The Last Heiress

by Bertrice Small

  Chapter 2

  Elizabeth heard a servant going to answer the knocking, and moments later the Scot stumbled into her hall, shaking the snow from his cloak as he pulled it off. “Come to the fire, sir,” she beckoned him. “What brings you back to Friarsgate, and in such dangerous weather?” Tonight she did not have to ask. A servant was at the Scotman’s side with a large goblet of wine. “Drink,” Elizabeth said, “then sit and tell me. Albert, fetch a plate of stew for Master MacColl. He will be hungry.”

  Baen MacColl had accepted the goblet gratefully. His hand was shaking with the cold, and he wondered if he would ever be warm again. He drank half the goblet in a single gulp, and began to feel a faint warmth spreading up from his belly. Perhaps he would live after all. “Thank you, lady,” he said.

  “Sit down, sir. You can eat by the fire, for I suspect it will take both food and the heat of the flames before you are truly warm again.”

  He nodded. “Aye,” he said, briefly attempting to be polite, but just wanting to bask in the warmth of the hearth until he could feel his extremities again.

  Elizabeth understood, and so she quietly directed her servants to bring a small table for their guest. She took the large bowl of stew from Albert and set it before the Scot, putting a spoon into his hand as the serving man placed a loaf of bread and a large wedge of cheese before the guest. “Eat first, and we will talk afterwards,” Elizabeth said.

  Baen MacColl nodded gratefully and, crossing himself, quickly began to spoon the hot stew into his mouth as rapidly as he could. It was obvious he had not eaten in many hours. Did her mother not offer the messenger hospitality? Elizabeth wondered. How unlike Rosamund. Or perhaps the Scot had not reached Claven’s Carn at all. It was a very long ride. She watched, almost amused, as he tore off pieces of the bread, mopping up the gravy even as she had earlier. He took a knife from his belt and sliced himself several wedges of cheese, which he ate both separately and in combination with the bread. Finally, when every morsel had been eaten, Baen MacColl sat back with a gusty sigh.

  “You have a good cook, lady. I thank you for the supper,” he said.

  “Have you had enough?” she asked him. “It seems to me that it would take a great amount of food to fill up such a large man. I would not offer you poor hospitality.”

  He looked at her and smiled a slow smile. “You have no need to apologize for your board, lady. I am well fed.” And then the smile turned into a little grin as he said, “For now.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Very well then, Master MacColl. Now tell me why you have returned to Friarsgate. Did you not reach Claven’s Carn?”

  “Nay, but I did meet your mother, lady. She was out hunting with her lord. She opened the packet, and then said that while it was addressed to her, the message was not for her, as she was no longer the lady of Friarsgate. You are. So I turned about and came back, but the snow caught me. There was no place where I might shelter with my horse, and so I just kept riding until we reached your house.”

  “You were fortunate!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “The snow and the dark surely compromised your trail.”

  “I have a knack for tracking, lady. If I’ve been to a place once I can always find my way back no matter the circumstances,” he told her.

  “I’ll make up your bed space, sir,” Elizabeth said. “I hope you are not needed elsewhere, for you are going to be with us at least a week, if my weather sense is correct, and it usually is. This storm will last several days.”

  “What of your sheep?” he asked her.

  “Safe in their barns,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll not lose my new lambs to the wolves or the weather.” She stood up. “Continue to warm yourself. I’ve suffered that chill now gripping you. It goes right to the bone. When I have arranged your sleeping space I will bring you something that will remove the cold.” Then she hurried off.

  A fair and most competent lass, Baen MacColl thought as he watched her. He wondered where her husband was. He was a lucky man to have such a wife. She was a good manager, and a country man needed that kind of a helpmeet. He moved his chair closer to the fire and leaned forward, stretching his hands out to warm them. He was beginning to feel his toes again, and the stiffness was leaving his fingers. Well, if he must be stuck somewhere for a week this was not a bad place to be. The company was pleasant, the food good, and the bed space cozy.

  “Here. Drink this,” Elizabeth Meredith said, handing him a small pewter dram cup.

