“They all have lodgings in the nearby village of Freuchie,” William Barclay said. To Bayard, he added, “You’ll have to find a bed among them.”
“Why the devil do they need us?” complained Bayard when Barclay had left. “I would dare to suspect that our own king has taken advantage of you, monsieur. This position is beneath you and your talents.”
Christophe wandered around the chamber, critically regarding the handsome wood paneled ceiling and glazed windows. He was impressed to find accommodations this fine in Scotland.
“Eh bien,” he murmured. “Let us not pronounce judgment just yet. Have you forgotten that I was virtually commanded to come here by our king? I agreed because His Majesty promised me a reward any architect alive would covet.”
Although Bayard looked unconvinced, he bit his lip. “As you say, monsieur.”
“Go and find your own quarters, will you? You look as if you could stand to change your doublet.”
The big man glanced down at his clothing in surprise, using both hands to wipe dust from his sleeves as he started toward the door. “If you’re certain you don’t need me…”
Christophe wanted to say that he was quite capable of surviving without Bayard’s assistance, but he merely said dryly, “I am.”
* * *
Alone at last, Christophe thought as he went through to the gallery that was being constructed along the east range, overlooking the orchards and meadows that spread beyond the palace. For a moment, he thought back to that last, perfect day at Manoir du Rêves, his beloved home in France. How sweet it had been to be free, wandering at will with his dog and hawk, breathing deeply of the cool fresh air and looking forward to an evening of solitary work in his study.
Ever since his brother, Thomas, had arrived at Rêves to interrupt that fragile peace and summon him to the Louvre Palace, Christophe’s life had no longer been his own. On the outside, he’d never shown his deep displeasure with the way others had taken control of his fate, but inside he’d been as tightly wound as a cornered animal.
Until today.
Christophe couldn’t credit that this feeling was real. Not yet. And he wasn’t ready to relax his guard against the world yet, either. But to himself he might admit that something had changed since that moment in the Lomond Hills when he’d first glimpsed Falkland Palace through the tree branches.
He stood quietly now in the upstairs gallery, gazing out at the meadow. Suddenly, a bird burst out of a nearby thicket and soared high into the air, wings spread. Christophe’s heart jumped as he recognized the rarest of gyrfalcons, snow-white and flecked with black. If he were the sort of man who believed in signs, this would seem to be a powerful signal that something mystical was afoot here.
And on a more practical note, this was a royal hunting park and there must be a mews filled with splendid hawks and falcons. He caught sight of a group of young men emerging from the trees. Dogs were yipping in the sunlight. Christophe strode along the gallery until he reached the Cross-House, where a spiral stone staircase took him down to the courtyard.
The palace had been intended as a quadrangle, he guessed, but only the south, north, and east ranges were complete. Now, standing in the courtyard, Christophe saw that dozens of masons and carvers were at work on the inner façade of the palace. They were putting away their tools for the day, but he was very curious to learn more about the plans that were currently in effect.
Christophe already saw how he could improve on them.
His attention was diverted again by the startling sight of a white gyrfalcon, flying over the rooftops of the palace’s east range. Like an apparition, the bird circled twice before gliding down toward him, staring into his eyes, willing him to extend his arm.
Christophe did so, even though his doublet would offer scant protection from the great bird’s talons. No sooner had the magical-looking raptor landed heavily on his outstretched forearm, than it turned its proud head and stared toward the archway leading to the gardens.
A slight, young falconer clad in feathered cap and ill-fitting clothes came into sight. Christophe couldn’t believe that such a slip of a lad could possibly be in search of so powerful a bird, for the gyrfalcon was the biggest of all falcons and usually reserved for an equally strong man.
Yet, although the bird did not fly back to the boy, it stared toward him in a way that told Christophe this youth was indeed the falconer.
* * *
Tramping wearily back into the courtyard, Fiona reflected on the joyous day she’d spent with James Lindsey, the king’s Master Falconer, his staff of seven, and their magnificent birds of prey.
