Once Upon a Plaid (3 page)

Will sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“Where are you going?” she said softly.

“To get roaring drunk, my love. I may even pick a fight with that clotpole Ranulf MacNaught.” He stomped to the doorway and promptly banged his forehead on the low lintel. William swore softly under his breath. “I canna think of a better way to celebrate Christmas, can you?”

—Set to a sixteenth-century tune

 

 

—An observation from Nab,
fool to the Earl of Glengarry

Chapter Three

The chapel bells woke William, boring into his brain a little deeper with each rolling chime. He rolled over in the bed, searching with one hand for Katherine. When he didn’t find her, he forced his eyes open.

She’d been gone for some time. There wasn’t the least bit of warmth left on her pillow. Angus, however, wiggled his way out from under the coverlet and licked Will’s face.

“Looks like we’ve both been abandoned,” William said to the dog. “Trust our Kat to rise for Christ’s Mass. She’s pious enough; no doubt her prayers will count for all of us.”

Good thing. Will hadn’t had much to say to the Almighty for a while.

He threw back the bedclothes and, ignoring the ripple of gooseflesh across his bare skin, stalked across the chamber to the pitcher and ewer on the stand in the corner. The water had a thin crust of ice on it, but Will broke through and splashed his face in any case. The bracing cold swept the last of the cobwebs from his brain.

Last night, he’d tromped back down to the great hall and consumed far too much ale. Later, after the rest of the party was snoring under the tables, his father-in-law had brought out the good whisky, and between the two of them, they’d polished off the rest of the bottle.

He didn’t remember too much of what the laird and he had talked about. He seemed to recall that Lord Glengarry grumbled about the fact that Ranulf MacNaught was garnering more followers among the clan. The laird’s son, Donald, couldn’t be bothered to absent himself from court long enough to learn the names of his own men. Since Katherine’s father had suffered an apoplectic fit last winter, he’d lost flesh. No doubt he fretted about whether Donald was ready to lead the clan in case he should pass. Ranulf’s increased popularity was giving the laird reason to drink.

Not that Will’s father-in-law needed a reason.

William didn’t give much weight to Lord Glengarry’s complaints. His conversations with Katherine’s father were always sojourns on a roundabout trail that circled Lord Glengarry himself. William had troubles of his own. However, by the time the candles guttered in the late watches of the night, Will was beginning to feel more in charity with the whole world.

But that may have just been the whisky.

“I dinna know what’s amiss betwixt ye and my wee Katikins, and I’m not wantin’ to know. I’ll not say I understand my daughter at the best of times. Women are chancy creatures,” the old man had said, “but this one thing I ken about my Kat. She loves ye, lad. More than anything. On that ye could lay your hope of heaven.”

Will tugged his shirt over his head quickly in the cold chamber. Then he wrapped the belted plaid about his body. It would’ve been much easier if he’d had Katherine’s help pleating the length of cloth. But by the time he draped the excess fabric over one shoulder and secured it with a pewter pin, William was more or less decently covered and much warmer.

His heart, however, still felt the chill of the empty room.

“She loves me, Angus,” he told the dog because he wanted to hear the words again.

He looked once more at the rumpled bedclothes. His memories of last night were a bit fuzzy, but it seemed to him that after he’d stumbled back up to her chamber, Kat had risen and helped him undress. The fact that his shirt and plaid had been neatly folded instead of tossed on the floor was proof positive Katherine had had a hand in it.

Then once they’d snuggled back under the covers for warmth, she hadn’t pushed him away when he’d spooned his body around hers. His last coherent memory of the previous night was burying his nose in her abundant hair and breathing her in.

If he hadn’t been so far gone with drink, perhaps he wouldn’t have sunk so quickly into slumber. Maybe he’d have roused to her and she to him, whether the custom of women was upon her or not, whether it was a sin for them to join then or not, and she’d have forgotten all about being so unhappy.

The chapel bell tolled again and he pulled back the heavy curtain to peer out the arrow notch that served as a window. The storm had blown itself out in the night, leaving a fresh layer of sparkling white on the world. Below in the bailey, Katherine and Lady Margaret were trudging from the chapel to the keep through the crisp snow.

