by Amanda Scott
The sheriff’s son seemed to have lost both his voice and his bluster, but at this taunt, he recovered swiftly and lunged at the newcomer.
A deft parry slid his blade aside, and in the flurry that followed, the men silently watching soon saw that the Fox toyed with his opponent. No matter what the sheriff’s son did, the Fox easily deflected his strokes.
“I see ye ha’ studied your swordplay in Italy,” he said at one point.
“Aye, to your cost!”
The masked man’s eyes danced merrily. “The Italians make fine swords, and your Italian masters taught ye well how to thrust, but Italians ken gey little about defense, my lad. Ye’d ha’ done better to take your fine Italian sword into France to study the art,” he added as he deftly parried another thrust.
The other was clearly tiring, but the Fox fought on, the merriment in his eyes fading as he forced the sheriff’s son to defend himself. A moment later, he said grimly, “The sword be a gentleman’s weapon, but ye and your troublesome father ha’ been using yours to torment people in the glens, and ye dare to do so under the false claim that ye act for his grace, the King.”
“We do represent the King,” the other insisted, gasping. “My father is Sheriff of Inverness, appointed by the King, and I am his sworn deputy.”
“Ye seek only to curry favor wi’ them who would realign the Highland kirk more securely wi’ Rome. Appointed or no, ye dinna represent his grace. In any event, the pair o’ ye disgrace the titles ye hold, and this be what I think o’ ye,” he added as he suddenly knocked the other man’s sword up, closed with him long enough to tweak his nose with his free hand, and then leaped back again.
Their audience erupted in laughter.
The sheriff’s son shot them a murderous look, whereupon the Fox, with a flick of his wrist, sent the fine Italian sword clattering into the fireplace, scattering coals and embers onto the hearth.
As the Fox held his stunned opponent at sword point, the alemaster rushed to rescue the latter’s sword and to kick the burning embers back into the fireplace.
“On your knees, my lad,” the Fox ordered, “unless ye want to meet your Maker and discuss His lack o’ wisdom tonight in granting your wish.”
Glowering resentfully, the sheriff’s son did as he was commanded.
“Now, put your head to the floor and beg the pardon o’ all here for so discourteously disrupting the peace o’ this house.”
“I won’t!”
The sword point moved to his throat, rendering him stiffly motionless, and then pricked him just enough to draw blood. “Now,” said the Fox sternly.
The other swiftly put his head to the floor, but he did not speak until the flat of the sword smacked him hard across the buttocks, making him yelp.
“Aye, then,” he shrieked, “I beg pardon!”
“Consider yourself fortunate that I dinna take a whip to ye as ye’ve done to the unfortunate folk ye seek to reform,” his nemesis said.
“Righteous men should honor the Pope and attend virtuously to the holy sacraments, and priests should neither marry nor have children as they do throughout Scotland,” he wailed.
The sword whacked him again. “That isna for ye to decide. Take it up wi’ the Kirk in Scotland or with his eminence, Cardinal Beaton, who men do say ye claim as a great friend o’ yours. Tell his eminence that if he requires reform in his Kirk, he should take it up openly and begin wi’ his ain house.”
“By heaven, one day I’ll make you swallow your impudence,” muttered the other man, still staring at the floor. “See if I don’t!”
But he spoke to air, for the intruder was gone. Realizing this, the sheriff’s son scrambled to his feet and ran to the open door with the others close behind him.
A breeze stirred, and they saw the man and his horse as black shadows against the silvery, mist-shrouded moonlight. Then the mist swallowed them.
“We’ll meet again, you villain,” the sheriff’s son said, shaking his fist.
The others shook their heads at him, turning back to the fire.
Suddenly, Ian Fraser said, “Look here, what’s this?” Bending near the spot where the sheriff’s son had knelt, he picked something up from the floor and held it out for the others to see.
It was a silver coin with a stem of Highland heather engraved on one side and a fox’s mask on the other.
