“Ian loved me,” Cicely said. “He loved me enough to brave the wrath of the king in order to have me. It cost him my dower, but he loved me nonetheless.” Kier Douglas’s audacious words had enveloped her body in a rush of heat. The child had stirred restlessly within her womb. Had she blushed? She couldn’t tell, for she was
hot all over, and Cicely didn’t dare put her hands to her face lest he realize his words had affected her in any way but with righteous indignation.
“Aye, he did,” Kier admitted. “It was the talk of the border, how the Douglas of Glengorm had lost his wits over a pretty English girl.” And then to his surprise, Cicely turned the table on him.
“Do you enjoy taunting me, my lord? And to what purpose?” she asked him sweetly. “I am sure there are better things you could be doing now. Are the accounts up-to-date? My father always kept his accounts carefully. Of course, since Ian got rid of a serving woman named Bethia there has been no stealing from our stores. It has made the keeping of our accounts much easier.”
“The accounts are up-to-date,” he told her stiffly.
“And can you tell me how many lambs have been born so far? Ewes are such silly creatures, dropping their lambs in the dead of winter,” Cicely noted. “But, of course, we must still keep a scrupulous accounting, mustn’t we?”
“There have been fifteen lambs born so far, two sets of twins among them,” Kier said, suddenly amused. This was a new side of Cicely revealed. She was a spirited lass. Would she be as spirited in his bed when he married her? He hoped so, for he enjoyed a passionate partner. It gave a certain piquancy to bedsport.
“Very good, my lord. Then life progresses as it should,” Cicely approved.
He sparred with her regularly after that afternoon, and after a few weeks he realized that she was no longer pulling a mournful face all day long. In fact, her lighter attitude reflected itself in the servants’ attitudes. Ian Douglas would not be forgotten, but at least he had been put to rest now, and they could all get on with their lives.
March came, and now the anxious waiting for Cicely’s child began in earnest. A week passed. Then two and three. The snows were disappearing from the hillsides. The ice was gone from the loch, where
but a month ago the men from the village had joined with Kier in games of curling, sweeping a round of granite down the ice to a goal called a house. Now blue water sparkled where those goals had once been. There were already early daffodils blooming in a sunny spot near the kitchen door.
And then one morning Cicely announced that she believed her child was coming. “I have been in pain all night,” she told Mab. “Go and fetch Agnes the midwife, and Mary Douglas for me.”
Tam heard his mistress’s words and immediately ran from the hall. When he returned some minutes later he was accompanied by two women.
Mary Douglas instantly took charge. “Put a clean, heavy cloth upon the high board,” she ordered Una.
Agnes went at once to Cicely. “How do you feel, my lady?” she asked the girl anxiously.
“Like I am being torn apart,” Cicely told her. “You must help me, for the only child I have ever seen born was Ben Duff’s heir.”
“There, there, my lady, ’tis a natural event in a woman’s life,” Agnes said, “and this bairn is so eagerly anticipated.” She began to walk with Cicely up and down the hall.
And while she did Mary Douglas saw the flat high board covered with clean cloth, and the Glengorm cradle brought, along with swaddling cloths, a pile of cloths, and a cauldron of water set to boil over the hearth.
The day wore on. Cicely alternated until midafternoon between walking back and forth and sitting by the fire. She was parched, but they would allow her only tiny sips of watered wine to slake her thirst. But finally the manservants were ordered from the hall. Cicely was helped up onto the high board, which would now serve as a birthing table. Mary Douglas stood at her head, propping up her shoulders as Agnes peered between the laboring woman’s outspread thighs, nodding. Finally the midwife looked up.
“This child will be born sooner than later,” she announced.
“Ohhhhh!” Cicely groaned as another, harder pain suddenly overwhelmed her.
Now both Agnes and Mary began to advise her. They taught her to breathe into her pain. They conferred with each other at one point, announcing that it was time for Cicely to begin to push when the pains began to rack her body again. Kier Douglas came quietly into the hall. Neither Agnes nor Mary suggested he leave, for they knew Sir William would want an eyewitness account from his son as to the sex of the bairn as it was born.
