The Mer- Lion (22 page)

"So here you are," was about the best the Lady Margaret could muster. Of all the places she might have looked, this would have been the last. Margaret Tudor had never set foot in a kitchen before. Certainly she knew what went on there, for many were the provisionings she'd approved.

Before she could get more than a fast glance at pots hanging from
pegs, shelves laden with bowls, rough-hewn tables and benches, and
a
vast fireplace large enough to roast an ox, de Wynter had come forward to greet her.

"Welcome, lady, to our ceilidh. Will you give us. the honor of a dance?" he asked, taking her hand in his and leading her out into the open space. On command, the bagpipers launched into "Campbells Are Coming." The staff, who had been blinking more than the dregs of the goblets they'd cleared, reacted like the Campbells they were, and began keeping time with hands and feet Looking up into those pools of blue black that seemed to drink in her soul, Margaret promised herself that before the night was over, de Wynter would be dancing her tune. Then, with pointed toe and hand held high, she and her partner swept into the jig.

Lady Margaret truly excelled in dancing. She moved within the measure of the music, never following it, never leading it, but accepting it and its spirit as her own. Where the Lady Ann's dancing had been joyous and exuberant, the Lady Margaret's was controlled and polished. She never missed a step or a note. And tonight, she was well partnered. Even the Lady Islean, who fancied the Lady Margaret not at all, had to admit that in this woman, her son had met his match. At least on the dance floor.

The music of the pipes led the others too eventually to the kitchen, in time to catch the last few measures of the dance, and see Margaret bestow an impulsive kiss on her partner. Then, to Margaret's chagrin, nothing would do but that he dance a tune or two with the others. At last be sank down gracefully, chest heaving, on the edge of the table, and, looking at the flushed faces of his females, he called for ale. His thirst slaked, he swirled his mother out onto the , floor. She had hoped to have a word with him, and when the pattern ' of the dance brought them together briefly, she warned, "She'll eat you alive."

Two steps apart and together again. "Who?" Turn away once more, then come together. "You know who!" And when they came together for a lively promenade down the . hall, he laughed down at her, kissed her fleetingly, and said, "We'll see."

Between the dancing and the drinking, the ladies paid little
attention to the time. Thus it was that none were waiting to greet the king and his hunting party when they rode proudly and triumphantly into the courtyard. Campbell was furious. He turned to his chief huntsman and signaled him to let loose a blast on his bugle. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the courtyard and castle but evoked no response from the castle ahead. Finally, the king urged his horse forward, right up to the castle itself. Motioning one of his men to open the door, he rode through, followed close behind by Campbell and the rest of the party. Into the Great Hall they rode, their horses stirring up clouds of dust from the rushes. A second blast on the horn brought the chamberlain scurrying.

"Where is everyone? Is this place under a spell?" shouted the irate king.

The chamberlain had never seen an enraged king, and he feared for his life, especially as Campbell's face, too, was bright red.

His eyes bulging, his heart pounding, his voice a mere squeak in his throat, the chamberlain stood there a moment trembling. Then he dropped his staff and ran for the shelter of the kitchen.

The king, without thinking, urged his horse forward to follow. Down the stone stairs bolted the frightened servant; behind, half sliding on his haunches as if going down a riverbank, came the king's horse. Straight into the kitchen he rode, followed by a torrent of men—some mounted, some not—to find a flushed Lady Ann standing hand in hand with de Wynter. And to one side, the others who also had been so ill disposed a short while before.

The Lady Margaret—just a wee bit tipsy—acted as if naught were amiss and came forward to grasp de Wynter's other hand. "James, get down from that horse and take you a partner. De Wynter is teaching us the steps to a new French dance, a pavane." Without waiting for a reply, she motioned to the bagpipers to resume their music.

