Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (24 page)

              After the show, Malcolm grabbed Sorcha’s hand. “Come, ye must meet him.”

36

Malcolm and Sorcha caught up with Jehanne in the corridor outside the banquet hall.

              “Jehanne,” Malcolm called.

              The magician turned. “Yes?”

              “A marvelous show! Ye ha’e learned much from yer father.”

Malcolm grinned and recognition dawned on Jehanne’s face.

              “Malcolm Maclean, after all these years!”

              The two men embraced.

“This is my wife, Sorcha.” Jehanne took Sorcha’s hand and kissed it. “’Tis certainly a pleasure to meet ye, Sorcha.”

“When I was invited to the castle as a lad, Jehanne and his father were also summoned, from France. They performed magic that delighted the king and his royal court to no end.”

Jehanne pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Performing magic is sweaty work.” He smiled and looked at Sorcha. “My life could ha’e been vera different if Malcolm hadna intervened that day we met the king.”

              “In what way?”

“I was a wee lad then, and eager to show the king what we could do. I approached James’ table without an introduction. A guard seized me. Ye dunna simply approach the king without an invitation to do so, but I didna ken. My father and I could ha’e had our ears nailed to the pillory or sliced off, or worse. Malcolm came to my side and told the guard he’d had a premonition, a vision, that if the guard beat me or harmed me in any way, a curse would befall all the king’s guards, and what good are royal guards that canna guard?”

              Malcolm smiled at the memory.

              “Malcolm risked his own safety that day. ‘Twas a well-timed vision, eh, my friend?”

              “Of course I didna actually ha’e a vision. I made it up.”

              “Well ‘twas yer quick thinking that saved our arses. The king invited my father and me to perform our illusions and then invited us stay on as his royal magicians. I am greatly in your husband’s debt, Sorcha. My mother died a year before we left France for Scotland. We were very poor. I did not want to return to France, to our small, cold apartment, and go back to entertaining strangers on the streets for a crust of bread and a piece of cheese. We brought everything my father had amassed as a magician over the years, rather than selling it. We took a chance that our fortunes might be better in bonny Scotland.”

              “And yer father?” Malcolm asked.

              “Sadly, he died two years ago.”

              “I am vera sorry to hear it.””

              “I carry on his tradition,” Jehanne said.

              “And vera well, I might add.”

              “What brings ye to Edinburgh, Malcolm?”

              “I’m afraid the king has summoned me to tell his future, just like his father did.”

              Jehanne frowned. “The apple doesna fall far from the tree. King James the Third is as fearful about the future as his father was. Maybe more so. Be careful, my friend.” He lowered his voice. “The king has a love of building, architecture, and churches. Any future you tell should include such things.”

Malcolm nodded. “Speaking of apples, Jehanne, there is something I always wanted to ken.”

              “What is it?”

              “That day when we were lads, how did ye make the apple move on its own?”

              Jehanne laughed, his brown eyes shining. “A magician should never reveal his secrets, but I’ll tell you. ‘Tis an old trick and a simple one. ‘Twas a hollowed out apple with a beetle inside. When the apple began to mysteriously rock back and forth, people naturally thought I had made it move without touching it.”

“Ingenious. Yer illusions tonight were wondrous.”

              “A good magician never underestimates the intelligence of his crowd and uses it for his gain. And a good magician remembers that people see what they want to see. Now you should return to the hall. It was so good to see you again, Malcolm. If there is ever anything you need, I am at your service.” He bowed with a flourish and retreated down the hall.

              Red gingerbread cake trimmed with gold had been served when the king stood and addressed his guests. “I shall hear my fortunes and my future now. The first to tell it will be the boy who once told my father’s future many summers ago. This boy who predicted my father’s success at Arkinholm is now a man, Malcolm Maclean.”

Murmurs swept the hall. Beneath the table, Isobel clutched Sorcha’s hand.

              “Come forward, Malcolm,” James said.

