother had been a Stewart, a lady. And his father’s wife had loved him as her own. Yet Sir William had not bothered to legitimate his eldest son. And whether he said it or not, that must have stung this proud man.
Especially considering that the wife he was about to take had been born under similar circumstances. While Cicely’s mother had not been noble, as Kier’s mother had been, her father had cared enough for her and the child she bore him to make Cicely’s birth a legitimate one. Could that fact alone cause Kier Douglas to despise her? Or would it not matter to him as long as she gave him the sons he required? Might they come to care for each other one day? But it didn’t matter if they did or they didn’t. In a few days’ time they would be wed to each other. Cicely sighed so deeply that the queen looked at her to see if all was well, but then, realizing her friend had obviously been in deep thought, Joan Beaufort said nothing.
Glengorm prepared for the wedding of its new laird to the widow of the previous laird. As the day that would mark the first anniversary of Ian Douglas’s death approached, Cicely found herself growing sadder. Once again the fact that this big, full-of-life man was gone reached out to touch her. How could such a thing have happened? But she knew the answer. The Grahames. The bloody Grahames. But she had sworn to her dying husband not to begin a feud. Ian had understood the futility of it. Still, given the opportunity to ha
ve her revenge upon them, she would have taken it.
Kier Douglas returned to Glengorm the day before the first-year commemoration would be celebrated. He would go to the Mass with Cicely, to be held at Glengorm Church on the morrow. The king would come on the sixteenth. That he had not returned with Kier to honor Ian Douglas told Cicely that James Stewart still held a grudge against the man who had boldly abducted her. It saddened her, but then, she knew the king was a hard man who would brook no disobedience to his will.
“Welcome home, my lord,” Cicely greeted Kier as he dismounted his horse.
The genuine warmth in her voice pleased him. “Thank you, madam,” he said with a smile. “All has been well while I have been gone?”
“Aye, my lord, all has been well.” She did not ask about the king. “Was all well at Ben Duff?” she inquired. “Will Maggie come with Lord Grey to our wedding?”
“Ben Duff’s lady told me to tell you she is looking forward to seeing both you and the queen,” Kier answered, surprised when she slipped her hand upon his arm while walking with him into the hall. He could not resist teasing her, saying, “You have missed me then, madam?” The blue eyes were twinkling as she looked up at him, startled by the query.
She paused, and then said, “Glengorm was quieter with your absence, my lord.”
He laughed aloud. “Indeed, madam, indeed.” He suddenly felt happier and more relaxed than he had in months. And she seemed less tense. His getting away with the king had obviously been good for both of them.
The following morning they walked together to Glengorm’s little church, where the clanfolk were already gathered. The queen came with them. Her presence would make up for the lack of the king this day. Father Ambrose said the Mass, and the homily he preached was as much an instruction to Kier and Cicely as it was a tribute to his two deceased nephews, for it dealt with the subject of duty to one’s king, clan, and self. Afterwards the queen praised Ambrose for his words, and the priest flushed with pride.
The king and his party arrived on the sixteenth. Cicely and the queen shrieked with surprise to see the big belly Maggie MacLeod was sporting. Maggie just grinned.
“Are you planning on having another bairn at Glengorm then?” Cicely teased her.
“Nay, nay.” Maggie laughed. “I’m not due until we are halfway through December, I promise. It’s another lad! I just know it!” Then she saw the look on Joan Beaufort’s pretty face. “Ohh, Highness, forgive me! I spoke thoughtlessly,” Maggie said, contrite. How could she have been so thoughtless? she asked herself.
“Nay, nay,” the queen reassured her. “It is all God’s will.” But as Maggie just knew the child she carried was a boy, so Joan Beaufort knew she was going to birth another girl. She had even decided to name this princess Mary. But she kept these thoughts to herself. Eventually she was certain she would birth a son for Scotland.
The men hunted grouse the next day, bringing home several braces of the birds, which were plucked, roasted, and served that very night. The mood in the hall that evening was very jovial, but they all retired early, for the wedding would be celebrated in the morning. The servants would be up early to sweep the hall and prepare for the day of festivities, when all the village would be invited into the house.
Cicely had asked to have her tub filled after the evening meal. Now she soaked contentedly in the warm water, washing her long auburn hair with soap she had made this past summer. It was scented with white heather. She rubbed the sliver of soap up and down a thick rope of hair, considering what she would wear on the morrow. It wasn’t that her wardrobe was so large, but she didn’t want to look completely out of fashion. Jo had told her little had changed in the years since she had been gone, which was a relief.
“Have you decided?” Orva asked her as she bustled about the bedchamber. “I need to know, if I am to see the gown is wrinkle free and brushed properly.”
Cicely sighed. She had worn lavender brocade when she had married Ian. She had not worn that gown since Ian’s death. Somehow the burnt orange didn’t seem right, nor the yellow, nor the green. Then she remembered a gown she had worn but once at court. It was cream-colored velvet with sleeves that were fitted to the elbow, then flared out wide. The edges of the gown were trimmed in dark brown marten. “The cream velvet,” she said to Orva. “Is it fit to wear?”
“I’ll have to alter the waist a wee bit,” Orva said. “You’ve thickened a bit in the waist since Johanna’s birth.”
“Blessed Mother, have I grown too plump for the gown? ’Tis barely worn, Orva.”
