Once Upon a Plaid (15 page)

—From “The Twelve Days of Christmas”

 

 

—An observation from Nab,
fool to the Earl of Glengarry

Chapter Seventeen

Nab sat in his tower room, fiddling with the book of poetry by the light of a tallow candle. It seemed he’d been there for hours, waiting and hoping that Dorcas would be able to slip away from her duties to join him. Since Lord Glengarry had been feeling poorly, he’d sent Nab away, saying it hurt to laugh.

“Hurts to laugh,” Nab muttered. Of all the foolish things. Laughter was supposed to do a body good. Like medicine, the Good Book said. Yet laughter caused Lord Glengarry pain. “And they call me odd.”

But it was just as well. After Nab reminded the revelers in the keep that the Rod of Misrule, which was what he’d taken to calling William’s scepter, had still not been found, his followers scrambled to continue the search. Nab had plenty of time to himself. He used it to ruminate on all the poems in the book so he could be certain to present Dorcas with the best one this time. He was worried about making a choice, though, because he’d felt the one about the poor bald fellow was rippingly good.

It had a catchy rhyme scheme and Nab thought “well-thatched” was a clever way to describe a full head of hair. Dorcas hadn’t been the least bit impressed.

Nab sighed. There was just no telling what a lass might fancy.

He’d finally settled on a poem, but he fretted about it. For one thing, it didn’t even rhyme. For that reason, he wasn’t sure what it was doing in a book of poetry, but someone must have thought there was something to it or they wouldn’t have painstakingly copied it in ornate script.

He ran through the words again, his lips moving as he read silently.

“Has that book bewitched ye?”

He looked up to see Dorcas climbing the last of the steps.
No, ye’ve bewitched me,
danced on his tongue. That’s what a lover might say.

But Nab wasn’t a lover. He was a fool.

“I was just practicing a poem.”

“Oh, good. So ye found one, did ye?”

“Aye, would ye like to hear it?” He scrambled to his feet. Somehow, he thought the poem might seem more impressive if he was standing.

“In a bit. I need to rest myself. Between seeing to Lady Margaret and helping out in the nursery and following Cook’s every uppity order, I’m all done in.” She sank onto the wolf pelt, her legs tucked neatly beneath her skirts. Then she patted the spot next to her.

Nab sat, obedient as a child, and opened the book. He cleared his throat noisily.

“What’s wrong with ye?” Dorcas demanded. “Ye sound as if ye swallowed a bullfrog.”

“No, I was just fixin’ to read ye a poem.”

“And I asked ye to wait. Honestly, Nab, can’t a lass stretch her legs a bit first?” She suited her actions to her words and leaned back on her arms while she lifted first one foot and then the other a few inches off the floor. Pointing her toes, she drew small circles in the air.

She had neat, slender ankles.

Nab swallowed hard. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth and that hot, jittery feeling—the good one, not the bad—began to spread through his whole body. He couldn’t read a poem now even if his hope of heaven depended upon it.

Fortunately, he wasn’t expected to even speak. Dorcas was capable of carrying on a conversation all by herself. She went on about which scullery maid was sweet on which stable lad and how many of the laird’s guests had found themselves twisted up in someone else’s cloak besides their lawful spouse’s during the course of the Yuletide revelries.

“There’ll be hell to pay when they return to their own homes, I assure ye,” she said.

Then she berated Cook for her high-handed ways and complained bitterly that the nursemaid left all of Tam’s napkin changing for her to do.

“And it’ll only get worse once the newest little bairn is born, for then there’ll be two wee bums to keep clean.” Dorcas sighed, but then a dreamy smile spread over her face. “But I’ll not deny ’tis a fine thing indeed to hold a new little one in my arms.”

This confused Nab so much, he was finally able to find his tongue. “But I thought ye said another bairn would make more work for ye.”