If he hurried, he’d be able to join his wife as she broke her fast on Christmas morning.

“That’ll be a good start,” he told Angus. “A fresh start.”

The little dog whined and burrowed back under the covers.

William snorted. “I guess ye dinna much like my chances.”

Truth to tell, he didn’t either.

 

 

Her three young nephews ran past Katherine and their mother, shrieking like boggles and lobbing icy handfuls at each other. Margaret stumbled as she dodged one of the snowballs that went astray. She would have gone down if Katherine hadn’t grabbed her and kept her upright at the last moment.

“Dermid, ye wee heathen, look what ye nearly did to your mother. Lachlan and Monroe, dinna encourage him,” Katherine said crossly to her nephews. “Settle yourselves, all of ye.”

“Dinna scold, Auntie Kat. ’Tis Christmas morn, after all, and that’ll put any lad in high spirits,” Margaret said with far more charity than Kat was able to muster.

“A bearing woman should be coddled, not caught in the crossfire of a snowball fight.”

“No harm done.” Margie bent down to speak to her offspring, who had the good grace to look chagrined. Fidgeting and shuffling their feet, they lined up before their mother and aunt like a small flight of stairs, oldest to youngest. Even though Katherine had reprimanded them, Margie narrowly resisted the urge to kneel and gather them into her arms to kiss their snub-nosed, plump-cheeked faces. “Hurry off to the kitchen now and tell Cook I said ye could have fresh bannocks and jam with extra clotted cream.”

The boys whooped and shot toward the keep as if they’d been slung from a sling.

“Here, give me your arm, Margie,” Katherine said as she watched the boys with a small ache in her chest. “We canna have ye going tail over teakettle in the snow.”

“The drifts are deep enough t’would be a soft landing if I did.” Margaret chuckled. “What a handful those wee imps have become. And just wait till Lucas and wee Tam leave the nursery and join them. This castle will be overrun with small boys.”

“Five sons in eight years,” Katherine said. All of Margaret’s lads were thriving. In a time when illness and death struck the laird’s child as often as his cottar’s, it was a minor miracle to have so many living offspring. “Ye and my brother have been truly blessed. Donald must be so pleased.”

As they walked in step with each other, a shadow passed over Margaret’s face. “I expect he will be once the boys are older. They aren’t of much interest to him now, ye ken.”

“Oh?” Katherine wondered if all men felt that way about their children. If so, that explained why William had never expressed any grief over their losses. It didn’t excuse him, though. The wind swirled up a snow-sprite of white around them and Katherine steadied her sister-in-law while they trudged across the bailey.

“To Donald, they’re bairns yet, unable to hold either a conversation or a dirk like a man. Though last time he was home, your brother did spend a bit more time with Dermid.” Margaret’s face lit with pride. “He’s all of seven now and trying mightily to please his father by learning to speak French.”

“French?”

“Aye. Donald says if our sons hope to go to court, they must learn French. ’Tis the language of diplomacy, he says.”

Donald was twelve years Katherine’s senior, so she had never really spent much time with her brother as she was growing up. If he ignored his sons so, she was beginning to think not knowing her brother well wasn’t much of a loss.

“And is that what
you
want?” Kat asked. “For your boys to be courtiers and diplomats?”

Margaret shrugged. “It doesna matter a flibbet what I want. Their father will decide for them when the time comes. Of course, Dermid is his heir, so he’ll be trained in running the estate and military strategy, but Donald will have plans for the others too. It’ll be the Church for one of them, I warrant. And I’m so afraid he’ll send at least one to sea.”

“If ye dinna want your sons to go to sea, ye should tell Donald how ye feel.”

“And have ye told your husband how
you
feel?”

“About what?”

“About whatever it is that brought you here without him,” Margie said. “Of course, I’m grateful for your company as my time nears, but I’ve a feeling seeing your newest nephew or niece safely into the world isna all that brought ye home.”

Katherine pressed her lips together for a moment. If Margaret knew what she was planning, she suspected her sister-in-law wouldn’t encourage her. “We aren’t talking about me now.”

