Gosford's Daughter (13 page)

“
How very clever of Your Grace,”
Sorcha murmured, bobbing another curtsy, just in case it was
expected. “Have you any rare beef with hot juices?”

Jamie was leading the way toward a winding staircase.
“Alas, no. We seem inundated with mutton lately. I must issue a
command to the cooks. I’m not fond of mutton, are you?”

Sorcha shook her head. “Not terribly. But I’d eat an
old saddle about now.”

The King giggled, a high, giddy sound that made
Sorcha jump. She steadied herself against the stone wall as Jamie
pushed open a door. It led into a small chamber where a young man
with very fair hair reposed on a bed reading a book. He looked up
and smiled when he saw the King, but suddenly stared when Sorcha
entered.

“
I found a hungry lassie wandering
about the castle,” said Jamie, going to the small fireplace to warm
his hands. “She’s starving to death. Could you bring her something?
I’ll have wine, of course, Simeon.”

Simeon put down his book, first carefully marking the
page where he’d left off. He bowed courteously to Jamie, nodded at
Sorcha, and left through the room’s other door, but not before the
King called out to him: “If anyone asks, don’t tell them where I
am.”

Jamie sighed when the door closed, then sat down on a
battered sea chest that stood at the front of the bed. The room
apparently belonged to Simeon; Sorcha assumed the King’s own
chambers were close by.

“
Do sit,” Jamie said rather vaguely,
gesturing to the only chair in the room. Sorcha lowered herself
onto the leather-covered seat and felt the legs creak beneath her.
Now that they were alone, the King seemed at a loss for words.
Strangely, Sorcha did, too, though she reminded herself that Jamie
was, after all, a young man. If she didn’t know how to converse
with a king, she’d proceed on the assumption that he couldn’t be so
different from other lads of his age.

“
Do you hunt here?” she asked,
resting her chin on one hand.

“
Not as much as at Falkland.” He
looked ill at ease and seemed even smaller than when he was
standing up. “Who are you?”

Sorcha couldn’t help but smile. “I’m Sorcha Fraser,
daughter to Lord Iain Fraser of Beauly. We’re kin, Your Grace, in
some tenuous manner.”

Jamie turned thoughtful. “Fraser.
That
Fraser.
Another of my grandfather’s bastards. I can’t always keep them
straight. Your sire didn’t approve of my mother marrying Bothwell,
did he?” Sorcha knew that Jamie had been carefully schooled not to
approve of the Queen’s hasty, ill-fated marriage, either. “Nay, the
union cost her my father’s allegiance, I’m afraid.” Sorcha did not
remind Jamie that her father had also disapproved of Mary Stuart’s
marriage to Lord Damley, the King’s own sire. “It may be
impertinent to mention it, sir, but the Master of Gray doesn’t know
who I am. Or, at least, doesn’t believe it.”

“
Oh.” The King frowned, his lower
lip sticking out. Absently, he wiped at the saliva on his chin.
“You said he kidnapped you. Why, if he didn’t know who you
were?”

“
As a hostage, to keep anyone at
Doune from following him. Arran’s brother was there. And Bothwell,
who rode with us.” Sorcha turned to the door as Simeon entered,
bearing a tray with covered dishes, two goblets, and a bottle of
red wine. She all but fell upon the boiled mutton until she
realized she should probably wait for the King’s permission to
begin eating. Jamie, however, was telling Simeon to retire. When
the servant had left again, the King crossed his spindly legs and
gave no indication that he was concerned with etiquette.

“
Arran has been good to me, in his
way,” he mused, staring into the fire, which burned fitfully. “Yet
the people hate him. The Master of Gray is cunning, but beautiful.
Don’t you think so?” His wistful gaze fixed on Sorcha.

“
Mmmmm.” Sorcha hurriedly swallowed
a mouthful of mutton and carrots. “Impressive, to be sure. Though I
would have preferred meeting him under other
circumstances.”

Jamie nodded, then once more turned diffident. “And
me, Mistress Fraser? Would you have known who I was if you’d seen
me sitting on my throne surrounded by fawning courtiers?”

Sorcha smiled at the irony. “Well, certainly. I
hardly expected to find my sovereign lord prowling about the
hallways. But then, the Master mistook me for a stable wench. It
seems to be a day of mistaken identity.”

