Rivals for the Crown (41 page)

Ale had been the
favourite
drink of the night, and the mood had changed when most had been fed and drinking had begun in earnest. The families had long been gone, and the only women left had been whores when the inevitable fight had begun. It was Mosheh who had waded into the center of it, Mosheh who'd thrown the men out into the street and who'd wrapped his arm around Papa and laughed about it. He'd thrown Rachel a look of triumph, and she'd realized that, despite her words to him, and his verbal acceptance of them, Mosheh had not given up hope of marrying her.

Mama would leave on Sunday morning to attend to Sarah during the birth of her child. She would be gone for two weeks or so, to return by November 30, the feast of St. Andrew, the patron saint of Scotland. Strange, Rachel thought, to have spent so much time in a Christian city that she now measured the years by their saints and holy days as well as her own.

Her father led them now in prayer and she bowed her head, praying for Scotland and for the end of the uncertainty that had kept her adopted country in turbulence. And kept Kieran from her. He'd written a few times, not often, and never a long letter.

Rachel's parents had never commented on the letters, nor had they forbidden her to write back. Each letter took months to arrive, and she knew that one day they would stop arriving. And then they

did. It was her fault. How could she expect him to continue when she'd told him so plainly that nothing would come of it? Now the letters had stopped, and she could only believe that he'd finally accepted her decision. Or had found someone to replace her. Martinmas, the feast of the harvest. Hers was a bitter one, but the only one that should be.

It was time to make her decision. That night she lay in the dark and thought. And the next day, after the Sabbath had been observed and the tavern was quiet and empty of patrons, instead of letting Mosheh talk to Papa alone, she joined them, smiling at Mosheh's simple jokes, laughing at his more clever ones. He was a good man. She could do worse than to choose him.

But still she waited. Just in case Kieran would write or come to her.

Mama sent word that Sarah had given birth to a beautiful little boy; named James Jacob Edgar Keith. Papa was delighted and told everyone who would listen about his grandson. Mama returned, after three weeks away, and they resumed their normal lives.

Hanukkah came, and Christmas, and 1295 arrived with a fierce snowstorm. When Papa
shovelled
the snow from the steps, Mosheh came from nowhere, took the shovel from Papa's hand, and finished the job. She watched the two of them laughing together. And that night she let Mosheh kiss her.

Candlemas came, Lent began, Passover and Easter came and went. And still no word from Kieran. On the first day of May, when Berwick was celebrating Beltane, or May Day, or both, Mosheh asked for her hand in marriage. She thought about it for two days. Then agreed.

They were married in a solemn ceremony at the end of the month. Sarah and Edgar came for the ceremony, and sweet little Jacob slept through it all. Mama wished her well, and Papa beamed with happiness.

Rachel cried on her wedding day, thinking of Kieran, and of Isabel, who should have been here with her. And on her wedding night, when Mosheh lay snoring at her side, when she was no longer a virgin, she cried again, her tears soaking the pillow.

She continued to work at the inn, often spending more time there than necessary, sometimes even forgetting that she had a husband waiting for her at home. She and Mosheh lived with his parents behind the butcher's shop. His mother did all the household tasks or hired them out, and often made comments about Rachel working in a tavern. Rachel never answered them. She never fought with Mosheh, or his mother, and the weeks, then months, passed.

One Saturday evening in August, she was at the inn with her parents, saying the prayers that ended Shabbat before they went upstairs to work for the rest of the evening, when they heard a thumping noise coming from the tavern. They stopped praying, all of them, and looked up at the ceiling. No doubt, she thought, there was another argument over the merits of the king. It was early for

that, but some men drank to excess regardless of the hour. Her father sighed, closed the Bible, and removed his prayer shawl.

"We'd better go upstairs," Mama said.

"Three stars," Papa said. "Shabbat is not over until we see three stars."

Mama smiled. "Three stars it is, Jacob. We'll stand on the terrace and wait for the stars while they tear down our inn."

