The Heather Moon

by King, Susan

  "She has many who will protect her," she said.

  "She is safely tucked away at Linlithgow, but I for one would feel more at ease if she were at Stirling Castle. Our infant queen needs a fortress 'round her, I think." He frowned.

  "I visited Falkland Palace once," Tamsin said. William looked at her with surprise. "The king invited my grandfather's people to dance and play music one summer three years ago. I went with them. The noble ladies wanted their fortunes told, and I helped Grandmother to read palms and cards. I saw the queen, so tall and lovely, and the king with her, magnificently dressed. The palace was huge and beautiful, with tapestries on the walls, and glass windows, and velvet on the chairs. I saw fine gear everywhere, and grand ladies and lords." She looked at him. "I didna see you there, though. I am sure of it."

  "I avoid the grander celebrations, as a rule. I prefer smaller gatherings." He glanced at her. "Such as we have at Rookhope. After supper of an evening, we gather for games and music. You will enjoy that, I think."

  She glanced away quickly. The thought of meeting his mother, sister, and daughter suddenly terrified her. "I am not used to such things," she said cautiously.

  "You said that you play at the cards," he said. "You will do well with my family. You will see."

  "And what shall I see?" she asked. Frightened by the prospect of meeting his family, loath to show her fear and trepidation, she let anger rise in its place. "What will you tell them? 'This is my wife, such as I will keep in my dungeon?' Or, 'This is my prisoner, such as I will keep in my bed?' How do you mean to explain me to them?"

  "'This is Tamsin Armstrong, our guest,'" he said calmly. "Just that."

  "Ah. Just that. 'Twillna last long, this marriage, will it?" She looked away, shoving back the mass of ringlets that fell past her shoulder. The summer day was warm, and her tartaned plaid had grown heavy. She untied the cord that fastened it and let the plaid fall behind her.

  Smoothing a hand over her chemise and worn brown kirtle, casting a glance at her bare feet, she wished that she had a comb, a fine gown, a pair of shoes. William's kinswomen would be appalled by her appearance. She curled her gloved hand in her lap, aware that she feared their revulsion most of all.

  "Tamsin," he finally said. "What has stirred your temper? Do you have regrets?"

  "Not I. Likely you will soon regret this," she grumbled.

  "I willna. But I might regret my promise to keep you out of the dungeon," he growled. They rode along in silence, drawing closer to Rookhope, climbing a track that led up a hillside toward the tower.

  William glanced at her. "My mother and sister expect you," he said. "Dinna fret about meeting them."

  She looked at him in surprise. "They expect me?"

  "Aye. I stopped at Rookhope after I left your father. I had supper there, and explained to my mother and sister that Musgrave wanted you to act as a pledge."

  She frowned. "What will you tell them now?"

  "We shall see." He was silent for a few moments. "My mother—Lady Emma—and Helen are caring souls. You will be at ease with them, I promise you."

  "What of your daughter?"

  "You will find her a delight, I think," he said. "Katharine is but a bairn, scarce eight months in the world."

  "A bairn?" she asked, amazed. "I thought her much older."

  "She was born but two weeks before the queen of Scotland. The queen dowager is her godmother." He paused, then said quietly, "Her mother died the day the child was born."

  "I am sorry," she murmured.

  "We werena wed," he said. "But the child is mine, and I will keep her. Now that I have a wife"—he glanced at her and smiled, rueful and endearing—"her grandfather will find it more difficult to claim the custody of her." He slid her a glance. "If you come to regret our agreement, do me the courtesy to endure me as your husband until the Court of Sessions reviews the complaint regarding the fostering of my daughter." She heard the same fierce tone in his voice that she had noted earlier when he spoke of his daughter.

  "I can endure this as long as you can," she said.

  "So be it, then," he said, and slowed his horse as the massive wall of Rookhope loomed above them. He called out, and within moments the iron portcullis slid upward.

  He waved her ahead of him, but she shook her head, realizing she wanted him to act as her shield. She followed, her horse's steps echoing on the cobbled stones beneath the vaulting of the entrance. They emerged in a small courtyard with a well in one corner and arched doorways leading to other areas. Tamsin glimpsed stairs and alcoves there.