              Malcolm rose and went to the king’s side. He bowed. The crowd listened as Malcolm told the king his marriage would be a successful one, that he would defeat many enemies and promote the building of churches and places of learning. He said nothing of what he’d seen of James’ death twenty summers hence at the hand of a supposed priest with murder in his heart.

              That night, as Sorcha drifted to sleep against Malcolm’s side, the cool summer air drifting in through the window of the sumptuous room they’d been given for their stay, she felt uneasy. Her dreams were jumbled and ragged. She was caught in the waters of the burn once more, tumbling round and round. Jamie and Malcolm fought, their fists and faces bloodied. In her dream, she was back in the alcove, telling Malcolm she loved him. He laughed and said he could never love her, that he’d always loved Maira, but he’d been forced to marry her by the order of a king. She dreamed of Jehanne, of flashes of smoke and monkeys that transformed themselves into stalking tigers. Then Jenneth stood before her, her wrist charms tinkling, the old woman’s milky blue eyes crazed, reminding her to hold on to what she’d battled for, reminding her of all she stood to lose.
Reminding her to believe in magic.

37

There was a large room near the royal kitchens were the women guests were permitted to bathe. Maira entered it, the steam from the warm water pleasant on her skin.

Several large, expensive tubs sat on the floor near a larger, more magnificent pool of water. A myriad of candles flickered, creating shadows. A fire roared in a great hearth. The walls were covered with elaborate paintings of nude women bathing.

Royal servants hurried about, quietly carrying linens, buckets, and baskets filled with combs, sea sponges, soaps and perfumes. The king had also thoughtfully provided wooden slippers with intricate patterns of inlaid mother-of-pearl. Tables were topped with trays of sweetmeats and marzipan, and there was an entire chess set made of sugar paste.

The steaming tubs were filled with naked women, chattering excitedly about the festivities, the dancing, and the men. Venetian glass mirrors reflected it all. The water was perfumed, rose leaves and lily bulbs floating in each tub. The women who were bold enough to bathe this way were young like Maira, their waists trim, their breasts pert, their nipples erect from the cool night breeze wafting through the tall windows.

Maira boldly devoured the sugar paste king from the chess set and then disrobed, more than one envious glance cast her way. She had heard the young king liked to watch women bathe, that sometimes he was e’en so bold as to stand in the doorway as they caressed their skin with soaps made from sheep fat.

Most people feared dipping their bodies in water for it could make one sick, opening the pores to disease, but the king had created this room after he’d read about Turkish public baths. The Crusaders brought back the culture of public baths borrowed from the Turks, who were famous for daily washings. It was an experiment, and who better to experiment on than naked women? People whispered that bathing was a prelude to sin, and the king liked to test himself and his resolve by watching the women wash themselves.
 
He was keenly religious and not known to give in to temptations of the flesh.

Maira sorely wanted to test him this night. She wasn’t afraid to bathe here and she was sure the king had noticed her during the dancing, sure the young monarch would want to see her naked. Several times she’d looked up to find his eyes upon her and she had shyly looked away, making sure to dip low as she danced to give him an excellent view of her creamy, rounded breasts. The king was not married yet, after all.

              Maira stepped into the large pool and leisurely washed and perfumed herself, her image in the Venetian mirrors split three ways. When she became aware of James’ presence, his lean form filling the doorway and his guards behind him, she slowly soaped her firm, rounded breasts and her arms, sighing with pleasure.

              The king watched her for a while. When the water grew too cold, Maira climbed from the pool, dried herself, and dressed, the king’s eyes following her every movement. James left and she followed him and his entourage down the corridor. When she got too close to James, the guards stopped her.

              Maira inhaled deeply, praying her calm would not desert her. “Yer Grace, I wish but a moment of yer time to speak with ye,” she said. “‘Tis important. ‘Tis about yer future.” Maira held her breath for she had been bold indeed. James stopped but he did not turn around.

