Once Upon a Plaid (12 page)

—From “The Twelve Days of Christmas”

 

 

—An observation from Nab,
fool to the Earl of Glengarry

Chapter Thirteen

The sky lowered to meet the earth, washing the world in shades of grey and giving no hope that the snow in the bailey would melt anytime soon. It crunched underfoot as Will strode out of the keep with Nab at his heels. Will’s breath streamed out in dragonish puffs, but he didn’t mind the chill.

In fact, he had the feeling that he’d escaped the nursery just in time. It was beyond uncomfortable talking to Katherine about their dead son. It was like opening his chest and letting her see his beating heart.

A man ought not to betray that sort of weakness. Not to anyone.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Once the subject had turned to the missing scepter, there was a bite in her tone. He felt a definite undertow in the conversation. It was likely to drag him and Kat into another round of argument, a sucking whirlpool that could only lead to colder depths.

“Where’s MacNaught now?” he asked Nab.

“I canna be sure since his boots are not nailed down somewhere, ye ken.” Nab had to take two strides for each of William’s long-legged ones. Though the effort left him red-faced and huffing, he scrambled to keep pace. “Fergie said MacNaught and his men had left the keep and seemed to be meandering toward the chapel.”

“That’s where the scepter must be hidden.” MacNaught and his cronies were no more likely to be going there to pray than William was.

The chapel was located midway between the keep and the stables, squarely in the middle ward of the bailey. It had been built into a natural hillside so that earth was bermed on the north and west sides of the stone structure, angling up to the thick timbers of the eaves. In fact, the ground was close enough to the chapel’s roof on the northwest corner that every so often a goat had to be shooed off the slanting thatch. But the protective earth on two sides of the building made for a sacred space that was warmer in winter and cooler in summer than the rest of Glengarry Castle.

William always suspected it was a silent inducement for folk to spend time there, whether they had a chat with the Almighty in mind or not.

“D’ye think Ranulf might have hidden the scepter under the altar?” Nab asked.

“’Tis bold enough, few would think to look there.”

“Odds bodkins.” Nab wrung his hands, worrying under his breath over the audacity of stashing stolen treasure in such a place. When he spoke again, his voice seemed preternaturally loud. “Seems an unchancy thing to do, squirreling away ill-gotten goods under the Almighty’s very nose, as it were.”

“I dinna think Ranulf is overmuch concerned about the Almighty or His nose.”

Pressing a finger to his lips to silence the fool, Will opened the oak chapel door and peered inside. Shafts of faint light streamed in through the green glass of the high windows on the eastern wall of the space. The pervasive moldy damp of smoke-darkened stone filled William’s nose first, followed by the pungent fragrance of incense that didn’t quite cover the first smell. The altar was alight with tallow candles. Aside from the priest, who was kneeling before the flickering votives, there was no one else in the chapel.

Will closed the door with a soft snick of the latch.

“Are we not going to check under the altar?” Nab asked.

“No. If it was there, it’s gone by now, since Ranulf isna in the chapel. I’m doubting he hid it there.” Not that MacNaught wouldn’t stoop to that level of blasphemy. But the men who ran with him struck Will as the sort to be swayed by the threat of divine retribution. “He’d not use the inside of the chapel at least.”

Someone gave a short whistle as if calling a dog. Will turned toward the sound. Not far away, the boy Fergie was perched on the parapet of the curtain wall, his knobby-kneed legs dangling, the deerhound pup still squirming on his lap. Once Fergie saw he had William’s attention, he pointed the pup’s paw toward the rear of the chapel.

Will nodded as his ears pricked to a whispered sibilance echoing off the stone wall behind the chapel. Someone was there. Several someones.

He started creeping around the chapel. Nab dogged him, the bells at the ends of the fool’s cap jingling with each step. Will rounded on him and stared at the offending cap.

Nab’s mouth opened in a silent “ah!” He removed his head covering and stuffed it up his sleeve. They started moving again. Will could still hear the bells, but their tinkling was muffled now.

“Look again,” a voice whispered furiously around the corner from them. “It has to be there.”

“I’m telling ye ’tis not. See for yourself.”

Several others joined the hissing conversation, their words tumbling upon one another’s without pause.

“Someone else has found it.”

“Then why has no one come forward to present the cursed thing and claim the prize?”

“Probably because no one dares sit on Lord Glengarry’s throne.”

