The Mer- Lion (20 page)

"Nay, sire. This is not my doing. I am as curious as you." Yet, no sooner had James's glance moved from her, than she bit her lip in annoyance at a sudden thought.

Like an apparition, the stout body of the chamberlain materialized through the smoke. Behind him came a couple more richly dressed than any seen at court. The woman was slender and regal in her bearing, holding her head high, her bejeweled hand resting ever so lightly on the arm of her tall companion. So extraordinary were her gown and parure that none spared a glance at the man dressed in black from the high heels of his satin shoes to the lofty plumes on his hat.

She wore nacre satin so heavily embroidered and re-embroidered with gold thread mat from the hips up not a thread of white showed through. From wrist to shoulder, the sleeves of her gown were slashed and lined with white revealing the tight, wrist-length sleeves of her tawny gold farthingale.

Unlike the fashion at court, her gown was not square cut nor low cut, but rose high about her neck, ending in a multilayered, gold-edged raff very like a lion's mane, totally framing her pale, patrician face. Her dark hair was dressed high on her head and crowned with the first toque of jewel-studded gold velvet ever seen in Scotland. From her neck hung a heavy gold chain. At its end, with eyes of gold white diamonds, hung a Mer-Lion.

Murmurs of approbation accompanied her slow and stately progress. Even James was so taken aback by this singular beauty that he decided he was in love. A feeling in his gut told him so. One between his legs convinced him of it.

His dream was shattered by his mother. Margaret Tudor had glimpsed the jeweled ornament the woman wore between her breasts and interpreted it correcdy. "It's Islean," she whispered to her son in a voice harsh with hatred.

Since that was her usual tone of voice when speaking of other women, he ignored it, concentrating only on what she said while never taking his eyes from the vision before him. "Who?"

⁴⁴
The Dowager Countess of Seaforth," she replied. When that did not elicit its intended result, she added triumphantly, "Your bastard half sister!"

Jamie closed his eyes and clenched them. He could have wept in disappointment. Another dream dashed. Again by his mother. For a moment he hated her, but then remembered she was indeed his mother. His voice was cold and devoid of emotion when he eventually replied, "Oh, her." Now, through disillusioned eyes, he could see the fine lines about her eyes. He guessed that she must be about his mother's age or older, but unlike the Dowager Queen, she didn't look it. He rationalized this by reassuring himself that Islean had not led the monstrous life his mother had: widowed early, separated from her son for years, all the tribulations that made her seek comfort in her cup. Without turning his head to look, James knew his mother's drink-glazed eyes had hardened, her face turned white and drawn with jealousy. She loved fine clothes and jewels but had had very few in her lifetime. James vowed that she should receive her due; the prelates had promised to pay off his annuity in a lump sum if he withdrew his mother's petition for a divorce. Once those monies came, he'd buy Margaret some trinkets and a dress with three changes of sleeves.

So closed was his face, that not by a grimace could mother, court, or half sister read his thoughts. He made it even blander as the couple came to a stop before him. Calmly, quietly, serenely, they awaited his notice so that the chamberlain could announce them, which really was not necessary. Margaret Tudor was not the only one at court to recognize the Lady Islean, but the identity of her
companion prompted a buzz of speculation among the seated courtiers.

The king was in no hurry to satisfy their curiosity. Deliberately, he searched the Lady Ann's plate for a last morsel or two. Today, his astrologers had assured him, would be longer than yesterday; thus, there would be plenty of time for hunting later. Since that was so, he could play with this couple a while longer. Surreptitiously, he studied the man, who was much younger, obviously, than the Dowager Countess. Was Islean eager, like his mother, to take a younger man into her bed? Damn women, why couldn't they pick out one man and stay with him? Then he remembered: Islean's husband had been assassinated. Anyway, who was this fellow? In stark contrast to the Dowager Countess, his all-black outfit was without embroidery. Of course, well-turned legs like that could be shown off without stripings or patternings. But the cut, the fabrics, the fit—that took money, lots of it—but nowhere was there an embroidered badge of family. Not even a family crest or signet ring on the long elegant fingers.

King though he was, James himself would not have gone abroad without wearing the thistle of Scotland. Even when he went out among his peasants disguised as a humble tenant farmer, the Goodman of Ballengiech, he wore his signet ring. He turned it inward of course so it wasn't readily apparent; but it was still there if he should need to identify himself quickly. So who was this young man that he felt no need for such a device?

More openly now, James studied the face before him. The man was young, but there was something ageless about the expression on his high-bred face. Was it the eyes
...
or the arch of the brow
...
or the set of those thin lips? James could not decide. Islean had it, too. James settled back in triumph. He had solved the problem: the two before him were the dexter and the sinister of the same beauty
...
the two were sister and brother
...
no, mother and son.

As he studied them while pretending not to, they studied him quite openly. They saw a thin, young man; much younger than de Wynter in appearance if not years; dark of hair, which was not too profuse, the beard confined to his chin quite scraggly. His eyes were dark as was his complexion
v
which had been too much exposed to the sun. There were sun marks about his eyes and laugh marks about
hi
s mouth, hi all this, one could clearly see the legacy of his father. The sensuous mouth and the heavy eyelids were Margaret Tudor's most obvious contribution to her son.

It was his dress, however, that was shocking. From where they stood, they had almost a full view of his seated figure with its wrinkled hose, soiled doublet, the patched boots. But when he sat up and gestured to the chamberlain to announce them, he carried himself like a king, and his bearing demanded the respect due any monarch.