The Bay of Biscay, that same night
Lightning flashed, thunder cracked, and heavy seas crashed against the sides of the ship, tossing it about as if it were no more than a wee fishing coble. Strong, experienced seamen were sick as cats everywhere, and he would have been no exception had there been anything left in his stomach to spew.
He was exhausted and starving, and had he had a choice, he would have crawled into bed and slept for a month, but he was given no choice. Officers strode about—at least as well as they could stride, considering that they had to grab standing rigging or anything else they could grab to remain upright—bellowing orders and trying to act as if they knew how to keep the storm from sweeping them all to destruction and death somewhere on the formidable French coast.
To be sure, the Marion Ogilvy was a stout ship, constructed of modern carvel planking with three masts, lateen rigged fore and aft. But the strength of the wild winds had forced them to furl the sails over an hour ago, and despite the anchors’ struggle to slow the ship’s speed, it rode the lightning-lit sea now at the mercy of the storm and the hand of God.
He had climbed the mizzenmast earlier to help furl the sails and was standing in the mizzen-topcastle, clinging to the mast with one hand while he fought with the other to lash the furled topsail to its yardarm, when the ship listed to port and the man performing the same task on the mainmast plunged into the angry sea.
No one attempted a rescue, although with the wild pitching and yawing of the ship, he felt as if he were dipping low enough in his topcastle to reach out and pluck the fellow from the water if he popped up again in the right place before the ship righted itself. Instead, the hapless victim vanished beneath the churning waves before terrified officers and men on the deck below realized what had happened.
It was a wonder he had not fallen in himself, as weak as he felt. There was a moment, just a single moment, when he had thought he might let go of the mast and follow the other man into the sea. But the moment had passed, and the anger that had sustained him for so long that it had become part of him stirred to life again. He had descended to the deck without incident and had been working furiously since then to keep things tied down and himself from being swept overboard.
A particularly fierce wave knocked him onto his backside, but a panicked grab and a death grip on the capstan saved him. He clung to it, gasping for breath.
“Lad, come along o’ me now,” Tam’s familiar voice muttered gruffly close to his ear as the Borderer’s powerful hand clamped tight to his arm and hauled him upright. “Ye mun get clear o’ this place afore one o’ them masts comes down.”
“Gibson said I was to stay on deck,” he said, referring to the first officer.
“Nay, we’ll tell ’im one o’ the cannons below needs lashing. Come now.”
He went without further argument, content for once to let someone else decide his fate.
Chapter 1
The Highlands, a week after Easter Sunday, 1541
The party of riders made its way uphill under a heavily overcast sky, their narrow pathway flanked by steep, bluebell-laden woods. The air was cold, damp, and heavy, the gloom perfectly reflecting the mood of at least one of the riders.
Barbara MacRae, Bab to her family and close friends, was bored and fed up with behaving politely when she felt murderous. She would rather have stayed at court with her brother and friends to continue celebrating the end of Lent and the recent birth of the Duke of Albany, the King’s second son, but Sir Patrick MacRae had taken one of his rare pets and ordered her home to the Highlands instead.
Somehow, Patrick had got it into his head that she did
not belong at court, that she had cozened their mother into taking her there and then into leaving her there when Lady MacRae returned home to Ardintoul. Some of what he believed was perfectly true, of course, but what had he expected? Had he not left home eight months before without so much as telling her where he was going?
Surely he had not expected her to live forever at Ardintoul like a nun in a cloister, but he had not even done her the courtesy of letting her know that he was returning or, worse, that he was returning with a wife. Of course, if he had sent a message home, Bab would not have been there to receive it, but she knew he had not sent one, so that was a mere bagatelle.
“Barbara, my dear,” Lady Chisholm said gently, “you should put up your hood, for it is chilly with the snow still clinging to the mountains as it is, and I believe it is coming on to drizzle again.”
Bab managed a smile as she reached obediently for the hood of her crimson cloak, saying, “I vow, madam, ’tis a miserable day for traveling. Sir Alex was wise to remain at Stirling. Indeed, I am sure we all should have stayed there, for I warrant the castle’s hall fires are blazing away, keeping everyone warm and dry.”
