Gosford's Daughter (12 page)

Moray had stepped casually between Stewart and the
Master of Gray. “If I were hiding Arran, I wouldn’t conceal it,
Patrick. On the other hand, I wouldn’t allow you to carry him away.
Let’s end this farce and be at peace before my digestion becomes
unruly.”

Gray regarded Moray with those hypnotic hazel eyes.
“I’m not a man given to violence, yet I know that while Arran is
free, my life is in danger. If he’s not here, he must be headed for
the court. So then shall I be.” Gray sheathed his sword, and the
perfect features broke into a dazzling smile. “My reputation for
manners has been sullied by this untoward incident. I apologize for
my boorishness and thank you for your offer to sup. Yet being an
untrusting sort, I must ensure my safe withdrawal.” He threw
Stewart a venomous smile. “I’ll take the serving wench here,” Gray
announced, putting a hand on Sorcha’s arm. “She’ll be returned
after I’ve reached the King.”

Gavin Napier moved forward in two long strides. He
and Gray were of a height, but the priest was more solidly built.
“She is no serving wench; she’s Mistress Fraser of Beauly. Go with
your minions; no one will chase after you and your petty
plots.”

Gray still held Sorcha’s arm as his eyes seemed to
dissect her. “If this ill-kept chit is Lord Fraser’s daughter, I’m
the King of France! I don’t know you, sir, but if she’s your
bedmate, you’ll have to sleep alone this night.”

Moray made as if to speak, but Sorcha saw Gray’s men
behind him, quietly filing into the dining hall. She had no idea
how many retainers Moray housed at Doune Castle, but at least fifty
armed Gray followers now flanked the arched entrance.

“
I’m not afraid,” Sorcha declared.
It wasn’t precisely true; she had not yet had time for fear to take
root. “If we can trust in the Master of Gray’s honor, I should soon
be back.”

Moray appeared uncertain, Rob’s face had turned
alarmingly pale, and Stewart was clearly dubious. Gavin Napier
brought the side of his hand down sharply on Gray’s wrist.
Elizabeth screamed as Sorcha felt Gray release her arm. Napier’s
fist struck out at Gray but it never connected. Bothwell leaped
forward to slam the butt of his pistol against the priest’s head.
Napier crashed to the floor.

Gray grabbed Sorcha around the waist, pressing her
tightly against him. Bothwell stood with his pistol aimed at the
others, while at least a dozen Gray supporters also cocked their
weapons. “I’ve cast my lot with you before, Patrick.” The Border
earl laughed gratingly. “We’ll call on King Jamie together.”

Gray’s sardonic expression revealed pleasure at the
other man’s decision. But it was to Moray that the Master spoke.
“My Lord, I want no bloodshed! Let us take the wench and
depart.”

With a sigh of resignation, Moray moved back a few
paces. Stewart seethed next to Elizabeth, who was crying softly.
Reluctantly, Sorcha allowed herself to be half carried out of the
dining hall, through the entrance way, and into the damp October
air. The image that lingered was of Rob, bending over the sprawled,
inert form of Gavin Napier.

I
t was only after they had
traveled about five miles that Sorcha stopped worrying about Napier
and began to consider her own predicament. Riding next to Gray and
wrapped in a cloak one of the men had given her, Sorcha tried to
recall what she knew about the strange, elegant sixth Baron Gray, a
schemer, like Bothwell, given to convoluted, cunning plots to
ensure his influence with King James. That, naturally, would put
him at odds with Arran, who had been Jamie’s closest confidant. But
Arran was also a conniver who had managed to acquire his title and
properties from a demented Hamilton scion. As far as she could
remember, her parents favored neither Gray nor Arran, considering
them both self-seeking, ambitious, unprincipled scoundrels. Dallas
despised Bothwell and his Douglas wife, who, she insisted, dabbled
in black arts.

Yet Moray had welcomed them all. Perhaps Moray’s
open, gracious nature would have welcomed the devil himself. Sorcha
glimpsed Gray’s perfect profile and shivered. There
was
something Lucifer-like about him. All she could do was pray that
the Master would keep his word and return her unharmed as soon as
they reached court.

“
Where are we going?” she called to
her captor as they galloped along a road lined by short, sturdy,
stone fences. Obviously, they knew the route well, for there was no
moon to guide them.

