On a Highland Shore (10 page)

Nell stared in wonder as they passed through the stone walls, which were being constructed around the already massive walls of timber and earth, and through the tall wooden gates that marked the entrance to the castle proper. They waited, still seated on their ponies, while word of their arrival was sent to the king. After what seemed an eternity, William was summoned to the royal presence while Rignor, Margaret, and Nell continued to wait in the outer close.

It was not William who came to them with the invitation to enter, but Lachlan, richly dressed in finely woven wool and silk, a golden brooch at his shoulder, a golden necklace at his throat, and golden rings on his fingers. His dark eyes skimmed over Nell and Rignor and lighted on Margaret, who turned slowly as though she’d felt his gaze. Lachlan lifted his arms to assist her to dismount.

“Welcome to court, Lady Margaret,” he said, putting a hand on each side of Margaret’s waist. He placed her on the ground before him and released her, turning at once to Nell.

Nell slipped to the ground unaided, drawing a quick glare from Lachlan before he turned back to Margaret, leaning close to her, his voice quiet.

“Dinna shame me here,” he said. “Dinna try to talk to the king.”

Margaret looked into his eyes, her anger visible. “I will ask the king to nullify our betrothal, Lachlan. I will never willingly marry ye.”

Lachlan watched her for a moment, then smiled mockingly. “Who are ye to have the ear of the king, Margaret of Somerstrath? Have I not been here since I left ye? Who is he more likely to listen to, a lass from nowhere or his cousin?”

“But I will ask him nonetheless,” Margaret said.

“If ye do,” Lachlan said, his tone glacial, “ye’ll pay the price for it.”

Nell expected Rignor to protest, but her brother said nothing, watching with a wary expression as Margaret and Lachlan glared at each other. Nell stepped forward. “Dinna threaten her!” she cried.

“It’s the truth, Nell,” Lachlan said, glancing at her, “not a threat. But here is one just for ye: stay out of this.”

Nell trembled with anger. “Do ye ken that if she doesna marry ye, I am to?”

Lachlan threw his head back and laughed. “No, Nell, ye willna. I can assure ye of that. I’d sooner wed yer brother.”

Both Margaret and Nell began to answer him angrily, but their voices were drowned by William’s voice booming from the doorway.

“Enough!” her uncle cried. “Come in. All of ye.”

William led them into a large stone foyer, obviously part of a great hall still under construction, for stone-workers were shaping stones at one end, and the sound of chisels on rock could be heard behind the tall wooden wall that shielded the rest of the building from their sight.

“I’ll have none of this!” William said, his voice tight with anger. “Lachlan, she has a right to ask. And Margaret, he has a right to be insulted by ye asking. It’s a hell of a way for the two of ye to start a life together! Now, come, the lot of ye. Rignor, ye’ll sleep in Lachlan’s apartments. Margaret and Nell, ye’ll share the Comyn women’s quarters, and ye’ll mind yer manners, the both of ye. Not one word about Lachlan, aye? Have some pride, for God’s sake!”

He threw a baleful glance at Lachlan. “And dinna look so smug, laddie, or I’ll ask the king to end the betrothal myself. Arguing in the close for all the court to hear! Ye’ll be the talk of supper, I guarantee ye that.” He waved at two servants, who apparently waited to take them to their chambers. “Now, go and get the dust off ye and prepare for the meal.”

The first evening was a blur to Nell, the court a whirl of color and noise, words spoken in French and Saxon English, and Latin, accented Gaelic, and the strange mix of it all that the Lowlanders spoke. She sat quietly beside Margaret, while Rignor chatted with Lachlan and his companions as though they were the best of friends. Margaret hardly spoke, which suited Nell. There was so much to see.