  The Scot took it from her hand, eyes widening as the aroma of whiskey touched his nostrils. He swallowed it down, and immediately was suffused with swift warmth that rose up from the pit of his stomach. He looked at her questioningly.

  “My stepfather is the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn. He thinks no house civilized without a barrel of whiskey,” Elizabeth explained. “I prefer my ale, or even wine, but whiskey does have its uses, doesn’t it?” Then she laughed. “More?”

  “Aye, please,” he answered her, looking up as she poured the whiskey from a decanter. Her hand was delicate, and he thought her skin very fair.

  His eyes were gray, Elizabeth noted. Gray beneath the thickest eyelashes and bushiest black brows she had ever seen. “I’ll leave the decanter,” she said, setting it down on the little table. Your bed space is ready, and the fire will burn all night.” Looking even briefly into those gray eyes had made her nervous, and she was surprised by her reaction. “Good night, sir.” She curtsied to him and then departed the hall.

  He watched her go, her nut-brown wool skirts swaying gracefully as she walked. When her glance had met his he had found himself startled, and his heart had jumped. Her eyes were hazel-green. The eyes, he had heard, were a mirror to the soul, and hers were certainly beautiful. But she was not for him, Baen MacColl knew. She was a lady with her own lands. He was the bastard of the master of Grayhaven. He didn’t even bear his father’s surname. MacColl meant son of Colin.

  His mother, Tora, had been fifteen when she had met the twenty-year-old Colin Hay, the master of Grayhaven. She was to marry an older cousin, a widower with two half-grown daughters. It was a good match for a cotter’s daughter, but Tora knew her cousin wanted a housekeeper, a cook, and someone to mother his children. She was foolish enough to want love. She was angry to have her life planned, and over before it had really begun. And then she had met Colin Hay while herding her father’s two cows out on the moor. He had looked down on her from his horse and smiled a slow smile.

  Colin Hay, a man whose charm was already legend in the region. Tora was easily seduced at that single meeting. But he had been tender and passionate, and afterwards she was ready to accept her fate because now she knew what love was. Then she had found herself with child from the brief encounter. Her father had beaten her severely, and her mother had wept with shame. But strangely Parlan Gunn, her blacksmith betrothed, had said he would have her anyway, but now there was a condition. Relieved, her family would have agreed to anything. Parlan Gunn was a hard man. He dictated that the child Tora carried must bear its father’s name, and its mother’s shame. He might have only daughters, but he would not give a stranger’s bastard his name. Tora, who well knew her seducer, would say only that her lover’s name was Colin. And so her son when born was called Baen MacColl. Baen meant fair. MacColl, son of Colin.

  It had not been an easy childhood. His mother had never conceived another bairn, and Parlan Gunn grew to hate her for it. He had wanted his own son. And he hated the handsome, healthy Baen. And the more he did, the more Tora protected and lavished all her love upon her lad. Baen’s stepsisters, taking their cue from their father, were mean and spiteful to the boy. He learned to evade them in order to avoid their vicious words—words he at first did not understand—and to elude their slaps and pinches. And then when he was twelve his mother grew very ill and was unable to leave her bed.

  Calling him to her side, she told him, “I hae ne’er told any who yer da is, my fair laddie, but now I must tell ye. Dinna remain here. When I am buried go to Grayhaven. Coli
n Hay, its master, is yer da, and ye look just like him but for yer eyes. Tell him my dying request was that he acknowledge ye and take ye in. He is a guid man, laddie. He never knew what his passion wi’ me bore.” And several hours later she had died.

  They had buried Tora Gunn on a hillside near their village. And early the next morning before any in the village were awake, Baen MacColl had slipped from away from the only home he had ever known and made his way to Grayhaven. Seeking out Colin Hay, he told him exactly what his mother had told him to say. The master of Grayhaven had looked at the boy and shook his head wonderingly. Then he smiled.

  “Aye, ye’re my get, and there is no denying it. Why did yer mam nae tell me she hae given me such a fine son? And she is dead now? Poor lass!” He turned to his third wife, Ellen. “ ’Twas before ye,” he explained.