“Some work I dinna mind so much. And caring for a new babe is that sort of work. Because they’ve not been long in this world, they’ve a bit of heaven’s fragrance still clinging to them. That’s why ye watch them even while they sleep, lest the angels come to take them back. But that’s when they’re clean, of course.”

“And when they’re not clean, even Old Scratch willna take them.” Nab made a horrible face and pinched his nose.

Dorcas laughed.

Pride swelled Nab’s chest. Usually when people laughed at him, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d done or said to make them do it. This time, he’d tried to make someone laugh and succeeded. That the someone was Dorcas made it even better.

And while Dorcas made much of how babies smelled, he thought she smelled pretty good herself. He leaned toward her and sniffed.

“Seems to me ye’ve a bit of heaven clinging to ye too,” he said.

“Och, that’s only a slice of mince pie. Would ye like some?” She pulled a wrapped parcel from her pocket, and between the two of them, they made short work of the treat. Nab was a trifle disappointed that she was too busy licking her own fingers to lick his this time. “My old mam always told me the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Really? That seems a bit awkward because my heart is here and my stomach is there.” He touched first his chest and then his belly. Then he squinted quizzically at Dorcas. “Just where did yer mother think to make her entry?”

This time when she laughed, Nab had no idea why.

Then her merriment faded and she frowned down at her hands in her lap. “I think a bairn is the cause of Lord and Lady Badenoch’s troubles. Or rather, the lack of one.”

After what Nab had overheard on the curtain wall on Christmas Day, he was sure of it, but as much as he liked Dorcas, he didn’t feel he should add to her arsenal of gossip.

That quiver was already full.

“But if they love each other, it will all come right, dinna ye think?” he asked as he dusted his hands together to shake off the last of the mince pie crumbs since no finger licking seemed imminent.

“I hope so. Ye should see her with wee Tam, though, when she thinks no one sees. Her arms are aching for a bairn of her own and nothing else will fill them.” Dorcas leaned her chin in her hand. “And before I came here, I saw Lord Badenoch stalking around the great hall this night like a lost soul when he ought to be in his lady’s bed.” Dorcas made a tsking sound. “Thinking on them makes me sad. I dinna see what they’re to do. I’ll be needing that poem now to cheer my heart.”

“Oh!” The book had left his hands at some point while they were eating mince pie and talking about Lord William and his good lady and become hidden under them. Nab scrabbled through the mass of old horse blankets and the wolf pelt and came up with it. Then he flipped through the pages till he found the right poem. He started to rise.

“No, stay, Nab. I may not know how to read, but I like to look at the page while ye do. I follow the marks and squiggles with my eyes. ’Tis sort of like a maze on the pages. I find it restful.” Dorcas leaned into him and settled her head on his shoulder. “Go ahead. I’m ready to hear my poem now.”

Nab drew a deep breath and forced himself to read slowly so he wouldn’t stumble over any of the words.

“Och, Nab!” Dorcas gasped and threw her arms around him. “I had no idea ye loved me so exceeding fine.”

Nab’s eyebrows shot skyward. He’d had no idea either. He’d thought he was just reading her a poem.

Then she palmed his cheeks and kissed him right on the mouth. It was a bodhran-busting, bell-jangling sort of kiss and it reverberated clear to his toes.

Maybe he did love her exceeding fine. He decided it was worth another kiss to find out.

—From “The Twelve Days of Christmas”

 

 

—An observation from Nab,
fool to the Earl of Glengarry

Chapter Eighteen

Will woke when one of the men-at-arms near him loosed a snuffling snore. He rubbed his stiff neck and looked around. Most of the castle’s inhabitants were still asleep where they’d collapsed at the end of their carousing last night.

He pushed himself upright from the slouching position he’d assumed sometime during the wee hours. The big Tudor chair flanking the fireplace in the great hall wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but it beat curling up in his plaid on the floor. The rushes were none too sweet after a few nights of Christmastide revels, though plenty of Lord Glengarry’s guests were sprawled on them. William’s other choice had been to head for the stable and make himself at home in the haymow, but little Angus had presented him with so many rat carcasses of late, he decided the chair was his best option.

