The Shining City (37 page)

Bronwen had no real desire to escape her fate. She certainly wanted to be Banrìgh one day, and if she had to marry anyone it might as well be Donncan, who was as handsome as any man she had ever seen, and kind, courteous, and generally good-natured as well. She certainly did not want to accept everyone else‟s plans for her meekly, however. As far as she was concerned, it was good for Donncan to worry occasionally, and as for her uncle Lachlan, she had never forgiven him for loading her mother with chains and keeping her captive, or for rendering her mute, a cruel and imaginative punishment that saw the former Banrìgh a mere servant to the witches she had once persecuted.

Her lips lifted in a secret smile. “I was no‟ entirely naked,” she protested with a little look of mischief at Donncan. “I had quite a few artfully placed frills, I assure ye. And it was quite dark. I had Maura snuff a few candles first.”

“I think that only made it worse,” Donncan said, responding to her roguish smile despite himself.

She shrugged one bare shoulder. “I swear the tattlemongers would whisper if all I did was sit in my boudoir and sew a fine seam. I may as well do something worth gossiping about.”

Donncan turned and seized her by the arm, looking down into her eyes. “Bronwen, ye ken I do no‟ care what the court gossips about, as long as there is no truth in it. . . .”

She looked away. “Well, my ladies and I did swim in the pool, though we were no‟ really naked .

. . no‟ entirely.”

“I do no‟ care about ye swimming, naked or no‟,” he said impatiently. “It is the other things they say.”

“What other things?” she said, although she knew.

He took a deep breath. “That ye take lover after lover, discarding them when they no longer amuse ye.”

“And whom am I meant to have taken as my lover?” she said scornfully. “That poor boy ye scowled at so fiercely afore? Am I meant to have taken him to my bed?”

“O‟ course I do no‟ think ye‟ve taken Fymbar o‟ Blèssem to bed! He‟s little more than a lad, though it‟s clear he‟s smitten with ye.”

“Then who? Who are these so-called lovers o‟ mine?”

Donncan‟s grip tightened. “I have heard Alta, the Fairgean ambassador, is often seen in and out o‟ your rooms, and has brought ye many fine gifts.”

“On behalf o‟ my uncle Nila,” she answered furiously. “Except for a barrel o‟ seasquill wine and a platter o‟ raw fish which he brought me after I expressed curiosity about the cuisine o‟ my mother‟s people.
I
thought it was very kind o‟ him.”

“So he has no‟ . . .” Donncan hesitated, finding it hard to put what he wanted to know into words.

“Nay, he has no‟,” Bronwen replied icily. “He has three wives and half a dozen concubines o‟ his own, and far too much sense to try to seduce his king‟s niece. I do enjoy speaking with him, however. He has told me many fascinating things about the Fairgean and about my mother‟s family.”

“So all ye do is talk?”

“Aye, all we do is talk. I would like to gamble with him too, as he is said to be clever at cards and dice, but he, being very stuffy and proper, does no‟ think it would be seemly.”

Donncan‟s breath came out in a sigh. “What about your cavalier, then?” he asked, in a slightly mollified tone. “Ye certainly seemed to be enjoying dancing with him earlier.”

“He‟s a very pretty dancer,” Bronwen replied.

Donncan snorted. “A bit o‟ a show-off.”

“That‟s all the rage now,” Bronwen replied, nose in the air. “The young bloods compete with each other to show the highest kicks and leaps, the fastest spins. If ye had spent more time at court, ye would ken this.”

“He certainly seemed to wish to do more than
speak
with ye.”

“Maybe so, but that does no‟ mean I wish the same,” she answered angrily. “When did it become a crime to enjoy dancing?”

He drew her close. “Bronwen, can ye no‟ understand how I feel? It is less than two months until we are to be married. Do ye think I like hearing such tales about ye?”

“Do ye think I like having such tales told about me?” she countered.

“But ye seem to positively delight in stirring the scandal broth! Look at what ye are wearing!”

She gave a little twirl. “Do ye no‟ like it? I designed it myself.”

“It‟s quite scandalous,” Donncan said. “It looks as if ye wear naught beneath it.”

“That was the effect I was trying to achieve.”