“It is true enough that our Alex will be warm, wherever he is,” Lady Chisholm said with a chuckle. “He is a man who always looks out for his own comfort. But to be fair, my dear, your brother did ask him to linger, and we agreed that his lordship would more swiftly recover his customary health and good spirits at Dundreggan, well away from all the political turmoil.”
Lady Chisholm cast a worried glance at her husband, who had rejected his son’s suggestion of a litter or chair carried by running gillies, and had opted instead to ride with his wife, their servants, and Mistress MacRae. Bab had not heard until earlier that day that he had been ill, and she could see little sign of it other than a certain lassitude and her ladyship’s occasional, narrow-eyed, measuring looks.
Their plodding pace tried Bab’s patience. They had been traveling for a sennight, and if they continued at this pace, they would be lucky to arrive at Dundreggan before the fire festival of Beltane on the first day of May.
She was an excellent horsewoman, and she wanted to gallop, if only long enough to blow the fidgets from her mind. But she knew that her companions would forbid her to ride ahead even if she suggested taking along one or two of the half dozen men-at-arms that Sir Alex had provided to protect them.
He had said he did not expect them to encounter trouble, but then Sir Alex, a hedonist to the bone, never expected to meet trouble anywhere. He was far more interested in seeing to his own gentle pleasures.
Before meeting him recently at court, she had not seen him since just before Patrick had gone away. Chisholm and his lady had invited them both to take part in the welcoming party when the newly styled Sir Alex returned after two years of traveling on the Continent. At the time, the family was still reeling from the deaths of his two older brothers, which had occurred that previous Easter Sunday, when Sir Robert Chisholm and his brother Michael apparently died at the hands of a cousin who had gone mad, murdered them, and then had disappeared. Sir Alex’s welcome at Dundreggan had therefore been a quiet one, but Lord and Lady Chisholm had wanted to celebrate the return of their sole surviving son, now Chisholm’s heir, and Sir Alex had seemed glad to be home.
Bab had thought the continental journey an energetic, even uncharacteristic undertaking for the young man she knew as a friend of her brother’s. To be sure, Alex had gone at his father’s behest to represent the family at the proxy wedding of James, High King of Scots, to Marie de Guise at the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. But Bab knew that his brothers and hers had teased Alex unmercifully before he left, assuring him that Chisholm was at outs with the King and thus had decided to send the least of his sons to attend him. They told him as well that they were certain he would never reach Paris in time for the ceremony, that he would get lost along the way or be overcome by thieves or murderers.
Bab knew that Patrick, Robert, and Michael had frequently teased Alex so because he scorned to engage in most of the pastimes that they enjoyed. Patrick was an expert with a sword, dirk, longbow, and crossbow, and his reputation as a falconer was of one with an almost magical way with birds of prey. The elder Chisholm brothers had likewise been expert swordsmen and fighters, but Patrick had said that Alex barely knew one end of a sword from the other.
Thus, the two seemed oddly matched as friends, but they had known each other from childhood and Patrick admired Alex’s wit and his social skills. Bab, however, preferred men of action like her brother and their friend Fin Mackenzie, Laird of Kintail, while Sir Alex apparently had spent his time on the Continent seeking out the finest tailors and dancing masters. Although she knew Alex had also studied at the famed Sorbonne in Paris, the plain truth was that he had become too Frenchified for the plainspoken Mistress MacRae, and as their recent encounter at Stirling had demonstrated, a year at home had done nothing to improve him.
Lady Chisholm was again narrowly observing his lordship.
To Bab, Chisholm looked as he always did, although he had aged a good deal in the past nine months. He was tall like his son, but Sir Alex was slender and glib, while Chisholm was burly and blunt-spoken. For many years, she knew, his lordship had served as the Sheriff of Inverness-shire, and his customary brusque manner was that of a man who expected instant obedience. That brusqueness was missing today, but he sat straight in his saddle, his continued grim silence the only indication of his weariness.
At least the rain that had fallen intermittently since morning had not yet begun again. “How much farther do we travel today?” she asked Lady Chisholm.
