The Border Lord and the Lady (30 page)

“God’s balls!” the priest swore. “You’ve washed your entire body! This certainly is a special day, nephew. I suppose the bride is still primping. We’ll eat after this folderol is all over with, I assume. Mab is doing something wonderful in her kitchens, isn’t she? I’m ravenous!” He snatched up a goblet of wine from Artair’s tray. “Your lady will have to do something about the villagers. There were but three at the Mass this morning. She’s going to have to start setting a good example for them.”

Lord Grey and his wife came into the hall.

“Cicely is almost ready,” Maggie said excitedly.

Suddenly the laird’s face grew panicked. Turning, he dashed back down to the kitchens. “Mab! There are no flowers!” he said to her.

Without so much as a blink Mab handed him a bunch of dried purple and white heather tied with a narrow white ribbon. “I was wondering if you would remember,” she said. “ ’Twill please her muchly that you did.”

“If I weren’t in love with my ladyfaire, old woman, I vow I would marry you!” he told her, and, taking the heather, dashed back up the stone stairs to the hall, where Cicely was just entering the room.

Her gown was lavender brocaded velvet with a low V-shaped neckline, a laced bodice, and fur-trimmed sleeves. Its undergown, which showed in the front, was of violet silk. She wore her thick auburn hair loose and unadorned.

“No need to tell the world what you’ve been up to,” Orva had said sharply as she helped her mistress dress.

Cicely came almost shyly into the hall, but, seeing Ian Douglas standing so tall and strong, she managed a small smile.

“Come along, lassie!” Father Ambrose called to her, beckoning her to the high board where the marriage contract lay. “Make your mark there.” He pointed.

“I can write, but first I will read what has been written,” Cicely told him. She bent over the table, her eyes scanning the parchment. They widened just slightly as she found what she sought, and, raising
her head, she looked at the laird. “Thank you for keeping your promise,” she said softly.

“I will always keep my promises to you, ladyfaire,” he replied.

Cicely took up the quill and signed her name. Ian then signed his, followed by Lord Grey and Father Ambrose as their witnesses. The couple then stood before the priest, Cicely clutching the little bouquet of dried heather Ian had tendered to her, and their union was blessed, the priest declaring them married until death separated them. Then, with the help of the two manservants, the priest removed the cloth and the crucifix from the high board so the breakfast might be served. The household’s men-at-arms had eaten earlier, at first light.

Mab herself brought a large platter of eggs that had been poached in marsala wine and cream, setting it before the newly married couple. She was grinning a broad, toothless grin. Small round trenchers of oat stirabout with bits of apple and spice were placed before the guests. There was a platter covered with rashers of both bacon and ham, fresh bread still warm from the oven, a crock of sweet butter and one of plum jam. This morning there were two small wheels of cheese: a hard round yellow, and a soft ripe French cheese.

Cicely raised an eyebrow. “Where did that come from?” she wondered aloud.

“Mab buys things now and again from passing peddlers,” the laird answered. “She must have been saving this for a special occasion.” He chuckled. He caught her hand up and kissed it as his eyes met hers. “I love you, my lady wife,” he told her.

Cicely blushed, and then she heard herself saying, “And I love you, my lord husband.” And as the words echoed softly between them she realized that they were true. She had come to love this rough-hewn border lord who had taken a bath for her on their wedding day. Who had loved her enough to steal her away, and incur the wrath of the king by doing so.

“Do you think Sir William will be back soon?” she asked Ian.

“Perhaps, but the deed is done whatever James Stewart may say,” he answered.

“The people love him because he has been hard on his lords,” Cicely remarked. “But it is not for the benefit of the people; it is for his benefit. He will
rule
Scotland, but he will not be ruled by his lords. Remember he has spent more of his life with the English court than here in Scotland. He fought with King Henry the Fifth in France. From what I have heard said of the king’s father, King Robert, James Stewart is his direct opposite. King Robert did not want to be king. He thought himself the most miserable of men, and only Queen Annabella’s good influence kept him from fleeing a throne he never wanted. But James Stewart wants his throne. He will be a good king of Scotland, but he will be its only king. I know for a fact that when spring comes he will plan a campaign to force the northern clans and their lairds to his will. He will unite Scotland.”

“He will have to overcome the lord of the isles,” Ian said.

“He will do exactly that,” Maggie MacLeod, who had overheard their conversation, said softly. “James Stewart can be a hard man.”

Cicely nodded in agreement, wondering what secret Maggie kept for the king, and why that secret burdened her so greatly.

Mab now returned from the kitchens carrying a large dish with plump baked apples. Bessie followed behind with a big pitcher of golden cream, and Flora brought small, clean pewter plates upon which the treats would be served. Baked apples were the laird’s favorite sweet.

“An excellent wedding feast!” the laird complimented his old cook. “I suppose we will have to keep you on, Mab, and not send you off to a cottage,” he teased her.

Mab preened with pleasure at his compliment, but swatted him fondly at his final remark. “And who, my lord, would cook as well for you as I can?” she demanded.

“If he ever throws you out, Mab, come and cook for me,” Father Ambrose invited.

Mab looked at the priest. “You may have taken holy orders,” she said, “but you are more like that old reprobate your da than is realized.”

“Your rheumy eyes are too sharp, Mab,” he replied with a chuckle.

“ ’Tis my ears that are sharp, priest,” she said wickedly. Mab curtsied to them all and returned to her kitchen, Bessie and Flora in tow.

“What did Mab mean?” Cicely asked Ian softly.

“My uncle may be a priest, but he has his needs,” the laird answered his bride.

She considered a moment, and then said in a shocked tone, “You don’t mean . . .”