That morning, she had risen early and tucked her long, black braid under a velvet bonnet with a jaunty feather. The falconers barely seemed to notice when she appeared among them in her fawn breeches and doublet, announcing that she was a falconer visiting from the Isle of Skye. They had other things on their minds, for the weather was clear after a spell of rain, and the birds were anxious to leave the mews and spread their wings.
Now, after a day of exercise and a bit of hunting, she wanted only to find Erik and return him to the mews so that she might change her clothing before supper. If her father should see her looking like this, Fiona knew he would regret his promise to bring her to Falkland Palace.
Why had Erik chosen this moment to fly away over the castle wall and not return? She glanced up into the sky, expecting him to glide down to her from a rooftop perch.
The cobbled courtyard was nearly empty now of the masons and carvers who were working on the inner walls of the east range. The sun had begun to set. Fiona looked around, growing nervous until, with a rush of relief, she saw Erik.
The white gyrfalcon was perched on the outstretched arm of the most sinfully handsome man Fiona had ever seen. Man and bird made an exceptionally striking pair. Erik seemed to be at ease, as if he’d known this complete stranger all his life. The bird, however, was looking at Fiona, and the splendid man followed suit. The man arched one brow, ever so slightly, holding her gaze.
Her heart began to pound very hard. Fiona seemed to have no choice but to go toward them, and as she walked, she felt increasingly foolish in her boy’s clothing. She’d borrowed the breeches, shirt, and doublet from Robbie, back at Duntulm Castle, for all along she’d plotted to spend her time at court enjoying adventures like this, rather than swishing about the palace in a fine gown.
But the secret to carrying it off was to keep her head down and stay behind the others. Erik was forcing her to expose herself, chancing discovery, embarrassment, and perhaps some sort of punishment. Who knew what sorts of rules they had at court? If her mother were alive, she would have tutored Fiona on such matters for weeks before they journeyed to Falkland Palace.
There was nothing for it but to brazen her way through this scene.
“Excuse me!” she said in a gruff voice while swaggering over to the dazzling gentleman. “You have my bird, sir.”
Erik clearly knew her, but he made no move to leave the stranger’s wrist. She tried to send the raptor a stern message with her eyes, but he was unintimidated.
“This is your gyrfalcon?” The man queried, speaking Lowland Scots with a delicious French accent.
Fiona was grateful to be fluent in other languages besides the Gaelic spoken in the Highlands of Scotland. “Aye, ’tis my bird. Kindly hand him over, and we’ll be on our way.”
Extending her arm, she widened her eyes at Erik, who glanced away as if he was in no hurry to leave his new friend. A few long moments later, to Fi’s relief, he came to her.
“You’re a very tiny lad to hold such a big bird,” the stranger remarked, cocking his head to one side as he observed her more closely. He was as tall as the men in her own family, with wide shoulders and lean hips that were set off by his expertly-tailored doublet of gray velvet. His dark, wind-tossed hair curled slightly, and he wore a neat beard in the French style. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
How dare he? Fiona’s heart po
unded with emotion. She longed to give him a piece of her mind, to inform him that Erik was her gyrfalcon, and she was not a tiny lad, but an exceedingly capable lass! But, of course, she could not say any of those things. “I can manage quite well on my own.” Fi dipped her head so that the big feathered cap she wore cast a shadow over her face. “Good day, then, sir.”
Just as she turned away, intent on escape, the man caught her sleeve. “You are a falconer? Kindly make yourself known to me. I may require your services during my sojourn at the palace.”
The energy from his powerful body seemed to cast a spell on her. Fiona backed away, saying, “I am…Robbie of Skye. I am but a visitor here, as you must be, m’sieur.”
He bent slightly as if to scrutinize her face. “Oui, I am French, but perhaps you guessed as much? My name is Christophe Mardouet, Chevalier de St. Briac.”
She blinked, mentally translating the man’s title. “You are a knight?”
“The King of France knighted me,” he replied with a shrug, “but for my gifts as an architect and builder rather than any violent deed of war.”
