Twenty-Four
THE BORDERS OF SCOTLAND
1290
Edward gritted his teeth. The stallion’s steady canter jarred his arm. A handful of moist peat pressed against his wound and held in place with strips of bloodstained linen cooled the fiery pain in his shoulder. Drops of sweat broke out on his forehead. The royal standard had fallen hours ago along with the bodies of ten knights who would be sorely missed in future battles.
Closing his eyes, he leaned forward to rest his head against the lathered neck of his mount, giving himself up to the endless swaying, the pounding in his head, and the sickening nausea that threatened to overtake him with every step. Soon, very soon, consciousness would leave him. There was no help for it. He would have to trust the boy.
Thomas led the way, urging his own mount and his master’s forward, worried that their forced haste would unseat his lord, more worried that the border rogues who attacked them would follow. He had never traveled this far into Scotland. No Englishman would dare without a full retinue behind him. Thomas was afraid. Scotland was a wild, uncivilized country, filled with men who fought in their bare feet and covered themselves with little more than ragged blankets. Rumors of torture and mutilation flickered through his brain.
He glanced behind at the still, hunched-over figure of his lord. His fear intensified. “Holy God and all the saints,” he prayed reverently, “please don’t let him die. Please help me find shelter.”
Hours later, his prayer was answered. Rising from a blanket of fog so thick it muffled all light and sound was a massive iron gate. Thomas pulled up his mount and sighed with relief. The border code of hospitality was strong. No one would turn away a wounded man.
“Where are we, Thomas?” The voice was thick with pain.
“I know not, Your Grace,” the boy replied honestly. “’Tis the house of a great lord from the size of it.”
Edward, king of England, grunted. The effort required to speak was too great. Once again, he closed his eyes. The lad had done well. If the house was truly the abode of a peer, he had nothing to fear.
Thomas shouted loudly and rattled the gate. It swung open. Guards bearing torches and spears materialized out of nowhere. Thomas waited, his heart in his mouth, as they positioned themselves in a menacing circle around him. He wet his lips. When he spoke, his voice cracked. He stopped and began again. “My lord is hurt.” He nodded toward his king. Instinct told him not to reveal the identity of his master. “We ask for shelter and bandages for his wound.”
Out of the mists came a rider on an enormous white stallion. The human circle parted, and the horseman stopped directly in front of Thomas. He was in full mail. Only his eyes, flat and expressionless, were visible through the slit in his bonnet.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I am Thomas Droune and this man,” he nodded toward the king, “is Lord Durbridge of Surrey. We were set upon by thieves, and his lordship was wounded.”
“For what reason does a gentleman from Surrey travel to the borders?”
Thomas sucked in his breath. He wasn’t proficient at lying, and this man was no fool. “My lord inherited property in Northumberland,” he improvised. “He came to oversee the sale.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as he considered the boy’s answer. It was unlikely and yet possible. The jewels in the lord’s sword hilt proclaimed his wealth. He was also mortally wounded. Most likely, he wouldn’t last the night. “Follow me,” he said at last.
Thomas sighed with relief. His ruse had worked. Still holding the king’s reins, he followed the man across the grounds and into the courtyard. Something at the top of the stone steps caught his eye, something white. He turned to look, and his mouth dropped open. Did angels visit the borders?
“On your knees, knave,” the man ordered. “’Tis the mistress of Traquair.”
Clumsily, Thomas dismounted and fell to his knees.
“These men seek shelter, m’lady,” the man explained to his mistress. “Lord Durbridge of Surrey was set upon by border rogues. He is wounded.”
“Rise, lad,” the lady said. “Bring your lord inside.”
Edward lifted his head as Thomas attempted to pull him from his mount. “Easy, lad,” he mumbled. “I’m not so weak that I cannot stand without a bit of help.”
“I told them you were Lord Durbridge,” Thomas whispered. “This is Traquair House. The mistress bids us enter.”
The king nodded. Leaning heavily on his squire’s arm, he walked around the horses and looked up at Mairi Maxwell. For the first time in his life, Edward I of England, overlord of Scotland, defender of the faith, conqueror of Wales, father of a dozen bastard children, looked at a woman’s face and forgot to breathe.
The bards sang of this woman around a hundred great hall fires. They sang of great beauty and unusual virtue, of eyes filled with mystery and hair soft as silk and black as a crow’s wing in the shadows, lit with a hint of fire in the sunlight. For once, they had not exaggerated. Indeed, they had not begun to do her justice.
