The King's Mistress

by Sandy Blair

  “I pray you have the right of it.”

  “I do.”

  “So who is Lady Margaret? I don’t recall Greer mentioning her.”

  Should he tell her? Aye, better Gen learned the truth now rather than discover it on her own later. God only knew what she’d say. “She’s one of the king’s mistresses.”

  “What?” She twisted in the saddle to look up at him. “Nay, that cannot be. He’s told Greer he loves her.”

  Ack, poor woman. “I imagine he tells all his mistresses such.” Thinking to ease the blow, he added, “But he does hold your sister in the highest regard.” Much to Britt and Her Highness’s annoyance.

  Looking aghast, she asked, “How many mistresses are there?”

  “Six, to my knowledge.”

  “Six.” She stared at him for a moment, then faced forward. “I suppose you of all people should know.”

  Suspecting she’d have gladly killed the messenger had she the wherewithal, he whispered, “I’m truly sorry, Gen.” When she remained mute, he tilted her chin so he might better see her face and found her magnificent blue eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Ack, why do you cry?”

  “Greer is an even greater fool than I ever imagined.”

  He brushed a tear from her cheek. “Love can make fools of us all, Gen.” It certainly had made a fool of him.

  “But he lies…just as our father did. And she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see it!”

  “Aye, he lies, but you can use that knowledge to your advantage.”

  Why he felt compelled to comfort her or, for that matter, knew to his bones that he’d do all in his power to keep her from His Majesty’s clutches, he couldn’t say. She regularly annoyed him beyond speech.

  After silently brooding for what felt like hours, she asked, “Do all men lie when they tell a woman they love her?”

  “Nay.”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  “Once…a long time ago.”

  She looked up at him, her brow furrowing. “What happened?”

  “She lied.”

  Then tore my heart out.

  With Edinburg Castle looming ever larger, Genny tried to focus on her upcoming trials but instead kept ruminating over Britt’s admission of having loved and lost ages ago, although why this should be the case, she couldn’t for the life of her imagine. She hadn’t kenned him at the time. Nor did she ken the woman in question. But still her questions persisted.

  How could a woman not return Britt MacKinnon’s love? He was exceedingly handsome and stronger than any man Gen had ever beheld. He was intelligent and had proven himself an able warrior. And thank God for that, or she’d be dead. As Captain of the King’s Guard, he also had status and the wherewithal to provide for a family. Aye, and he laughed. Something she’d rarely seen men do.

  Better yet, even when furious, he kept a civil tongue—and God kenned she tested him often enough to know. Oh, he glared and threatened, but he’d done her no serious harm…although he could have, and had, by his own admission, given serious thought to it.

  And he smelled wonderful. And his kiss…

  She sighed. Just recalling the feel of his lips on hers made her middle waver and her heart thud erratically. Aye, there had to be something terribly wrong with that woman.

  Unable to stand not kenning a moment longer, she asked, “What was her name?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman who lied to you.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  She decided to be honest. “So I might kick her in the shins should our paths cross…on your behalf, of course.”

  Chuckling, he brushed a loose strand from her forehead and kissed her temple, sending warmth coursing through her limbs. “I thank you for the thought, Gen, but you shan’t have chance to meet.”

  “Then what harm is there in you telling me her name?” She’d have no peace until she kenned at least that much.

  He was quiet for a long moment, then muttered, “Cassandra.”

  Hmm, a witch named Cassandra. “Thank you.”

  “Enough about her. Tell me again how you proceed to the queen’s apartments.”

  They’d entered Edinburgh, were now trotting toward the steep roadway which led to the formidable castle. To her right and left stood dozens upon dozens of stone and plaster and wattle cottages. Ahead, some structures were an amazing three stories high, just as Greer had described. Underfoot scampered stray pullets and tatter-eared dogs with tails tucked betwixt their legs. To her right, a caged goose honked in alarm at their quick passing. A black-as-night cat eyed them from atop a stack of ale casks. Cows lowed in plaintive fashion, and doors slammed. Metal screeched, and an unseen woman keened, “God preserve us!” Cattle dung made the going slick, and she wished Britt would slow before his destrier ran over someone or lost its footing, but then the stench of so much life and death in one place was overwhelming, so she said naught.

