Blaze Historicals Bundle II

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  Coming to the end, they parted ways. Fearghas couldn’t think why but suddenly he was moved to say, “Go with God, my daughter.”

  Looking up at him, she smiled her broken smile. “May Odin and Frigga speed you on your journey, priest.”

  6

  BY THE ADVENT of the first evening, Alys felt as though she’d survived a trial by fire and only narrowly. In the course of their first day’s journey, Alex’s complaining easily outstripped Alasdair’s. It was as if she had two babes in tow rather than one. Worried for Brianna, she wished to ride for a few more hours whilst they still had the light, but Alex wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted they stop for the night. In the end she relented but only because Alasdair needed to be changed and fed. It wasn’t until they’d dismounted in the inn yard that Alex announced he hadn’t any coin.

  “You’ve nay money!” Rocking a fussing Alasdair in her aching arms, she whirled on him. “Then why did you insist we stop?”

  Looping the reins over the tethering post, he slanted a sly look her way. “Don’t be coy with me, Alys. Contrary to what you seem to think of me, I am no fool. I saw the way the Scottish scum looked at you as though the sun rises and sets between your thighs. He wouldn’t have let you leave his stronghold penniless.”

  She dropped her gaze to Alasdair, glad he was as yet too young to comprehend his sire’s crudity. “You imagine things.”

  “Do I now?” Smiling, he strode over to her. “If that is so, you can always pay for our bed and board in other ways.” His reached out, his gloved fingers trailing the side of her face.

  Alys smacked his hand away, telling herself the remark was but tasteless teasing. So far as she knew, Alex was unaware of how she’d kept herself and their son. Sick abed in England, how could he know?

  “If need be, we will sleep in the barn and sup on fallen apples first.”

  Alasdair lifted his head from her breast. “Alasdair hung-ar-y. Hung-ar-y!” Tears spilled from his blue eyes onto his baby cheeks, the sight tearing at her heart.

  “Suit yourself.” Expression smug, Alex shrugged and walked away, toward the inn which was little bigger than a crofter’s thatched cottage.

  In the end, he won his way. Alys produced the purse. Standing within the sloped alcove, she meant to discreetly dole out the required coins once they’d negotiated the price. Before she could, Alex snatched the purse from her. He shook it, sending coins jingling.

  “That money belongs to me. It is to be used for Alasdair’s keeping.” She grabbed for the pouch, but he only laughed and held it higher.

  He cocked his head and regarded her as though she were a child to whom he must patiently explain things. “You forget yourself, Alys. You are my wife. Aside from the clothes on your back, nothing belongs to you.”

  Once she might have been chastened, but she was almost two years older than she’d been when he’d left. In many ways, she’d lived a lifetime since then. She opened her mouth to reply that she’d kept herself and her son in clothes and food without his help when the innkeepers, a husband and wife, came out to greet them. Catching sight of the plump purse being waved about, they exchanged bright-eyed glances. Minutes later, they were ushered into a low-ceiling room above the stairs, for which Alys was sure they greatly overpaid.

  Alex cost them dearly at dinner, too. Ignoring her imploring looks, he insisted on bespeaking the finest fare the inn had to offer. Again the couple exchanged jubilant glances. No doubt it was a long time since they’d hosted a guest so free with “his” coin.

  Weary and heartsick, Alys made do with bread and cheese. Hungry though she was, chewing and swallowing even that seemed an effort. Throughout the meal, Alex scarcely looked at her or their son, which suited her well enough. She fed Alasdair choice bits from the platter of roast pig Alex gorged himself upon and bespoke a cup of goat’s milk. Before long, her little boy’s eyelids drifted closed and his head sagged against her breast.

  Alex lifted the flagon of costly French Bordeaux he alone had drained and clanged it upon the table. “More wine and make it sharp.” Beneath his breath, he muttered, “Scots slattern.”

  Alys couldn’t be certain if he was speaking of the innkeeper’s wife or her, and she was far too weary and dispirited to care. She waited until the wife had collected the empty vessel and moved out of earshot before grabbing his goblet away.

