English, Elizabeth (33 page)

"This
man is a troublemaker and a liar," she said clearly. "He always has
been. You mustn't credit anything he says."

Jemmy
ignored her. "This is Lady Maude," he said to Sym. "Surely you
must know her."

"No,"
Sym said. "She's—"

"My
lord, really!" she interrupted. "The man is nothing, just a common
stable lad who seeks to better himself by telling lies about—"

"Common,
am I?" Sym demanded. "Aye, well, no more than ye, for all the airs ye
gave yourself! Lady Maude?" he said, turning to Jemmy with an unpleasant
laugh. "Her? Not likely!"

"Then
who the devil is she?" Alistair demanded, looking nearly as stunned as
Jemmy felt himself.

"Alyson
Bowden from the Aylsford kitchens," Sym said positively. "I'd know
her anywhere. Haven't I seen her every day these past four years? Right until
she up and ran off without a word."

Jemmy
watched her face, waiting for her denial. But it never came.

"At
least she was Darnley's kitchen maid," Sym added, giving her a puzzled,
hostile look. "I can't say what she is now."

She
is my lady, Jemmy thought numbly. My wife. The woman who said she loved me. And
all of it was lies.

"Nor
can I," Alistair said, staring at her with interest. "But ye can be
sure we will find out."

"Take
her away, Alistair," Jemmy ordered curtly. "Put her in the tower
room. And keep that man confined. Say nothing to anyone until we've spoken
further."

"Here,
now!" Sym cried indignantly. "What d'ye mean, confined? I told ye
what I knew, didn't I?"

"Aye,
lad, ye did," Alistair answered. "But there's times
a man can know
a bit too much for his own good. It won't be for long," he added
reassuringly. "Why don't ye come with me while we take your friend here to
her chamber?"

"She's
no friend o' mine," Sym said spitefully. "Always thought herself too
good for the likes of me."

"Her
sights were set a wee bit higher," Alistair said dryly.

Why
did she not speak? Jemmy wondered. Say something, anything, to defend herself?
But she did not seem aware of them at all. She stood, her face as pale and set as
marble, completely remote and utterly detached.

"Come
along, Mistress," Alistair said, and for the first time Jemmy heard a
tinge of respect in the knight's voice as he addressed her.

Perhaps
she deserves it, Jemmy thought savagely. It wasn't every kitchen maid who could
pass herself off as the daughter of an earl. Even now, she gave no sign of her
common origins. Head high, shoulders thrown back proudly, she walked across the
courtyard as though she were a queen.

***

The
tower room held only a stool, a table, and a small bed. The fire smoked, and
the sullen flame did nothing to warm the chill dankness seeping from the stone
walls. Jemmy stood, arms folded across his chest, and stared at the woman
before him in disbelief, wondering if he had heard her properly.

"You
say you are Lord Darnley's daughter," he repeated.

"Aye.
Though I never knew it. He never claimed me, you see, and my mother never
said..."

"Go
on."

"Both
he and Lady Maude were very angry at the bargain he'd been forced to make. He
never meant to live up
to it at all; it only made him more determined to destroy you."

"And
yet he took the oath." Jemmy shook his head.

She
drew herself up and looked him fully in the eye. It was clear that she had been
weeping; her eyes were reddened and her skin had an almost transparent pallor.
But she was not crying now. She faced him calmly, with a dignity that would
have been admirable enough in one of noble birth, but for a girl of no
breeding, no family—well, it was extraordinary. But then, he knew already she
was no ordinary girl.

"There
was a certain likeness between myself and Lady Maude," she said. "And
so they happened on this plan. They sent Celia, as well, and she said that
there were others watching—" she shuddered and wrapped her arms tightly
about herself.

"But
you—whyever did you agree to do such a thing?"

"It
was because of Robin, my—"

"I
know all about Robin."

"Then
you understand," she said, relief warming her voice.

"Oh,
aye. I understand." He turned and started for the door.

"Wait,
my lord. I know that you are angry, and you have every right to be—"

"Thank
you," he said dryly.

"But
I ask that your anger would end with me. Do anything you like but please, don't
seek vengeance on Robin."

She
stepped back a pace, no doubt seeing the anger and disgust on his face.
"My lord," she said, holding out her hands in appeal. "You
wouldn't. Surely—for pity's sake—"

"This
will mean war, d'ye ken that even now? Your— Robin—will have to look to
himself. Don't ask me for mercy."

"But
you couldn't! None of this was his fault—he's just a—"

"You
did it for his sake, didn't you?"

She
nodded, saying simply, "I would do anything for Robin."

He
left without another word, slamming the door behind him.

***

Kirallen
sat before the fire, a thick mantle drawn across his shoulders. As Jemmy
finished speaking, he closed his eyes, suddenly too weary to even think of all
that must be done. He had failed. There would be no peace, it would all start
again now, worse than before.

"Who
else knows?"

"Alistair.
And the servant, Celia. She's under restraint with Darnley's stable lad. The
girl said there were others, as well, though she couldn't name them."

"Ah,
yes. The girl. What's to become of her?"

Jemmy
looked away. "I have not decided yet."

"Whatever
ye say, Jemmy," Kirallen said. "I'll leave it in your hands. For now
keep her to the tower—put it about that she is ill. We must think on this
carefully and decide what's best to be done. But let no word reach Darnley that
we suspect... Tomorrow, Jemmy," he said, his shoulders slumping. "We'll
decide tomorrow. I'm so weary now... it seems all I do goes ill these days,
ever since—"

"Since
Ian died," Jemmy finished. "Aye, Father, I know." The old man
flinched before the bitterness in his son's voice. "It was not that I
meant," he said, though neither of them believed it. "I'm sorry for
this, Jemmy. I was fond of the lass myself. Even now I can't believe she acted
out of malice."

