The Border Lord's Bride (6 page)

grandsire into cooperating. They kept the lad in the dungeon beneath the north tower."

"Poor Donald!" Ellen cried.

"But the foreign MacArthur promised to let him go once ye were home again," the cook said.

"Yer grandsire hoped it was the truth, but ‘twas nae. They were killed this morning as they sat at the high board awaiting yer arrival. The little whore saw it all, and could nae wait to come into the kitchens to tell us."

"The little whore?" Ellen looked confused.

"The tinker‘s bastard yer grandsire took from the hillside those many years ago," Sorcha answered her.

"Anice?" Ellen exclaimed, surprised.

"Aye. From the moment the foreign MacArthur arrived she flirted wi‘ him. It took only a few days for her to get into his bed, lady. She flaunts her position as his mistress, and has now begun to hint she is wi‘ bairn, the shameless hussy!" Sorcha said.

Now, here was something to consider. Duncan Armstrong had told her to try to delay her marriage as long as she could. If Anice was Balgair‘s mistress, then, knowing her as well as she did, Ellen suspected Anice would not be happy about his upcoming marriage, although the girl would realize sooner or later that her lover would wed. Still, she would be jealous. If Ellen could stoke that jealousy it might prove to be to her advantage, Ellen thought. "You have given me much to consider, my lasses," Ellen told the women. "Now, however, we must prepare the bodies of the dead for burial. They must be in the ground before the sun sets this sad day."

The group of women servants, Ellen leading them, repaired to the hall carrying buckets of hot water and rags. Sorcha hurried to the old laird‘s chamber to find his finest garment, in which he would be buried. The young MacNab‘s clothing was yet in the chamber he had never occupied on this visit. Sorcha looked carefully through it and found what she suspected were the lad‘s wedding garments. She brought the fresh clothing for each man to the hall, where the others now worked sponging away the dried blood. The woman who made the clothing for the keep took her needle and thread from the deep pockets of her gown and sewed up the wounds as best she could. The laird was bathed and then dressed in a long dark velvet gown trimmed with marten, a length of the green MacArthur plaid across his chest, the clan badge of the laird holding it. His worn leather boots were pulled onto his big, narrow feet.

Ellen gently brushed her grandfather‘s long white hair back from his brow and, bending, kissed his cheek for the last time. "Farewell, Grandsire," she whispered in his ear. Then, looking up, she nodded to the women to sew him into his shroud, the tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

A titter of laughter broke the solemnity of the early afternoon. It was Anice, who had come into the hall and now stared at the naked body of young Donald MacNab.

"What a wee manhood he hae." She giggled, pointing rudely as she flounced about the board where the body lay. "Now, my lord Balgair is built like the bull in the meadow. That poor thing would hae gi‘en ye no pleasure, Ellen. Yer fortunate that Balgair will be yer husband. He‘s a real man, and wields his weapon with skill."

"I would sooner die than wed him," Ellen said through gritted teeth. "Now get out of the hall, Anice, and go back from wherever you came. If you have no respect for the dead, others do."

"Oh, ye‘ll wed him, and more is the pity, for ye‘re not at all the wife for him. He only wants what ye can do for him. But I am the wife for him. At least I‘ll hae the privilege of gieing him his first son." She patted her belly with a smirk.

"If he is indeed the man you claim he is, he‘ll already have had his share of bastards," Ellen replied sharply. "Yours will be nothing special."

"Mine will carry my MacArthur blood," Anice spat.

"Ye‘ve nae a drop of MacArthur blood in yer veins," the old cook snapped. "Ye‘re naught but a tinker‘s bastard left on the hillside to die."

"Then why did the old laird gie me his name?" Anice demanded of them. "I‘ll tell ye why!

Because he knew I was his son‘s get on some clansman‘s wife. I was left out by that woman‘s husband to die to cover his shame, but God led the old laird to find me."

"Who ever told ye such nonsense?" Sorcha sneered. "That poor good fool who raised ye? My master‘s son loved only one woman in all his life. From the time he was ten and laid eyes on the lass he would make his wife, he loved her. The old laird worried that his son would not take a woman for his pleasure, but the young master was adamant, and saved himself for that lass. They were wed less than six months when ye were found. ‘Tis a pity is wasn‘t the winter, else ye would hae already been eaten by the wolves."

"That‘s a horrible thing for ye to say to me," Anice shrieked, outraged.

