Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy Two 02] (9 page)

The coronation of the Queen would be interesting, but Amalie looked forward more to the feast. In general, the food the abbey had provided for them was paltry compared with offerings in the much grander establishments that had housed Isabel and her ladies over the past eight months.

The Austen Canons of Scone considered a little bread and water enough to begin one’s day—their own beginning much earlier, just after midnight, at Matins. For their royal visitors, they did provide ale and a tart bramble jam, however.

Amalie liked beef, or a bowl of barley porridge or oatmeal brose, to break her fast. Bread was all very well in its place, but in the morning she preferred food that provided more energy. She was glad to see and smell the cook fires for the midday feast already burning when she stepped outside to have a look at the day.

The other ladies were already packing, so she could spare only a few minutes. Her own things were ready, but she would bear most of the folding and sorting of Isabel’s belongings. Older, more experienced ladies—particularly the ladies Averil Anderson and Nancy Williamson, who had been with Isabel before her marriage to Jamie Douglas—would supervise and criticize everyone and every detail until all was ready for the princess and her party to leave Scone.

In the meantime, there was still the small matter of the Queen’s coronation, as
small
it apparently would be.

She had at least an hour, though, before those proceedings would begin. Although she would have liked to stroll about the abbey grounds, now much less crowded than they had been the day before, she lacked enough time for that.

It worried her, though, that so few people had returned to the abbey.

Annabella Drummond was about to become Queen of Scots and should have shared her husband’s coronation. To have put off her ceremony had been not only wrong of the Earl of Fife but also demeaning to Annabella. But perhaps many more people would arrive in time to help her celebrate her day properly.

In any event, Amalie could not think more about it. She had work to do, and if others thought she was shirking, someone would surely lecture her about duty.

She did not want to hear it, so she hurried in and busied herself with Isabel’s packing until it was time to change her own gown for the coronation.

Knowing Isabel had returned by then and was likely dressing, Amalie washed her face, tidied her hair, and donned the simple sapphire-blue figured silk tunic and skirt she had set aside for the ceremony. With it she wore white silk hose and her favorite pale pink silk slippers. One of the maidservants who accompanied their party helped her tie her ribbons and garters, and adjusted her net and caul.

“Will ye wear a cloak, my lady?” the girl asked.

“I think not, Bess,” Amalie said. “It is warm enough outside and will be stifling in the kirk.” Dismissing the girl, she joined the other ladies.

When they went outside, she saw many more commoners than she’d seen earlier, as well as a few who were clearly noble. Many folks had brought children to watch the smaller event, still a rare enough occasion to impress most of them.

A number of children were running around, shouting or playing games. Their shrieks and laughter diminished as parents shouted them to order when members of the royal family began proceeding to the kirk.

Amalie saw Buccleuch and a few Douglas lords, but she did not see the Earl of Douglas. She saw Sir Garth, talking with Buccleuch and a nobly dressed couple, but she turned her head away before Garth or Buccleuch could catch sight of her.

The ceremony was much briefer than the King’s. Bishop Trail escorted Annabella to a chair of state near the altar, and her son David followed them. But there was no throne, no fanfare, and no procession of lords and prelates. Few of them had returned, and those who had entered quietly to take their places in the chancel.

After a brief Lady Mass, and with no oath for her to take, Bishop Trail made a cross on her forehead with the holy oil and blessed her without asking her to rise.

Then, because Fife had not deigned to lend his presence to the occasion, an attendant approached the bishop, carrying a jeweled gold tiara on a white cushion.

As Trail reached for the tiara, to everyone’s surprise, the King of Scots, who had quietly taken a chair at one side of the chancel before the Queen’s entrance, got awkwardly to his feet. In a quiet but nonetheless easily heard voice, he said, “Hold there, Bishop, if you will.”

Limping to Trail’s side, the King took the tiara from its cushion and gently placed it on Annabella’s head. Then, with a loving smile, he raised her to her feet, faced the audience, and said, “I present to you my own dear lady and your Queen.”

Someone shouted, “God save the Queen!”

Others echoed the cheer, the choir sang a hymn, and it was over.

