The King's Mistress (27 page)

She couldn’t have escaped the solar unless she’d sprouted wings in his absence, which meant she’d somehow tricked him, and he now had to search the five rooms below.

At the second landing, he met up with his winded sire. “Did you find her?”

“Nay, the bitch has apparently grown wily and fleet of foot.”

“Son, go down to the hall. I’ll have the keep searched. She—and the staff—know this place far better than you after a decade’s absence.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll see her locked away in the tower.”

“See that you do. Should I come across her first—”

Without another word, Britt stomped down the stairs and into the hall, where he ignored his clansmen’s silent stares and, with hands shaking, grabbed the bumper of wine, filled his goblet, downed the contents in gulps, then filled the goblet again.

When his father, ashen-faced, finally entered the hall, Britt glared at him. “Did you find her?”

“Nay, but we will.”

Britt knew he couldn’t stay within the keep so long as Cassandra was on the loose. He couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t do her harm and wasn’t about to put his future with Genny at risk. Only his fear of losing Genny forever by imprisonment allowed him to say, “I’ll be in the chapel until such time as you lock the bitch away.”

Britt snatched his
breachen feile
from before the fire and walked out.

In the dark chapel, a jumble of memories assaulted him. Gazing at the graceful wooden arches supporting the vaulted ceiling, he again recalled his excitement watching their construction, then attending his first mass within, only to fervently wish he could escape after breathing nauseating incense for hours on end.

His footsteps echoed as he made his way down the nave toward the burial alcove as if announcing his loneliness, his feelings of isolation, to the world. Within these hallowed walls, he’d wept for his brother Ian, only to feel the same pain months later at his mother’s requiem mass. Not long after followed Marcus’s marriage mass, then his requiem mass, he brought down by war. And then his precious wee Ian’s.

Since the shutters had been closed against the storm, he found the burial alcove blanketed by deep shadows and strode toward the sconce kept burning for any needing to find solace within the kirk. As his hand grasped the torch, he heard whispers and the sound of tearing coming from behind the altar, a great chunk of granite carved from the Cuillin Mountains to the west. He peered behind it and found a squatting crone shredding pages torn from their family bible.

Astounded anyone would think to do such, he bellowed, “Cease that!”

The MacKinnons had served as abbots of Iona since the coming of St. Columba. Two monks—one gifted in calligraphy and the other in artistic renderings—had slaved over the elaborately decorated and priceless tome for more than a decade.

The crone, issuing a high-pitched squeak, jumped to her feet and spun to face him.

He held out the torch to better view her face. “Oh my God…’tis you.”

The woman whom he’d once loved was now barely recognizable. The vibrant hair he’d once so admired was now dull and shot with white. Her once lovely countenance had gone sallow and lined, making her appear two decades older than he knew her to be. Her lush form had also suffered the results of her madness, had shriveled to little more than skin and bone. Only her eyes remained unchanged, were still as dark and defiant as the last time he’d seen her.

Lips curling in derisive fashion over blackened teeth, she pointed to the shredded pages at his feet. “They’re gone, so there!”

He looked down and noticed for the first time that the MacKinnon wood-bound and gilt-edged bible lay face-up. She’d not been tearing out random pages but had torn out the last sheets of parchment, those upon which generations of MacKinnons had carefully scribed every birth, christening, marriage and death for centuries.

“You mad bitch! How dare you destroy my family’s records?”

“How dare
I
?” She hiked up her tattered skirt, stuck out a muddy foot and stomped on the fragments closest to her, grinding them to little more than dust on stone. “Now try to get your precious annulment!”

Blood roaring in his ears, fearing his chance for annulment—and Gen—might be lost to him forever, he shoved her back and bent to salvage what pieces he could.

“
Nay!
”

His father’s voice reverberated like thunder through the nave. Wondering why he had come, Britt looked up and found one of the huge candlesticks from the altar racing toward him, bare inches from his head. Instinct made him duck, but too late. Stars flashed before his eyes as the weighty bronze caught him above his right ear. As he collapsed face-first to the cold granite floor, he was vaguely aware of Cassandra, keening, landing atop him, apparently determined to finish the job. As the world went black, he found himself wishing their roles were reversed. He would gladly see her good and truly dead.