“Pity. We should, so you can settle this thing, whatever it is. At least ye have your husband close by.” Margaret smiled sadly. “When would I have occasion to talk to Donald? Your brother is hardly ever home. Your father oversees the running of the estate, but Donald spends his time at court. ‘Looking to Glengarry’s future,’ he says.”

James V was seventeen now, in 1529, and finally out from under the thumbs of the men who’d ruled in his name. It made sense to cultivate the favor of the young king for the good of the earldom, but the birth of a child should count for something.

“Surely he’ll be here for your lying-in.”

Margaret laughed, but there was little mirth in the sound. “Leave court at Christmas? I highly doubt it. Besides, Donald has no patience for a sickroom. He’ll come when the child is to be christened and I’ve been churched. Not before.”

Silence fell between them, interrupted only by the crunch of snow underfoot.

“To be honest, when your man swept into the keep last night,” Margaret said softly, “I hoped it was my Donald.”

Kat squeezed Margie’s arm tighter. “I wish it had been.”

“Never say that, Katherine. Ye dinna know how lucky ye are to have a man who’ll leave everything and follow after ye simply because he wants you.”

“He wants something, but I’m not sure ’tis me.”

“Give the man credit for being here. After this one’s born, Donald will come home long enough to get me with another bairn, which willna take much doing, I’m afeared. Last time, he barely had time to hang his plaid on the peg before I was breeding again.” Margaret sighed. “Then once he’s done his duty by me, he’ll be gone.”

Margaret conceived and carried babes so easily. Katherine seldom felt more useless and less womanly than when she was in her sister-in-law’s presence. It wasn’t Margie’s fault. She never said anything to demean Kat directly. Her swollen belly was indictment enough.

“At least you can give my brother children.”

Margaret must have heard the wistfulness in her tone for she stopped walking. “Oh, Katherine, I’m sorry. I didna think. I didna mean to complain. Truly, I did not. It’ll happen again for you. Have faith.”

It had happened. Many times. But Katherine’s body couldn’t seem to keep a child growing inside it. Of course, Margaret only knew about the stillborn boy Katherine had delivered about a year after she and William wed. For months afterward, that small ghost had hovered around Kat. Now he had a handful of unborn siblings.

“Have faith,” Katherine repeated. “So ye think that’s what it takes?”

In the pause between the Gloria and the Credo that morning, Katherine had come to a decision. She knew what she must do. It was best for William, and the only way she could truly demonstrate her love for him. Now she needed the courage to do it. The remembered words of a Psalm hardened her resolve.

“‘Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are the sons of one’s youth,’” Katherine quoted, trying to keep bitterness from bleeding into her tone. “‘Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them.’ That’s how it goes, isn’t it?”

“Donald’s quiver is full enough.” Margaret patted her belly. “I’m praying this one’s a girl.”

 

 

William burst into the bright sunlight, wishing mightily for typical overcast Scottish weather. The heavens seemed determined to remind him that he’d imbibed far too much whisky last night. He ignored the stab of pain behind his eyes and plowed toward Katherine and her sister-in-law.

“Happy Christmas, good-sister,” he said courteously to Margaret. It would pay him to keep in her good graces. Katherine was devoted to Margie and a man never knew when he’d need a feminine ally.

“Happy Christmas to you too, good-brother.” She smiled impishly at him and then tossed a wink to Kat. Will suspected Margaret knew more about the state of his marriage than he did. “If ye want me later, Katherine, I’ll be in my chamber with my feet up.”

“Good,” his wife said. “Ye need your rest.”

“Rest? Not likely with this one doing somersaults and squirming about.” She laid a protective hand on her belly. “The best I can hope is to keep my ankles from swelling.”

When Katherine would have followed her into the keep, William caught her elbow. “Walk with me, wife.”

“In the snow?”

“There was a time when we’d brave drifts deeper than this to have a moment alone.” He brought her hands to his lips and blew his warm breath on them. Her fingers were icy. She ought to have worn gloves. “Of course, we could always go to our chamber.”