"Three stars," Papa said.

"Let's go look," Mama said, leading the way outside. She pointed at the dim sky. "One, two, three."

"That's not a star, that's the moon," Papa said.

Rachel laughed and went inside. She'd counted at least five stars. It was time to go to work. She tied an apron around her waist and went to find the source of the noise.

It was a Highlander, dancing on a table, his arms upraised and much more of his legs visible than should be. The men watching him were clapping in time, and one pounded his hand on a bohdran, an Irish hand drum. She shook her head. It would end in a fight. It always did.

"Not again," Papa said, then turned to Mama. "Go get Gilbert and the lads. We're sure to need help getting this one out."

Rachel stared across the room as the clapping and the drum stopped and the Highlander laughed and bowed.

"Ye owe me that drink, sir," he said. "I danced like a fool. Now I'm going to drink like one."

She hardly heard the roar of laughter that followed. She watched the tall man leap from the table and run his hand through his hair. His black hair, tied in a knot at the back of his head. He turned, still laughing, and saw her. And her heart stopped. Kieran.

"Rachel!" he cried, coming toward her. "I told ye I would return!"

He came closer, laughing, even more handsome than she'd remembered. He seemed taller, bigger as he leaned over her.

"I told ye I would return," he said. "And here I am."

Without looking to see who watched, he wrapped an arm around her waist and, leaning her over, kissed her until she was dizzy.

"Well," he said, his grin wide. "Are ye not glad to see me, lass?"

"Yes. No. Oh, Kieran!" She burst into tears.

It was the hardest thing she'd ever done, telling him that she'd married Mosheh. At first she could not speak, could not do

anything except stare at him while her mind both raced and went numb. Three months. If she had just waited three more months. She told him, in rushed words and with many tears, of how she'd despaired of his return and had finally married Mosheh. He listened, his head down. When he looked at her again, his eyes were ablaze. He turned from her and, without a word, left the inn. She cried most of the night. Mosheh did not ask her why.

Kieran came back the next day, looking worse for the night. She did not ask where he'd slept; he did not offer the information. He sat with her at a table on the terrace, his long fingers toying with the cup he held, while he told her of his life. She told him about Langton and that horrible night, that they had never heard from Isabel, and all that had happened in his absence.

"I'm still with William Wallace's lot. De Boyer is right that there will be war. Unless some miracle happens and Edward of England falls dead. But de Boyer is wrong about who will win. We will be the victors. That's what Rory and I have been assuring our people. Rory's done great things, helping to unite the clans, getting them to forget their differences." He pulled a packet of letters from his shirt. "From him, to Isabel. He wrote her all the time but had no way of getting these to her. If ye ever see her..."

"He never came, Kieran, never wrote. Isabel left here thinking he'd forgotten her. I know she was distraught about it. As I was that you stopped writing."

"He never forgot her. He still has that ridiculous crown she made. He was coming to see her when he was outlawed. And when we heard King Edward was here, and Langton was with him, Rory came to Berwick like a madman, risking being an outlaw in a city full of English soldiers, to find her. But she was gone, ye were gone. He heard about her stabbing Langton, b
ut no one ken
where she was, or where ye were, and the inn was shut. No, he's still thinking of her, Rachel. As I have been thinking of ye. All this time, I thought of ye constantly."

"Why did you stop writing?"

"I joined William's troop. When I was home, I could send letters through the runners and on the ships that come by. But living in the forest as we do, there's no easy way to send a letter. We get messages out, aye, and they come to us, but none of it is reliable."

"I thought you had forgotten me."

"Never. Did I not tell ye, lass, that I would come back?"

"It's been over a year, Kieran."

"I thought ye'd wait."

"I thought I'd been abandoned."

"Never. Not by me. Not even now. If ye ever need anything, I'll be here."

She smiled sadly. "How will you know? How could I tell you?"

His smile was rueful. "Aye, that's the thing. Is that him?"