The King brightened. “How true! We have more than our
lineage in common, mistress.” The smile he gave Sorcha was quite
winning. “I don’t talk much to lassies; it’s not permitted. What do
you like to hear?”

Sorcha paused between bites of potato. “I’m not
typical, perhaps, Your Grace. Most lassies want to be told how
bonnie they are and how sweetly they speak and that they move like
a flower swaying in the breeze. I prefer to speak of other things.
For example, I’m told you’re very learned ….”

Putting one hand to his narrow chest, Jamie did his
best to puff himself up. “I have had a superb education, that’s
true. My elders often forget how shrewd and clever I truly am. I
can,” he added slyly, “sometimes be as devious as the next
one.”

“
I suppose you’ve had to be,” Sorcha
conceded. Strange, she thought, until now, her image of Jamie had
been almost totally unpleasant. Yet he was a rather appealing, if
pitiful, laddie, with his exaggerated sense of grandeur and his
naive frankness. Sorcha liked him and knew instinctively that the
feeling was mutual. Inspiration struck between mouthfuls of
mutton.

“
Sir!” she exclaimed, one hand held
out as if in supplication. “Would you know of any eligible young
noblemen who’d wed with a Highland Fraser?”

Jamie’s small eyes grew quite wide. “You?” He licked
the moisture from his lips. “Oh—well—there’s usually some distant
Stewart kin seeking a bride.” A sudden glint of suspicion flickered
across his homely face. “Do you think you need a husband after
being abducted by the Master?”

Sorcha flushed. “Nay, Your Grace! It’s merely that
I’m of an age to wed, which is part of the reason I am going to
Edinburgh. And,” she went on, after taking a deep breath, “I’ve
been jilted by Johnny Grant.”

“
Grant.” Jamie spoke the name
without much interest. “His appearance doesn’t move me.” The King
dismissed Johnny Grant with a wave of his hand. “Surely there is
someone more suitable.” He gave Sorcha a superior, yet
conspiratorial wink. “We shall mull the matter over in our
leisure,” Jamie declared with a majestic intonation.

“
Excellent,” murmured Sorcha, hoping
she sounded sincere, but wondering precisely how much real power
Jamie had in such affairs. She was about to give further voice to
her gratitude when the door burst open; Sorcha spilled gravy on her
bodice and swore aloud. Jamie swiveled in his place, then leapt to
his feet. Simeon all but fell into the room, followed by a dozen
other men, including the Master of Gray, who dropped on his knees
before the King.

“
Your Grace,” he exclaimed, his head
thrown back, the firelight catching the copper glints in his hair,
“am I to be slandered by the Earl of Arran after my selfless
attempt to preserve his life? He is guilty of ingratitude as well
as treason!” Another man, shorter and more squarely built than
Gray, but seemingly possessed of equal audacity, also came forward
to fall before King Jamie. “When did I ever do anything except to
serve Your Grace? I desire no great rewards, though I’ve assuredly
not earned the calumny spread by my enemies.” Sorcha, discreetly
trying to wash down her supper with a swig of wine, decided that
the second man must be the Earl of Arran. His assertion of not
wanting any reward struck her as strange, since he’d already
wrested his title from another noble who still lived; though a
Stewart, Arran had been made head of the House of
Hamilton.

Jamie, appearing so young and insignificant beside
the other two men, gazed fretfully at them both. “Your incessant
quarrels distress us,” he declared with more force than Sorcha had
expected. “If you would truly please me, pray desist.”

Arran all but growled his response: “I’ve tried to
make peace with this two-faced scoundrel, but each time, he betrays
me. My life is in danger as long as the Master of Gray lives!”

The Master got to his feet. For the first time, he
saw Sorcha, sitting behind Simeon, a tray in her lap, a wine goblet
in her hand. “By Christ’s beard, what have we here, a serving wench
dining with a king?”

To Jamie’s credit, he never flinched. “Mistress
Fraser is my guest. And my cousin. I find it soothing to have at
least one relative to whom I can speak without fearing the
consequences.”

Gray threw Sorcha a furious look, but quickly
composed his features. She had a fierce desire to stick her tongue
out at him but controlled herself. Once this unpleasant scene was
over, she would somehow have to express her gratitude properly to
King Jamie.

Arran had also stood up. “My Lord,” he intoned,
ignoring Sorcha altogether, “I can no longer tolerate the presence
of this man in Scotland.” He gestured harshly at Gray but kept his
eyes on the King. “He has deceived every man and woman he has ever
dealt with, including the wife he abandoned. The Master has
conspired against your mother, against Elizabeth of England,
against the Protestants and then the Catholics. If he betrays me
today, will he do less with you tomorrow?”