“Many priests keep hearth mates, or have occasional companions to fill their needs. Given my uncle’s sire I would have been more surprised if he were celibate.”

“Oh,”
Cicely said, pursuing it no further.

The morning meal over, the laird suggested to Cicely that they ride down into his village and announce their marriage to his Glengorm folk. The priest agreed it was a good idea, as Bethia continued her campaign of slander against the English girl. Cicely hadn’t been out of the house but for the gardens since she had come to Glengorm several months prior. There had been no need for her to go anywhere. The horses were brought from the stables to the front of the big house. Orva had brought her mistress her light brown fur-lined and -trimmed cloak. The garment had silver frogs to close it at its neckline. Cicely slid a pair of purple leather gloves upon her hands. She was then boosted into her saddle and her skirts were spread over her horse’s flank.

Cicely found the village charming. There were no more than a dozen cottages with turf roofs set about an ancient stone fountain. There was a small smithy, and a little mill on the edge of the fast-moving stream that ran through the wood at the rear of the village. Glengorm’s chapel was at the end of the street. The village had been
set on the shores of the small loch, and there were several smallish boats drawn up on its rocky shore.

They stopped by the fountain, and Father Ambrose called out in a stentorian voice, “Good folk of Glengorm, come out of your houses this fine morning that God has given us, and hear your laird’s happy news.”

The doors to the cottages began to open, for the people inside already knew that their laird was among them. There was always someone peeping from the small windows of each dwelling. Tall Douglas clansmen, their women clutching their woolen shawls about them, and curious, bright-eyed children came forth, nodding and bobbing curtsies.

Father Ambrose mentally counted them, and when he was satisfied that the majority of the villagers were there he spoke again in his loud, deep voice. “Kinsmen, this morning our laird has taken to wife this fair maid. The contract is signed, the blessing given. Come now and greet the new lady of Glengorm, and then let us pray that her womb be fertile, and an heir be given to us within the year!”

The Glengorm folk began coming forward to congratulate their laird and Cicely. And then a voice shrieked out, “Glengorm is cursed! He has married the English witch!” Bethia pushed forward, a bony finger pointed at Cicely.

“I am not a witch!” Cicely defended herself.

“Of course ye’re a witch!” Bethia retorted. “Did you not ensorcell my master to send me away? I have served in the lord’s house for more than ten years. Then you came, and the laird sent me from him. It was surely witchcraft!”

“The only service you gave me was to steal from my stores, and then sell what you stole,” the laird said angrily. “You kept a slovenly house, and forced poor Mab to serve me slops unfit for even the pigs. No one is responsible for your fate but you, Bethia. And if you continue this slander of my wife you will find yourself and your man sent away from Glengorm. I will take pity on your mother-in-law, for she
is innocent in this matter. But if your man cannot keep you under control, woman, you will both go. Do you understand me, Bethia?”

Bethia shrank back, cowering. Publicly exposed before her kin, she knew nothing she ever said again would be believed. She would take her revenge when she could, but she was wise enough to say nothing further, slinking away from the laird.

Seeing the look in her eye, Father Ambrose imagined her thoughts and called out to the retreating woman, “I can forbid you and your family the sacraments, Bethia Douglas. Remember that when you consider your next actions,” he warned her.

“My lady.” A tall, ruddy-cheeked woman with dark red hair stepped forward. “I am Mary Douglas, Marion’s mother, and you are most welcome to Glengorm!”

“Thank you,” Cicely said, relieved to see that, now that she’d been welcomed by this obvious leader of the village women, all the other women now pressed forward to greet her. She slipped down from her mount that she might walk among them, taking their hands in her hands, smiling warmly. Aye! She was home. Home for the first time in her life.

C
icely was happy. So very happy. A year ago if anyone had told her she would be the wife of a border lord—and content—she would have laughed and called them mad. She could hardly wait for the spring thaw or for Sir William Douglas to return to Glengorm to tell them that the king had accepted her decision to take Ian Douglas as her husband instead of Andrew Gordon. Certainly Sir William’s suggestion to solve the problem of offending the Gordons of Huntley would be accepted. It was, after all, most practical.

She and Ian had discussed what they would do with her dower. He meant to add a flock of black-faced sheep to his livestock, and keep the rest of the monies to dower any daughters they had. Cicely had decided she would put some of her dower aside as well, but she also planned on using some of it to enlarge their house. There would be a new space on the main floor for a library, and above it would be a large new apartment for them to share. Right now Ian would either share the bed in her small chamber, or she would share his bed in his chamber, but the rooms did not connect as in other houses, keeps, or castles. Their new rooms would face south, east, and west to guarantee warmth.

“And we’ll need a new, bigger bed,” Cicely told her husband.

Ian grinned. “I’ll still be able to catch you, ladyfaire,” he teased her.

And she laughed. “I don’t think I’ll really flee you, husband,” she admitted.

Their passion for each other had grown greater with each passing day. And their love had grown as well. She began to forget what it had been like not to be loved. She must write to her father and share her happiness with him. She knew he would be pleased and only wished he might know Ian. But when she had bidden Robert Bowen farewell Cicely had known that it was unlikely she would ever see him again. Leighton was too far away, and Ian could not leave his lands. So she wrote her letter, and waited for a peddler who was going south to take it with him.

And then one afternoon Sir William Douglas rode into Glengorm. He looked tired as he dismounted and made his way into the hall.

Ian came forth to clasp the hand of his kinsman in greeting. “It’s too late to move on to Drumlanrig,” he said. “You’ll spend the night. What news do you bring?”

Sir William shook his head and asked, “Have you wed her yet?”