Tamed by a Laird (25 page)

The third act paraded the troubadour’s lady loves, all played by Gerda. Her costume changes were little more than the addition
or deletion of a scarf, hat, apron, or wig. To each of these ladies, Hugh’s reaction was the sorrow of love lost. When Gerda
returned as herself at the end and led him off with a collar and leash, the audience laughed, hooted, jeered, and otherwise
expressed strong appreciation.

As Hugh joined Jenny directly afterward to sing, he murmured, “We’ll do the comical song first instead of the love song. In
troth, I’d prefer that Maxwell hear only my character voices tonight.”

She smiled and nodded as if to the audience and began to pluck the tune on her lute. Hugh let her play it through, joining
in with his lute only as she began to sing the first verse.

The evening ended as the previous one had, although the sheriff glowered at the fools when they reappeared to pass baskets
as the audience prepared to depart.

But the following night, midway through the second act of the play, it became clear that something was amiss. Gerda played
her role and said her lines correctly, but she lacked the spirited attitude she had displayed before.

As Hugh and the other two players argued about the upcoming wedding, one trying to talk him out of such a false step, the
other encouraging him to take it, the Joculator approached Jenny and drew her well away from the stage to say, “Ye’ll ha’
to take Gerda’s place for the rest o’ the play. The poor lass be puking up her guts behind yon trees and canna finish.”

“But I don’t
know
the play,” Jenny protested. “Surely, Cath—”

“Nay, she’d be too old for it. Ye’re of a height wi’ Gerda, and ye’ll put on a veil and a padded gown, so none will ken any
difference till ye take off the veil.”

“But I don’t know the lines!”

“The priest will tell ye what to say, just as they do in real weddings,” he said.

“And for the third act? What then?”

“Why, ye’ll take off yon veil and reveal yourself as Bonnie Jenny. Then ye and Hugo can sing that love song ye do so well.
Nae one will think aught but that we’ve changed the ending from farcical to romantic. Trust me, lass, they’ll love it.”

Jenny did not think that she was going to like it at all. And what Hugh would think, she could not imagine.

A
pparently the company kept costumes ready for any emergency, because Cath and another woman quickly swathed Jenny in a red
dress that added pounds to her figure, and a thick veil that concealed her face. Meantime, Hugh continued to argue with the
other players onstage, adding considerably to the audience’s delight by playing his own father and arguing with himself.

When Jenny was ready, the Joculator guided her to the stage, and the actor playing the bride’s father escorted her to an altar
that had appeared as she dressed.

The priest was yet another fool in whiteface, cap, and bells. When Jenny stood before him, he turned to the audience and said
in stentorian tones, “Look ye all on these two. If any amongst ye ken just cause or impediment why this marriage should not
go forward, speak now or forever keep a still tongue in thy head.”

Silence.

“Aye, good then,” the priest said. Turning to Hugh, he said, “Now, lad, d’ye take this lass for your wedded wife, to have
and to hold, for fair, for foul, for…”

When he finished reciting the familiar phrases, Hugh declared loudly, “I do!”

To Jenny, the fool-priest said, “Lass, will ye have this man for your wedded husband, to be meek and obedient to him in bed
and at board from this time forward till death ye depart and if holy kirk will ordain?”

“I will,” she murmured.

“Louder, lass,” he said in stentorian tones. “They canna hear ye in the back.”

“Aye, I do then; I’ll tak’
all
o’ him,” Jenny shouted back, trying to mimic Gerda’s accent and manner. The audience responded appreciatively.

She could barely see through the thick veil, but she saw Hugh’s quick frown and knew he had just realized she was not Gerda.
Whether he knew who had taken Gerda’s place or thought she was someone else, she could not tell.

When they had finished reciting the vows, the priest said, “I now pronounce ye man and wife. Will ye kindly sign the marriage
lines declaring this union, sir?”

“Aye, sure, I will,” Hugh said. Taking the quill the man handed him, he signed with a dramatic flourish.

“There now,” the priest said. “If ye’ll be so good as to turn and face the congregation, I’ll present ye to them as man and
wife. ’Tis proper at this point, madam,” he added
sotto voce
, “to put back your veil.”

Grateful for the cue, Jenny faced the audience and with an exaggerated gesture worthy of Gerda herself, flipped back the veil
to reveal her face.

The reaction was a mixture of raucous cheers and laughter that increased greatly when Gerda ran up to the edge of the clearing
in a tizzy, fully recovered from her ailment and apparently trying to tear her hair from her scalp.

The Joculator strode forward with two lutes, handing one to Jenny and the other to Hugh.

As Jenny began to pluck the notes of the love song, Hugh quickly picked up the cue. The audience reacted as the Joculator
had predicted, and as Jenny and Hugh took their bows afterward, the fools, jugglers, and tumblers ran about, filling their
collection baskets and hats with generous offerings from the appreciative crowd.

As Jenny and Hugh walked from the clearing at last, the priest-fool walked up to Hugh, grabbed his hand, and shook it fervently.

“ ’Twas a great pleasure, sir,” he said. “A more entertaining wedding I vow I never have performed. I want to thank you for
letting me take part in such an unusual and inspiring event.”

Jenny stared at Hugh, who was staring in shock at the man in whiteface.

“See here,” Hugh said curtly. “I don’t even know you, and this jest has gone far enough. Who the devil are you?”

The man looked from him to Jenny and back again. “Why, who else should I be but Father Donal from the abbey kirk? You sent
for me yourself, did you not?”

