The King's Mistress (3 page)

Greer wrung her hands. “’Twas Sir Britt MacKinnon, Captain of the King’s Guard. I can’t believe he’s here. What are we going to do, Genny?”

“I’ve yet had time to think. Have yet to get over our good fortune that he did not think to question who I was.” Or over her shock that she’d actually taunted so obviously lethal a man.

Greer cocked her head in question. “Why would he? We look alike.”

“But knowing that we do, wouldn’t he have asked to whom he spoke?” In response, Greer twisted the wide silver band she wore on her right index finger to cover a scar—a sure sign she’d done something wrong or was about to lie—then turned away. As she began rearranging the dandelions in the bowl, a painful realization finally dawned. “You never told them about me.”

“Well…”

Her throat growing tight, Genny examined her work-worn hands. Her nails were ragged. Firm calluses crossed her palms. She looked down. Her simple tunic was stained at the knees, and her boots water-marked from her morning chores. All was as it always had been and would likely always be. “You’re ashamed of me.”

Her sister gasped. “Oh
no
, never think that. ’Tis just that when I arrived in Edinburgh, I was introduced simply as Greer Armstrong. For the first time in my life, I was no longer
the other
Armstrong lass, no longer one half of a matched pair. People didn’t say, ‘Which one are you?’ as they greeted me. They simply accepted me…for me.” Greer had the decency to duck her chin, then murmured, “’Tis all.”

’Tis all?

Having spent the last year and a half talking of little else but Greer to anyone who would listen, Genny could only stare at her mirror image.

“Gen, I cannot go with him.”

“
Hush!
I need to think.” Think about MacKinnon and the fact that her sister, whom she cherished beyond all else, had kept her very existence a secret from her new and influential friends.

“I’m sorry. So sorry.”

Seeing fresh tears coursing down Greer’s cheeks, Genny cursed under her breath. Now was
not
the time for either of them to be wallowing in self-pity like sows in mud.

She opened her arms, and Greer, sobbing, fell into them. “Hush, now. I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

At least she’d garnered them time by pleading for another day and then sending MacKinnon off to the distant abbey, in the opposite direction from which they’d be running. They could get to Annan in two days’ time, but what if there wasn’t an Ireland-bound ship waiting? They might have days to wait, and MacKinnon didn’t strike her as a man easily thwarted. Better mounted, he could easily catch up with them, at which time all hell would rain down on their heads.

Her sister needed more time. Aye, and her admission might well have provided it.

She took her sister by the shoulders and gently pushed her toward the ladder leading to the sleeping loft. “Greer, pack as quickly as you can for both of us. I’ll saddle the horses.”

In the kitchen, Genny removed a loose brick above their domed ingleneuk. She slipped her hand into her secret kist and pulled out the leather pouch containing all the coins she had in the world, the majority of which were only coppers and brass.

Dear Lord, what she wouldn’t give for another day so she might barter the wool and grain she’d been hoarding. She counted the coins. There was barely enough for a single passage to Ireland and mayhap a year’s bed and board, should their aunt have fallen on hard times. Or be dead.

“Gen?”

She turned to find Greer standing in the doorway, two satchels at her feet. “What’s wrong?”

Spinning her ring, Greer looked at the floor. “I want to go to England. We’ve not seen Auntie since we were bairns. She could be dead now, for all we ken.”

“She’s
not
dead. The family would have sent word.” At least she hoped they would have.

“But what if a missive has yet to reach us? We’ll be adrift in a land we know naught about.”

“Greer, we know naught of England, either, and if MacKinnon is the man I suspect him to be, he’d cross the border without hesitation, then leave no stone unturned until he lays hands on what he came for. Namely, you.”

Tired of the arguing, still upset that her sister obviously hadn’t missed her as much as she’d missed Greer, Genny grasped her twin by the arms. “Are you certain you told no one about me?”

Shrinking back, Greer nodded like a woodpecker. “Aye, I’m certain.”

“Very well, then.” She released her sister and blew out a puff of air. “We can make Langford by gloaming. From there, ’tis an easy road to Annan, from which you can take a ship to Dublin.”

Genny marched toward the back door. Behind her, Greer shouted, “Wait! You said you’d come with me. You promised!”

