The King's Mistress (20 page)

Cursing under their breaths, noses and mouths bleeding, the men moved off.

As he engaged the next warriors, MacFee, forty feet above him, let loose on his bagpipe. The ear-piercing battle drone echoed around the curtain walls, and every man’s head came up on the alert, each one thinking a new enemy approached.

He waved at MacFee to stop, and the man thankfully pulled the drone from his lips. As the last moan escaped the bag and echoed around them, Britt shouted, “Have you no shame? ’Tis the eve of your king’s funeral.” Grumbling rose to his left. Glaring in that direction, he said, “Stand quiet! I don’t give a snake’s arse which one of you started this. ’Tis
over
. And the next man who raises his hand in anger within these walls will spend a fortnight in its dungeon. Is that clear?”

More grumbling rumbled around the ward but with less venom. “Good. Now go back to your places. Sir Angus, a word if you please.”

When Tall Angus made his way to him, Britt asked, “What in hell happened?”

“Some of the men were playing dice. One accused another of cheating, then fists were flying.”

Britt looked about the ward and, seeing only two chieftains, asked, “And where were the rest of their lieges whilst all this was going on?”

Angus nodded in the direction of the keep and shrugged. “Drunk on their arses within?”

Ah, the Scots celebrating death. “All right. How many did we lose?”

“One that I ken, but we may have others.”

“Dare I ask what happened to you?”

Angus gingerly touched his right cheek and grinned. “A well-aimed foot, which shan’t be usable in the foreseeable future.”

They spent the next few hours striding among their own men, pressing on wounds to stem the flow of blood, carrying those who could not walk to the upper ward, where they’d find Auld Sadie, their healer, and then congratulating those who’d held their own against superior forces.

Seeing all tended that needed tending, Britt looked about the lower ward. “I need speak with the archbishop…if he’s sober.”

Angus clamped him on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

In the great hall, Britt found the Archbishop of St. Andrews, rich embroidered jerkin and robe askance, eyelids barely open, listing in his chair. “Your Grace, may I have a word?” When he got no response—the man had apparently mastered the art of sleeping with his eyes open—Britt poked him in the shoulder.

The man jerked and peered at Britt through one gimlet eye. “Mac…Mac?”

“MacKinnon, Your Grace. I need ask a boon—”

The man’s eyes closed. Britt poked the archbishop again to roust him and got a snore in response.

Ack.
The archbishop was the only man in the room with the information he needed, kenned the cost and process by which to obtain a papal bull. Looking at the slumbering archbishop, Britt toyed with the idea of throwing water in the old man’s face but then tossed the idea aside. Garnering the man’s ire would not serve, archbishops being some of the most powerful men in the realm.

Perhaps if I sat him up.
Britt reached beneath the man’s red robe and hoisted the bishop up by the armpits, repositioning him against the back of the chair, then none too gently slapped the man’s face. “Your Grace!”

To his annoyance, the archbishop only groaned, and then, head lolling, began snoring in earnest.

God grant me patience.

If only his father had prosecuted the bitch as Britt had asked—nay, begged. But nay, his sire, fearing her family’s wrath, wouldn’t hear of it, claimed Britt had no proof. What more proof did the bastard need than a dead bairn?

He shuddered, the old pain washing over him.

He would put an end to this madness today if it meant tying His Grace to his chair and forcing water down his gullet.

Britt crossed the hall and took the stairs to the kitchen. Aye, he would get his papal bull and one day return to Skye with Gen by his side. Cassandra could go back from whence she’d come or to hell, for all he cared.

In the kitchen, he ignored the questioning looks of the scullery lasses and filled the largest tankard he could find from the water buckets awaiting their turn over the coals and returned to the hall.

As he tipped the water to the archbishop’s gaping mouth, Ross asked, “What are you doing?”

“Sobering him up.”

Ross, looking a bit green, yawned as he watched the water Britt poured sluice down the archbishop’s front. “Not happening, my friend. Best you leave him be.”

“I can’t. I need speak with him.”

Ross shrugged. “Today drunk, tomorrow on water. You do know he drained a full budget and was working on another before…” He made a vague motion toward the archbishop, then yawned again. “Do what you must, I don’t care. ’Night.”