Kier took Mary Douglas’s place behind Cicely, his strong arms keeping her propped up firmly. Sensing a different touch, Cicely leaned her head back and her eyes met his. She understood his presence, and did not protest. And had she wanted to protest there would have been no time, for the pains afflicting her now were deep and hard. She just wanted them to stop, and reason told her they would not until the child was safely born. She shrieked with her agony. Her forehead was covered with tiny beads of sweat.
The two women now between her legs called to her. “Push, my lady! Push!”
Cicely bore down with all her strength and did as she had been bidden. The pain subsided. But then it rose up again to assail her. She cried out once more.
“Push harder! Harder!” Mary Douglas said. “And again, lassie! Again!”
“The head is out,” Agnes announced.
Another terrible wave of agony swept over her, and without even being asked Cicely bore down, pushing as hard as she could. She was panting with her exertions, her chemise was soaking wet, and, weakness overcoming her, she leaned against Kier heavily.
“Its shoulders are out,” Agnes called.
“I don’t think I have another push in me,” Cicely said, suddenly desperately tired.
“You are doing well, madam,” he murmured. “Just a wee bit
more, and the bairn will be born. You’re a braw lassie,” he told her.
His breath was warm in her ear. She couldn’t help a small shiver and was embarrassed by it. But then another pain overcame her, and she shrieked again.
“Push hard, my lady! Harder! Harder!” Agnes called to her.
“I don’t think I can,” Cicely moaned.
“The bairn is almost born,” Mary Douglas said. “You must do this for Ian!”
Cicely pushed with a strength she didn’t think she had. She actually felt the child slip from her body. There was the crying of a newborn.
“ ’Tis a fine little lass,” Mary Douglas said, although her tone was disappointed.
Cicely burst into tears. “Blessed Mother! I have failed Ian! I have failed Glengorm!” She sobbed, and the sound was so terribly sad the infant ceased her howling.
“Nay, nay,” Mary Douglas said. “We have an heiress. A fine, strong wee lass, my lady. You have not failed us at all. Do you have a name for her?”
“Johanna.” Cicely sniffed, and she raised her head to see the child. “After my friend the queen. Ian and I had spoken of it.”
Oh, God!
Why couldn’t she have birthed a son? She was no fool. She knew the Douglases would not let Glengorm out of their hands. Her son would have been the laird. Her daughter was just her daughter. The baby, cleaned and wrapped, was put in her mother’s arms. Cicely looked down at the child.
“She’s a pretty bairn,” Kier Douglas said softly.
“Do you think she looks like Ian?” Cicely asked him.
“Aye, I do,” he agreed, although he actually could see nothing familiar in this child. “You’ve done well, madam,” he told her.
“Not well enough,” Cicely said, low.
When Cicely had passed the afterbirth, been cleaned, and put
into a clean chemise, Kier Douglas carried her upstairs to her chamber, where Orva awaited her mistress. Cicely’s serving woman, who had cared for her since her birth, had not been able to watch
her child
suffer through the agonies of childbirth. Now she hurried forward.
“I have failed,” Cicely said.
“A girl?” Orva replied.
“Aye, a little girl. Mary Douglas is bringing the baby up shortly,” she told Orva as Sesi and Una struggled into the chamber with the baby’s cradle, setting it near the hearth.
“ ’Tis God’s will,” Orva said fatalistically. “Is the wee one healthy?”
“Aye, she is,” Mary Douglas answered, coming into the bedchamber with Johanna. “Here!” She handed the infant off to Orva. “See for yourself.”
Orva took the swaddled bundle and looked down at the baby. “She has my lady’s eyes, but other than that she is pure Douglas,” Orva proclaimed. Then she carried the child over to Cicely, who was now in her bed. “Would you like to hold her, my lady?”
“For a moment,” Cicely agreed, taking Johanna from Orva. She looked down at the little infant and was surprised to find her daughter looking back at her. Cicely laughed softly. “Ian’s daughter is going to be bold like her father, I fear,” she said. Then she looked over at Mary Douglas. “Will you be Johanna’s godmother?” she asked the clanswoman. “I should be honored if you would.”
“ ’Tis I who am honored, my lady,” Mary replied. “Aye, I will be Johanna’s godmother. She’ll need another Douglas who understands to teach her how to channel that boldness,” the older woman said mischievously.
