Snow Raven (30 page)

“You could call in your Maclean dogs, too, I suspect, but will not. For as long as I wrestle with Macleans and the nasty issues that accompany the green and black, I cannot trouble you with questions about Blair’s death.”

“I have nothing to hide, Lindsay. God willing, man, you’ll come to see that one day and we can both get on with our lives.”

Ran finally noticed Merry’s absence. Only the faintest trace of her damask rose perfume lingered in the hall, haunting in its sweet simplicity. Blair had loved roses, too, but her scent of choice was heather. It was odd, yet for a fleeting moment it seemed the Tudor rose supplanted the Scottish heather.

Ran shook off the notion, and Wickham’s company soon after. Nothing would change at Auchmull, not his taste for friends or distaste for enemies, nor would his devotion to his late wife waver just because a new Lady Lindsay graced his sheets.

Chapter Twenty-Five

MERRY WAS NOTHING IF not practical, and the first thing she vowed to do was restore her household to a state befitting the Earl and Countess of Crawford. Besides, concentrating upon mundane domestic affairs helped her deal with the inherited pain of her new position. She itched to dispose of incidental items belonging to the late Lady Lindsay, but knew it would be unwise to test her husband’s temper so early in their relationship. She contented herself with a thorough scrubbing of Auchmull, fore to aft, great hearth to turret, and tumbled into bed exhausted after the labors of the day. She worked as hard as any of the staff, if not more diligently, letting the castle serve as an outlet for her frustrations and building loneliness.

Ran was gone much of the time in the following weeks, concerned with matters in the demesne and quelling the threat of Lindsay retaliation. His kinsmen firmly believed Macleans were responsible for the attack on the wedding party, though the dead had never been identified and in the end were given anonymous but sanctified burial in a small plot at Auchmull. One of the slain’s resemblance to the chieftain of a small Maclean sept, the Padons, led to the speculation they were mercenaries hired by their more powerful relatives to harry Lindsays in the hope of provoking another flare-up of the age-old feud.

Certainly the colors they wore were false. Ran noted someone had gone to great lengths to throw him off track. Wickham was the obvious choice, but he no longer trusted Black Cullen, either, and perhaps Blair’s brother had gone to such lengths to obtain more lands. Macleans were nothing if not opportunists. Ran’s ancestors had learned this the hard way, and it seemed the family would pay forever for the passing lusts of William de Lindsay.

Merry anticipated Christmas at Edzell, and plans went forth to join Lord and Lady Deuchar and their family, but the night before they were to depart for the Grampians, trouble brewed in the outer regions of the realm. Despite the fierce Highland winter, and the difficulty of reiving in the snow, several dozen royal cattle turned up missing with strong evidence of being stolen. It was Hugo who was sent to escort them to Edzell, and he first brought word from Lord Deuchar, for the animals in question had been turned out into the Grampians for forage.

Ran and Merry were together, sharing a quiet moment in the great hall before the crackling hearth. Merry was idly picking out notes on an old clarsach she had found in the dusty recesses of Auchmull, and cradled the island harp in her lap.

At Court she had been Mistress of the Music, responsible for tending Her Majesty’s song books and occasionally the virginals as well. She had a good ear for music, although she had never formally trained. Her soft, lilting refrain of “Draw On, Sweet Night” drew an admiring glance from Ran, bent over his accounts at a nearby desk, and she basked in his fleeting approval like the sun. He was always kind to her, but she longed for the passionate, far too rare moments they shared.

The sudden interruption of Hugo Sumner shattered the pleasant scene like ice upon the loch. Hertha presented the blond giant along with a tray of cakes and sweet malmsey wine, but realizing only something serious would have rousted Hugo from a warm hearth and the company of Nell Downie, Ran waved away the refreshment.

“I take it the pass it still navigable?” he asked the weary, cold Hugo.

Hugo swept off his bonnet, brushing the snow from its brim as he clutched it to his massive chest. He was breathing rapidly, having ridden hard through inclement weather to reach Auchmull.

“Aye, m’laird. But I’ve also come wi’ urgent news from Lord Deuchar. Some of the king’s cattle were discovered missing, and there’s rumor renegade Macleans took them, and are drumming up support for their actions. Just now they’ve captured some unwary travelers and are demanding a heavy ransom for their safe return. ’Tis said they hae none other than the Master of the Stair himself in their filthy paws.”