He’d claimed it for the last three nights.

He damned sure wasn’t going to return to Katherine’s bed. Her welcome would freeze a man’s balls more surely than a wintry blast.

But evidently she didn’t have that effect on dogs because the terrier came hopping down the spiral staircase, presumably after sleeping with his mistress all night. He made a beeline across the hall and jumped onto William’s lap without an invitation.

“Trying to stay on both our good sides, are ye?” He scratched Angus behind the ear, setting his hind leg thumping. “Or are ye just using me to stay out of reach of the deerhounds?”

From their place before the banked fire, the big dogs raised their heads and curled back their lips to show their teeth at Angus. The terrier barked at them, safely ensconced in Will’s arms. A number of sleepers scattered about the hall rolled over, cursed, and then sank back into slumber. The deerhounds flopped back down, jaws resting on their forepaws, studiously ignoring Angus. As long as he had William’s protection, the little dog wasn’t worth the effort.

“Careful, laddie.” Nab’s voice came from the foot of the spiral stairs. “Pissin’ into the wind is like to get ye wet.”

“Angus isna smart enough to heed your advice, Nab.”

“Weel, if it comes to that, only a fool would take advice from one.” Nab crossed over to squat beside Will’s chair as he often did beside Lord Glengarry’s. “But I wasna talking to the dog. I was talkin’ to ye, William.”

“Me? I’m just sitting here minding my own business.”

“No, ye’re not. Ye’re neglecting yer business. Ye said ye were going to woo Lady Katherine, but ye haven’t spoken a word to her the last few days. Odds bodkins, if she enters a room, ye leave it. Whatever’s ailing the pair of ye, ye’re being stubborn to spite yerself about it.”

“Ye’re right, Nab.”

“I am?” A smile split his lean face.

“Only a fool takes a fool’s advice.” William put Angus down. The dog scrabbled under the trestle tables, then streaked across the hall to the spiral stairs. The biggest deerhound rose and gave chase but pulled up sharply at the foot of the steps while Angus bounded up them. Lord Glengarry didn’t allow his hunting dogs into the family’s portion of the keep, but the little terrier had no such restrictions. He was free to go and come from his mistress’s chamber as often as he wished.

“Life isna fair, is it?” Nab observed as the big dog returned to her place by the fire.

“No, it isn’t,” Will agreed, disgusted with himself for envying a damned dog. He ought to give up and go home, but he couldn’t leave without the Scepter of Badenoch. At least, that’s what he told himself. “Have ye found the Rod of Misrule yet?”

“No.” Nab’s smile sank like a capsized coracle. “We’ve been looking everywhere. I dinna think we’ll ever find it.”

William exhaled noisily. There wasn’t much point to the symbol of his family’s ruling line if the line was dead. “’Tis a small matter now.”

But it wasn’t. Katherine was right about that. However much he protested, he did want children. He wanted a whole castle full of them.

He envied his younger brother’s pride in his sons. There was something a bit godlike about the moment when a man sees his own features stamped on his son’s face. After a man ran his course in this world, his children were the promise that a bit of him would go on. Since Will had all but renounced the Church, having his blood flow through the veins of his offspring was the only sort of immortality he might hope for.

William pulled his plaid tighter around himself against the morning chill. Dorcas came in and began to poke at the fire, sending sparks flying up the chimney and flames licking at the wood she fed it. After she finished tending the fireplace, she rose and gave Nab a saucy wink.

The fool blushed to the tips of his oversized ears.

“Nab, are ye sweet on Dorcas?”

“Dorcas?” He repeated the name stupidly, as if he’d never heard it before.

“Aye, Dorcas,” William said with growing amusement.

