Twenty-Six
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
1993
It was nearly midnight. Morning was hours away, but I needed food desperately. I managed the darkened stairs and pushed open the door of the kitchen, confident that I would be alone. The brilliantly lit room startled me. After the darkness of the hall, it took several stunned seconds for my eyes to adjust to the brightness. I didn’t actually see Kate replacing the circle of keys on their nail, but from her position in the room and the fleeting expression of guilt on her face, I was sure that she had recently done just that. Her presence unnerved me. I hadn’t expected her. There had been no time to rehearse the carefully chosen words I wanted her to remember when I fired her.
“Good evening, Miss Murray,” she said. “I had no idea you would be home tonight. Your mother told me not to expect you.”
Without speaking, I brushed past her and opened the refrigerator. The remains of a roast beef, bread, and two large hunks of cheese would do. Kate watched me as I sliced the meat and bread. I didn’t bother with a plate or silverware but stuffed several pieces into my mouth, chewed, and swallowed quickly. Pouring myself a large glass of juice, I sliced two pieces of cheese. Again, using the palm of my hand as a plate, I carried the food over to the fire that perpetually burned in the kitchen hearth and sat down in a chair.
“Would you like me to make you some tea, Miss Murray?”
Rage consumed me. “You’d like that wouldn’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I can’t believe that Ian hasn’t told you.”
“Told me what?”
I studied her face carefully. There was nothing in her expression to indicate that she lied. It disconcerted me. Why hadn’t Ian warned her that I knew everything? It occurred to me that I had a tremendous advantage if the two of them had not yet compared stories. I decided to begin again. “I know who you are, Kate, and it won’t do you any good at all. If you had approached me fairly when I first came, things might have been different. As it is, you’re fired. I want you out of here first thing in the morning.”
Her face looked pale, but her eyes were hot and black with hate. “We have labor laws in Scotland. It won’t be easy to dismiss me.”
“You may do as you please, Mrs. Ferguson. But unless you have a very good excuse for drugging me, I wouldn’t take this any farther than it’s already gone.”
“Are you threatening me?” Her voice died to a whisper.
“Not at all. I would rather put this whole thing behind us.”
She didn’t argue. Lifting her head, she threw me one last scathing glance and left the room.
I ate several more slices of meat and washed it down with another glass of juice before climbing the stairs to my room. I felt incredibly satisfied, almost light-headed. Kate’s shadowy presence and thinly veiled disapproval would no longer haunt me. Tomorrow when I woke, she would be gone. The idea of choosing my own housekeeper was appealing. I had no idea how to go about it, but I was sure someone in town would help me. I could always ask Ian—No. Pain squeezed my heart. Ian was gone. I couldn’t ask him anything again. Curled into a fetal position, I fell asleep.
LONDON, ENGLAND
1292
“May I congratulate you on the new prince, Your Grace?” The nobleman smirked ingratiatingly and bowed over the queen’s hand.
Eleanor, queen of England, smiled. “You may indeed, m’lord. He is a lusty babe.” She withdrew her hand and looked up at him curiously. “’Tis been an age since we have seen you at court. Have you come for his christening?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Northumberland had no idea that the christening of England’s new heir would fall during his visit to London. It had been two years since he’d put in an appearance at Edward’s court. If necessity hadn’t demanded it, he would never have made the uncomfortable journey. The filth and overflowing gutters of London disgusted him. He much preferred the pristine beauty of the north country. But there was no help for it. Border raids had increased at an alarming rate, and if the king did not take action soon, he would lose every horse and cow he owned to the Scots reivers. Edward had not traveled to the borders in a long time. Long enough to have forgotten his rash promise of aid made after that frightening interlude two years before when he’d disappeared and the entire country believed him dead.
The queen had spoken and was waiting for an answer. Northumberland hadn’t heard a word of it. He flushed. It was hardly a fortuitous beginning.
Fortunately Eleanor hadn’t noticed. She was diverted by the appearance of a large, fair-haired man bearing down upon them. “Ah, here he is.” She held out her hand to her husband. “Edward, ’tis Northumberland, come all the way from the borders to witness the christening.”