“Not far, thank heaven,” her ladyship replied quietly. “We are to stay the night with friends in the next glen. Indeed, if I thought Chisholm would agree to it, I’d claim hospitality there for several days to let him rest.”
“Would he not agree?”
“There is not the slightest chance,” Lady Chisholm said, still speaking in an undertone that would not carry to his ears. “Once he is on his way home, it is all I can do to persuade him to halt each night long enough to—”
She broke off with a cry of dismay when her horse reared, nearly unseating her, as a half dozen armed riders burst out of the woods ahead of them.
Bab reacted swiftly, controlling her own mount with one hand as she reached with the other and grabbed the rearing horse’s bridle.
“Giorsal, Clarice, this way,” she shouted to the two waiting women who accompanied them. “Madam, follow me!”
Wheeling her horse and noting with satisfaction that the attackers were fully engaged in fighting the armed men of the Chisholm party, and that Lady Chisholm had regained control of her horse, she led the women back the way they had come. As she spurred, she murmured a brief prayer that her ladyship, who favored a padded, boxlike woman’s saddle, would not be thrown from it by such rough riding.
“Hurry,” Bab cried over her shoulder. “The men can fight harder to protect his lordship if we are out of their way!”
“We’re right behind you,” Lady Chisholm shouted.
Bab’s bay gelding was willing, but the track was steep, rutted, and rocky. Knowing better than to ride too fast, for the horses’ sake as well as her own and Lady Chisholm’s, she searched the thick shrubbery ahead for an opening that would let them seek shelter in the dense woodland.
At the first such place, however, four more riders emerged from the forest and blocked the path. Their leader wore a black cloak and mask.
Bab had no choice but to rein in, but when he yanked off his mask, revealing his face, she exclaimed in relief, “Thank God, Francis Dalcross! I vow, I have never in my life been so glad to see anyone. Ruffians attacked our party down in that glen. You must ride at once to help them!”
“I doubt they’ll need my help,” he replied blandly, staying where he was.
“Don’t be—”
Something in his expression silenced her, and she gazed warily from him to the men flankin
g him.
Francis Dalcross was tall and broad shouldered with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a charming smile. At Stirling, she had found him fascinating. Indeed, he had been her most ardent suitor there and the most favored—except, of course, by Patrick, who favored no man unless one counted the faintly amused preference he showed Sir Alex Chisholm. And one never counted Sir Alex.
Now Dalcross sat easily on his chestnut horse, regarding her thoughtfully with a slight smile, but any charm that smile had ever suggested to her was gone.
Uneasily, she glanced at Lady Chisholm, who like their two waiting women, remained silent. Her ladyship was staring fixedly at Francis Dalcross, her expression wooden except for a muscle twitching high in her cheek.
“What means this, sir?” Bab demanded. “Why do you not help us?”
“Well, you see, my sweet, those ruffians you mentioned are my ruffians.”
“Yours! But why?”
“For you, of course.” His blue eyes twinkled as he added, “You did tell me more than once, did you not, how you long for adventure. Have you not heard of Sionnach Dubh, the Black Fox of the Highlands?” He bowed, grinning now.
She gaped at him. “Don’t be absurd,” she snapped when she could speak. “Sionnach Dubh is a bairn’s tale, not a real person! In any event, you cannot be such an iron-witted daffy as to think I meant you to do anything so outrageous as this! If those horrid men of yours have hurt his lordship or anyone else, I vow I… I—” She broke off, unable to think of a punishment severe enough for such a crime.
“I am real enough, mistress,” he said evenly. Then, to the men with him, he said, “Take Lady Chisholm and her women back to their party, lads. I’ll keep my lass with me. Chisholm and his people may continue their journey to Dundreggan, but do not let them try to follow us, and mention the Fox as often as you like.”
“Wait!” Bab cried as his men moved to obey. “What are you going to do?”
“Why, nothing dreadful, my sweet. You will simply come with me, which I promise you will find more entertaining than life at Dundreggan Castle. ’Tis a dour and dreary pile, believe me, well suited to the dreary Chisholms and their ilk.”