When she used that tone of voice, James reacted like a little boy instead of a king; he did what he was told. Dismounting he took the hand of Lady Ann, and followed his mother meekly into the center of the kitchen. There, to the woeful wail of three improvising pipers, the King of Scotland was introduced to the newest dance from the courts of Europe. His court, taking his lead and not to be outdone,
quickly joined in. The meat the king had been so anxious to display was left lying helter-skelter about the Great Hall and entrance way above.

That dance over, James would have withdrawn. But before he could do so, his mother brought him a tankard of potent usquebaugh. "Drink, my dear. Hunting and dancing are thirsty work." She was right, James decided, gulping the fiery liquor. The chamberlain, still most fearful and dubious of the king's actions, refilled the tankard with trembling hand. Part of that had gone the way of the first, when the Lady Islean claimed her half brother for the next dance.

Seeing the cold meats, the leftover pastries, the fresh-baked breads for the morrow's breakfast, more than one hunter chose to make himself a meal. The servants, although fully aware that tonight's depredations on their prepared food meant they must arise early on the morrow to replace the damage, did not dare protest. Instead, they drifted away to make themselves an early bedding.

Left to themselves, the courtiers explored the cellars, led by Campbell, who was well into his cups or otherwise would have objected. They found casks and tumbrels, beer and wine and ale and Scotch whiskey. These were trundled up from the cellar and casually broached, in many cases so awkwardly that half the contents drained out onto the floor.

James of Scotland's court was partying. When they did, they had no rivals in all the world, except maybe the wild Irish. They drank deeply, ate heartily, kissed frequently. As the king was trying to decide which female to bed that night—he had the Lady Ann on one arm, the Countess of Mar on the other, and neither was a truly smart choice tactically, considering one's husband was his host, the other's his chancellor—he suddenly remembered his challenge to de Wynter. Dragging the two equally tipsy women along with him, he staggered over to where the young man stood.

"Two stags I struck and a fallow deer, de Wynter. What do I win in return?" James leered. He knew what he would have done with the castle to himself and five women available—no, make that four, one was his mother. Blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision, he swayed a bit from side to side. De Wynter had been drinking for far
longer mas the king, but appeared none the worse. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the youthful monarch before him. Today was the first time he'd met his cousin. The stories bruited about Europe made him out to be uncouth, rough, and impetuous, but saved by a sense of humor. Tonight, de Wynter decided, was not the time to provoke him. Instead, he must appeal to that sense of humor.

"Do you like riddles, sire? Good. Then, I shall answer you one, but first answer me two:

A vessel I have

That is round like a pear,

Moist in the middle

Surrounded with hair,

And often it happens,

That water flows there.

James's mind was befuddled. What had this to do with his challenge? Before he could answer, de Wynter came back with another "And the second:
'Qu'est-ce que plus on quiert et moins on le troube?'
Now for the third: 'What was given me I gave to another, the first I shan't name, the second my mother!' Answer me the first two, I'll answer the third.''

James could not think clearly. "I'll have to study on that," he finally managed to mutter. Then giving himself willingly into the hands of his two fair but equally drunken keepers, he staggered off toward the cask of Madeira.

Lady Margaret, in that brief span of lucidity some alcoholics experience before they black out, watched her son go. "Essentially good, but not tough enough to rule." De Wynter, at her side, said nothing. Then, the drunken haze descended upon her again.

"And what of you, James Mackenzie? Call yourself Seaforth or de Wynter, what of you? Are you a tough man?"

"I, madam? Nay, I am a Frenchman returned for a brief visit to his Scottish homeland. That is all."

Lady Islean, who had deliberately stayed close to her son all evening, overheard and her viscera quivered at his words. The Queen Mother was too drunk to be subtle. "How brief? Do you leave tonight or sleep here?"

"I sleep here. Unfortunately, lady, I know not where."

"That'
s
no problem. I know where mere's a bed big enough for two. Follow me." And the Lady Margaret, misstepping just a bit, set off for the upper chambers. De Wynter hesitated only a moment, then followed after.

