English, Elizabeth (34 page)

There
was no need for it, Jemmy thought, forcing his hands to unclench. No need for
any arguments, no need to divide the council. The decision was his, not
Alistair's. The council could suggest, but the Laird alone could order. And the
Laird had put the matter in Jemmy's hands. Let them say what they liked, he
alone would decide what to do about Darnley's daughter. Darnley's
bastard
daughter,
who had lied to him with every word she spoke.

"Do
I please you?" she had asked so sweetly, lying spent and trembling in his
arms. How could she have deceived him so completely? How could he not have seen
that it was all a lie?

As
the afternoon wore on the talk passed to which of their allies could be trusted
to respond with haste and silence. The men looked to Alistair for a decision
and Jemmy made no protest, for Alistair was far more familiar with the ever-shifting
alliances of clans than he was himself. Alistair returned the courtesy by
consulting Jemmy on every decision before it was made final and a message
drafted. The men accepted this as natural, and Jemmy realized this is how
Alistair and Ian had always worked together in the past, with Alistair
attending to the planning while Ian led the men in battle. As Jemmy would do
when the time came.

There
was a bitter sort of relief in giving up the fight and taking the place that
had been Ian's in the clan. Had he really thought he could avoid this? The man
who had arrived from Spain was dead, and Jemmy would not mourn his loss. That
man had been a fool, with all his childish dreams of escaping the path laid out
before him.

Well,
he wasn't running anymore. He was Kirallen now. And God help Darnley, for he'd
find no mercy at Kirallen's hands.

***

The
torches were guttering in their holders as Alistair finished the last dispatch
and handed it to Jemmy. Then he sank back in his seat and rubbed a hand across
the stubble of his beard. Despite the weary droop of his shoulders, his heart
was light. At last the Laird acknowledged the truth that Alistair had been
trying to tell him for so long. There was but one way to deal with Darnley—at
swordspoint.

Only
now did Alistair realize the full extent of his exhaustion. For months he had
been existing on nights of broken sleep, knowing the clan was headed for
disaster and helpless to prevent it. But now all would be well. They would go
forth in honorable combat, and Alistair would do what he should have done from
the beginning: kill Darnley or die in the attempt. And he did not much care
which way it ended, either, so long as it was finished and he could have some
peace.

"This
is the last? Well done," Jemmy said, tossing the parchment on the long
table and turning to Alistair with a smile. "Is the messenger ready?"

Alistair
nodded and managed to return Jemmy's smile with one equally as false. Now was
not the time to show by word or sign his true opinion of his foster brother.
This battle could not be won by a clan divided.

"No
need for ye to wait for him," he said pleasantly. "I can manage
now."

"No,
don't bother. I'll finish up here," Jemmy said, stifling a yawn. "You
look exhausted."

Alistair
felt a flash of resentment. This was his job; it always had been. Ian had
trusted him absolutely. But then, Ian had never once suggested completing any
task if Alistair was there to do it for him.

For
a moment Alistair wondered what it would be like to serve a man who noticed if
he was tired or not, someone who would take the responsibilities of ruling
seriously. It would be a relief, Alistair thought, to have some of the burden
lifted from his shoulders. But they would no doubt argue constantly, both of
them wanting to have the final word.

Not
that he would ever serve Jemmy. This was a charade, no more, enacted for the
benefit of the clan. Jemmy would never rule here. After what he had done today,
Alistair would make it his business to see that Jemmy never had the chance.

"Death
to the Darnley wench!" Sir Calder had cried, and no sooner were the words
spoken than Alistair knew Sir Calder had to go. Were warriors to seek vengeance
on a kitchen maid? It was contemptible. There was no place among Kirallen's
knights for a man so totally devoid of honor. That such a thing had even been suggested
was a disquieting sign of how far the clan had drifted these past months. But
if Calder's words had surprised him, Jemmy's silence had shocked him to the
core.

Jemmy
should have been the first to shout the knight to silence. Alistair had waited,
fully expecting him to do just that, ready to back him to the hilt. But Jemmy had
not said a word. And so much for all his pious mouthings about peace and honor!
Honor? Today Jemmy had proved beyond all doubt that he had no conception of the
word.

The
council chamber was nearly empty now. The Laird had retired some time ago, and
many of the men had drifted off to find their beds. A few still lingered, and as
Jemmy talked with the messenger, Alistair let their conversation flow around
him.

"I
kent long ago that something was amiss with the lass," one man was saying
wisely. "Her hands—did ye never mark them?"

"
'Tis hard to believe a baseborn kitchen slut could have managed it at
all," another man put in. "Though right from the start I wondered.
D'ye no' remember me saying that there was something a wee bit off about the
lass?"

Alistair's
lip curved in a smile. Let them say what they like. Only yesterday they had
been all taken in by her, himself included. At least he was ready to admit it! But
then he knew—who better?—that the baseborn of this world were no different from
any other, save that they must use what wits and luck they had been given more
cannily than most.

As
this lass—no, Mistress Alyson Bowden, he thought, for he at least would not
grudge her a name—had done. She had come among them at her father's order to
play the part of Lady Maude, and she had done it well, using all her wiles to
bedazzle Lady Maude's intended husband. Bad enough to be humiliated by a woman,
but to have it done as publicly as she had done to Jemmy—the very idea of it
made Alistair shudder.

Well,
he wasn't going to waste any sympathy on Jemmy now. He obviously cared nothing
for the lass, though he had seemed very taken with her when Alistair had come
upon them in the stables. And there was no doubt at all what they'd been doing
there!