“It will need an extra inch if you are to feast and dance on the morrow,” Cicely’s tiring woman said. “You are almost nineteen, my lady, and have had one child.”
Cicely finished bathing, wrapping her long hair in a piece of toweling, stepping from her tub to dry herself with another length of towel. Orva handed her a clean chemise to sleep in, and Cicely went to sit by the fire with her hairbrush. She sat by the warm hearth, brushing out her long tresses until they were soft and dry.
Orva, having fetched the chosen garment from the trunk, now sat opposite Cicely, pulling out stitches at the waistline, resetting the fabric so that the gown’s midsection was a little bit larger. “Are you happy, my child?” Orva asked as she sewed with neat little stitches. “He is not Lord Ian, but he seems a good man.”
“I must put the past behind me,” Cicely told the older woman, “but I chide myself that I did not fully appreciate Ian’s love for me.”
Orva nodded in understanding. “Sometimes, my lady, we do not see clearly just what is before our eyes. Your first husband lies in the cold ground. Try to appreciate Lord Kier for who he is, and do not scorn him for who he is not.”
“But just who is he?” Cicely said. “One minute he is cold and hard. But the next he is passionate. I do not understand him at all, Orva. I knew exactly where I stood with Ian, though I did not appreciate it at the time. I do not understand my lord Kier.”
“You will.” Orva chuckled. “In the end women always unravel the puzzle of their men. Now, my lady, you had best get into bed and get some sleep. You will not sleep a great deal tomorrow night, I’m thinking. That man of yours looks like a fierce one.” She bent her head again to the gown upon which she sewed.
Cicely blushed at Orva’s words, but she followed her advice, climbing into her bed. Sleep, however, did not come to her easily, even after Orva had finished the gown and left her chamber. She thought of that passionate encounter with Kier several weeks back, and grew restless with the memory of the heated hours they had spent together. Fierce, Orva had said. ’Twas a good word for the man she would take as her husband on the morrow. She had been fortunate that that encounter had not resulted in her being impregnated. She had not wanted to be with child so soon after Johanna’s birth. But after tomorrow it would be expected that she have a child as quickly as possible. And not just any child: a son for Glengorm. Cicely finally drifted to sleep.
When she awoke she could just glimpse the gray light of predawn through a crack in her shutters. Her chamber was cold, as the fire in her hearth had been reduced to a bed of hot coals. Slipping from her bed, Cicely made her way across the icy floor and carefully added some wood to the coals. Within a few minutes the fire blazed up again. Relieving herself in the night jar, Cicely took the pitcher of lukewarm water from the coals, poured some into her ewer, and bathed her hands and face. Then, sitting down, she began to brush the tangles from her long hair.
Orva entered the bedchamber carrying a garment. “I am so sorry, my lady, but I overslept,” she apologized. “And on this day of all days, but the gown is ready.” She held it up. “You cannot tell I’ve altered it, and I’ve brushed it so that the velvet looks thick and luxuriant. The fur on the sleeves has kept well. Are you ready to be dressed?”
“Aye,” Cicely said. “Ambrose will oversee the signing of the marriage agreement in the hall, and then do the Mass, as he did before. He’ll bless our union at the last.”
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�I heard an arrival a few moments ago. I imagine it is Sir William,” Orva said. She slipped the gown over Cicely’s head.
“Aye, he’ll have left Drumlanrig and ridden with the border moon to light his way,” Cicely said as the fabric of the garment fell to the floor. She shook her hips to settle it. “Where is my gold girdle?”
“Here, my lady,” Orva said, holding up the wide band before slipping it about her mistress to rest on Cicely’s hips, where she fastened it. “Now,” Orva said, “let me get your mother’s gold chain and her rings for you to wear.” She sought for the pouch in which these valuables were stored and, finding it, gave the sack to Cicely.
The bride removed a few pieces of jewelry from the small bag: a gold chain and five rings, with which she now adorned herself. When she had wed Ian she had worn no jewelry, for the ceremony had been sudden and swift. There had been no true guests. But today Scotland’s king and queen would witness this new marriage. Cicely garbed herself not just for her bridegroom, but for their royal guests as well.
Sitting down, she gave her hair a final brush, then gathered it into her gold caul. No maiden now, she did not have to leave her hair unbound today. Then she slipped her feet into a pair of soft leather sollerets. Standing, she said to Orva, “I’m going to take the dogs out, for it is too early for the wedding, and no one will be in the hall but the servants and the men. I shan’t be long.”
“You’ll get your gown dirty,” Orva protested.
“No, I won’t,” Cicely promised, and then she was gone, the terriers at her heels. The hall was still quiet, although the servants bustled about. It would be another half an hour before the wedding began. Her last marriage had been in the winter—February, she thought as she went through the front door, the dogs racing ahead.
The day was beautiful. The sky was clear. Not a cloud marred its perfect color. The sun was just up, and it sparkled on the deep blue waters of the loch. The air was crisp, and the hillsides were bright with patches of color here and there. On the edge of the woodlands across the meadow was a small, fast-flowing stream. Cicely decided to walk to it. Ahead of her the dogs bounded along, yapping at anything that moved: a last butterfly, a fat bumblebee gathering what was left of a daisy’s pollen.
The Border Lord and the Lady Page 36