The whole business took less than an hour.

“The good Lord should bless his grace’s reign for that simple act of kindness alone,” Isabel said tartly when they were outside again.

“It was kind of him to put the crown on her himself,” Lady Averil agreed.

“Fife should roast in hell for treating Annabella so poorly,” Isabel declared. “One of my visitors told me he has organized some sort of tourney today on the Inch near Perth. He calls it a celebration, but he plainly means it to show how little he makes of the Queen. I think his behavior is shameful!”

Amalie agreed but knew better than to say so. It was one thing for Isabel to criticize her brothers. It was quite another for one of her attendants to do so.

The wind had picked up and was blowing from the Firth of Forth.

Shivering, Amalie noted that the other ladies had brought cloaks, and realized that she’d have been wiser to have done so. When Isabel chose her place, Amalie excused herself, knowing it would be some time before the King and Queen joined them for the feast, and hurried back to their monastic building.

Reaching the refectory entrance, she heard a familiar voice hailing her and, with an odd leap of pleasure, turned to see Sir Garth striding toward her.

“Good day, sir,” she said, deciding that he had a pleasant smile. Still, to put him in his place, she said, “I thought I warned you not to accost me here.”

“Ah, but you also said you would stay with Isabel, and yet here you are, running away again.” Coming right up to her and standing so close that she wanted to step back, he said gently, “I hope no one else has made you angry.”

“Only the Earl of Fife,” she said. “But I don’t think that counts with anyone.”

“It would count with me if I could do aught about it,” he said.

“But you cannot,” she said. “I think he treated Annabella dreadfully.”

“Then we agree,” he said.

“But you are his friend,” she reminded him.

“So much so that I am here instead of attending his tourney.”

“The Douglas did not choose to come here though. Nor did many others.”

“Many are afraid of annoying Fife,” he said. “Archie the Grim is not one of those, though. He had his own reasons, I warrant. Still, you must have noticed that Douglases and their allies comprise most of the nobility that did attend.”

“I don’t know all the Douglases,” she replied. “I do know Buccleuch is one of their allies, and I saw you talking with him and two other people.”

“My sister and her husband, Lord and Lady Crosier,” he said.

“I see. Still I note only how few nobles are here compared to yesterday.”

“Be sensible, lass. Most who came yesterday came only because failing to attend the King’s coronation is tantamount to treason. Trust me when I tell you no one wants to give Fife any reason to demand his head.”

“I have told you how I feel about trust, sir. Is that why
you
attended?”

Evenly, he said, “I did so because I had to swear fealty for my estates.”

Amalie looked at him in surprise. He seemed too young to have estates of his own. Then she remembered that Wat Scott was not yet thirty but had acceded to his father’s title, and the Buccleuch and Rankilburn estates, nearly ten months before.

Sir Garth was smiling at her hesitation as if he had read her mind when a shriek from inside the building startled both them. As Amalie turned, a second shriek sounded, this time one of laughter.

A thundering sound accompanied more laughter, and all seemed to originate from the refectory, which lay to the left of a small entry hall. The tall door to the refectory was shut, but with a quizzical frown, Garth reached past her to open it.

Their arrival went unnoticed by the boys inside. There appeared at first, to Amalie, to be a veritable horde of them, chasing each other in all directions, even down the length of the refectory table.

A second look reduced the number to perhaps a dozen.

Louder shouts from one of them alerted his friends, and the mischief-makers scattered, the ones atop the table leaping from it with more shrieks and darting toward two other doors, one in the same wall as the entrance and the other clearly leading to the nether regions of the kitchen and service areas.

“Michael.” Sir Garth did not raise his voice, but one of the small rogues fleeing from the tabletop skidded to a halt.

“Come here.”

The child hesitated, not moving for a period long enough for Amalie to feel tension. She resisted the urge to look at her companion.

The little boy turned at last, revealing a cherubic face with wary, bright blue eyes beneath a mop of blond curls. “What are ye going to do to me?”

“What did I tell you to do?”

A scowl appeared, reminding Amalie forcibly of the man beside her, but the boy said defensively, “Ye ken fine what ye said. Ye said—”

“You had better begin again.” The tone, still soft, chilled her.

