Arsenic and Old Armor

ARSENIC AND OLD
ARMOR

By

MAY MCGOLDRICK

Arsenic and Old Armor

May McGoldrick

ISBN: 978-0-9841567-3-3

Copyright © 2010 by Nikoo K. and James A.
McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any
review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in
part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now
known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and
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forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: May
McGoldrick Books, PO Box 665, Watertown, CT 06795.

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Originally Published as Love and Mayhem by
Nicole Cody (copy right holders Jim & Nikoo McGoldrick) by
Penguin April 2006. All rights reverted back to author
3/16/2010

Dedicated to the memory of May Cody
McGoldrick

With thanks for giving us your name…and your
spirit

Borders of Scotland, September 1513

The English were coming.

The battle at Flodden Field was lost. So
many men had died. The king and most of his nobles were gone. Now
it was left to the few remaining survivors to take the painful news
to the families. It was left to them to warn everyone that the
English were coming. Each family and clan would need to fend for
itself.

Limping through the Border hills toward
Blackthorn Hall, the surviving remnant of the Armstrong men had
spread the news along the way. Now they were almost home. Sir Iain
Armstrong reined his horse to a stop at the split of the road. The
two dozen wounded and weary warriors behind him halted, as
well.

The road to the right led to Blackthorn,
Iain’s own keep. He was bearing tragic news for his own family…for
his own mother. The laird was dead. But there was no time for Iain
to grieve his father’s death. The villagers needed to be moved into
the castle and every one of them armed. The gates needed to be
barred. They would not surrender their ancestral hall to the enemy
without a fight. He would not allow his people to be hurt and his
land pillaged by the English.

Iain glanced at the road to the left. It led
to Fleet Tower and to Marion, his betrothed. John McCall, the Earl
of Fleet, had been another casualty of the devastation at Flodden,
and Iain was now the protector of all that lay on this side of the
hills, as well. He motioned for Alan, his trusted and seasoned
warrior, to approach. On their journey north, they had begun to
speak about what needed to be done. Pointing at the road home, Iain
gave his man his final orders.

“
Bring my mother the news.
Begin the preparations. And as soon as you arrive at Blackthorn,
send half a dozen men with fresh horses to Fleet Tower.”

“
The English cannon wiped
out the McCalls, m’lord. They’ll have no men of their own
returning.”

“
I know that.”

“
We canna defend both
places against the enemy,” Alan warned.

“
I do not intend to try,”
Iain assured him. “Everyone at Fleet Tower will be taken back to
Blackthorn Hall…for their own safety. Everyone, that is, but Lady
Marion. She shall be sent north, to an abbey on the Isle of
Skye.”

“
You know her temperament,
m’lord. Marion will refuse as sure as we’re standing here. She’ll
demand to stay with her uncle and those two aunts of
hers.”

“
She will go north,” Iain
said firmly. “Her father is dead, and keeping her safe has been
left to me. Marion has no choice but to obey me.”

***

Brother Luke eyed the array of dishes on the
table with amazement and appreciation.

He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised.
The two women always prepared the most sumptuous meals imaginable
for his visits. Still, Lady Judith and Lady Margaret, whom he’d
known since his childhood across the valley at Blackthorn Hall, had
outdone themselves this day…and it was not yet noon. Trays of
mutton and capons. A plump, delectable fish nestled in greens.
Bowls of fruits and sauces. Pitchers of cider and ale. He blessed
himself and prayed that the Lord—and his brethren and his sisters
over at Cracketford Abbey—would forgive his indulging himself.
After all, he thought, he couldn’t be discourteous to his
hostesses.

The two middle-aged spinsters looked at him
expectantly and he smiled broadly at them. Judith and Margaret
beamed, and on the wall behind them, on the fine French tapestry
he’d always admired, the lady who sat among the flowers with her
delicate hand on the neck of the unicorn smiled back at him, as
well.

“
Doesn’t Lady Marion care
to join us this morning?” he asked as he drew a trencher filled
with steaming mutton and broth toward him.

“
I think not,” Margaret
answered.

“
No, indeed,” Judith
repeated.

“
When I saw her last,” the
first woman continued, “she was up on the parapet, keeping watch
for her father’s return.”

“
We
should
be hearing from them soon,”
Brother Luke commented, smiling at Judith as she filled his cup
with ale.

“
We
should
be hearing soon,” Judith
responded as she sat down again.

“
Very soon, indeed, I
should think.” Margaret shifted in her seat, shooting an
uncomfortable look at her sister. “Our dear brother William shall
not be joining us this morning, either.”

Brother Luke tried not to look too pleased
with the news. Certain oddities in the Earl of Fleet’s younger
brother had always made Luke feel a wee bit awkward. Sir William
McCall had somehow come to believe he was the Wallace himself. Very
odd. Lucky for William, his generous and kindhearted family thought
nothing of it.

“
Perfectly understandable.
Monday morning cannot be the most convenient time to receive
company.”