CHAPTER
8

It was more whistle than snore: high-pitched, thin, unexpectedly reedy coming from such a robust frame. The many-layered bedclothes heaved with each long-drawn breath. Such was the noise the sleeper made that it drowned out the call of the watcher on the turret who sounded the first cockcrow at sunrise.

A strange scraping sound, ending in a hollow snap, finally awakened her. Not coming fully awake at once, Margaret reached out to confirm the presence of her bed partner. But though the sheets were warm to her touch, the other half of the bed was empty.

Now, fully awake, she sat upright and looked wildly about. The pillow was indented, the coverlets thrown back although the bed curtains remained closed. She had not imagined it. De Wynter, or someone—she wasn't sure who—had spent the night with her. Her abrupt actions started her head to throbbing, and with a gasp of relief she fell back against the pillows. Who was he? she wondered. And where was he? But what happened last night? That concerned her more. She reached down between her legs and felt for an unexplained moisture. Nothing. Bringing her finger to her nose, she sniffed. It smelled like herself. Then, she tasted it. Was it her imagination or was it more salty than usual?

Desperately, she searched her memory. But everything was blank after they left the kitchen. The last thing she remembered was setting de Wynter to stand guard while she relieved herself in the jakes. Then, all was black.

Again, that strange noise. Cautiously, she parted the heavy bed curtains and peeked out. There, not fifteen feet from her, with his back to her, stood a naked man busily shaving himself as his manservant held the glass. It must have been the stropping of the razor that she'd heard. Once she identified him by the hoar-frosted hair of his head, she made no move to shrink back behind her curtains. Instead, she boldly took inventory of the man before her. As he scraped his cheeks, the movement made the muscles in his back ripple. They were smooth and sleek, like those of a swimmer or fencer, not all knotty bunches like so many jousters'. His shoulders were wider than she remembered, or perhaps it was that his waist was more narrow. His buttocks were compact, his legs long and better-looking in the flesh than in his knitted hose. She wished he'd turn around. Could a man that good-looking behind, be less so from the front? From where she lay, she could see his partial image in the glass. At first she thought he was making faces at her, then she realized he was simply contorting his face so as to reach every curve of it with the straight edge of his shaver. Suddenly, he smiled and looked at her out of the glass. "Good morning, did you sleep well?"

Instinctively, like a little girl caught spying, she ducked back behind the protection of the bed hangings. She was lying there, trying to decide whether to get up, when the curtains parted and de Wynter sat down on the side of the bed. He hadn't bothered to dress. And there, not a foot from her hand, was the object of her imaginings of just a few minutes ago. Of course, in its relaxed state, it was hard to judge its full potential. But Margaret had seen many a man's staff in her time, and if she were any judge, this one would please her well and fit her nicely.

As if he could read her mind, he laughed. "Wait until tonight. In the meantime, I have sent for some ale and a crust of bread. You'll probably want to break your fast before we ride out."

"Ride out?" She couldn't think, not with him so close to her. "Ride out?"

"The hunt, madam, did you forget? The king, your son, hunts Reynard today." Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips. She could feel the warm breath on the back of her hand. As he murmured, "Come, let us mount," he kissed her fingers one by

one, then turned her hand over and kissed its palm, "our horses and ride awhile in that fashion."

Then he was gone. Damn him, why didn't he come right out and say whether he'd had her or not? It made all the difference in how she'd act this day. If he hadn't she'd be coquettish, teasing him with the delight to come. If he had, she'd be possessive, promising him even greater excitement. What to do? Which to be? She bit her lip with peevishness.

She lay there for long minutes, listening to the rich, low murmur of masculine voices. Then the bed curtains parted again, and de Wynter poked in his bonneted head. "Madame, your breakfast has arrived, and your chaplain to bless you so you need not hear Mass; and your ladies await with a choice of three riding costumes. I mink I've thought of everything. And I do think the green would do the most for your glorious coloring." He tipped his bonnet and withdrew. As soon as she was sure he'd left the room, she threw back the curtains to find all as he'd said.