The King's Mistress

by Sandy Blair

  “Please saddle my gray.”

  The ruddy-cheeked lad doffed his cap. “Aye, my lady. I’ll summon your guard as soon as ’tis done.”

  “No need. I’m merely going there”—she pointed to the tallest building she could see in the village below—“on a mission for Her Highness. I shan’t be but a moment before returning.”

  Frowning, the lad scratched under his cap. “Are ye sure, m’lady? MacKinnon said you’re always to have—”

  Damn MacKinnon and his edicts. “He meant should I travel any distance, which I shan’t be.”

  The lad shrugged. “If you’re sure, m’lady.”

  “I am.” Sure as she had ever been about anything in her life.

  The moment the lad had Silver ready, Genny mounted and headed her gray toward the gatehouse. Relieved the portcullis had yet to be lowered, she sat proud and smiled as she approached the guards, as if her leaving were perfectly normal. It worked. They smiled in turn and let her pass unchallenged. Heads would doubtless roll when Britt learned of it, but then that wasn’t her concern.

  She traveled down the high road at a leisurely gait, knowing the guards watched. The moment she rounded the brew house which blocked the guards’ view of the road, she kicked Silver into a trot, anxious to get to MacLean’s before Lady Campbell discovered her missing and sounded the alarm.

  The moment she reached the hostel, she dismounted, tethered Silver to the nearest post and raced up the stairs to Hildy’s room. Britt’s words crashed to mind as she stared at the huge bed still disheveled from their night of lovemaking.

  Upon my honor, if I were free to do as I lust, if I could change what is, I would take you to wife before the cock’s crow.

  Bile rose in her throat. She, in her need and loving him, had taken his words at face value. Had thought he worried over how he might support them now that their king was dead and he’d lost—or would soon lose—his position and livelihood.

  Why? Why hadn’t he told her the truth whilst they were on the road, before she could fall in love with him? At the very least, why had he not told her the truth when she stood naked before him? Why hadn’t he simply picked up her gown, draped it over her, then taken her by the shoulders and spoken? Why?

  Edinburgh was naught but a hateful liars’ lair.

  Oh, sure, she’d come to this place with a ready lie on her lips too, but not for her own sake. Nay, she’d come to protect her sister and Greer’s unborn babe. These people, on the other hand, lied for themselves. The king lied to bed Greer. The queen was lying to save her sorry hide. Britt lied to garner what he wanted from her. Even Lady Campbell was living a lie.

  She grabbed Greer’s satchel from under the bed and took a steadying breath. God, what he must think of her? She’d been such a honey-eyed fool. At least she could take comfort in the fact that she’d not been one intentionally. Unlike Greer.

  “There you are.”

  Jerked out of her reverie by the sound of Hildy’s voice, Gen dashed the tears from her eyes and reached for Greer’s brush and comb. “You may have your room back. I’m leaving.”

  “So soon?” Hildy came around the bed and craned her neck to look at her. “What’s this? Why are you weeping?”

  She took a deep breath. “MacKinnon is married.”

  Hildy, dressed in a dandelion yellow kirtle which did naught for her pretty, pale pink complexion, gasped. “No! Truly?”

  Gen pulled the gown she’d intended to wear on the morrow for Britt’s possible homecoming from the wall peg, carefully folded it, then stuffed it into the satchel. “Aye. If I owe you rent, please ask Br—MacKinnon for it, for I’ve no coins of my own.”

  She’d have to survive on air soup and shadow pudding until she could convert Greer’s necklace into species. How many coins it would garner her, she hadn’t a clue. Hopefully, ’twould be enough to purchase her and Silver’s passage and a bit to spare.

  Sounding alarmed, Hildy asked, “Where are you going?”

  Having had a belly full of lies, she muttered, “Home.” Home now meant her sister.

  Hildy, her lower lip caught betwixt her teeth, thumped down onto her dressing stool.

  “Where might that be?”

  “Ireland.”

  “’Tis so far away! Have you family there?”

  “My aunt, Lady Margaret.” She’d blurted the name without thinking, but then Ireland was a big place, so it mattered naught if Britt learned of this or not. If anything, he’d likely think himself lucky. No ugly confrontation.