  "Ho! Willie Scott!" She looked up and saw a man coming toward them. Sandie, whom she recognized from the other night, grinned and clasped William's hand. "The arm is better, I see."

  "The gypsies tended it for me," William said.

  "And I see you tended to this gypsy, since she's with ye." Sandie winked at Tamsin. His eyes were warm brown, and she liked his quick, friendly wink and his honest grin. Accustomed to Bordermen, she took no offense, sure that none was intended.

  "Aye, she is with me, and will stay, so watch your manners."

  "Yet another lassie at Rookhope," Sandie said, and sighed. "The place is full o' them. Nae that I complain, I like a lassie about the place. Though they do insist on rules and manners, belike. Perhaps a gypsy lass will be less hard on me for tracking my spurs over the floors, or for my rough table manners, hey?"

  She smiled. "I promise, Sandie Scott," she said. "I have no household authority here, nor will I take any. And my manners might be far worse than yours," she added.

  William dismounted and took the bridle of Tamsin's horse, walking toward the shadowed corridor that contained the stables. Sandie took the bay's bridle and walked with them.

  "A fortnight, is that the agreement with Musgrave?" Sandie asked.

  "A fortnight," William said. "Then we shall see what comes next." He looked at Tamsin as he spoke, and something in his voice sent shivers throughout her body.

  William held up his hands to her, and Tamsin leaned forward, placing her hands on his shoulders, feeling his fingers slide along her ribs, pressing, lifting her. She stood behind him as he turned and handed the reins to Sandie. William began to walk across the courtyard toward the massive tower, beckoning to Tamsin.

  An archway on the ground level led to an alcove and a flight of stone steps, topped by a wide landing and a stout wooden door. William climbed the steps and Tamsin followed. The door swung open, and a woman stood silhouetted in the dim light at the top of the steps.

  "William!" The woman glided forward, gowned in black, her full skirt belline out as she approached. She held out her hands. "I am so glad you are back. Jock and Sandie told me that you were wounded and had to stop at the gypsy camp—"

  "I am just fine, Mother," he said. "My arm hardly troubles me already. 'Tis healing well, I think. The gypsies work some magical cures." He stepped up to the landing with her, leaning down to kiss her cheek. She smiled up at him, then turned to Tamsin with a polite look on her thin, lovely face. Tamsin thought that she resembled her handsome son most closely in the brilliant blue of her thick-lashed eyes.

  William turned to Tamsin, holding out his hand to invite her onto the landing with them. "Mother, this is Tamsin Armstrong," he said. "Our guest."

  Chapter 17

  "O where have you ridden this lee lang day

  And where have you stown this fair lady away?"

  —Earl Brand

  "Lady Emma," Tamsin said hesitantly. She felt awkward beneath the woman's alert gaze, though she saw kindness there. She smoothed her skirt with her right hand, hid her left beneath her plaid, and wished that her bare feet were not quite so dirty as she climbed the steps to the platform.

  "Tamsin, welcome to Rookhope." Lady Emma held out a hand, perhaps the most beautiful hand Tamsin had ever seen: pale and slender, fingers bedecked with small sparkling rings, nails polished to shining ovals. She lowered her head and reached out her own hand, aware that it was grimy and a little rough
to the touch. The thought of this perfect, beautiful woman seeing her left hand made her cringe with uncertainty.

  Cool, smooth fingers slipped over her own. "I hope you will feel at home while you are with us," Lady Emma said.

  "Th-thank you," Tamsin said. She was tempted to drop into a curtsy, as she had seen women do at the royal court the time that she had been there. Lady Emma seemed as elegant and sophisticated as those ladies, and Tamsin felt every bit the vagabond as she stood before her.

  "Archie's daughter," Emma said, smiling. "I knew your father well when we were younger. William's father thought highly of him." She folded her hands before her and inclined her head. "You look like your mother, lass. I met her once, just after she and Archie were wed. She was lovely and exotic."

  Tamsin felt herself blush, and nodded silently. She glanced at Lady Emma and took in the details of a stunning but simple gown of black damask, her head covered in a black hood with a gabled crown and a black velvet veil that spilled to her shoulders. The hair divided over her brow mingled gray with auburn. Lady Emma seemed a pinnacle of elegance, her air of perfection due even more to her gracious demeanor than to her fine clothing.