Eyes, clear as glass and framed with thick, sweeping lashes, assessed him gravely. Her hair hung unbound to her knees. She was more than lovely, Edward admitted to himself, with a kind of ageless beauty found in chiseled bones and clear skin and perfectly proportioned features. This was no Englishwoman who stood before him in her pink and white glory. Mairi’s Celtic ancestry was obvious in her long hands and pale olive skin, in the blue veins pulsing at her temples, in the thin, angular beauty of her face and the odd tilt at the corner of her enormous eyes. She was dressed in white, the shapeless gown pulled taut by the wind until every slender curve was revealed in the moonlight.
He drew a deep shuddering breath. “My lady,” he began, “I beg—” He stopped and bit his lip. The searing pain, his loss of blood, the wild flight across the moors, the chill night air, and, now, this woman. Blackness swept through him. There was no more pain. The ground rushed up to meet his head, and he crumpled in a heap at her feet.
***
Mairi stood in the doorway and looked at him, lying motionless in the great bed. He opened his eyes, and she could see their startling color from across the room. The tension deep inside of her eased, and she released her breath. For three days, she had watched helplessly as the dreadful fever took its toll, racking his body with tremors and soaking the sheets with sweat. She could offer no more than sips of cool water and a cloth to wipe his forehead and chest. Late last night, the fever broke, and for the first time since he’d fallen at her feet, he slept without moving. Now he was awake, and she could think of nothing to say.
Until this moment, Mairi had no idea why keeping this man alive was so important to her. There were others who had clung to life just as tenaciously and by the slimmest of threads. Some were strangers, others she had known quite well, but it had never been like this.
Never before had she knelt near a bed for hours on end, inhaling the acrid scent of an herb-strewn floor. Never had she fallen asleep with her head on a stranger’s pillow. Never had she lit candles and offered Masses to the saints for their intervention in keeping safe a man she had never seen before. He was just a man, larger and fairer than most she knew, but still a man, until he opened his eyes. Then she knew, and the knowledge tied her tongue into knots.
“My thanks, lass,” he said in a rasping whisper. “Thomas tells me you saved my life.”
Mairi flushed. “You did that yourself, sir. I merely offered you shelter.”
He lifted his head and groaned, dropping back on to the pillow.
She hurried to his side and rested a restraining hand on the bare skin of his chest. She felt the muscles clenched beneath her palm. “You mustn’t,” she warned him. “Give it another day at least.”
His eyes moved over her features. “They were wrong, you know,” he mused.
“Who?”
“The bards. They say you’ve the face of an angel, but it isn’t so. ’Tis a temptress I see before me.”
She laughed, her voice low and amused. “You’re delirious. I’m just a woman like any other, neither angel nor temptress.”
“Oh no, Mairi of Shiels.” His voice dropped. She leaned closer to hear his words. “No man alive would name you a woman like any other.” By the time the last word left his lips, he was asleep.
Mairi looked down at him for a long time. She had never seen hair of such color in her entire life. It was a shade between silver and flax, as pale and cool as the moon in winter. His face was brown from the sun, but the skin on his chest and arms was ruddy and fair. A Saxon, a Sassenach prince of Viking and Norman blood, a sworn enemy of her people. His chest was wide and furred and deeply muscled, his shoulders massive. Even in sleep, he was larger, more vital, than any man she’d ever seen.
So, she thought, this is how it happens. A stranger at the gates, and a woman’s life is changed forever. Shaken to the core, she left the room and climbed the stairs to her solar.
The next day, when Mairi came to his room, he was stronger. He sat up in bed, his bare chest and shoulders propped up by pillows. He smiled at her, the brilliant turquoise of his eyes glinting with light.
“At last, you’ve come,” he said. “I’d begun to think you were a vision.”
Nothing of what she felt reflected itself in her still hands and implacable expression. “You are better today. I’m glad,” she said gravely.
“Are you, lass?” He patted the side of the bed. “Then sit beside me. I’ve never been so bored in all my life.”
Mairi approached the bed, but she did not sit. “You nearly lost your life,” she reminded him. “Sleep will help you regain your strength.”
“I’ve slept enough. What I need now is entertainment. Tell me about yourself. God’s wounds, I’ve heard enough about you, but I never believed it. Why have you never been to court?”
Her lip curled. “An English court is no place for a Scot.”
“You do not approve of England, m’lady?” he asked casually.
She lifted her chin. “Here in Scotland, we prefer independence, m’lord.”
“I see.” His eyes were on her face, noting the defiant tilt of her chin, the winged brows, and the pulse beating erratically in her slender throat. He did not want this woman to disapprove of him. Reaching out, he took her hand and pulled her down so that she sat beside him. “I am English, lass. Surely I’ve given you no cause to despise me.”