“Fiend seize ye all, I dare!” There was enough voice in the last whisper that William was able to recognize Ranulf. “No one but we five kenned it was hidden here. So which of ye bootlickers has moved it?”

A vehement round of denials followed.

“If I find which of ye has crossed me, I’ll have your guts for garters,” MacNaught said, forgetting to keep his voice down.

The conversation was proof that Ranulf and his gang had stolen the scepter. But it was also proof that they no longer had possession of it.

Will’s gut roiled. Where was it now?

But as urgent as finding the scepter was, he couldn’t let this chance to confront MacNaught pass by.

Will put an arm around Nab’s shoulders and started around the corner toward MacNaught and his men, talking loudly as he went. “And so then the buxom barmaid said—Ho, now!” He stopped suddenly as if surprised to see the five men. “What are ye doing here, MacNaught?”

“What buxom barmaid, William?” Nab tugged at Will’s shirtsleeve in all innocence. “I think I must have missed something. . . .”

“Never ye mind, Nab. Weel, MacNaught, this is an odd place to find ye and your men. No horn nor trencher nor chance to toss a pair of dice in sight.” Will’s gaze flicked to the lowest corner of the chapel where the thatch of the roof had obviously been disturbed. In troubled times when the keeping of weapons was forbidden, common folk would hide swords and dirks under the thatch of the eaves of their houses. The kirk’s roof would have easily hidden the scepter as well. “Looking for a blade, are ye?”

“No need since I’ve one to hand.” MacNaught’s fingers curled around the hilt of the dirk at his waist.

“But no Scepter of Badenoch, aye?” William bared his teeth at Ranulf in an expression no one would mistake for a smile. It wouldn’t hurt to let MacNaught see that Will knew him for a thief. It also wouldn’t hurt to let him think Will knew exactly where the scepter was. When it came to controlling a man like MacNaught, keeping him off balance was almost as good as bashing his face in.

It just wasn’t nearly as satisfying.

MacNaught fisted his hands at his waist. “What makes ye think we were after the fool’s trinket?”

“A fool’s trinket with magic in it, ye mean.” Will noticed the quick glance that passed between Hugh Murray and Filib Gordon. He’d been right to think them susceptible to fantastic notions like a fey curse. “That’s right. The Fair Folk cast a glamour on the Scepter of Badenoch. Anyone who lays hands on it unworthily will find himself with a red palm.”

Gordon and Lamont Sinclair surreptitiously checked their hands. Between grubbing in the thatch searching for the scepter and the cold weather, Will was counting on all their palms being ruddy. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Look, William.” With an idiot’s grin, Nab held up his hand. “My palm’s not red.”

“That’s because I gave ye the scepter to hold for me. It knew ye were allowed to have it. But woe betide the man who takes the scepter with nefarious intent. After a time, the red may fade on a thief’s palm, but that’s when the
yeuks
start.”

“The
yeuks?
” Hugh Murray said, squinting at his own hand.

“Aye, and not just on the hand that touched the scepter, mind, but anyplace on the thief’s skin that hand touches thereafter.”

Will feared he might be going too far, but even MacNaught wasn’t immune to suggestion. He surreptitiously rubbed a hand on his plaid as if he might rub off the effects of the curse.

“I’m told ’tis unbearable. And dinna get me started on the part of the spell about what happens to a thief’s manhood after he lays hold of the scepter,” Will said, shaking his head. “It doesna make pretty hearing.”

Ranulf blanched at this. Ainsley MacTavish gave a deep sigh. “Good thing ye wouldna let me touch it, Ranulf.”

MacNaught cuffed Ainsley and told him to shut his face. Then he turned back to William. “I can see your talents are wasted on Badenoch. The way ye can spin a tale, ye ought to have been a bard instead of a laird.”

“Yet I was born to Badenoch and ye were born to . . . what exactly?”

They both knew the answer. Nothing.

Ranulf’s mother was Lord Glengarry’s sister, and might have expected a fairly grand match had she not run off with Archibald MacNaught, holder of a minor steading and possessed of no real title, though he’d styled himself a baronet. Some might say it was actually to Ranulf’s credit that since Sir Archibald’s death he’d built up his father’s holding and amassed more land, more cattle, and more crofters beholden to him. But he’d done it through brutality, coercion, and reiving the fruits of the hard work of others.

