Snow Raven (35 page)

Uncle Kit and Aunt Isobel had already arrived, and were comfortably ensconced at a banqueting table with fellow knights and ladies of similar rank. Kit was a “fox” as every year, since Elizabeth adored it so, and Isobel came as her lord husband’s pretty little snow goose. She was garbed in pristine white satin with crystals sparkling over her skirts and hair, and waved a great feather fan to combat the stuffiness of the hall. Twelfth Night was the usual crush of revelers, some reeking of perfume and others sweat or ale, but excitement permeated the air and all heads craned as each new arrival was presented.

The queen had not yet appeared, doubtless awaiting the moment when her entrance was made even more spectacular by the suspense preceding it. Elizabeth Tudor was nothing if not shrewd. Merry was relieved she had a moment to relax and circulate, and while Gil fetched her a plate from the vast spread of delicacies, she gazed over the colorful crowd. There was still a line of those waiting to be presented at the door, but some of the costumes must needs explaining, and Merry was amused by the furious whispering going back and forth between the announcer and the impatient arrivals.

Gil reappeared and handed her a glass of malmsey and a plate containing roast goose, several slivers of cheese, and sections of orange. She laughed and offered him one of the slices. While they were thus engaged in playful banter, the announcer’s voice rang out over the crowd.

“The Earl and Countess of Crawford.”

Merry froze, the orange slipping from her fingers to the plate. Could there possibly be another? She turned and Gil grabbed her elbow, held her fast.

Her startled gaze flew from him to the couple entering the throng, amid whispers of confusion and uneasy laughter. The man, neither so tall nor broad as Ran, was outrageously garbed in a mock Highlander kilt, sporrie, and bonnet, walking knock-kneed on his companion’s arm. It was obviously Sir Jasper Wickham despite the dark wig, and Merry drew herself up with outrage.

“Bastard,” Gil seethed beside her. But the worst was yet to come. For “Lady Lindsay” was not a caricature of Merry, but Blair. The sight of the blond wig and grotesquely red smiling lips made Merry sick. Lady Rich, doubtless, or one of Wickham’s other paramours; she’d heard he kept company with a lusty widow, too. How could even Sir Jasper be so cruel?

Merry leaned against Gil for support, whispering, “Take me home.”

He nodded, his eyes bright with rage and disgust. “They are not worthy of your presence, Merry.” His contemptuous gaze took in the sniggering courtiers and ladies as well; only Sir Christopher and his wife realized the depth of evil intent behind Wickham’s actions, and soberly, anxiously, watched Merry from across the hall.

Gil wrapped his arm protectively around his sister-in-law. Though Merry was older, she was petite enough to appear a waif under his guard as they headed for the exit, giving the mock Lindsays a wide berth.

“What, canna stay for the lively reel, lad?” Sir Jasper called out in an exaggerated brogue, and beside him “Blair” pealed with laughter. Their goading remarks trailed Gil and Merry out the door, though Merry remained remarkably composed until they reached Ambergate. There she alternately wept and raged, both for their actions and for leaving without a final cut. Too late she thought of the little dagger; she should have thrust it in Wickham’s black heart in passing!

Gil patted her shoulder awkwardly while she cried, then spoke to her in soothing tones when she stormed. “Och, Merry, ’tis glad I am now for my own bungling attempt at highway robbery. If I had not foolishly waylaid your uncle’s coach, you would be wed to that
Sassenach
snake.”

“I know. Bless you, Gil.” Merry smiled through the remnants of her tears, and soon composed herself again with the aid of a stout port left in her uncle’s library. She considered the wasted work and expense of their beautiful costumes, and sighed. “I suppose we can always sell them before we leave London.”

“What’s wrong with hosting your own ball sometime at Auchmull?” Gil suggested with a wink.

“Oh, certainly you jest. I know none to invite, and, besides, Ran would be furious.”

Gil shrugged. “Darra and Fiona have all the connections you need, and as for Ran, he can go hang. You’ve brought light and laughter to that gloomy old keep, Merry, and I for one should be quite distressed if we did not permit the same for you.”

Impulsively she set down the port and hugged the youth. “Gil, I count you among my dearest friends. You’ve grown into a fine young man, and I trow you have a position at Court if you but seek it.”

