by Mary Wine
“So I have heard…” Clarrisa allowed her words to trail off to a whisper. For certain, she had heard stories, but what had drawn her to the whispers to listen intently were the hints of how to control a man when the world was run by them. The man eyeing her was a king, and his men guarded the tower, but he watched her like a boy anticipating a sweet. “I am sure women’s conversation would be of little interest to you.”
James grinned, lust brightening his expression. He walked around her, inspecting her from head to toe.
“She’d better be a virgin.” He directed his words toward Maud. The older woman drew up proudly.
“She’s been guarded well, as befits the daughter of a king. The girl is simply nervous and saying things she’s no true understanding of.”
“Bastard daughter, but Edward’s blood in a son is what I need. Royal blood is valuable, even when it’s illegitimate.” He reached out, and Clarrisa lost her grip on her composure. She slapped his hand away before he touched her. James snickered at her.
“Ye’ve been given to me, and ye’ll be grateful, for I hear young Henry Tudor is set to kill off anyone with any claim to the English throne, now that he’s wed himself to Elizabeth of York.”
“He hasn’t crowned her as his queen,” Clarrisa muttered, unable to suppress the distaste in her tone. Henry VII was using his new wife to further his ambition. Elizabeth of York had no more say in her fate than Clarrisa did. They were both daughters of the late Edward IV.
“Why should he? The man had himself crowned Conqueror King, something nae done since William the Bastard. The York family has been defeated, which is yer family. In spite of the fact that he’s English, I like young Henry,” he insisted. “I believe it’s the Scots blood in him. There is no mercy in him, no’ even for a fair lass such as yerself.”
Clarrisa lifted her chin. “I agree, and he’ll take Scotland if given the chance because of it.”
James contemplated her for a long moment, his expression hard. “Which is why I want a son who will be kin to Henry Tudor’s son. Such a son could be very useful.” He lowered his attention to her breasts and sat in a chair. “I liked our topic better before we began talking of England and its cursed nobles.” He licked his lower lip. “What sorts of tales did ye hear from women of experience?”
Clarrisa fought to conceal the nausea twisting her insides. She lowered her eyelashes, and he took it as shyness, chuckling with male smugness. He rubbed his groin, enjoying being vulgar. “Come now, girl… What tales? They don’t mean shit if you cannae impress a man with them. Where’s that spirit gone to now, I wonder? Ye’re the one who claimed she was nae hiding from me.”
He was toying with her, and it sickened her more, but she didn’t let fear take hold of her. Instead she felt superior to him, because lust didn’t rule her.
“Oh… well… let me see.” Clarrisa tapped one fingertip against her lower lip, mimicking the gesture she’d seen other girls use on the knights when they wanted their attention. It worked perfectly, snaring James’s gaze instantly. “There was one I recall rather well about how a man enjoys having his… weapon polished.” She trailed her fingers over her chin and down across her breasts. Maud made a choking sound.
Being a virgin didn’t mean she was blind, after all. Her father’s kin had kept her skirts from being lifted, but they hadn’t stopped her from witnessing the vulgarity around her. Men seemed forever caught between their lust for power and their craving for female flesh.
“Get out, old woman. Ye’ve delivered her, and she will nae be leaving this chamber a maiden. Yer task is completed.”
“I almost forgot the most important part of the tale…”
The king swallowed roughly, his attention intent on Clarrisa. “What might that be, lass?”
Clarrisa offered him what she hoped was a flirtatious look. “I have to bathe you first.”
James frowned. “Why?”
“Because that’s what the harem women do in the Far East.” She rubbed her hands together suggestively. “To show their masters just how much they adore them. Some of the girls said the knights of the crusade brought back tales of how those men were pampered by several women all at the same time… I always wondered…”
“What?” he demanded. James was on his feet in a moment, his eyes bright with anticipation.
“I am simply curious to see if a man can truly hold back his nature long enough for me to bathe him.”
“Ye doubt it?”
