by Carmen Caine
“Aye.” Cameron agreed. Why did he feel a net had just snared him? The fisherman was proving to be exceedingly crafty.
“Then, for her, can ye lay down your fear instead, lad?” her father asked softly.
Inexplicably, Cameron smiled, and it gave him pause. He hadn’t thought to smile again. But though the man’s request was a provoking one, he didn’t believe the answer to be so simple. Still, he eyed the man curiously and asked, “Might I know your name, sir?”
“My name is John.” The man bowed respectfully. “’Tis best we leave afore Kate returns from the almshouse to find me now your man whilst she is still hot with fury towards ye.”
“Aye,” Cameron agreed, imagining her passionate, brown eyes flashing with anger. Ach, how could he stay apart from her? ‘Twas a cruel fate. “I’ve brought my horse for ye to ride, sir. I thought to bring ye away before she could flee with ye.”
It was not long before the man was in the saddle and ready and Cameron led his charger back up the hill in a companionable silence, pondering the words they had shared as he eyed the outline of Stirling Castle somberly.
Once in the castle courtyard, he assisted the man to a nearby stone bench and sent for Sir Arval, ordering him to place Kate’s father under the care of the royal physicians at once and that he be given quarters befitting a place of distinction within his household.
He left them there and made his way to the gardens, pacing for a time, deep in thought, amidst the peacocks wandering along the gravel paths.
Already, his heart longed to hold Kate close in his arms once again. The vows he had so passionately sworn that morning already seemed impossible to keep.
“Ach, I’ve been searching everywhere only to find the lovebird keeping company with the peacocks,” a mirthful voice mocked, shattering his thoughts.
Cameron glanced back to find Julian standing behind him, arms folded, observing him in merciless amusement.
“’Tis too late, Cameron,” the muscular young lord announced. His lashes lowered in a teasing look before he continued, “Even if I were to believe ye cursed—and I most sincerely do not—‘tis too late with your wee Kate. Ye’ve already claimed the lass as yours. Turning from her now will not stop the hands of fate. Wed the lass and be done. She’ll make a stunning countess.”
Cameron expelled a deep breath.
It was true. He was behaving foolishly now. It no longer mattered if he were cursed or not, a coward or a fool. His feet were already upon the path.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and whispered, “What have I done?”
“Ye’ve fallen in love.” Julian shrugged and then admitted, “Ach, I’m half in love with the wee, feisty vixen myself.”
Cameron turned his head away, looking out over the green grass swaying in the wind. What was to be done now?
“But I did not come to speak of love,” Julian’s deep voice continued. “I came to escort ye to the king’s privy chamber. The Flemish astrologer has arrived, and we’ve both been summoned.”
Lost in thought, Cameron followed him in silence as they returned to the royal apartments and made their way to the king’s privy chamber.
It was a luxurious room with tapestry-lined walls, ornate chairs, and finely crafted rugs. The princes, Albany and Mar, were already present, standing before several portraits hung next to the fire, and as Cameron and Julian entered, they briefly glanced over their shoulders with grim expressions before returning their gaze back upon the portraits.
Cameron joined them to see a freshly painted portrait of the king in a gilded, golden frame. Hung next to it was a slightly smaller likeness of Thomas Cochrane.
The four men exchanged glances.
After a few moments, they moved to the table set with platters of almond cakes, a silver bowl of nuts, and several flasks of fine Rhennish wine.
“Aye, so ‘twas your mistress I saw upon the road then, Cameron.” Albany broke the silence after tossing back a goblet of wine. “’Tis clear now why ye wished to hide her from me. If her passion in bed is anything like—”
“Mind your courtesy,” Cameron warned coolly.
Albany snorted and there was a cold glitter in his eye. Taking a nut from the bowl, he cracked it. “Are ye so protective of your whore then?”
Mar slammed his goblet on the table and eyed his elder brother with open disapproval. “Do ye have no honor left? Beseech forgiveness from our cousin at once!” the youngest prince demanded.