It was the first time she had spoken since leaving
Doune. Gray didn’t hear her, so she spoke again, this time more
loudly. “Stirling Castle,” he answered, eyeing her with mild
interest. “Will you be awed?”

“
Doubtless.” Sorcha spoke without
inflection. Hopefully, someone at court would know her and put an
early end to the masquerade. Sorcha was angry with herself; if she
had dressed appropriately, she might still be at Doune, basking in
Moray’s charm and feasting on roast capon. And Gavin Napier
wouldn’t have fallen victim to Bothwell’s vicious blow. Glancing up
ahead at the Border earl’s narrow back, she marveled at his wiry
strength and loathed his wicked meddling.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Gray’s smooth, yet
incisive voice. “You handle your horse well. Were you brought up in
the stables?”

Sorcha kept her eyes on what she could see of the
road. A mental picture of Niall flashed through her mind. “Aye,
much of the time. I helped the grooms.” There was no point in
arguing, at least not while riding swiftly through the night to
meet the King of Scotland. Sorcha had seen her royal cousin, Jamie,
just once, at Holyrood, when he was no more than ten years old. A
sniveling, gawky lad, she recalled, who looked more like a pot-boy
than a monarch. He was only a year or two older than Sorcha, but
had been King since babyhood, when his mother was forced to
abdicate. Until recently, he had been the pawn of various mentors
and opposing factions, relying almost completely on whoever was his
current favorite. Sorcha wondered if the Master of Gray was
determined to perpetuate that arrangement.

“
Have you been at Doune long?” For
all that Gray regarded her as a servant, his tone was cordial.
Perhaps, when he wasn’t wreaking havoc, his manners were as elegant
as his appearance.

“
About three hours,” Sorcha replied
with a touch of asperity. “I came with the others from the
Highlands.”

“
Ah, I should have guessed from your
voice.” Gray slowed his horse to a canter and the others followed
suit. Sorcha scanned the horizon, barely able to make out a jutting
hill on which a huge building seemed to be perched like an eagle
ready for flight. Gray noted the direction of her gaze.
“Stirling.”

Sorcha had passed it on at least one previous journey
south, but always in the daylight. “Is the King in residence there
now?”

“
He is,” remarked Bothwell, who had
drawn up beside them, “if that villain Arran hasn’t kidnapped
him.”

The possibility wasn’t an idle thought. Jamie had
been abducted at least once before. Indeed, Sorcha knew there was
some connection between that incident and the enmity between Gray
and Arran. But the complexities of Scottish politics being what
they were, she wasn’t quite certain who stood in opposition to
whom, let alone why. Growing up at such a distance from court, it
seemed to Sorcha that her countrymen played at politics as other
men might play at games. They needed no great principles or moral
causes to provide a confrontation; they seemed to quarrel,
intrigue, and even murder for the sheer excitement.

Under the protection of the cliff on which the castle
rested, a small village lay in darkness, save for a handful of
rushlights burning behind cottage windows. The men’s voices hushed
as the horses slowed to a trot. The Master guided his mount in
front of the others, beginning the climb up the Carse of Stirling
to the castle entrance. Sorcha glanced down, somewhat unsettled by
the long, sheer face of the basalt rock that rose like a truncated
mountain above the town.

Moments later, they were halted by the guards. Sorcha
wondered if Gray would resort to arms as he had done at Doune. But
after only a minute’s discussion, the guards stepped aside to let
the Master and his men pass. As they dismounted, Sorcha turned to
Gray. “May I ride back now?”

Gray, absorbed with whatever plan he was concocting,
didn’t answer directly. When he finally looked at Sorcha, he seemed
momentarily puzzled. “What? Oh, aye. Nay,” he contradicted himself,
“you might get lost, and I can’t spare men to accompany you. Wait
until morning. I’d not have it said I didn’t keep my word where a
lass was concerned.”

Sorcha’s eyes snapped in annoyance. From what she’d
heard, the Master of Gray wasn’t one to worry about keeping his
word. Perhaps the Earl of Moray evoked honor even from rogues.
“What am I to do, then? Sleep under the King’s bed?”

Bothwell had sidled up next to her. “You may sleep in
mine,” he said, his wily gaze resting on her bosom.

Sorcha emitted a snort and refused to look at him.
But now that Sorcha had served her purpose, Gray had no further
interest in her, nor in Bothwell’s lewd suggestion. “Go to the
kitchens. They’ll see to you.”