Clarrisa nodded and watched him lick his lips. “I do. None of the other girls had ever met a man who could last. Yet the Moors are fabled to be able to linger while their slave women rub them—and the Moors last all night long.”
James caught her close, pulling her against his body. “That’s on account of the fact that they never tried with a Scotsman, lass. I’ve got what it takes to let ye use yer spirit on me. I’ll stand fast while ye polish me weapon from tip to base.”
He pressed a foul kiss against her lips, grabbing her bottom with one hand before he spun her loose.
“Go on with ye, lass. Fill a tub and make it ready for yer master.”
His men guarding the door grinned at her as she hurried past them. Their lurid looks didn’t bother her—she was far more interested in the relief flooding her. Maybe it was a small freedom, but she wasn’t stopped on her way away from the man who believed he owned her. As far as her kin were concerned, he did. The men winking at one another as she passed them believed the same thing.
Well, she was out of the chamber, and she’d find another way to escape the fate she’d been sent north to endure. She just wished she knew how she was going to do it.
***
“You’ve gone mad.”
Maud was shaking with wrath, but Clarrisa didn’t give her much of her attention. She had other matters on her mind, such as how to keep the king of Scotland from breeding her like a prized mare.
“The way you were talking, it’s a wonder he hasn’t sent you out into the darkness like a cheap whore, for that is what you sounded like.”
“I’ve no liking to be viewed as a cowardly sacrifice. If it means you are displeased with my words, so be it.” The words slipped past years of instruction to hold her tongue. She dumped the bucket of water she’d hauled from the kitchen into the tub that sat in front of the fire Maud was building up to warm the room.
Maud turned, pointing a poker with a glowing red tip at her. “What would ye rather have? Henry the Seventh of England is hunting down every last drop of York blood. Where can you make your future but here in Scotland?” The old woman spit out the words with clear distaste. “At least you are bound for the bed of a king.”
“He has three sons born in a legitimate union. I will be naught but his whore; my children, illegitimate.” She offered Maud a sincere look. “It is not so kind a fate to be born without the blessing of the church. I would not wish it upon anyone or willingly thrust it upon a babe. I’d be a selfish creature to think only of my gain.”
Maud stabbed the poker back into the fire. A shower of crimson sparks flew up before dying in the cold night air.
“True, but the king wants to be rid of Margaret of Denmark’s sons. He is trying to annul the marriage. I hear his sons are plotting his murder, so it’s fitting he should be looking to take you as his leman so he can have more sons.”
“She’s dead and buried,” Clarrisa insisted.
“Aye.” Maud crossed herself. “But kings do not obey the same rules as other men. James wants the marriage annulled, and he’s sent gold to the pope to see the matter resolved.” Maud turned and considered her. “You might do very well for yourself if you please him. Perhaps I am wrong to judge you. Scots do like fire in their women. Your brazenness might be just the way to keep his attention.”
With a wimple wrapped around her head and under her chin, Maud looked like a bride of Christ, or a bitter abandoned mistress. Clarrisa picked up the empty bucket and hid her smile of amusement. It wasn’t wise to make an en
emy of the woman, even if she was no more than another person trying to see Clarrisa’s worth.
It seemed to be the way of life among the nobles. Clarrisa turned to the door and went down the narrow stone steps. There was only a single candle flickering near the base of the stairs. Considering that the king was in residence, the tower was strangely quiet. The single servant she’d spied in the hallway had not returned.
But James III was a king with many unhappy subjects. Margaret of Denmark had been a popular queen. James was quite the opposite, earning the anger of many of his clans because of his lack of justice. Not that his people’s discontent would save Clarrisa from what her kin had sent her to do. She hooked the bucket onto a rope and sent it down the well opening. Her fingers ached from the frigid water, but she preferred it to what the rest of the night would offer.