She was fascinated by the gowns the women wore, their bright overgowns sleeveless and worn without a belt or girdle, some with open side lacing, some with short overtunics, heavily embroidered, skirts contrasting with laced-in sleeves of different materials. All the married women wore headdresses, some a simple wimple of silk caressing their cheeks, their hair drawn back into a net. Or a barbette wound over a hat and wrapped around the neck. Some were adorned with fanciful headdresses, high and jeweled. The unmarried girls wore their hair loose, or caught back in a weave of plaits and ribbons that matched their clothing, or held by a simple circlet. But the shoes! She was astonished by what the women wore—long, pointed shoes, some with beadwork, some carved from wood and painted with amazing patterns. She could have looked at the shoes for hours.

The men were dressed almost as colorfully. Some wore robes of velvet or silk, others tunics with buttons and laced-in sleeves and dagged hemlines over woolen trousers tucked into gleaming leather boots. Some wore soft leather shoes, painted like the women’s, obviously not made for travel or work or war. They wore embroidered caps or coifs or left their hair loose, or caught under a hood, and some were as bejeweled as the women, their gems flashing from rings and belts and brooches, or buttons made of silver with a gem inset.

The Highlanders were easy to spot: their tartan clothing, colored by plant dyes, drab against the plumage of the courtiers, their hair loose or tied back simply with a leather thong. Many of the Highlanders wore gold and gems as well, some as ornately adorned as the king’s retinue and visitors, while others were so simply dressed that they looked like clerics.

In this rich mixture of color and texture and style, she and Margaret looked like foreigners from a benighted land. Margaret’s new clothing was well fashioned, but of a much older style, and while the sisters wore their best jewelry, it paled in comparison with that of the ladies of the court. Rignor, in his simple tunic and leggings, looked like an outsider. He seemed not to notice, but Nell saw Margaret observing the same things she did, the women and how they moved in their fine clothing, their sense of belonging obvious, their assurance daunting. Nell had never felt so insignificant. How did Margaret think to sway the king? She could hardly see King Alexander and Queen Margaret from where they sat halfway down the hall, far from the door, far from the king. Above the salt at least, she saw with a sigh, and actually well placed, for they sat close to Uncle William and two other Scottish earls, all well attended.

The meal was lavish by Somerstrath standards, with so many courses that Nell lost count. There were birds so small that they could be eaten whole, and some so large that a wing was larger than Nell’s hand. There were whole fish served, eyes and all, which had always turned her stomach, and whole beeves brought in on huge silver platters that had to be carried by four men. There was fruit she had never seen, sweet and full of juice that dripped down her chin, and sweets laden with honey. And this, she was told, was not a feast, just an ordinary meal. The court lived very differently. And while the meal was overlong by Nell’s standards, there were music and jugglers, and so many people to observe that she watched it all with fascination.

And being watched, she soon realized. Several of the men who sat with Lachlan made comments to each other behind their hands. Some, like the tall man with the copper-colored hair, simply watched, seeming to note everything Margaret and Rignor did. The red-haired man’s gaze shifted to Nell now. He gave her a smile, fleeting, but warm, with the slightest of nods, accompanied by a rise of his eyebrows, as though they were already well acquainted. She stared, trying to remember if she’d been introduced to him earlier; she did not think so. He turned away then, responding to something Lachlan said, and Nell leaned closer, hoping to hear his voice, but the noise in the hall drowned it out.

Margaret tried to control her yawns, but they would not be denied, and at last she stood, a very sleepy Nell at her side, and gave her farewells to Uncle William, who nodded and returned to his serious conversation with the man next to him. A Stewart, she thought she’d been told, but in truth could not be sure. She’d met so many people that their names all ran together, and their stories, which she’d been meant to learn as well, were long forgotten. She said good night to Rignor and Lachlan and his men; Rignor, too far in his cups to care, simply gave a weak wave of his hand, but Lachlan insisted on accompanying them to their room, saying that they might get lost.

“The castle is not that large,” Margaret said. “Someone would direct us.”

“Directing ye is my task,” Lachlan said to his men, with a wide smile. “And a large one it is. I fear I shall be occupied with it all my life.” He joined their laughter.