"Ye‘re no better than ye ought to be," the cook added scathingly. "Ye‘re just a nameless bastard, but ye shame the man who gae ye his name by yer wanton behavior. And yer disrespect to the mistress of this keep hae been duly noted, and will be remembered by all who serve here. Now get ye gone, ye worthless piece of baggage!"

"Don‘t ye dare speak to me that way! Any of ye! I‘ll hae the new laird turn ye all out, I will,"

Anice threatened them.

"He‘ll not turn me out," Ellen said softly. "Now, I have asked you to leave the hall once. I‘ll not ask again, and believe me, Balgair MacArthur wants nothing more than to please me right now.

If I should ask him to give you a good beating, Anice, he will."

The defiant girl actually blanched at Ellen‘s hard words. Turning on her heel, without another word she stalked out of the hall. The women turned back to the body of Donald MacNab,

finished bathing him, and dressed him in his wedding finery, adding his red-and-green MacNab plaid. Cleaned, his red hair still damp, he almost looked asleep. What kind of a man had he really been? Ellen wondered. Well, she‘d not know now. What she would remember was that he had been a kind boy when they were children. "Sew him into his shroud," Ellen told the women with a sigh. "I‘ll fetch the priest."

At afternoon‘s end on that late autumn day Ellen MacArthur, her plaid tied across her chest, followed the bodies of her grandfather and her betrothed husband from the hall of Lochearn Keep to a nearby hillside, where the two graves were opened and ready. Father Birk led the way, preceded by the family piper. Behind the girl a procession of servants, clansmen, and women followed to pay their last respects to Ewan MacArthur and the young MacNab.

At the grave site the bodies were carefully lowered into the ground. Father Birk said the words of burial. Each clansman and-woman filed past the graves in a gesture of respect as the graves were being filled in. Each spoke a word of comfort or kindness to Ellen. Balgair MacArthur was nowhere in sight; nor was Anice. Finally the two graves were filled in, and Ellen stood alone.

Everyone had gone, even the piper. She stood upon the hillside, the sky blazing red behind her with the early sunset. To the east a single bright star had risen in the darkening firmament above her.

Alone. She was alone. She had no one now. Grandsire was gone. Donald MacNab was gone.

Duncan Armstrong was gone. Now why, she wondered, had she thought of the laird of

Duffdour? Because he was kindness in a world gone suddenly cold for her, Ellen realized. And then she knew with a certainty such as she had never before known: There was nothing left for her here at Lochearn.

The life she had anticipated, looked forward to, had been stolen from her by the MacArthurs of Skye, even as they had stolen those last months with Grandsire from her. She loved Lochearn.

She had grown up here, but her months at court had shown her that as long as she was happy it didn‘t matter where she was. Her memories of her childhood would always be hers. Unless she allowed Balgair MacArthur to take those from her too.

"Fare thee well, Grandsire, and Godspeed to both ye and my Donald," Ellen said quietly in their Highland tongue. "I will nae pass this way again." Then, turning away from the fresh graves, Ellen made her way down the hill in the fast-falling night and entered the keep. She made her way to the hall, where Balgair sat before the fire, Anice in his lap, his hand in her gown fondling a breast. Ellen raised an amused eyebrow at Anice‘s smug little face as she cuddled with her lover.

Balgair gave her a slow smile, but his hand remained in Anice‘s bodice. "Ye‘ve buried them then," he said. It was not a query.

Ellen nodded. "I have, my lord," she addressed him formally and politely. "With your permission I would retire to my own chamber. This has been a long and difficult day for me after so many days of travel. I am very weary, and I would be alone to mourn my family. There is much new here to which I must accustom myself."

He nodded. "Aye, ye look tired," he admitted. "Go along then, Ellen."

"Good night then, my lord." She curtsied to him.

"Will ye nae bid me a good night?" Anice whined.

"No, I will not. You are his whore, and it does not behoove me even to acknowledge you, Anice.

I will not address you again." Then Ellen turned and walked from the hall.

"Will ye let her speak to me that way?" Anice raged at her lover.

"She‘s right," Balgair MacArthur said, and then he laughed heartily. "She hae spirit, does Ellen MacArthur." And he laughed again.

