The Laird (20 page)

“Nay, my lord, ye do not understand. The man is a Munro now attached to the Bruce clan.”

Duncan frowned. “The Bruce’s?”

“Aye, and he’s not inclined toward handfasting or marriage. He’s a tinker, my lord, someone beneath her aspirations. I did not have a good feelin’ just from his manner, my lord, so I bring it to ye attention.”

“Thank ye, Sean.” Flora, being a Campbell and in his household, had nay reason for meeting a man of the Bruce’s.

None.

As they continued down the stairs, Duncan murmured, “Angus, set a man to watch her. I want to know where and when she meets this man again.”

“Aye, but mayhap Rachael...?”

“’Twould be better, less conspicuous,” Isaac agreed. “I’ll bring it to my ladywife’s attention.”

Duncan nodded as he came to full stop just steps inside the hall. Angus, paying no heed, ran into his back.

“What in all that’s holy...?” Duncan asked no one in particular. His advisors stepped around him.

Angus started to laugh. “Appears yer ladywife took it into her head to civilize us.”

The great hall, normally just a clutter of chairs, tables, and benches scattered over rushes, had been swept clean to the wood and divided across the middle by a pair of waist high, open chests, their shelves still full of books from the library. The end of the hall in which Duncan stood held a long dais with a head table before the fireplace. All the other tables were arranged in neat rows, separated by a center aisle.  Each table was adorned with wild flowers, two large wooden bowls, candles, and odd white fabric cones. Mouth agape, he stared at the opposite end of the hall to where chairs had been arranged in a circle before the fireplace. More seating--a half dozen benches-- were positioned against the back of the book chests. One of the two colorful rugs he’d brought back from the Holy Lands now lay before the sitting area’s fireplace while the second hung in the center of the north wall. Two tapestries he’d brought back from France as prizes—and which he’d totally forgotten about--now hung on either side of the hanging carpet.

On either end of the mantles and sideboards sat large pewter pitchers filled with tall reeds and lavender. His coat of Arms, its bent armored right arm holding a cross-crosslet with the motto
Vincere et morri
—-”To win or die”--lounged not in a corner of the solar where he’d dropped it, but now hung above the dining end’s mantle. Above the opposite fireplace hung his best shield, it’s bright fields of red and gold announcing by candlelight his lineage and relationship to the King to one and all. Two of his best pennants hung on either side of the windows on the south wall, opposite the Persian rug.

“Merciful Mother, is there naught of mine she hasna plundered?”

Isaac, looking about wide-eyed, mumbled, “I dinna think so.” He pointed to his left. “There be yer heavy armor. Apparently, she couldna get yer new chain mail to stand on its own.”

Angus grinned. “What say ye, Duncan? Yer best lance in his hand is a nice touch, nay?” He lifted the helmet’s face guard and laughed. “‘Tis full of straw.”

Duncan, on the verge of bellowing for his wife, snapped his jaws closed when the bailey bell suddenly rang and people started marching up the stairs and into the great hall. The men, uncharacteristically mute, took their places at the tables while the women chatted in animated fashion and settle the bairn, who, wide-eyed, spun and excitedly extolled on all the changes Beth had wrought.

He silently took his seat at the center of the head table after checking to be sure nothing sharp lay on the seat. Angus, still grinning like an idiot, sat to his right, and Isaac took the seat to Angus’s right.

“Why are the men so quiet?” Isaac whispered.

“I don’t understand any of this, friend.” Duncan examined the pot of heather before him, and hoped his wife would make an appearance soon. He wanted an explanation.

“What are the bowls for?” Angus asked as he peeked under the white cone.

Duncan shrugged his good shoulder as three women marched in, carrying dozens of tankards. He sighed in relief as Beth followed, carrying a large flagon of ale. She whispered something to one of the women as she handed off the flagon, and then exited before he could get her attention.

As a lass filled his tankard, he asked, “What say my lady to ye?”

“Lady Beth cautioned that I should serve from the left, lest I be fond of scrubbing possets for a fortnight, my lord.”

Having no idea why serving to the left held importance, or why posset scrubbing would be just punishment should the lass not, he said, “Ah.”