  “Gen, have you forgotten already?”

  “Forgive me. ’Tis just so much here to take in all at once.” Ahead, a door opened, and three giggling bairns spilled into the roadway. “I enter the great hall, walk its length, then climb the stairs I’ll find behind a hunt tapestry. On the third level, I go through the doorway to my left. Then through that chamber and into the next, and I’m there. But won’t you be accompanying me?”

  “Nay, I’ve been long gone and must tend to my duties.”

  “And the king? When can I expect to be summoned?”

  “I’ve no way of kenning how long he’ll remain at Kinghorn with the queen, but the moment he returns, I’ll bring Montre’s treachery to his attention. Only after he’s dealt with that problem will he think to summon you.”

  The saints preserve her. Their battle of wits was about to begin. But then she had months of pent-up fury and new insight into Alexander’s true character as weapons. No man in his right mind would dare try to bed an irate mistress who kenned all that she now did. Not if he had hopes of keeping his poke of sweetmeats intact.

  “We’re here.”

  Genny looked about. Sometime during her ruminations, Britt had veered off what he called the high road, and they’d entered a short mews which ended at a large stone-faced building and stable. The place was a shambles, yard unkempt, shutters listing. “Where are we?”

  “’Tis the hostel of a discreet friend.”

  “And why are we here?” Good heavens, even this place’s cat had a broken tail.

  “The castle walls have ears.” He dismounted, reached for her waist and set her on her feet. “Here the king can tend to Montre in privacy, should he choose, and none will be any the wiser.”

  He unleashed their captive and hefted him onto his shoulder. Montre, apparently awake and listening, suddenly kicked, driving a knee into Britt’s injured side.

  “God’s teeth!”

  As Genny gasped, Britt dug his fingers into Montre’s thighs, then heaved, whereupon their captive fell, headfirst, onto hard-packed earth and went limp.

  Genny stared at Britt’s side, praying she’d not find fresh blood. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Britt grabbed Montre by the ankles. “Knock on the door and roust Angus MacLean whilst I haul this bastard into the stable.”

  Still not sure what on earth Britt was about, Genny knocked on the weathered hostel door. Were it up to her, Montre would be hanging from a tree, and that would be the end of that.

  Before she could raise her hand to knock again, the door whipped opened and a mop-headed woman with bright red cheeks stuck her head out. Squinting against the sunshine, she asked, “Aye, what do you want?”

  “Good morn’, mistress. Sir Britt MacKinnon wishes to speak with Sir Angus.”

  “Now ’tis Sir Angus, is it?” She laughed in deep, throaty fashion before pulling back into the cottage and shouting, “Wake you, Angus! MacKinnon needs you.” A gravelly voice grumbled in response, and the woman, grinning, stepped out into the sunshine, wearing naught but a scant gauze tunic of r
ed, which did naught to mask her ample breasts and thighs to any who cared to look. Which Genny certainly did not, thank you very much. Dear God above. The woman was a whore.

  “So where’s that handsome devil?” The woman looked about. “Britt? Yoo-hoo, Britt!”

  She calls him by his Christian name? How so? What was this…this…sloth to him—a knight of girth and sword? Shocked speechless, Genny reluctantly pointed to the stable. The woman, grinning, hastily fluffed her hair and her breasts, then, hips swaying, headed for the stable. Outraged for reasons she cared not to think about, to depths she dared not plunge, Genny stomped after her.

  Inside the stable, she came to an abrupt halt, finding only a half dozen horses. As her eyes adjusted to the mottled light streaming through the wall slats, she listened. Hearing Britt’s unmistakable laugh and then a feminine giggle, she strode the length of the barn and found naught but a back wall lined with casks.

  Now where could they have gone? Hands on her hips, she surveyed the stalls. This didn’t make sense.

  Behind her, a man said, “And who might you be?”

  Genny, a hand at her throat, spun and blinked at the barrel-chested man. “Lady Armstrong, friend of Sir Britt MacKinnon.”

