Maiden of Inverness (37 page)

As if grasping a name from air, she said, “To Calais.”

She lied; Revas knew it. “I'm to name France as your destination, even should the king inquire?”

Turning away, she stared at the floor. “Our sovereign lord will find me.”

“But Randolph Macqueen will not. You are so sure?”

“Lady Meridene,” she said by way of dismissing Revas and changing the uncomfortable subject. “Lest I forget, I also bring you a message from Lady Clare. She says Englishmen are lambkins compared to Scots, and she implores you to be wary of the devious ways of Highlanders.”

Revas's eyes grew large.

Meridene fairly cooed with pleasure. “A wise observation on her part. Do you agree?”

Her gray eyes were wells of sorrow. “In my experience, nay.” As quickly, she recovered her composure. “Lady Clare also says Scotsmen are boors and bids you ignore them.”

Revas laughed, but much too gaily. “She did not include Drummond Macqueen in her condemnation.”

“Most definitely and colorfully did she include her husband. Drummond will not let her lift so much as a quill to sum the accounts. Sister Margaret goes between them.”

“They fare well?” Meridene asked. “The abbess and Clare?”

“The kind sister enjoys good health, and for one so stubborn, Lady Clare thrives.”

Grumbling, Revas said, “ 'Tis a trait of the English—teaching stubbornness to innocent lassies.”

“Let us not dwell on the cruelties of men toward the fairer and more intelligent sex. With your permission, I shall take my leave of you.”

In a swirl of dignity and royal livery, she marched out.

“A most curious and beautiful woman,” Meridene said.

“And a love story to rival any in the Covenant.”

“Tell me.”

“Only if you sit with me.”

When she returned to her place on his lap, he held her in a loose embrace. “Elizabeth Gordon gave her heart to Randolph Macqueen, but the king holds her to a bargain she made to serve him.”

“That is why Randolph is rude.”

“Aye, he suffers bad humors.”

“How long will our king make them wait?”

Our king. With every word, she knitted herself closer to the people of her homeland. “Bruce needs her now. She is the only messenger he trusts.”

A sigh bowed Meridene's shoulders. “I'm glad we face no such obstacle.”

She didn't know it, but the risk taken by Elizabeth Gordon and Randolph Macqueen paled when compared to the responsibilities Meridene had promised to undertake. She was just too naive of Scottish politics to see it.

“What were we discussing before these weighty matters commanded our attention?” he asked.

Looking like a woman with knowledge she should not have, she smiled. “You were about to explain the particulars of how an inexperienced woman nibbles her husband's manhood.”

His ability to think drifted south and settled in his loins.

“Have you nothing to say?”

“ 'Tis unfair to bedevil your husband at this time.”

“Oh, very well. Let's discuss my new bed. Did you know that the tanner put goose down among the straw? It's very soft and quiet.”

“After your menses have passed, I will repay you for teasing me.”

“Then I have another day's grace to bedevil and tease you.”

Not so long, for a patient man. But when Revas went to her room two nights hence, he found her sick unto death, the odor of poison on her lips.

Crowns and thrones forgotten, Revas knelt beside Meridene's bed and prayed twice to every saint he knew to save the life of his beloved.

The barley water she'd drunk last night had been poisoned. A frantic Montfichet had awakened Revas at dawn, wailing as he told of tossing the boiled grains to the chickens, as he always did. The carcasses of two score of them lay stacked in a pile awaiting the torch. Revas had ordered every grain of barley in Auldcairn Castle tossed onto the pyre.

No intruder had stolen into the kitchen or the granary and tainted the stores. Entry was unnecessary. The eager-to-please Montfichet had unknowingly bought the poisoned barley from a stranger who approached him outside the brewer's shop. The cook suspected nothing sinister; he often purchased foodstuffs from peddlers in the lane. He could not have known that the man had been sent by Cutberth Macgillivray.

Would she live?

Revas's stomach roiled at the alternative, and he cursed himself for thinking he could protect her from the ruthless man who sired her.

Against her black hair, her skin was snowy white. So still did she lie, he wet a finger and held it beneath her nose. The breath of air was faint, like the brush of a feather, but enough to tell him she clung to life.

“Cling harder, beloved,” he whispered.

Tears tightened his throat and burned his eyes, but Revas could not let them fall. Should she awaken and see him so distraught, she could lose hope.

And hope was all they had, according to the healer. The poison had done its work and gone to her heart, which even now thrummed softer than the beat before.

Old King Edward's physician had saved her once, but on that occasion she'd had only a sip of Cutberth's poison. According to Gibby and Lisabeth, Meridene had drunk a tankard full last night.

“She is in God's hands,” the healer had said.

Would the last entry in the Covenant be the words of a bereft husband who had underestimated his enemy and watched his Maiden die? Would the tradition end with a woman named for the one who'd begun it all? Was this the closure of a great circle of time?

“Pray God, nay,” he whispered, and clutched her hand.

Her skin was warm and her fingers supple, but lifeless.

Silently he begged the Lord to save her. He offered up his service in every waking moment for the rest of his life in exchange for hers.

Behind him, the door opened. William stepped inside.

“Oh, why, Revas? Why did you bring her back to Scotland?”

Rising, Revas went to him, and the pain and accusation in William's eyes was almost his undoing. “I know not, and I'll go to my grave seeking an answer that eases my mind. But if she lives, I swear on my soul, I'll send her to safety. Edward was right, you know. And she, too. We are a land of monsters. Look what tragedies we make.”

Softly, as if to convince himself, William said, “She has a strong will. Even as a child, she did not yield easily.”

As a child she'd been a bride—his bride—and even as he watched her hang on to life, he knew her father was just as determined to destroy her.

