The Border Lord and the Lady (13 page)

“Both,” the laird admitted. “Aye, I want to bed her, but it’s more than that. There is something about her. I can’t even find the right words to explain myself. I just know she is the one I am meant to wed, to have children with, and to grow old together with.”

“Then I’m sorry for you,” Fergus said, “for it’s unlikely you’ll gain your heart’s desire, Ian. There is naught you can do to change this situation.”

“There is always something that can be done, little brother. But I need to go home to Glengorm and consider well what I shall do next. There is nothing more for us here in Perth. We shall leave tomorrow, but I will dream of Cicely Bowen tonight.”

Cicely would have been flattered if she had heard his words, but she didn’t, of course. She walked in a mid-May garden with the laird
of Fairlea. The air was fresh with the scent of early flowers, though still chill. “Does it ever get warmer in Scotland?” she asked her companion.

“Are you cold, sweeting?” he inquired, and put an arm about her.

“A little,” Cicely admitted.

“Let us stop and sit,” he suggested. “I’ll share my cloak with you.” He flung it about her shoulders as they sat down, his arm bringing her closer. “Is that better?”

“Ummm, aye, it is,” Cicely admitted. “But we shouldn’t remain here too long. People will gossip, and I have my reputation to consider, my lord.”

“Just long enough for me to steal a kiss, sweeting,” the laird of Fairlea said, catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping her face up to his, and placing his lips upon hers.

Cicely sighed with delight as he kissed her softly, brushing his mouth over hers. She had entertained a stolen kiss now and again. A maiden, even a homely one, didn’t get to be seventeen and not be kissed. His mouth was gentle and his breath sweet. But after a moment she drew away. “You are too bold,” she said to him.

“You did not resist,” he countered with a small smile. “Was my kiss so unwelcome then, my lady Cicely?”

“Nay,” she admitted, “ ’twas not. Still, we are but newly acquainted, and I am not easy with my favors like some, my lord. It is said Scots girls are quick to kiss, but I am English, not Scots. You would do well to remember it.” Her cheeks felt warm.

“If you married into Scotland you would be Scots, but then your kisses would have to be reserved for your husband,” the laird of Fairlea said.

“I have not yet wed into Scotland, my lord,” Cicely replied. Her heart hammered with excitement. Was he suggesting that they wed? “Anyone suing for my hand,” she told him, “must speak with the king, for it is his decision to make. My father gave him the authority, as he himself is too far distant.”

“Then you must wed where the king says,” Andrew Gordon said.

“Nay. I wed to please myself,” Cicely explained. “But ’tis King James who will act for me. My father loved my mother, and she him. He has given me the privilege of following my heart, my lord, and I will do so.” She arose from the bench where they had been sitting. “We should return to the hall lest unseemly things are hinted about out absence,” Cicely told him.

“Of course,” he agreed, standing and escorting her back into the palace. He left her with the queen and went off to find his kinsman, the Lord Huntley.

“You are flushed,” Queen Joan noted softly.

“He hints at marriage,” Cicely said slowly.

“Do you like him?” the queen asked.

“He is charming, aye, and we have much in common, but it is too soon, Jo. We have known each other but a brief time, and he is certainly on his best behavior with me,” Cicely said. “But I will not marry in haste, and should he press the issue he will drive me off, for then I shall wonder if he wishes to wed for love, or for love of my fortune. The Earl of Atholl’s wife is a bit of a gossip. Few of our secrets are safe once she has ferreted them out. I am no dewy-eyed girl to be gulled by a handsome man’s kisses.”

“Then he has kissed you!” the queen said excitedly.

“A few kisses, which I most thoroughly enjoyed. But today I put a stop to it in a manner not to offend, but one that allowed us both a wee bit of pleasure,” Cicely admitted with a small smile. “He was a gentleman, and his breath did not offend.”

“His clan is important, and he stands in favor with Huntley, who has some power,” the queen said. “It would be a very good match for you, Ce-ce.”

“I want to be in love, Jo. My parents were. You and the king are,” Cicely replied.

“Jamie and I, your parents, we are not the rule. You know that,” Joan Beaufort said. “Marriage is made for land, for wealth, for alliances.
You have wealth and beauty. You are a queen’s friend, all of which makes you valuable. Love is elusive. The best you can hope for is a man who will respect you and be kind. And if you are friends it makes it even better. But love is rarely part of marriage, Ce-ce.”