She had been brazen, but she refused to repent. If her words delayed the distasteful event planned for her, she’d happily be thought as any number of sinful creatures. Everyone she had ever met thought something of her, and most of the time their ideas weren’t kind. They judged her, when it was her father’s sin that had brought her into the world bastard-born. But kings and nobles often believed they had rights beyond what the church said they did. Her mother had been a knight’s daughter, and when the king took her to his bed, she had had no right to refuse.
Clarrisa stopped while pulling the bucket back up and listened. Something filtered through the stone walls, some sound she couldn’t quite identify. She held still, waiting for another hint, but all she heard was the wind. The bucket was almost to the top, and she gave the rope another tug to complete its journey. She unhooked it and turned away from the well.
The bucket’s contents went spilling onto the floor. Where before there had been nothing but empty space, men now stood in the darkness, cast half in shadow; huge figures that sent a shiver down her spine.
“Christ Almighty! That’s cold.”
A portion of the floor was missing and the rushes gone as a trapdoor showed how the men had got into the tower. One huge form climbed out, shaking his head and sending water flying.
“Why are ye the one screaming, Shaw? I expected the lass to do the yelling.” In spite of his teasing words, there was a solid core of strength in his tone that sent her back a step. He was clearly accustomed to being obeyed, and the men coming up through the trapdoor all looked to him.
Shaw growled and wiped more water off his face. “She’s holding her tongue so as to no’ warn her lover, that bastard James, that we’re here, Laird.”
There was only a single lantern lit to help her see to her chore, but the light flickered off Shaw, illuminating the determination on his face. His hand rested on the hilt of a dagger tucked into his worn belt.
“He is not my lover, nor do I want him for such.” Her voice quivered just a tiny amount. Clarrisa forced herself to face them. She’d not die a sniveling coward.
The laird chuckled, but it was not a pleasant sound. “There’s a fact I plan to ensure does nae change by stealing ye away before His Royal Highness notices ye are taking too long with his bathwater. But if ye’re speaking the truth, ye can prove it by coming along with us without a fuss.”
His hair was longer than the English wore theirs, some of it resting on his broad shoulders. It was light colored, but the candlelight illuminated copper in it. For a moment she was tempted, relief filling her, but the way Shaw still gripped his dagger made her hesitate. Her thoughts raced, and her heart did too.
“Steal me… To what end? You can murder me here as easily as on the banks of a river.”
He shook his head, drawing a short grunt from Shaw. The laird snapped his head around to stare at his man. “MacNicols do nae settle their disputes by spilling the blood of women. We’re set to prevent her from becoming the king’s leman. Stealing her will satisfy that need.”
“She’s Edward the fourth’s bastard. His blood is a threat to us all,” Shaw countered. “One best dealt with permanently, I’m thinking.”
“We’ll be ending the matter once we’ve taken her to the Highlands.”
Highlands… The Scottish laird might as well have said Hades, for the Highlands were a place where only uncivilized clans lived. The people were barbaric; they stole women from one another like Moors.
But it would be preferable to becoming the king’s broodmare.
She was tempted but also torn, because she could see the argument shimmering in Shaw’s eyes. Escaping into the hands of men intent on murdering her wasn’t a kinder fate. Clarrisa turned to run, but it was too late. A hard hand clamped around her arm, dragging her to a stop before her skirts stopped swirling.
“Here now. Ye’ll have to be missing out on treating James like a Moor, for we do nae need England’s feud spilling into our royal line,” her captor informed her.
“I want none of it either—”
Shaw looped a length of fabric around her head. It was thin enough to slide right through her open teeth and gag her. Clarrisa reached for it, frantically trying to keep it from biting into her skin, but she was too late. A few twists and it was knotted firmly in place. “Get her down the passageway before anyone guesses what we’re about, lads.”
Whoever the men were, they plucked her off her feet like she was a child. She struggled, unable to master her fear as they handed her to the men still below the surface of the kitchen floor. There was nothing but darkness, which sent a bolt of terror through her.
“Ye might have tied her up, Laird. She’s got claws as sharp as a hawk.”