Cameron blinked in surprise at them both, at Albany, for his surprisingly coarse conduct and at Mar for his sudden strength. Mar had always lived in the shadow of his brothers and though loved for his honor and renowned for his skill as a warrior, he had always been the quietest of the three.
“Must I beseech forgiveness for telling the truth?” Albany sniffed with an indifferent shrug. “Aye, she is fetching, though she is of low origins. But origins matter little in the bed.” He laughed, as if expecting the others to join in, but his mirth faded when only silence met his words.
“Ach, but the Borderlands have changed ye.” Mar turned away in disgust. “I scarce recognize either James or ye anymore. And to think the three of us once stood so fast, vowing our life’s blood to keep Scotland strong and free.”
“Scotland is strong and free the last I heard tell.” Albany smiled, but the smile was hard, cold. “We are not yet minions of England’s king.”
Cameron moved to stand before the fire, casting a side-length glance to where Julian had retired to lounge lazily in the windowed recess, giving the appearance of outright boredom. But Cameron knew well enough he was listening acutely and had not missed one word of the exchange.
A melancholy voice broke the tension in the room.
“What ails the Stewarts that they only find love in the baseborn?” the king questioned mournfully as he strode into the chamber dressed in a heavy brocade doublet with gold thread and a linen collar trimmed with lace in the fashion of the French. He moved to lay a hand upon Cameron’s arm in a comforting gesture. “What do ye need from your king, dear cousin? Shall the wee lass be made a lady?”
“Ach, the way ye dispense titles to the riff raff of Scotland, we’ll soon be a land of nobles with none left to swing a scythe!” Albany pounded his hand on the table in a flare of anger.
It took Cameron a moment to quell the anger rising in response to Albany’s indirect insult of Kate, but he accomplished it with no outward sign. He could not allow emotion to cloud his sight. He eyed Albany with unease. Never before had he seen this side of the man. Aye, as Mar had said, becoming Warden of the Marches had changed him.
Mar stood with his arms folded, feet planted widely apart and a flush of anger staining his handsome face. “I find your conversation this evening ill company, Albany.” The young prince eyed his brother contemptuously.
“Silence!” The king frowned at both of his brothers, but more so at Albany. Adopting a slightly guarded tone, he asked, “Would ye see Scotland ruled differently, Albany?”
“Aye.” Albany tossed his head, nodding his chin towards Thomas’ portrait hanging on the wall. “And I am not alone.”
The brothers glared at one another.
“And ye, Mar?” The king turned to the youngest of the three.
“I will ever be mindful my sworn duties to my sovereign king, your majesty.” The red-haired prince bowed deeply but then straightened to add, “But there are some matters that should be … dealt with, for the sake of Scotland.” He pointedly stared at the portrait.
The king’s jaw clenched.
Cameron held still.
The three Stewart brothers had always shared a close bond, unusually so, and while there had been rumors upon occasion, that both Albany and Mar were better fit for the throne, and in fact seeking it, anyone that truly understood them thought the rumor a preposterous one.
Suddenly, Cameron was no longer so certain.
The nasal voice of Thomas Cochrane cut the silence. “My liege lord, it is time.�
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Thomas Cochrane stood in the door of the king’s privy chamber, wearing a strikingly similar costume to the king, but with a rich cape trimmed with fur flung over his shoulder and the heavy gold chain about his neck.
A smile hovered on his lips.
It was a calculating smile and one that caught Cameron’s eye. The man was clearly pleased at the rising tensions between the brothers, but he turned with an elegant sweep of his hand and announced, “May I present Baldric Andrews, the most esteemed Flemish astrologer, your majesty?”
Baldric Andrews was a stocky, muscular, middle-aged man, with thin gray locks clinging to the sides of his balding head. His piercing gray eyes swept over the faces in the room as he sank into a low bow before the king, kissing the hand imperiously offered to him.
“Rise,” the king commanded. “Take refreshment ere we speak of your prophecy. Come.”
Leading him to the table, the king flicked a finger at Thomas in a silent bidding to pour the wine, and as Andrews nervously sipped it, Cameron joined Julian in the windowed recess.
