Chieftain (19 page)

“But you battled fifty heathen Vikings to save the church’s holy relic. Why could you not slay a mere score of Englishmen?”

Compared to fable, the true story became what it was: a desperate young man’s tactical error. “My sword was broken and my horse lame.”

“You could have used your dirk. You killed the terrible boar with it.”

Knowing the discussion could go on for hours, Drummond told another truth. “Your mother may have embellished the tale of the boar hunt.”

“That’s what Sheriff Hay said.”

Drummond’s anger rose. Ramsay would pay for his sin of omission, not to mention the crime of coveting another man’s wife. “In future, you will listen to me, Alasdair, not Sheriff Hay.”

He nodded. “You might not know it yet, so it’s best I tell you. I’m an easy lad to teach and clever.”

“Who told you that?”

“I heard Mother say it to Brother Julian.”

“Were you hiding behind a door?”

He stiffened with righteous indignation. “I was in the solar tallying my accounts. The door was open.”

“Your accounts?”

“Yes. Grain for my six chickens and oats for my pony. I must be prepared for manhood.”

“What kind of man do you think you will become?”

In imitation of his elders, he rubbed his chin. “A respecter of persons, I should think.”

“’Tis a commendable ideal.”

All seriousness, Alasdair folded his arms over his chest. “A man must protect the poor, the sick, and the contrite.”

He sounded so worldly, Drummond couldn’t help but say, “Know you much of contrite?”

Alasdair sighed and stared at the sky. “Only that I’m a poor master of it”

To hide a smile, Drummond scratched his cheek. “Well said.”

“Father? When we return, will you talk to Mother about that sister for me. She isn’t at all interested in getting me one.”

“I shall endeavor to change her mind.”

“Will you also take me to the Highlands?”

Drummond hesitated. Dreams of returning to his home and family had sustained him through the bleak nights in that wretched tower. Now Scotland was forbidden to him unless he defied the new king. If he did, Alasdair would become a traitor’s son and Clare the wife of a fugitive. Unless Edward II intervened. Would he agree to ignore Drummond’s flight if she again yielded her favors? Would she agree?

Why had she said yes so many years ago? Or was the long-ago affair, as Drummond had so often rationalized, a single act performed for the purpose of embarrassing a young and popular Scottish chieftain?

Drummond despaired, for what had once been a foregone conclusion had now become a complicated dilemma.

“Will you take me, Father?”

Drummond dodged the issue. “’Tis too cold there for you to swim.”

“Whatever do the lads do for pleasure in summer?”

Pleasure. With Edward I bringing army after army into Scotland, life had offered scant recreation for the children of the Highlands. “’Tis much better here, Alasdair.” Drummond knew it was true; yet he felt disloyal to the depths of his soul.

“I’m glad you’re here, Father. Will you tell me a story?”

No fairy tale would do; Drummond wanted to teach Alasdair about the Highland spirit. He searched for an event that would hold the lad’s interest, but most of the stories ended unhappily. Except one. “I’ll tell you a tale about the Tablet of Scone.”

“What is it, and what does it do?”

“’Tis a block of stone that once resided in Scone Abbey. By tradition, the kings of Scotland stand on the tablet to receive the crown. But the old king Edward took the stone and put it in Westminster Abbey. At least that’s what everyone believes happened to the stone.”

“What
did
happen?”

“Therein lies the tale, my eager friend, but before I tell you, you must promise never to speak the lad’s name or reveal his secret.”

“Oh, Father, I swear on my oath,” Alasdair gushed and jumped up and down. Then he grew pensive. “I wish Mother was here. She loves stories and she’s ever so good at keeping secrets.”

“If, after hearing it, you decide to tell her the story, you may.”

He looked toward Fairhope, longing in his eyes. “Mother will miss us.”

According to his mother, Alasdair had never spent the night away from home without her. Drummond felt compelled to say, “Do you want to go back?”

“I’m not sure, and you haven’t told me the story.”

“You can decide later.”

Absently, Alasdair nodded. “I wonder where she is now?”

Johanna entered the darkened hall and peered into the shadows to be sure she was alone. Her fingers gripped the heavy iron. The metal felt cool and smooth against her skin. And harmless. The tables had been dismantled and put away and the fire banked. Certain all had retired, she walked to the hearth.

Before she could again change her mind, she knelt and plunged the rod into the coals. Sparks flew. She jumped back to protect her best dress.

