Authors: Patricia McAllister
That ever in countrie I knew,
As wale and well of worldly wicht
In womanly virtue.
Her colour clear, her countenance,
Her comely crystal een,
Her portraiture of most plesance.
All picture did prevene; Of every virtue to avance,
When ladies praisit been,
Richtest in my remembrance
That rose in rootit green.
This mild, meek, mansuet Mergrit,
This pearl poleist most white,
Dame Natouris dear dochter discreet,
The diamond of delight,
Never formit was to found on feet
Ane figure more perfite,
Nor none on mould that did her meet
Micht mend her worth a mite.”
As the words trailed off in a plaintive echo, and Seosamh bowed his head over the clarsach, Merry absorbed the corresponding silence in the hall. For a long moment nothing was heard but the crackling and popping of the fire in the grate, and then she saw Lady Scott wipe at her eye.
The poem the bard had rendered into such a lovely ballad was said to have been written by King James IV, dedicated to Margaret Drummond, the one woman he truly loved. She had been poisoned when it was feared he might marry her, and the substitution of Margaret Tudor for a bride had forever changed the course of history. Merry had heard the poem before, but hardly rendered in such dramatic fashion. She could not resist glancing at Ranald, and was disappointed, though hardly surprised, when she saw his countenance as stony as ever.
From the high seat beside his wife, The Scott scowled and tipped a flask to his lips. “Wailie! Canna we hear ye blether something asides the’ gey-dowie ballants, Douglas?”
Seosamh looked up and smiled faintly at the rusty-haired lord. “Perhaps a song of loyalty, and a border reiving ballad?”
“Aye!”
So they heard “Kinmont Willie”, then “Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead,” which roused the male company again and shouting and stamping of feet soon replaced the gloomy mood. The old border ballad was a colorful account, and the harp was accompanied this time by the wail of a single bagpipe and a pounding drum.
“…
“Revenge! Revenge!” auld Wat’gan cry;
“Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie!
We’ll ne’er see Tiviotside again,
Or Willie’s death revenged shall be.”
O mony a horse ran masterless,
The splintered lances flew on hie;
But or they want to the Kershope ford, The Scotts had gotten the victory
…”
Merry saw the men’s eyes shining by firelight, their breaths collectively held as they leaned forward in anticipation of conclusion of the rousing tale. By comparison, Lady Scott and the other women present appeared resigned, and Merry knew why when the ballad ended in a lusty cheer and a call to arms.
“
Bellendaine! Bellendaine!
” cried the Scotts of Branxholm as if on cue, already a familiar refrain by now. When Gordon Scott laughed drunkenly and proposed a border raid that very night, he was met with cheers of approval and fierce accord. The Scott staggered to his feet, his lady wife supporting him without a word, though disapproval clearly shone in Fiona’s blue eyes.
“Aye an’ The Wolf of honor shall lead the border snool,” Scott roared, baring his teeth in an impressive display.
“Mayhap Ran does not wish to join the reivers, dear heart,” Fiona put in quietly.
Heads swiveled in Lord Lindsay’s direction, and Ranald stepped from the shadows with a grin. Merry saw it was not, however, a grin of mirth nor revelry, but rather one of grim resolve.
“On the contrary, Fi, I should relish the opportunity.” Ranald’s hand dropped to his side where the sword normally rested, but he had earlier removed his scabbard as a courtesy to his hosts. The gesture, however, was not lost on Merry, who shivered and averted her gaze. She did not wish any reminders of the true nature of this Lindsay, a warlike soul if ever one existed.
The Scott grinned back, pleased. “We’ll bide awee,” he said, motioning young Brodie over to refresh his drink. “Reivers shouldna be ruers.”
“Tho’ a drukken reiver makes fer a muckle gab,” Brodie said in a teasing tone as he poured golden-brown heather ale into the tankard his uncle offered up.
“Haud yer gab, pup!” The Scott cried with mock outrage, but then he reached out and thoroughly ruffled the boy’s rusty mop. Brodie’s hazel eyes twinkled with delight.
“Can I go, Uncle Gord?” he wheedled, drawing out the “o” in “go” so long that everyone listening chuckled. It was obvious the youth was regarded with much affection in the clan.