  “Humph. I’ve heard tell of you.”

  Not kenning if that was good or bad but suspecting the latter from the man’s narrow-eyed countenance, Genny murmured, “Sir Britt came in here, as did your lady, but I can’t find either of them.”

  The man’s gaze shifted to Genny’s breasts as he shouted, “MacKinnon, the lady wants you!”

  Before she could reprimand him for leering, two rows of casks piled shoulder-high at her back moved as one. Startled, she jumped back. Seeing Britt emerge, she blew through her teeth. As the whore followed, Genny muttered, “A secret room. How clever.”

  But why would a hosteller need such? And what had these two been doing in the room that had both of them laughing in such fashion? Naught good, of that she was sure, given the woman’s dress and Britt’s red-tinged ears.

  Humph!

  Not sure what she expected but fearing she’d find a pallet, she peered through the opening and saw several sets of shackles and yards of chain hanging from thick timbers. In the middle, she spied Montre, his battered face now uncovered, his arms secured behind a center post. Her annoyance vanished at the sight, and she shuddered. There was no need to ask if the room had been used as a prison on other occasions. Dark splatters mottled the walls and posts.

  Britt placed a hand at her waist. “Lady Armstrong, you’ve met Hildy. May I introduce Angus MacLean, a trusted acquaintance of many years and owner of this fine establishment.”

  She pulled her gaze from the chamber of horrors and managed to muster a smile and quick curtsy for the hosteller. “’Tis a pleasure.” Lord, lies were all but tripping off her tongue of late.

  “My lady.” The hosteller tugged his forelock, then turned his attention to Britt. “How long will his nibs be with us?”

  Britt shrugged. “Depends on the king. A week at most.”

  Frowning, MacLean shoved the secret door closed and then kicked hay before it, masking the drag marks. “You’ve not heard, then?”

  Britt scowled in turn. “Heard what?”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but the king is dead, MacKinnon. Went over the cliff near Kinghorn, they say.”

  “Nay!” Genny gasped for air as her knees buckled.

  “Three that come unbidden—love, jealousy and fear.” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

  Chapter Nine

  Nay, his king could not be dead. Alexander was only four and forty and an excellent horseman.

  Realizing Genny was sliding to her knees, Britt wrapped a tight arm about her shoulders and hauled her upright. Why did she keen? She felt no love for the man. If she felt anything, ’twas most likely loathing.

  Unable to think with his canny friend eyeing him, Britt signaled to MacLean to leave. Without a word, his friend grabbed Hildy by the arm and led her into the hostel.

  The moment the door closed, Genny sobbed, “Oh dear Lord, Britt. What are we going to do? Greer’s babe is now an heir. An heir! Dear God above and the saints preserve him. He’ll never be safe now.”

  Britt pulled Genny into his arms. Brushing the tears from her cheeks, he whispered, “Nay, you’re here to prove there is no bairn for others to fear.”

  “But…but how? Without the king’s protection, how can I escape the queen’s vengeance until such time as I do prove it? She’s already tried to kill me—Greer—once and did so knowing she risked Alexander’s wrath. What’s to stop her now?”

  A problem to be sure. “I vowed to keep you safe, and I shall.”

  She pushed off his chest and, wringing her hands, began to pace. “You’ll have no choice but to do her bidding, and if she bids me imprisoned—”

  “Genny, stop.” When she did, he forced a smile. “Do you trust me?”

  “Aye, I suppose.”

  “You suppose?” He cursed in vivid French, his native tongue being most lacking at moments like these.

  Here he’d lost control of his life sometime during the night when his careless king had charged over a precipice and all because of her, and she supposed she trusted him? “Christ’s blood, woman! If it weren’t for me, you’d be under the sod of truth as we speak! Two men are dead, Genny, at my hand. Not yours. Mine.”

  “Augh, ’tis true. I’m sorry, so, so sorry… I didn’t mean—” A wretched sob shook her.

