Authors: Anna Markland
STIRLING
As they approached the north gate of Stirling Castle after another day in the saddle Tannoch called a halt. He dismounted and strode towards the mountain pony carrying the Earl. He grasped a handful of the auld man’s white hair and lifted his head. “Recognize this place, Kingslayer?” he taunted.
Rheade suspected the Earl couldn’t have spoken his own name, let alone known where he was, but Tannoch persisted, pointing to the castle wall. “Remember, a dozen years gone, yer cousin, Murdoch Stewart, and his two sons executed here by yer order?”
He snorted, let go of the Earl’s head, remounted and led the column forward.
Armed guards challenged them at the gate.
“I am Tannoch Collier Starkey Robertson,” he declared loudly, puffing out his chest, “Chieftain of Clan Robertson and Queen Joan’s loyal servant. Inform Her Majesty I have captured Walter Stewart and his grandson, Robert. I await her instructions.”
Well to the rear of the group, Margaret leaned over to whisper to Rheade. “He didna capture them.”
Rheade shifted his weight in the saddle. “It’s his right as chieftain to lay claim to the arrest.”
She mumbled something under her breath. He wasn’t be sure, but it may have been
Bollocks
.
The guards gawked until Tannoch snarled at them like an angry bear. Rheade knew what a daunting sight it was, given that many of his brother’s teeth were either missing or stained brown. The obscene mouth and the bushy, unkempt red beard were enough to knock any man off balance.
Two scurried off. The rest ushered the Robertsons and their prisoners through the gate and into the bailey, bowing as if the King of all the Scots himself had arrived.
Rheade was heartsick; the Queen’s men likely judged the Robertsons a barbaric lot. But at least Tannoch hadn’t mentioned Margaret.
He glanced at her. She’d snuggled into the plaids for protection against the cold wind. He wanted to plant a kiss on her red nose. “Not long now,” he reassured her. “I’ll get ye warm once we’re inside.”
She looked up at the forbidding stone walls and shrugged. “Let’s hope I’ll be lodged in a chamber and nay a cell.”
Her brows knitted when a man appeared in the bailey. He was dressed in an ankle length
léine
over which he wore a heavy plaid. A fine broadsword sat on his hip. The quality of his garments and the disciplined demeanor of the dozen or so liveried guards who accompanied him bespoke a man of some standing. Tannoch’s message had evidently stirred interest.
“Robert, Lord Erskine, Earl of Mar,” the man grunted, addressing his words to no one in particular.
“He’s not looking at Tannoch,” Rheade said. “That willna sit well.”
“Commander of this garrison,” Erskine continued, finally setting his gaze on the scowling Robertson chieftain. “Ye claim to have captured two of the assassins?”
Tannoch cocked his head in the direction of the prisoners. “Aye. The Stewarts.”
For the first time a slight smile tugged at the corners of Erskine’s mouth, but he didn’t look at the captives. “Excellent news,” he declared.
Without another word from the Commander, the guards quickly took charge of the mountain ponies and led the prisoners away.
Erskine and Tannoch carried on a conversation, but Rheade’s attention fixed on Margaret. A tear rolled down her cheek as she watched Robert’s pony disappear. He put a hand over hers. “Dinna cry for him,” he whispered. “He’s not worth it.”
“I’m nay crying for him,” she said hoarsely. “I’m crying for myself.”
She’d shown uncommon strength throughout the ordeal, but she was a wee lassie, far from home and family in a hostile land. He thought suddenly of his mother and what she’d undergone, a catastrophe he’d known naught about. He knew in his heart his father had protected his wife from the horror. His love had helped her survive.
Mayhap Margaret believed she was without a champion. “I swear to ye, Margaret Ogilvie,” he rasped, brushing the wetness from her cheeks with his thumb, “ye’ll ne’er shed another tear over Robert Stewart.”
She smiled weakly, and he prayed God would grant the fulfillment of his vow.
~~~
Daughter of a wealthy landowner, Margaret had grown up in a comfortable house, but Dunalastair had been the first castle she’d ever entered. It was grand and imposing compared to Ogilvie House, but she’d felt welcome there, until Tannoch’s return home. The grey walls of Stirling cloaked her heart with dread.
They dismounted in the courtyard. Stable boys led their mounts away. Margaret feared she might never see Bàn again. Rheade too fussed over Dubh’s care.
Robert Erskine slapped Tannoch on the back. “Her Majesty has granted an audience. She’s pleased.”
