by Mary Wine
“We are grateful for your hospitality.”
Joan Beaufort was English, and her words carried an unmistakable tone from her native country. There was also a regal edge to the way she swept inside the abbey and stopped when there was nothing but darkness to greet her.
“Are there not candles in this abbey?” she asked quietly, almost as if she didn’t care for the night like a child who had yet to grow past her fear of the shadows.
Deirdre closed the door and lifted the bar up and into the slots that would keep it secure. She turned to find the queen of Scotland watching her. Although Deirdre had never met the woman, her name was well-known, for prayers were offered every day for the king and his mother. Quinton Cameron’s visit also confirmed that the fair-faced woman was in fact the cousin of the king of England and the mother of the king of Scotland. It was slightly amazing to see her standing with only two handmaidens.
Joan looked about. “There must be candles.”
“We are very careful when using anything, for nothing belongs to the inhabitants of this order, Yer Majesty.”
Deirdre began to lower herself, an action she did without thought, because she had been taught to offer deference to her parents and other nobles from the time she could walk.
“Do not.” Joan Beaufort hissed. “How did you know me? Have you come to court? That is odd, when you were promised to the church.”
The queen obviously wasn’t accustomed to allowing others to speak until she was finished with her thought. She finally stopped and looked toward Deirdre to answer her questions.
“I was nae promised to the church, Yer Ma—madam.” The queen made a motion with her hand.
“But you are here.” Joan pointed to her undyed robes, the garments of piety that nuns wore to shun earthly vanity.
Deirdre felt her temper rise as she recalled the reason she was at the abbey. Her anger was still too hot, just as Kaie had told her it was. But she refused to lie about what she had done. She had gone to Melor Douglas willingly and eagerly.
“My father sent me here for disgracing him by taking a lover. I have taken no vows, and the order will hear none from me.”
The queen’s ladies shook their heads, one of them clicking her tongue in reprimand. Deirdre held her chin steady.
“Enough.” Joan raised her hand to silence her escort. “Do not be so dim-witted. This might be exactly what I seek.”
The two women with the queen looked at her with confusion showing on their faces. Deirdre felt her own forehead creasing too as she walked toward the table where a single candle stood in a wooden holder. She grabbed a handful of her skirts and swept them aside as she knelt next to the hearth. The coals were still hot enough to bring life to the wick, and the flame cast a warm glow around her as she rose and placed it back in its holder.
Deirdre jerked when she discovered the queen so close to her. The woman studied her with the help of the candlelight.
“You favor me in many ways,” Joan announced suddenly. Her two ladies stepped closer and scrutinized Deirdre in response. One of them began to smile.
“Ye are correct, my lady.” The one who had spoken reached out and pushed the edge of Deirdre’s head covering back so they might see her hair.
“Excuse me, Yer—madam, but what are ye about?” Deirdre yanked her head veil forward and then frowned when she realized how quick she was to hide something she had sworn not to feel shame over. It was only hair, and she wasn’t a bride of Christ, so there was no reason she should jump to defend her modesty. With a soft snort, she shoved the head covering completely over the top of her head until it drooped down about her neck.
“You are not repentant.” The queen wasn’t asking her a question; she was making a firm statement.
“I am sorry the man I trusted with my heart was only lying to me to strike at my betrothed, but that is the only thing I regret. He promised to wed me or I would never have gone to him.”
Deirdre expected her bluntness to shock the queen. Instead, Joan Beaufort slowly smiled. She reached out and fingered a lock of Deirdre’s hair. “Many a woman has loved a man who was unworthy of her tender affections.” She paused for a moment. “We have the same shade of blonde hair too—how fortunate.”
The last two words were spoken in a soft tone of awe, or maybe it was satisfaction. Deirdre felt a shiver shoot down her back, and it woke a memory of the way Melor had sounded when he informed her of the fact that he wasn’t going to wed her as he’d promised.
“What are ye seeking beyond shelter, Yer Maje—” Deirdre simply shut her mouth on the second part of the word. The queen frowned but looked about the room before answering.
“I need your assistance.” She said. “What is your name?”
“Deirdre Chattan. My father is Laird Chattan.”
The queen’s ladies’ faces brightened. One of them clasped her hands together. “An excellent bit of luck. If ye’re the daughter of a laird, even a Highlander, ye will have some sort of education in finer manners.”
“I’m proud to be the daughter of a Highlander.” Deirdre didn’t care if her tone was too sharp for the noble station of the women standing in front of her. Those who attended court liked to think of themselves as more civilized than the Highlanders, but she would have none of it.
The queen waved her hand to dispel the tension in the air. “Of course you are, I’d not be interested in asking anything of any daughter who didn’t hold her head high when she spoke of her kin.”
There was a note of compassion in Joan’s voice that softened Deirdre’s displeasure. “I am quite confused… ladies. The assistance ye seek here is offered to any who knock on the door.”
The queen stepped closer. “But I seek something quite different than anything a bride of Christ might offer me.” She reached forward and took Deirdre’s hand, clasping it between her own, which were chilled from the night air. She aimed eyes full of apprehension toward her. “There are many seeking me—men intent on imprisoning me for their own gain.”