Edward lifted his wife’s hand to his lips. “How fortunate we are, my dear, to have such a loyal subject. How are you, Northumberland? We haven’t seen you at court in years.”
“Only two, Your Grace,” Northumberland was quick to remind him. “’Tis not wise to leave a stronghold unattended when one lives on the borders.”
Edward had already lost interest. His eyes flickered past his guest to the dancers at the far end of the banquet hall. “Indeed. Have you supped, m’lord? Our cooks have surpassed themselves tonight.”
“Not yet. I’ve only just arrived.”
“We won’t keep you.” Edward nodded and waved the man toward the groaning tables of food.
Eleanor smiled as Northumberland backed away. She turned to her husband and spoke through set teeth. “That was rude of you, m’lord.”
“Was it?” He sounded amused. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Extremely.” Her slippered foot tapped sharply on the wooden floor. “What has he done that you must treat him so shabbily?”
Anger blazed to life in Edward’s eyes and then died again. He sighed. “I need no reason, my love. I am king of England.”
“’Tis hardly an excuse.”
“On the contrary. I find it an excellent one. Just as your rank excuses your waspish tongue, mine excuses me of rudeness.”
Quick tears sprang to her eyes. “Edward,” she pleaded, “must it always be this way between us?”
He frowned. “What in heaven are you talking about, Eleanor?”
“Must you be cruel to me as well?” she whispered.
“I?” He looked genuinely surprised. “How am I cruel? Do I shout at you, starve you, beat you? How can a woman who has everything complain of cruelty?”
“Everything but affection,” she shot back. “Isn’t a wife entitled to her husband’s love?”
Edward beckoned to a servant carrying huge goblets of wine. Lifting one from the tray, he drained it quickly, replaced the goblet, and took another. These encounters with Eleanor were becoming tedious. “I do love you, Eleanor. How can you think otherwise?”
Her lips trembled as she fought for control. Nothing would be worse than public humiliation. “My women tell me otherwise.”
“What do they tell you?”
Eleanor lifted her head and acknowledged the couple gesturing from across the room. “They say you’ve a mistress in every township in England and that your bastards litter the countryside.”
“Is that all?”
Eleanor forgot her dignity. A deep flush rose from the low-cut bodice of her dress and stopped at her cheeks. “Isn’t that enough, Edward? How can you say you love me when your behavior proves otherwise?”
He shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny of his wife’s accusing eyes. How did one tell a woman that she wasn’t his choice, that a political union was a matter of state for the purposes of breeding heirs? Why hadn’t she been told from the beginning?
Edward was not a cruel man. He spared her as much as he could, but he had no intention of changing his behavior. “I am no different than any other man, Eleanor. You have nothing to fear. You are my wife and I care for you deeply. I admit I’ve not been faithful, but the others mean nothing to me.” He set the goblet on the mantel and took her hands in his. “Rest assured, my love, there is no one in my kingdom who has a greater claim on this heart than my wife.”
“What about outside your kingdom?”
Edward looked startled. Where had she come by that bit of information? Certainly not Thomas. He was the soul of discretion. “Don’t be absurd, Eleanor. I haven’t been outside of England for two years. Acquit me of that, at least.”
She managed a watery smile. “You are right, of course. Forgive me, my darling. Shall we join the dancers?”
He smiled down at her, grateful that the crisis was over. “By all means,” he said, tucking her hand under his arm. “The music is especially fine tonight.”
“Will you dance with me?” she asked pleadingly.
Edward sighed. He despised dancing but no more than he hated the wounded expression on Eleanor’s face.
“Of course,” he said, drawing her across the room, into the circle just forming. He took his position in the outer ring and turned to face her. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked youthful, almost girlish. Edward grinned and waited for the music to begin. As custom ordained, Eleanor inclined her head in a brief curtsey.