He spread over neighboring estates like a cancerous growth. Lord Glengarry had confessed to William that he was concerned about his nephew’s intentions. It was one of the reasons he’d invited Ranulf and his cronies to spend Christmastide in the castle.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” the old man had said to William that first night. But the laird’s teetering health had left him unable to do much about his renegade nephew.

William figured he was right to worry about MacNaught.

“I have what I have from my own actions.” Ranulf cast him an oily smile. “Fortune favors the bold, they say.”

“Bold is one thing. Grabby is another. Those who overreach should take care lest they draw back naught but a bloody stub.”

Ranulf’s face turned a deep shade of purple and he looked as if he was about to fly at Will, but Lamont Sinclair laid a hand on his shoulder. He jerked his head toward the guards filing by on the parapet overhead.

After the beating in the main hall, William was untouchable. Standing orders had been given. If MacNaught attacked the laird’s son-in-law now, he’d be set upon at once by the earl’s men.

“We’ll leave ye now, Badenoch. But let us know if ye find your wee bauble, aye? ’Twould be a pity should such a treasure be lost forever. What would the House of Douglas do without it?” Ranulf and his men turned and stalked away toward the stables.

William watched them go. His gut curdled. If the scepter were truly lost, what would he do indeed?

Priests were always talking about how the living were surrounded by “a great cloud of witnesses,” the souls of the departed. He wondered briefly if his forbears were hurling imprecations at him from heaven for losing the symbol of their family’s strength and stature. Then he remembered that he didn’t believe anything the priests said.

But it didn’t ease his gut one whit.

“Weel, that’s that,” Will said. “They dinna have it, but I’ll warrant they’ll start searching for it.”

“What do we do now, William?” Nab asked.

“We up the reward. If the scepter isna found by this evening, we’ll sweeten the pot.” He twisted the gold ring on his pinky that had belonged to his grandsire. “Tell everyone that in addition to being able to sit on the laird’s throne, I’ll give the finder this ring.”

“That’s a fine ring, William,” Nab said. “But I was just wondering about something else.”

“What’s that, Nab?”

“What ever happened to that buxom barmaid?”

—From “The Twelve Days of Christmas”

 

 

—An observation from Nab,
fool to the Earl of Glengarry

Chapter Fourteen

Nab parted company with William in the great hall. Lord Badenoch headed for the kitchen, so Nab figured he was on his way back to the nursery to see if Lady Katherine was still there. Though he’d like to help his friend William settle matters with his wife, Nab had another mission in mind. He’d done all that Lord Badenoch expected of him for now and Lord Glengarry hadn’t much use for him of late.

He crept into the solar, hoping that it was vacant. Sometimes men who wished for a quiet place in which to play a game of chess made use of the laird’s retreat, but Nab was in luck. There was no one there.

He pulled the copy of
Le Morte d’Arthur
from under his motley, ready to put it back up on the shelf in the correct spot. Nab tried never to keep a book too long, lest it be missed. It was past time to return Camelot to its resting place. Besides, Dorcas hadn’t enjoyed the stories of the Knights of the Round Table as much as he’d hoped.

She seemed fixated upon the fact that Queen Guinevere was consigned to the stake for her unlawful affair with Sir Lancelot while the knight in question was allowed to continue to roam free and have all sorts of adventures. The fact that Lancelot roared in to the rescue at the last moment and saved his ladylove from the flames didn’t mollify Dorcas in the least.

“I dinna see why she was the only one to be burned in the first place since no one can have an affair by themselves. Why should Guinevere bear the punishment for two? No one tried to burn Lancelot,” Dorcas had insisted stubbornly.

“Weel, that makes no sense. If they had, then he wouldna have been able to save her, aye?”

Dorcas was unconvinced. “’Tis still not fair.”

That set Nab to scratching his head, since the whole point of the Round Table was fairness, as far as he could see. They pledged to help the weak, to defend the downtrodden, to show mercy to their enemies, and he told Dorcas so in no uncertain terms.

“They may be grand fellows when dealing with other men, but there’s not a smidge of mercy in them if it’s a woman who’s broken the rules,” Dorcas had said tartly.

So Nab tucked the book back on its shelf with a pang of regret. He still thought he’d be more at home in Camelot than ever he would in Glengarry Castle.

Nab ran his fingertips over the other books’ spines. There was a treatise on animal husbandry. He didn’t think Dorcas would be terribly impressed with the intricacies of cattle breeding. The one time he’d read it the book had cured him of wandering near the cattle byre for weeks.