  As Genny pulled her bow and quiver from behind the pile of Britt’s armor and set them next to the door, Hildy said, “Are you sure you want to do this? MacKinnon being married doesn’t mean he doesn’t care deeply for you. In fact, I ken that he does. This needn’t be the end of—”

  “Hildy, I’m sure. I love—loved MacKinnon and thought he intended to take me to wife—but no, he played me for a fool.” She stuffed her sister’s coronet into the satchel and looked under the bed for her boots.

  As she kicked off Greer’s silly long-toed slippers, Hildy sighed, then, voice cracking, said, “I’m really going to miss you.”

  “Oh Hildy.” Gen dropped the slippers and held out her arms. Hildy rushed into them. Holding her new friend tight, she assured her, “I’ll miss you as well. You’ve been a true friend.” The first she’d really ever had, other than her sister. Thanks to Britt’s lies, she was losing not one person she’d come to care about, but two.

  Fearing she’d fall apart, Gen stepped away, picked up the slippers, and shoved them into the satchel atop the gown. “I really need go before those at court realize I’m missing.”

  Hildy, looking quite miserable, murmured, “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  Outside, Gen tied her satchel to Silver’s saddle and gave Hildy a final hug. “Please say thank you and good-bye to MacLean for me.”

  “I will.” Hildy reached into her décolleté and pulled out a small velvet pouch. Taking Gen’s hand, she placed the pouch in her palm. “Here. You’ll need this.”

  Realizing she held a small fortune in coins, Genny tried to give the pouch back. “I can’t possibly—”

  “Nonsense.” Hildy closed Genny’s fingers over her wages and winked. “I can always earn more. And I ken you’d do this for me were our positions withershins.” She waved Gen toward her mount. “Now away with you and God’s speed.”

  Stunned by the woman’s generosity, Genny clasped Hildy to her breast a final time. “I promise to return them.”

  Hildy, tears streaming, murmured, “I never doubted.”

  Genny hauled Silver to the mounting block. Once settled onto the side saddle, she mastered a wee smile to assure her friend that she would be fine and waved good-bye. Ahead lay the unknown.

  At the end of the mews, she turned the gray toward the tall masts marking Edinburgh’s seaport and couldn’t help but wonder if Britt would also find it ironic that she was making good her escape on the very gift she now suspected he’d given her in the hopes of binding her—his mistress—to him.

  Britt couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so pleased to see Edinburgh Castle standing proud above the mist that so often clung to the stinking moat surrounding the castle mount. High above the stench, he’d find Gen, the love of his life, the woman he would take to wife.

  He kicked his rented mount in the sides in the hope of getting the swaybacked beast to pick up the pace and, as with every past effort, the lop-eared sumpter ignored him. Any other time he would have purchased a quality mount, but now, mindful of his purse and the coins he’d need to garner his freedom, he’d bartered for the cheapest cattle in the stable.

  The sumpter stumbled, and Britt rolled his eyes. “I could run home faster than this, you miserable excuse for a horse.”

  Halfway up the road, well within view of the castle gates, the sumpter suddenly sat…like a dog. Cursing, Britt slid off and glared at the beast. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He jerked on th
e reins, trying to pull the animal to its feet. In response, the sumpter only rolled his eyes and turned his head. “You miserable—”

  Britt dropped the reins in disgust. The beast could follow, should he have a mind, or rot where he sat. Britt no longer cared.

  Approaching the gate, he heard laughter and glared at his men. “Enough! One of you fetch that sorry excuse for a horse and put him in the stable.”

  He would decide on the morrow which of these laughing jackals would have the pleasure of returning the beast to its owner. Right now all he cared about was finding Gen, who, given the hour, should be taking her midday meal.

  Entering the hall, he scoured the room for her and, not finding her, strode over to where Lady Campbell sat among the queen’s court. “My ladies, pardon my intrusion, but do you happen know where Lady Armstrong is?”

  “Sir Britt, so good to see you.” Lady Campbell rose and said to her companions, “If you’ll excuse us.” She placed her hand on Britt’s wrist and hissed, “We need speak in private.”

