The King's Mistress

by Sandy Blair

  As she squinted against the wind searching for Britt, she couldn’t help but wonder how many of those murmuring below were truly grieving the loss of Alexander, the man. Britt, certainly. He’d guarded the man day and night for ten years. And Ross, as well, but how many others would truly missed this man in particular? She would wager more were grieving their loss of a ruler, a king. Particularly those beyond these walls who’d had only glimpses of Alexander in life and kenned him naught beyond those rare sightings and the tales and ballads they’d heard.

  And then there were those who were grieving not so much Alexander’s passing as they were grieving the passing of their own good fortunes and holds on power. She might be the novice at court, but she’d seen enough anxiety within the hall to suspect more than a few were. Which left the rest, those grieving as she did…for Scotland and its people. Would the transition to a regency government be a smooth one, or would greed overcome common sense?

  War.

  She pulled her sister’s cloak more tightly about her. With war came heartache and pain, widows and starving bairns.

  As if to echo her thoughts, the trumpets blasted, jarring those assembled on this cold, clear morning into dead silence. The archbishop, dressed in scarlet regalia and carrying a golden staff, stepped out of the chapel. Behind him followed eight pallbearers carrying the gold-and-red-draped casket of their king. Spying Britt’s jet-black hair, she brushed the tears from her cheeks. She had to believe he would survive whatever was to come, and so would she and those she loved.

  As pipes commenced their moaning, those wielding the most power in Scotland led the processional through the gates with their standard-bearers before them. Ever so slowly, the rest followed, the last being those bearing their fallen leader, and behind the casket, the queen and her guard.

  Gen watched until Britt had passed through the gates, then turned toward the keep. She had one more thing to do this day while the queen was otherwise occupied. She had to return what was by all rights Her Highness’s. The silver necklace.

  Flanked by her own guards, Yolande, her rosary beads hanging slack in her hands, could do naught but watch the men bearing her husband to his last resting place pass through the gates without her.

  Blocking her path stood four of MacKinnon’s men with their lances crossed.

  Fear blooming in her chest, she raised a hand. Without a word, Duval marched forward, spoke with the guards, then returned to her side, looking as confused as she felt.

  “Your Highness, he says ’tis unseemly and unhealthy for the wife to follow beyond the gate. Wives must prepare for the dairdgie.”

  “What, pray tell, is that?”

  He shrugged. “Some sort of feast.”

  “But…” She looked about in panic in hopes of finding someone who understood the heathens, who could make sense of this madness.

  “Your Highness, may we be of assistance?” The ladies Fraser and Campbell stood at her side. Lady Fraser, apparently noting her mounting distress, immediately said, “Oh dear, there’s no cause for alarm, Your Highness. Look about you. We too must remain.”

  For the first time, Yolande truly did look at those both near and far. She was surrounded entirely by women. The only men about were the guards. “But I’m his wife. His queen. Surely…?”

  Under her breath, Lady Campbell muttered something about Ross in their barbaric tongue. Already at the breaking point learning the whore was not with child, that she’d not get her hands on the babe she so desperately needed, still furious over what befell Anton, Yolande snapped, “In French.”

  Lady Campbell dipped in a quick curtsy. “My apologies, Your Highness. I just said Ross should have explained our traditions to you days ago…so as not to upset you like this.”

  Beside her, Lady Fraser said, “Your Highness, our customs dictate that only men attend a burial. That we women remain behind and prepare the after-funeral banquets for the liege lords and the bread and alms to be given to the poor upon the men’s return.”

  Looking from one Scotswoman to the other, Yolande couldn’t decide whether they’d just sprung some sort of elaborate trap or not. God, she missed Anton’s council. He wouldn’t have had to guess. He would instinctively know.

  As if reading her mind, Lady Fraser held out a velvet-draped arm. “Your Highness, there is naught to fear. Come to the gate so you might see for yourself.”

  Yolande placed a tentative hand on her lady-in-waiting’s outstretched wrist. As they approached the guards, Lady Fraser said, “Step aside so Her Highness may have a clear view.”