  “Alex, what are you about?”

  Wine streamed down the puckered side of his scarred mouth. He levered one elbow upon the table and swayed toward her. “Why, being of good cheer on Christmastide. Is that some crime?”

  Reaching for patience, Alys answered, “That money must last us God alone knows how long. The journey to London will take weeks, and you still havena said what manner of employment you mean to pursue once we arrive.”

  He shrugged. “You never used to be such a shrew. Mind what a merry adventure we had when last we came north?”

  He reached for her hand but she snatched it away. “As I recall that merry adventure ended with me breeding and abandoned. We were children then. We’re grown now. We have a son to think of.”

  He slanted his heavy-lidded gaze toward Alasdair, thankfully sleeping in her arms. So far as she could tell, it was the first time he’d deigned to acknowledge their son since they’d set out that morning. Thinking of what a wonderful father Callum was, she felt the familiar lump lodge in her throat. Her lost love was Alasdair’s loss, as well.

  She slid off the backless bench to her feet, Alasdair in her arms. “I’m putting our son to bed and myself, as well.”

  His mottled face twisted. “I did not give you my leave.”

  “I didna ask for it.” She turned to go but not before picking up the purse he’d carelessly cast upon the table. They had been robbed blind enough for one night.

  On her way to the stairs, she intercepted the innkeeper’s wife returning with the replenished wine. “Good mistress, let that wine be the last you serve him unless you wish to do so freely.” She held up the purse.

  Predictably the woman’s expression went from glad to glum. She shuffled past Alys with far less spring in her step.

  Climbing the creaking wooden steps, Alys knew that beyond feeling weary and put out, she felt relieved. Alex’s drunkenness and squandering, disgusting as they were, had purchased her a night of peace. For this eve at least, she and Alasdair would sleep alone.

  Reaching their room, she bolted the door from within and laid Alasdair down in the center of the bed. He still had not awakened. The very picture of baby beauty with his mussed blond curls and sweetly curved features, he curled onto his side, suckling his thumb.

  Her heart squeezed in on itself as it was wont to do at such times. Before meeting Callum, Alasdair had been the center of her universe. Now that Callum was lost to her, so must her child become again. So long as she had her son, she would find the strength to go on. Too tired to bother with undressing, she laid herself down on the straw-stuffed mattress beside him, pulled the thin coverlet over them both, and snuggled him to her.

  She must have fallen asleep at once. She awakened to the cock’s crowing in the courtyard beneath her window. Cradled in the crook of her arm, Alasdair slept still. Her poor little lad must be exhausted. Given that they were the inn’s only guests, she left him to his rest and came downstairs. She wasn’t surprised to find Alex still slumped over the table. Lying facedown on the swine carcass, his sleeve sopping the spillage from the overturned wine goblet, he made a lamentable first morning’s sight.

  Alys sighed. She needed to find food so that Alasdair might break his fast but before she did, she would greatly benefit from splashing some water on her face. Catching the eye of the sallow-faced maid mopping around them, she bade the girl good morning and bespoke a bucket of washing water.

  Scowling, the maid continued to push the mop about the dusty boards. “Clean water’s a ducat.”

  “A ducat for a pail of water?” They must have sized her and Alex up for easy marks, indeed. Reining in her anno
yance, Alys thought for a moment. “Nay worries.” She walked over to the pail of brown water, grabbed hold of the handle, and carried it over to the table where Alex still snored.

  “Rise and shine.” She hoisted the pail and upturned it over Alex’s head.

  He came awake, sputtering and snorting. Cursing a blue streak, he shook himself, spraying droplets like a dog emerging from wading.

  Alys sighed heavily. She righted the empty bucket and walked outside to refill it from the well. Once they reached the ferry at Mallaig that would carry them from the mainland to Skye, they had another few hours’ ride at most. So long as they left within the hour, they might reach the MacLeod Castle whilst it was yet light.

  Still, it promised to be a long day.