“Na, ye wee nickum,” Scott grumbled. “Now leave me be.” As the pleading became more eloquent, he waved aside the youth like a bothersome fly. At last Brodie returned to his spot beside the hearth, sulking there over the cup of watered wine his Aunt Fiona permitted him.
While the men gathered round Gord Scott in anticipation of the night’s adventure, Lady Scott invited Merry to the solar for quiet conversation and a late dessert of early berries and clotted cream. The room was cozily decorated in shades of gold and forest green, with delicate furniture imported from France and luxurious tapestries softening harsh stone walls. Fiona lit an assortment of candles in iron sconces, banishing the shadows. Shortly they heard the horses being saddled in the inner court, the coarse laughter and drunken boasts of the reivers preparing for departure. Fiona rose and went to the window, looking down upon the scene but briefly before she drew the green velvet curtains closed. Merry sensed the woman’s distress and remarked, “It must be difficult, being a border wife.”
“Aye.” Fiona sighed, her demeanor sober as she returned and lowered her girth carefully into a deep chair fashioned for comfort. “The thought ’tis always there that one day Gord may not return. Goldielands would fall to the mercy of the strongest Scott, or mayhap a greedy English neighbor, and then my fate and the children’s would be decided by a stranger.”
“You are young yet, and very beautiful,” Merry said. “Doubtless the new owner would wish to wed you, and secure the loyalty of your kinsmen as well.”
Fiona appeared to shudder. “I see you are not unfamiliar with the practical Scots nature.”
Merry laughed. “Scotland cannot lay sole claim to practicality, I fear,” she said. “’Tis much the same in England. Rich widows fetch a high price in the Tudor Court. More so if they are comely. A stubborn man can always be swayed by a pretty face.”
“Certainly it must make the aftertaste more pleasant,” Fiona agreed with a smile as she sipped at a chamomile drink she had poured for both women. Setting the cup and saucer aside, she invited, “Tell me of your betrothed, Mistress Tanner. What sort of man is he?”
“Meredith. Merry to my friends and family.” When Fiona nodded and smiled in response, Merry sensed their green friendship quickly ripening. “I fear I know little of milord husband-to-be. He is said to be handsome, possessed of a well-turned leg, and accounted a good dancer.”
Fiona chuckled. “The latter ’tis an important attribute in Tudor circles, I take it?”
“Oh, aye, to me it is. I adore dancing. I should be heartbroken if he did not permit frequent visits to Court after we wed, especially attendance at the masques Her Grace puts on. Already I have half a dozen costume notions I have not yet had opportunity to display.
“I am quite vexed I missed the spring masque planned at Greenwich. I was going as Diana, goddess of the hunt. I had a marvelous outfit made, a jerkin of amber damask and trunk-hose of moss green with gold stripes. I had a jeweled quiver fashioned to sling over one shoulder. There was also a yew bow painted gold, and arrows with ruby tips.”
“Sounds more like Cupid,” Fiona remarked with a laugh, and Merry nodded, smiling impishly.
“Aye, I confess the mischievous thought did occur to me that I should target Wickham while wearing the garb, and reveal my identity whilst he was quite outraged.”
“Wickham?” Fiona stared at her, the pleasant smile instantly replaced by a guarded look Merry did not understand.
“Aye, Sir Jasper Wickham. He is my betrothed.”
“Oh, my God.” Fiona’s hands flew to her mouth, her blue eyes huge. Shock rendered her nearly speechless, though Merry was unable to let it pass.
“What is amiss, Fiona?”
The golden-haired woman took several deep, ragged breaths and finally regained her composure. “Does … Ran know this?”
Merry nodded, frowning. “Aye, I told him at once I was en route for a meeting at Whitehall with the man I am marrying.” She tilted her head. “You seem uncommonly alarmed. Is there something about Wickham I should know?”
“I do not know what to tell you, Merry.” Fiona shook her head in obvious distress. “I only know Ran blames an Englishman named Wickham for his wife’s death. His rage is evident whenever the man’s name arises.”
“He said nothing of it. There was no reaction when I mentioned Sir Jasper, none at all.”
Fiona nodded, looking stricken. “That is what worries me. Ran’s silence is deadlier than his rage. ’Tis possible he has forgiven the man, I suppose, whatever trespasses he incurred, but far more likely he bides his time for … some sort of opportunity.”