Cicely sighed. She knew the queen was right, but she could hope, couldn’t she? “We are still too newly met for me to even consider Andrew Gordon as a suitor,” she said. “And there are some other handsome men without the encumbrance of a wife here at your court.”

“You have been looking about, have you?” The queen laughed. “Who takes your fancy, Ce-ce?”

“I don’t know if he takes my fancy, but the MacDonald of Nairn is certainly worth a second glance, and the Douglas of Glengorm, if he were a bit cleaner, is a handsome man. Obviously there is no one to care for him, for his shirt had a ring about the collar.”

“The MacDonald of Nairn is too dangerous a man. He’s a Highlander, and he eats little English girls like you for breakfast,” the queen said. “As for the Douglas of Glengorm, you gave him very short shrift before you traipsed off with your Gordon.”

“I thought him bold,” Cicely replied.

“You said he barely uttered a word to you,” Queen Joan said, surprised.

“He didn’t, but he had a look in his eyes I couldn’t fathom. Bold, and yet at the same time a bit shy. I felt sorry for him, Jo. Especially when Andrew Gordon came to take me away. Andrew was so perfectly dressed, his hair clipped neatly. The borderer’s best had seen better days, and his hair was rough cut. It touched his shoulders. ’Twas not at all fashionable. But he seemed a decent man.”

“You minx! You think to test Andrew Gordon with another man,” the queen said. “It will not work, Ce-ce. If Fairlea is after you for your fortune he’ll never admit to it. And who is to say every man who seeks to court you isn’t interested in your wealth?”

“Well,” Cicely said, “if that is so I hope I am as fortunate as my
stepmother. At least Luciana knew my father respected her and would be kind. But before I shackle myself to any man I would seek love.”

May melted away into June. The queen’s pregnancy was officially announced. There would be a child before year’s end. All of Scotland prayed for an heir. The laird of Fairlea was openly courting Lady Cicely Bowen with the approval of the Lord Huntley. The lady, however, seemed in no hurry to commit herself to him quite yet.

Huntley complained to the king that his kinsman was ready to declare himself and make Lady Cicely his wife, but that she went out of her way to avoid any such talk. “What is the matter wi’ the lass? Does she nae understand what a good family we are? Why, Andrew could have any lass he wanted, and the wench would fall at his feet wi’ gratitude to be his wife.”

“Ce-ce—Lady Cicely—is not ready to leave the queen, my lord,” James Stewart said, although he knew exactly what Cicely was thinking, because his wife had told him. “They have been together since girlhood. Wait until my bairn is born, and Lady Cicely feels more settled away from England. I will champion your kinsman’s cause with the lady. I think him an excellent match for her, but I promised her father the choice would be hers. I am not a man to break my word. Tell Fairlea if he waits until Twelfth Night he will have my permission to ask the lady, but remind him I cannot compel her.”

“He’s impatient, my liege, and I can’t say I blame the man. The lass is passing fair,” Huntley replied.

“The lady has complained of being pressed too hard by your man, my lord. He attempts to stifle other friendships, which is unwise,” the king murmured as a soft warning. “Perhaps he should return home, attend to his estate, and return in December.”

“Is that a command, my liege?” Lord Huntley asked.

James Stewart shook his head. “Nay, ’tis but a suggestion, but one he should consider well.”

It was a dismissal, and Huntley knew it. The conversation was over. He bowed to the king and departed to find Andrew Gordon.

The king watched him go. He was irritated to be bothered with something he considered a trifle. He had a kingdom to rule, and rule it he was, to the dismay of those used to weaker kings and regents. He
suggested
several new laws to the parliament, and they were swiftly enacted. Then James Stewart sent out a decree demanding that every lord of the realm, every lady holding property in her own right, every laird both Highland and from the border bring the patent for their lands, to be examined for authenticity. It was little more than a thinly veiled excuse to test for loyalty, both past and present. Those who could not prove ownership of their lands or titles, and whose fealty was in doubt, lost their lands. The faithful were reestablished in their holdings.

