The King's Mistress (22 page)

Her hands slid up his chest and slipped about his neck. “I’m most happy that you do, since your feelings are reciprocated.”

“MacKinnon!”

Britt sighed, looked over his shoulder and found Ross, hands on his hips, glaring up at them from the foot of the stairs. “Yes?”

“Didn’t you hear me call? We need you in the chapel.”

“In a moment.”

“Now. The other pallbearers are already in position.”

“All right.” To Gen he said, “I’m so sorry. We’ll talk when I return in four or five days’ time. Remember, go nowhere without a guard at your side.”

“I shan’t. Return soonest. I’ll miss you.”

“I will, and I’ll miss you as well.” He kissed her thoroughly as if it might be their last, hoping to impart all he felt for her. Reluctant to leave her, he pulled away and whispered, “I love you.”

Soon, God willing, she would know just how much.

Spying Evette and Lady Campbell with their heads together before the chest in which the ladies of her court stored the strips of muslin used during their monthly courses, fearing they might have noticed the level dropping, Yolande said, “Evette, if you please.”

Evette looked over her shoulder, and Yolande crooked her finger.

When Evette came to her side, Yolande nodded toward Lady Campbell. “What are you two doing?”

Her cousin blushed. “Lady Campbell had need of some rags.”

Yolande blinked in surprise. “At her age?”

Evette caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Not for her, Your Highness, but for…Lady Armstrong.”

Not believing her ears, Yolande staggered backward.

Evette grasped her arm. “Have you taken ill?” Without waiting for an answer, she started to raise a hand to summon Helene.

“
Non.
I’m fine.” Or she hoped to be once her heart steadied and the blood roaring in her ears ceased. “You must be mistaken. Please bring the Scot to me.”

Too much rode on the whore being with child.

When Lady Campbell stood before her, Yolande managed a smile. “Is it your time of the moon, Lady Campbell?”

Her lady-in-waiting grinned. “Thankfully, I am well past that, Your Highness.”

“So who are those for?” She pointed to the wad of strips in Lady Campbell’s hand.

Her lady-in-waiting gnawed on her lip, then huffed. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I couldn’t just let Lady Armstrong bleed all over the hall. Bad enough she stained the back of her gown.”

“You saw this?”

“Aye. I took her to the scullery and cleaned the spot as best I could.”

Yolande managed a nod. “That will be all.”

Greer Armstrong was not with child. How could this be? Had the slut lost it by bedding MacKinnon? Or had Helene and the scullery maids been mistaken from the start?

At this point, it mattered not. There would be no babe for Scotland. All would soon know she, their queen, was barren, and the heartless heathens would toss her out.

What was she to do now? God help her, she had to get to Kinghorn and Anton. He would know.

Unfortunately, she had to remain here—at least for one more day. She had a faithless husband to bury.

With her thoughts on Britt and his profession of love, Gen made her way to the keep’s uppermost opening onto the curtain wall and peeked out. Finding only guards and the trumpeters, she made her way to the first crenel and peered down in wonder at the crowded bailey and town of Edinburgh. Never in her life had she seen so many people in one place. Hundreds ringed the courtyard and thousands lined the roadway as far as the eye could see.

As she squinted against the wind searching for Britt, she couldn’t help but wonder how many of those murmuring below were truly grieving the loss of Alexander, the man. Britt, certainly. He’d guarded the man day and night for ten years. And Ross, as well, but how many others would truly missed
this
man in particular? She would wager more were grieving their loss of a ruler, a king. Particularly those beyond these walls who’d had only glimpses of Alexander in life and kenned him naught beyond those rare sightings and the tales and ballads they’d heard.

And then there were those who were grieving not so much Alexander’s passing as they were grieving the passing of their own good fortunes and holds on power. She might be the novice at court, but she’d seen enough anxiety within the hall to suspect more than a few were. Which left the rest, those grieving as she did…for Scotland and its people. Would the transition to a regency government be a smooth one, or would greed overcome common sense?

War.

She pulled her sister’s cloak more tightly about her. With war came heartache and pain, widows and starving bairns.