“Laird Cameron was here today, and he had his men search the abbey from top to bottom.”
All three women drew in horrified gasps. The queen’s grip tightened until it was painful. Deirdre pulled her hand free.
Joan looked stunned that she had moved without permission. She shook it off quickly.
“Forgive me, but as I said, there are many seeking me who would see me set behind stone walls and denied my freedom.”
“Ye are the…” Deirdre stopped and searched for another word to use. Joan did not allow her time to think.
“A fact which makes men crave locking me away for the power it shall give them.” The queen looked furious, her fair features darkening with her temper. “I want to be happy, Deirdre Chattan. If you chose a lover and risked your future to embrace him, you must understand how I feel. I want to wed again, and I’ve run away, but there are too many seeking me. We have been hiding for days to avoid being captured.”
Deirdre felt shock run down her spine. The queen’s marrying again would indeed be cause for alarm among the Douglas clan as well as a few others. She had shared her husband’s crown, and any further children she birthed would be considered by England to have a claim to the Scottish throne. Her son, James II, was the only son she had given her late husband, and he was a boy too young to wed.
“Archibald Douglas would see me withering away while he controls my son, and Alexander Livingston is no better. That man kept me locked up for months.”
The queen began pacing, agitation fueling her rapid steps.
“But is there a man who can safeguard ye?” Deirdre asked. “There is little point in running if ye do nae have a place to go.”
Joan turned toward her and smiled. It was radiant one, which brightened her features, exposing how very beautiful she was.
“Oh yes, there is such a man. I’ve permission from the pope to wed him. I desire so much to be with him. It seems so very long since my James was murdered.” She held out her hands.
“I implore you, Deirdre Chattan. Help me meet with my bridegroom.”
Temptation nipped at her. Deirdre tried to ponder the wisdom of following her impulses, but there was no controlling the urge to answer the plea she witnessed shimmering in the queen’s eyes. For a moment, Joan was simply another woman who wanted to be loved.
That was a yearning Deirdre suffered the harsh burn of every night she lay in a narrow bed which was devoid of any human touch. She understood what it was like to be forced to be alone, because Melor had stolen any future happiness from her and condemned her to a cold future with his need to strike out at Connor Lindsey through her.
Yes, she understood the pain of being used because of who she was connected to.
“How would I help ye do that?”
Joan’s smile became one of satisfaction and cunning. “By riding off at first light dressed as me. Those hunting me might be distracted and follow you.” The queen sighed. “I am asking much, I know. But you tell me of the reason why you are here so plainly that I suspect you of having the courage to test yourself against the odds. To take your fortune into your own hands in spite of all those who warn you to keep your eyes lowered and stay in the place they tell you is yours. I’ve committed sins, but I have loved, and it was worth it.”
Joan stopped and drew in a deep breath. “If you are content here, forgive me for asking, but I am desperate to join the man I want to wed.”
Deirdre’s thoughts raced faster than a river in spring. Excitement surged through her at just the idea of feeling a horse beneath her while she let the animal take her across the hills fast enough to feel the wind burning her cheeks.
But there would be no returning to the abbey. Falling from grace once might be forgiven with enough penitence. Any further deviations from the path of righteousness might see her barred from the holy house out of fear she’d poison the others with her wicked ways.
Joan stepped forward, reaching out to clasp her hand once again. This time the queen stroked the back of it with slow, soothing motions.
“I would not forget your service to me. Help me reach the man I shall wed, and you will never long for a place to call your own. I swear it.”
Joan’s hand was smooth compared to hers. Deirdre felt every rough patch of skin as the queen’s fingers gently moved over the top of her hand. Every cut and sore spot made itself known, while her back suddenly complained bitterly about how many hours she had been bent over in her quest to endure what was being demanded of her.
But that wasn’t the true reason she began to nod with agreement. It was the memory of Melor Douglas, the man she had fallen in love with, sneering at her. He’d shown her first what it was like to be looked upon as worthless. Her pride had carried her away from him and his demand that she be his whore because she had already given him her purity.
She’d loved him, in a foolish manner, but it had been affection that sent her into his arms and the promise that he would seek her father’s permission to wed her. She’d been stupid to give him her virginity before she saw him shake her father’s hand, but there was still part of her that wasn’t sorry she had found the courage to embrace the man she had chosen. Joan was correct. Deirdre was bold enough to face the unknown, if the reason was something she could believe in.
“I will help ye.”
There was solid conviction edging each word, because she might own nothing, but she had her pride. The narrow cot waiting in the dark offered nothing but an icy future full of others condemning her for her choices. She suddenly realized she resented the fact that Kaie had been allowed to embrace her love for God, while she was being berated for love. Kaie had defied tradition and the match their laird father arranged for her as well, yet Kaie had respect. She’d take her chances with the opportunity at hand. After all, she was a Highlander.
Deirdre nodded again. “Indeed I shall assist ye. I hope ye keep yer word, for it will cost me my place here, and my father has already given the church my dowry.”