The coward in her urged reconsideration. She couldn’t be certain Drummond would notice a difference in the brand; Clare had said he paid the mark little mind. Neither had he been repulsed. But what if he noticed that the imprint of the tiny blunted sword was upside down on Johanna’s shoulder? When he’d stormed into the pantry and watched her bathe, she had managed to cover the mark with a towel, but she could not always hide the brand. Even if he did not grasp the difference the first time he saw the mark, he could the next, or the next.

She must get rid of it and only a hot iron would do.

What of putrefaction? If the burn fevered, she could die.

Not from so small an injury. As an infant she’d survived the burning from the branding. She would dress the new wound quickly and well and sleep warm and cozy in Alasdair’s bed. Her discomfort would be small. She wasn’t in the forest bereft of aid and mortally wounded. Heavens no.

In the time it would take to ink a quill, she would lay the thumb-size rod on her skin. She would obscure the one physical trait that marked her as Johanna Benison. Her stomach roiled.

She wasn’t afraid of illness. She feared losing her own identity.

As her hesitance grew, she stared at the hearth. The handle of the rod protruded from the coals. Farewell Johanna.

No. She couldn’t. So she ran from the hall. At the stairway, she pulled a lighted torch from its sconce and raced to the top of the keep.

The cooling wind sharpened her senses. The sky twinkled with stars, and moonlight blanketed the land. She could hear the village sleeping, the creatures settling, the wind soughing through the trees.

This place had been wild before she came and the people poor beyond measure. Now the demesne bristled with life and prosperity.

The watchman at the main gate swung his lantern in a wide arc. In answer, Johanna waved the torch, then thrust it into a brace on a merlon. The familiar ritual fueled her sense of accomplishment, for she often came to this spot She grew melancholy, thinking of the progress her leadership had wrought.

From behind her, she heard footfalls. Turning, she saw Bertie framed in the threshold. “Would you like company?”

Gratitude flooded her. “Please.”

Wearing a dark cape and holding another, he came to stand beside her. “Here.”

She took the wrap and draped it over her shoulders. Together they surveyed the village below.

After a companionable silence, she said, “I was just thinking about how much this land has changed since we came here.”

“’Twas forest and moor and little else, save the naysayers who had of it that you would fail.”

A sense of accomplishment comforted her. Bertie’s support had always been a given, a constant. He had been with her during every dark moment. It seemed fitting for him to be with her now. “I could not have succeeded without you.”

“Bother it,” he scoffed, his kind features pulled into a self-effacing grin.

“More than anything, I wanted a home of my own. Remember how jealous I was when word came that Clare would marry before me? I hated the king for that.”

“’Twas God’s will, not His Majesty’s. I’m thinking that’s also why Drummond was freed.”

At the mention of his name, her heart ached. She had doubted her feelings for him, but after tonight Johanna faced the sad truth that she had fallen in love with Drummond Macqueen. Rather than bolster her confidence, the knowledge added weight to her burden.

“He deserves better, Bertie.”

“Better than what?” he challenged, waving an arm over the battlement. “A prosperous estate? A strapping son? A capable and beautiful wife?”

Battered by doubts, Johanna felt the old misery return. “I wasn’t pursuing compliments, Bertie. I was thinking about what he feels in his heart. You should have seen him at table. A lesser man would have crumbled beneath Douglas’s harsh words, but Drummond thought first of Alasdair.”

“He has a father’s fondness for the lad, and he’s too clever to lose Alasdair’s admiration. He’ll make a fight of it, do you see?”

“I do not envy his task.”

“And what of yours, Lady Friend?”

“He deserves a truthful wife.” Then she told him what she planned to do.

“Sweet Jesus!” he cursed. “You cannot put a hot iron to yourself. What if you take a fever?”

Defending herself had never come easy to Johanna, but Bertie was her friend. “I will not. What are they saying in the village about Drummond?”

“They’re saying that Edward the Second should be canonized for freeing your husband from prison.
I’m
saying ’tis foolishness you contemplate.”

Under different circumstances she would have cherished Bertie’s advice. “I was little more than a girl when we came here. When have I never listened to you, Bertie?”

“Now.”

“I cannot.”

“You’ve a good soul, Johanna Benison, and given the time, Drummond Macqueen will see it. Then you can tell him the truth.”

“But what of the danger to Sister Margaret? The old king was emphatic about keeping secret the fact that Clare had a sister, especially a twin. Sister Margaret gave him her word.”

“Why would he ask for such a pledge unless your existence threatened his rule? He’s dead, and who’s to give a gelded goose now?”