As if to echo her thoughts, the trumpets blasted, jarring those assembled on this cold, clear morning into dead silence. The archbishop, dressed in scarlet regalia and carrying a golden staff, stepped out of the chapel. Behind him followed eight pallbearers carrying the gold-and-red-draped casket of their king. Spying Britt’s jet-black hair, she brushed the tears from her cheeks. She had to believe he would survive whatever was to come, and so would she and those she loved.

As pipes commenced their moaning, those wielding the most power in Scotland led the processional through the gates with their standard-bearers before them. Ever so slowly, the rest followed, the last being those bearing their fallen leader, and behind the casket, the queen and her guard.

Gen watched until Britt had passed through the gates, then turned toward the keep. She had one more thing to do this day while the queen was otherwise occupied. She had to return what was by all rights Her Highness’s. The silver necklace.

Flanked by her own guards, Yolande, her rosary beads hanging slack in her hands, could do naught but watch the men bearing her husband to his last resting place pass through the gates without her.

Blocking her path stood four of MacKinnon’s men with their lances crossed.

Fear blooming in her chest, she raised a hand. Without a word, Duval marched forward, spoke with the guards, then returned to her side, looking as confused as she felt.

“Your Highness, he says ’tis unseemly and unhealthy for the wife to follow beyond the gate. Wives must prepare for the
dairdgie.
”

“What, pray tell, is that?”

He shrugged. “Some sort of feast.”

“But…” She looked about in panic in hopes of finding someone who understood the heathens, who could make sense of this madness.

“Your Highness, may we be of assistance?” The ladies Fraser and Campbell stood at her side. Lady Fraser, apparently noting her mounting distress, immediately said, “Oh dear, there’s no cause for alarm, Your Highness. Look about you. We too must remain.”

For the first time, Yolande truly did look at those both near and far. She was surrounded entirely by women. The only men about were the guards. “But I’m his
wife
. His queen. Surely…?”

Under her breath, Lady Campbell muttered something about Ross in their barbaric tongue. Already at the breaking point learning the whore was
not
with child, that she’d not get her hands on the babe she so desperately needed, still furious over what befell Anton, Yolande snapped, “In
French.
”

Lady Campbell dipped in a quick curtsy. “My apologies, Your Highness. I just said Ross should have explained our traditions to you days ago…so as not to upset you like this.”

Beside her, Lady Fraser said, “Your Highness, our customs dictate that only men attend a burial. That we women remain behind and prepare the after-funeral banquets for the liege lords and the bread and alms to be given to the poor upon the men’s return.”

Looking from one Scotswoman to the other, Yolande couldn’t decide whether they’d just sprung some sort of elaborate trap or not. God, she missed Anton’s council. He wouldn’t have had to guess. He would instinctively know.

As if reading her mind, Lady Fraser held out a velvet-draped arm. “Your Highness, there is naught to fear. Come to the gate so you might see for yourself.”

Yolande placed a tentative hand on her lady-in-waiting’s outstretched wrist. As they approached the guards, Lady Fraser said, “Step aside so Her Highness may have a clear view.”

When the men did as bid, Lady Fraser whispered, “See below? Only women and children now mill about. All the men now accompany their liege.” She pointed to the long processional line snaking north. “Some men will by necessity return by gloaming, but most will follow the processional all the way to the cathedral.”

True enough, there wasn’t a man to be seen in the village. Greatly relieved, feeling her heart slow, Yolande murmured, “In Scotland is this always so when a man dies…or just upon a king’s death?”

“In small villages, wives often follow the coffin as far as the cemetery gate, but never are they allowed beyond it. Some believe evil spirits will corrupt our fragile souls, whilst others believe we might go mad or die of grief at sight of the open grave. Your Highness being with child, the Privy Council is being most cautious.”

“And what do you believe?”

Lady Fraser leaned close and whispered, “I believe men use funerals as an excuse to get drunk as lords, but, wishing us to remain ignorant of this fact so we will not harp, they make use of superstitions to keep us home.”

“Ah.” Given the rate at which the men had recently emptied the castle’s cellar of wine casks—many of which having been part of her dowry and intended to last for years—Yolande had no doubt whatsoever that Lady Fraser was right in her assumptions. “So what do we do now?”

“We use this time to see that the bread gets baked and make pouches for the coins we shall collect and the lieges, in their largess, will toss to the poor who come to the gates.”