The king then looked about at lands that belonged to the Crown and had been carelessly given away as bribes by his grandfather, father, and uncle. Those lands that were being mismanaged or had simply been usurped by the lords were reclaimed. It was not a popular move, but James Stewart needed to prove he had an iron first when it came to ruling. He next meant to improve the criminal and civil courts. There was so much to do, and while it was to his advantage that Lady Cicely Bowen marry the Lord Huntley’s kinsman, it was the least of his worries.

Joan Beaufort grew fat with her expected child. Andrew Gordon lingered until August. Then he returned home to Fairlea. The summer ended, and the hills about Scone began to grow bright with their autumn colors, and the scent of September heather filled the air. The wind blew more from the north as the days grew shorter and the nights longer. And then came word of a terrible happening.

The king’s friend Black Angus Gordon, the laird of Loch Brae, had gone down into England to bring an orphaned cousin of the queen’s to Scotland. James knew that eventually Cicely Bowen would marry, and so he brought Elizabeth Williams from York in hopes that when Cicely departed, Joan would have a young friend by her side. The laird’s mistress, Fiona Hay, had left Scone in October to travel home
to Loch Brae. She had been kidnapped as she traveled, and the court was agog with excitement over the matter. No one knew for certain who had stolen the lady, but suspicion was directed in the direction of the MacDonald of Nairn.

“The Gordons are furious,” the queen told Cicely.

“But she was only his mistress,” Cicely said. “Did she mean that much to him?”

“He had sent her home to prepare for their marriage,” Joan Beaufort replied. “Huntley approved it. The king sent Brae down to York to fetch my cousin Beth.”

Cicely shook her head. “Poor Mistress Hay. How unhappy she must be, being stolen away from the man she was to wed.”

“The MacDonald of Nairn was very much taken with her. He’ll marry her whether she will or no,” the queen confided. “You do not steal someone else’s bride unless you mean to wed her yourself. Or kill her. But Nairn had no quarrel with Brae. He simply wanted his woman, and now he has her.”

“I should not like to be in Mistress Hay’s position,” Cicely remarked. “If a man stole me away I should not wed him no matter what he wanted.”

“You might have no other choice,” the queen said. Then she brightened. “Will you go into town today to the lace-and-ribbon shop for me? I am ready to trim the future prince’s christening gown.”

“Are you so certain ’tis a prince?” Cicely teased.

“Oh, Ce-ce, it just has to be!” the queen replied. “James is moving so quickly to institute all his reforms and changes. While the people already love him, the lords are not pleased at losing many of their privileges and certainly not some of their lands. We need a strong male heir to help us prevent any rebellion.”

“I’ll go into town for you,” Cicely told her anxious mistress. “But you must not fret yourself, Jo. Not now, when the prince is so near to being born.”

“It is another two months.” Joan Beaufort sighed. “Although I
would wish it sooner. I can no longer see my own feet. All I long to do is eat and pee. It does not add to the dignity of my office,” she lamented.

Cicely giggled, but, seeing her friend’s aggrieved look, she apologized. “I’m sorry, Jo,” she said, standing up. “I think while I am in town I will find some lavender oil for you. It is so soothing. I will rub your feet with it tonight, I promise.”

“Aye, that would be lovely,” the queen agreed, waving Cicely off.

The girl hurried to her own small chamber, where Orva sat mending the hem of one of her mistress’s gowns. “I am going into town for the queen,” she said. “Do you want to come with me? I can take a man-at-arms if you prefer to stay.”

“Nay, I’ll come,” Orva said, laying aside her mending and standing up. “I have been indoors all day, and would welcome some fresh air. Where are we going?”

“The lace-and-ribbon shop at the end of the High Street,” Cicely answered.

They gathered up their cloaks, and Cicely sent to the stables for their horses. Entering the courtyard they found the beasts saddled and awaiting them. Cicely waved away the man-at-arms. “We are only going to the ribbon shop,” she said, and the man nodded his acceptance, for the town was not dangerous. The two women rode the short distance from Scone Palace to Perth’s High Street. At its far end on the corner of Tam’s Lane was the lace-and-ribbon shop belonging to Mistress Marjory, a widow. Dismounting, Cicely promised a street urchin a penny if he would hold their horses while they were in the shop. Then she and Orva entered the establishment.