The Border Vixen (28 page)

They reached St. Andrews Castle, and in the courtyard their horses were taken from them while their men-at-arms found themselves invited to sit at the trestles that had been set up in the large open enclosure. Maggie, her hand on her husband’s arm, followed along as they walked with other guests to the great hall of the castle. It was a damp evening, but the big fireplaces in the hall were heaped high with logs, and took the chill from the night. The king and Marie de Guise had not yet joined their guests.

“Every lordling in Scotland must be here,” Maggie said, looking about. She saw no one she knew. And the variety of clothing was striking. Many were dressed in the same style of fashionable garments as she and Fin. But others, Highlanders, she immediately realized, came in leather breeches, their plaids pinned with their clan brooches slung across their chests, and over one shoulder. They wore caps with eagle feathers on their heads, and their hair was unfashionably long, some with it tied back, others with it left loose about their shoulders.

“Aye,” Fin agreed. “The northerners have come to gain a sense of this man who has barged into their territories, forcing them to his will.”

“Do ye know any of them?” Maggie asked, curious.

“Nay,” he said. “I have spent most of the last years as a mercenary in France and the Italian and German states. Those Highland chiefs do not venture far from their own lands.”

There was a musicians’ gallery above the end of the hall where they had entered.

In it a dozen or more musicians sat playing. Servants passed among the crowds, offering small goblets of wine. At the other end of the hall a dais was set up. An awning of wide cloth of gold and royal purple stripes was set over it. On the dais were two high-backed chairs with carved and curled arms. A tufted purple cushion had been placed on the flat seat of each chair. One chair, however, was smaller, and lower than the other. Maggie moved forward to get a better look at what had obviously been set up as thrones.

At that moment the doors at the far end of the hall were opened. A flourish of trumpets sounded from the musicians’ gallery, and a stentorian voice pronounced, “My lords and my ladies, the king and the queen.” The crowds parted to either side of the hall, making an aisle for the royal couple to move forward to their thrones. Maggie panicked, realizing that in her effort to see the dais better she had become separated from her husband. She stood silently in the very forefront of the crowd, her heart hammering nervously as King James and Marie de Guise came forward.

When the couple had almost reached their destination, James’s eye caught Maggie’s, and she curtsied lower than she had ever curtsied in her life. “Aah, here is the lady of Brae Aisir, wife to my kinsman, the Stewart of Torra.” Raising Maggie, the king said, “Marie, I present to you Lady Margaret Kerr. Where is Fingal, Maggie?”

“I am here, my liege,” Fin said, pushing his way through the crowd. He bowed elegantly to the king, and then kissed the new queen’s outstretched hand. “I salute ye, madam, and the great house of Guise from which ye sprang. Welcome to Scotland,” he said in perfect French.

Marie de Guise broke into a smile. “I thank ye, my lord,” she answered him in her own native tongue. “Ye have obviously lived in France.”

“I have fought in France, madam,” he answered her.

“We must speak again,” Marie de Guise said, “and your lovely wife, my lord.”

“We will be honored, madam,” Fin said.

“My kinsman is not an important man,
ma chérie
,” the king told her. “But he is the kind of man you can have complete faith in, for his branch of the family have never betrayed their kings. Not even once. Their motto is
Ever faithful
, unlike many you will meet this night among my great lords.” His gaze met Fingal Stewart’s. “Thank ye for coming, my lord and my lady.” Then, with a bow to them, the king moved on with his new wife to gain the dais and sit upon their thrones.

It was to be the highlight of their visit to St. Andrews, for they did not get close to the king and his bride again. As the king himself had said, they were not important. It made no difference to Maggie. She stood in the great cathedral on the twelfth day of June, watching as the king was formally married to Marie de Guise. She partook of the wedding feast in the castle’s great hall that day from a trestle in the back of the chamber.

They had departed the celebration early that night, for in the morning they would begin their return trip to the Borders. Their life was there rather than among the high and mighty who surrounded the king and his new queen. But Mad Maggie Kerr would never forget those few wonderful days she and Fin spent in St. Andrews.

Chapter 10

E
wan Hay had never been more surprised in his life than he was when Mad Maggie Kerr’s husband had without a single word sent him crumbling to the floor. As he sat dazed upon the floor of the Anchor and the Cross, Ewan tasted the blood in his mouth, and at least two of his teeth felt loose. But there was no time to feel sorry for himself, for the landlord’s two sturdy sons pulled him up, and hustled him out the inn door, tossing him rudely into the street.

“Dinna come back!” the taller of the two said to him.

“Ye have no right,” Ewan blustered. “I paid for my accommodation!”

“Ye forfeited it when ye insulted the wife of the king’s kinsman,” the innkeeper’s son said. “Begone with ye now!”

“I want my money back!” Ewan yelled as he got to his feet.

“What ye’ll get is a beating ye’ll ne’er forget if yer not on yer way by the time I count to three,” came his answer. “One! Two! Three!” The innkeeper’s son stepped forward menacingly, his two big fists balled tightly, his look fierce.

Ewan Hay turned and ran. The laughter that followed him didn’t help his mood. His stomach rolled, and stepping into an alley, he vomited much of the sour wine and ale he had consumed that day. Then he stepped out of the narrow passage, straightened his garb, dusted himself off, and followed along with the crowds headed for St. Andrews Castle. He managed amid the excitement and confusion to gain entry into the great hall before the king and queen arrived.