  “Aye,” Ellen Hay said. “Ye’re a man for the lasses, and I knew it before I wed ye.”

  Baen MacColl had two younger half brothers, and an older half sister. While his stepmother was surprised by his sudden appearance, she had welcomed him warmly and treated him with kindness. He was given his own small chamber within his father’s house. His gentle half sister, Margaret, and Ellen Hay taught him manners. Meg had entered her convent the year after he came to Grayhaven. While she loved her father, Margaret Hay did not approve of his earthiness. She did not, however, hold Baen responsible for the behavior that had led to his birth.

  “But ye’re nae a cotter’s lad anymore, Baen,” she said in her quiet voice. “Ye must learn to eat and to behave like a man of good breeding.”

  And he had. He had learned how to read, and to write, and to do sums. He had learned how to use a sword, a dagger, and a staff. And when he had shown a good intellect, and that he was no simpleton, the master of Grayhaven began to consider what was to happen with this third son he had suddenly inherited. Would he do for the church? But Baen would not do for the church. He soon demonstrated that he had his father’s instincts for and charm with women. Colin Hay tried not to be too proud, and his stepmother just shook her head and laughed. She loved her man. And she loved his son.

  Baen liked the outdoors. When his eldest son had turned twenty, the master of Grayhaven gave him his own cottage and put him in charge of his flocks and his shepherds. And Baen was content with his father’s generosity. He considered himself fortunate and worked very hard. While he was the eldest he felt no jealousy toward his father’s heir, his half brother James. Baen was the bastard, and he understood the way of the world, for hadn’t Parlan Gunn and his daughters taught him his place? Colin Hay had wanted him to bear his surname, but Baen refused. He was proud to be the MacColl.

  His relations with his brothers had been easy from the start. As they grew older they rode and drank and wenched together. They gambled and won. Gambled and lost, but they always took care of one another. Colin Hay watched with satisfaction as his two legitimate sons and his bastard grew as close as if they had come from the same womb. The master of Grayhaven was relieved that there was no jealousy between his sons. Each had a place in his heart, and each knew his place in his father’s life.

  And his third wife, Ellen, mother to James and Gilbert, had taken Baen into her heart with her usual generosity and calm manner. Unable to have any more children after her two sons were born, she enjoyed this third boy and grew to love him, for he was so like his father. “Are there any more out there like him?” she teased her husband.

  “Not to my knowledge,” he had replied with a small grin.

  Ellen Hay had died just two years ago, and she was missed by all of her menfolk.

  And of his three lads Baen was the most like Colin Hay, but for Tora’s stormy gray eyes. It was in those eyes the master of Grayhaven saw the cotter’s daughter with whom he had once lain in the heather that summer so long ago. She had been a virgin that afternoon, and his eldest son had come from their passionate couplings on that single day. He thought it strange that after birthing such a strong lad that she had never had another child. Baen had told him that his mother’s marriage was an unhappy one, and that his stepfather had been cruel to her, that his daughters had neither respected nor loved her.

  “She was good to them,” Baen told his father, “yet they followed their da’s lead. In the end it was to their detriment, for none would have them to wife. They are sour lasses. Now they have no choice but to remain in their father’s house, but when he dies one day I know not what will happen to them, for there is no man to look after them.”

  The fire in the hearth crackled noisily, bringing Baen MacColl back to the present. Reaching for the whiskey, he filled the dram cup a third time, drinking it immediately down. Then, getting up, he walked to his bed space, pulled off his boots, loosened his garments, relieved himself in the bucket supplied for such activity, and climbed into his bed, yanking the coverlet up over his shoulders. He was such a big man he barely fit into the space.

  He lay quietly for a time, listening to the wind howling outside the house as the storm intensified. He had been on the road forever, it seemed, and he was weary, and he ached. Gradually the whiskey which had brought the warmth back into his big frame eased him into a dreamless sleep. When he finally awakened it was to the sounds of morning activity common to a household’s hall. He was silent for a time, knowing he must get up, but strangely reluctant to leave the cozy nest in which he lay. Finally, throwing off the coverlet, he climbed out of the bed space.

