The Border Vixen (16 page)

“God only knows how the tale will end up, for it will be embellished by each person who repeats it,” Maggie said, laughing softly.

“He’s a fine man, and will give ye strong sons and daughters, mistress,” Grizel said. “Is there anything ye would ask of me now that ye face yer wedding night?”

“Nay,” Maggie replied, a faint blush touching her cheeks. “I’ve seen enough lasses and lads in the hay and out on the moors to know just enough to make a beginning of it. And what I don’t know I expect that my husband will tutor me in to make up for my deficiencies.”

“Aye,” Grizel agreed. “ ’Tis better that way, for ye’ll learn to please him. And ye’ll get yer way more often than not pleasing a husband than displeasing him.”

“Help me wash my hair,” Maggie said, changing the subject. “My scalp is soaked wet with all my efforts this morning.”

Grizel brought her mistress a small stone jar filled with scraps of soap that had been melted soft in a bit of water. Taking a small pitcher, she dipped it into the tub and poured the water over her mistress’s head. Then Maggie dipped her fingers into the jar, bringing up a handful of the mixture, which she rubbed into her head. The sweet-smelling mixture foamed up quickly as she scrubbed her head. Grizel rinsed the soap away, and the two women repeated the process. When all the soap was finally erased from Maggie’s hair, she took her tresses into a hank, wringing it out. Then Grizel pinned the wet hair atop the girl’s head so she might continue her bath.

“I can’t decide whether to wear the burgundy or the deep green velvet,” Maggie said to her companion as she scrubbed herself.

“Neither,” Grizel surprised her by replying. “I’ve been working for weeks on a gown for ye to wear on this day, my lady.” She chuckled, well pleased by the look of excitement that bloomed on Maggie’s face. “Finish with yer bath,” Grizel said, smiling.

“Do ye think my lord has bathed too?” Maggie wondered aloud.

“Aye, he has,” Grizel answered her.

“How can ye know?” Maggie inquired.

“Archie is a man who enjoys a bit of chatter,” Grizel said, chortling. “He said he was putting sandalwood oil in his master’s bathwater today.”

“My lord’s manservant likes ye,” Maggie teased her tiring woman.

“Do ye ache less now?” Grizel asked, avoiding the subject of Lord Stewart’s man.

“Aye,” Maggie replied, but her hazel eyes were twinkling. “I don’t think I have ever in my life fought so hard as I did this day. My husband is very skilled with his claymore. Not once did he give me the opportunity to slip beneath his guard and blood him,” she said admiringly.

“Did ye want him to?” Grizel inquired slyly.

Maggie smiled almost to herself. “Nay,” she admitted. “I didn’t.”

“He’s a bold man, and an honorable one too,” Grizel said, nodding approvingly.

Maggie finally emerged from her tub. The water was cooling, and she was beginning to ache again. She dried herself thoroughly, wrapping the cloth about herself. Then she sat down by her hearth to get warm again while she toweled her hair with another cloth and began brushing it out before the fire.

“ ’Tis past noon,” Grizel said at last. “Ye must dress, and then go to the kirk for the blessing. The Netherdale Kerrs haven’t left. They’re staying for the blessing and the feast. Lord Edmund is not happy about yer marriage, but Rafe, yer cousin, seems a good lad. Not at all like his da. Imagine the old fool telling yer grandsire that he wanted to wed ye and bring the two families together,” Grizel said indignantly.

“He wants to control all of the Aisir nam Breug,” Maggie said. “I seem to be the answer to his desire. I’d nae wed him if he were the last man on earth, and as fair as a May morn,” Maggie said. “I’ve never liked him, even as a child.”

Grizel took the hairbrush from her mistress, and running it through the girl’s hair said, “Yer dry now. Let’s get ye dressed, my lady.”

Maggie could see her undergarments laid out upon her bed, but there was no sign of a gown. Grizel handed her mistress a pair of soft woolen stockings that were pale in color and came just below her knee. She drew them on, affixing them with a plain ribbon garter. Standing, she next put on a chemise. It had long sleeves trimmed with gold lace, and a low square neckline also edged in gold lace that would match her gown’s neckline. Next Grizel added two silk petticoats that tied in the back with ribbon.