Margaret kept her silence as they left the hall and went down the long corridor to their apartments, hoping the evening breeze let in by the arched windows would cool her temper. Norman arches, she thought, with a wave of resentment at all things not Scottish. French spoken by people whose families had lived here since the beginning of time. Chansons instead of songs. The Normans, the French influence, had permeated Scottish life. When had Scots lost control over their own lands? She glanced at Lachlan, whose thin nose and dark coloring betrayed his Norman blood. Their children might look like him, all dark angles, might act like him, arrogant and self-assured, traits which she had to admit were as much Scottish as Norman.

“A fine meal,” Lachlan said, bringing her out of her reverie.

“Aye,” she answered.

“Did ye not think it a fine meal, Nell?” he asked.

Nell, her eyes large, nodded.

“Nothing has changed, Lachlan,” Margaret said, stopping in the dimly lit corridor. “I still dinna want to marry ye. Ye still betrayed me with Fiona. And all the pretending otherwise willna change either.”

Lachlan’s face was lit by the torchlight; hers, she knew, was in shadow—as she’d chosen. His struggle for control was obvious, but win he did. After a moment his expression was as smooth as his voice. “I still wish to marry ye.”

“Why?” Margaret heard the curiosity in her voice. “Why me, Lachlan? Ye have money enough. Why not find another woman, who will look the other way?”

For a moment she thought he might actually tell her what was in his mind, for several emotions flew across his face. Ambition, hardly surprising. Stubbornness, again, predictable. A longing that startled her—surely not for her? And something else that she could not read. Possessiveness? Could that be the sum of it—that she’d been promised to him and, like a child who cannot eat another bite but who will not relinquish a sweet, he would not let her go?

“We are betrothed, Margaret.”

“Is that enough for a life together? I will ne’er forget what ye did.”

Lachlan’s smile was brief and cold. “Here ye are,” he said, gesturing to the doorway. He left them then without a backward glance.

“He could at least have answered ye,” Nell said.

“Perhaps,” Margaret said slowly. “Perhaps he doesna ken himself.”

The night was uncomfortable, spent on pallets of straw in a crowded antechamber full of strangers. To be sure, the Comyn women were both welcoming and inquisitive, but Margaret hardly felt at ease among them. They watched her as though it was likely she might grow a second head, and she realized how very thoroughly she had been discussed.

She lay awake, thinking how foolish she’d been to think that she could come to court, survey the men, and choose one who would be suitable to her and her parents. This evening, set so far from the king and queen, surrounded by strangers who intimidated her, had made her face the situation. How could she choose amongst strangers? How would she be able to trust that any man she met here would be better than Lachlan? How could she think to see into the heart of a man she’d just met? Lachlan or the veil, unless she could convince the king otherwise. But would the king even grant her an audience? Much of the talk this evening had been of the situation in England and whether Scotland would be drawn into the conflict. Her own problems would be insignificant to King Alexander, and she’d have, at best, only a moment of his time. She turned over yet again.

“Are you awake, Margaret MacDonald?”

The whisper came from her left, the voice that of one of the younger Comyns, a sweet-faced girl who’d been friendly earlier.

“I am,” Margaret whispered back.

“Is it true that you’re here to try to end your betrothal?”

Margaret sighed to herself. Why deny it? All of court seemed to know her story. “My father sent me here, but aye.”

“Tonight I met the man I’m to wed.”

“And?”

“He seems kind enough. Older than I’d hoped, but…” The girl’s weight shifted, as though she’d raised herself on one elbow. “We’ve been betrothed since my birth. But I’m thinking…if you are successful, perhaps I can end my betrothal as well. There’s a lad at home. My parents do not approve, but…”

“It’s time,” said an older but not unkind voice, “to stop thinking and simply do yer duty, the both of ye. Ye are each betrothed for the good of yer family—and the good of yer country. Stop thinking of yerself as someone who gets to make a choice in such things. We none of us do, lasses, so stop pining for what will ne’er be. Find some good in the man ye are to wed. In time yer children will bring ye consolation. And remember, ye’re marrying into means. What more could a woman ask for than security and children? Love is for Norman troubadours, lasses, not for the likes of us. Now hush and let the rest of us sleep.”