As Ross stumbled away, Britt sniffed the goblet at the archbishop’s elbow. The best wine in Edinburgh’s cellar, of course. Ross was right. The man would be out cold for hours. He would have to reconcile himself to waiting, since there was no way he could return to Gen—and their conversation, which he sorely dreaded—without the information he sought. Calculating how he might pay for the bull would keep him occupied until then.

Hearing someone rap on the door, Gen woke from her fitful sleep with a start and found sunshine streaming betwixt the shutters. “’Tis about time he returned.”

She bounded out of bed, wrapped the sheeting about her and lifted the latch, a smile on her lips.

“Good morn’!” Hildy, grinning, breezed by her with a wooden tray laden with bread and cheese in hand. Looking about the room, she frowned. “Has MacKinnon left already?”

Gen collapsed onto the bed. “He was called away late last night.” And before finishing what he had to tell her.

Hildy shrugged and plopped down on the nearby stool. “So, tell me. How did it go?”

Gen felt heat rise up her neck, then bloom in her face. “Better than expected.”

Hildy clapped her hands. “I kenned it!”

“You did?” She certainly hadn’t. The whole evening had been one shock after another.

“He’s a man, isn’t he? So, tell me. Did he hitch?”

“Aye, and a good bit more.”

Hildy gave her a knowing smile. “I thought as much. You’ve turned beet red. So, are you sore?”

Gen thought on that for a moment. “Nay, not really.”

“You’re most fortunate, then. I couldn’t walk nor piss right for two days.”

“Hildy!”

She shrugged. “Hey, ’tis the truth, but then I was but half your age and had no clue what the man was about.”

Gen gaped at her. Hildy wasn’t more than two and twenty years now. “You were a bairn?”

Hildy helped herself to a wedge of cheese. “Aye, about eleven summers, but that’s the way of it sometimes. He needed a new mam for his bairns, and my da had too many mouths to feed. So we were handfast, and off I went. A year and a day later, I’d had my fill of his fists and his brats and said
adieu.
I’ve made my own way since.”

“I’m so sorry.” Gen couldn’t imagine being pawned off, then brutalized. Oh, she’d heard such did happen, but she’d never met anyone to whom it had.

“Nay, don’t be. I’m happier and wiser for it.” She reached up and patted Gen’s knee. “So, was it all ye expected?”

Gen felt fresh heat infuse her cheeks as she nodded. In truth, their coupling had been more than she could ever have imagined.

Hildy sighed in wistful fashion. “You’re a lucky, lass, then. MacKinnon will make a good husband.”

“And I’ve you to thank. He’d have spent the night in the stable again if not for your plan.”

Hildy laughed. “Oh, he’d have gotten around to speaking his mind sooner or later. A dolt could see that just from the way he looks at you and always finds a reason to place a hand on you. We just gave him a wee push along the path he was already taking.”

Hildy rose, opened the shutters and peered up at the sky. “’Tis a fine day for a funeral procession. We should have cartloads of fun.”

Oh good heavens! Genny had forgotten all about her meeting with Lady Campbell. Jumping off the bed, she asked, “Do you ken when the processional will start?”

“Nay, but the trumpets will sound when it does.”

Genny grabbed the pitcher and splashed cold water into Hildy’s washbowl. “I need leave. I have an appointment.”

“Ah, is there anything I can do?”

“If you would, might you be kind enough to do something with this hair of mine? I should be wearing it up now that I’m, well…bedded, and I’ve no such skills.”

Hildy laughed. “Dress and I’ll tend to it.”

Gen made quick work of her ablutions and was dressed before Hildy finished digging in her basket for pins and cauls, then sat drumming her fingers and tapping her toes as Hildy ran a brush through her tangled tresses, then parted, roped and trapped her hair within silver net cauls on either side of Gen’s head. She then placed the silver coronet on top. Stepping back, she said, “You look lovely.”

Not really caring, Gen popped up and gave her friend a hug. “Thank you!”

The trumpets had yet to sound when Gen ran into the crowded bailey, what Britt called the upper ward. She looked about in hopes of finding Britt as she hurried toward the keep. Not seeing him, she decided it was just as well. She would have more to tell him after her meeting with Lady Campbell.

In the great hall, she skirted dozens of men leaning on elbows or out cold on their backs on benches with their mouths agape as she made her way to the staircase, but still caught no sight of Britt.