“Nay, I’m not sweet at all. Ask anyone.” His gaze followed the sway of her hips across the hall until she disappeared into the kitchen. “Why d’ye want to know?”

“Because the way ye’re lookin’ at her, anyone might think she was the last sugared plum in the bowl.”

Nab’s eyes grew round. “Dinna tell anyone. Please, will ye not?”

“Why? She’s a comely enough girl. If Dorcas returns your feelings—and that wink tells me ’tis more than likely—folk will think ye’ve done well for yourself.”

“Aye, but they’ll think she has not. I’m a fool, William. The butt of every joke. For some odd reason, Dorcas doesna see me that way. But she might if everyone starts pointing it out to her.” He stood and wrung his hands. “Just imagine what fun Ranulf MacNaught would have with a fool in love.”

As much as Will wanted to continue needling him, he had to admit that Nab had a point. “Your secret’s safe with me. But if ye want to keep it from others, ye need to guard your face when she’s around. Ye practically melted when the lass did no more than smile at ye.”

“Ye mean I should ignore her?”

“If ye dinna want others to know your feelings for her,” William said with a nod. “They show plain enough when ye look at her.”

“Dorcas wouldna like it if I ignore her.” Shaking his head, Nab settled back down on the floor next to William’s chair. “Besides, meanin’ no disrespect I’m sure, but I’d be more apt to take yer advice in matters of the heart were ye sleeping in yer lady wife’s bed instead of in this chair.”

William shrugged. “Ye have a point.”

A pair of men stalked in from the bailey, stomping the snow from their boots and beating their bodies with their arms to banish the cold that followed them in. Will recognized them as the two he’d sent to fetch Donald home from Edinburgh.

There hadn’t been enough time for them to make the journey there, let alone back again.

“We have news for Lady Margaret,” one of them said.

 

 

William hadn’t seen his sister-in-law since she’d been confined to her bed. He was pleased to find her sitting up, her smile as bright as ever and her hands busy with a pair of knitting needles producing what looked to be the smallest cap in the world.

He was less pleased to find Katherine in a chair beside her bed similarly occupied. There was no way to avoid her this time. His heart still lurched whenever she was near. He damned himself for a weakling, unable to walk away like a man. If his wife didn’t want him—and she’d made that abundantly clear—he ought not to want her.

Except that he did.

Katherine rose when she saw him, but it was as if a stranger peered at him through her beloved eyes. She started to go.

“No, dinna leave. I willna be long,” Will said, raising a hand to forestall her. When Katherine perched on the chair once more, he turned his attention to Margaret. “I’ve news of your husband, good-sister.”

Her face, though pale, brightened at this. “What of my Donald?”

“He sends ye his compliments and wants ye to know he’s near.”

“Oh, I’m so glad. After that bad turn, I had a feeling this time would be different. Did I not tell ye he’d change his mind and come home for my lying-in, Katherine?” Then a shadow passed over her face. “But there hasna been time to send a message all the way to Edinburgh. The runners left but a few days ago or I’m mistook.”

William shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “They met Donald in Inverness.”

“He was already on his way! Oh, Kat. Feel my heart.” She took Katherine’s hand and pressed it to her breastbone. “’Tis racing like a young lass waiting for her first beau. When will he arrive?”

William swallowed hard. “He says to tell ye the whole of King James’s court has removed from Edinburgh to Inverness till after Twelfth Night. Seems a white stag was sighted in the Highlands thereabouts and His Majesty is keen to bag it. He and his courtiers ride out daily in search of the beast.”

Margaret seemed to shrink back into her pillows. “Donald’s down at the end of the loch from me only on account of . . . a deer?”

“A rare deer, to be sure. There hasn’t been a white stag taken since my father’s father’s time. Donald says if he’s the one who helps the king find it, the future of Glengarry will be secure.”

Margaret’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Did the messengers tell him I was in some difficulty with this babe?”

