by Sandy Blair
Genny marched toward the back door. Behind her, Greer shouted, “Wait! You said you’d come with me. You promised!”
She’d always thought of Greer, who could memorize dances and mile-long ballads with ease, to be the brighter of the two of them but was now really beginning to wonder. “Aye, but that was before I learned we no longer had months to prepare but only hours.”
“But what of you?”
“I’m taking your place, Greer. I’m going with MacKinnon to Edinburgh.”
“What? But you can’t. You know nothing of court. You sound like a crow when you sing. You can’t dance.” She waved a frantic hand that took in Genny from head to foot. “And just look at you, Gen. You can don one of my gowns, but you’ll not be making a silk purse out of a sow’s—”
“Ouch! Look here, mistress! I’m not the one who spread my legs like some common slut for a man I knew could never marry me, but I am the only one who can get you out of this appalling situation.”
Her sister, blanching, staggered back as if slapped. “You call me a slut knowing we love each other?”
“You love him? Prove it! Cease fighting me at every turn, and protect his babe by teaching me on the way to Annan all that I need to know to pass for you.”
So I might survive long enough to bleed my courses before queen, God and country and prove beyond any doubt that you, dear sister, are not with child before running like a terrified hare for home.
God help me.
“A lion is known by the scratch of his claw.” ~ Old Scottish Proverb
Chapter Four
Kinghorn Castle
“Scotland has to be the most miserable place on earth.”
Yolande tugged her embroidered mantle close about her shuddering shoulders. Beyond her solar windows, an ashen sea churned beneath an equally dark and brooding sky.
Why anyone fought over this godforsaken country, much less chose to live here, was beyond her understanding. Not when there were glorious, sun-drenched places like Nice and Marseille in which to live. Even Paris, with its raw, drizzling winters, was preferable to this desolate country, with no decent roadways, no palatable wine and too few glazed windows.
She sighed. At least Kinghorn, the smallest of her husband’s twenty-six barbaric keeps, was easily heated, unlike drafty Edinburgh Castle in which she’d shivered continuously. Here, at least, she could cry in comfort.
Her courses had come yet again.
Alexander, who had proved himself fertile with his first wife, had done his husbandly duty by her on a weekly basis, so there could be no shifting of blame. The fault was hers and hers alone. And all would soon know it.
At her back, her ladies-in-waiting were doubtless casting worried glances in her direction as they spoke in hushed tones and continued to embroider delicate fluer-de-lis and petals on swaddling clothes for the infant that only she knew was yet to be. A child all expected to distance the Scottish throne from that of the English and permanently bind Scotland to her beloved France, a country impoverished by constant war and in sore need of allies.
“Your Highness?”
Yolande turned to find Evette Franchot, her cousin and dear friend, at her side. “Oui?”
As Evette leaned closer, the cauls holding her sable hair brushed Yolande’s cheek, and she caught the scent of lavender. “Mademoiselle Duval begs a word with you in private. She has news regarding Lady Armstrong.”
At the mention of her husband’s favorite paramour, the fine hairs stood on Yolande’s arms. Lord forgive her, but she’d hated that woman from first sight.
Tall, golden-headed Greer Armstrong, confident in her knowledge that she was the king’s favorite, had moved—nay, glided—about Edinburgh Castle as if the stronghold was hers but for the asking. As if she’d been born a Saxon princess instead of being the spawn of some landless knight. Adding insult, Yolande had been forced while in Edinburgh to sit night after night in the great hall at Alexander’s right hand while the whore sang one sanguine ballad after another like some gilded songbird…and her love-struck husband all but drooled in his lap.
“Please tell Mademoiselle Duval to meet me in the herb garden.”
There the ladies Campbell and Fraser, the Scot ladies-in-waiting who had been thrust upon her, would be hard-pressed to overhear anything Helene had to say.
She loathed spies but acknowledged their necessity. At court, information was often more valuable than gold.