The tiring woman went to the wardrobe and drew out the bodice, which already had its sleeves affixed, and the skirt that made up the gown that Maggie would wear. The lower half of the gown was a funnel skirt of orange tawny velvet brocade edged in brown fur. The matching velvet bodice had a square neckline edged in gold embroidery, and the sleeves had deep turned-back cuffs of rich brown marten, the gold lace from her chemise sleeves just barely visible. “Well?” Grizel said, smiling.

“It’s beautiful!” Maggie exclaimed. “It’s perfect!” She threw her arms about the older woman. “Thank you, Grizel! Thank you!”

“I want the king’s kinsman to see what a fine lady ye are,” Grizel said. “I want him to know yer the kind of wife he can take to court one day when the king takes a wife. I want him to be proud of ye as all here at Brae Aisir are proud of ye.” She wiped a tear or two from her warm brown eyes.

Maggie was close to tears herself after Grizel’s declaration. “Help me finish dressing,” she said, a catch in her voice. What on earth was the matter with her today? She supposed it was the shock of actually losing the contest. Before this day no one seeking her hand who had dared to take up the challenge had ever gotten past the footrace, although she had raced her stallion just to make a point with Ewan Hay. The contracts had been signed weeks ago. She was already wed to Fingal Stewart. But now he had gained her respect. He had proved himself worthy to be her husband this day, to inherit control of the Aisir nam Breug eventually, to sire bairns upon her.

She stood silently as Grizel fastened the skirt of her gown. It fell in graceful folds over her petticoats. She slid her arms into the bodice, waiting while Grizel carefully laced it up the back with gold ribbon. She sat carefully, letting her tiring woman brush out her long rich chestnut brown hair. It would be worn loose, attesting to her virginity. A gold ribbon embroidered with tiny glittering bits of gold quartz was fastened about her forehead to hold her tresses in place. Maggie stood and took the soft leather gloves Grizel handed her. They would be riding to the kirk. Her servant slipped a fur cape about her shoulders.

“Yer ready,” Grizel said.

Maggie descended into the great hall where the men of her family awaited her. Her grandfather was dressed in a long, dark brown velvet coat with full-puffed sleeves, and a large fur collar. She smiled at him, but then her gaze went to her husband, and her eyes widened with both approval and surprise. If as Grizel had said, she was fine enough to appear at the king’s court, then so was Lord Fingal Stewart.

Chapter 6

S
he had always thought him passing fair for a man, but looking at him now, she realized how handsome he truly was. At five feet ten inches, she was considered extremely tall for a woman, but he topped her by at least half a foot. His thick wavy black hair was cropped short. His gray eyes looked out at her from beneath thick bushy black eyebrows. He had a long face with an aquiline nose, and while his mouth was big and thin, when he smiled it changed the severity of his countenance. He smiled at her now, and Maggie smiled back.

“Ye are beautiful, madam,” he gallantly told her, taking her hand up and kissing it.

“As are ye, my lord,” she said, admiring his deep green velvet doublet with its bit of gold embroidery, padded sleeves, and fur cuffs. He had matching slashed breeches, silk stockings that showed his shapely calves, and embroidered shoes.

“Archie seems to have some magic that grants him proper garments for me when the occasion demands it,” Fingal Stewart answered. He had fully expected to wear the black and brown canions he wore to court. He tucked her hand into his arm.

“Can we get to the kirk for the blessing?” the old laird asked impatiently.

“I could do it here, Brother,” Father David Kerr said.

“Nay! I want the blessing pronounced in the kirk,” Dugald Kerr replied. “The kirk is full of Kerrs now waiting for this.”

“We should not keep them waiting another minute then, my lord,” Fingal Stewart said. Then he turned to Maggie and said mischievously, “Do ye want to race?”

She laughed loudly. “Nay, my lord. We shall proceed through the village upon our mounts at a docile pace as is suitable for this day.”