“I do not despise the English,” Mairi was quick to assure him, “however, I would prefer that they stay in England and leave the governing of Scotland to us.”
“Margaret of Norway died,” he reminded her.
“Aye, but there is still John Balliol and Robert the Bruce.”
“Both excellent men,” Edward agreed. “But neither has a strong following.”
“Only because the king keeps them in England,” Mairi countered.
Edward grinned. “A clever move on his part, do you not agree?”
She nodded. “Aye. A clever move for a man who seeks to rule both countries.”
He shrugged. She tried to pull her hand away, but he tightened his hold. Laying his palm flat across her own, he threaded his fingers through hers and rubbed the sensitive skin with his thumb. “Perhaps he only seeks to keep the peace.”
Mairi could barely think. “Edward is not a peaceful man,” she managed in a strangled voice.
He looked at her, an arrested expression in his eyes. “What do you know of Edward of England?”
It was her turn to shrug. “Only what I’ve been told. He is forceful in battle, merciful to the conquered, wise in council, but happiest on horseback with his dogs behind and a hawk on his wrist. He is a brave and gallant knight, and his reputation with women is legendary. Besides his wife, he has a slew of mistresses throughout England.” Her forehead wrinkled. “I suppose he is handsome, but I can’t say for sure. David Murray would never notice such a thing.”
Edward watched her carefully as she described his character traits. The light played over her face, illuminating the flawless skin and light, expressive eyes. Below his waist, the tension in his body was tight as the skin of a drum. Her informant had flattered him. For that Edward was grateful. If the truth were told, he was not always wise in council. His temper was inconsistent, and he hated muddle of any kind. He ruled with an impetuous decisiveness that inspired others to do as he commanded. His strengths were his battle strategy and his enviable charm. Without exception, those who disagreed with his decisions eventually came around to his way of thinking. It did not concern him that Mairi of Shiels believed him to be a womanizer. He had no intention of revealing his true identity. What puzzled him was her interest. It was obvious that her curiosity had passed the bounds of idle diversion.
“It sounds as if King Edward is highly regarded by your David Murray.”
Mairi nodded. “David admires him greatly.” A thought occurred to her. “What of yourself, m’lord? Do you admire the king?”
Edward’s skin reddened, and he shifted uncomfortably under her innocent gaze. “He is a man much like any other,” he muttered.
“Surely not like any other?” Mairi teased.
“Aye, he is,” he assured her. “He stands taller than most by half a head, and he is very fair.” He frowned. “There are those who consider him well favored.”
Mairi’s mouth turned up at the corners. “Why, Lord Durbridge. I do believe you are jealous of him.”
Edward’s eyes widened, and the flush in his cheeks moved to include his shoulders and chest. “Indeed I am not,” he protested, shocked that she could conclude such a thing. “Edward is a strong king, but he is not a god, mistress. Do not for one moment mistake him for one. He would not thank you for it.”
“Do you know him well?” she asked curiously.
Edward nodded, and when he spoke, his voice was low and gruff. “Aye. As well as I know myself.” Never in his life had he pretended to be other than who he was, and he didn’t like it. This pretense was becoming difficult to manage. Perhaps he should speak and end it now. “Lass,” he began, his eyes meeting hers across their clasped hands.
“Yes?”
He opened his mouth to confess, but the words wouldn’t come. Faith, she was lovely. What would she do when she found out? Would the trust shining forth from those incredible eyes fade and disappear forever? Nay, he couldn’t risk it.
From the time Edward was fourteen years old, women came willingly to his bed, grateful for his attention for as long as it lasted. Occasionally he wondered if seduction came as easily to every well-favored man who wasn’t king of England. Just once he would like to find out for himself what it felt like to be an ordinary man alone with a pretty maid.
He swallowed. “You are very lovely.”
She did not blush or simper or even look away. “Thank you,” she said instead.
“Are you betrothed?”
She thought of David Murray and the excuses she’d come up with over the years to put him off. Deep in the furthest recesses of her soul, Mairi knew that she would not marry him. Not now. “Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“Only that I’ve been asked and, until now, had considered the possibility.”
“What changed your mind?”
She looked directly at him. “You.”
He stared at her, aghast. “Lass,” he croaked, searching desperately for a safe reply. “I can’t—I didn’t—”
Her eyes danced with laughter. “You needn’t panic,” she teased. “I won’t post the banns until you are completely well.”
Drawing a deep, restoring breath, he settled back against the pillows. “You are a minx, Mairi of Shiels,” he said when he could trust himself to speak again. “Have you no scruples? You nearly stopped my heart.”
