Just Beyond Tomorrow

by Bertrice Small

  “At Glenkirk there is wealth enough to pave any child’s way,” he explained to her. “The two youngest of the Leslie sons share an estate in Ireland. Only Patrick was left home. Your husband is a rich man, Flanna. Didn’t you know that?”

  She shook her head. “I know he has lands aplenty and the castle is in good repair. Is there more?”

  Charlie nodded. “Ask Patrick. He will tell you.”

  “Are we going to the coronation tomorrow?” she asked him.

  The not-so-royal Stuart thought a moment. He was going, but Flanna? Then he laughed. “Aye, we are going,” he said, “but we shall have to find you a gown, lassie, for you cannot go into the kirk at Scone in your trews. When Annie comes to get the tray, I’ll ask her.”

  The innkeeper’s daughter was delighted to be of help to the Duchess of Glenkirk. “I can loan ye the gown I wear to the kirk,” she said proudly. “ ’Tis very fine, and my da says much too fancy for a lass like me. It has a linen collar edged in lace. Let me take the tray away, and I’ll fetch it for ye, m’lady.”

  Annie’s garment was, to Charlie’s surprise, quite acceptable, if plain. Both the bodice and the skirt were made from black silk. While Flanna’s bosom was a trifle more ample than Annie’s, the rest of the gown fit perfectly. It was a modest gown, and his sister-in-law would not attract any undue attention in it, Charlie thought, relieved. Both he and Flanna thanked the girl, Flanna promising to be very careful with Annie’s best.

  The first of January dawned gray and cold. Charlie and Flanna arose, ate their porridge, and then joined the crowds riding across the river to the cathedral at Scone. While called a cathedral, it was in reality no more than a small church. The Scots nobles did their best to keep the English nobles from the coronation ceremony. Neither side particularly cared for the other, and each jealously coveted the king for themselves. Then, too, there was the matter of religion dividing the two sides. The Scot kirk abhorred the Anglican communion with its more Catholic rites and rituals. They particularly disliked the bishops. Bishops had been excluded from the kirk in Scotland.

  Charlie, however, found himself in a rather interesting position, for he was liked and accepted by both sides. He had been among the first of the English nobles to make his penance in sackcloth and ashes within the Scots kirk. An Anglican, he was willing for the sake of his royal cousin to give up his church as long as it was necessary. No one, after all, was asking him to give up the Lord Jesus. He remembered his great-grandmother who was so fond of quoting the great Elizabeth. There is but one Lord Jesus Christ. The rest is all trifles. The logic made perfect sense and allowed Charlie to do what he had to do so he might be there for Royal Charles.

  Charles Frederick Stuart looked like his father, and there were many within the crowd who remembered Prince Henry. His not-so-royal son, however, had lived a good deal longer than Henry Stuart. Still, the amber eyes, the facial features and his stance were all recognizable as Stuart. The only difference between Charlie and his father was the color of their hair. Prince Henry had been blond like his Danish mother. Charlie’s hair was the traditional deep Stuart auburn.

  Arriving at the little church, they dismounted. The crowds parted for the not-so-royal Stuart and the lady he was escorting. The common folk murmured among themselves that this man might have been their king but for an accident of birth. Some reached out to touch him. Charlie smiled warmly and nodded, stretching out his hands to clasp the hands offered him.

  “God bless, Yer Worship!” an old woman said, kissing his hand.

  “God bless our King Charles, grandmother,” Charlie replied, and the crowd within the sound of his voice cheered.

  They entered the small church, standing in the back, for it would have been impossible to move forward, and Charlie had no part in the ceremony. A platform some six feet in height had been constructed so all might see the crowning of the king upon his throne. The rituals to be performed were set within the context of the new kirk and had been approved by the Assembly of the kirk. The royal procession entered the small church, and Charlie managed to catch his kingly cousin’s eye briefly. The royal nodded just imperceptibly. The crown of pearls, the gilt spurs, and the sword of the state were all carried by nobles strongly associated with the Covenanters’ cause. Only the Earl Marischal, a royalist, was allowed to perform a long-time family duty of escorting the king.