In the courtyard a fine chestnut gelding and a cream-colored mare with a dark mane and tail stood waiting patiently. Lord Stewart lifted Maggie onto the mare, waiting while she pulled on her riding gloves and adjusted her skirts; she did not ride astride this day. Then he swung himself up on the gelding next to the laird and the priest, who were already mounted. Slowly they descended the hill path and into the village. The street was lined with villagers who then fell in behind the riders escorting them.

The priest hurried into the church building with the villagers behind him eager to find places among the keep’s servants where they too might watch the ceremony. Lord Stewart lifted Maggie from her saddle. When her feet had touched the ground, she found herself flanked by her grandfather on one side of her and Fingal Stewart on the other. Together the two men escorted her into the kirk and up the aisle where Father David Kerr stood awaiting them. Without a single word, Dugald Kerr, laird of Brae Aisir, placed his granddaughter’s hand into the hand of Lord Fingal Stewart. Then he stepped back and aside to watch the proceedings as Edmund Kerr glared, angry to have been foiled.

“Kneel,” the priest said. When they had, he pronounced the church’s blessing upon the union of Margaret Jean Kerr of Brae Aisir and Lord Fingal David Stewart of Torra. A hand rested upon the head of the bride and of the groom as he spoke. Then Mass was celebrated for all within the small kirk. When it concluded, David Kerr announced, “Fingal Stewart and Maggie Kerr are now man and wife in the eyes of the church as well as the laws of Scotland.”

“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” those within the church shouted with one voice.

“Long life and many bairns to our Maggie and her man!”

They arose from the velvet-cushioned kneelers. Fin swept Maggie into his arms and kissed her quite thoroughly to the delight of the clansmen and women. Then they hurried from the church together, the old laird coming behind them, accepting the congratulations of his folk. Rosy with blushes, Maggie was already seated upon her mare.

Fin aided Dugald Kerr to clamber upon his horse, then mounted his own animal, and they returned to the keep, the Netherdale Kerrs and the village coming behind them.

In the courtyard Maggie and Fin greeted each Kerr, giving them a small but useful gift; honing stones for the men, a small basket of colored threads for the women, and a sugar plum for each child. There were ale and sweet cakes for everyone. A health was drunk to the bride, the groom, and the laird. Then the clan folk departed back to their own cottages, allowing the wedding party to reenter the hall where the celebratory feast would now be enjoyed by the family and its retainers.

It was midafternoon now. The day had cleared. As the sun set and the fires blazed in the hall hearths, the food was brought forth to the high board. Fresh trout and salmon were served on platters of peppery wild cress. This was followed by a roasted goose, a leg of lamb, a ham, and a rabbit stew with tiny onions and sliced carrots in a rich brown gravy flavored with red wine. There was a bowl of late peas from the kitchen garden, and some lettuces braised in white wine along with fresh bread served with both butter and two cheeses. The cups, studded with green agate, were filled with dark red wine that tasted sweet to Maggie’s tongue.

Below the high board the men-at-arms and the family’s retainers enjoyed trout, ham, rabbit stew, bread, and cheese, while their cups were never empty of the laird’s good ale. There was much camaraderie and laughter between the trestles, for the men of Brae Aisir and Lord Stewart’s men were now one and the same.

Lord Edmund glowered out over the small assembly. He had lost his chance to gain the whole of the Aisir nam Breug today. But there was always tomorrow. Maggie could prove infertile. She might die in childbed or birth only daughters. Discord could be sewn among the Kerr clan folk when old Dugald died. Did the Kerrs really want a Stewart overlord and master? Despite his son’s warning, Edmund Kerr wasn’t ready to yet concede his loss. His fist tightened about the stem of his goblet, and his lips narrowed.

“We’re leaving immediately on the morrow,” Rafe Kerr said quietly to his sire. “The head groom in the stable says there’s a storm coming in another day or two. I’d just as soon be home in Netherdale Hall when it does.”

“Aye,” his father agreed. “No need for us to remain here any longer. My cousin will be glad to see the back of me, I’m certain.”

Rafe laughed. “Aye, Da, he will, ’tis truth. Old Dugald doesn’t like you at all. He told me he holds you responsible for not telling him that Glynis was frail.”