Her grasping hands sank into sleeves and plaids, but she was yanked away. Shaw followed her, and she heard the trapdoor being slid back into position. The light from the kitchen went with it, leaving her encased in blackness.
“That maid had best keep her end of the bargain and right the rushes, or our game will be ended quickly,” Shaw muttered.
“She’ll do it,” the laird muttered while carrying Clarrisa through the narrow passageway. “She has as much to gain as we do by making sure the king does nae get a York-blooded son.”
Clarrisa twisted and turned, but she was held firmly by her captors. Her dress was a tangled mess, and she felt the night air brushing her knees above her stockings. Her braids hung like ropes—her hat lying wherever it had fallen—but the gag kept her braids from being stepped on. Helplessness almost strangled her, but there was nothing to do but suffer it.
They set her feet down in a thicket, where the trees were dark shapes in the night. There was the musty scent of fallen leaves being disturbed by their passing, but the branches only allowed some of the moonlight to illuminate the ground. She shoved frantically away from the laird, only to hear the man chuckle at her efforts. He caught one of her braids and pulled her back toward him. Tears stung her eyes as pain bit into her scalp, a soft moan the only sound that made it past the gag.
“Best for ye to stay close to me, lass. Me men do nae care to keep ye alive.” He leaned close so she could hear his soft words. “I’ve no liking for harming a female, but I’ll be taking ye. How much discomfort ye want to suffer is up to ye.”
The solid authority was back in his tone, but his tone lacked the suspicion she’d heard from Shaw. Part of her wanted to grasp that idea close, but she needed to be practical. She could not trust him, yet she longed to, because he promised her life.
There were more of them now. She could see the white puffs of their breath with the help of moonlight. She hadn’t heard them, not even with the leaves on the ground.
Highlander. It was a word she’d been raised to fear. The clans inhabiting the upper portions of Scotland were the most fierce. No sane person ventured among them. She retreated without thinking, simply because the idea of going to the Highlands was so horrifying.
There was a short grunt from the laird. “Wrap her up, Shaw. Her claws do draw blood.”
The hand holding her braid released. “Hold her steady for me.”
The group suddenly faced her. Her
arms were pressed against her body as a length of fabric was wound around her. Around and around it went, until she was swaddled like a babe.
“Now, let’s be done with this bit of work, lads,” the laird muttered before her feet left the ground again.
It was all so simple, so quietly done. The Highlander hefted her over his shoulder with an ease she might have admired if the man weren’t abducting her. Clarrisa found herself straining to hear the sounds of pursuit, but there was nothing but the wind. It blew through the trees, rustling the leaves enough to cover the escape of her captors. The only sound that came at last were the soft footfalls of a horse. Her captor tossed her up and over the back of the beast without so much as a grunt.
He swung up behind her, and she watched him dig his heels into the underbelly of the horse to send it forward. It was as though the men blended together with the darkness, for there wasn’t a hint of hesitation from any one of them. Even the horses surged forward as though they were accustomed to nighttime rides.
Fate had a misplaced sense of humor for granting her the escape she’d longed for in the form of such men. She should have been afraid, but the truth was that she was too relieved to be free of James’s lust to feel anything else. Even the idea of going to the Highlands was losing its sting as she watched the tower grow smaller and smaller behind them.
But once it was gone, she shivered and dreaded just what fate awaited her at the hands of the MacNicols laird.
***
Her jaw ached.
Clarrisa worked her mouth open and closed a few times before she opened her eyes. The sun wasn’t truly risen yet anyway; darkness still surrounded her. Pain shot through her head, and she lifted her hand to rub at her forehead with a frown—she couldn’t recall what she’d done to injure herself. Her mouth felt drier than during a sweltering August day, and her memory returned with a clear recollection of how being gagged had felt. The thing was missing now, but it seemed the fabric had dried out her mouth.
“Ye sleep like a babe. Unconcerned, as though the world is a peaceful place. Maturity should have taught ye differently, but I suppose I cannae be expecting any royal offspring to know much about life’s harsher edges.”