  Once more Charles II enthusiastically endorsed the principle of the Covenants and declared them sacred. Those gathered to see him crowned were impressed by his zeal. Charlie, however, smiled to himself. The kirk did not have quite the hold on the government as they had previously had. His royal cousin was doing what he needed to do in order to be crowned. It would be quite a different thing when the king finally gained firm control of his government. In the meantime he played his part, a talent at which the Stuarts were particularly good. Finally the crown was placed upon His Majesty’s dark head. Cheers erupted.

  Flanna had been openmouthed and wide-eyed through it all. She had never when she followed after her brother-in-law anticipated seeing the coronation itself. What a tale she would have to tell her children and her grandchildren one day. She could not wait to share this day with Patrick. Oh, if only he were not so obdurate about the king.

  “I’m taking you back to the inn,” Charlie murmured to her as they exited the church at Scone. “You begin your return journey tomorrow, and you are still, I can see, exhausted from the first trip, Flanna. I will send a note to my brother explaining everything, and accepting the blame for you following after me.”

  “Why should ye accept culpability for my actions?” Flanna asked him. “I did what I did because I wanted to do it, Charlie.”

  “I know,” Charlie chuckled as he boosted her into Glaise’s saddle, “but knowing my brother better than you do, I suspect that it is best he not realize quite yet how headstrong you can be.” He mounted his own beast.

  “If Patrick persists in believing there is some bad fortune between his family and the king’s, I canna dissuade him,” Flanna said. “But I dinna hae to behave as foolishly as he does. I hae given my word to the king that I will raise a levy for him. ’Tis nae my habit to gie a promise lightly, or to break it if I do.”

  Charlie said nothing more. It was, he knew, useless. He would warn his brother to be wary of Flanna’s motives and actions. Then it was up to Patrick to control his wife. He returned Flanna to the Crown and Thistle, saying as he lifted her from her mount, “I must return to the king now. I will see you either later this evening or come the morning before you begin your journey back to Glenkirk. Try to behave, Flanna. Remember that your first loyalty is to your husband, and to Glenkirk, which needs an heir, lassie.”

  He did not see her stick out her tongue at him as he rode off again.

  Chapter 10

  Flanna returned the gown to Annie, asking, “Hae ye seen my nephew about? The lad I rode in wi’ yesterday.”

  “He was wi’ the duke’s men, m’lady,” Annie replied. “Do ye want me to fetch him to ye?”

  “Nay,” Flanna said. “I just wanted to know where he was. My brother would be angry wi’ me if the lad were harmed or got into mischief. Worse, Fingal’s mam would hae the hide off of me.”

  Annie chuckled. “I understand. Me mam is fierce where her lads are concerned. Shall I bring ye something to eat, m’lady?”

  Flanna nodded. “There were nae women asked to the king’s feast,” she explained.

  “Was the coronation grand?” Annie asked, curious.

  Flanna nodded. “And verra long,” she told the innkeeper’s daughter. “The preacher chosen to speak went on and on and on. He didna think highly of the Royal Stuarts, for he said terrible things about them. He called them godless and fornicators. From all he said, and if it were true, I’m surprised they let our king back into Scotland at all,” Flanna observed.

  Annie giggled. “Me da says they’re a bunch of sour old psalm singers who would squeeze all the joy out of life if they could. But d
inna say I said it, for we could get in trouble.” She curtsied. “I’ll fetch ye something nice, m’lady.” Then she hurried out with her gown.

  When she returned, she carried a tray containing a breast of capon, a small loaf of fresh bread, a crock of butter, a dish of cherry jam, and a generous wedge of hard yellow cheese. She set the tray down.

  “Will ye hae wine or ale, m’lady?” she asked Flanna.

  “Ale,” Flanna told her.

  “I’ll fetch a pitcher,” Annie responded, and was gone again to return a few minutes later. She set the container on a sideboard.

  “Just shout out if you need me again, m’lady,” Annie said, and she curtsied again before disappearing out the door.

  Flanna sat down and devoured the food the girl had brought. In the streets outside, and in the inn itself, she could hear the celebration for the king’s crowning going on despite the cold winter weather. She sat by the fire, full and warm, and was suddenly aware of how tired she really was. She had never undertaken such a journey as the one to Perth. She had been concerned the entire way that Charlie would catch her and send her right back. She had not slept well in the stables in which they had sheltered. The food had not agreed with her. And all the time she had fretted that Patrick might realize she had not gone to Killiecairn and come after her before she could attain her goal.