Yolande faced her ladies-in-waiting and found all ten sitting with idle hands staring at her. She forced a smile. “Ladies, I have need for a breath of fresh air.” As they began to rise as one, she waved them back to their chairs. “Please stay and continue your work. I shall return in a short while.”
Outside, Yolande found the youngest of her ladies-in-waiting pacing in tight circles in the pathetic patch of walled ground their Scot cook had the audacity to call a garden. “What is it, Helene?”
Helene jerked in surprise, then dropped into a deep curtsy. “Your Highness, the wash maid we left behind in Edinburgh sent word that Lady Armstrong was seen retching near the stables before she left.”
“So?” The woman had imbibed too much wine. Served the whore right.
“In the morning, Your Highness, several days in a row.”
Yolande shook her head. Dear merciful God, no. The whore could not possibly be with child.
This could not be happening.
“Why am I just now learning of this? Lady Armstrong left Edinburgh a month ago.”
“Yes, but our maid wasn’t the one to spy Lady Armstrong retching. Another did.”
“Who?” How many knew, for heaven’s sake?
“A scullery maid spied her but said naught until early last morn when our wash maid offered to help her clean the great hall. They’d drunk the last of the night’s wine and were telling tales, as staff often do. The scullery maid, who’d witness Lady Armstrong’s many discomforts, apparently found it humorous that a highborn lady should find herself being unwed but with child as she herself once had.”
Merciful mother of God, why was it that every female in the realm could breed like a hare—save for herself, the queen upon whom so much depended? “How many know?”
“Only four, including yourself, Your Majesty.”
Only four? Dreading the answer, she asked, “Did either maid speculate on who the sire might be?”
Helene shook her head. “Not according to our wash woman.”
One blessing, at least.
Helene wrung her hands. “There’s more, Your Highness.”
“More?” What other horrendous news could there possibly be?
“Our wash woman formed a romantic liaison with one of the king’s guards. Last night he was unable to meet with her because he had to stand guard at the king’s solar in place of Sir Brett, whom the king has sent to the border”—she swallowed—“to fetch Lady Armstrong back to court.”
Yolande’s hands fisted as fury rose hot within her chest. Helene, apparently sensing her distress, scurried backward.
Yolande took a deep breath. “Fear not, Helene. I’ll not kill the messenger.” She wanted to kill someone else entirely.
As her mother had counseled, Yolande slipped off one of the many strands of pearls she always wore about her neck for moments like this, took the girl’s shaking hand in hers and spilled the lustrous gems into her frightened lady-in-waiting’s palm. “Thank you.”
“Oh no! Your Highness, I cannot possibly take—”
“You must, for you’ve done me a great service. And of course, you’ll not speak of this to anyone.”
Helene had the good sense to look aghast. “Never, Your Highness. My loyalty is to you and you alone.”
“Thank you. Now please join the other ladies while I ponder all you’ve told me.”
When Helene, pearls clutched in her fist, disappeared into the keep, Yolande gave in to the pain blooming in her chest and, folding at the waist, groaned aloud.
This cannot be happening.
Alexander had made her, his second cousin and a mere countess, into a queen for the sole purpose of garnering an heir. What was to stop him from dispensing with her now that another woman was in the process of providing him with what he desired most? Queens were well known for dying most unexpectedly from unknown causes when thrones were involved. What need had he now for her, Yolande?
None.
“Your Highness, are you all right?”
Yolande jerked upright. “Evette, you startled me. You must tread harder when approaching me.”
Her cousin grinned. “My apologies, Your Highness. Henceforth, I shall only stomp. Here. I worried you might catch your death and brought your cape.”
Yolande, chilled to the bone as much from the mention of death as the brisk wind coming off the sea, murmured her thanks as her cousin slipped the heavy fox pelt about her shoulders. “Evette, I need speak with Monsieur Montre. Please summon him to me here.”
Evette’s brow furrowed. “But you’re shaking with cold. Would you not be more comfortable meeting him inside?”