“Son! Please, God…”

The weight pressing on Britt’s neck and shoulders lifted, and he was rolled onto his back, his aching head coming to rest on something soft.

“Britt! Son, wake up.”

Ah, ’twas his father. He’d recognize that gravel voice—despite its shaky tone—anywhere.

“Open your eyes, damn it.”

Britt, confused, did as he was bid, only to find his vision clouded. He swiped at his eyes, wiping away a familiar wetness. Registering the scents of incense, smoke and copper, he looked at his hands. Blood. All came rushing back. He lurched upright, and the world spun. He was in the chapel, had found Cassandra destroying—

“Cassandra?” Had she made good her escape after clouting him? Christ’s blood, his head hurt. For this alone, he would see her put in chains.

At his feet, the torch he’d carried had guttered but not before turning centuries of history to ash. How would he ever be able to garner his annulment now?

His father, white-faced, placed a hand at his back to steady him and tipped his head toward the altar. “There.”

Britt turned. His wife lay prone on the cold floor in a crimson pool, his father’s stag-horn-handled
sgian duhb
protruding from her neck. He knew the answer but still found himself asking, “Is she…?”

“Aye. ’Twas watch her bludgeon you to death or take her life.” His father sighed in weary resignation as he came to his feet. “Should have done so long ago, and for that I beg your forgiveness.”

His father held out his hand, and Britt took it and came to his feet. “You have it.”

His wife was dead. He had no need for church records or an annulment to make Genny his. He was once again free, something he’d so longed to be, so why did he feel no elation? Why did he feel only this immeasurable sorrow looking at the woman who had vowed to love and honor him as he had her, and to bring forth babes and raise them in the one true faith?

He dashed away the tears welling in his eyes. Why this sorrow? For Cassandra, for his father, and aye, even for Genny.

Having no answers, he asked, “How will you explain this to the MacDonald?”

His father, looking older than he had only an hour ago, studied the woman at his feet. “I shan’t. None from her sept have even bothered to pay her a visit these past five years. I shall ask Margret to prepare her for burial dressed with wimple and
couvrechef
—to mask the wound—then send word to the MacDonald. Should any from her sept deem to come, we shall tell them she died of dysentery after drinking from the cattle pond.” He shook his head. “She was crazy enough to have done so, and all know it.”

“And where shall she be buried?” He would not tolerate her being entombed in the kirk next to their son.

Apparently understanding, his father said, “In the cemetery with our clansmen…unless the MacDonald requests her return, which is highly unlikely.”

Satisfied, Britt, head still throbbing, bent and scooped the lifeless form of his wife into his arms. How thin she felt, even in a thick woolen kirtle and cloak. “I’ll take her inside, then clean up this mess.”

His father stooped and picked up the family bible. “A damn shame…all our history lost.”

“Surely you and the elders can recall some of what had been written.”

His father, eyes glassy, ran a gnarled hand over the smooth, wooden cover. “Mayhap.”

The MacKinnon preceded Britt into the crowded great hall. Seeing Britt carried Cassandra’s limp body in his arms, his clansmen went quiet. The children who’d been running in play came to abrupt halts. The youngest, with mouths agape, took refuge behind their mothers.

“Listen!” his father ordered. “Cassandra MacKinnon has passed to her final reward, having grown deathly ill after drinking from the cattle pond. We shall hold her wake this eve at gloaming and her funeral at midday on the morrow.” He looked about the room, daring any to contradict him. When none did, he said, “I need four volunteers to serve as pallbearers.”

Four stout men raised their hands along with an eyebrow or two.

“My thanks. Please go about your business now.”

As the hall cleared, Britt muttered, “Da, have you gone daft? They’re not blind…can see blood covers her gown.”

“True, but they also know what she did and that you’re a MacKinnon and she is not.”

“Remember the Alpin,” Britt muttered. ’Twas the clan’s battle cry, a tribute to their famous forbearer.

“Aye, and best you never forget who and what you are, lad, for they shan’t. For someday, all this”—he waved a hand—“will be yours with but a nod of acceptance from them.”