  The fine hairs on his neck rose. At the far end of the hall, he asked, “Has something happened to Genny?”

  “You could say that. The queen told her you were married, and she did not take this well.”

  Oh Lord, no. He would kill that bitch. He truly would.

  Lady Campbell, obviously annoyed, slapped his arm. “Why didn’t you tell her? You are a sore disappoint, MacKinnon.”

  “Never mind that. Where is she?” He could make this right. He had to.

  “I’ve no notion. She said she needed a breath of air. When she didn’t return after several hours, I went in search of her and learned from the guards she’d ridden out on what she told them was a mission for Her Highness, which we both know was a lie. I sent one of my clansmen—”

  Without waiting to hear more, Britt raced across the hall. At the stable, he learned Genny had taken the gray. Praying she’d gone to MacLean’s to lick her wounds, he strode down the crowded line of horseflesh and untied Valiant, shouting to the closest groom, “Get my saddle!”

  The moment the groom arrived with his saddle, he snatched it from the lad’s hands. “Get my tack. Hie now!”

  Before the lad could catch his breath, Britt was riding through the gate at a breakneck speed, slowing only to make the turn into MacLean’s mews. Without waiting for Valiant to come to a full stop, he jumped off and ran into the hostel.

  Please let her be here!

  Upstairs, he found the door open and Hildy hunched in the middle of her bed, weeping her eyes out. Seeing Gen’s gowns and female doodads gone, his heart sank. “Where is she? Where’s Lady Armstrong?”

  Dashing the tears from her cheeks, Hildy straightened and glared at him. “I can’t believe you did this! You broke her heart, MacKinnon. How could you?”

  “’Twas never my intent.” And why was he justifying his actions to Hildy?

  “Right.” Sniffling, she crawled off the bed. “You’re just like all the rest. Love ’em and lose ’em is the only thing your ilk know.”

  He raked his hands through his hair and ground out, “Hildy, where has she gone?”

  “Home, if you must know.”

  “To Buddle?”

  “What Buddle? She’s gone to Ireland, you rutting heathen. To her aunt’s.”

  Ireland? Why the hell would she go—ah, her sister! She’d gone to be with Greer. “What’s the aunt’s name?”

  “Why do you care?” She tried to brush past him, and he grabbed her by the arms. Bending at the knees, he looked her in the eyes. “Listen to me carefully. I love her beyond reason and intend to make this right if it kills me, but I need to know where she’s going in order to do so. What’s her aunt’s name?”

  Hildy, cheeks blotchy and her nose red as a berry, studied him for a long moment. “You’d best not be lying to me, MacKinnon.”

  “I swear to God I’m not.”

  Hildy sighed. “All right, then. Her name is Lady Margaret.”

  “And her surname?”

  “How should I know?” Hildy tried to pull away. “She only said Lady Margaret.”

  Christ’s blood. There could be two hundred Lady Margarets in the whole of Eire, for all he knew. “By which way is she traveling?”

  “By horse.”

  “By which road, woman?” If Gen was taking the route they’d taken to get to Edinburgh, he could catch her but could only pray that he’d do so before she was set upon by thieves.

  Hildy shrugged. “She turned left at the end of the mews, and I saw her no more.”

  East? Oh God, she was heading to the harbor and a ship. And she had a full day’s lead on him.

  He wrenched Hildy to him and pressed a kiss to her salty cheek. “Bless you.”

  Britt thundered down the narrow stairs.

  Minutes later, Britt would have trampled a dozen guilders, merchants and fishmongers if not for their agile feet in his rush to reach the crowded harbor. Praying the ship Gen had booked passage on had yet to weigh anchor, he dismounted and grabbed the nearest stout bairn he could find. “Are you honest, lad?”

  The lad, his ragged jerkin a good two years’ growth too small, bristled at the question. “I am.”

  “Grand. Keep watch on my destrier until my return, and you’ll earn yourself three bawbees.”

  The lad blinked in surprise, then grinned from ear to ear at the thought of earning what was likely for him a month’s wage unloading fish. “Three? Aye, then I will.”