The ale served, more women placed baskets of bread at each table as others arrived with platters of roasted venison, fish, eggs, and with what appeared to be weeds. Beth returned and stood by the door watching the proceedings as more women followed with bowls of sauce. When all met with her approval, the women took their seats, and Beth came to sit on his left.

All eyes were upon them as he pulled out her chair. “Good eve, my lady.”

She said not a word, only lifted a brow when Flora glided into the room and took a seat in the first row, directly before them.

Beth picked up her white cone, made a show of flapping it out before placing it in her lap. The women mimicked her actions. The men, frowning, followed suit. Not a one, apparently, was of a mind to garner his ladywife’s or his own wife’s disapproval.

As Rachael served Isaac, Beth ground out between clenched teeth, “May I serve you, my lord?”

Cautioned by the fierce glint of steel in her eyes, he said, “Thank ye. All smells verra good, my lady.” When the corner of her mouth twitched, he added, “Appears verra good, as well.” Her gaze slid to his lips, but she remained mute as she slung food into his wooden trencher. He scowled when she placed the weeds in it.

Pouring an oily red sauce over the greenery, she said, “Dandelions, fennel, and crest. Eat it. You’ll like it.”

He glanced down the table to see Rachael, having finished helping Isaac, now served Angus, who looked none too sure he wanted weeds either.

After the rotund priest offered grace, every eye came to rest not on him but on Beth. When she smiled and broke her bread, a collective sigh rose and the hall quickly filled with the usual clamor of sixty people trying to talk over each other as they ate. Of all the women he’d known, only the most powerful of dowagers commanded the level of deference he’d just witnessed. And odd that Beth now should.

Finishing a really delicious joint, Duncan glanced up and caught Kari slapping her husband’s wrist as her man tried to pitch a bone to the floor. Contrite, the soldier placed the bone in the big bowl. Duncan’s gaze shifted around the room to see others doing the same. Ah. The dogs will be sorely disappointed, he thought, placing his bone in the bowl before him.

And where were the beasts? He glanced around and found his normally boisterous lymers lying at the far end of the room, looking forlorn with heads on paws. At this time of day, he was normally tripping over them. How verra odd.

Having eaten his fill--even the weeds, which truth to tell tasted verra good with the wee pieces of egg and onion, he pushed back in his chair. “My lady, all,” his hand swept the table and the room, “is well done.”

“Of course, my lord. It’s what I do, arranging banquets.” She placed her napkin on the table. “Given adequate time and ingredients, I can put on a feast for one hundred that will knock your socks—-hose--off.”

He recalled her tale of life in the new York. Given he’d just consumed the best meal he’d eaten in years, he murmured, “I dinna doubt ye.” In fact, he could not remember the last time he’d enjoyed such simple fare as much. He studied the room once again. It did look more impressive, as if he were a knight with an income of five and two thousand pounds instead of one with a tally amounting to little more than one thousand. The Bruce will be impressed and think twice before plotting against him. Then again, the bastard just might double his efforts to acquire Blackstone.

Duncan leaned toward her. “Lass, we need speak of matters that keep us at dagger points.”

“Nay, my lord.” She stood and smiled at the people who now watched her. Without moving her lips, she whispered, “We’ve said all that needs to be said save this.” She glanced at Flora and color flooded her cheeks. “I’ll not tolerate her presence another day, so you’d best find a place for her outside these walls.”

He reached for her hand. “But Beth, ye dinna understand...”

A wane smile formed as she gently touched his lips. “Oh, but I do, you son of a--”

She spun on her heel and left in a swirl of emerald silk but not before he’d noted the wetness, a bright silver sheen, that coated her eyes.

To see the depth of her humiliation, and to realize she might still care for him despite it, hit him like a gauntleted fist.

H
er heart tripping, Beth clutched the sides of the elongated dinghy with both hands as the two silent clansmen, their heavily-muscled arms bulging and straining, powered them across the choppy water bringing her closer and closer to shore. She couldn’t decide if her agitated heartbeat stemmed from being in a boat for the first time since nearly drowning, from the simple excitement of finally getting to see Drasmoor, or from finally getting away from Duncan’s constant demands that she speak with him.

Since she’d yet to get through a night without dreaming of him, without seeing him in Flora’s arms, she wasn’t inclined to even give him the time of day. Not that she had a clock.