  "Archie's daughter may be here for longer than two weeks, Mother," William said. His gaze met Tamsin's.

  "Come in," Lady Emma said, drawing Tamsin by the arm through the doorway. William followed them into a small alcove containing more turning stairs and one doorway that led to the great hall.

  As they entered, Tamsin glanced around the huge, dimly lit room, at the polished timber flooring and a high timber ceiling. She noted the whitewashed walls, the high-set windows, and a hooded stone fireplace at the far end of the room with a low, banked fire glowing at its heart.

  "Will! You're back!" Tamsin saw another woman hurrying along the length of the room, holding her dark brown skirts in both hands, slippers knocking softly on the wooden floor. She smiled widely and prettily, extending the smile to include Tamsin. The lighting from the high windows and the fireplace cast shadows over her face.

  "My sister Helen," William murmured. "Tamsin Armstrong."

  "Welcome!" Helen said, her voice musical and warm. "Will said he meant to bring you here upon his return. How glad we are to meet you."

  Tamsin nodded a shy greeting as the young woman took her right hand in both of hers. Helen's fingers were warm and strong, well kept, decorated with delicate rings. Tamsin bit at her lip and glanced at the floor uncertainly.

  William's kinswomen were kind and gracious, but so well dressed that she felt exceedingly plain and disheveled beside them. She thought they would assume she was like the filthy and untrustworthy gypsies who were mocked in tales and ballads.

  "You must be tired from your journey," Helen said.

  "Aye, somewhat. My thanks for your kind welcome."

  "Where is Katharine?" William asked Helen.

  "Sleeping sound," Helen said, looking up at her brother. "She'll wake soon, if you wish to see her, and if you wish to show her to Mistress Armstrong." Helen smiled at William.

  When Helen tipped her face upward, Tamsin noticed that the young woman's face, though cream-hued and sweetly shaped, was deeply scarred across the cheeks and forehead. A pit at the corner of her mouth formed a dimple when she smiled, and the scarring that pocked the edge of her jaw extended down her neck to disappear under the embroidered, frilled collar of the chemise that showed beneath her bodice.

  Despite the veneer of scars, Tamsin thought that Helen, who seemed close to her own age, was truly lovely. She saw a resemblance to William in the long, slender nose, firm jaw, and full lips. Helen's eyes were hazel and her hair auburn, enhanced by the brown damask gown, and a pretty cap of stiffened brown velvet, fitted to her head in graceful wings that swept down to partially cover her scarred cheeks.

  "Oh, Will, did Mother tell you about the letter that was delivered by messenger early this morning?" Helen asked. William shook his head, glancing at his mother. "From Malise's advocate," Helen rushed on. "Mother read it, in your absence, for the messenger said 'twas urgent. Hamilton has filed his complaint in the Court of Sessions, and threatens to take Katharine from us within weeks!"

  "He willna," William growled. "Dinna fret." Tamsin saw a hard set in his eyes.

  "Tamsin, you must be tired," Emma said, turning away from the others and toward her with a gentle smile, helping to dispel the tension. "We thought that you could share a bedchamber with Helen and Katharine, William's daughter, while you are here."

  "Tamsin will take my own bedchamber," William said. Helen looked at him in surprise. Emma's smooth face was marred by a small, puzzled frown. "Those lodgings are private and comfortable," he explained.

  "How generous of you, William," Emma said. "We can prepare a chamber for you elsewhere while Tamsin is here."

  "Aye." He sighed and shoved lone fingers through his hair, having tucked his helmet under his arm. "Mother," he said. "Helen..." He paused, scratching at his head.

  The air seemed charged with quiet lightning. He looked at Tamsin then, so directly that she nearly caught her breath at the intimate power, the shared thought, that passed between them. She wanted to ask him to keep silent, not to do this, but somehow she could not speak. He turned to his mother.

  "Tamsin and I are married," he said.

  His simple statement produced a profound silence. Neither Emma nor Helen made a sound, though both dropped their mouths partly open in astonishment.

  "M-married?" Helen finally repeated.

  "This morning," William said.