"It
doesn't matter what her motives were. The damage has been done."

"Tomorrow,"
Kirallen whispered. "We'll talk about it then."

It
was midmorning when Jemmy went to fetch her for questioning. When he reached
the hallway he saw old Maggie slip from the chamber. She alone had been told
the truth and set to guard the girl, though Jemmy doubted she would attempt
escape. When Maggie saw him she gave a startled gasp, one hand going to her
apron pocket. Jemmy didn't speak; he simply held out his hand. After a moment
she removed the square of parchment and handed it to him.

"Who
wrote this?"

"She
did," Maggie answered.

So,
she knows how to write, Jemmy thought. Where had a kitchen maid come by that
skill?

Glancing
down he saw it was addressed to Sir Robert Allshouse. The name seemed somehow
familiar, and he searched his memory, then dismissed the matter. Robert. Robin.
That was all that he need know.

"Maggie,
how could you?"

Her
eyes filled with tears. "I could not refuse her."

"Get
out of here," he snapped. "Don't come back until you're
summoned."

When
he entered the chamber he found Alyson before the window. She was dressed in a
plain gown of black wool that emphasized the pallor of her skin and made her
hair flame brightly against its darkness. She whirled at his entrance, and he
held up the letter.

"I
see you're to be trusted no more than your father."

"No,
my lord, I suppose not. I would do the same again. Please, can you not see that
it's taken to him?"

"You're
mad," he said shortly.

"Read
it for yourself. There's nothing that can harm you, nothing at all. Please, my
lord."

During
the long night just passed Jemmy had come to have some pity for the girl. Taken
from the kitchens, it was no wonder her head had been turned by the attentions
of a knight. But how she could even now care for him was something Jemmy could
not understand. The man had used her, sent her here to play the whore—why, he
was no better than a panderer! Despicable. And yet still she sought to protect
him, even though she must know her own life could well be forfeit. He did not
understand it, but after a moment he thrust the letter into his belt.

"I'll
think about it."

"Thank
you."

She
followed him down the stairs, through the hall, and down again, until they
reached a chamber few women had ever seen. It stood in the oldest part of the
keep, the place that from time immemorial had been used by Kirallen's Laird to
take counsel of his most trusted advisors. Torches blazed even on this sunny
day, for the thick walls contained only narrow slits, set obliquely to allow
air to penetrate, but no light. When this room had been built, windows were
considered a superfluous danger.

A
table stretched the length of the room. It was burned and hacked, scarred by
fire and dagger. At the head sat Kirallen. To the right of him was Alistair,
and about its long surface sat a dozen grim and dour clan elders, with several of
Kirallen's chief knights standing behind them. The place opposite Kirallen was
empty, waiting for Jemmy's arrival.

Alyson
stood before them, a slender figure in black. She bore their questioning well,
answering in a clear, steady voice. She hesitated only once, when the Laird
asked her why she had agreed.

"I
could not refuse my lord and father," she said, glancing quickly at Jemmy.
He dropped his eyes to the table before him and did not speak a word.

"All
right then," Kirallen said. "Do you have any more to say?"

"Aye,
my lord. You were kind to me, and it was never my wish to return your kindness
thus. I'm sorry for it. And I pray that you can think of some way to end this
without bloodshed."

"You
may go," Kirallen said, and she curtsied to him before turning, her head
held high.

At
a signal one of the men escorted her out of the room and those remaining looked
at one another.

"Well,
Laird," Alistair said, "I think it's clear enough what happened. The
question is, what do we do next?"

Not
by word or gesture did he imply that the Laird had been wrong and he'd been
right. He didn't have to. Every man there knew it.

But
even if Alistair was prepared to move ahead, the rest were not. They went over
and over Darnley's treachery, which to them seemed almost monstrous. To have
sworn a solemn oath and broken it—that was something so foreign to their sense
of honor that they could scarcely credit it. And to send his bastard kitchen
slut to wed their Laird's son was not only a deception, it was a deadly
insult—one that none of them would soon forget.

Jemmy
sat silent, the words ringing in his mind.
Darnley's bastard kitchen slut.
His
spy. A peasant who had been plucked from the kitchens and sent here to deceive
them all. That's what she was—
all
she was—no matter how well she looked
in her borrowed finery. He saw her clad in silk and hung with flashing jewels,
wearing them as if they were her right. He saw her standing by the open window,
her hair streaming down her slender back, then pushed the image away. He was
doubly a fool: for falling so easily prey to her deceit and for the wrenching
sense of loss he felt even now.

But
to the others she had been no more than Darnley's tool, and in herself meant
nothing. The knowledge of her birth had destroyed her completely in their eyes.
She would die, Sir Calder said, a traitor's death. Jemmy realized that he
disliked Sir Calder very much indeed. The knight would go, no matter what
Alistair might say about it. And there would be no execution. Not now, not
ever.

He
nearly gave the order, then saw that Alistair was watching him, waiting for him
to speak, waiting to begin the argument. But Jemmy had no intention of arguing
this matter. The Kirallen clan would never put a woman to death, whoever she
might be or whatever she had done. It simply would not happen. He wanted to
make that very clear to them right now, yet he held himself in check. His
temper was hanging by a thread already. If Alistair dared defy him by a single
word, Jemmy could not answer for what he might do next. And if he and Alistair
came to blows—or worse—as seemed all too likely, it was the clan that would
suffer. Now, more than ever, he and Alistair must present a united front.