One of the books was titled
The Confessions of St. Augustine
. Nab figured that since a saint wouldn’t have much sinning to report, it couldn’t be all that interesting.

There was another book he’d never tried—a volume of love poetry. Nab knew a number of ribald limericks, and an epic poem or two he could recite on command, but he hadn’t committed any sonnets to memory. Ever since he’d admonished William that he’d need some poems if he was going to woo his wife, this little book of poetry had been in the back of Nab’s mind.

It was even in Gaelic. According to the frontispiece, the poems were translations of verses written by monks in the eleventh century. Nab wondered what men who lived lives completely shut away from the world might have to say on the subject of love, but when he opened the book and read the first poem, he was shocked to his curled toes.

He was so lost in a tangle of rhyme and pentameter, not to mention arms and legs, that he didn’t hear when someone entered the solar behind him. It was only when that someone cleared their throat loudly that he snapped the book shut and whirled to face the interloper. His face was hot, and the hands that held the book of love behind him were clammy.

But the person who’d invaded the solar was Dorcas, so he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Och, Dorcas, ’tis only ye.”

“‘Only ye’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I was afeared ye might be someone else.”

“Someone important, I suppose?” she said archly.

“Aye, I mean, nay. That is . . . I mean—”

“I ken well enough what ye mean, Nab.”

Dorcas pulled a cloth from her sleeve and began dusting the already clean chess set. The board was in a state of play and doubtless her efforts would not be appreciated, since she was careless of where she replaced each piece. But Nab was loath to say anything about it because of the vehement way she scrubbed the ivory pawn.

“Are ye angry, Dorcas?”

She glared at him. “Aren’t ye the knowledgeable one?”

He swallowed hard. He’d always hated it when his parents were angry. It made him feel that there was an upturned hive in his belly. “Who are ye angry with?”

“Who d’ye think?”

Nab cast about in his mind for someone who might have upset her. “Is it Cook? I know ye get yerself in a turmoil when she thinks ye work for her and starts giving ye orders and—”

“Nay, ’tis not Cook.” Dorcas shook her head so hard, Nab feared it might roll right off her shoulders. “Ye stupid, stupid man.”

Nab was used to being thought a fool, but he certainly didn’t expect Dorcas to think he was stupid. She knew things about him the others didn’t. She’d heard him read. She’d been to his secret room. He’d have sworn she was his friend. His chest ached strangely.

“Why are ye angry with me?”

She turned to face him then, and her face crumpled. “Ye scared me half to death.”

“How?”

“By sitting on the bastion roof. I was out of my mind with fear that ye’d . . . well, that ye’d . . .”

“Ye thought I’d jump? What a silly notion. I told William so too. I just wanted someplace quiet to think for a while. ’Tis not safe to go to the secret chamber in daylight, ye ken. Someone might see and then it wouldna be secret any longer, aye?”

“Sitting on the bastion isna safe either.” She slammed the white king down with such force it was a wonder his crown didn’t topple off. “That roof is covered with ice. One slip and . . .”

A new idea popped into his head and out of his mouth. “Ye were worried for me.”

“Of course I was. Who d’ye think sent Lord Badenoch up there after ye?”

Dorcas had convinced a laird to climb up onto the bastion after him. She was very persuasive. Without realizing she did so, she persuaded him to puff out his chest a bit.

“Weel, now ye know ye need not have worried.”

“Aye, I know that.” She picked up the black queen and rubbed its carved face with the cloth with such vehemence it was a wonder the piece still had a nose when she was done. “And from now on, I’ll do my best not to care a flying fig what happens to ye, Master Nab.”

His chest sagged. That didn’t sound good. He sort of liked it that she’d been worried.

“Why dinna ye care anymore?”

“I do. That’s just the trouble.” She replaced the black queen far from its original position so it menaced the white king.

Checkmate
, Nab almost said, but then he decided Dorcas wouldn’t appreciate a change of topic.

“Ye’re the one who doesna care,” she said. “Ye dinna care one whit. Ye climb down from the bastion as if nothing’s happened and do ye come straight to me to ease my mind? Me, who’s the only one who cares a flibbet about ye? No, ye dinna.” She swabbed one side of the chess board, knocking a whole phalanx of pawns on their faces. “Instead ye flit about the castle on every other business under the sun.”

That sounded vaguely insulting. “I dinna flit.”

“Ye know what I mean.”

“I wasna flitting. I was doing things for William. Important things.”