“Would it be so dreadful?” she countered.
Once again heat rose in his loins. His eyes moved from her face to the sweet curve of her breasts. What would it be like to take her here and now, when the singing of her blood reached out to him, demanding fulfillment? It wasn’t possible. He hadn’t the strength for it. The scent of roses wafted from her hair. She was direct and unafraid. He would be direct in return. “Are you a maid?” he asked gently.
She did not look away. “Aye. Does it matter?”
“The issue is of some importance,” he replied. “There are those to whom an untouched bride is a necessity.”
“What of you, m’lord?”
He considered her question carefully. For purposes of succession, virginity was required in a queen. He thought of his wedding night with Eleanor. Three lords, the high chamberlain included, had waited and listened outside the cloistering bed curtains. The consummation of a royal marriage was an affair of state. He had acquitted himself admirably and taken her no less than three times that night. Poor lass. She hadn’t enjoyed it nearly as much as he had. Not that the night had been particularly memorable for him either. Untouched virgins were not the most satisfactory of bed partners. Edward preferred lustier wenches who knew what a man expected between the sheets.
Mairi’s expression was serious as she waited for his answer. Her eyes held a question in their depths and something else that could not be denied. Suddenly, it meant a great deal that she had never known another man. Edward felt the racing of pulse. Blood drummed in his temples. What had come over him? He was no debaucher of innocent virgins. He was the king of England, and Eleanor waited for him in London. Mairi of Shiels wasn’t a woman to be tumbled for a single night’s easy sport, and he knew, without a doubt, she would never agree to be any man’s mistress. His eyes moved over her face. It was no wonder he had considered it. A saint would be tempted by this woman with the face of legends.
He cleared his throat and answered her question. “Virginity is less important to me than loyalty. It matters little whether a woman has known another man before she takes her vows as long as she knows only her husband after.”
“Well spoken,” said Mairi, her smiling lighting the still beauty of her face. “If all men had your tolerance, more women would be happy in their marriages.”
He sighed with relief. The moment of tension had disappeared and with it the necessity of confessing his own marital state. He did not intend to bed this fascinating woman, but he saw no need to disclose his true identity or the fact that he already had a wife. Mairi would never travel to London, and he would never see the gates of Traquair House again. No one would be harmed if he carried on this flirtation for a bit longer. It suited him to be an ordinary man cosseted by a pretty maid.
***
Edward awoke for the second time that day. He could see from the light in the small window above his bed that it was no more than dusk, but it would be dark soon. Night fell quickly on the borders. He was no longer tired, and for the first time, hunger cramped his stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hungry. It was an unpleasant sensation. God’s blood! Where was Thomas?
Cursing loudly, he threw aside the blankets and sat up. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and his shoulder ached. For a brief moment, he considered giving up his quest. But the low, demanding growl of his stomach spurred him on. His breeks and boots and a freshly washed tunic lay over a nearby stool.
Carefully, he pulled on his garments, leaving the tunic unlaced at the throat and walked out of the room to the landing. Night had fallen, and the only light came from the evil-smelling torches mounted on the wall. Slowly, so as not to jar his wound, he descended the stairs and followed the light into the hall. His eyes widened at the picture before him.
Reclining on a wolfskin rug before an enormous fire, a look of rapt adoration on his face, was his squire, Thomas Droune. Mairi sat across from him, her hands fingering a small wooden instrument that resembled a lute. Edward waited, hidden by shadows, as the sweet, piercing notes filled the room. His guess had been accurate. It was a lute but unlike any that he’d heard before. The music quivered, trembled, and rose, exquisitely clear, heartbreakingly pure, until the very walls vibrated with the aching sadness of the border ballad. Horrified, Edward felt his eyes sting. Blinking rapidly, he forced back the suspicious wetness gathering at the corners. By God, the woman was a witch. She could charm the spirits from their netherworld haunts.
When the last of the notes died away, he moved out of the shadows and made his way to the fire. Thomas noticed him first. Jumping to his feet, the boy stammered a garbled apology. “My lord,” he gasped. “I—you—”
Edward ignored him. His mind was completely occupied with the woman before him. Slowly, as if in a dream, she stood and faced him. The fire threw an arc of light against the blackened walls, highlighting her face in its golden glow.
She stared back at him, saying nothing, her eyes noting the pulse in his brown throat, the golden hair straying from the laces of his shirt, and the tightly clenched hands that gave away more, much more, than she knew he wanted her to know.
