Kathleen Harrington (37 page)

Joanna hurried ahead to stretch a red-and-black tartan out in the shade of a tree, and Lachlan crouched down and laid a still unconscious Francine on the blanket.

Lady Emma joined him beside Francine. Signora Grazioli handed her a small vial she’d pulled from her purse hanging from her girdle. Lachlan’s mother waved it under Francine’s nose.

Francine came awake with a start and looked around at the circle of concerned faces. “I haven’t been feeling well,” she explained. “I’m so sorry to have worried all of you.”

Lady Emma patted her face with a kerchief. “Don’t try to get up just yet.” She turned to reassure the frightened child. “Mummy’s going to be fine, Angelica. “’Twas just too warm in that crowded tent.”

Angelica moved to stand beside Lachlan, still crouched on the blanket by her mother. She put her arms around his neck and leaned her head close to his cheek. “Will Mummy be well soon?” she asked him.

“Aye, lassie,” he said, though he was as dumbfounded by what happened as the little girl. Francine had always been the picture of health.

When Francine could sit with her back propped against the tree trunk and sip a cup of cool water, Lady Emma drew Lachlan apart from rest of the group.

“How many weeks along is she?” she asked her son in a low voice.

Lachlan stared at mother. “How many weeks?” he repeated, at a total loss for her meaning.

Lady Emma touched his face in a loving gesture. “You don’t know, do you?” She smiled, her eyes glowing with happiness. “Lady Francine is with child. I spoke to her nursemaid, who confirmed it. Signora Grazioli is none too happy with you, I may add, for not waiting until you were married. She’s fiercely loyal to her mistress, though she appears to hold you in high esteem, as well.”

Lachlan continued to stare at his mother in bafflement.

She laughed in delight at his expression of disbelief. “Unless Lady Walsingham carries another man’s child in her womb, you’re going to be a father, my dear.”

Lachlan slowly shook his head, trying to come to grips with the startling news.

T
he Scots staged a tournament and joust between the English and Scottish nobility on Lamberton Moor to celebrate the coming nuptials between Margaret Tudor and King James IV.

Francine was elated to see Kinrath dressed in the splendor of a knight. His armor had been brought by his family, who’d ridden from Dalkeith Castle to join the royal pilgrimage as it crossed into Scotland.

Kinrath had been designated as King James’s official representative at the joust. Lychester was chosen by the young princess to represent England.

The tournament was held on the extensive grounds that surrounded the church. The panoply and splendor of a tournament, with its striped conical tents for the knights to use as they dressed in their armor, attended by their gillies and pages, and the heralds in their tabards emblazoned with the coat of arms announcing each pair of competitors, as well as the winners after the competition, brought a climate of excitement to the visitors and hosts alike.

Trumpeters sounded the fanfare to announce the beginning of the joust. The thrill of watching a knight in full armor astride his mighty warhorse, galloping at top speed along the tilt barrier to smash the tip of his twelve-foot lance against his opponent, filled the open space around Lamberton Kirk with an air of frenzy.

Since it was a joust
à plaisance
, in honor of the peace treaty that had just been signed between the two countries, rather than sharpened lances, all weapons were rebated. But there was always a possibility that a man could be killed, in spite of his protective plate armor, designed specifically for the tiltyard.

Her heart pounding, Francine watched with bated breath each time Kinrath knocked Lychester off his horse when it was their turn to compete.

The competitors were given points, which they accumulated based on attaints or strikes on the head or the body, or lances broken on the head or the body, and lances ill broken. The nobility clapped politely when the scores were announced.

Viewing the joust from the stands erected for the audience, those of the English gentry who’d seen the large Scot perform in the archery contest and the gladiator match went wild, shouting his name as they stomped their feet in unison on the wooden benches. They were joined by the Scottish commoners who stood on the grass and watched.

“Kin-rath! Kin-rath! Kin-rath!”

The unadulterated hatred on Lychester’s face each time he removed his helmet and stomped off of the field sent a shiver of foreboding through Francine. Elliot’s temper could cloud his reasoning.