The child’s eyelashes fluttered—also blond but thick enough and long enough for her to see them easily when he gazed from underneath them at the man beside her. As she watched, the cherubic lower lip trembled.

Amalie’s heart melted. She shot a glimpse at Sir Garth, tempted to intervene on the cherub’s behalf, but one look at Garth’s stern face silenced her.

“Well?” he said to the child.

“Ye said I should come to ye, and so I am.” He took several long steps.

“Have you forgotten how to address someone to whom you owe respect?”

The mobile little mouth twitched again with annoyance, but the child quickly controlled the expression.

“Nay, then, I have not,” he said soberly. “I should address ye as ‘sir.’ I just forgot,
sir
.” He stood before them now, and looking up, he added hastily, “I
did
forget for a minute, see you, but I remember gey fine now.”

A brief silence ensued, during which Amalie struggled between laughter and fear for the boy. She dared not look again at Sir Garth.

However, evidently seeing something in his expression that relieved his own immediate concern, the little boy flicked a look at Amalie and smiled dazzlingly.

Sir Garth said dryly, “My lady, little honor though he does our kindred with his behavior, this scruff is my nephew, Michael Crosier, my sister’s eldest bairn.”

She had already decided they must be kinsmen. The boy was politely bowing, so she said, “I am pleased to meet you, Michael Crosier.”

He gave her the measuring look from under his lashes that he had given his uncle, saying, “Ye’re no wroth wi’ me, too, then, like Uncle Gar?”

“No, of course I am not.”

His radiant smile flashed forth again, although he shot an oblique look at his uncle before he said, “Uncle Gar will no tolerate bairns who misbehave. But, sithee, the others and me, we were just larking.”

“I saw that,” she said, struggling not to smile.

“Aye, then ye ken fine that it were nowt.”

A hand clamped firmly on her upper arm as Sir Garth said, “It has occurred to me, my lad, that you might want to explain to your father before someone else does just what you were doing here, and how it was ‘nowt.’ ”

“Ye’ll no tell him! Ye’re no such a—”

When he broke off, Amalie saw with a darting glance that his tormentor had raised his eyebrows.

“Not such a what?” Garth prompted.

“Such a traitor,” Michael said firmly, giving his uncle just as stern a look as the one directed at him.

“That is generally true,” Garth admitted. “But you can never be sure, especially with as much feasting and drinking as goes on at affairs such as this today. I might be taken with the drink myself and let something slip.”

“Ye’d never! Ye said a man who lets hisself get ale-shot is nobbut a sorry fool.”

“Even so,” Garth said, “it would be wise for you to present your version of events to your father before he hears another from someone else. Do you honestly think you can trust all those other lads not to wag their tongues?”

The child thought a minute and gave him another measuring look before saying, “I’ll ha’ to decide that for m’self, won’t I?”

“You will,” Garth agreed. “Fortunately, no one has yet called you a sorry fool. You’ll excuse us now. I must escort Lady Amalie back to her party.”

Michael made Amalie another bow. “ ’Tis a pleasure, m’lady.”

“But he’s utterly charming,” she said to Sir Garth as they watched the child dash off. “You won’t really give him away to his father, will you?”

“I’m no talebearer, lass, nor do I burden myself with unnecessary family matters. I’ve seen how one’s kinsmen will bind a man to them if they can, and I require freedom to do what I do. Did you have purpose in coming here, or were you just escaping that crowd?”

“I came to fetch my cloak,” she told him.

“An excellent notion. I shall await you here.”

Chapter 5

A
lready knowing Sir Garth well enough not to argue with him, Amalie hurried upstairs, snatched up her scarlet cloak, and hurried back down again.

“Do you think Michael
will
tell his father what they were doing?” she asked as he took the cloak from her and draped it over her shoulders.

“Aye, for he’s a good lad. I’ll not be amazed, though, if he edits the tale somewhat to his own benefit.”

“Faith, I should think that would be the only sensible course,” Amalie said, imagining what would have happened to her or to her siblings had one of them ever done such a thing as to run the length of a refectory table at an abbey.