The Heather Moon (43 page)

"Arthur said Will Scott agreed to help Jasper, and accepted a price of three thousand crowns," Archie said.

"Surely Arthur was lying," Tamsin said.

"A man that drunk doesna lie easily," Cuthbert said.

"But Mary Stewart is but a bairn! William has a daughter just her age! I canna believe he would agree to abduct a child, and his own queen!"

"Believe it," Archie snapped. "She willna be harmed, Arthur swears it, just taken over the Border into English custody. Arthur thinks that I am art and part in this scheme, too, and Cuddy and Rabbie with me," Archie said. "He told us that Will Scott fell from good regard at court, but that he can still get close to Queen Mary, so he agreed to help the English—for coin."

"Nay," Tamsin said in quiet, desperate denial. "Nay. He wouldna do such a foul thing."

"Political dealings," Archie said. "Power. Many Scots want King Henry to take over the realm o' Scotland. This country is poor, and lacks a strong leader. Some Scots want to give us up to the English for the sake o' comfort, and hang Scottish freedom. Rookhope must be one o' those disloyal bastards."

"All those years at court," Cuthbert said. "I told ye years ago, Archie, 'twould ruin that lad."

"Aye." Archie nodded. "Tamsin, the English pay coin and land to Scots who help King Henry's cause in Scotland. Henry wants the wee queen raised at his court. He's pestered the Scots Privy Council, who agreed to betroth her to his son, but they willna allow her to go to England until she is at least ten years old. Henry wants her now."

"So he devised a scheme to take her," Tamsin said.

"Exactly. We couldna allow this to go forward, once we learned of it," Archie said. The other men nodded.

"We had to save our wee queen," Rabbie growled.

"So we took Musgrave, and we took Will Scott too," Cuthbert said. "We'll let the regent know we have 'em. 'Tis over, Musgrave's sorry scheme."

"What frets me is that Jasper said we were too late to save the queen," Rabbie said. "He said the attempt was already begun."

"Nae without the gypsies, or without my list," Archie said. "Jasper didna know he was talking to me, after all."

"William canna be art and part in this," Tamsin protested. "Arthur lied—he would do anything to ruin Will's good name."

"Good name!" Archie burst out. "He doesn't have that wi' me any longer!"

Tamsin stood. "I'm going down to ask Will about this."

"What makes ye think he'll tell ye the truth?" Archie asked.

"He will," Tamsin said. "I know him."

"Sit," Archie ordered. "Rabbie, go fetch the lad. I want to hear this too." Rabbie nodded and left the great hall, his booted feet echoing.

Tamsin sat and rubbed her fingers over her brow, curling her left hand into its customary fist. Waiting, tense with dread, she could not look at her father.

Archie went to the table to sit beside Tamsin. He took a pack of cards out of the leather purse strapped at his belt, and poured them from one hand to the other with a ruffling sound. Then he began laying them out in suits, a game with himself that he called "patience," which she knew he played when he was troubled about something.

The silence was broken only by the crackle of the fire and the flutter and snap of the cards. Tamsin leaned her head on her hand and watched Archie lay the cards in neat rows. Not so long ago, she had arranged the
tarocchi
for William. The cards had shown no dishonesty in him, she thought. Had the cards been correct—or wrong?

"There is one thing more that we learned about Will Scott," Arthur said after a while. "Did ye know that at court, they called him the 'bonny laird'?"

Tamsin shook her head as she rubbed her creased brow.

"Hey, Cuthbert," Archie said. "Sing for us."

"Sing?" Tamsin looked up, confused.

Cuthbert cleared his throat and began to sing in a voice that was true, but thready with age.

The bonny laird went to his lady's door

And he's twirled at the pin.

"O sleep ye, wake ye, Jean my lass,

Rise up and let me in."

Tamsin listened, watching Cuthbert. A shiver went through her. Jean, she remembered, had been the name of Katharine's mother. She turned to stare at her father.

"Ye'll want to hear the rest," he murmured, glancing at her.

Cuthbert continued the song. Tamsin frowned. The melody and the story were similar to other ballads that she had heard growing up. Her great-uncle was fond of singing them. He had collected a chestful of black-letter broadsheets of current and old songs.

Now she heard the tale of a handsome laird and a young lass, the daughter of the laird's enemy. The laird convinced the girl that he loved her, and then got her with child, all to gain revenge on her father, who had hanged his own father.

"O Jeanie, what ails ye?" her father spoke.

"Does a pain cut in your side?"

"I have nae pain, but a lover's gift,

And my laird must wed me betide."

Archie snapped down a few more cards while Cuthbert sang. "That wee bairnie that Rookhope fathered," Archie murmured. "He seduced the mother a-purpose. She was a Hamilton. 'Tis a muckle popular song now, going about in broadsheets, and they say 'tis true. Rookhope was sent from court in disgrace. Did ye know that?" he asked. "Did he tell ye?"

"Nay," Tamsin whispered. "He never told me any of this."

"Well," Archie said, "'tis a good thing I got ye away from him. And to think that I wanted ye to wed that lad!"

"Never," he continued, laying out cards with fierce precision while he spoke, "never would I let ye wed a man who would mistreat a lass so poorly. Thank God I got ye away from him before he worked his charms on ye."

Tamsin bowed her head while Cuthbert began another verse. When the door of the great hall creaked opened, she could not look up, even when she recognized the step of the man who approached the table. Cuthbert stopped singing.