Sorcha didn’t hear the King’s reply. Sir William
Stewart and at least six other men hurtled into the room, filling
it with hailing bodies. Gray went down under the assault, but
Bothwell was in the doorway shouting, “No more! The banished lords
have returned!”

The room froze in a bizarre tableau. Gray lay under
Stewart and two henchmen. Arran loomed over them, his hand on his
dirk. The King had a finger pressed alongside his nose, as if
contemplating a move in a chess game. The others remained in varied
states of animation, apparently depending upon whose badge they
wore.

Arran broke the spell with a snap of his blunt
fingers. “Christ Almighty, we are done for!” With a heavy sigh, he
bowed to King Jamie. “I ask your leave to retire.”

Stewart and the others stood up, while Gray stretched
his long legs and gazed up at Arran with malicious satisfaction.
Jamie waved a hand at the room in general. “You may all go.
Swiftly, I command you.”

They obeyed, Gray and his men departing through the
door to the winding staircase, Arran and his followers leaving from
the other exit. Simeon trooped after them, though he gestured to
the King to indicate he’d remain outside.

“
Jesu,” gasped Sorcha, setting down
the tray and brushing crumbs from her skirt, “were they going to
murder Gray?”

Jamie flopped onto the bed. “It would seem so, just
as my mother’s secretary, Rizzio, was done to death before her very
eyes.” He put a hand over his forehead. “I was in her womb then,
you know.”

Sorcha nodded vigorously. “My own mother was there,
too. My brother Rob was born that night at Holyrood.”

“
Oh?” Jamie peered at Sorcha with
renewed interest. “We do have much in common, Coz. Do you think I
ought to ran away from here?”

Sorcha wrinkled her brow. “Isn’t it more likely
they’d run away first?”

“
Arran will. The lords who have
returned are his enemies. But I’m not so certain I want to see
them, either. They’re yet another passel of nobles who think me too
young to rule.” Jamie sat up straight, considering his plan. “Yes,
I’ll go to Edinburgh. Will you come with me?” There was an oddly
plaintive note in his voice.

Getting to her feet, Sorcha paced the room. The past
few hours had been the most disconcerting of her entire life.
First, she’d been kidnapped, then she’d ridden some ten miles to
Stirling Castle at breakneck speed, she’d mistaken the King of
Scotland for a page, and witnessed a near murder. The idea of
tearing off again into the night struck her as impossible.

“
It must be well on to midnight,”
she began, wondering how to phrase her lack of enthusiasm for
taking part in Jamie’s escape plans. “Perhaps you ought to sleep on
your idea.”

But the King shook his head vehemently. “Nay, I go
now or not at all.” Hesitantly, he put a large, clumsy hand on
Sorcha’s arm. “Come. We’ll take Simeon with us.”

It was, after all, a royal command. Sorcha forced a
smile and agreed. Ten minutes later, the three of them were walking
with careful tread down a flight of stairs that led to the postern
gate. Enveloped in the cloak she’d borrowed from one of Gray’s men,
Sorcha hugged it closely around her as they stepped outside. There,
high on the hill at the castle’s edge, the wind shrilled through
the battlements, making Sorcha’s teeth chatter. Simeon went to the
postern gate, testing the latch.

“
My Lord,” he whispered in alarm,
“it’s been locked!”

“
It’s never locked,” Jamie retorted
sharply. “It must be stuck.”

Simeon’s head wagged in denial. “It’s locked. Your
Grace, I swear it.”

Helplessly, the King looked in every direction. “The
water gate, then,” he said at last, but a voice from behind him cut
against the wind.

“
The water gate is also locked,”
said the Master of Gray. “Though it was not a few minutes earlier
when ruthless Arran scurried through it.”

Jamie whirled on Gray, his cape flapping like the
tail feathers of an angry rooster. “How dare you! Arran escapes,
but you prevent your King from doing the same! I shall have you
both proclaimed traitors!”

Gray smiled down on his king. “Nay, My Lord, I only
sealed off the castle to protect you. The banished lords are but a
mile away. You could easily fall into their hands. We must discuss
what course of action to take with them. If I may humbly suggest
it, let us all go to our beds and rise early to chart our
course.”