A
strumpet, and a clever one, that's what she was, and Alistair would wager she
set a high price upon her services, as well she should. Even today, knowing she
had lost, she had been impressive. Her manner had been truly noble as she
answered the Laird's questions with every show of honesty.

Show
of
honesty? he thought, sitting up in his seat. What had made him think that her
honesty had not been real? Wide awake now, every sense alert, he went over what
she had told them here today. Aye, she had answered every question, but she had
told them almost nothing.

There
were others besides her chambermaid involved. She said she could not name them,
but she had hesitated before she answered. Or had that come later? He cursed
his weary mind that he could not remember, but of one thing he was certain: she
was holding something back.

And
there was something else that did not ring quite true. Convincing as she might
have been when she claimed ignorance of Darnley's plans, how could that be
anything but a lie? She and her father must have had some plan to get her out
before his men fell upon the keep, which meant she had a good idea of when he
was expected. Or was there some other arrangement, a message that the clan
could intercept?

The
Laird had been too easy on her, he thought. She had faltered at least once
during the questioning, he was sure of it, but they had not pressed her for the
answers that could mean the difference between life and death for their
clansmen.

Sleep
must wait another hour, he decided. First he would pay a visit to their
prisoner. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, wishing that just for once, someone
else would take responsibility for the clan's protection. He was tired, too
tired to do this properly, but there was no one else to ask. And it must be
done tonight.

She
would tell him everything. She must. There were too many lives at stake to
flinch from doing anything that must be done to make her talk. One way or
another, he vowed, before this night was through, Mistress Alyson Bowden would
surrender all her secrets.

By
the time Jemmy reached his chamber he was almost too tired to stand, but
nonetheless he waved the page away. Once the lad was gone he sank into a chair,
though he doubted he would sleep any more tonight than he had done the night
before.

There
was a knock on the door and he called roughly, "Go away." But the
door opened, and Malcolm, trembling from head to foot, moved to stand before
his uncle.

"Is
it true?"

"What?"

"My
aunt. Did the council really say that she will die?"

Jemmy
sighed and reached out a hand, but Malcolm twisted from his grasp.

"Is
it true?" the boy insisted.

"So
the council said."

"
'Tis your fault," Malcolm cried, his face reddening with anger and tears
standing in his eyes. "Ye did this—"

"Malcolm,
no—she isn't who we thought—"

"I
know. But they said she was horrid and she's not, she's kind and good. And now
you're going to kill her!"

"She
isn't going to die," Jemmy said wearily. "I won't let that happen.
They were too angry tonight to listen, but tomorrow I will tell them."

"Then
what will happen to her?" Malcolm demanded.

"I
don't know," Jemmy ran one hand distractedly through his hair. "I'll
decide tomorrow. We'll send her somewhere—a convent, perhaps—and she can live
there."

"Forever?"

"Aye.
Now go to bed, 'tis late."

"But
ye canna do such a thing—how could she live, shut away forever? She
couldn't."

Jemmy
knew that was the truth. He could scarcely imagine caging such a vital woman
behind high walls. But it was better than death.

"No
more," he said. "Not tonight. Go on, Malcolm," he added sharply,
and the boy turned with a small choked sound and ran from the room.

Jemmy
winced as the door slammed, then slowly pulled off his boots. He considered
summoning the servants back again, for this was one night he could actually use
their help, but the effort seemed too great. Yawning, he stood and fumbled at
his sword belt. And it was then he felt the letter tucked behind the leather.

He
turned it in his hands, reflecting that to read it would only bring him further
pain. He was too weary to be angry anymore. Tomorrow would be, if anything,
worse than today. No, there was no need to make it even harder.

He
reached to drop the letter on the fire, but stopped, his hand arrested in
midair. He blinked and stared. There it was, his own hand, and there was
nothing to account for the fact that it simply hung there, motionless and very
cold.

That
cold. He remembered it from a drunken dream he'd had some time ago. But he
wasn't drunk now; in fact, he was far too sober for his own good. The hair on
the back of his neck was rising, and almost against his will he whispered,
"Stephen?"

His
hand was released. In fact, it was flung back at him with such force that the
letter fell to the floor. He bent to pick it up, looking cautiously about the
room as once again he made to toss it into the flame.

The
fire went out. One minute it was burning merrily; the next there were cold
ashes in its place.

"God's
teeth, Stephen, if you're here, why don't you show yourself?"

Jemmy
glanced about the empty room, embarrassed at the sound of his own voice. What
was he saying? The shock of the past days had obviously affected him more
deeply than he'd realized. Stephen wasn't here, he was dead, and there were no
such things as ghosts. But then, there was no such thing as a fire that died in
a moment's time without leaving so much as an ember. Or so Jemmy had thought.

"Fine
then," he muttered, sinking into his seat. "So be it."

He
broke the seal of the parchment and found another letter tucked within, folded
small. He put it aside and read the words addressed to Sir Robert Allshouse.

"Dearest
Uncle," it began, and he frowned, turning it again to look at the inscription.
Allshouse... of course, he remembered now where he had heard the name. It was
the old Lady Darnley's second husband's. And so Robert must be her son, the
present lord's half brother. His eyes went back to the writing.

"I
write to you in haste, for it has come, just as you feared it would, and all
has been discovered. Please, I beg you to get Robin to safety with all speed. I
fear for his life, not only from Lord Darnley's anger, but from the Kirallens
as well. I would ask, too, that you keep the truth from him until he is old
enough to understand. You will know when that time has come. When it does,
please give him the enclosed.