“More important than letting me know ye are all right?” She gave him her back and returned to scouring the chess pieces.

For the first time in his life, a small fire kindled in his belly. This must be what angry felt like, he decided, but it wasn’t his fault. Dorcas was being unreasonable. “If ye kenned I was down from the bastion, ye kenned well enough that I was all right.”

A hapless bishop slipped from her hand and rolled across the floor, but she didn’t go after it. Instead, Dorcas just stood there. Her shoulders shook and her head hung down.

“Dorcas?” He tiptoed over to her and almost put a hand on her shoulder, but stopped himself at the last moment. He didn’t like being touched. Maybe Dorcas didn’t either. “Are
ye
all right?”

“No, I’m not.” She erupted in full-blown sobs. Then she turned and threw her arms around Nab’s neck. He’d have been less surprised if she’d pummeled him.

“Dinna cry, Dorcas. Please, dinna.”

At first, when she clung to him, he got that hot and jittery feeling that always accompanied being touched, but as her body relaxed against his, the feeling changed. He decided he didn’t mind so badly when Dorcas touched him. Hesitantly, he patted her back with his free hand since he still clutched the book of love poems in the other.

“The man I care about doesna care about me one bit,” she said with a sniff.

“Then he’s a very stupid man.”

She pulled back and looked him straight in the eye. To his surprise, he was able to meet her gaze. “Aye,” she said with a crooked smile, “he is that.”

Dorcas tried to peer around him. “What is it ye’ve got there?”

Nab didn’t know whether to be relieved or bereft that she was no longer so close. He’d never felt like this before. Her smile, even a crooked one, made him feel as if he’d swallowed a moonbeam. No, a whole jar of honey without becoming ill. No, it was . . . it was . . . well, he wasn’t sure just what it was, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

If a body got too happy, it was like a prayer to the devil. Excessive happiness was a sure sign things were about to turn in the other direction. But for now, Dorcas was smiling at him, so he decided to wallow in the moonbeam.

Who knew when he’d ever feel like this again?

He held the book out for her to see. “I was picking out something new to read to you since you didna much care for King Arthur.”

“I didna say that. It’s just that he didna practice being such a fair king with his own queen.”

“Ye must admit she did him a grievous hurt.”

“So did Lancelot, but I didna notice him being led to the stake in naught but his nightshift.”

Nab sighed. Not this again. He gave himself a shake. Where had the moonbeam gone? “In any case, I thought ye might fancy this book instead.”

She eyed the new volume. “What is it?”

“Weel, I havena read it yet myself, ye ken, but ’tis supposed to be love poems.”

He’d thought her smile the finest thing he’d ever seen. He was wrong. He’d only seen the smallest part of her smile. It bloomed now like a living thing, like the sun in its radiance. Even if it struck him blind, Nab couldn’t look away.

“Read me one,” she said, crowding close again.

She smelled of sweet soap and bread and linen that had been dried in the sun. Even if he could tear his gaze away from her long enough to read anything, Nab wondered if his mouth would work.

“Quick,” she said, “before someone comes!”

He opened the book and started to read the first poem he came to:

Dorcas snorted. “If that’s what this ninnyhammer of a poet thinks passes for a love poem, I can well believe his lady makes him beg.”

“Ye dinna think ’tis on account of his bald head?” Nab didn’t think he’d like it much if a lady lost her hair. It stood to reason that shoe would fit the other foot as well.

“Nay, of course not. Bald or old or brick-headed, Love doesna think on those sorts of things.”

“Love canna think on anything,” he pointed out. “Love isna a person so it doesna have a brain, ye ken.”

Dorcas scowled at him. “Sometimes I think ye dinna have one either. ‘My well-thatched head has lost its hair,’ indeed. Bring the book to the secret room and find me a better poem by nightfall.”

She flounced out of the solar with a flip of her skirts.

First she smiled, then she scowled. First she scoffed at his poem, then she demanded another. Nab rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t know which way she’d turn him next.

Still, there was a bit of that moonbeam dancing inside him. So he slid down into a corner of the room with the book and flipped through the pages, looking for a poem Dorcas might like.

Love doesna think on those sorts of things
, she’d said.

He was still pretty sure Love couldn’t think at all, but if it could, Nab wondered what Love would think on. Would it think on red hair or a slight frame or someone who was thought a fool by the rest of the world?

What sort of things made a body love another anyway?

Or not.