She turned, her stomach in a knot, to see Papa and Mosheh standing together near the door, watching them. "Yes."

"He's coming over, lass."

Kieran stood, and Rachel did the same. Mosheh moved slowly past the tables, his face impassive, but his fists clenched. Kieran stuck out his hand.

"I'm Kieran MacDonald, sir. Congratulations on marrying the bonniest lass in the city. I wish ye well in yer marriage."

Mosheh did not take Kieran's hand. "And I wish you gone, sir. Or dead."

"Mosheh!" Rachel cried.

Kieran's eyes flashed. "I dinna deserve that, sir," he said. "I'm trying to be civil to ye and I expect the same in return. She's yer wife now, not mine, as she should be. Ye should be generous in yer victory. I'll leave now, but ken this. If ever she needs anything, I will come to her aid. Not yers. Hers." He looked at Rachel. "I wish.. .1 wish ye the greatest happiness."

She cried for most of the night and for days afterward.

EIGHTEEN

SEPTEMBER 29,1295 NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE, ENGLAND

M
IRIAM!"

Isabel had barely taken a step away from the house in which she rented a room when she heard the voice.

"Miriam!"

She stopped. Even after almost four years, she sometimes forgot to respond to the name, often covering her blunder by pretending she was somewhat deaf. She turned to face her
neighbour
Florine, an inquisitive older woman. Or rather, Miriam turned, for she'd renamed herself.

Isabel de Burke no longer existed. She was now Miriam, which she found particularly apt. The biblical Miriam had been the sister of Moses and Aaron. When Miriam had opposed Moses, she'd been stricken with leprosy by God, which was how Isabel felt. Like a leper, she hid from the citizens of Newcastle, and the world, shielding her face and showing no one her true self. The biblical Miriam had been healed seven days later, after Moses had appealed to God. Isabel was still waiting for God to forgive her.

The name Miriam itself meant rebellion, which she still had in her heart. Her sins might be many, but she repented only for a few. She'd been too timid, too fearful in her former life, and it had cost her much. She would be afraid no more. The name also pleased her because Miriam was the name Alis had given the daughter she'd abandoned. Isabel, too, had been abandoned by her own mother. And betrayed by Alis. She thought it very fitting.

"It's Michaelmas. A holy day of obligation," Florine said. "Are you not coming to mass?"

Isabel cursed h
erself for a fool. If she'd wait
ed only a few moments more before leaving the house, no one would have seen her. She paused, deciding. She could lie and pretend she would be going later in the day, but she knew she would be found out.

"Oh, yes, mistress," she said, smiling tightly. "That's where I was going."

"We'll go together then."

Isabel nodded. There was no hope for it now. Instead of the quiet day she'd anticipated, she would go to mass, as she did every holy day, ignoring her feelings of being a charlatan in the church, pretending to pray to a God she no longer believed in. And doing her best to fend off Florine's endless questions.

"Where will you have your Michaelmas feast, dear?"

"With my charges."

"Does the man think his daughters will learn Latin and French between Mass and a feast? He abuses you, Miriam. You must demand more time for yourself."

"I don't mind, madam. It keeps a roof over my head."

"Ah, yes, of course. Rents are due, accounts are settled on Michaelmas. Are all your accounts paid?" The older woman laughed.

"Of course," Isabel said, but in truth her accounts were far from paid. She had attempted murder, and failed. Langton had lived, and thrived, curse the man.

The
rumours
of who had stabbed him varied widely. A madwoman. A spurned lover who had taken her revenge upon finding Langton with another. A political enemy, and apparently Langton had many, perhaps a paid assassin, who had used the gathering at Berwick for his own ends. A French wine merchant had been questioned about his mistress. And the worst one: a jealous husband, one of the king's own, outraged to find his wife in Langton's arms. Had Henry taken the blame himself for her deed? Over time the story had taken shape. The attacker was a woman, once a queen's lady, who was sought throughout the land. Her name was Isabel de Burke.