During the feasting, masquing, and dancing that followed the joust, the ladies swarmed all over Kinrath like bees returning to the hive at dusk. He might have been a honeycomb dripping with honey.

Scarce wonder. The tall Scot, positively magnificent in his armor and holding his helm in the crook of his arm, had knelt on one knee before Princess Margaret to receive the accolade of being the foremost knight of the tournament.

But Lady Pembroke had spent no time amidst the chattering females flocking around the Scottish earl. For Colin had also taken part in the joust and did credit to his country as well.

The spirited brunette refused to leave Colin’s side, clinging to his arm and scowling ferociously at any other woman, married or single, who dared try to approach him.

Seated beside Francine at the banquet that evening, Diana leaned close to confide in her ear. “I’m not going back to England after the wedding.”

“You have to go back,” Francine told her. She tried to hide her dismay. “You’re a married woman.”

Diana thrust her determined chin forward. “I’m not going back. Not ever. I’m staying with Colin in Scotland.”

“Has Colin agreed to this?”

Diana made an unhappy moue. “I haven’t told him yet.”

Francine turned to find Kinrath, seated on her other side, had overheard their earnest conversation. His slow, sideways grin gave away his shameless eavesdropping.

“This is your fault,” Francine scolded, irritated that he found it so amusing. “I asked you to warn Colin away. Now there’ll be a scandal. You must tell your cousin to give her up.”

Kinrath’s eyes sparkled at the unexpected turn of events. ’Twas Colin who was supposed to be left bereft and inconsolable. “I doubt he will. I think my cousin’s rather fond of the lady.”

“Then you must insist upon it.”

“I can order my men into battle, Francie,” he said, making no attempt to hide his mirth. “I canna tell them whom to sleep with.”

“We’ll soon run out of time,” she said in exasperation. “What do you plan to do about this affair when we reach Edinburgh?”

Kinrath put his arm around Francine’s waist, caught her chin in his hand and kissed her. “Absolutely nothing,” he said. “Who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

W
hen the banquet ended, Margaret Tudor said farewell to her trusted retainers who’d accompanied her all the way from Collyweston. In the morning, all but five hundred would turn back for England, and she would be escorted by the Scots, her new countrymen.

Princess Margaret broke into tears as she kissed those ladies-in-waiting who would not be accompanying her to Edinburgh.

Francine tried to comfort the young princess, only thirteen and already homesick. She reassured her that some of her ladies would remain with her in Scotland once she was married, so she wouldn’t be entirely alone amongst strangers.

Unlike the princess, who was destined to live the rest of her life in Scotland reigning as its queen, Francine would return to her own country after the wedding. She would have to trust that King Henry would listen to the advice of his elderly counselor, Oliver Seymour, and refuse Lychester permission to marry her.

Francine looked over at Kinrath, who stood talking with his brothers. His happiness in being with his family shone on his face. She could tell they were joshing each other, for they’d break into laughter and slap one another on the back. They would all stay the night in a monastery nearby. The men would most likely stay up talking until the wee hours.

What she felt for the Sorcerer of the Seas couldn’t be true love. She hadn’t told him that she carried his child. She planned to keep it a secret, afraid he would try to prevent her from leaving, at least until the baby was born.

In the end, perhaps the only resolution to the web he’d woven around her would be time. Perhaps in the years ahead, the feelings he’d awakened within her would weaken and fade. Perhaps.

Francine dabbed the corner of her eye with her kerchief. The thought of the tiny babe in her womb thrilled her beyond belief. Why she was crying, she couldn’t tell.

She turned to find Kinrath beside her. “You look tired, darling,” he said, his words filled with tenderness. Completely unaware of her confusion, he seemed to glow from inside. “Let’s get you to bed.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

Dalkeith Castle

River North Esk

Midlothian, Scotland

T
he procession of Scots and English left Lamberton Kirk, some on horseback, some on foot. All along the road, the common people gathered to offer their future queen refreshments and gifts.

They visited the towns of Coldingham, Dunbar, and Haddington, and the tiny hamlets in between. Following the coast along the North Sea, the road grew rough, the castles gloomy, and the priories cold. More and more Scots joined the procession as it wound through the villages. Church bells pealed, cannons boomed, people cheered, and children raced alongside the prancing horses.