  SHIVERING IN THE QUEUE outside his sister, Enid’s anchorage, Father Fearghas realized that his bossy senior sibling had become a most celebrated personage. Like the many others who’d come for an audience with the anchoress, he’d waited in the cold for the past hour. With each visitor who stepped up to her cell window, he’d hoped the visit would be shorter than the previous and each time he was disappointed. If anything, the time spent seemed to lengthen with each visitor received. Enid’s voice crackled above the collective whispering, weeping and shuffling feet. Even as a child, she’d been a notorious chatterbox. Apparently little had changed. She chatted and joked, dispensed advice and the occasional prayer as if she had all the time in the world while he stamped his feet to keep feeling in the toes.

  His turn finally came. He stepped up to the window and peered down. Enid’s wimpled face came into view, plumper than he remembered.

  Her small eyes lit. “Why Fergie, I havena seen you in donkey’s years.”

  He hated it when she called him Fergie.

  “What brings you here, little brother?”

  He hated it when she called him little brother.

  Minded of his mission, he put on a smile. “Does a brother need a reason to pay his own dear sister a Christmastide call?”

  The last time he’d visited was two years ago, the day she’d taken her final vows. Heading the processional from the church sanctuary, she’d approached the grim rituals of enclosure and entombment with all the gaiety of a bride. Now he understood why. Peering past her, he saw that along with the crucifix, narrow bed and altar of his memory, the cell was filled with books! Bookshelves lined all four walls, including the windowless one shared with the church. More books stood in stacks on the floor alongside a pile of parcels. Owing to two more windows, a squint through which she could receive communion and other offices of the church, and an attendant’s window through which food and linens and refuse were passed, the room was sunny, positively cheerful, the light perfect for reading. Fearghas experienced a startling and decidedly un-Christian stab of sibling envy. With people flocking to see her and hanging on her every word, no chores to do, and endless hours for reading, clever Enid had landed herself in the catbird seat.

  Her gaze narrowed. “I ken that look upon your face. It puts me in mind of when we were weans and you were forever after me to surrender my share of the Christmastide comfits.”

  Fearghas recalled the bullying being the other way around but rather than reprise their childhood hostilities, he admitted, “There is a matter on which I seek your help, a delicate matter for which I will require your complete discretion.”

  She smiled smugly. “I thought as much. Spill the barley, brother. I have supplicants still to receive. Only come closer. I canna hear you otherwise.”

  Fearghas hesitated. Fighting a frown, he got down on his knees, stiff from decades of genuflecting. Not wanting to be eavesdropped upon, he glanced back over his shoulder. The zigzagging line had grown like a dragon’s tail. For the first time he noticed what he had not before. Everyone who waited seemed to be holding some item of wrapped food. That’s when it struck him.

  Enid was exacting payment for her prayers!

  Fuming, he turned back to her. “You should be ashamed of yourself, using prayers to prey upon people and put up your pantry. Along with your Anchoress’s Rule of Life, you would do well to mind the vows you took before it, notably poverty!”

  Rather than repent, Enid rolled her eyes. “Och, Fergie, you always were a spoiler. If you’ve come to piddle on my pageant, then be on your way. But before you go, what have you brought me?”

  Minded of his own vows, humility especially, he reached inside his cloak for the pouch he’d all but forgotten. “Marzipan. The Fraser employs a verra fine confectioner.” Grudgingly he slid it through the bars.

  “I do love a good marzipan.” A short-fingered hand snatched the gift inside. She pulled on the cord, dug a hand inside the pouch and popped several of the sweets into her mouth. Chomping, she asked, “So what is the nature of this ‘delicate matter’ that you must journey all this way to put it to me?”

  Holding his voice to a high whisper, he recounted what had taken place in the Fraser’s great hall on Christmas Day. Finishing, he admitted, “I’d hoped there might be some irregularity in the proceedings, some fluke that might render the marriage invalid or at least provide a case for having it annulled.”

  “Aye, I do remember it, for ’twas just before my enclosure.” She set the empty bag aside and sucked the sugar from her fingers. “Sorry to disappoint, little brother, but if we’re minded of the same couple, they were wedded proper. An Outlander, fair-faced and fair-haired with a soldier’s bearing. The bride was Scots, though, only judging from her speech, a Lowlander.”