“Sir Ian Coates?” Ran looked dismayed. “They’ve kidnapped one of the king’s own cabinet?”

Hugo nodded, looking more grave than ever Merry had seen him

“’Tis a dire situation, m’laird, and word comes from Holyrood that King James is furious. He wants ye to try and negotiate wi’ the pond scum since Lindsays are his most powerful allies in this region. If that fails, he hae promised to issue Letters of Fire and Sword so ye may dispense with the thieves. But ’twill be no easy task. ’Tis said they’re led by a canny fellow claiming to be a descendant o’ Robert the Bruce.”

“What can they want with Coates?” Ran wondered. “Simple ransom? Any of a dozen others would have done, including myself.”

“They claim Coates promised them sustenance through the winter, rations in exchange fer fealty to the king, and harsh dealings ’wi their neighboring clan. That Coates failed to deliver on the promise and they’ve a right ta collect on it.”

“Idiots,” Ran muttered as he tossed down the ink pen, raked a hand through his dark hair. “’Tis some skewered notion of justice they pursue. And of all times. Aye, no doubt we have another sept of rabid Macleans on our hands. Pity they cannot be dealt with just as expediently as Badanloch.”

Merry started at Ran’s words, for she had some inkling how tortured he had been by the events of Badanloch, yet his harsh Highland nature surfaced when he was weary or exasperated. She longed to go to him now, slip a comforting arm around his waist and lean her head upon his chest, but Hugo’s presence and the uncertainty of Ran’s reaction kept her still. Instead, she tried to read the expression on Ran’s face. Resolve? Anger? He sensed her regard and met her gaze for moment, nodding slightly as if to reassure her he was all right.

“I’ll assemble a party of men to ride out at once,” he said to Hugo. “Any ideas where the rebels are hiding?”

“In the forest near Badanloch,” Hugo said, glancing from Ran, then with a belated nod at Merry. “Lord Deuchar is sending men from Edzell, too, and they should be here by nightfall.”

Ran nodded wearily. “We can ride out first thing in the morn, then. ’Tis too dangerous to blunder about in the dark, in the snow besides.” He rose from the desk, moved over and put an arm around Merry’s shoulders, gently squeezing. “I’m sorry, Merry. It appears Christmas revelries must wait. I must leave again for a time. God willing ’twill not take long to run these foolish renegades to ground.”

“I hope not,” Merry said, trying to ignore the sudden leap of her heart at his embrace, however distant and distracted, and the irrational pang of fear that he would not return.

* * *

EARLY CHRISTMAS EVE, HERTHA and her mistress watched the men ride out, Ran leading the party of Highlanders, while Gilbert Lindsay brought up the rear.

Merry fought the urge to run out into the courtyard, cling to Ran’s leg and plead with him not to go. She sensed terrible danger looming in the dark forests near Badanloch, even though she had never been there, and shivered even as the last horse trotted through the gate and was gone.

Hertha sought to comfort her. “They’ll be back by nightfall, milady.”

“I pray you are right, Hertha.” Merry smiled absently when the woman brought her a warm, richly embroidered shawl and draped it round her shoulders. “Thank you. I can’t seem to get warm today; ’tis like the winter has settled in my bones.”

Hertha nodded. She patted her mistress’s shoulder comfortingly and recited, “‘To talk o’ the weather’s the folly o’ men, For when rain’s on the hill, there’ll be sun in the glen.’”

Merry chuckled softly and snuggled into the shawl. “I am sure ’tis true enough, but only in fickle Scotland. So much snow already, whilst I doubt the first rime of frost has settled on Ambergate yet.” She grew wistful, thinking of her uncle’s charming estate outside London, where she had spent many an hour growing up. At this hour the family would likely be gathered round the table to break their Christmas fast: rusty-haired Uncle Kit, plain but radiant Aunt Isobel, and the two younger sons yet at home.

Sir Christopher Tanner had once spent most of his waking hours at Court, amusing the queen, but with the passage of years and the mellowing of “dear Bess,” as he called her among the family, Merry’s uncle now enjoyed a more leisurely pace. Besides, the earl of Essex, Robert Devereux, Cecil’s rival and a decided coxcomb, demanded the queen’s exclusive attentions more and more. He had recently been sent to Ireland to subdue the fierce earl of Tyrone, Hugh O’Neill, a relative not too far removed on Merry’s mother’s side. Merry knew her grandfather openly supported Tyrone, and her mother perhaps more discreetly but just as definitely. Tyrone’s revolt four years prior had inflicted a major blow on English forces.