From what Margaret understood of protocol, not to mention good manners, Tannoch should introduce his brother.
The angry frown on Rheade’s face betrayed his resentment of the insult as Tannoch strode off with Erskine. It was a far cry from the relationship Margaret had shared with her brothers. Anxious to bring back the smile that did strange things to her innards, she said the first thing that popped into her head. “Surely he’ll bathe before he appears before the Queen?”
Rheade clenched his jaw, smiling grimly. “Brother,” he shouted.
Tannoch’s spine stiffened. He halted and turned around, his face an angry mask. She wondered again why he resented Rheade.
Erskine looked back over his shoulder. “This man is yer brother?” he asked, indicating Rheade.
“Aye,” Tannoch conceded. “Slipped me mind in the excitement to introduce him to ye. Rheade Donnachaidh Starkey Robertson.”
Rheade bowed. “My Lord Erskine.”
Brows arched, the nobleman studied him, likely amazed this handsome and polite Highlander was Tannoch’s brother.
Rheade took Margaret’s hand. “May I present Lady Margaret Ogilvie.”
At first she wasn’t sure what to do, but it came to her that in normal circumstances she would proffer her hand to any nobleman to whom she was introduced. She had done nothing to warrant treatment as anything less than a woman of good breeding and education. Gripping Rheade’s hand she held out the other to Erskine.
He brushed his lips over her knuckles. “Lady Margaret. Welcome to Stirling.”
Tannoch shifted his weight from foot to foot, gnawing on his bottom lip. “I’ll speak to ye later about Lady Margaret,” he muttered to Erskine, drawing him aside. “I’ve another brother, younger yet, but he’s in the Grampians.”
Erskine arched a brow. “Hunting Graham?”
Tannoch grinned. “Aye. Rheade and I will join him as soon as the Queen gives leave.”
The prospect of Rheade riding off into the mountains and leaving her alone in this bleak place filled her with misgiving.
Erskine disentangled his arm from Tannoch’s grasp. “Yer brother should be present at the audience. No doubt he helped track down the Stewarts. Her Majesty will want to hear every detail.”
Tannoch glowered at Rheade, but seemed to accept that objecting to his brother’s inclusion would seem churlish. “Aye,” he muttered.
“Firstly, however,” Erskine said, “chambers await and a well deserved bath is being prepared.”
“Thank goodness,” Margaret whispered to Rheade. “For the Queen’s sake. The poor woman has suffered enough.”
She breathed easier when Rheade chuckled.
CLEANSING BATHS
Rheade was less than pleased at having to share a chamber with his brother, especially when he discovered there was one bathtub. It wasn’t likely chambermaids would appear to empty the wooden tub and refill it, and he had no intention of putting as much as a toe in any water Tannoch had bathed in. He quickly stripped off his garments, piled them on the bed, and sank into the blessedly hot water. The heat seeped into his bones. Only his knees still felt chilly sticking up out of the water.
Tannoch sprawled on the other side of the bed still wearing his boots and filthy plaid. “Ye’re too fussy about washing,” he scoffed.
Before Fion’s startling revelations, Rheade would have ignored the remark, but a devilish impulse to test Tannoch urged him on. “Aye, ’tis a trait I inherited from my father.”
His brother raised his head and glared. “Too true,” he replied, scratching his scalp vigorously, “Da was a fiend for cleanliness whereas I believe a good coating of muck helps keep a body warm.”
Rheade shrugged. “That’s as may be, but there’s naught like a hot bath to invigorate a man.”
He retrieved the cake of Castile from the bottom of the tub and made a big show of lathering it over his arms and chest, noisily inhaling the pleasant smell of the soap. He congratulated himself on recognizing the distinctive olive oil aroma, but there was something else mixed in that reminded him of Margaret. With her nose for scents, she would know what it was.
The notion of sharing a tub with the tempting lass from Oban proved to be invigorating as well, but the water hid his arousal from his unsuspecting brother. She’d been assigned to the adjacent chamber. If he was quick—
He quickly abandoned the idea. Tannoch would get suspicious if he rushed off.
A worry gnawed at him that his chieftain intended to appear unwashed before the Queen. He chuckled. It was perhaps unlikely Her Majesty would knight a man who offended her nose, especially when he’d been given the opportunity to bathe. However, it wouldn’t speak highly of the clan.
“What’s amusing?” Tannoch asked.