“Aye. After tonight, I’ve no desire to associate with such cruel folk. ’Twas amusing for a spell, with the music and dancing and bonny lasses all about, but they lost my respect when they all turned on you with Wickham’s act. I wish now I’d gone reiving as Ran wanted me to. I’d show that smirking
Sassenach
swine a thing or two!”

Merry took her turn at calming the other, then hugged Gil again and wished him good night. As she started up the stairs, he announced he was returning to Scotland. She turned, her momentary lift of spirits gone.

“Why, Gil?”

He shook his head, shrugged. “I miss it, I suppose. Don’t you?”

“Sometimes.” Merry did not feel like lying. She missed the cozy hall and hearth, the laughter of Lindsay retainers and the gruff affection they bore for her. She missed her husband most of all, but Ran neither wanted nor needed her there. Her pride rebelled against the notion of returning so soon, crawling back in defeat after Wickham’s public humiliation. God willing, Ran would never hear of what transpired tonight. His fury would make a frenzied wolf look tame by comparison.

Gil nodded, realizing the answer lay in her cautious reply. “I’d like to set out on the morrow. Your uncle promised to see you home in style and comfort whenever you wish, and there are things I can attend while Ran is busy with the king’s rebels.”

“I understand. But could you possibly take Siany with you? I fear she hasn’t been well since we arrived.”

“What’s wrong?” He looked alarmed.

“Homesick, I think. Nothing serious, but she is pining for the Highlands.” Merry smiled to disarm his visible concern. “I am sure Hertha is missing her terribly, too.”

“All right. I’ll leave Hugo here for now, hire a couple of men your uncle recommended. The border still isn’t safe, especially with a pretty lass in tow.” Gil grinned, and Merry was delighted to see the roguish twinkle had returned to his eye. He had already moved on, dismissed the Wickham incident, and it was the wise and healthy thing to do. Yet she knew she would agonize over her mistakes tonight as she did the countless ones she had made with Ran.

Chapter Thirty

MERRY HAD VOWED NEVER to return to Court after the humiliation of Twelfth Night, but Uncle Kit insisted she must quickly reclaim her dignity and secure her status. Elizabeth Tudor proved quite querulous upon inquiring after the real Countess of Crawford and was not pleased to hear one of her ladies had left without permission. The queen had not seen the mocking charade Wickham and Lady Rich enacted, and thus it appeared Merry had dashed off in some flighty fit of emotion most unbecoming to a married woman.

Merry acknowledged the sense in her uncle’s advice, and after Gil and Siany left for Scotland, she effected a move back into Whitehall where the Court adjourned for the remainder of the winter months. Nell would serve as her main tiring-woman, and another girl was secured for lesser errands and relieving Nell with the babe. The queen did not summon Merry for a week, annoyed as she was to have her masque disrupted, but in the end mighty Gloriana softened and Merry was restored to favor.

As one of Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting, Merry’s primary function was providing social diversion from the tedium of daily royal duties. Elizabeth conducted business in the morning, and dealt with the Privy Council generally until noon. If the sun was out later in the day, and the weather fair, she would walk in the gardens despite the chill. Otherwise, she strolled the galleries of the palace, attended by the favored members of her Court, including Lady Lindsay. The queen devoted part of every day to study, and was faithful to her religious exercises. Supper was the pleasurable conclusion to each day, always a chance for merriment and moments of mischief Elizabeth favored.

When the queen retired for the eve, she was accompanied by the married ladies of her household, one of whom always earned the privilege of sleeping in the royal bed chamber on a little trundle at the foot of the majestic canopied bed. In addition to the guards, several gentlemen of good repute took turns waiting up in an adjoining room, so their liege might be roused in any emergency. While Elizabeth was known to storm in her council, and on occasion slap a pert maid-of-honor, she was for the most part good-humored and tolerant. Few appreciated a keen wit more than England’s domina, nor loathed dullards just as emphatically.

To Merry’s dismay, Sir Jasper Wickham had not left Court but continued as a hanger-on, his usual companion the notorious Lady Rich. Before long he had joined the circle of Essex’s friends at Essex House, securing his position through the absent Earl of Leicester’s reputation. However, noblemen and citizens whose loyalty was of doubtful character were known to frequent Essex House as well, and thus Elizabeth Tudor never came to fully trust the man.