The queen’s position in Ireland had long been tenuous. Not enough money was had to enforce complete subjugation, many of the English plantations had failed, riots and uprisings of the great Irish families threatened what little order yet remained. Consequently, Ireland, or any association with it, was a sore spot with Her Grace. Merry never sought to remind anyone of her heritage and had been left in peace for much of her service. Only the vainglorious Essex, prone to petty little cruelties as he was, remarked once when Merry entered a banqueting hall that he thought Irish lasses were supposed to be uncommonly fair, and he should throttle the little leprechaun who told him such lies.

The remark stung. Sensitive about her looks, Merry had nonetheless raised her chin and pretended she did not hear the nasty comment. Essex could be cattier than other women. He knew the Tanners stood in a favorable light with the queen and begrudged any others a moment of basking in royal approval.

Essex was half Elizabeth’s age but flattered the graying queen outrageously, dancing attendance upon her as if he was a besotted swain whose heart he wore on his sleeve. Elizabeth let him. Certainly she was shrewd enough to realize it was but a political gambit on Essex’s part, but she patted him fondly on the cheek and called him her “sweet liddes.” When she wearied of his pouts and tantrums, she sent him to Ireland to deal with the tiresome rebellion and allotted herself time to concentrate upon the more pressing matters of state. Financial strain upon the Crown, poor harvests, and a growing Puritan movement were beginning to take their toll on the aging queen. Meanwhile, the war with Spain dragged on, freshly fired by evidence they were financing Tyrone’s rebellion.

Such turmoil was the daily gist at Court, but Merry missed it. One never knew what to expect when caught up in the swirling maelstrom of ambition, spies, and political backstabbing. Very few moments were dull, though certainly they were trying. Once she had nearly lost her life when a French madman had sought revenge against her family. He seduced her with his charms and within weeks had a blade to her ribs, a moment Merry did not care to remember, for the sour taste of impending death was a taste one did not soon forget. She wondered what Ran would have done if she had been his wife then. Torn Adrien Lovelle limb from limb, or merely summoned the Lindsay doomster to execute the sentence of doom. Of a certainty, she knew he would not have stood idly by.

Christmas at Court and Ambergate. What a gay, festive time it would be. Merry contrasted Auchmull’s empty, gloomy halls and tried not to let her spirits sink. Instead, she roused the staff into helping her decorate with whatever she could find. The red watch Lindsay tartan made a seasonal wall hanging in a pinch. Merry considered her options, then took a deep breath and plunged on. The best display was above the great hearth. So be it. Soon the gathered, tucked, and beribboned tartan completely covered the space above the mantel, and Blair Lindsay’s portrait as well. Meanwhile, Merry had sent Siany and the other girls out to find a sprig or two of holly or juniper. They returned with rosy cheeks and aprons full of pine cones, laurel, and yew as well.

Earlier in the season, berries had been picked and preserved, and now the cranberries, crowberries, and red whortleberries were called upon to lend a festive touch to the scene. Some were strung with needle and thread, others crushed and cooked in pies and jellies. Merry sent some of the older boys out to hunt for a suitable Yule log, since apparently there was nothing left of the old one or the season had never been celebrated thusly at Auchmull. She was determined things would change. If nothing else, she would live up to her name and add a touch of mirth and drama to Lindsay legend.

Hertha remembered an old wassail recipe of mulled ale, curdled cream, roasted apples, eggs, cloves, ginger, nutmeg, and sugar. It was served in a huge silver bowl, bearing the Lindsay crest. Merry invited all the staff and those within reasonable distance to partake, and for a time the great hall rang with the laughter of children and the chatter of women left to tend their hearths while the men hunted down the Christmas reivers. For the first time since her arrival, Merry felt truly welcome. Her generosity and respect for the old traditions swung their opinions.

The children clamored for a manger scene of the Baby Jesus, and Merry agreed it was appropriate with the eve full upon them. So while the women hastily sewed cloth poppets, she sent Hertha to retrieve the carved cradle from her former room. Merry shared an adjoining bedchamber with Ran now, as befitted her station. Hertha expressed some reservation about using the cradle, but Merry saw no point to it gathering dust when it might be used in an appropriately touching scene of faith.