Finally, he faced her, his piercing eyes traveling over her curvaceous figure and back to her face. Maira bowed. “I will hear what ye ha’e to say but be quick about it.”

              She had guessed right. The young man, not even eighteen yet, who sat the oldest throne in Christendom, had a weakness for astrologers, for things unseen, for things yet to be, and she had played on it. “I heard the future told ye tonight by Malcolm Maclean. I am a resident of the Maclean castle.”

The King betrayed his interest only slightly, his eyes flashing with curiosity and his nostrils flaring. His guards stood at attention, their pikes gleaming in the candlelit hall.

              “He didna tell ye e’erything, yer Grace. I ken because I overheard him last week talking of his visions.” Maira became dramatic, frowning and biting her lower lip, nervously clasping her hands together. “I ken no other way to tell ye this, yer Grace. He saw yer death in a vision but he didna tell ye.”

              She had the king’s full attention now, for he knew years ago Malcolm had predicted a bright future for his own father, saying nothing of his eventual death by an exploding cannon. The king’s eyes rounded and his guards tensed but he put a hand up. “What is yer name, lass?”

              “Maira, yer Grace. I am the daughter of John Maclean of Lochbuie.” Maira purposely didn’t mention her auld husband Seamus, who possessed no important title or rank.

              The guards murmured, for all knew that John Maclean was a descendant of the first Lord of the Isles, that the Macleans were on the council, and the Lords of the Isles considered themselves nearly independent of the Scottish king. Their king was sore vexed by the lawlessness in the Isles. Lowlanders often accused the Macleans of being a Maclean first and a Scot second.

              James’ disdain was evident in his grimace. Finally, he said, “I dunna ha’e much respect for Highlanders but ye may speak. Tell me what ye heard.”

“He spoke of yer death twenty summers hence.”

              He sucked in his breath and crossed his arms over his narrow chest, the heavy jewels sewn into his embroidered cape clinking with the movement. “Ye ken it is treason to speak of a king’s death?”

              “I ken, yer Grace, but I speak only of what I heard. Perhaps if ye hear it too, ye can avoid the fate Malcolm spoke of.”

              He nodded. “Go on then.”

              Maira performed for her audience. “Of course, yer Grace. Malcolm said yer greed would be yer downfall, yer greed for land. He said ye will go to battle and be thrown from yer horse trying to escape. He said ye will be taken to a cottage and a woman by a well will ask ye who ye are. Ye will say, ‘This morn I was yer king.’ And ye will ask for a priest. But the man who comes to ye as a priest will stab ye. He also said yer own son would lead a rebellion against ye.”

James stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “That is a vera specific future. Do ye ken what the price is for lying to a king, lass?”

              “Aye, I am well aware yer Grace. But all ye ha’e to do is ask him. He said it. I heard him and I am nae the only one.” She fluttered her dark lashes and did her best to look concerned about James’ future.

              He demanded that she tell him more, so she told him all she could recall of Malcolm’s dream. James frowned. Fiery red splotches arose on his cheeks. “If ye expect something in exchange for what ye told me, ye’ll nae get it, Maira. I dunna reward those who foretell my death.”

              Maira looked over her shoulder as if she feared a dark presence. “Nay, yer Grace. I expect nothing. I tell ye this because yer my king and I wish to protect ye, for Malcolm practices the dark arts.”

Fear sprung into James’ eyes and he clapped his hands together. As he moved away, his guards trailing in his wake, she felt his dismissal like a stinging slap on the face. Yet a smile graced her lips all the way to her room.
Malcolm would pay for spurning her and for marrying the Douglas bitch.

              Maira fell asleep that night beneath a fur blanket, the scent of roses and lilies on her skin and one of the king’s guards sleeping next to her—a dark-haired man with a lot of stamina. She did not remember his name and it did not matter. She woke him with her hand between his hairy thighs and he satisfied her again, but he was a poor substitute for Malcolm.