"Sit, Will Scott," Archie said. "I'm sure you'll want to hear this song. Go on, Cuthbert."

"I've heard it before," William said calmly.

"Aye? And what would you tell us about it?" Archie said.

Tamsin looked up then. William sat on a stool a few feet from the table. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed, jaw tight. He wore shirt, breeches and stockings, his boots and doublet cast off somewhere. His hands were joined in front of him by a ring of knotted rope.

"Sing, Cuddy," Archie growled.

Fair Jean went to the wood one day,

And took with her some silk

She leaned her back against an oak

And bathed her bairn in milk.

"O daughter, my daughter, what do ye hold

So close under yer cloak?"

"I'm weak, so weak, and dyin'," she said,

"For I leaned against the oak."

Tamsin thought of the young girl, betrayed by the man she loved in an intimate and cruel way. She did not want to believe that William had caused such a tragedy. Yet she could not stop imagining him with his arms around a shadow of a girl who carried his child in her womb.

Cuthbert went on with the song. The last verse rang out, thickening the tension in the hall.

The bonny laird rode to his tower o' stone

Wi' his bairn upon his knee.

"Ye'll never see your grandsire again

For he is mine enemy."

Tamsin caught back a sob. "Tell me," she said, looking at William. "Is it true?"

He looked at her steadily. "In part."

"Which part?" she asked.

"I want to know, Rookhope," Archie thundered, "how ye could do that to a lass! 'Tis said that this song is the truth, and that ye fell from royal favor on account o' what ye did to her, and she a lady-in-waiting to Mary o' Guise herself."

William said nothing. He stared at Archie, his face set. But Tamsin saw fury in his eyes, blue as the heart of a flame. She felt her own anger build in waves, until she wanted to stand and scream at all of them—her father, her kinsmen, and William. She felt as betrayed as Jeanie Hamilton, as devastated. Ripped apart in moments, while Jeanie had suffered far longer.

"And why," Archie went on, "did ye take English coin and agree to snatch our poor wee queen from her mother's arms?"

William blinked slowly. "I see," he said after a moment, "that you have divined all my secrets."

Tamsin stood. "Tell me this isna so!" Her heart slammed in the cage of her breast. "Tell me you didna ruin that lass out of hatred for her father!"

He watched her through long-lidded eyes. "I loved her," he said. "But I ruined her. And she died because of it." He looked away.

"Oh, God," Tamsin whispered. "Oh, God."

William stared at his hands. Though rage and pain twisted within her, Tamsin sensed the inner struggle he felt, and her sympathy stirred. No matter what he had done, she did not think she could stop loving him. But she did not know that love could hurt so much, like a stone at the fragile center of her heart.

Tears slid down her cheeks. She wanted him to tell her that it was all lies, all of it, that he had never done this to Jean, or been involved with Jasper Musgrave. But she saw the acknowledgment in his face.

"And Queen Mary?" Archie demanded.

William looked up at Archie. "I have given my word not to speak of that matter."

"But apparently ye know o' that matter!" Archie roared, slapping the table. The cards jumped.

"I do," William said.

"Damn yer soul!" Archie shouted. "I wanted to love ye like a son o' my own! I thought ye were the man yer father was, and he the finest o' rogues! Ah, God. Ye're low scum, indeed." He shoved heavy fingers through his hair.

Tamsin stepped away from the bench and went toward William, her knees trembling, tears wetting her cheeks. She saw him close his eyes briefly, as if in silent anguish.

"Why?" she asked. "Why?"

He looked at her, his gaze a penetrating blue, sharp enough to slice her heart. "Tamsin," he murmured, "trust me."

"I did trust you!" she said fiercely.

"What!" Archie said. "Rookhope, if ye laid a hand on my lass—" He pounded his fist on the table.

William closed his eyes again. The fold between his brows hinted at restraint, at regret. Then he looked at her. "Trust me," he repeated quietly, fervently. Tamsin could not shift her gaze from his power.

"Tamsin, get away from him," Archie snapped, rising to his feet. Cuthbert and Rabbie came forward to flank her father.

"Dinna trust him, lass," Cuthbert said.

"Oh God." She stared at William, clutched at her middle. "What should I do? My father tells me this foul news of you and Musgrave—and then I heard that ballad! You say the song is true. You know of the scheme. And now you want my
faith?"
Her voice rose to a shout. "How can I give that to you? Oh, God! And I want to give it to you—curse you!"

She spun away, saw the cards laid out neatly on the table. With an angry sob, she swept her hand through them. They scattered at her feet like bright leaves.

"What I want to know," Archie growled, "is what else ye've given this spoiler!"

"Naught!" she shouted at her father. "Naught!"

She saw the clay jug on the table, and something slammed through her like lightning. She grabbed the jug, turned with it, lifted it high, and smashed it at William's feet.

The crash resounded through the hall. The pieces skittered in all directions, and wine sloshed over the floor and splashed William's legs. His gaze never wavered from her face.

"Mercy o' God," Archie said slowly. "I know what a broken jug means to a gypsy."

"Aye! So does Will Scott!" Tamsin spun on her heel and ran to the door, yanking it open.

"Tamsin!" she heard William call. Archie echoed him.

She slammed the door hard behind her, its force relieving only the smallest part of the grief and anger that churned in her.

Chapter 26