  Fearghas’s heart sank like a millstone. After parting ways with Milread, he’d spent most of the remaining night on his knees praying for a Christmas miracle. He’d had such hopes that such a marvel might materialize. It had taken but one sentence from his sister to dash those hopes upon the frozen ground.

  He was about to rise and bid Enid goodbye when she added, “I wouldna say she was fair. On the bony side, if you ask me.”

  Fearghas hesitated. Enid’s kirtle’s stretching tight across her broad girth spoke to her fondness for food. What she considered bony might well be a normal female physique.

  “The Lady Alys is petite and slender, but I wouldna say she is bony.” He waited, scarcely daring to breathe.

  Enid shrugged. “In truth, it was the plucked forehead and painted face I couldn’t abide. I ken ’tis the fashion and yet too many women these days follow it to the extreme and spoil their natural looks.”

  He hesitated again. “I am of course no expert in these matters, but I do not believe the Lady Alys applies cosmetics of any kind. But then a face as fair and fresh as hers needs no artifice.”

  “Fair and fresh?” Enid chortled. “I may have given up life outside these cell walls but you, brother, must be giving up sight. The bride I saw was more in the way of youngish than young, as a head of boiled cabbage might be compared to a salad of tender greens if you ken my meaning.”

  Suspicion tickled the corners of his mind, ushering in a cautious hope. “I begin to wonder if we are speaking of the same lady. Tell me, was the marriage recorded, the names and date entered into the parish book?”

  “Of course, I’ll have you know this is a very proper parish. Births, baptisms, weddings and deaths are always recorded.”

  “Do you think I might have a look for myself?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t see why not. I can speak to the priest, Father Seumas, on your behalf. He is a great friend of mine.”

  Fearghas hadn’t expected her to come around so easily, without any bartering whatsoever. Watching her step down from her stool and waddle over to the attendant’s window, he felt a niggling guilt, wondering if mayhap he’d been over-harsh in judgment.

  Three sharp raps brought the little novice nun hopping to attention. He couldn’t make out their hushed voices but a minute or two later, Enid returned.

  “Sister Cynthia will take you to see the priest after vespers.” She passed a folded sheet of foolscap through the window bars.

  “Thank you.”
He took the paper. “What is this?”

  “My marketing list. You should have sufficient time to go into town and fetch me my things before your interview.”

  He unfolded the paper and perused the long list of items. Lifting his gaze, he glared down at her. “Do you never do anything for the sheer goodness of it?”

  She snorted. “Do you?”

  He drew back, offended. “I am a man of the cloth. The immortal souls of a laird and his entire household are daily entrusted to my care. Unlike yours, my word is beyond question, my behavior beyond reproach. Why, even the purity of my spirit touches on the sublime.”

  She rolled her eyes and jerked her head to indicate the world beyond him. “Look about you to all those people still waiting. Some of them come for prayers, some for advice, and still others to pass the time of day with someone with whom they can talk. But in the main, every man, woman and child standing in that queue comes here for hope. If a slab of bacon or a loaf of sugar buys them the hope to go on another day, do you nay ken the bargain well met? Everyone needs a little hope, Fergie. Did you not come here seeking it yourself?”

  She burst out laughing, the cackling putting him in mind of Milread. Mayhap the crone had the right of it after all. Christian or Pagan, follower of the One True God or a diaspora of deities, people weren’t so very different after all.

  “I SEE NOW why gluttony is accounted one of the Seven Deadly Sins,” Brianna said the following morning, pulling a face. “I hope to never look upon another gooseberry tart again. I feel so verra foolish for causing such a hubbub.”

  The MacLeod lay atop the massive four-poster bed propped against banked pillows, her belly making a mountain of the covers, the christening smock she’d given up on embroidering abandoned in her lap. “The pains cut so sharp, I was sure the bairn must be early.”

  Alys looked up from the shirt she was stitching for Brianna’s babe. Thanks to Callum’s generosity, her own son didn’t need more clothing or indeed more of anything. She, however, desperately needed to keep busy.