“A most entertaining evening,” Julian scoffed ironically. “And methinks ‘twill only become more so.”
Cameron did not reply. Leaning against the wall, he tapped a thoughtful finger as Thomas glanced his way.
Setting the wine flask aside, the man strolled over to join them.
“And a good evening to ye both, my lords.” Thomas bowed respectfully before raising a brow at Cameron. “If I can be of service to ye, my lord, ye have but to ask, and it will be done.”
There was no doubt he was referring to Kate. That Thomas might weave Kate into some ruthless, vengeful plot made his flesh crawl, and Cameron found himself uttering, “The pleasure of the lass has already past. I confess now that she knows my true name, I have quite lost interest. My concern lies with Lady Elsa.” Ach, let the man think that he intended to wed Lady Elsa.
Julian stirred.
Thomas blinked, unable to hide his surprise when Albany’s rough voice inserted itself into the conversation.
“So ye’ve lost interest in your wee mistress, have ye?” the prince asked with a slow smile. “Then ye should care little if I play with her now.”
“’Tis too late for the likes of ye, Albany.” Julian rose to stretch lazily and then stared coolly down at the man. “I’ve had quite the busy afternoon with the lass, and I’m not the kind to share.”
The vein on Albany’s temple throbbed.
“Come,” the king ordered, interrupting the exchange and taking his seat at the head of the table. “Let us hear the ominous words of this most esteemed astrologer.”
Reluctantly, they moved to the table as Andrews, looking very much like he would rather be anywhere else, took the chair appointed to him.
“Speak more of your prophecy,” the king commanded. “And leave naught unsaid.”
“I am most honored to speak, your majesty,” the astrologer replied in heavily accented words. “But I must first have my books.”
Albany snorted with impatience as a lad entered, carrying several large, leather-bound manuscripts and placing them before the man. And then Andrews began to flip through the pages, providing a detailed explanation of the signs and labors of the months to the attentive king.
Paying little heed to the prattling astrologer, Cameron focused his attention on Thomas.
The man stood behind the king’s chair, at times laying a hand upon his majesty’s shoulder and applying pressure. Each time, the king responded by questioning the astrologer further, oblivious to Albany and Mar’s rising impatience.
“And that represents the lion, to be devoured by its whelps during the month of hay threshing, your majesty.” Andrews tapped the manuscript illustrated with stacks of hay, indicating the month of June.
“Then there is time yet!” The king heaved a sigh of relief. “Nigh on a month to gain clarity.”
“There is a viper in our midst,” Thomas murmured with a frown of displeasure. “A month is precious little time to the deal with weighty matters such as this.”
“Pah!” Albany slapped his hand on the table, rattling the goblets and startling them all. “Must we sit here and listen to these fools babble?”
“Send for Bonatti and Roger at once, Thomas. And Andrews must stay here at court until this danger has passed.” The king deliberately ignored his brother. “We shall seek further divine guidance before taking any action. We will consult for deeper meanings to this prophecy.”
“Ach, ye turn to more witches and sorcerers for wise counsel?” Albany scoffed in outright disdain. “Ye seek to lock yourself in your chambers, reading books—”
“Hold your tongue, knave!” King James shouted an interruption. “Leave us, at once!”
“Right gladly, ye fool!” Albany thundered. “If ye could only see what a laughing stock ye’ve become! If ye really thought ye stood in danger, ye should be raising arms, not slavering over manuscripts by candlelight!”
He marched out of the room, slamming the door.
Mar rose to his feet, his lips drawn in a thin line. “I will take my leave, your majesty,” he respectfully addressed his brother but shot a look of disdain at Thomas. “But I would ye remember the oath we took as brothers. If there is indeed a whelp to rise against ye, it comes not from the litter of Stewarts. I will begin searching from whence it comes.”
Thomas paled.
The king watched his youngest brother go, and then turned to Thomas and Julian. “See to the needs of our esteemed astrologer. Cameron, tarry a moment, we would speak with ye in private.”
Cameron remained seated as the king waited for the chamber to empty.