“You’re missing the point, Bertie. Sister Margaret stood over that grave and wept for me.” She tapped her breastbone. “With the entire village looking on, she prayed aloud to God to take Johanna Benison into heaven. She accepted condolences from the people. There are witnesses aplenty to swear that Johanna Benison died and was buried. If word gets out, do you think the church will sit by and do nothing? I’ll wager they’ll strip Sister Margaret of rank and privileges.” Sorrow choked her. “I cannot allow that to happen.”

He opened his mouth, but closed it and bowed his head. “Nay, Lady Friend, you cannot. ’Tis a nettle.”

She knew the way out. She had but to find the courage.

An hour later, she knelt before the hearth, her bliaud bunched at her waist She slid shaking fingers into the cook’s thick leather glove. Then she picked up the iron. The tip glowed red, and a thin line of smoke floated upward.

Bile rose in her throat, and a dozen new objections came to mind. Thoughts of Sister Margaret held sway.

Resigned and braced for the pain to come, she moved the iron close and whispered, “Farewell, Johanna.”

Drummond leaned against a plum tree on the periphery of the kitchen garden and watched his wife. At one time she hadn’t known celery from heather and now she looked perfectly at home, sitting on a pallet among the maze of flourishing plants. She wore a smock of coarsely woven linen over a faded blue underdress. Sans coif, her hair had been loosely restrained with a green ribbon. In a gilded waterfall, it trailed down her back and past her waist to pool on the mat.

On her left hand she wore a stained glove and, with little vigor, wielded a small spade. Her right arm was cradled against her breast, as he expected. But she didn’t look sorely ill, as Sween had insisted. She looked endearingly young and far too tempting.

Nearby Evelyn used a clawed hoe and fierce determination to hack at the soil around a waxy leafed bush.

Clare lifted her head and sighed. Then she caught sight of him. Holding the pouch containing Glory’s medicine, he walked into the sunny garden. Her smile seemed forced, and on closer inspection, her eyes were rimmed with fatigue.

“Fare you well, my lady?” he asked.

“Very well, and you, my lord?”

Why would she forswear her injury and not ask about Alasdair? When last she had seen the lad, he’d been distraught. Why was she unconcerned? Or was she angry at Drummond for staying away all night with their son?

Determined to find out, he moved closer, snapping off a leaf as he went. “The sorrel thrives.” He sniffed the lemony smelling plant but didn’t take his eyes from her.

“The plant’s well rooted. I brought it from the abbey garden.”

Still no mention of her son. “You’ve become a fine gardener.”

Her gaze wavered and she went back to working the soil. “None of us here favors bland food. Did you know that the sheriff and Douglas are anxious to speak with you?”

Where was her vibrancy, her constant motion? Where was the kind concern he’d seen at table last night when Douglas spewed his venom?

“My lady,” squealed Evelyn. “You’ve pulled up a basil.”

“Oh, so I have. Here, you put it back.”

He glanced at Evelyn. Her mouth was pinched with disdain. Their gazes met. Her expression grew intense, as if to say,
Do something!

“Bother it, Evelyn,” Clare said into the silent exchange. “It will not be the last time I mistake basil for thistle.”

“You?” said Evelyn. “You know more about growing things than Glory, for all her misfitting ways.”

Clare said, “For that flattery, you shall have an afternoon to yourself on Sunday next.”

Her too cheery tone didn’t fool Drummond. Why would she make light of her gardening skills? She seemed uncomfortable with the changes in herself. Why? The answers could wait; he was more concerned with verifying Sween’s conviction that she was too ill to stand.

“My lady, I’m thirsty and rather toilworn,” he said. “Will you fetch me a tankard of ale?”

“Evelyn, fetch Lord Drum—”

“Nay,” he interrupted. If she were truly ill and too proud to show it, he’d make certain she did as the midwife had instructed her. “Unless you are unable. Did Glory not tell you to stay abed?”

The morning sun had cast a pink glow over her nose and cheeks, but she seemed indifferent to her appearance or the elements. She certainly had no inkling of how appealing and feminine she looked to him, or how confounding.

“Glory has her opinions,” she said, flicking weeds out of the way. “I have mine. I suffered only a slight burn.”

Evelyn huffed, then mockingly said, “My lady says she’s fine as crimson silk, my lord. That’s what she’d have of it.”

He lifted his brows expectantly. “The ale, Clare?”

She glowered at him, her brown eyes darkening with anger. “For Evelyn’s sake, I must decline.”

The wind tossed her hair into her face. She lifted her right arm, but winced. Dropping the spade from her gloved left hand, she tucked the wayward strands behind her ear and left a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

Defiance lifted her chin. “Fetching and carrying is maid’s work.”

Determination rippled through him. “What happened to your hair?”