Not having yet had supper, Gray’s idea suited Sorcha
just fine. Relieved that her brief captivity was over, she simply
walked away, wondering where the kitchens were located. Behind her,
she could hear Gray giving orders to his men. It occurred to Sorcha
that it might be amusing to watch the confrontation with the King,
particularly if Arran had indeed sought royal protection. But her
stomach was growling, and she had no real desire to become involved
in politics, even on the periphery.

Stirling Castle was large, however, and while Sorcha
had passed at least four guards and two servants, she hadn’t
troubled to ask for directions. Now, close to a quarter of an hour
had gone by and she was growing ravenous. At last she caught up
with a lad of short stature and a stealthy if shambling step. If he
were up to no good, Sorcha reasoned, he’d only be too glad to send
her along to the kitchens to be rid of her.

The lad jumped when she called to him and turned
around, his homely face wearing a suspicious look. His clothes were
well cut, but he seemed faintly imbecilic, with his gaping mouth
and wary eyes. As Sorcha drew closer, she noted a spark of keen
intelligence that surprised her.

“
I’ve just arrived,” she began,
hoping to sound amiable. “Where are the kitchens?”

The lad blinked. “Kitchens? Why do you seek the
kitchens?”

Sorcha wondered if she’d been mistaken about the
intelligent spark. “I’m hungry. I’m afraid I was kidnapped before
supper.” Annoyed, she hoped her unconventional approach would
swiftly elicit the information she wanted.

“
Do you jest?” He spat as he spoke,
and the eyes, which were very deep set, glowered at
Sorcha.

“
I do not. I seldom jest about being
kidnapped. Or being famished. If you’d prefer bringing me food,
I’ll rest content. But one way or the other, I must
eat.”

“
Who kidnapped you? Was it the
Master of Gray?” The lad’s face leaned closer. He had big hands and
feet for his size, Sorcha noted, and one foot turned
outward.

“
Jesu, yes, yes, it was. News races
swiftly at Stirling, I see. I wish victuals did the
same.”

“
Who are you? Why were you kidnapped
by Gray?”

Sorcha felt like boxing the impertinent lad’s ears.
“If you’d like to hear the tale, bribe me. Like a Gaberlunzie man.
If you feed them, they’ll tell you a story. So will I. Please.”
Sorcha sounded desperate.

“
Mistress, do you know who I am?”
The lad drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much
greater than Sorcha’s.

A dim recollection of a homely, furtive boy at Holy
rood stirred Sorcha’s memory. “Oh, sweet Jesu!” she gasped, at
least remembering to bob a curtsy as her stomach growled like an
active volcano. “Your Grace?”

King James of Scotland looked severe, his face taking
on the wizened appearance of a waspish old man. “That is correct.
I, mistress, am your sovereign lord.”

Sorcha clapped her cheeks with the palms of her
hands. “And I, sir, am an idiot. Why, may I ask, are you skulking
about your castle? Oh, by the saints, I’m not supposed to put such
questions to you. Forgive me!”

Jamie’s features softened. “They’re all looking for
me. Gray. Arran. Hamilton. Bothwell. No doubt half the nobles of
Scotland are rambling about Stirling like cats searching for a
mouse. I’m tired of people telling me what to do. I’m nineteen
years old, with a God-given right to rule. I wish they’d all go
away and leave me alone.”

“
If you’d had two parents instead of
a councilful, maybe it wouldn’t be so bothersome.” Sorcha bit her
tongue, chiding herself for her complete lack of courtly manners.
But Jamie seemed unperturbed by her words. Indeed, he was
nodding.

“
They forget I’m grown up. I should
have a wife, not a teacher.” Jamie struck a fist into his palm.
“Someone small and blond, with dimples and blue eyes.” He cast a
sidelong, diffident glance at Sorcha. She noticed that he seemed to
spit a great deal when he spoke. “Would she have to be a
Swede?”

“
No, not necessarily. We could
discuss it … over a bit of food, perhaps?”

“
Oh! I forgot, you’re starving. I
must remember, I’m to watch over my subjects with more concern.”
Jamie warily looked around the empty hallway. “I know, we’ll find
Simeon. He’s my manservant. He’ll bring us something to eat, and we
can talk, and perhaps I can figure out what to do with odious Arran
and worrisome Gray.”