The slight movement was enough for Edward to catch a glimpse of a slender, black-haired figure on the other side of the circle. She faced away from him, toward her partner. From the back he could see that the woman was tall but fine boned. She wore a scarlet gown and carried herself with the dignity of a queen. A memory, long repressed but never forgotten, awakened inside him. A tingling sensation started in his toes and traveled upward. His heart thundered in the prison of its chest. Unconsciously, he rubbed his perspiring hands on the soft fur of his mantle. Sweet Jesu, it couldn’t be, and yet he knew of no woman at court with hair of such color and thickness.
By their own volition, his feet moved to the music. With an intricate flip of the wrist, he moved Eleanor to her next partner and bowed low before his own. Again and again, he bowed and circled, bowed and circled, until he stood next in line to the black-haired beauty.
A boneless sensation weakened his legs. His feet still moved in their mindless rhythm, but the hands he held out to her were blocks of ice. He stood before her, the woman he had tried for so long to forget. She looked directly at him. There could be no more doubt. The light-filled eyes that had haunted his dreams for two long years looked at him now with such naked joy that his blood sang. Happiness filled him. He was a boy again with the world at his feet. “Mairi,” he whispered.
She smiled, and his breathing altered. Perhaps there had been other women in Edward’s life who were as lovely as Mairi of Shiels, but all memory of them vanished. There was room only for this woman, standing before him in a crimson gown, her head held high, her heart in her eyes. Too soon she moved on, he to the left, she to the right. His gaze followed her as she smiled and held out her hand, curtseyed, and circled and turned about in her partner’s arms. The scent of roses wafted through the air. His stomach clenched. He could barely curb his impatience. When would this infernal dance end? He ached to be alone with her, to hold her, to taste her, to run his hands—
Awareness, like the blast of winter wind, stopped him in mid-stride. He stumbled, apologized to the woman whose toe he had crushed, and found his step again. He was Edward, king of England, and for the first time in his life, the very thought of what that meant made his blood run cold.
The music ended. He looked around for Mairi. She stood near the banquet table with a lean, dark-haired man he recognized as David Murray. Edward was no coward. She would learn his identity soon enough, and he preferred that she hear it from him. Drawing a deep breath, he started across the room. A hand on his sleeve stopped him.
“Don’t, Edward.” Eleanor’s face was very pale. “Don’t humiliate me tonight.”
Gently, he disengaged her clutching fingers. “It isn’t like that, Eleanor. You must believe me. This has nothing to do with you.”
“It never does.” She nodded toward Mairi. “She is uncommonly lovely but not, I think, in your usual style.”
The bitterness in her voice surprised him. He did not dream that she cared so much. “I am truly sorry for your pain, my dear.”
She looked up at him, surprised and touched by his apology. “Does that mean—?” Eleanor left the rest of the question unsaid.
His handsome face reflected regret, but she was wise enough to know that contempt followed swiftly on the heels of pity. Lifting her head, she nodded toward the dancing tumblers concealed behind the doors. “They await your signal,” she reminded him. “Surely, the woman would not want you to shirk your duty.”
Mairi had already disappeared from sight with young Murray. “Very well, my dear,” he said, impatience flitting across his features. “You’ve won this time. I’ll not spoil your game. We shall signal the dancers.”
Eleanor walked beside her husband to the dais. Climbing the three steps leading to the royal banquet table, she seated herself beside him. Edward lifted his hand, and the entertainment began. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mairi, directly across from him at another table, sharing a trencher with David Murray. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that the two were close friends. Edward watched as Murray speared an oyster with his knife and held it to her lips, laughing at her grimace of distaste. Irrational jealously flooded through him. “Damn him to hell,” he swore under his breath. He would not watch another man paw his woman.
Deliberately, he tore his eyes away from the handsome pair and concentrated on the dancers. A woman, clad in a diaphanous garment, bent over backward, lifted her legs into the air, and walked on her hands. The audience roared with approval and banged their mugs on the oaken tables. Edward’s head ached. The noise and wine coupled with his own guilt was too much. Something must be done.
Suddenly, the performance was over, and the dancers disappeared behind the doors. Lord Northumberland stood and raised his goblet. “A toast,” he cried, loudly enough to still the merrymaking guests. “A toast to Edward, king of England.”