As he wandered through the jovial crowd of guests, he suddenly spotted Mad Maggie Kerr in her peach velvet gown. He edged himself closer and closer to her. Her husband was nowhere in sight. Ewan had wanted her for years, although she didn’t know it. He had first seen her when she was about thirteen, riding across the moors. She had been hell-bent for leather, leaning low over the neck of that great dapple gray stallion of hers, her skirts hiked high, her bare white legs visible to anyone with eyes to see. Her rich brown hair had been blowing in the wind, and Ewan Hay thought she was the most beautiful and desirable girl he had ever seen. She hadn’t seen him.

She never saw Ewan Hay as he watched her ride the moors, or at the meetings of the border chieftains when she came with her grandfather and he had been with his brother. He fantasized about seducing her; about riding her down, taking her from her horse, and having his way with her in the heather. She would fight him, of course. And each time he considered it, his cock grew to iron in his breeks. He imagined her clawing at him in a desperate effort to avoid his possession. He imagined her screaming at him, cursing him, as he impaled her and fucked her until she fainted.

He still dreamed of her, the duplicitous bitch! Her breasts rising and falling above the gold edging on her bodice were so damned tempting. That coquettish little French hood that framed her face so perfectly enticed him to creep closer. But then suddenly the king and queen were there. And James Stewart was actually talking to her—talking to that border vixen as if they were friends! Her husband came to stand by her side, and together they conversed with smiles and pleasantries with the royal couple as intimates. Ewan Hay couldn’t believe his eyes. How had Mad Maggie Kerr become a king’s friend?

Brae Aisir’s mistress would become the most powerful woman in the Borders, and Maggie’s husband would be the most powerful man. No! It was he, Ewan Hay, who should be that man. And he would have been if James Stewart had given Maggie to him. If only the king had listened to him and then given him the wench to wife, he could have been a happy man. He, instead of Fingal Stewart, would have taken over the Aisir nam Breug. The usurper had no right to Maggie or the land. They should have been his. And they were going to be! Ewan Hay was going to find a way to gain everything that belonged to Brae Aisir—except, of course, Fingal Stewart and his spawn.
But how?

James V had a good grip on his throne. While not well thought of by his nobility, he was loved by the people and had strong allies in the church. But his determination to eradicate anyone connected with his former stepfather, his mother’s second husband, Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, made him enemies. James, however, could not put his wretched childhood in Angus’s care behind him.

He had no memories of his father, James IV. But his father had been well liked by all. From all accounts, the fourth James Stewart had been a courtly, educated, dashing prince who had taken his father’s throne from him in a coup at the age of fifteen. He had had several beautiful mistresses, a family of bastard sons and daughters, and the devotion of all who knew him. And he had died at Flodden Hill in a battle against the English in spite of having an English princess for a wife. And with him had died more of Scotland’s nobility than could be counted. Among the thousands dead were the heads of fourteen important families, a bishop, an archbishop, several abbots, and nine earls.

And James V had been only eighteen months old at the time. His uncle, England’s King Henry VIII, wanted physical custody of him. His mother quickly remarried to protect herself and her children. Her choice had been pro-English, but Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, used young James to rule for himself. He did everything he could to see that James was raised ignorant, and debauched. But there were those about the young prince who protected him, and kept him from the worst of Angus’s machinations. And his mother found her second husband quickly lost his charm. She divorced him finally, despite her brother’s exhortation to remain with him for the sake of her good name, and married a third time to Lord Methven, another error in judgment.

By this time, James V had escaped the clutches of the Douglases, taken up his power, and begun wreaking his vengence. Lady Janet Glamis, sister of the Earl of Angus, he burned at the stake on Castle Hill in Edinburgh for the crime of attempting to poison him. The charges were false. He made the Earl of Morton turn over his earldom to the Crown and pressed the heir to the Earl of Crawford to renounce his claim to that title in favor of the king. He came down hard on the border lords who favored the Douglases, bringing them to their knees and under his thumb. He compelled the lords of the Western Isles to his will. James V was not well liked. But he was feared.

But now happily wed to his beautiful and charming queen, he began embarking upon architectural projects to make over some of Scotland’s castles into replicas of the fine châteaus he had seen in the Loire Valley of France. The wealth he had confiscated, the wealth he gained each year, and the generous dowers of his two French queens allowed the king to indulge himself while offering employment to his subjects.

At Brae Aisir life took on a comfortable routine. The Borders were relatively quiet for the moment. Old Dugald Kerr’s health seemed miraculously restored. Maggie wondered if her grandsire’s former frailty had been a sham to get her wedded and bedded. She had returned from St. Andrews to find that despite her good intentions, she was pregnant once more. A second son, Andrew Robert, was born the following April.

The queen was formally crowned consort in February 1540. In the spring of that same year King James launched a naval campaign against the lords of the northern and western isles who were once again becoming unruly. Late in the previous year, a chieftain in the northwest, one Donald Gorme, had claimed the lordship of the isles, and rebelled. To Fingal Stewart’s surprise, the king invited him to join this expedition. Maggie was not happy to have her husband go off to what would surely be a short but nasty war. What did the northwest of Scotland have to do with them?

“What do ye know of the sea?” she demanded to know.

“Naught,” he replied calmly. “Archie, pack my things, and tell Iver to choose a dozen men to accompany us.”

“Yer going to go?” She was astounded.

“Ye know my family’s motto. We’ve never refused a royal command,” Fin said.

“His message is an
invitation
,” Maggie pointed out.

“When a king invites ye,” Dugald Kerr said, “ye go, lass. It’s a polite way of commanding. The king hardly trusts the border families as it is. We’re counted among the faithful because of the past behavior of the Stewarts of Torra. Fin has no choice. He must and he will go.”

“Yer capable, more than capable, of managing the Aisir nam Breug,” Fin said to his wife. “ ’Twill be like old times for ye,” he teased her.