Yolande glanced over her shoulder at the sentries walking along the tall tower at her back. “Out here, the walls have fewer ears.”
Knowing better than to argue, her cousin heaved a sigh and headed for the keep.
Before Yolande could master the fear welling within her breast, she found her longtime confidant and guard striding toward her.
Dear Anton, whatever would she do without him?
Their bond had been forged on the day of her birth, when he’d been ordered to stand guard at her mother’s birthing-room door. But instead of hearing the lusty cries of a newborn which he was to report to her father, he’d heard a woman screaming, “Nooo!”
Alarmed, he’d charged into the room and found his countess weeping hysterically and the midwife holding her, a lifeless infant.
He’d snatched her from the midwife’s hands and, placing his mouth over hers, breathed life into her. And Yolande had cried for the first time.
Anton’s brown eyes and hatchet nose had been the first features she’d ever beheld. Not her mother’s, not the midwife’s, but his. And he’d had been at her side ever since.
While her mother taught her to pray, embroider and manage an estate, Anton had taught her to ride, curse and to know when a man lied or cheated at cards.
At thirteen years of age, when she’d developed tender feelings for a visiting diplomat’s son, she’d gone not to her mother but to Anton for advice. A man of few words, he told her, “My sweet lamb, a stiff cock has no conscience.” He then asked if she recalled why they’d placed a ring in the bull’s nose. When she nodded, he told her, “A ring is the key to controlling a man as well.” Laughing, he’d held up his right hand. “No ring.”
Today, at two score and nine, Anton was still as muscular and fit as he had been then, as any man half his age, and he still wore no ring. And here she was once again, in sore need of his advice on men.
“Countess—” He grinned at his lapse. “Your Highness, how may I be of service?”
“I’ve had some disturbing news…about Lady Greer Armstrong.”
“Ah. You’ve learned MacKinnon has been ordered to the border to fetch her back to Edinburgh.”
Not the least surprised he had his own spies at Edinburgh, Yolande nodded as she fought the tears burning at the back of her throat.
You’re a woman grown, for heaven’s sake. Not some frightened child. Act it!
He lifted her chin with a finger and looked deep into her eyes. “Oh, now, what have we here, lamb?”
Undone by the childhood endearment, she threw herself into his arms and began sobbing, her tears streaking his leather breast armor. When she finally managed to catch her breath, she stuttered, “That…that slut is with child, Anton. His. And…and I am not.”
There, she’d said it aloud. Yet the ache and fear remained.
“I see.” He held her, stroking her back in fatherly fashion while she cried out her pain in gasping, slobbering sobs.
“I wish… I wish…”
“She would disappear.”
She nodded while his massive chest rose and fell beneath her cheek. Yes. She wanted that woman gone.
“How many know?” he asked.
“That I’m not with child?”
“Yes.”
“Only you…and me.” She took a shuddering breath, relieved she no longer carried the shameful burden alone. Dashing the tears from her cheeks, she stepped out of his arms. “Evette may suspect, but I’ve been most careful to hide the evidence of my monumental failure in the fires I keep burning in the solar.”
His gaze shifted to the distant hills that footed the treacherous Grampian Mountains beyond. “Does His Majesty know his whore may be with child?”
“He never would have permitted her to leave Edinburgh if he had.”
“True.”
Yolande began pacing the frozen earth, which crunched and poked like brittle rushes beneath her doeskin slippers. “If he learns of it, I fear I’m a dead woman. Widowed, he would be free to marry her and have his legitimate heir.”
Montre grabbed her hand, bringing her to an abrupt halt. “Have no fear, lamb. This…inconvenience will be dispatched forthwith.”
“My dearest Anton.” Her lifelong friend and teacher would dispose of this threat. “But what of my husband? Won’t he grow suspicious when the wench and MacKinnon fail to return? I’ve done naught to mask my hatred for the woman.”