Since the disastrous masque, Merry took care to avoid Sir Jasper altogether, but it was impossible short of leaving Court. Besides, Sir Jasper openly curried her favor now, making a point to approach her whenever possible and gushing both apology and remorse for his moment of “unthinking mirth.” Merry found nothing humorous in the memory or the man, and cut him coldly at each turn. Despite her frigid nature, he continued to subject her to a flurry of flattery and regrets, making her appear the cruel one before the queen.

“What tiresome feud is this, Madame Merry?” Elizabeth demanded one afternoon as they walked the gallery, after Sir Jasper threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture of surrender and left. “I’faith, never have I known you to be unkind. The fact you did not wed Wickham should scarcely be a point of contention now.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Merry agreed, wondering how much she might explain before the other got impatient with her. She paused to admire a portrait of King Henry, Elizabeth’s sire, but the queen was not distracted.

“Wouldst provoke Wickham to further scenes? Offer the kiss of peace, milady, and be done with it right quick.”

Merry took a deep breath, nodded. She realized it was a royal order, though softened by the twinkle in Elizabeth’s gray eyes.

“’Pon my word, y’are as stubborn as your mother at times.” The queen laughed, seeing the resentment in Merry’s expression. “Is’t truly too humbling, m’dear?”

“I fear so, Your Majesty. Mayhap the Highlands have made me too proud by half.”

Elizabeth regarded her with an indulgent smile. “’Tis true, you’ve changed. I rather fancy it, Sweet Cinnamon. Just so your newfound impertinence never exceeds your loyalty.”

“Never, Your Grace. This I vow with my life.”

* * *

WHILE MERRY SAMPLED COURT intrigues and conversed with the most powerful woman on earth, Ran found himself teetering on the edge of quiet despair. He had never expected to miss his wife, especially given the white-hot fury with which he had all but driven her from his household, but the weeks without Merry had proven surprisingly stark and empty. It came as a shock, for he had never considered something in his nature might crave the simple domesticity she offered. Auchmull’s halls no longer rang with laughter, the hearth ceased to burn bright after Christmas morn. Blair’s stolid portrait was little consolation when it was the warmth of a living woman he missed, the playful sparkle of rain-colored eyes or an impulsive kiss on the cheek.

Absently Ran traced his cheekbone, remembering Merry’s little affections. It was hard to resent one with such a giving heart and honest nature, whose childlike devotion to a cause could humble the greatest warrior. Even The Wolf of Badanloch was not immune to a stiff dose of humility now and then. His relentless hunt for the thieves finally met with success, led to the capture of a band of outlaws posing as Padons. The penalty for stealing from the king, whether a bull or a royal stag, was execution. Kidnapping one of the king’s Cabinet was just as grave an offense. Not long ago, Ran would have swiftly dispensed justice himself. He was still raw from the incident with the Macleans, however, and did not like to envision Merry’s expression if she heard her husband executed seven men.

Fortunately the king was not too pressed to deal with the outlaws, and they were removed to Edinburgh to await their grim fate. The indignant Sir Ian Coates returned to the Stuart Court little worse for wear, considering what might have happened. With the excitement of the chase concluded, Ran found himself looking home again. Missing Merry. Her mischievous little laugh, the way she tugged at his sleeve for attention. Her sweet, spoiled, whimsical ways no longer seemed shallow. Rather, he realized she was a woman with a great capacity for love.

Gil’s return, his tales about Court and Merry’s enthusiastic participation in the revelries there, made Ran feel worse. Naturally she would welcome a change from this dark keep and the brooding man who occupied it. Ran had little to offer a woman who rubbed elbows with nobles and gentry and even held the ear of a queen. He had preserved Merry’s reputation by wedding her, but damned them both to a life of eternal misery.

Ran knew he had reacted much too strongly to the cradle incident, but the searing pain of the moment still haunted him. He doubted Merry had it in her to be deliberately cruel, but then reason fled when he had stepped into the hall, weary and disgusted at missing the outlaws, and glimpsed the manger scene beneath Blair’s covered portrait. He regretted his rage, his accusations. None of it mattered now, for Merry had fled to nurse her wounds.

Eventually she must return, however, and Ran decided a truce was the only means wherein they might coexist. If he let her have run of the household, which admittedly he did not mind too much, mayhap she would be happily occupied for a spell. That was the most he could offer. He had neither the means nor the desire to sustain her forever at Court, and there would be no heirs unless he kept her home.