He was clearly troubled, repeatedly clenching his fingers into fists and licking his lip, and when they were alone, he turned at once to Cameron. “Tell me truly, fair cousin. Do ye believe Andrews speaks the truth … that the king of Scotland will die at the hand of his own brothers?”
“Brothers?” Cameron repeated in surprise. “And why would ye think it were your brothers, your majesty? Andrews speaks of whelps, surely more akin to offspring than a brother?”
The king rose to his feet, pacing nervously before the table. “Thomas has pondered of late if the true meaning refers to Albany. Our own issue is yet too young to rise against and slay us in but a month.”
Cameron could not prevent a sound of exasperation escaping from his lips, but it was so soft that the king did not appear to have noticed it. Clearing his throat, he replied in a cutting tone, “And I would ask why Thomas is so quick to lay blame at your brother’s door, your majesty.”
The king’s response was an unexpected one.
“Ye, too?” His eyes narrowed in anger. “Thomas is ever unjustly ridiculed and treated unfairly. We would have thought that ye would have understood, having love for a baseborn lass. We would have thought ye could see that all men are very much the same, in love and loyalty at least.”
Cameron eyed the king, surprised. “Then your loyalty lies more with Thomas than with your own brothers?”
King James turned cold all at once. “Leave us!”
The sun was low in the sky when Cameron stepped out of the royal apartments to find Julian waiting for him with his favorite chestnut charger, saddled and ready to ride.
“What is this?” Cameron asked, taking the reins.
“Ye’d best see to Mar,” Julian informed him gravely. “He just left, ordering his retinue of attendants to remain behind.”
“And they let him ride alone?” Cameron raised a brow, leaping into the saddle.
He didn’t wait for an answer, touching spurs to his horse’s flanks, he sprang away, galloping down Castle Hill. At Stirling Bridge, he caught sight of Mar hurtling towards the moors, riding low over his horse’s neck.
Cursing under his breath, Cameron urged his steed after him.
The clouds above grew darker, heavier with imminent rain, as he flew over the heather moors after the prince. He pounded inexorably closer, until upon the
rise of a hill, Mar suddenly jerked the reins of his horse and wheeled around.
In a moment, Cameron was at his side.
“I knew it would be ye, Cameron.” Mar greeted him quietly, almost sadly as he stiffly dismounted. Facing the chill wind sweeping down from the highlands, he pointed to the River Forth winding below them. “Do ye recall the summers we spent as children, sailing the river, fancying to be the Knights of the Round Table? We swore then to uphold honor and duty above all else.”
“Aye,” Cameron agreed softly, alighting from his charger to join the prince.
“It seems my brothers have forgotten,” Mar murmured, shaking his head as if he were bewildered. “I would we were back in times gone by, when as lads we stole the royal hounds from the kennels and falcons in the mews to hunt stags in the forest and hawk on the moors.”
“Aye.” Cameron expelled a heavy breath. “But those days seem gone forever, Mar. Now, I fear we tread upon paths once deemed impossible.”
“Meaning?” Mar asked, training his eyes on the desolate expanse of moor rising before him.
“I fear Thomas and his power over the king,” Cameron answered truthfully. “I fear both ye and Albany are in great danger. He’s all but convinced his majesty that his brothers are the whelps of whom Andrews speaks. He seeks to turn James against ye both.”
Mar did not reply. He stood silent, staring unseeing over the gathering gloom as the weather turned foul and rain began to fall. Finally, he spoke. “I do not fear my own brother, Cameron. He was born a poet, not a warrior. His heart is true, both Albany and I know it.”
“Aye, I do not doubt your brother’s heart.” Cameron wiped the rain from his face. “But I fear the trouble that Thomas is stirring. He may bring about events where the king has no choice but to obey the laws of treason.”
“Treason?” Mar shrugged. “I’ve done naught to bring about that concern.”
“Thomas will not need the truth,” Cameron warned. “’Tis best ye stay out of his sight, at least until June has past. Perhaps ye should visit France?”
For a moment, it seemed as if Mar entertained the suggestion, but then he gave a short laugh. “Thomas is ridiculously fond of finery, do ye not think?”