Kari tapped her shoulder and pointing, started naming the various burns and hills before them. In short order Beth found herself gawking like a tourist. She was so distracted by the sights, Kari had to reach out a hand to steady her as the boat ground to an abrupt stop on the gravel beach.

“Here we be, my lady.”

The guards jumped out first and stood in knee-deep freezing surf to haul the bow higher on shore, the boat’s wooden hull scraping in loud protest against the rock-strewn beach.

Beth jumped for dry land but an icy wave caught her feet, reminding her once again why so few at Drasmoor knew how to swim.

She followed the men through the town. The scent of roasting venison mingled with that of pine and fish drying in the sun. Dodging chickens and small children, the guards hurried them along the wide gravel-and-crushed shell paths, past the village’s stone houses. Anxious to see everything, Beth’s head bobbed and spun like a midway ride as she tried to catch glimpses of the sturdy stone homes’ interiors. Women, their arms loaded with babies—-some swaddled in crisscross fashion, others just settled on cocked hips--bobbed their curtsies as she waved and hurried past.

“Kari, why are you racing hell bent for leather?” She really wanted to see the village, to seek a possible threshold back to her time.

When her friend’s expression shifted from a smile to her
what the heck are you saying
look, Beth panted, “Why do ye make such haste?”

Kari pointed to the mid-day sun. “‘Tis late.”

Beth blinked. It wouldn’t be dark for at least six or seven hours. “I’d really like...” She came to an abrupt halt to stare up the nostrils of a shaggy bridled pony. One of the oarsmen held its reins.

She shook her head. Cute and calm as the beast appeared, Beth’s only experience with horses amounted to patting the velvet muzzles of spit-and-polished police mounts. Examining the cracked and weathered sidesaddle, she asked, “Can’t we walk?”

“Nay, m’lady.” Kari pointed high into the hills. “There is purpure.”

Beth looked up at the groundcover tinting the steep hills purple and then at the sidesaddle. “Oh.” She chewed her lower lip. “There’s none lower?”

Kari laughed, “Nay. Come, my lady, the sumpter willna bite.”

Beth waved toward Kari’s pony. “You first.” After Kari mounted without difficulty, Beth exhaled and nodded to her guard. He bent at the waist and laced his fingers. She stepped up as Kari had done, only to find herself suddenly flopped over the saddle and clutching the poor animal’s mane for dear life. She heard Kari giggle and flashed a warning look. She then growled at the grinning guards for good measure.

Once she had her right leg draped over the pummel, the snickering guards mounted and led them single file into the hills. The higher they went the shoddier the homes became, some were merely stone and waddle facades placed across little caves dug into steep slopes. Wandering stonewalls kept grazing cattle from devouring the scattered fields of waving oats and rye. Seeing a painfully thin woman struggling uphill under the weight of a wooden yoke balanced by hide bags full of water, Beth grimaced with guilt. Not two weeks ago she’d been put out because she couldn’t get hot water on demand.

This Scotland had nothing in common with the splendid manor homes and manicured landscapes she’d become familiar with in her time.

As they rode higher, Kari murmured, “’Tis our place for the men and women who arrived after fleeing their own septs or have nay clan. The MacDougall provides refuge, protection, and food in exchange for a pledge of fealty. None bear our name.”

Half way up one steep incline Kari pointed out the tiny stone cottage, saying it had once been Rachael and Isaac’s. How, Beth wondered, did people survive like this? And did Duncan not trust them?

Within a few hours she and Kari had gathered armloads of heather, thistle, pine boughs and a collection of twisting vines that would substitute nicely for curly willow.

For Beth, the ride down from the hills proved scarier than the ride up. Though the views were spectacular, full of panoramic seascapes, beautiful water falls—-burns--and an eagle’s view of all she could lay claim to, she could also see exactly where she’d land should her pony stumble on the shifting shale clattering beneath his hooves.

When they finally reached the stable and dismounted, her legs shook so hard she couldn’t walk.

Beth kissed the pony’s whiskered muzzle. “Thank you for not plunging over the cliff.”

She turned for the boat and nearly collided with the priest.

He reached out to steady her. “My lady, I will ride with ye to Blackstone. We need talk about yer conversion.”