  "Wedded just this day?" Emma asked. "You have wed Archie Armstrong's daughter?" Her eyes rounded, the same brilliant hue as her son's, as she stared at Tamsin. "Where? When? Does Archie Armstrong know this?" Emma asked.

  "Nay," William said. "Only Tamsin's grandparents know."

  "Gypsies?" Emma asked.

  "We had a Romany ceremony. A private one, between us."

  Emma plainly gaped. Helen, beside her, stared from one to the other. "Without a priest?" Emma asked.

  "The Romany marriage will do for now," Will said. "It is similar to a handfasting."

  Tamsin said nothing, made no movement, and felt her cheeks grow hot with a blush. She wondered, dismayed, why William had admitted to the marriage now, so quickly. She had not been prepared for that. Helen and Lady Emma seemed displeased with the news, she thought, but were perhaps too well mannered to protest.

  She wanted, suddenly, to turn and run from the room. She must have leaned toward the doorway, must have darted her glance there, for William reached out and took her hand—her gloved hand—firmly in his own.

  "We decided rather quickly," William said.

  "You... ah... what... ah... merry tidings," Helen stammered. "How say you, Mother?"

  Lady Emma looked wholly shocked, her translucent skin gone a shade more pale. "How... wonderful."

  "Thank you." William smiled. Tamsin gave a subtle pull against the grip of his fingers. She felt an answering pressure, a refusal to let her flee. He did not look at her.

  "Does this... does this mean that Tamsin is no longer a pledge for Musgrave, as you explained when you were here earlier?" Helen asked into another moment of awkward silence.

  "I suppose so," William said. "Though I dinna intend to tell him that. But I do intend to tell Malise Hamilton," he said in a grim tone. "I have a wife now, which will eliminate a major portion of his complaint of law."

  Emma and Helen stared at each other and nodded. Tamsin was sure that they were still stunned to their bone marrow.

  William touched his mother's shoulder. "I know 'tis a surprise. I will explain all of it in better form later."

  Tamsin thought she saw the glint of tears in Emma's eyes, quickly blinked away. "I am sure you will be happy," she said. Her voice caught on the last word. "Helen, do take Tamsin to her lodgings. Perhaps she would like to rest before dinner. We shall have a bath brought for her."

  "I'm certain I have a gown that I can lend you," Helen said. "We are
similar in size, I think."

  "My thanks," Tamsin said, convinced that Helen and Emma both thought she desperately needed a bath and decent clothing. She shoved at the mass of her hair, and pulled against William's grip again. He let go, but lifted his hand to her shoulder. The simple warmth of his touch seemed like a blessing.

  "Go on," he murmured to Tamsin. "I will send Sandie to Merton Rigg tomorrow to fetch your things."

  Tamsin nodded, grateful for his considerate thoughts for her. But she knew that her own clothing, even her best gown, would not compare to the finery to which William and his kinswomen were accustomed.

  "Come with me, Tamsin," Helen said. "I will show you Will's chamber, where you can refresh yourself. You and Will must be hungry after your journey and your... your wedding. Midday dinner isna ready yet but we shall share some toast with sugar and perhaps some good Greek malmsey wine, served in the great chamber, where you and I can celebrate that we are good-sisters now, and you can tell me about yourself. Perhaps Mother and Will can join us." Helen smiled, and Emma nodded in silent answer.

  "Th-that would be fine," Tamsin said.

  "'Tis Wednesday, so 'tis a fish day, of course, and we have fresh salmon for dinner," Helen chattered as she took Tamsin's arm and tugged her along the length of the room. "Jock and Sandie caught some salmon in the river. Mother will hover over the cook to be sure 'twill be prepared just right. We hoped you both would arrive today in time to share midday meal with us. But we couldna have guessed at this good news!"

  Tamsin nodded, feeling overwhelmed by Helen's enthusiasm. She glanced over her shoulder a little helplessly at a grinning William as she was pulled in his sister's wake.

  * * *

  Tamsin stirred a silver spoon through pink, parsleyed slices of salmon and golden onion, cooked in butter and pepper, that lay nearly uneaten on her wooden trencher. Thick chunks of carrots and leeks, and a hunk of bread, wheaten and fresh, sat untouched on the trencher. A silver goblet, filled with wine, reflected the bleached linen tablecloth and the forms of those who sat at the table in the great hall.