It was as close as Fiona had ever come to the French royal court. She made a little bow to him, cheeks flaming, then turned and hurried away toward the mews, the gyrfalcon clinging to her wrist.
* * *
Bayard strode over wearing a quizzical smile. “Who was that?” He held a chisel in one hand and pointed it toward the young falconer’s departing figure.
“I’m not entirely certain,” Christophe replied with a short laugh. “A falconer called Robbie, I’m told, visiting from the Isle of Skye.”
“He’s a little thing, with the hips of a girl!”
“Indeed.” They both stared, noticing the feminine sway of the boy’s backside. “Perhaps he can’t help it.”
Bayard snorted. “Or maybe he is one of those boys who loves boys.”
“No…I don’t think that’s the issue.” Watching as the young falconer disappeared around the castle wall, Christophe had his own suspicions, but he wasn’t prepared to share them with Bayard. Instead, he deftly changed the subject. “Back so soon from Freuchie?”
The big man rolled his eyes. “’Tis a rustic little settlement through the woods there.” He pointed to the east. “Everyone who isn’t worthy of the palace is relegated to Freuchie. I’ll have a bed, but little more, surrounded no doubt by a lot of snoring strangers. The things I do for you, monsieur!”
“Indeed, it seems I’d be lost without you.” He gestured toward the chisel in Bayard’s hand. “I see you’ve already begun to mingle with the other masons. I’ll be very interested to learn more about the past plans to rebuild this palace.”
“Moyse Martin was the Royal Master Mason, I’m told, but he died in an accident in April. I predict that you are meant to take his place.”
“Bayard, your ability to ferret out information is priceless!” He clapped the other man on the back. “You doubtless know that Moyse was our countryman. He’d been working in Scotland for years, but he also traveled to France with James V last year when the Scots king came to marry Princess Madeleine. I spoke to him at Villers-Cotterêts Château.” Christophe gestured toward the embellishments on the walls of the south courtyard. “Do you see how he has copied its style?”
“Didn’t you say that’s what the king wants?”
“To make the Scots palaces into French châteaux? Just so, but we can show more ingenuity than that. If they wanted only a counterfeit replica, they wouldn’t need me.” Christophe felt another frisson of creative excitement. “I wonder to whom I must report? God save us if it’s that arrogant Hamilton of Finnart fellow.”
“No, monsieur,” Bayard said with assurance. “I’ve been told that a Scotsman called John Scrymgeour is the Master of Works here. He has a home nearby, called Myres Castle, so he comes to Falkland to oversee the work quite often. I surmise M’sieur Scrymgeour will appear when the royal court arrives tomorrow.”
“You are a marvel,” Christophe told him with an ironic shake of his head. “And I’m hungry. Let’s discover where they mean to feed the lowly masons and servants.”
“I wonder if we’ll encounter that odd little falconer tonight.” Pursing his lips, the big man threw a kiss to the wind.
“Hmm.” St. Briac gazed thoughtfully into the distance, toward the royal mews. They were walking together, bathed in soft flame-tinted light as the sun dipped behind the East Lomond hills. “If we should see the lad again…I realize that you might be tempted to say something rude to him, especially after a few mugs of ale. However, I beg you to refrain.”
The big man gave a bark of laughter. “Monsieur, what sort of ruffian do you take me for?”
“Just promise me,” Christophe rejoined, keeping his tone light, “no mockery or bullying.”
“Bien sûr, as you say.” Bayard gave a short laugh. “But I’ve never known you to champion the cause of an odder fellow.”
Chapter 3
“Where have ye been?” demanded Isbeil as Fiona came into her family’s rooms at the palace. “Your da has been asking for ye!”
“I went to exercise Erik,” she replied in a faintly defiant tone. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“For the entire day? And look at ye, got up like a lad. ’Tis one thing to wear your brothers’ breeches at home, but your da would be furious to think you’re jaunting about a royal palace like that! Do ye think no one guesses?”