Thomas backed away. The once comfortable room welcomed him no longer. The two had not even touched, but he felt as if he were an intruder in a moment of such intimacy that the scorching heat between them would consume anyone caught in its path. Holy God! He had never seen such a look on the king’s face. This development could be dangerous for the both of them. Mairi of Shiels was the daughter of the late laird of Clan Maxwell. An insult of this nature would not bode well for England. If the Maxwells sent the cross throughout Scotland, not a clan in the entire country would support Edward. Doubt clouded his boyish features as he slipped, unnoticed, from the room.
A log snapped in the fire. Sheets of driving rain found their way down the long chimney. The flames hissed and curled around the life-giving drops, shriveling them into smoke. Edward spoke first. “Will you play for me?”
Mairi shook her head. The music had left her. There was room for only this man, lean and predatory, standing like a golden lion in the firelight. She swallowed.
“Do you want me to leave you, lass?” His voice was thick and rough in his throat.
Again she shook her head.
He knelt before her on the wolfskin and held out his hand.
Mairi allowed him to pull her down beside him, her eyes intent on his face.
“You should not have left your bed,” she whispered. “The wound needs rest to heal.”
He shrugged off her concern. “It will heal.” Her hair pooled like silk on the floor around her. He could not resist fingering the shining strands. “I wish you would sing. ’Tis a lovely voice you have, Mairi of Shiels.”
She tilted her head, considering his words as if to gauge whether they were flattery or truth. Finally, she smiled. “I can sing no more tonight, my lord, but if you like I’ll tell you a kelpie tale of the Highlands.”
He stretched out on the rug, his sound arm behind his head. “I should like it above all things.”
“Very well then.” She leaned back on her hands and began to speak. “Once, the land beyond the Grampians was occupied by Celts, small, dark people with wisdom in their eyes and purity in their hearts. Some say they dealt in magic, but others insist their power lay in the earth goddess they worshipped above all others.”
Her voice had a hushed, mystical quality that Edward had heard in only the most skilled bards. He listened carefully, caught in the web of her words.
“A young girl was born into one of the northern tribes. From the beginning, all who knew her saw that she was different. She spoke to the wind and rain and the animals and all growing things, and they answered her. The earth goddess was growing old, and there were those who believed that Ceilith, the young girl, was destined to take her place.”
Mairi stared into the sputtering flames. Edward watched, enchanted, as the firelight played across her face, shadowing the hollows of her cheeks, highlighting the thin nose, the elegant bones of her face, and the faint dusting of freckles on her skin.
“One spring day,” she continued, “when Ceilith was gathering herbs on the moors, a stranger came to the Highlands. He was tall and fair and rode a dark stallion. Caught by Ceilith’s beauty, he captured her and took her far away, beyond the sea. There he made her his bride. She was very unhappy. She could not eat nor drink, and her song that called up the sun each day dried in her throat. Ceilith’s people mourned her. In the Highlands that year, the spring and summer were short. In the land beyond the sea, darkness descended, and the people were afraid. Finally, Ceilith’s husband realized that she would die. Although his heart was sore, he brought her home to her beloved Highlands and, there on the moor where he found her, bid her good-bye. At first Ceilith was happy. Flowers bloomed, grain grew plentiful, and brightness covered the land. But soon, Ceilith was sad again. She hated the frozen north, but she loved a man. She longed for the man who was her husband. She loved the Highlands and the people of her tribe, but she was lonely.”
Mairi was silent for a long time. Finally, Edward prodded her. “What happened? Did she leave her people and return to him?”
“No.” She wet her lips. “He was a king, you see, and a king needs an heir. When Ceilith’s husband left her, he returned home and married a woman of the north. Ceilith died of a broken heart.”
Edward’s heart stopped. Had she found him out or was Mairi’s tale an incredible coincidence? The silence lengthened. He could bear it no longer. Gently, his hands slipped beneath her chin to her throat, turning her head so that she looked directly at him. Those shining gray eyes were incapable of deception. Her face was inches from his own. He could smell the rose-petal scent of her hair. Her breath caught in a quick, sharp intake, and he was lost. The flickering heat in his loins blazed into a roaring inferno. Involuntarily, his hand clenched as he fought his desire.
“Edward,” she choked, “you’re hurting me.”
Cursing himself and his newly found strength of character, he released her and stood up. There were finger marks on her neck. Tomorrow they would be bruises. “Forgive me, lass,” he muttered, “I forgot myself. You are a gifted weaver of tales, but I fear you were right. My wound needs resting.”
Mairi watched him leave the room, a thoughtful expression on her face. He did not look at all like a man who needed rest, more like a lion kept too long at the end of a leash.