  When the men did as bid, Lady Fraser whispered, “See below? Only women and children now mill about. All the men now accompany their liege.” She pointed to the long processional line snaking north. “Some men will by necessity return by gloaming, but most will follow the processional all the way to the cathedral.”

  True enough, there wasn’t a man to be seen in the village. Greatly relieved, feeling her heart slow, Yolande murmured, “In Scotland is this always so when a man dies…or just upon a king’s death?”

  “In small villages, wives often follow the coffin as far as the cemetery gate, but never are they allowed beyond it. Some believe evil spirits will corrupt our fragile souls, whilst others believe we might go mad or die of grief at sight of the open grave. Your Highness being with child, the Privy Council is being most cautious.”

  “And what do you believe?”

  Lady Fraser leaned close and whispered, “I believe men use funerals as an excuse to get drunk as lords, but, wishing us to remain ignorant of this fact so we will not harp, they make use of superstitions to keep us home.”

  “Ah.” Given the rate at which the men had recently emptied the castle’s cellar of wine casks—many of which having been part of her dowry and intended to last for years—Yolande had no doubt whatsoever that Lady Fraser was right in her assumptions. “So what do we do now?”

  “We use this time to see that the bread gets baked and make pouches for the coins we shall collect and the lieges, in their largess, will toss to the poor who come to the gates.”

  Yolande heaved a sigh. “Which won’t be for days yet.”

  Exhausted from the hours of kneeling in prayer and emotionally drained, she turned her back on the distant processional and headed toward the keep, her court in tow like dutiful goslings following their goose. As the doors were opened before her, she placed a hand to her traitorous and again bleeding womb. “Lady Fraser, I need to retire. This babe takes much from me. Please tell the others I wish them to remain below and do whatever they wish…need to do. I shall join them later. And thank you. You’ve been most kind.”

  Smiling, Lady Fraser dipped in a curtsy. “Rest well, Your Highness, and God’s blessings upon you.”

  Leaving her court in the great hall, Yolande didn’t feel the least blessed taking the stairs to her apartment. She had to retire to Kinghorn forthwith to see to Anton, to garner his council, and to hell with these heathens’ practices. And should any dare to question her, she would simply state it was imperative she start her lying-in, for a change a most convenient lie.

  For heaven’s sake, which of these chests holds the witch’s jewelry? Genny, having gone through eight chests, stared at the dozens more piled shoulder-high about the queen’s solar. Never had she ever imagined so few women owning so much.

  Well, she’d best keep looking since she couldn’t leave the necklace lying about. The queen, spying it, would immediately ken Genny had been nosing about the room. The woman was angry enough with her as it were. Only if she failed to find the jewelry chest would she toss the crucifix into one of the chests and pray whichever lady owned it proved honest.

  Spotting a silver-trimmed chest in the corner that looked promising, Genny wormed her way through the maze and knelt before it. She raised the latch and lifted the lid, only to freeze, hearing someone enter the adjoining presence chamber.

  Oh, please, Saint Bride, please let it be only a maid.

  The presenc
e chamber door closed with a soft thud, shutting out what noise came up the stairwell, and the footfalls grew louder, came into the solar. Gen’s throat went bone dry. Then the solar door closed. Genny’s breathing went ragged. She could think of no reason for a maid to close the door. Worse, she couldn’t escape without opening it.

  Fabric rustled and what sounded like light chain tinkled to her right, a chest lid squeaked, then thudded closed, fabric again rustled, then footsteps sounded again as if hurrying toward the fireplace. Praying she’d find only a lady-in-waiting, preferably Lady Campbell, and that the person’s back would now be toward her, Genny rose ever so slightly and peered betwixt the chests.

  Heart hammering, she gaped at Yolande de Dreux’s back as she stood before the fire.

  The saints preserve her! And what was that in her hand?

  Dear God! Not believing her eyes, Gen rose just as Yolande threw the evidence of her monumental lie into the fire. “So, we both bleed?”