  But she had achieved her objective. She had met the king, and she had received his kind blessing to raise troops. And raise a levy she would! She would be Flanna Leslie of Glenkirk who had done her duty in grand style for Charles Stuart, the second king of his name. Her portrait would be painted to hang in the family gallery, and future generations would speak reverently of her as they did of Janet Leslie, and Catriona Leslie, and Jasmine Leslie. And the king would reward the Leslies of Glenkirk, and Patrick would see that all his mother’s nonsense about misfortunes between the two families was nothing but foolishness. She drew the quilt she was using for a house gown about her shoulders. Her eyes were growing heavy with her exhaustion and her full belly. Flanna fell asleep in her chair, the soothing crackle of the fire her lullaby.

  The night came, and she slumbered on comfortably in place by the warm hearth. She did not hear the door to the chamber open or the footsteps as they came across the floor. The king stood quietly looking down at the sleeping woman. She was beautiful, he thought again. One of the loveliest women he had ever seen. What a pity what passed for a royal Scottish court today had no room for such delicious armfuls as the luscious Duchess of Glenkirk. Removing his plumed hat and his fur-lined cape, the king set them aside.

  The banquet celebrating his coronation was over, and his sour-faced keepers lay in their beds. He had been allowed to remain with his friends, an unusual privilege on the part of his Scottish keepers, who considered the king’s English friends a very bad influence. They were, after all, Anglicans and Roman Catholics, who were, of course, to be avoided at all costs. The king smiled to himself. His keepers were not very clever, however, and many of his compatriots had donned sackcloth and ashes, accepted the Covenants, and done their public penance in order to remain with Charles Stuart. Some of the greatest names in England had humbled themselves for their king.

  He had left them drinking and talking together. Planning his eventual return to England. But the king had decided to celebrate his ascension to Scotland’s throne in a different manner. He gazed down at Flanna Leslie. It had been some time since he had indulged himself in a delicious seduction, and the Duchess of Glenkirk was ripe for it. Patriotic. Naïve. And utterly adorable. His tongue swept over his fleshy lips in anticipation. Charlie had said he was sending her home tomorrow, but the king had other plans for the lovely young woman.

  Bending, he quickly picked her up in his arms and then resettled himself in the chair by the fire. She murmured softly and slowly opened her silver eyes. The beautiful eyes focused, then widened with shock as she recognized the king. She struggled to sit up, but he held her firmly in his embrace. “You are the fairest thing I have seen in Scotland so far, Flanna Leslie. I doubt there is anyone, or anything, to compare with you,” he murmured in his rich, musical voice. The amber eyes were devouring her face.

  “Yer Majesty!” Flanna’s voice squeaked, and she attempted again to rise from his lap.

  “Let me hold you, sweetheart,” he pleaded prettily with her. “It has been so long since I have known any tenderness. I have spent months and months running from my enemies. I have been poor and seen my mother, a French princess, struggling to survive, to care for my wee sister, Henriette. My entire family has suffered, Flanna Leslie. Now, today, I am King of Scotland, but I am a lonely king. Do not forbid me your company, sweetheart, I beg you!”

  “I am pleased to offer ye my company, Yer Majesty,” Flanna said, “but such close proximity to a man other than my husband is nae right, nor is it proper, and Yer Majesty well knows it. I am a country lass, but I am nae a fool.”

  The king laughed, genuinely amused. This was not going to be as simple as he had anticipated. “I want to make love to you,” he said candidly to her. “Surely you will not deny your king, Flanna Leslie.”

  Flanna squirmed to escape his embrace. “I am a married woman, Yer Majesty,” she told him firmly. “I dinna choose to betray my husband or bring shame upon Glenkirk wi’ wanton behavior. Please let me go!”

  “Very well,” he said, his voice sounding most regretful, “but will you not give me a wee kiss first?” He smiled winningly at her. “A kiss of peace between us to show me you are not offended that I am besotted by your beauty and was driven to rash actions.”

  “One kiss?” she queried him, looking closely at him.