While the scrutinizing was going on, the chamberlain had availed himself of the opportunity to clear a small space in front of him on the thick sodden rushes littering the floor. Now, he smartly rapped his ebony stave of office upon the bare stone floor. The resulting crack was satisfyingly sharp. With it, the two sank down into low courtly obeisances:

"Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, Duke, Lords and Ladies and Baronesses: The Earl of Seaforth, Viscount Rangely, Baron Alva and also of Alais of France—James Mackenzie—and the lady, his mother, the Dowager Countess, Lady Islean, also of Alva."

When he finished, having uttered the whole thing in one breath, the dowager bowed her long, regal neck still farther and her son doffed his large plumed hat. At once the king knew why this man had no need of embroidered badge of household. He, like his fathers before him dating back to the reign of the first Plantagenets, need only bare his head for all the world to know his name, rank, and lineage. Shortly after the age of sixteen, his thick, heavy mane of black hair had, like theirs, turned white. Not a dead white, nor an albino white, nor even a pure white, but a living lustrous white intermingled with shades and streakings of silver and pewter.

The murmurs of those who had wagered on the unknown's identity and won were now drowned out by the gasps of those who were seeing the famous head of hair for the first time. None were more obviously shocked than the two female occupants of the dais: Lady Ann, who had spent a long afternoon and evening in conversation with this man and had seen him only with his hat on; and Margaret Tudor, who was bound by-her greatest single preoccupation to wonder if the hair elsewhere were! white or black.

The king himself rose and came down from behind the table to raise the dowager countess to her feet.

"My court is honored by your presence and bedazzled by your appearance," he said. "Come join us at table."

Unceremoniously, he gestured at the Lady Ann and her husband to relinquish their places so that the Seaforths could have the seats of honor. Frantically, Lady Ann looked about for a stool for herself, but there was none. So she and her husband stood awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot while servants scurried about looking for searing for their master and his lady. Eventually, rough three-legged ones were brought up from the kitchen, but not before de Wynter had refused his chair and offered it to the Lady Ann. Gratefully, she sank into it, only to be treated to a glare from the Lady Margaret, who found herself seated, much to her dislike, between two women.

Reaching for her cup, as was her wont whatever the occasion, she studied the two men standing to one side. The two men were a study in contrasts. As Campbell ventured awkward conversation, Mackenzie appeared quite comfortable and at ease. Campbell was short and fat and gross. The man next to him was not a giant, but he was so lithe and lean that he appeared taller. His shoulders were wide, his waist narrow, his stomach flat, his buttocks small and squarish
...
and from what Margaret could see, his codpiece was not padded as Campbell's so obviously was. As for those black-clad legs, they were as shapely and well turned as any she'd ever seen, including— Margaret hesitated for a moment and then regretfully concluded— including her brother Henry's.

At last, to Campbell's relief, the tools came. But to Margaret's displeasure, de Wynter was seated to Lady Ann's left, which made it necessary to talk across her, if Margaret were going to satisfy her curiosity. Ignoring the young woman, Margaret spoke up rather more loudly than was called for.

"My lord, I could not help but hear you are titled in France as well as Scotland. I did not know the Seaforths had land on the continent."

"They did not," the man replied with a slight smile, but volunteered no further information.

"Then, these are new acquired?" Margaret continued, not at all undaunted.

"They are."

"Bought or earned?" Margaret's smile was brittle, her sneer obvious even to the naive Lady Ann. "Earned, my lady."

"We too have congress with France, but I do not remember any great exploits by a Scots Baron of Alais. But perhaps that is because there were none?
¹
' Margaret Was taunting him now. Challenging him. Seaforth, mentally weighing the advantages or disadvantages of taking up her gauntlet, remained silent for a moment. The Lady Islean watched him with concern; this was the first time she had seen her son at court, and she knew Margaret to be a formidable antagonist. She considered rushing into the fray herself, but she' held her tongue. For eight years her son had been at a court known for its standards of wit and repartee; he must have learned something there to have survived at all.

"Queen Claude chose to give me another sobriquet" was his measured reply—not answering, yet not evading entirely the thrust of her comment.

Now, it was Margaret's turn to drop the subject or pursue it. Even in her slightly drink-befuddled mind, she sensed something amiss. The young man was, although polite enough, not at all cowed by her comments. And his reply was an open invitation for her. She feared she was not going to like the answer to her next question. But she put a bold front on it. "And what might the sobri—" Her thickened tongue twisted on the word. She started afresh. "And what might that name be?"

"De Wynter."

De Wynter. The court knew the name well. It conjured up different images for different people. Lover. Swordsman. Adventurer. Soldier. Horseman. Courtier par excellence. Men imagined setting a lance against him. Women envisioned his setting a lance against them.

The king was delighted. Here at last was a companion after his own heart. One who would provide sport and amusement and even a touch of competition. "Welcome to my court, cousin," he called over the heads of the Lady Islean, his mother and his hostess. Catching sight of the raw hungry looks on the faces of the latter two, he wondered which would bed him first.

James had no illusions about his court. Henry VIII's court might be known for its drunkenness, and Francis I's for its lavishness, but the court of James V was already known for the licentiousness and looseness of character of its women. The thought did not displease him. Poor he might be, but he had won a reputation of sorts among his fellow monarchs. Of course, he put a better face on it man did some of the gossips. They might call his court the royal brothel; he preferred to dunk of it as descending directly from the famed Courts of Love of olden days.

He wondered what the Lady Islean's reaction might be to the avaricious looks of the amorous females about him, but her face was most carefully schooled. He decided to do some probing on his own. "You have a most famous son there, lady."

"Famous, sire?" she replied quietly. "Infamous is more like it."

James laughed. Mothers were all alike. "You don't approve then, lady?" Islean wasn't sure of James's intent. She searched quickly for the proper answer, it would not do to answer the king ill-consideredly. "My approval was not sought, sire."

"And if it had been, would it have been given?"