Reaching the level of the royal apartments, Genny’s feet faltered. How was Lady Campbell to ken she was here? She couldn’t go in nor could she have her presence announced. She’d likely end up in the dungeon again.

As she pondered what to do, the door to her right opened, and Lady Campbell came through it. Greatly relieved, Gen quickly curtsied. Lady Campbell, smiling, took a firm hold of her elbow and whispered, “Hie now. Her Highness could be coming out any moment.”

They rushed down the stairs, Lady Campbell leading the way. At the ground level, she turned left and strode down a corridor. When Gen—having visions of the cell room—hesitated to follow, Lady Campbell stopped and smiled over her shoulder in kind fashion. “Fear not. We only go through the scullery to the garden, where we might have some privacy.”

Catching the scent of baking bread, Gen decided she spoke the truth and followed. They rushed into the hot scullery, passing the busy lasses, and out a door. Entering a fallow garden, Gen gulped the cool air. So far, so good. The lady had not led her astray.

Lady Campbell took a seat on the low stone wall and patted the stone next to her. “Come. We’ve not much time.” Gen sat but several stones away, and the lady grinned. “Did you bring the locket?”

Gen pulled it from her pocket and held it out. Taking her treasure, Lady Campbell said, “Do you understand why I shared it with you?”

Studying the woman at close range, seeing the tiny lines about the countess’s eyes and lips, Genny was forced to put aside her earlier wishful thinking. “You’re a twin.”

“Aye, as are you.” Gen opened her mouth to deny it, and Lady Campbell held up a hand. “Nay, do not deny it. I understand the risk you’re taking and shall keep your secret. You see, I have secrets of my own that involve my twin.” She opened the locket. Stroking the pearls, she sighed. “I was born Iona but have answered to Isla for the last twenty years.”

Taken aback, Gen asked, “Why would you do such?”

“As lasses, Isla and I were inseparable yet different as day and night. I was quiet and subdued, quite content to watch life from a distance, whilst Isla was the just the opposite. Bold and energetic, she was always on the lookout for our next adventure. She was truthfully everything I was not but secretly longed to be.

“Then it came time for us to wed, and I, being the eldest, was betrothed first. To a bold, aggressive chieftain who frightened me. Frightened me so much that I balked on my wedding day. Isla did her best to reassure me, but seeing she was failing, said she would take my vows for me.” She caught her lower lip betwixt her teeth. “You have to understand she kenned as well as I that father
needed
this marriage alliance. Initially I told her no, she could not, for I sensed something was terribly wrong about John, that I believed he hid his true nature behind a civilized façade. She laughed, saying that was precisely why she found him handsome and exciting. That if anyone could bring the rogue to heel, ’twas her.

“In the end, she insisted, and coward that I was, I allowed it. She donned the gown I was to wear and signed my name in the ledger when she exchanged vows with John. And to my astonishment, no one took note that we’d switched places. Not even our mother. We got through the wedding breakfast, Isla slightly subdued and I a total wreck. And then they left, and that was the last time I saw her. Alive.”

Gen edged closer, a hand pressed to her breast. “Oh no! What happened?”

“I married soon after to Lord Campbell. Almost a year had passed and then we received a missive from the monster saying Isla, distraught over the loss of a bairn, had thrown herself off the curtain wall. Mother fell apart and I…I simply refused to believe it.”

Tears shimmered in Lady Campbell’s eyes as she looked at Genny. “My sister loved life as few do. She would
never
have killed herself. Him possibly, but never herself. I told my husband this and that I had to go to Glencoul and see for myself that she was in fact dead.

“To my horror, I found it to be true. While I was there, others whispered in my ear that it was by
his
hand and not hers that she died.” She took a shuddering breath, and the tears the countess had been fighting cascaded. “As I wept over her grave, I swore I would see the bastard dead.”

Teary-eyed, easily imagining killing to protect her twin, Genny reached out and carefully brushed the tears from Lady Campbell’s cheek. “And did you?”

She shook her head. “Fate got to him before I could. He broke his neck when his mount, having had enough of his whipping, reared and flipped over onto him.”

She reached out and took Gen’s hand in hers. “I made another pledge to Isla that day. I swore I would live my life as she would have…had she been given the chance. And as much as it has frightened me at times, I’ve kept that pledge.”