Jenny swayed as if the ground had heaved beneath her feet. Had it not been for Hugh’s firm hand catching her elbow and steadying
her, she was sure her knees would have given way.

As they walked on, Hugh tried to discern the priest’s features under their chalk coating. The man’s whiteface lacked the details
that Gawkus and Gilly added to theirs, such as the teardrops under Gilly’s eyes and the tiny hearts under Gawkus’s. This man’s
whiteface lacked all such detail. Only his eyes and mouth showed color.

“I want an explanation,” Hugh said. “That wedding cannot have been real.”

“But it was,” Father Donal assured him. “Your letter spelled out your wishes, sir. And the Bishop of Glasgow, who chanced
to be visiting Sweetheart Abbey when your application for a special license arrived, approved it himself.”

“Then he must
un
approve it,” Hugh said. Glancing at Jenny’s face, which was nearly as white as the priest’s, he realized that although by
rights he ought to be furious, he wanted only to protect her.

“I’m afraid his eminence returned to Glasgow yesterday,” the priest said. “In any event, I do not think he
can
annul your marriage, sir. Only the Pope can do that—or mayhap a papal legate when one is at hand. But why would you
want
an annulment after going to such lengths to marry so quickly and so publicly?”

“Because I did no such thing,” Hugh told him. As he said the words, he recalled that his odd, ale-induced dream had included
the signing of documents. Nevertheless, he said firmly, “I sent you no letter or application, Father. ’Tis you, I fear, who
have been fooled. This marriage cannot be valid.”

“I brought the application and special license with me, in the event that anyone from the local kirk should desire to see
them,” the priest said as they drew to a stop. “I also have your letter of instructions. Moreover, earlier, when I asked you
to sign the marriage lines, I specifically noted that in doing so you would be declaring yourselves married. That precaution
was necessary, of course, as you had requested that your names not be mentioned as you took your vows.”

“But surely, the marriage cannot be valid if our names were
not
used.”

“On the contrary, sir, your vows themselves were sufficient. Forbye, the declaration by itself satisfies Scottish marriage
law. You and this lady are legally wedded and may now enjoy all the rights and privileges of marriage.”

Feeling Jenny tremble, Hugh firmed his grip under her elbow to steady her again. As he did, a male voice behind them called
out, “Hold there, Sir Hugh! We would congratulate you and your bonnie bride!”

Jenny stiffened and looked at Hugh. He was grimacing, but even as he did, she saw his facial expression alter to a most un-Hughlike
look. As he turned to face the shouter, she braced herself and turned with him.

He called out, “Was ye shoutin’ at me, sir?”

Recognizing the two men approaching them, Jenny nearly turned to flee.

Sheriff Maxwell held out his hand to Hugh. “Thorn-hill,” he said. “One would never expect to meet you in such circumstances
as these. Indeed, sir, I have twice now attended these most amusing performances, and I trow, I never did recognize you. However,
my man here knew you straightaway.”

To Jenny’s amazement and right beside her, Hugh had turned into a wide-eyed bumpkin in nobleman’s clothing. He gazed in astonishment
at Maxwell’s outstretched hand and then at his minion before saying in the distinctly common phrasing he had used before,
“Gor, me lord, I dinna ken neither o’ ye. I’d be glad to shake your hand, but I’m thinkin’ one o’ them fools ha’ set ye on
to me as a jest.”

The sheriff looked dumbfounded, but his minion peered more closely at Hugh and said, “I dinna understand the jest, sir, but
I’d ken ye fine anywhere. Sakes, I collected your taxes last year. Ye be Sir Hugh Douglas o’ Thornhill.”

“Nay, then,” Hugh said, passing a hand across his mouth and then grinning.

To Jenny’s shock, his grin revealed a number of blackened teeth clearly on the verge of rotting. “Just ye wait till I tell
me brothers and all that a sheriff-depute o’ Dumfries mistook
me
for a laird!” he exclaimed. “Ay de mi, how they’ll hoot, all six o’ them. Next, I warrant, ye’ll be beggin’ me to pay the
laird’s taxes, withal.”

Sheriff Maxwell chuckled and clapped his man on the back. “I told you, you were mistaken, lad. Nobbut what this man’s nearly
the spit and image of Thornhill.”

Hugh leaned closer to him. “Did we look into that, sir, happen we’d find the laird and me be kin. Sithee, I dinna ken
who
me da were. Mayhap this laird and me do be brothers, as ye might say. I dinna look a mite like me own da. And me mam… Aye,
well, she were a rare lass for the lads, that ’un. Scarce knew where she slept night to night. And I ha’ nae doots that some
o’ her mates was nobles and the like.”

“Come along, lad,” Maxwell said. “This man is
not
Thornhill.”

The younger man nodded. “Aye, he’d never say such a thing even in jest. Prideful as a cock on his own dunghill, the laird
be, like most Douglases. Sorry to ha’ troubled ye,” he said to Hugh. “You go on about your business now. I expect ye’ll soon
be bragging that your acting impressed the Sheriff o’ Dumfries.”

“Aye, sure I will, sir,” Hugh assured him.

Watching the two men turn and stride away as she struggled between outrage and laughter, Jenny took a deep breath, becoming
aware of Hugh’s warm hand at the small of her back as she exhaled. She looked up at him, but he was watching the sheriff and
his man as if he thought one of them might look back. Neither one did.

“How could you
say
such a horrid thing about your own mother, and with a priest to witness it?”

His eyes twinkled when he met her gaze, but he looked ruefully at the priest before he said, “ ’Twas the first thing I could
think to say that might disarm them.”