  At the sound of Gen’s voice, Yolande de Dreux spun and, seeing Genny, blanched to the color of whey. Propelled by righteous indignation, Genny came out from behind the chests. Her Highness’s gaze darted to the fire and the smoldering evidence of her monthly courses. When her hand shot out, reaching for the poker, Gen hissed, “Back away or I’ll scream walls and the truth down around you.”

  Her Highness, taking her at her word, turned to stone; then her gaze shot to the door, in an obvious quandary as to what to do next. Finally she took a step back, and Genny snatched the poker from its hook and knocked the bloody wad from the flames and onto the hearthstones.

  Cringing, Yolande asked, “What are you going to do?”

  Genny was sorely tempted to let the witch stew like an old pullet above hot coals, but thought better of it. Her Highness’s guard was only a breath away. “Keep your secret.”

  The queen shook her head as if to clear it. “Why?”

  Genny ignored the question. “I still can’t believe this. Here you are playing the poor grieving widow, whilst all this time you’ve been lying to the entire country.” Genny flung out her arms. “I’ve been on the receiving end of your wrath on two occasions and suffered for it. I dare not even ponder what else have you may have done.”

  Yolande put a hand to her throat. “Again, I ask why?”

  “Why? Unlike you, you conniving bitch, I happen to care about Scotland.” She took a deep, steadying breath in the hopes of controlling her rage. “I shall keep your secret only because it buys time. None within the realm want Edward of England to gain control. Without your babe, war is assured, make no mistake about that, but so long as the Privy Council thinks an heir is forthcoming, none will dare make a move.” Britt would remain safe, as would her sister and her bairn…at least for a while.

  Yolande de Dreux, squaring her shoulders, clasped her hands before her. “As you lust.”

  “If that were the case,” Gen snarled, “you would indeed be carrying the king’s heir, and all this would be naught but a nightmare.” She reached into her pocket and pulled forth the silver necklace Greer so prized. “I came into this chamber to return this to you.”

  She held the necklace out, but Yolande, looking at the necklace as if it were a cow flap, shuddered and took a step back.

  “Fine.” Genny shrugged, pocketed it and headed for the door. Her sister could melt it down for species, for all she cared.

  Behind her, Yolande said, “Before you take your leave, I’ve one more question.”

  Gen stopped on the threshold. “Yes?”

  “Why is it that women like you can never find men of their own? Why is it your lot are only drawn to married men?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You understand me. I’ve seen the way MacKinnon looks at you and you at him.”

  Something clamped about Gen’s heart, taking her breath away. The once solid floor beneath her shifted. Reaching for the door frame to steady herself, she asked, “Are you saying Britt MacKinnon is married?”

  “Ah, from the look on your face, I gather you did not know.” Chuckling to herself, Yolande turned and looked out the window. “Good-bye, Lady Armstrong.”

  “A man can survive distress, but not disgrace.” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

  Chapter Fifteen

  The queen’s laughter followed Genny into the corridor, where she had to grasp the stair’s rope railing with both hands to keep from falling headlong down the steps.

  Britt was married.

  Nay. Yolande de Dreux was a liar! Hadn’t the witch proven that time and again?

  In the great hall, she would find Lady Campbell…and learn the truth.

  Britt could not be married. He wouldn’t have kissed her, much less made love to her, if he was. He kenned good and well how she felt about adultery. They’d spoken often enough about it on the way here. For God’s sake, he’d wiped the tears from her cheeks as she’d spoken about Greer and her disdain for the king.

  The witch lies!

  She only said that because she had no other means by which to lash out and hurt me.

  She lied.

  Aye, she lied.

  But mayhap the witch just misunderstood our custom of handfasting. That must be it. Handsome as he was, Britt could well have been handfast, then terminated the relationship. Aye, that must be it.

  Finally reaching the first-floor level, Genny stopped, took a deep breath to steady her racing heart and dashed the tears from her cheeks. She would not make a spectacle of herself. She kenned in her heart—in every fiber of her being—that Britt was a good and honorable man. She would keep that firmly in mind when she questioned Lady Campbell. So she might laugh when the woman confirmed what Genny already kenned to be true.