She’d always thought of Greer, who could memorize dances and mile-long ballads with ease, to be the brighter of the two of them but was now really beginning to wonder. “Aye, but that was before I learned we no longer had months to prepare but only
hours
.”

“But what of you?”

“I’m taking your place, Greer. I’m going with MacKinnon to Edinburgh.”

“
What?
But you can’t. You know nothing of court. You sound like a crow when you sing. You can’t dance.” She waved a frantic hand that took in Genny from head to foot. “And just look at you, Gen. You can don one of my gowns, but you’ll not be making a silk purse out of a sow’s—”

“Ouch! Look here, mistress! I’m not the one who spread my legs like some common slut for a man I knew could never marry me, but I
am
the only one who can get you out of this appalling situation.”

Her sister, blanching, staggered back as if slapped. “You call me a
slut
knowing we love each other?”

“You love him? Prove it! Cease fighting me at every turn, and protect his babe by teaching me on the way to Annan all that I need to know to pass for you.”

So I might survive long enough to bleed my courses before queen, God and country and prove beyond any doubt that you, dear sister, are not with child before running like a terrified hare for home.

God help me.

 
“
A lion is known by the scratch of his claw.
” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

Chapter Four

Kinghorn Castle

“Scotland has to be the most miserable place on earth.”

Yolande tugged her embroidered mantle close about her shuddering shoulders. Beyond her solar windows, an ashen sea churned beneath an equally dark and brooding sky.

Why anyone fought over this godforsaken country, much less chose to live here, was beyond her understanding. Not when there were glorious, sun-drenched places like Nice and Marseille in which to live. Even Paris, with its raw, drizzling winters, was preferable to this desolate country, with no decent roadways, no palatable wine and too few glazed windows.

She sighed. At least Kinghorn, the smallest of her husband’s twenty-six barbaric keeps, was easily heated, unlike drafty Edinburgh Castle in which she’d shivered continuously. Here, at least, she could cry in comfort.

Her courses had come yet again.

Alexander, who had proved himself fertile with his first wife, had done his husbandly duty by her on a weekly basis, so there could be no shifting of blame. The fault was hers and hers alone. And all would soon know it.

At her back, her ladies-in-waiting were doubtless casting worried glances in her direction as they spoke in hushed tones and continued to embroider delicate fluer-de-lis and petals on swaddling clothes for the infant that only she knew was yet to be. A child all expected to distance the Scottish throne from that of the English and permanently bind Scotland to her beloved France, a country impoverished by constant war and in sore need of allies.

“Your Highness?”

Yolande turned to find Evette Franchot, her cousin and dear friend, at her side. “
Oui
?”

As Evette leaned closer, the cauls holding her sable hair brushed Yolande’s cheek, and she caught the scent of lavender. “Mademoiselle Duval begs a word with you in private. She has news regarding Lady Armstrong.”

At the mention of her husband’s favorite paramour, the fine hairs stood on Yolande’s arms. Lord forgive her, but she’d hated that woman from first sight.

Tall, golden-headed Greer Armstrong, confident in her knowledge that she was the king’s favorite, had moved—nay,
glided
—about Edinburgh Castle as if the stronghold was hers but for the asking. As if she’d been born a Saxon princess instead of being the spawn of some landless knight. Adding insult, Yolande had been forced while in Edinburgh to sit night after night in the great hall at Alexander’s right hand while the whore sang one sanguine ballad after another like some gilded songbird…and her love-struck husband all but drooled in his lap.

“Please tell Mademoiselle Duval to meet me in the herb garden.”

There the ladies Campbell and Fraser, the Scot ladies-in-waiting who had been thrust upon her, would be hard-pressed to overhear anything Helene had to say.

She loathed spies but acknowledged their necessity. At court, information was often more valuable than gold.

Yolande faced her ladies-in-waiting and found all ten sitting with idle hands staring at her. She forced a smile. “Ladies, I have need for a breath of fresh air.” As they began to rise as one, she waved them back to their chairs. “Please stay and continue your work. I shall return in a short while.”

Outside, Yolande found the youngest of her ladies-in-waiting pacing in tight circles in the pathetic patch of walled ground their Scot cook had the audacity to call a garden. “What is it, Helene?”