Yolande heaved a sigh. “Which won’t be for days yet.”

Exhausted from the hours of kneeling in prayer and emotionally drained, she turned her back on the distant processional and headed toward the keep, her court in tow like dutiful goslings following their goose. As the doors were opened before her, she placed a hand to her traitorous and again bleeding womb. “Lady Fraser, I need to retire. This babe takes much from me. Please tell the others I wish them to remain below and do whatever they wish…need to do. I shall join them later. And thank you. You’ve been most kind.”

Smiling, Lady Fraser dipped in a curtsy. “Rest well, Your Highness, and God’s blessings upon you.”

Leaving her court in the great hall, Yolande didn’t feel the least blessed taking the stairs to her apartment. She had to retire to Kinghorn forthwith to see to Anton, to garner his council, and to hell with these heathens’ practices. And should any dare to question her, she would simply state it was imperative she start her lying-in, for a change a most convenient lie.

For heaven’s sake, which of these chests holds the witch’s jewelry?
Genny, having gone through eight chests, stared at the dozens more piled shoulder-high about the queen’s solar. Never had she ever imagined so few women owning so much.

Well, she’d best keep looking since she couldn’t leave the necklace lying about. The queen, spying it, would immediately ken Genny had been nosing about the room. The woman was angry enough with her as it were. Only if she failed to find the jewelry chest would she toss the crucifix into one of the chests and pray whichever lady owned it proved honest.

Spotting a silver-trimmed chest in the corner that looked promising, Genny wormed her way through the maze and knelt before it. She raised the latch and lifted the lid, only to freeze, hearing someone enter the adjoining presence chamber.

Oh, please, Saint Bride, please let it be only a maid.

The presence chamber door closed with a soft thud, shutting out what noise came up the stairwell, and the footfalls grew louder, came into the solar. Gen’s throat went bone dry. Then the solar door closed. Genny’s breathing went ragged. She could think of no reason for a maid to close the door. Worse, she couldn’t escape without opening it.

Fabric rustled and what sounded like light chain tinkled to her right, a chest lid squeaked, then thudded closed, fabric again rustled, then footsteps sounded again as if hurrying toward the fireplace. Praying she’d find only a lady-in-waiting, preferably Lady Campbell, and that the person’s back would now be toward her, Genny rose ever so slightly and peered betwixt the chests.

Heart hammering, she gaped at Yolande de Dreux’s back as she stood before the fire.

The saints preserve her! And what was that in her hand?

Dear God! Not believing her eyes, Gen rose just as Yolande threw the evidence of her monumental lie into the fire. “So, we both bleed?”

At the sound of Gen’s voice, Yolande de Dreux spun and, seeing Genny, blanched to the color of whey. Propelled by righteous indignation, Genny came out from behind the chests. Her Highness’s gaze darted to the fire and the smoldering evidence of her monthly courses. When her hand shot out, reaching for the poker, Gen hissed, “Back away or I’ll scream walls and the truth down around you.”

Her Highness, taking her at her word, turned to stone; then her gaze shot to the door, in an obvious quandary as to what to do next. Finally she took a step back, and Genny snatched the poker from its hook and knocked the bloody wad from the flames and onto the hearthstones.

Cringing, Yolande asked, “What are you going to do?”

Genny was sorely tempted to let the witch stew like an old pullet above hot coals, but thought better of it. Her Highness’s guard was only a breath away. “Keep your secret.”

The queen shook her head as if to clear it. “Why?”

Genny ignored the question. “I still can’t believe this. Here you are playing the poor grieving widow, whilst all this time you’ve been lying to the entire country.” Genny flung out her arms. “I’ve been on the receiving end of your wrath on two occasions and suffered for it. I dare not even
ponder
what else have you may have done.”

Yolande put a hand to her throat. “Again, I ask why?”

“Why? Unlike you, you conniving bitch, I happen to
care
about Scotland.” She took a deep, steadying breath in the hopes of controlling her rage. “I shall keep your secret only because it buys time. None within the realm want Edward of England to gain control. Without your babe, war
is
assured, make no mistake about that, but so long as the Privy Council thinks an heir is forthcoming, none will dare make a move.” Britt would remain safe, as would her sister and her bairn…at least for a while.