The years fell away, and Revas was once again a frightened lad facing the king of England. Edward's rage at seeing her brought low and his conviction to save her from Scottish monsters had seemed heroic to Revas. Because he hadn't loved her then—not with a man's passion and a husband's duty. He hadn't come to this place in his life when he anticipated the simple pleasures of seeing her work at her loom, or watching her teach Gibby how to inventory the pantry stores. As a lad, he hadn't felt the soul-deep sorrow and heart-wrenching pain of losing her.

Life was a gift of God, or so the priest had counseled Revas. With a stronger conviction than he had ever known, Revas was certain that God had played no part in this treachery. Men had determined the course Meridene's life would take. Now it was time for Revas to shoulder the blame and do his part.

He caught William's gaze. “She belongs in a sweet place with people who have a care for her, not with a self-important butcher's son who has overreached himself, and a father whose soul is crusted with sin.”

William dashed tears from his eyes. “You cannot blame yourself for Father's treachery. She loved you well, Revas. If she lives, she will not leave you.”

“She can love me as much from England.” He grasped handfuls of William's tunic, and when they were nose to nose, he said, “You must help me convince her. Compel her, if that is the only way. She will go with you—back to Scarborough Abbey, if we do our work well.”

“What work?”

Revas told him of his plan.

In resignation, William sighed. “I will do as you ask, if she lives.”

*  *  *

Meridene ached all over. Her stomach growled, and she felt like she'd eaten spiny rocks. A dry bitterness coated her mouth. What had happened? She felt leeched out, exhausted. This was no rancid food she suffered, and her hands and arms bore no marks or blotches from a plague. Yet she felt bludgeoned from the inside out—as if she'd been poisoned again.

Her shoulders tightened. Yes, the sickness, the soreness, the aching exhaustion. The same leavings as that poisoned cup she'd drunk from so long ago.

Her father had sent a generous wheelwright. When that failed, he sent a faceless intruder to set fire to her room. Now poison. Even the rank taste on her tongue was the same as before.

Hatred coiled inside her. She reached for the tankard on the bedside table. Weariness and fear clouded her head, but after several swallows of the cold, sweet water, her thoughts cleared. She became aware of a strong presence beside her.

Revas. In her bed. She thought it heavenly odd that she could sense his presence. Her sworn protector was nearby. He'd rail at her father and worry with guilt. But they would be more careful in the future, and once Revas wore the crown, Cutberth wouldn't dare come after her again.

Her fear ran like hounds after the hunt, and her exhaustion followed. “Curse you, Cutberth Macgillivray,” she swore out loud.

Sitting up and holding the mug in both hands, she turned to watch Revas sleep. But he was awake and watching her.

“ 'Twas the haggis,” he said. “Your handmaidens have been brought to bed, and half the Forbesmen are struck low.”

“It was poison in the barley water.”

“Nay. No one else drinks it, and many of us are sick. 'Tis not the first time, though. Two years ago, a brace of tainted moorhens sent us running to the privy and then to our cots.”

He had it all wrong. “My father tried to poison me. He sent that Macleod after me, then he had someone set fire to my bed. Now he's had someone poison the haggis.”

“Impossible. No one save Montfichet touches the haggis. He always cleans the umbles himself. Even Sibeal takes no hand in the making of haggis.” Wry laughter made him groan. “Smart lass, that Sibeal. 'Twas your fault, though.”

How could he be so sure? “It is not my fault, and put away your charm. It's wasted now.”

Wincing, he rubbed his stomach. “Last night you coaxed me into eating the haggis, Meridene. Not since I left my father's house has the vile stuff passed my lips. Until you forced me.”

Even in the aftermath of poison, he played the gallant. But she was not fooled. “If you will not color up the truth for Gibby, why do it for me? I tell you it was poison—in whatever food.”

“ 'Twas the corrupted liver from an old hart.” Scooting to the head of the bed, he smoothed the covers over his lap. “Montfichet swears to it. You are cruel to make quibbling of my legitimate complaint.”

She'd said those very words to him, and he did look ill—his eyes were red and his youthful features were lined with fatigue. If Montfichet was certain about the meat and others were ill, then bad haggis must be to blame.

“I'm glad you understand,” he said. “And do not think for a moment that Sibeal has not exacted a price for her husband's poor work.” Pausing, he ruffled his now shorter hair. “She has a bloody wicked tongue, that Sibeal.”

“What did she say?”

“I know not, but in reply, Conal said he no longer lamented not giving her a chastity belt, for he would sooner spend his coin on a muzzle to keep her quiet.”

Meridene pictured the sapling-thin cook berating his rotund wife, and the image made her smile. “She'll not wear a chastity belt.”

Revas rolled his eyes. “Of course not. The weight of the thing would stagger her.”

Their conversations always ran to the pleasant. It was true, and Meridene laughed, then groaned, for her ribs were sore from vomiting.

Revas threw off the bedcovers. “I should summon Sibeal to help you. I'm certain you'll want to bathe.”

He seemed nervous, and he was fully dressed, while she wore a thin sleeping gown. He'd complimented the garment at length. Why didn't he notice it now? Did his illness consume his thoughts?

Hoping to make him feel better, she said, “Were you striving for a gentle way to tell me that I smell?”

His eyes grew glassy, and he looked at her with sad longing. “Nay,” he said thickly, and crawled off the bed.

“We could share a bath and see if my namesake was correct about begetting a male child.”

Instead of a roguish grin and a naughty remark, he swallowed hard and looked at the hour candle. It was nine in the morning.

“Brodie and the others await.”

He hurried out the door, and she had the oddest thought that he wasn't sick at all.