“But why! No wonder they . . .” He stopped and took a breath, making a visible effort to control his tongue.

“Call me a whore?” Bronwen said pleasantly. “I thought if my own mother-in-law was to name me such, I may as well look the part.”

Donncan was taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your mother,” Bronwen clarified. “Said I looked like a whore. Ye ken how much I wish to please your mother. I would no‟ like the court to think she exaggerated.”

“My mother said that to ye?”

“No‟ to me,” Bronwen answered, smiling still, though her fingers were clenched hard on the stem of her glass. “O‟ course no‟! Nay, she said it behind my back, o‟ course. I have it on the best o‟ authorities. I made a special effort today to make sure I looked the part.”

“I‟m sure my mother said no such thing,” Donncan said angrily.

“She has said as much, though in slightly more moderate language, to my face,” Bronwen replied. “Why should I doubt she would say so behind my back? Though I suppose ye are right. I should no‟ believe all I hear, should I?”

“Nay,” Donncan said. “Perhaps ye should have gone to speak to her, and ask her, no matter how difficult that might be, as I am here asking ye.”

For the first time, color rose in Bronwen‟s cheeks. She looked up at Donncan, then looked away.

After a moment she said lightly, “I assure ye, I have done naught to cause ye any shame, my laird.”

His grip on her wrist relaxed, and he ran his hand up her bare arm. “I‟m glad to hear that,” he said softly. “As I am sorry to hear ye were bored without me. I will do my best to remedy that.”

He bent his head and kissed her.

Bronwen‟s breath caught. His kiss deepened, his thumbs tracing small circles on her arms. When at last he lifted his head to brush a kiss across her temple, she looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “I would be most grateful,” she murmured. “Ye ken I am very easily bored.”

He grinned. “Ye witch,” he said admiringly. “What am I to do with ye?”

She slipped her arms up about his neck. “Kiss me again?”

He obliged, sliding his hand up under the heavy fall of hair to find the soft nape of her neck.

Suddenly his fingers stiffened, and he drew away from her.

Bronwen opened her eyes. “Donncan?”

He was frowning, his mouth grim. “What is this?” he demanded.

“What?” She twisted, but could see nothing, for his hand was gripping her by the back of her hair.

“Ye have cut off a lock o‟ your hair, here at the back, where none can see. Why?”

For a moment her poise deserted her. “What? My hair?”

“Ye have cut some off, here at the back. I can feel the tuft where it is shorn. Who did ye give it to? Some paramour o‟ yours?”

She drew away angrily. “Nay! O‟ course no‟!”

“Who? Who did ye give it to?”

“That is none o‟ your business,” she retorted, then tried to recover. “Indeed, ye are being foolish.

Ye think I would cut off a lock o‟ hair to give as some kind o‟ love token? O‟ course I have no‟. I had a knot there, that is all, that I was too impatient to comb out.”

“Ye expect me to believe that? Ye have a bevy o‟ handmaidens who would gladly spend all day combing out your hair for ye. Ye think I do no‟ ken your hair has never afore been touched by scissors? Ye would no more chop out a knot than ye would hack off a finger because o‟ a hangnail. Nay, ye had some other reason for cutting off a lock o‟ your hair. Who? Who did ye give it to?” He shook her.

Bronwen took a deep breath and put up her hand to ease the strain of his furious grip on her hair.

“Nay, nay, ye wrong me. I was cross, impatient. I could no‟ bear them tugging at my hair, so I cut it out, that‟s all. . . . Please let me go!”

Suddenly someone came leaping out of the darkness towards them, fist swinging.

“Unhand my lady!” he cried. “Bronwen, my darling, are ye hurt?”

Instinctively Donncan spun on his foot, releasing Bronwen‟s hair and swinging her behind him.

It all happened so fast Bronwen tripped and almost fell. She grabbed at Donncan‟s arm to save herself, accidentally inhibiting him as he tried to block the blow that smashed into his jaw. The Prionnsa staggered, his wings flying up to save him from falling, and then leaped at his attacker furiously.

Bronwen‟s hands flew to her mouth as they crashed over the little table. Donncan‟s arm came back, then punched viciously, his fist connecting with a sickening thump. She saw a glimpse of green silken breeches and doublet and knew at once who their attacker was.