Again, Evelyn huffed. “As I’m an honest girl, my lord, I refused to braid it for her or tie her coif. Mistress Glory was insistent that my lady stay abed today.”

“Bite your tongue, Evelyn,” Clare snapped.

Drummond opened Glory’s package and took out the vial.

Through tightly clenched teeth, Clare said, “I will not drink that drug.”

He stepped closer. “Aye, you will, and you’ll rest till Glory says otherwise.”

She had to crane her neck to look up at him. “Be off, Drummond. Glory makes much of nothing. I fare well enough.”

“You’ll fare better off your feet and inside.”

As if he were a nuisance, she sighed and held out her gloved hand. “If it will make you happy. Give it to me.”

He did, and she dropped it into her basket.

He chuckled. “’Twill make me happy if you drink it now.”

Her hair again blew across her face. She turned into the wind, but the movement was slow and cautious. “I’ll have it later with a slice of bread and cheese. Did I mention that cook is roasting a fat moorhen with chestnut pudding today?”

No query about Alasdair. Patience gone, Drummond planted his feet. “Clare, you will drink it or have it forced down your throat.”

Eyes cool with retribution, she retrieved the vial. With a flick of her thumb, she sent the wax sealing cap flying into a bed of leeks. Then she held out her arm, twisted her wrist and poured the brownish liquid over a patch of celery. Tossing the empty vial onto a pile of dried dung, she said, “You’ll pour nothing down my throat, Drummond Macqueen, least of all that mind dulling swill.”

Dumbfounded, he watched her pick up the spade and go back to the weeds again.

Evelyn mumbled something about the dire consequences of stubbornness.

“Find a chore elsewhere, Evelyn,” he said.

That got Clare’s attention. “You’ll hoe that row of spotted beans, girl, or go back to your family. Drummond,” she appealed, her mouth full and pouting and much too missish. “I’m perfectly capable of directing the staff. I have only a laggard’s work to do here, and you surely have more important tasks, such as granting Red Douglas an audience.”

Under different circumstances he might have welcomed her subtle display of sensuality. Tucking the memory away, he looked at Evelyn and tipped his head toward the keep.

The maid propped the hoe on her shoulder. “My lord, shall I warm the broth she refused?”

“I’ll sup when everyone else does,” came his wife’s angry reply.

Drummond nodded. The maid marched out of the garden.

He held out his hand. “Come, Clare.”

Perspiration dotted her brow, and her eyes looked dreamfilled. “I pray you, trouble yourself no more on my account, my lord. I do not wither as your bride did—as I did when I was your bride—as a bride would. Oh, bother it!”

Her befuddled speech convinced him. Vowing to make her come inside, he bent from the waist and touched her elbow. “Get up.”

She cried out and jerked away. When she teetered, he scooped her into his arms, being careful not to touch the injured side of her body.

Her complexion looked ashen, and her eyes were dark with pain. “Clare?”

She buried her head against his shoulder, but said nothing. Through the fabric of his tunic, he could feel her hot, pained breathing. Her right hand was fisted so tightly between them that her knuckles gleamed white.

Her hair trailing over his arm and raking the plants, he navigated the winding path out of the garden and carried her up the steps to the keep. He kicked open the door to his chamber and put her on the bed.

Blanketed and blinded by her hair, she tried to sit up.

He put his hand on her hip. “Be still.”

“You’re making too much of this,” she said in a weary voice.

“Humor me.” He began gathering her hair, which smelled of basil and savory and felt like silk in his hands. Strips of soft white cloth circled her neck, and on the right side, the skin looked puffy and red. A bandage there? But Glory said she’d injured her shoulder.

“It’s really nothing.”

“Then why does everyone from the farrier’s apprentice to the goosegirl fear for your recovery?”

She peered up at him through the curtain of her hair. “Because the goosegirl is Glory’s sister, and the apprentice worries overmuch.”

When he’d managed to tame the mass of her hair, Drummond coiled it around his fingers. “What happened to you?”

She stared at his neck. “I thought to have some warm milk last night. The mulling iron slipped from my hand. The mug shattered. I made a mess of the hearth.”

As if he cared about the condition of the hearth. “Look at me and tell me what you’ve done to yourself.”

Her gaze moved to his chin. “A minor burn.”

He didn’t for a moment believe her. “Show me.”

She shrank back and bit her lip to stifle the pain the movement caused. After a few deep breaths, she said, “Glory tended it, and she doesn’t take well to having her handiwork disturbed.”

Undeterred, he tugged on her hair until she again lay back on the mattress. “I want to see what you’ve done.”