Ellen made her way from the hall, his laughter echoing in her ears. At least he had not chastised or scolded her for her speech to Anice. She climbed the narrow stone staircase to the second floor, where her chamber was located. The room was dusty. There was no fire in the small hearth. But before she might return downstairs to fetch a servant to aid her, the door to the chamber opened and several entered, led by Sorcha.

"Come wi‘ me, lassie, to the kitchens. Cook and I will see ye fed while yer chamber is put in order," Sorcha said, leading her back out into the hall. "It hae been a bad day for us, and I‘m sorry ye were greeted with cold and darkness here."

In the kitchens Ellen was seated at the long wooden table that was the heart of the place. Cook placed a full trencher before her and ladled rabbit stew into it. A slab of buttered bread was set next to the trencher, along with a polished wooden cup of watered wine. Ellen ate greedily, realizing that she hadn‘t eaten since morning on the trail. Her last meal of oatcakes and dried meat, she had thought. She spooned the hot stew into her mouth, almost burning her tongue in her eagerness. She drank several swallows of wine to save herself. When she had finished she thanked the cook, asking her, "May I take a bit of bread for the night? The rations were scant on our travels, and I‘m still hungry, but I fear to eat more right now lest I be sick."

The cook looked at the girl curiously, and then nodded. "Here, lassie," she said, handing her a round, freshly baked loaf.

"Thank you," Ellen replied, and, quickly tucking the bread beneath her skirts, she hurried from the kitchens.

Behind her the cook nodded to herself, and wiped a tear from her eye.

Upstairs Ellen found her room now in a most welcoming condition. A hot fire burned in the hearth. There was a basin on the table, and a large jug in the coals of the fire that would be filled with water. Her bed had been made, the heavy curtains now free of dust. Everything smelled fresh. And her saddlebag lay on a chair. Ellen poured some hot water into the basin and bathed herself as best as she could. What she really wanted was a tub, but that would have to come tomorrow. She needed a good night‘s rest, and she needed to think about how she was going to make her escape from Lochearn. There was no way she would ever marry Balgair MacArthur.

There was no way she would ever wed the man who had so callously slain her grandsire and her betrothed husband.

Ellen climbed into her bed. Thank heavens Peigi hadn‘t traveled with them. Suddenly she was sleepy. The bed was comfortable and familiar, the room warm with the fire. She sighed, and her eyes closed as she fell into an exhausted sleep. It was the sound of her bedchamber door creaking open that awakened her again with a start.

"Who is there?" she called out, and a shadow loomed up next to her bed.

"‘Tis me, my hinny," Balgair MacArthur said. His words were slurred slightly, for he was quite drunk, and he stumbled as he came toward her.

"You have entered the wrong bedchamber, my lord," Ellen said warily.

"Nay, I hae nae entered the wrong chamber, my hinny," he replied.

"We are not wed, Balgair, and I am not your whore, Anice," Ellen told him.

He half fell, half sat upon her bed and grabbed at her hand. "Do ye think that I am a fool, Ellen MacArthur? I saw it in yer eyes tonight when ye returned from the hillside. Ye mean to run, but I‘ll nae let ye. I promised before God that I would gie ye yer month to mourn before I wed ye, and I will. But I dinna say I would nae bed ye, did I?" He grinned slyly at her. "Ye‘ll nae run wi‘

my bairn in yer belly."

"To where would I run, Balgair?" Ellen asked him in what she hoped was a strong voice. "I have no family. No real connections at court." These were questions she had asked herself. But she would return to court, if for no other reason than to fetch her Peigi. And perhaps the king‘s aunt would take pity on them. Perhaps. And Balgair MacArthur didn‘t have to know it. "Please, my lord," Ellen said, already feeling her throat closing with her fear. "Please leave me be. At least for tonight."

"Ye‘re a pretty lass," he said softly. "Prettier than yer sister, Anice."

"Anice is not my sister!" Ellen exclaimed. "Has she been telling you that tale her foster mother told her? That she was sired by my father? Well, she wasn‘t! She‘s some tinker‘s get, and nothing more. Grandsire gave her the MacArthur name so she would have a clan, but we share no blood, Balgair."

He ignored her words, saying, "She says ye sent her from court when she caught ye futtering some serving man." He grinned at her. "Do ye like futtering, then?" He moved to pull down the coverlet she clutched to her breast.

Ellen slapped his hand away. "It was Anice who was sent home for her wanton behavior, my lord. I am a virgin. I kept myself for Donald MacNab!"