  “Good morning,” Elizabeth Meredith said from her place at the high board. “I wondered when you intended getting up. Half the morning is gone. Come and eat.”

  Baen straightened his clothing and pulled on his boots. He walked to where she sat waiting. “Half the morning gone?” he said.

  “Aye.” She smiled at him. “You were obviously very tired, sir. Sit next to me.”

  He joined her. “Has everyone eaten?” He was embarrassed.

  “Nay. My uncle and his secretary do not arise early as a rule, and then are served in their apartment,” she said. “He will be surprised to see you back.”

  “And your husband?” He had to ask.

  “Husband? I have no husband. I have never had a husband. Friarsgate is mine by right of inheritance, sir. I am the lady of Friarsgate,” Elizabeth explained.

  “Then why did you send me off to Claven’s Carn?” he asked her.

  “The packet you carried was addressed to Rosamund, the lady of Friarsgate, who is my mother,” Elizabeth explained. “Friarsgate was her inheritance, and my eldest sister, Philippa, was to be her heiress. But Philippa is a creature of the court, and married into the aristocracy. She did not want Friarsgate. Nor did my second sister, Banon, who is our uncle’s heiress to his estates at Otterly. But I did want Friarsgate, and so when I was fourteen my mother conferred these lands upon me and my descendants. I am Elizabeth Meredith, the lady of Friarsgate. When I saw my mother’s name on the packet I assumed it must be for her, although she is no longer the lady. But it had come from those strange to us in Scotland. They could not know of the changes here, and I am not Rosamund.”

  “Have you read the message yet?” he asked her. “Can you read?”

  “Of course I can read!” Elizabeth said indignantly. “Can you?”

  “Aye.” He began to spoon the oat stirabout in his trencher of bread into his mouth. The hunger was beginning to gnaw at his belly again.

  She poured him a goblet of ale. “It was too late last night to be bothered with reading your message,” Elizabeth said. “Do you know what is in the packet?”

  “Aye.” He reached for the cottage loaf and the butter. “Is that jam?” He pointed to a bowl near the butter.

  “Aye,” Elizabeth replied. “Strawberry.”

  He pulled the bowl over and, dipping his spoon in it, smeared the buttered bread with the jam, a smile of pure bliss lighting his features as he ate it.

  “Well?” she demanded of him.

  “Well, what?” He had finished his porridge, and was now filling the br
ead trencher with jam and devouring it.

  “What does the letter to the lady of Friarsgate say?” Elizabeth wanted to know.

  “I thought you could read,” he said, popping the last bit into his mouth.

  “I can! But if you know you can satisfy my curiosity before I read it in detail,” Elizabeth almost shouted. “I cannot believe you are that much of a dunce, sir.”

  He burst out laughing, and his laugher echoed through the hall, startling the servants who were busily cleaning. “My father wants to buy some of your Shropshires, if you are of a mind to sell any,” he said.

  “They are not for eating,” Elizabeth replied stiffly. “You Scots are much for eating sheep, I am told. I raise Shropshires for their wool.”

  He chuckled. “My father sells his wool.”

  “We weave ours into cloth here at Friarsgate,” Elizabeth told him.

  “You do not send the wool to the Netherlands?” He was surprised.

  “We send cloth to the Netherlands,” she told him. “Our Friarsgate blue cloth is much sought after. We regulate how much we will sell each year in order to keep the price high. The Hollanders have tried to copy it, but they have not succeeded. It is shipped in our own vessel, so we are able to control the export completely.”

  “This is very interesting,” he said seriously. “Who does the weaving?”

  “My cotters, during the winter months when there is no other work for them,” Elizabeth explained. “By keeping them busy they earn a bit of coin, and do not grow lazy. Come the spring they are ready to go into the fields again. In the old days there was nothing for the cotters to do in the dark days and long nights. They drank too much, grew irritable, and beat their wives or children. They often fought with other men, causing serious injuries to the otherwise able-bodied. Now everyone is busy the winter through.”