  He nodded. What a delightful innocent. She obviously did not know how one kiss could lead to far more pleasant pleasures.

  “Verra well. One kiss,” she told him, and closing her eyes, she pursed her lips at him.

  The king’s mouth closed over hers. He kissed her deeply, setting her senses to reeling as his lips teased, and taunted, and tempted her onward. His mouth never left hers, but his hands began to caress her beneath her quilt, finding the opening to her chemise and sliding through to brush across her silken skin. He fondled her breast, his fingers pinching the nipple. His lips never released her even as she now struggled in his arms. She was fragrant with the scent of some elusive perfume he could not quite identify. He felt his manhood tightening in his breeches, and his hand slipped downward over her belly to brush at the tangle of curls at the junction where her tightly closed thighs met. A single finger slipped along the cleft of her mons even as she attempted to cry out against his mouth. He could not remember having been so quickly aroused in his entire life.

  Flanna finally managed to tear her lips away from his. She was furious and gasped for breath as she squirmed to escape the embrace, her fists beating against him. “Yer Majesty! Shame! Ye’re a villain! Let me go this instant! Ohhh!”

  “I’m mad for you, sweetheart!” the king cried, attempting to avoid her angry blows. “Ouch!”

  Flanna yanked at his black curls. “Let me go!” she shouted. “Ohhh, I canna believe that ye would be so dishonorable, sir!”

  “There is no dishonor meant, Flanna Leslie,” he insisted. “Many would consider it an honor to be approached by their king.” He loosened his grip on her.

  Flanna struggled to her feet, drawing her quilt about her. “I am a country woman, Yer Majesty. I am married to an honorable man. I respect ye as my king, but I will nae behave like some wanton tavern wench.” She clutched the quilt to her slender frame and mustered her dignity. “I must ask Yer Majesty to leave at once,” she said.

  “You must give me a moment, or two,” he said.

  “And face more of yer tricks?” she demanded.

  “I fear, sweetheart, I am at a disadvantage,” he said, and his eyes went to the very discernable bulge in his breeches.

  “Ohh, shame!” she cried.

  “The shame,” he said wryly, “is that I cannot do with it what sho
uld be done with it.” Then he gave her a weak grin.

  Flanna laughed. She couldn’t help it. “If ye’re haeing difficulty, Yer Majesty, ’tis yer own fault and nae one else’s,” she scolded.

  “Am I forgiven, then?” he said, making an attempt at looking remorseful.

  “Ye’re a wicked lad,” Flanna said, “but if ye can promise me that ye will behave yerself, then aye, I will forgie ye, Yer Majesty.”

  He sighed deeply. “I must retire defeated, madame, by your goodness and strong sense of honor. Will you still raise a levy for me, sweetheart?”

  “Hae I nae given ye my word?” she replied. “I dinna break my word, Yer Majesty, once offered.”

  “You make me almost ashamed, Flanna Leslie,” he responded.

  “Almost?” Her silvery eyes were twinkling. “Did yer mam nae explain about yer conscience to ye, sir?”

  “She did,” he said, “but alas, my hot blood seems a stronger influence upon me. Not only am I a Stuart, but my mother’s French family had quite a number of lusty kings in its line of descent. We cannot, it seems, resist a beautiful face, and yours is very beautiful, sweetheart.”

  “Sir, ye promised to behave!” Flanna scolded him further.

  He sighed again. “And I will,” he said, finally standing up. Then he took her hand in his, raising it to his lips to kiss; and at that exact moment, the door to the chamber flew open to reveal the Duke of Glenkirk.

  “So, madame,” he snarled at her, “I find ye at last! And who is this fellow who makes so bold wi’ ye?” He drew his sword.

  “Put up your weapon, Patrick!” the Duke of Lundy said, coming up behind his brother. “This is the king!”

  Patrick Leslie sheathed his sword, but as he did, he said scathingly, “Am I to be honored, then, that ’tis a royal Stuart making free wi’ my wife and not some common fellow?” His look was cold.

  Kissing Flanna’s hand, the king released his hold, and then drawled, “So this is the Leslie of Glenkirk? I have heard much about you, my lord, from your brother.” His look was almost dismissive.