In recent years, Fi had been able to do as she pleased when she wasn’t at her mother’s bedside. Isbeil had shared nursing duties, so she was always with Eleanor when Fi was not. And Magnus had not been fit to worry about anyone but himself it seemed. He did his best to will his wife back to health, and when that failed, he searched for reasons to be away from Duntulm Castle. That had not been difficult since the MacLeod clan was usually embroiled in a feud with the MacDonalds, and Magnus was not only the aging chief’s son but also his trusted lieutenant.
Now, however, Da was mired in black grief and obsessed with the vow he had made during Eleanor’s last moments. All his attention was focused on Fiona, and she chafed under his need to control something in his wayward world.
“I do not care if anyone guesses,” Fi replied tartly. “But I can assure you that those who labor here are too busy preparing for the arrival of the royal court tomorrow to notice a wee lad with a gyrfalcon on his wrist.”
Isbeil, whose face wore deep lines to mark every trial of her long life, gave her young mistress a scowl. “Your headstrong ways will bring ye nothing but trouble, lass. Now let’s get ye washed and back into a proper gown before your da comes knocking at the door!”
* * *
“Are ye ready, lass?” asked Magnus from the doorway to Fiona’s chamber. “The royal court will arrive by midday! We must take our places if you want to see the procession.”
“Aye, Da, and don’t you look handsome!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Mama would be so proud.”
Tears sprang instantly to his eyes and he swiped them away with one weathered hand. “Have mercy on me, daughter. I cannot bear to think of her.”
Fiona went forward to embrace him, smoothing errant auburn locks from his brow. Her father might feel broken, but he remained a compelling figure, especially today when he wore a fresh linen shirt and his best belted plaid. The long end was draped over one of his broad shoulders and fastened with a heavy brooch carved with the Clan MacLeod motto: Hold Fast.
“Thank you for showing your true feelings to me, Da.”
He sniffed, looking her up and down and nodding approval. “Ye are a beauty, Fi.”
Across the chamber, Isbeil was beaming. “Aye, when she decides to be a lass, she is bonnie indeed.”
Just then, Fiona’s aunt Tess appeared in the doorway, her husband Stephen at her side. Tess was Eleanor’s sister, and they had spent a full week with her and the rest of the Lindsay family at nearby Hilltower, their ancestral castle. Although Fi had enjoyed getting to know her mot
her’s clanspeople, Magnus seemed relieved when they had moved on to Falkland Palace.
Tess, a large woman in a gown of deep purple, crossed to Fiona’s side and turned her toward the looking glass. “There, you see?” she said gently in Lowland Scots. “You are enchanting.”
Fiona looked at her own reflection as if seeing herself for the first time. She was petite, with creamy skin and glossy black hair tucked under a simple, pearl-encrusted headdress. During their stay at Hilltower, Aunt Tess had ordered a new kirtle for Fiona to wear over her petticoat, and it fit well, pushing her small, firm breasts up to peek above the square neckline of her crimson velvet gown.
“I would pinch your cheeks, but you don’t need any tricks. You’re as lovely as your mother,” said Tess approvingly. “I vow I’ve never seen eyes like yours. They are as true a violet as the flowers in the meadow.”
Fiona couldn’t help smiling. “You are very kind, aunt.”
“I’ve brought you a special gift.” Tess opened a velvet pouch and withdrew a delicate gold choker with an emerald pendant attached to it. “This was your mother’s favorite necklace when we were girls together at Hilltower. In fact, the night she met Magnus at Holyrood Palace, she was wearing it.” Tess stood behind Fiona and attached the clasp at her neck, throwing a smile back to Magnus. “She gave it to me when she went away to live in the Highlands, but I feel certain Eleanor would wish that you wear it in her memory.”
A familiar wave of bittersweet longing swept over Fiona, but she struggled not to weep if only to spare her father more pain. Touching the emerald that lay just above her breasts, she imagined she could feel her mother’s spirit at that very moment. “Dear Aunt, I am deeply grateful for your generosity.”
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 4