Britt took a deep breath. “I’ve given little thought to being liege.” He’d not only been the youngest, but he’d been so furious with his father for so long, he never imagined himself returning, much less leading his clan.

“You’d best start, then. I shan’t live forever.”

True. And lies and half-truths had cost him far too much already. “People, a word, if you please.”

Those still in the hall turned to listen. “Our liege tries to protect me and us with his tale. Lady MacKinnon was but a heartbeat from killing me, and the MacKinnon had no choice but to stop her. Say what you wish should you be asked how she died.”

Now he must cling to the hope that lies hadn’t taken everything.

 
“
Truth is often harsh to tell.
” ~ An old Scottish Proverb

Chapter Eighteen

Soaked and chilled to the bone, eyes stinging from the assault of salty spray, Genny thanked God that she’d chosen by sheer chance a skilled and sensible captain. Never mind that she was still in Scotland. She was just grateful to be alive.

“Are you sure you don’t wish to go on?” Darby shouted as Genny waited for one of the sailors to bring Silver down the gangway. “The repairs to the sail won’t take but a day or two at most.” Captain O’Neil had miraculously steered the cog through the worst of the storm and brought them into the relative safety of Loch Ryan, where they’d weighed anchor within view of Stranraer until high tide, at which point he raised the torn sail to half-mast and limped into port.

“I’m sure. Buddle is but three days’ ride.” She’d left much behind when she’d gone with Britt, and now, through an act of God, she’d been given an opportunity to retrieve her possessions and, more importantly, to convert her grain and wool stores to hard coin. Coins she and Greer would need to live, albeit frugally. Provided, of course, the Earl of Ross hadn’t learned of her parents’ passing and everything hadn’t been commandeered by his new trackman.

“All right, but do keep in mind we’ll be back in a fortnight. If you’re not here, I very much doubt his nibs will wait.” She nodded toward her husband, who was busy examining the damage the gale had wrought.

She gave Darby a hug. “I promise. How can I ever thank you for your kindness?”

“No need. ’Twas my pleasure.” Darby brushed a loose strand from Genny’s face and kissed her cheek. “Take care, and keep that bow and blade handy as you travel.”

“I shall.” With any luck, the weather would keep the villainous indoors.

Young Mickey, a funny, strapping lad of thirteen, brought her white-eyed palfrey down the gangway and helped her mount. After thanking him, she adjusted the reins and smiled down at them. “I shall see you in this very place in a fortnight. Take care, and thank your dear captain for me.”

Waving farewell, Genny turned Silver due east toward home.

Three days later, exhausted and dirty, having slept in the saddle and in shieldings for only an hour here and there, she nearly wept seeing Buddle’s rooftops poking up betwixt elm and oak. As she rounded the bend by the kirk, she looked up at the hill that she’d watched Britt charge down, leaping his destrier over tall hedgerows as if they were mere ant mounds. What was he doing now? Did he think about her as often as she thought of him? She hoped so, despite knowing the wish was selfish. Her agonizing over his loss, her acknowledging her vanity and bullheadedness, surely should be penance enough for both of them. But still she wondered.

The moment her cottage came into view, her heart stuttered. “Look, Silver, the roses really are in bloom.” Saint Bride, she’d missed the sight but hadn’t realized how very much until this moment.

To her right in the far pasture, her sheep grazed in contented fashion, white clouds on a lush field of green. And there on the knoll was her majestic and grumpy ram MacDuff, standing guard. She grinned.

Drawing closer to her cottage, she held her breath, looking for any signs that a new trackman may have already taken up residence. Seeing no smoke puffing from the chimney, no counterpanes being aired over windowsills, no linen flapping on the wash lines next to her kale yard, she turned her attention to the dovecote, shearing shed and stable. “Thank God and Saint Bride, naught stirs.”

As tempting as it was to leap to the ground the moment she came abreast of her front door and race into the cottage, she steered Silver toward the stable. Not until she stripped him of tack, wiped down his lathered sides, filled his water bucket and tossed hay to him did she walk back to the cottage. Heart thudding with apprehension, she pressed down on the latch with a shaking hand. The door swung wide, and she crossed the threshold into the cool interior.