  Britt tossed him Valiant’s reins and started down the waterfront dotted with stone quays, past dozens of storehouses reeking of tar, hides, wool and spice. Good Lord, there were so many ships.

  After asking at the first three ships and learning they were bound for ports of call other than Ireland, he spotted a prosperous-looking man scribbling in a ledger before a stone storehouse. “Sir, might you know which ships are bound for Ireland?”

  “I do.” He bowed. “MacPherson, port’s chandler. What name does she go by?”

  Britt shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I’m looking for a fair and fulsome lady”—he held out a hand to mid-breastbone—“of this height, with blonde hair, who wants to book passage to Ireland. She may have a gray palfrey with her.” If Gen hadn’t sold the gelding to garner her passage. “Have you seen her?”

  “A lady with a gray palfrey.” He thought for a minute and then nodded. “She passed by last eve, as I recall.”

  “And the ship?”

  He checked his ledger. “I’ve no means to know, but the Galway left on the even’ tide, and the others, the Fian and the Turoe, should be weighing anchor as we speak.”

  Praying she hadn’t left on the Galway, he asked, “Which quays?”

  The man pointed to his left, and Britt ran. The Fian had raised its gangplank but had yet to be towed from its berth and into the Firth of Forth where it could catch the wind. Calling up to the captain, Britt shouted, “Have you a Lady Armstrong onboard?”

  The captain leaned over the rail. “No ladies, m’lord. Only coal.”

  Damn. “Do you know the Turoe?”

  “To your right, fifth down. She’s as green as Eire. You can’t mistake her.”

  Britt thanked the man and, his hope rising once again, ran. His heart sank when he reached the quay. A good hundred yards out in the firth floated the green cog, Turoe, her huge square sail already unfurled and beginning to billow as she caught the wind, her towboat oarsmen already heading for shore. At mid-ship on the rail, he could see a woman, her long blonde tresses flying.

  ’Twas her! He would recognize that carriage, that wonderful hair, anywhere.

  Waving like a madman, he jumped at the end of the quay. “Genny! Genny!”

  His heart leapt when she shielded her eyes and looked directly at him. Thank God she’d heard him. Frantically waving, he again shouted, “Genny!”

  If it took his every coin, he would get the oarsmen to bring him out to her. She had to hear the whole sordid truth about his marriage from his lips and learn
what he was now doing to rectify it. But first he had to get her to stop the cog’s forward progress. Get the captain to drop sail. “Gen! Hail the captain!”

  To his horror, she put her back to him, bent forward as if in pain and covered her ears.

  “Nay!” She had to listen.

  The Turoe chose that moment to catch the wind and surged forward, waves breaking around her proud bow.

  Nay! He would not lose her like this. She couldn’t leave without knowing the truth, ugly and painful as it was.

  Determined she would listen, Britt shouted until blood thundered in his ears. Shouted until his burning eyes felt they would bleed, waved until his heart was near to bursting, and still she kept her back to him. The Turoe and its crew, mindless of his anguish, continued their forward charge, the ship seemingly shrinking in size with his every breath.

  Gasping, he stared at the cog and the wee blue spot that was Genny.

  He’d lost her.

  Heart splintering, Britt collapsed to his knees on the hard stone and head thrown back, roared, “Genny!”

  “Lights are not meat, nor buttermilk milk.” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

  Chapter Sixteen

  Why on earth had Britt followed her?

  Throat raw from crying, Genny clutched the ship’s thick rail with both hands as the Turoe, its sail bulging, surged over another wave and broke free of the Firth of Forth, entering open seas.

  Why could he have not just let her go in peace? Was it not bad enough that he’d broken her heart? Shattered the dreams she’d come to cherish? Of them working side by side, forging a home and creating a family together? Why had he come, then stood there screaming her name? Had he no pity at all?

  A firm hand settled at the small of her back, startling her.

  “Here,” said a masculine voice, but one not as deep and rumbling as Britt’s. Looking over her shoulder, she found the man who had welcomed her onboard holding out a handkerchief. Taller than she by a hand and blond, he’d told her his name, but distracted and heartsick, she’d not paid any heed.