  Composure partially restored, she squared her shoulders and glided as Greer was wont to do into the great hall, where she found Lady Campbell in conversation with Lady Fraser.

  Noticing her approach, Lady Campbell smiled for a brief moment before her expression grew serious. To Lady Fraser, she said, “Please excuse me for a moment.”

  She then rose, took Gen by the arm and guided her toward the far end of the hall. Once out of everyone’s hearing, she whispered, “Whatever is wrong? You’re as pale as snow.”

  So much for her putting forth a brave face. “I apologize from disturbing you, but I need to ken if…” There was no tactful way to ask. “Is Britt MacKinnon married?”

  Lady Campbell’s mouth gaped open; then she looked away. “Uhmm…oh dear.”

  Oh good God above, ’tis true.

  Genny’s legs turned to liquid beneath her. As the air left her chest, only Lady Campbell’s quick wits and strength kept her from hitting the floor.

  The woman eased her onto the nearby stool, then drew up another and sat beside her. With an arm about her waist, she whispered, “Take a breath, dear.”

  Genny tried. She truly did, but the bright flashes dancing before her eyes wouldn’t stop and no air would come. A dark, thick pain now lurked where her heart should beat.

  In her ear, Lady Campbell growled, “Genny Armstrong, you are better than this. Do as I say before others take note. Open your mouth and breathe.”

  Gen opened her mouth, and air whooshed in on a gasping keen.

  “That’s the good lass. Now again.”

  Genny tried once more. Air rushed in, the bright flashes dissolved, and the pain within her chest eased a wee bit. Slowly she straightened and was able to hold herself upright of her own accord.

  Apparently satisfied with her progress, Lady Campbell loosened her hold and whispered, “Now tell me what all this is about.”

  Genny managed to choke out the tale of her and Britt’s relationship and what the queen had told her.

  At her side, Lady Campbell sighed. “I had hoped after speaking with you that your and MacKinnon’s liaison was more of the romantic but chaste sort…like those so many at court seem to be dabbling with these days.”

  “Unfortunately, nay.” She never would have lain with
him had she kenned the truth. “How long has he been married?”

  Lady Campbell thought for a moment. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. He’s been married to Cassandra some ten years now.”

  Cassandra, the very woman Britt had claimed he’d loved and who had lied to him. And married ten years ago. Genny’s wee hope for him walking away from an ill-fated handfasting shattered.

  Dreading the answer but needing the final piece of the puzzle, she asked, “Have they many bairns?”

  “That I do not know.”

  But they most probably did after ten years of marriage, which would explain Cassandra remaining on Skye…to tend hearth and family.

  Britt MacKinnon had certainly done a masterful darg of keeping his personal life away from court a secret from her. And how many other lies had he told her?

  Lady Campbell reached into the tapestry bag at her feet. “Here.” She handed Genny a thick pile of cloth strips. “I spoke with Evette as I collected these for you. Within moments, the queen was informed you are not with child.”

  Genny buried them in her pocket. So, her mission was now completed. Her sister and bairn would be safe to live out their lives as they chose, and none save a few would be any the wiser that the bairn was Alexander’s heir apparent.

  And she had no reason to remain.

  Gen rose on shaking legs, and Lady Campbell reached for her hand. “Where are you going?”

  “I need some air, some time alone to think.”

  “As you lust. I’ll be here should you need me. And, dear, please keep in mind that MacKinnon is a good man. I’m sure he’ll have a very reasonable explanation for all this upon his return.”

  She mustered a smile. “I’m sure he will.”

  But she wouldn’t be here to hear it.

  He’d done the unthinkable. He’d turned her into what she most loathed. An adulterer.

  She managed to cross the hall without stumbling and carefully took the stairs down to the bailey, where the high winds and castle life whipped about her as if all was still right in the world, as if her life hadn’t just crumbled to dust. At the stable, she hailed a groom.