And when Johanna Douglas was a week old her great-uncle, Father Ambrose Douglas, baptized her in the village church, with Mary Douglas standing as her godmother, and Kier Douglas standing as her godfather. The day was sunny, and that—along with the infant’s obviously good health—was taken as a good omen.
In late April, Sir William Douglas came to Glengorm. Cicely already suspected the reason for his visit. Since Johanna’s birth the servants and the clanfolk had been much more deferential to Kier. It didn’t take a great intellect to understand that the Douglases had no intention of allowing any of their lands to fall to another family through marriage. And when Sir William had come and was settled in the house’s hall, he said just that. He was relieved when Cicely did not cry out, protesting his decision.
“Of course, my lord,” she said quietly. “But what of my daughter? Johanna is Ian Douglas’s legitimate heiress. If you are giving Glengorm to another, what is to become of her? Will you make a fair settlement on her in exchange for Glengorm?”
“I will,” Sir William promised. “I shall provide a generous dower for her in both coin and goods. And in token of my good faith, there shall be brought to you in the next few weeks a fine dower chest with my first contribution towards her future value as a bride. I shall also place with a goldsmith of your choosing five full-weight gold pieces and twenty of silver for Johanna’s future. She is my kinswoman by both birth and blood.”
“Ten gold pieces,” Cicely said in an even voice. “She is a laird’s daughter, and Glengorm is worth far more than five pieces of gold and twenty of silver. I want ten pieces of gold and one hundred of silver.”
“Madam! You will beggar me. Eight pieces of gold, and fifty of silver.”
“Ten gold,” Cicely said in a suddenly hard voice. “And seventy-five of silver. I will accept no less, my lord. If you will not dower my daughter as she should be dowered I will go to the king. Remember, he did send me his affections, and Queen Joan—with two daughters of her own—will uphold my child’s rights with the king.”
Sir William Douglas laughed. “I have heard it said that your father can be a hard man of business when need be, madam. Obviously you have learned from him. Ten pieces of gold, and seventy-five of silver. Agreed!”
Cicely smiled. “I thank you for your generosity, my lord,” she replied sweetly. “Now I have one other query to make of you. Are Johanna and I to come to Drumlanrig to live? The new laird and whatever family he has will certainly not want the widow and child of the previous lord of Glengorm living here. And, of course, the house is small.” Cicely fully expected Sir William to name his son Kier the new laird, but she thought it was better if she appeared uninformed and surprised by his decision. That was something her foster mother, Joan of Navarre, had taught both her and Jo when they were girls growing up in her household.
Never allow a man to believe you are cleverer than he is, or that you can anticipate what he will do. If you do he will not like you for it, and will be careful of his speech when you are near. Women learn much by feigning ignorance, and men are inclined to ignore them when in serious conversation with another man.
“Why, my dear,” Sir William said, smiling broadly, as if he were about to give her a wonderful treat, “my son Kier is to be the new lord here. You and your child will remain in your home.”
“Glengorm needs an heir,” Cicely said, suddenly nervous.
“Indeed it does!” Sir William replied jovially. “The king has given his permission for you to marry my son, madam. Where you failed with Ian you will succeed with Kier.” He smiled broadly at her. “It is really the perfect solution to the problem. Kier must wed, and you have no other choices open to you.”
Jesu! Mary!
Kier Douglas thought. The same man who had warned him to proceed slowly with the widow of Glengorm was now about to set her into a towering fury, and frankly, Kier decided, he could not blame Cicely for being angry.
She was ominously silent. Her mind raced, attempting to sort out the possibilities. At first Cicely could find none. She was a widow with no wealth of her own in a foreign country with a child. “Have I no choice in the matter, my lord?” she asked him in icy tones. “I could go back to my mistress at court.”
Aye!
That was her solution. Johanna
would be raised in the royal nursery with the princesses Margaret and Isabella. And Cicely would serve Jo once again. She didn’t need a husband at all.
“The king will not permit it, madam. He wants you remarried, as a respectable woman of your birth should be,” Sir William said. Then he added, “And King James has agreed to restore to your new husband the remaining portion of your dower.”