Helene jerked in surprise, then dropped into a deep curtsy. “Your Highness, the wash maid we left behind in Edinburgh sent word that Lady Armstrong was seen retching near the stables before she left.”

“So?” The woman had imbibed too much wine. Served the whore right.

“In the morning, Your Highness, several days in a row.”

Yolande shook her head. Dear merciful God, no. The whore could not possibly be with child.

This could not be happening.

“Why am I just now learning of this? Lady Armstrong left Edinburgh a month ago.”

“Yes, but our maid wasn’t the one to spy Lady Armstrong retching. Another did.”

“Who?” How many knew, for heaven’s sake?

“A scullery maid spied her but said naught until early last morn when our wash maid offered to help her clean the great hall. They’d drunk the last of the night’s wine and were telling tales, as staff often do. The scullery maid, who’d witness Lady Armstrong’s many discomforts, apparently found it humorous that a highborn lady should find herself being unwed but with child as she herself once had.”

Merciful mother of God, why was it that every female in the realm could breed like a hare—save for herself, the queen upon whom so much depended? “How many know?”

“Only four, including yourself, Your Majesty.”

Only
four? Dreading the answer, she asked, “Did either maid speculate on who the sire might be?”

Helene shook her head. “Not according to our wash woman.”

One blessing, at least.

Helene wrung her hands. “There’s more, Your Highness.”

“
More
?” What other horrendous news could there possibly be?

“Our wash woman formed a romantic liaison with one of the king’s guards. Last night he was unable to meet with her because he had to stand guard at the king’s solar in place of Sir Brett, whom the king has sent to the border”—she swallowed—“to fetch Lady Armstrong back to court.”

Yolande’s hands fisted as fury rose hot within her chest. Helene, apparently sensing her distress, scurried backward.

Yolande took a deep breath. “Fear not, Helene. I’ll not kill the messenger.” She wanted to kill someone else entirely.

As her mother had counseled, Yolande slipped off one of the many strands of pearls she always wore about her neck for moments like this, took the girl’s shaking hand in hers and spilled the lustrous gems into her frightened lady-in-waiting’s palm. “Thank you.”

“Oh no! Your Highness, I cannot possibly take—”

“You must, for you’ve done me a great service. And of course, you’ll not speak of this to anyone.”

Helene had the good sense to look aghast. “Never, Your Highness. My loyalty is to you and you alone.”

“Thank you. Now please join the other ladies while I ponder all you’ve told me.”

When Helene, pearls clutched in her fist, disappeared into the keep, Yolande gave in to the pain blooming in her chest and, folding at the waist, groaned aloud.

This
cannot
be happening.

Alexander had made her, his second cousin and a mere countess, into a queen for the sole purpose of garnering an heir. What was to stop him from dispensing with her now that another woman was in the process of providing him with what he desired most? Queens were well known for dying most unexpectedly from unknown causes when thrones were involved. What need had he now for her, Yolande?

None.

“Your Highness, are you all right?”

Yolande jerked upright. “Evette, you startled me. You must tread harder when approaching me.”

Her cousin grinned. “My apologies, Your Highness. Henceforth, I shall only stomp. Here. I worried you might catch your death and brought your cape.”

Yolande, chilled to the bone as much from the mention of death as the brisk wind coming off the sea, murmured her thanks as her cousin slipped the heavy fox pelt about her shoulders. “Evette, I need speak with Monsieur Montre. Please summon him to me here.”

Evette’s brow furrowed. “But you’re shaking with cold. Would you not be more comfortable meeting him inside?”

Yolande glanced over her shoulder at the sentries walking along the tall tower at her back. “Out here, the walls have fewer ears.”

Knowing better than to argue, her cousin heaved a sigh and headed for the keep.

Before Yolande could master the fear welling within her breast, she found her longtime confidant and guard striding toward her.

Dear Anton, whatever would she do without him?

Their bond had been forged on the day of her birth, when he’d been ordered to stand guard at her mother’s birthing-room door. But instead of hearing the lusty cries of a newborn which he was to report to her father, he’d heard a woman screaming, “
Nooo!
”