“Mat, ye fool, stop it!” she cried. “Ye canna hit the Prionnsa! Ye‟ll be discharged at best. Donn, stop it! Please!”

They did not listen. Over they went in a grunting tangle of flying fists and knees. Bronwen yelled at them again, then seized the jug of Merry May punch and threw it over them. The shock made them pause for a moment. Mathias was straddling Donncan, one hand pressing his head into the ground, the other drawn back to strike. He glanced at Bronwen wildly, his face dripping with wine, soggy woodruff blossoms snagged in his hair. “Stop!” she cried. “Ye must stop this nonsense!”

But in that instant of hesitation, Donncan threw Mathias off and got him in a headlock, grinding his face into the dirt. Mathias heaved wildly until he managed to throw the Prionnsa off, then he rolled and got to his feet, spitting out grass and dirt and blood. Donncan came at him again, and Bronwen saw a sudden flash of silver as the Yeoman drew the little dagger he wore at his waist.

It was only a short knife, used for carving meat off the roast and spearing food to bring to the mouth, but like all blades worn by a trained soldier, it was wickedly sharp.

Bronwen screamed. “Donn! Look out!”

Donncan seized the swinging knife hand and somersaulted over it, twisting Mathias‟s arm. As he landed, his foot slipped in the sticky puddle of punch, and he staggered. The knife was wrenched sideways, plunging deep into the Yeoman‟s stomach.

Mathias choked and staggered, then turned a look of such bewilderment upon Bronwen that tears sprang into her eyes. He dropped to his knees, both hands going to cradle the knife hilt protruding from his abdomen.

“Nay! Stop! Do no‟ pull it out!” Donncan gasped, reaching out one hand to him.

But it was too late. Mathias had dragged out the knife. It slid free with a great gush of blood.

Mathias looked down at his bloody hands, his red-soaked shirt, looked up once more at

Bronwen, then pitched forward on to his face. When she and Donncan together tried to lift him up, it was too late. He was dead.

L
achlan raised an eyebrow at his page, who came forward and kneeled, pouring more wine punch into his jewel-encrusted goblet.

“Thank ye,” the Rìgh said.

His page nodded and rose, stepping back to his place behind the Rìgh‟s chair. “No sign o‟ any trouble yet,” Iseult said softly, leaning her head close to her husband‟s.

“Nay, everyone seems as merry as they should be on May Night. I am glad we didna cancel the feast, as Dillon thought we should.”

“It would have caused a lot o‟ talk,” Iseult said. “I think ye are right: we have a better chance o‟

discovering any plot to assassinate ye if we do no‟ scare the killer away by showing we suspect anything. If he thinks we ken naught, he will be less cautious and more likely to show his hand.”

“She,” Lachlan said.

“Aye, that‟s right. She.”

“It may be nothing—ye ken that,” Lachlan said very softly. “It is but a dream, and one that Olwynne can barely remember anyway.”

Iseult sighed. “I do no‟ like this . . . this
fear
that has come into our lives, with this dream o‟

Olwynne‟s. I do no‟ like looking at all our friends and servants and wondering who it is that seeks to kill ye. I
hate
worrying that I might lose ye!”

“We never ken the time or means o‟ our own death,” Lachlan said somberly. “Ye may die

tomorrow, struck down by lightning, or—”

“Hit by a runaway carriage—”

“Or ye could worry yourself to death.”

They looked at each other and smiled ruefully.

“What long faces!” a merry voice called. “Who‟s died?”

Lachlan‟s face lit up. “Dide!” he cried. “Welcome!”

Didier Laverock, the Earl of Caerlaverock, came up smiling. He was dressed in old worsted breeches, rather worn at the knees and seat, and had a battered old guitar slung over his shoulder.

His dark, curly hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail beneath a rakish crimson cap with a long green feather stuck in the brim. His long coat was shabby indeed.

Lachlan leaped to his feet and pulled Dide in for a close embrace, slapping his back in delight.

“When did ye ride in?” he demanded.

“Just now,” Dide replied. “Forgive me my courtly attire. If I‟d taken the time to change, I‟d have missed the feast altogether.”