Anton remained silent for several minutes, then whispered, “He’ll have no reason to be suspicious of you if you send him a missive stating you believe yourself to be with child. Overjoyed with the prospect of a legitimate heir, he won’t spare a moment’s thought on the whore but will race here to be at your side, whereupon you must use every womanly wile at your disposal to keep him in bed until such time as you are with child. By the time he does give Armstrong a thought, he’ll be too content to care what happened to her.”
The wind shifted, bringing the sound of distant feminine laughter into the garden. Frowning, Anton studied the windows and battlements above them. Apparently satisfied they held no threat, he turned his attention back to her. “But bear in mind, MacKinnon knows this land and I do not. I’ll need time to track him. But most importantly, your husband has spies here and is doubtless aware of your current state of discontent. Before you can send your missive saying you think yourself to be with child, you must convince your court that you believe yourself to be so. You must appear happy and perhaps thoughtful—as if harboring a delightful secret—mayhap even act queasy in the morning, if you are to be believed and to remain blameless in Armstrong and MacKinnon’s disappearances.”
Yes, she could do this. What a wondrous plan.
Her nemesis would be dealt with in quiet fashion, while she remained safe and had time and opportunity to fulfill her destiny as Queen Consort of Scotland.
With her heart lighter than it had been in months, Yolande rose on tiptoes and kissed Anton’s scruffy cheek. “Bless you and God’s speed, my dear, dear friend.”
“A cottie stool cannot stand on two legs.” ~ Old Scottish Proverb
Chapter Five
Annan, Scotland
“No, no, no. Lady Campbell is Sir Lyle Ross sister’s sister-by-marriage, not his brother’s, and Lady Fraser is his cousin.” Greer huffed, then tugged on the woven girdle at Genny’s waist. “And you wear this lower…thus.”
Genny frowned at the ornate silver-and-black rope riding low on her hips. “But now the girdle will fall as I walk.”
Rolling her eyes, her sister took a step back. “You shan’t be tromping through fields in Edinburgh, Gen, but gliding across wooden floors. The girdle will stay put. And stop fiddling with that necklace. You’ll break it.”
“’Tis heavy.” Genny pushed up the cold jet crucifix suspended on large silver beads—doubtless a gift from the king—to relieve the pressure on the back of her neck. A weighty price, even for her deception.<
br />
“Aye, and most valuable, so do take care,” Greer growled and held out the delicate leather slippers she’d pulled from her satchel. “Now put these on, and we’re done.”
Genny snatched the foolish-looking pointy-toed shoes from her sister’s hands and settled on a three-legged cottie stool, the only seating in the stable’s storeroom. Seeking a night’s shelter for Greer in the nearby Bruce stronghold had been out of the question. Several within would have recognized her.
The air in the stable might hang heavy with the scents of moldering hay and dung, but no one would see them, and for two pence the smithy’s mistress had provided a coarse but clean blanket to place upon the rush pallet nestled in the corner, a pitcher of fresh water, a few slivers of mutton and a loaf of brown bread.
Greer, looking about, muttered under her breath, “How far we have fallen.”
“It could be worse.” Genny wiggled her cramped toes, surprised to learn her sister’s feet were apparently a tad smaller than her own.
Her sister snorted in derisive fashion and turned to stare out the chest-high window carved into the barn’s plastered wall. After a moment she murmured, “You’ll find no friends at court.”
Genny frowned. “But what of the ladies Campbell and Fraser?” The French ladies at court likely kept to themselves, but surely the Scotswomen—
“They were welcoming when I first arrived, before Alexander took notice of me. Then they grew distant and more so with each passing month.”
“I see.” Apparently her sister’s life at court hadn’t been a bed of flower petals any more than her life in Buddle had been. At least none at court would expect her to share confidences with them.
No one, that was, save the king. How she, an imposter, would deal with the philanderer she had yet to fathom, but deal with him she would. Aye, this deplorable situation her sister found herself in had more than one author.
Noticing the shadows had lengthened, Genny reluctantly rose. “I fear I must take my leave for Buddle. MacKinnon may decide to return early to check on you.”