The queen beamed at her. “You shall not regret it. If you are caught, no one will keep you, for you are not me. I have not told you who I plan to wed, so there shall be no need for them to keep you long.”
“How will ye keep yer word to me, if I do nae know where to seek ye?” It was a bold question, one that slightly shocked the queen. Obviously, the members of her court took her word without any questions. But she was fleeing from that position, and she wouldn’t have any influence at court if she married without Archibald Douglas’s consent. The man was the lieutenant general and ran the country while James II was still a boy. Joan Beaufort might be the king’s mother, but she was also English, and there were many in Scotland who didn’t want her influencing her son. There were even more who considered the young king past the age of female coddling, at nine years old. Deirdre felt herself sympathizing with the woman, because she knew what it felt like to be told she was worthless in the eyes of the men who surrounded her. It was a sting that burned even on the coldest nights.
“Yes, that is a good thing to ask.” The queen considered it for a long moment. “Once I have wed, the news will spread quickly, and you shall be welcome at my husband’s castle. I give you my word. You may seek me out, and you will have your reward in coin or as a position among my ladies.”
It was a good offer, to serve such a high noble would bring an alliance to the Chattan, one that would help erase the shame she had cast on her father’s name. It wouldn’t wipe it completely away, but Deirdre discovered her thoughts returning to what she had pondered during the daylight hours.
Choice.
It sat shimmering in front of her. All she had to do was grip her courage and step forward.
“It’s an agreement.” Deirdre succeeded in not muttering “Yer Majesty” after her words. She felt rather awkward not giving the woman the respect due her station, for those manners had been instilled in her early. Society needed its rules, or there would be savagery such as the Vikings had brought with their raids a couple of centuries past.
The ladies serving as the queen’s escort clasped their hands with excitement, their eyes shimmering in the light of the candle. They clustered about their mistress, drawing her away from Deirdre as they began to whisper.
Deirdre walked over to the bucket and looked down at the small patch of floor she had not washed. The rag was still sitting on the stone, and she smiled at it, relief flooding her in a wave so large that she felt as though her knees might give way. She suddenly realized how heavy her burden had been for the past year. It felt as though a yoke was being lifted away.
Kaie had been correct. She had been angry too long. There was suddenly a future full of possibilities. The only tarnish was that she would have to trust the queen to keep her word and not forget her. That set her to worrying once more, for she had not trusted anyone since Melor had revealed his true intentions. Her instincts told her to refuse to place her faith in any person, for any reason, but the cold water sitting so quietly in the bucket for her to return to sickened her more.
She was not lazy, but she was weary of being shunned. Her life at the abbey promised her nothing but more of the same until the day she breathed her last. There was uncertainty in trusting the queen, but she was a woman seeking the man she loved, and that was something Deirdre understood. The queen was giving up much to have her choice of what her future might be.
Deirdre wanted that choice too. It burned inside her belly, refusing to be quieted even as Deirdre thought of her sister Kaie. She doubted her sibling would be pleased to discover her going with the queen. Deirdre suddenly stiffened as she considered the possibility of failure. If the queen was captured and returned to court, there would be no reward for her. Only more shame when she was forced to seek shelter from the abbey once again or turn whore to feed herself. A lump tried to clog her throat, but she forced it down. She refused to turn coward. Even if the queen’s plan failed, Deirdre decided that she wanted to try, not lie in her bed fearing the unknown.
“We sh
all have to leave now, else the sisters will stop me from going with ye.”
The queen turned to look at her, lifting one hand to silence her ladies. Deirdre stepped forward and watched their eyes narrow slightly as she invaded their circle.
Deirdre kept her chin level, returning all their stares with a steady confidence that earned her a grudging acceptance.
“There is also the fact that ye do no’ want the sisters to know ye are here at all. I told ye that Laird Cameron was here looking for ye.”
The queen hissed, “That one is the least of my worries, at least I do not think he wishes to imprison me.”
“But ye are nae sure?” Deirdre asked, disliking the feeling that invaded her belly. Part of her didn’t care to think of Quinton as a man who would use a woman to gain the power he sought. She honestly shouldn’t have a care for the man one way or the other, but the feeling persisted.
“I trust no laird in Scotland, and one who is a noble even less. Quinton Cameron is known to have different opinions than Archibald Douglas. They argue often, but men have a habit of sticking together when it benefits them.” Joan was speaking as she thought, not pausing to consider her words at all. “He is an earl, and that might make him stand beside Archibald in wanting to make sure I have no more children.”
It was a possibility that could not be overlooked.
“Well then, I suggest we leave now, before anyone awakens. Once ye are discovered here, anyone who comes searching for ye will know where ye were last,” Deirdre said. “Besides, it will be much simpler to leave this abbey under the cover of darkness than by first light.”
Joan appeared unsure. She looked toward the doors and shivered. “I do not care for the night.”
One of her ladies reached out to comfort her. Deirdre watched the way the attendants gently tried to soothe their lady. Attending the woman would take a measure of patience, for she had never been one to hold back her words, even when they were not what anyone wanted to hear. But the memory of Quinton Cameron ordering his men into the abbey against tradition and church policy stiffened her resolve.