Finally they reached the castle at Dalkeith, where the princess and her nobles would stay as guest of the earl of Morton, until their entry into Edinburgh the day before the wedding. Lord and Lady Morton offered their royal visitor the keys to their castle.

Just before supper that first evening, another visitor to the castle was announced. King James strode into the Great Hall, followed by sixty of his gentlemen, all resplendent in velvet and satin.

Francine was surprised to see Kinrath and his younger brother, Laird MacNeil, amongst them. Like the king, they were attired in doublets, breeches, and long hose, suitable for hunting.

She hadn’t spoken to Kinrath since they’d arrived in the city of Dalkeith that morning. Along with the other members of his family, he’d deposited his band at an inn on the outskirts of the city.

Kinrath and his family had taken over the Hogshead of Claret, where each family occupied a different floor. Kinrath must have explained to his brothers about the threat on Francine’s life, for no one quibbled about her party being lodged on the top floor in the largest suite.

Later that day, Francine had traveled the short distance to the castle with Lady Emma and Lady Joanna, accompanied by Laird MacLean and his kinsmen.

Now Francine and Diana stood on the edge of the gathering of Princess Margaret’s ladies-in-waiting. They watched in open curiosity as the king of Scotland approached his young bride-to-be.

“He’s handsomer than I expected,” Diana whispered to Francine, who certainly had to nod her agreement.

At thirty, James IV was tall, strong, and attractive. He had a wealth of straight russet hair. He was dressed in a crimson-velvet hunting habit and had apparently been hawking in the close vicinity of the castle, for he wore a hawking lure over his shoulder. But instead of a bow, he carried a lyre slung across his back.

Margaret waited with regal demeanor for her future groom to approach. Only thirteen, she was arrayed in one of her finest gowns and wore some of the sparkling jewels that made up part of her extensive trousseau. Although she had had the imperial bearing of a Tudor drilled into her since childhood, the princess was innocent of the ways of the world.

“Does Margaret know about the king’s royal bastards?” Diana asked her friend.

“Shh,” Francine whispered. “There’ll be time enough for her to deal with that unpleasant fact after they’re married.”

“The Scots say he’s still grieving for the loss of his last mistress, Margaret Drummond,” Diana confided in a hushed tone. “Colin told me she was poisoned by unknown Scots so that the king would finally agree to this marriage. Otherwise the treaty would never have been ratified.”

“Whether the two of them are happy or not,” Francine said, “their marital alliance will secure peace for our two countries. And that’s the most important thing.”

She smiled to herself in quiet satisfaction. Her deceased husband and his fellow counselors from both nations had achieved a brilliant political success. It was up to James and Margaret to make the most of their marriage.

King James removed his hunting bonnet and bowed before his fiancée. He took her hand and drew her aside, where they spoke in quiet conversation until it was time for supper.

Afterward, the music of dancing filled the hall. Diana smiled broadly as she welcomed Colin, and the two joined the others, English ladies with Scots noblemen, in the slow steps of a courtly promenade.

Kinrath passed his cousin and lady on their way to the dance floor. He bowed to Francine and she returned his révérence with a curtsey.

“Are you feeling well enough for the dancing?” he asked. “If not, I can escort you to the inn and return to the castle.”

Surprised at the obvious solicitude in his voice, Francine offered him a pert smile. “Oh, I was merely tired when I fainted at Lamberton Kirk. The warmth and the crowd and stale air in the pavilion momentarily overwhelmed me. Pray, do not give my health another thought.”

He smiled at her reply, his eyes glowing with admiration. He took her hand and pressed a light kiss to her fingers. “Lady Emma said you insisted on coming tonight. I thought I’d made it clear this morning that I wanted you to stay and rest at the inn today. Between my kinsmen and my brothers’ retinues, there’s a small army at Hogshead to guard you.”

“I don’t remember giving you permission to make decisions for me,” she responded tartly. “If I hadn’t attended Princess Margaret tonight with her other ladies, my absence would have been noticed.”
And gossiped about.