William nodded. “Your husband says to tell ye he prays for ye nightly. God, he reasons, can do ye more good here than he can, and he can do ye and all your sons more good at court than the Almighty.”

Donald had said nothing of the sort, but William thought Margaret might appreciate the sentiment. According to the messengers, his actual words had been “Lady Margaret isna having trouble. Ye must be mistaken. If there’s one thing that woman excels in ’tis pushing out bairns.”

William wasn’t about to repeat that.

“And it seems his prayers have had effect,” Will said. He didn’t believe in prayer one whit, but if it helped Margaret deal with her husband’s absence, he was willing to play along. “If I may say so, ye are looking radiant, good-sister.”

That was a bald-faced lie. Margaret had the scraped-back look of a woman whose body has been taken over by another. She wouldn’t be in full possession of herself again until that Other was expelled. Katherine’s skeptical glance told him she wasn’t the least fooled by William’s falsehoods on Donald’s behalf.

Margaret, however, smiled tremulously. “Thank ye, Will. ’Twas good of ye to send word.”

He wished he had his brother-in-law in front of him that very moment. He’d shake the man till his teeth fell out. “After the runners rest a bit, do ye wish to send another message?”

“No. No need. I’ll not trouble Donald again till after the bairn is born. ’Twill be time enough then. ’Tis the news he’s waiting for, after all,” she said, staring down at the knitting needles that had fallen quiet in her hands. “I’m tired of a sudden. Leave me to rest, if ye please. Ye too, Kat.”

Katherine leaned over, gathered up the knitting, and kissed Margaret’s cheek. She filed out of the room ahead of William and started down the spiral stairs.

They hadn’t gone two steps before Margaret’s soft sobs stopped them. Kat turned and would have gone back up, but Will blocked her path.

“She wouldna thank ye, I’m thinkin’,” he said softly. “She asked for solitude. That small dignity is the only gift ye can give her.”

“You’re right. Donald didna say he was praying for her, did he?”

Will shook his head.

“The selfish beast. Oh, how I wish I were a man,” Katherine hissed. “Then I could beat my brother senseless.”

“I’d be happy to do the honors for ye.”

She smiled up at him for the first time in days. “I believe ye would.”

“Say the word and Greyfellow and I are off for Inverness.”

“Then consider the word given, but I dinna think we’ll range that far afield, laddie.” A booming voice came from below them on the stairs. It belonged to Lord Glengarry and he sounded more like his usual self than he had since Christmas Eve. “I’m declaring a hunt and all able-bodied men are to form up in the bailey as soon as may be.”

Evidently, Katherine’s father had overheard only part of their conversation. They continued down the twisting stairwell to meet him at the doorway to his chamber.

“Seems Jamison has his garters in a twist over the state of our larder, though I’ve inspected it and have my doubts about the need for fresh meat,” the earl said. “Still, it’ll give us an excuse to get out of the castle and blow some of the stink off, aye?”

He tromped down the spiral stairwell, bellowing for Nab to roust the men.

“Well, I guess if ye’re off with my father, ye’ve no time to pummel my brother,” Katherine said.

“Lady Margaret wouldna want me to, in any case.”

“No, she wouldna. She’s a far better person than I.” Katherine started down the stairs, but he caught her hand.

“That’s not true. To see an injustice and want it made right doesna make ye a bad person. It means ye care. If ye like, I will still go fetch your brother and drag him home. Ye know I will.” God help him, he sounded so blasted pathetic, but he couldn’t seem to stop the words from pouring out of his mouth. “There’s nothing I wouldna do for ye.”

One of her brows arched. “Really? Let’s test that, shall we?”

Hope surged in him. He was ready to scale a castle wall for her. Should the waterhorse appear in the waves off Glengarry, he’d mount the hell-bound beast and ride it to the depths of the loch if Katherine asked him to. Whatever she wanted, he was ready to attempt if only she’d believe he was hers till there was no breath left in him.