  Oh God, he was acting a wretched ass taking his anger out on her. He pulled her into his arms. Aye, he’d lost his king and would ready for war, but she’d lost not only her king but now feared the loss of her sister and the babe. “Nay, Genny, I’m the one who should be sorry. Hush now.”

  In hopes of reassuring her, of needing comfort himself, he hooked a finger beneath her chin. Her lovely face, now mottled red, lifted, and he kissed her as he’d wanted to do since kissing her behind the boulders but out of necessity had sworn never to do again. He hadn’t the right.

  He wasn’t free.

  As his tongue swept past her full, sweet lips and into the warm confines of her mouth, she groaned. His heart soared. Aye, lass, you ken that I need reassurance as well, don’t you? To know that all is not lost. That the sun shall rise on the morrow. That men and women will eventually cease their weeping and new lives will again be born. That my beloved Scotland will endure this tragedy.

  With his arms about her, he staggered back a step and hit a wall. His hands swept down her lithe back, settling on fine hurdies. He pressed her hips so she might feel his bone-deep need for her through her layers of skirt. As if in answer, she groaned in that soft purr that was hers alone.

  Dear God, why hadn’t I met you years ago? Had he, his life would have been ever so different.

  Reluctantly, he ended the kiss and whispered, “Your sister and her bairn will be safe. We have Alexander’s granddaughter, the infant Margaret, Princess of Norway.”

  She sniffled as she traced his lips with a shaking finger. “Aye, but the infant is betrothed to England’s Prince Edward. Our people would rather Greer’s bastard than let Scotland fall into English hands—some will kill her to get him—and well we both ken it.”

  Aye, civil unrest could be but a heartbeat away, but then her sister’s babe wasn’t the only possible bastard. Alexander had been of an age where there could well be fully grown adult males crawling out of the woodpile anxious to lay claim. He heaved a sigh, reluctant to let his arms fall from her, but did and straightened. “We need go.”

  Finding the castle gate open but the portcullis down, Britt cursed, then yelled up to the sentry, “’Tis MacKinnon! Raise the gate and be quick about it!”

  “Oh, aye, my lord.”

  Immediately, shouted orders were issued, gears ground, and the huge spikes began to rise. Britt kicked his mount forward, and Genny, on her gray, stiffened at his side as they entered the bailey and were surrounded by dozens of heavily armed men
. He could only imagine her distress as the gate ground down, trapping her within Edinburgh’s massive walls.

  He quickly dismounted and reached for her waist. “’Twill be all right. Just hie to the queen’s apartment and stay there until I come to you.”

  He waited until Genny made it safely into the keep before turning his attention to his squire, whose hands already gripped Britt’s mount’s reins. “How go you, Ian?”

  “They brought in the king this morning.” Tears filled the lad’s eyes. “He’s dead, sire.”

  Britt, still not able to believe it himself, patted Ian’s bony shoulder as he scoured the bailey for his second in command. “We’ve weathered worse, lad, and will do so again. Now, can you tell me where I might find Tall Angus?”

  Ian pointed toward the armory. “Yon.”

  Above him, a guard shouted to those manning the gate, “Ross coming!”

  A moment later, Lyle rode in, he and his mount looking worse for wear. He dismounted, asked his squire a question, then, scowling, strode toward Britt. “Glad you’re back.”

  “What the hell happened?” Britt’s hands itched to throttle someone.

  “I have no notion beyond what I told you earlier. He received the queen’s missive, then rode hell-bent for Kinghorn. When his guards reached the queen and learned His Majesty never arrived, they rode back, and that’s when one of the guards spotted His Majesty’s mount floating in the surf. The rest you know.”

  Thundering hooves drew their attention to the gate once again. Spying the Campbell and Douglas chiefs riding in with their entourage, Britt blew through his teeth. “Bad news travels fast.”

  “I had no choice but to send word out immediately. The rest of the Privy Council should arrive fast enough.”

  God help them all. “And the queen?”

  Lyle motioned for Britt to follow him into the keep. “She’s been notified.”

  “How did she take the news?”

  “She fainted dead away, according to the messenger. God only knows when she’ll be well enough to travel.”