She stared at the tapestry on the wall. “Then I’ll be certain to summon you when she changes the dressing. Truly, Drummond, I’ll mend.” She shook her left hand until the glove slipped off. Covering her mouth, she faked a yawn. “Perhaps I
will
rest awhile.”

He didn’t believe that, either, but he had her on her back and out of the sun. “You didn’t ask about Alasdair.”

In the blink of an eye she went from laconic to alert. “Oh, Drummond. Did he misunderstand the explanation of your imprisonment? You failed to reassure him?”

Drummond couldn’t help smiling. “I assured him. Longfellow ate him for breakfast.”

A chagrined smile curved her lips, but her eyelids dropped. “And I’m a Venetian moneylender.”

He’d made that facetious declaration on the day of his arrival at Fairhope. He had seen her cry at the mention of her friend Johanna. She’d denied shedding a tear because she missed the woman.

He lifted a brow in recognition of her cleverness. “Rest.”

She closed her eyes. “Where is Alasdair now?”

“Strutting in the lane and bragging about his adventure.”

“Bring him to me.”

She sounded so queenly, he was compelled to say, “As your lord and master, shall I
command
thee to rest?”

“No. As your wife and the mother of your heir, I shall be bound to refuse.”

He sensed a new confidence in the way she said the words “your wife.” “Why?”

Turning her head away from him, she murmured sleepily, “He needs a bath and his hair scrubbed.” She cuddled her cheek against the bed linen. “And lessons.”

Drummond smiled at her kittenlike movement. “I’ll see to it.”

She drifted off, her lips slightly parted, her arm still resting between her breasts. She hadn’t needed the sleeping potion.

Moving a bench from beneath the windows, Drummond sat and watched her slumber. In repose, she looked like an angel, her hair a halo and her mouth curled in a saintly smile. But he knew the earthy passion her mouth could inspire.

He remembered the first time he’d seen Clare, the blessed, as they called her. In physical appearance, she’d been perfectly chosen for a Scottish chieftain, for her fair hair and elegant features were easily mistaken for Highland nobility. Some of his clansmen doubted the old king’s sly assertion that she came from good Lancaster stock. Among themselves, his kinsmen compared her stately good looks to the Scotswomen of the royal House of Dunkeld. But that was only clan talk; all of the Dunkeld offspring were accounted for, save the mythical twin daughters of Alexander III, and even the expert spies of Edward I could not have located a progeny that existed only in fable.

Drummond thought of the tales she’d invented about him, flattering tales, exciting tales, tales designed to foster legend. Then he thought of her great sin.

Anguish seeped into his soul. Better that he’d lost his sword arm than suffer a faithless wife, especially one who’d lain with the son of the “Hammer of the Scots.”

Some Highlanders compared Drummond’s marital misfortune to that of Llewlyn Fawr. But the great prince of Wales had wed Siubhan, a king’s daughter. Those same gossipers said the princess’s faithlessness stemmed from her father’s carousing and her own illegitimate birth.

Nothing was known of Clare’s lineage, except the obvious: Her parents had been bonny well favored. Unknown misfortune had left her in the care of the Crown. Her family’s poverty had become the Macqueen’s providence, for she’d come bearing a dowry of peace between England and Scotland.

Even after placing her hand in Drummond’s, old King Edward had said no more about her.

And like a buck primed for the rut, the newly wedded Drummond had been more interested in mounting his doe than quizzing the king on her bloodlines. The humor was, Drummond had planted his seed and, through her, secured his own bloodline. Alasdair stood as indisputable proof of that.

Look for trouble, and you’ll find it. Against his will he was beginning to admire her. To counter the weakness, he sought out her faults.

As he watched her now, sleeping as peacefully as the angels she resembled, he wondered if she had confessed her sin and received absolution. Had Brother Julian been the one to carry her transgression to God?

Drummond cringed inside at the thought of anyone in Fairhope knowing that she’d made him a cuckold. But surely they did not know, for these people loved and cherished her. From the moment Drummond and Alasdair had entered the gates this morning, they had been inundated with the news of her injury. Worry wreathed the faces of the villagers and huntsmen, and en masse they’d begged him to command her to have a care for herself and follow Glory’s advice. Only the approach of an eager and trumpeting Longfellow had swayed them from going directly to her.

Bertie Stapledon’s reaction had been most puzzling, for he had stared accusingly at Drummond, as if to say her injury was his fault. Before Drummond could question the man’s motives, Alasdair had dashed off toward the kitchen garden in search of her. Sween ran the lad to ground and deposited him with Bertie.