Rheade decided to confront the problem head on. “Ye cannot meet the Queen stinking as ye do,” he told his brother bluntly. “Ye smell like a midden.”
It was something he’d long wanted to say, and it felt good, despite the scowl he received in reply. He threw caution to the winds. “And yer beard. Da would be ashamed. Ye’re meeting a Queen and ye look like a barbarian.”
Tannoch grunted, scratching under his chin, then abruptly grabbed Rheade’s plaid, stroking his finger over the gold pin.
Nothing concerning the brooch had ever passed between them before, no question raised as to why the family heirloom had been given to the second son. Now wasn’t a good time to embark on such a discussion, so Rheade pressed on with his argument. “Queen Joan will be graceful and she’ll thank ye for capturing the assassins, but then ye’ll be quickly dismissed before the stench makes her swoon.”
Tannoch rose from the bed, sloughing off his plaid. “Ye’ve made yer point,” he muttered gruffly, Rheade’s plaid and pin still in his meaty grasp. “Get thee out of the tub. And fetch yer
raser
.”
Rheade stepped out and reached for the drying linen as the water cascaded from his body.
Tannoch threw Rheade’s plaid onto the bed. A rare smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he removed his own clothing. “I see what ye mean about invigorating,” he quipped. “Or is it thoughts of Margaret Ogilvie have stiffened yon rod at yer groin?”
Rheade tucked the cloth around his hips, shrugging off the insult. He took his
raser
from his satchel. He’d purchased it from a traveling
caird
years since, and the tinker had shown him how to keep it honed. He’d have to buy a new one after Tannoch was done with it. A dreadful thought occurred as he stared at the thin copper blade. If his brother asked him to shave his beard—
Tannoch narrowed his eyes as he sank into the tub. Had he divined Rheade’s treacherous thoughts, or was it simply that he hated bathing? “Dinna think I take kindly to yer new-found impudence, little brother. I dinna give a care what Da thinks of me. I am chieftain now, and ne’er forget it. Now pass me yon
raser
.”
Rheade willed his hand not to tremble as he handed the blade over, sickened by his fleeting contemplation of cutting his brother’s throat.
Mayhap the kingslayers weren’t the only wicked men in the Highlands.
Angry, he located fresh hose and a
léine
in his bag and stuffed in the one he’d torn to make bandages. One thing Glenna did do skilfully was ply a needle. She’d repair it for him. It was too costly to throw away. Time and effort had gone into dying it saffron, a color he was fond of.
He shrugged into the clean ivory
léine
, adjusting his plaid over it to hide the creases, relieved the treasured brooch was still in place. It proved annoyingly difficult to get his still damp feet into his hose. He made sure the garters were good and tight, then pulled on his boots. He took a deep breath, pleased that the aroma of the soap still clung to his skin. At least one member of the Robertson family would smell clean for the Queen.
He didn’t want to spend another moment watching Tannoch scrape away at his beard ensconced in scum-topped grey water. “I’ll be back shortly,” he muttered, raking his hair into some semblance of order with his fingers as he headed for the door.
Tannoch watched him. “And my son will be chieftain after me, so dinna get any ideas along those lines,” he shouted, brandishing the soapy
raser
.
After slamming the door, Rheade paused in the hallway. For the first time he pitied his older brother. It wasn’t surprising Tannoch disdained bathing. No amount of water would ever wash away the fear that seemed to consume him. But what was he afraid of?
~~~
It had been wrenching for Margaret to leave her lady’s maid behind in Oban. Aunty Edythe had insisted the woman who’d served her since she was a child was too old and the Master of Atholl would provide a hundred servants for her. In the meanwhile Edythe would gladly serve as lady’s maid.
Luxuriating in the hot water, Margaret snorted at the absurdity of Edythe willingly serving anyone. It startled the young lass who’d been assigned to assist her. The girl teetered on the verge of tears as the soap slid from her grasp into the tub.
“Sorry, Hannah,” Margaret said, retrieving the slippery cake and handing it back, “I was thinking how pleasant it is to have a maid again.”
Hannah’s bright smile returned as she rubbed soap onto a washcloth and handed it to her. “Ye’ve been without one for a while?”
Margaret accepted the cloth, inhaling the familiar scent of the Castile and something else. Violets, she’d wager. She’d never tried the combination. “Aye, since leaving Oban,” she confided, enjoying the fragrance of the lather on her skin.