The cry was picked up and carried throughout the hall. One by one the nobility of England leaped to their feet and raised their mugs to honor their king. In the entire room, only two were still seated. Edward’s jaw tightened. There would be no mercy for Northumberland, that weasel from the borders. But now, he must face her. There was no help for it. The die was cast. Slowly, painfully, his gaze settled on the pale, shocked features of the woman he had lied to, loved, and abandoned.
From across the room, Mairi could see the startling color of Edward’s eyes. There was regret and something else in the ice-blue depths. Something that her mind refused to identify. Sweet Jesu, the king of England!
Why couldn’t she feel? She should be outraged, humiliated, shocked, anything but this dull, vacuous ache filling her chest. The knife she clutched in her hand slid out of her numb fingers and clattered loudly on the oak table. People were beginning to stare. Besides the king, she was the only one still seated. Dear God. Could it be true? Her brain began to work again. Edward wasn’t Lord Durbridge from the south of England. He was the king. The nobleman who had fallen in a bloody heap at her feet, the teasing companion who sat with her in front of the fire demanding a border ballad, the man who had shared her bed and cut his teeth on her heart, was none other than the king of England.
David stared at her, a troubled expression on his face. Blood rose in her cheeks. It seemed as if the eyes of the entire world were upon her. Rage and shame warred with each other in her breast. Carefully, she stood, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. For a long moment her eyes met and held the anguished gaze of the king. Then, with a glittering smile and a murmured apology to David, she turned and walked down the long hall, through the suffocating silence, and out the door.
Eleanor looked out over the sea of pale, curious faces. Her color was high, but she had been bred from birth to maintain composure at all costs. Raising her glass in salute, her voice rang out in a clear command. “Northumberland has proposed a toast. Drink, everyone.”
Dutifully, goblets were tilted. Everyone sat down, and conversation resumed. The queen spoke to the lord high chamberlain on her left and then turned toward her husband. “Find her, Edward,” she said through smiling lips. “Find that woman and take her away. I care not how long you dally, but never allow her to set foot in London again.”
Edward heard his wife’s voice through a fog of guilt. The look on Mairi’s face haunted him. By his enormous conceit, he had betrayed the one woman who had valued him as a man without the trappings of wealth and power. His actions were not honorable and the knowledge left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Have you nothing to say, Edward?” Eleanor’s grating words interrupted his thoughts. “No apologies, no remorse?”
His lips thinned. “Aye, my lady. I have much to say but none of it to you. However, I am most grateful for your understanding.” He stood and looked down at her, his eyes a distant, wintry blue. “I know you will forgive me for retiring early.”
Her face whitened. “You cannot be serious. Where are you going? What of the christening?”
“I shall return for the ceremony. Nothing else need concern you.”
“Don’t be a fool,” she began.
The stark rage in his expression stopped her. “I beg your pardon, Edward,” she whispered. “Godspeed.”
With a curt nod, he shouldered his way through the crowd, beckoning David Murray to follow him. Outside the hall, in the torch-lit darkness, he spoke directly, wasting no time on explanations. “Where can I find Mairi Maxwell?”
David frowned. “In her south tower apartments, Your Grace, but surely you know she meant no offense. She was taken ill,” he lied. “Mairi is a loyal subject, devoted to Your Grace.”
Edward grinned. “Is she now? She must have changed a great deal since I saw her last.”
“How do you know my betrothed?” David asked, surprised into rudeness. Immediately he realized his mistake. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” he stammered.
“Your betrothed?” Edward’s voice was dangerously soft. “I think not.”
“Indeed, ’tis true,” David assured him. “Mairi has finally agreed to our marriage. We came to London to request your permission.”
Edward’s expression would have frozen the fires of hell. From his superior height, he looked down at the earnest young man who dared lay claim to the woman he wanted. “I’m sorry, lad,” he said at last. “You are too late. Permission denied.”
Struck dumb with shock and confusion, David watched the king climb the stairs to the south tower.