“Such as?” Merry did not want to admit Fiona’s words frightened her, but they did. She already knew dark undercurrents swirled beneath Lindsay’s calm exterior, yet she did not know what lengths he might go to in order to gain satisfaction. Was it possible he intended using her in some manner? He might have killed her a dozen times over if it was personal harm he planned, so the plot, if there was one, was more subtle than either she or Fiona suspected.
“Auchmull,” she whispered.
Fiona nodded emphatically. “You must not go there, under any circumstances. I shall appeal to Gord, insist you stay on with us until Wickham can be contacted. Hopefully Ran will suspect nothing, if I give him no cause for doubt. We have always been friends, more like brother and sister.”
“If Lindsay did anything to me, he should reckon with the queen,” Merry said a trifle shakily. The full impact of Fiona’s words had yet to sink in. “Would he see Tudor wrath brought to bear upon the entire Lindsay clan?”
“For Blair’s sake, aye.” Fiona did not hesitate, and Merry felt a pang of emotion she did not intend examining too closely. “He adored Blair beyond this earth. Her shadow has never left his eyes since her death.”
“How did she die?”
“I am not certain, exactly. There was an incident involving Wickham, I know. Something about Blair becoming lost, forced into accepting shelter at Wickham’s keep. She took ill, I believe, and Wickham did not send for Ran. Not until ’twas too late. She died, and Ran holds the Englishman responsible.”
“’Tis a very thin tale,” Merry said, frowning. “There must be much more to it.”
“No doubt, there is. Ran does not talk much of the incident, nor do those of wise persuasion ask for detail. I advise you, Merry, against trifling with his temper. ’Tis slow to rise, but once established, there is no escaping unscathed. Growing up at Edzell, Darra and I both suffered his occasional blasts of cold rage. There was a time, for about three years, when I did not speak with Ran at all.”
Merry set her jaw. “Yet you had reason for wishing reconciliation. I have none. I owe Ranald Lindsay nothing, neither fealty nor respect. He lost the latter when he did not tell me of his previous acquaintance with Wickham.”
“Perhaps I am mistaken. Some months have passed since Blair’s death, his anger may have eased by now.”
“Nevertheless, I do not intend to be an unwitting pawn any longer. When he returns from reiving with his border cronies, he will deal with me in an honest fashion or by heavens he will learn firsthand of a Tanner temper, as well.”
* * *
MERRY WAS WAITING IN the great hall when the men returned in the wee hours of the early morn. Shouts and excited whinnies of horses heralded their arrival, and there was no doubt as to their success when the doors flew open and Lord Scott strode in. Swaggered, rather, his broad face gleaming with sweat and grinning with triumph, the docked tail of a calf swinging from his own red braids. Most of the men had peeled off on the way back, returning home to their own wives and warm hearths, so the number entering with the laird was considerably smaller than that which had left. The handful included Ranald.
Merry’s eyes widened at his appearance. His kilt was torn, revealing one bloodied knee when he walked. It was obvious he favored his right leg now, and whatever happened was likely not innocuous, for his shirt was stained and smeared with dried blood. Someone had plaited his dark hair, which fell in straggling clumps over his broad shoulders, a victim of wind and rain, and he looked for all the world like a wild Highlander there to storm Goldielands. Yet there was a gleam in his dark eyes she did not recall before, a sketch of primal satisfaction. Something deep within her shivered, and courage almost deserted her.
Too late. The Scott noted her in the shadows, and seemed surprised. “Hout! What’s this?”
Merry stepped forward, her head held high. She looked not at Scott, but Ranald Lindsay. “’Twould appear there is dire need for some answers, sirrah.” Never was she so aware of her own diminutive size as the bloodstained Wolf of Badanloch loomed over her, and their gazes met and locked. He must have read the icy glint of anger in her eyes, yet his only response was a faint shrug that mocked her confrontation.
“What is your claim against Wickham? I demand an answer, milord.” Merry’s voice shook, but she was pleased her body did not do likewise. The other men lapsed into stunned silence, drifting away to their beds, but Lindsay remained firmly planted before her and The Scott folded his brawny arms and observed their terse exchange with interest.
“My quarrel with Wickham does not concern you.” Ranald’s words were clipped, intending discouragement, but Merry was buying none of it.