“
But it is,” Judith
replied.

“
It is, indeed,” Margaret
added. She cast a hesitant glance in the direction of the steps and
lowered her voice. “There has been a slight problem in William’s
routine this morning.”

“
A slight problem,” Judith
whispered.

Luke cast a wistful look at the scrumptious
food before him. It would be unmannerly to start while the two
women were speaking. “Pray, continue.”

“
Today is Monday,” the
older sister explained.

“
Indeed, Monday,” Judith
agreed, looking at the clergyman as if that explained
everything.

“
What of it?” Brother Luke
asked.

“
Why, Monday is a solemn
day,” Margaret whispered.

Her sister nodded. “Very solemn.”

“
And why solemn?” The
mutton was making his mouth begin to water. There were dainty white
mushrooms peeking at him from the broth, and tiny onions floated
along the edges. And the smell was absolutely heavenly.

Margaret looked around at the arched doorway
leading to the stairwell and Judith followed her gaze.

“
Because of the English,”
the older sister said.

“
The English,” Judith
repeated, nodding.

Brother Luke forced an air of confidence
into his tone. “Nothing to fear, my ladies. Our good King Jamie and
his brave armies went south to solve that once and for—”

“
William is preparing,”
Margaret interrupted.

“
Indeed, preparing,” Judith
agreed.

“
Preparing?” Luke asked,
perplexed.

“
As of late, he always
paints his face on Mondays.”

“
Always on
Mondays.”

Brother Luke’s recent visits must not have
fallen on Mondays, as he didn’t recall this ritual. “Do you
mean—”

“
Indeed we do.”

“
We do,” Judith
echoed.

Margaret leaned closer. “William has gotten
it into his head that the Wallace painted his face on Mondays.”

“
Sir William Wallace,”
Judith added.

“
William always paints his
face on Monday.”

“
Paints his face.” Judith
gestured as if she were painting her wrinkled visage, just to make
certain he understood what her sister had meant.

Actually, Brother Luke found himself at a
loss for words. Though he couldn’t understand it, these two lovely
ladies were perfectly comfortable with William’s peculiarities. He
looked into both of their sweet faces. They simply accepted their
aging brother as he was, with all of his…well, eccentricities. Luke
nodded weakly.

“
But this morning,” the
older sister continued, “as the poor dear went to mix his pigments,
as he always does before he readies himself for battle…”

“
For battle…”

“
It appears he found that
one of the new chamber lads had moved his pigments from his window
ledge…”

“
From the ledge…” Judith
motioned to an invisible window ledge beside the table.

“
And that was enough to
throw poor William completely off balance.” Margaret leaned back in
the chair and shook her head solemnly. “Our brother has been in a
dither all morning.”

“
Indeed, a
dither.”

“
What do you mean?” Luke
asked, suddenly concerned.

“
He’s been under his pallet
all morning, and we cannot get him to come out.”

The sisters looked at each other
apprehensively. Luke stared at them, wondering what he should do.
These two women were the kindliest and most generous souls of all
the people whom he knew and visited. It pained him to see them in
such distress over the absurd antics of a half-wit brother.

“
The last time this
happened,” Margaret continued, “it was three days before we saw
him.”

“
Three days,” the younger
sister agreed with a sigh.

Before the monk could answer, shouts could
be heard from the courtyard. The sound of horses arriving. The two
sisters immediately jumped to their feet and rushed to one of the
windows facing out on the yard. Two of the windows had cushioned
window seats, and the sisters knelt on one as they peered from the
window. While they did, Brother Luke threw a longing glance at the
food before him and reluctantly pushed away from the table.

“
Oh my, Brother Luke,”
Margaret tittered excitedly. “It is your nephew…Iain
Armstrong.”

“
Your nephew,” Judith
echoed.

Margaret pushed open the wooden shutters all
the way and called out an enthusiastic greeting. Judith’s short,
round body covered the distance to the stairwell with surprising
speed and she called up the stairs to her niece, announcing Iain’s
arrival.

In spite of their excitement, an
uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of Brother Luke’s stomach
when he saw that Iain was accompanied by only one other rider. His
nephew had left Blackthorn Hall in the company of his father and
the Earl of Fleet and at least a hundred armed warriors. His
appetite suddenly gone, Luke went to greet the young man as he came
into the great hall.

Iain Armstrong’s blue eyes registered relief
at the sight of his uncle, and he embraced the monk warmly. It was
clear from the mail shirt he still wore that the young man had come
directly from the battle. Indeed, Iain’s clothes and boots were
covered with mud, mixing with dark stains that were surely the
blood of men. The young man’s face was pale, and a deep gash
cutting across his forehead disappeared into the brow above his
left eye. Tall and powerful with the rawboned strength of a man
still a year or two away from his prime, Iain stood back and looked
at the two middle-aged women.

“
How delightful!” Margaret
clapped in joy, causing Iain to glance with surprise at his uncle.
“You’ve arrived just in time to join us for this meal.”