The Mer- Lion (19 page)

He could only nod. There was method to her madness. The pumpes were the best homemade gag he'd ever encountered. The most flavorsome, too, he had to admit.

"It is time that we talk, you and I, about several things. Your son, for example." Unable to speak, he glowered in reply, and Islean retreated. "Your father's death for another." Her voice grew gentle, her manner introspective. "The attack wasn't unexpected, you know. There had been at least three attempts before that I know of. I keep reminding myself that he was not a young man, but it's hard. He didn't act like a man turned sixty. But he'd had a good life, one arm and all. He did what he thought was best for you and me, though I didn't always agree. Not then, not now. But I have to know. Jamie, do you want to be king?"

De Wynter choked, whereupon she rose and slammed him in the center of his back with the flat of her hand until he held up a hand for mercy. Swallowing finally, he managed to gasp out, "Desist, desist, I beg you. I'll be black and blue and afraid to show my naked back to a soul."

"Good." Resuming her place, she returned to the subject "You didn't answer my question."

He played with his horn spoon, turning it over and over between his long agile fingers. "Doesn't everyone want to be king?" he began sardonically, then thought better of that. For a moment she thought he was about to open up and confide in her. Then, he arose.

"Madame, you were right. The pumpes were excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Answer my question!" she ordered.

There was a note of bitterness in his voice. "Does what I want
make any difference? Did it eight years ago?" He turned to go. "I have to know. I don't want to kill the king in vain." "My God, you can't be serious."

She drew herself up to her full height and stared him in the eye. "I am. I have planned it well. Tonight my men will serve my food, on my dishes. It will not be easy, but it can be done. I am determined to resolve this matter that took my son from me eight years ago and that cost me my beloved husband. If this is the only way, then let it be so. And if the food fails, there's always my poniard." This was no weepy, hysterical woman, but a fully determined, vindictive mother fighting like a she-wolf to protect her own. Long minutes passed while the two took mental measure of each other.

Satisfied her words were not an idle threat, he finally spoke, choosing his words carefully. "No, I don't want to be king. Albany schooled me too well." He held up his hand to stop her from interrupting. "Do not mistake me. He upheld his part of the bargain." Again that note of bitterness crept into his voice. "He taught me how to rule, or, better yet, how not to rule. But there is in me one thing no good king can have—"

"Go on."

"A sense of humor." "You're mad."

"Not at all. I can laugh at myself, and no king can do that without questioning his supposed God-given right to rule. So I beg you, spare your king. Good or bad, he is the only one Scotland will have if I have my choice."

"But what of your son?"

"Ah, yes, we mustn't forget Jamie, the latest in the line of illegitimate heirs. Albany tried to make me a Frenchman, and in many ways he succeeded; but I am still a good enough Scot to know the last thing this country needs is another child king. Look at our history. What good a king accomplishes he undoes by leaving as his heir an infant. It would seem to be Scotland's curse—to be ruled by regents. And I prefer my child to grow up, God and you willing, at Seaforth, not as a prisoner at Edinburgh or another of the royal castles. No, madame, solve your problem another way, but spare James."

"Then"—she took a deep breath, for. what she asked of him was to deny his birthright—"renounce your claim. Tonight. Before the king and the court."

"Is that all it takes to save a king's life? Then, I do it gladly." He pulled on his gloves. "Now, if you'll excuse me, madame, I still have a great deal more work to do if the copse around Castle Dolour is going to yield up the magnificent hunting claimed for it by some gossip-monger."

He bowed and left, and she sat back in her chair. It had been almost too easy. Now all she had to do was get through this evening. Idly, she wondered if she could, indeed, have killed the king. She didn't know why not. She always contended a fast-acting poison not only didn't taste good but also wasn't in good taste. Besides being easily detected by the deaths of the royal tasters, it ruined a perfectly good banquet into which a lot of time and effort had gone. No, the poison she'd had in mind took its time about working. She'd just save the recipe for when Seaforth's murderers were found out. But enough of that.

Today, instead of concocting Nanny Goodall's never-fail recipe for sick dogs and cats—they ran away and died in the bushes—she could make sure her gown was ready for tonight. The pattern had come from Spain, the fabric from Byzantium via Venice, the silver thread spun from the ore of her very own mines here at Alva. The dress had been made at Seaforth; the embroidery done by Dugan's mother, a fine, robust woman who may well indeed have been the finest needle-woman in Scotland. What a shame to keep her at Alva. But now her work would be seen, for the court of King James had come to Alva. Here was Lady Campbell dying a thousand deaths over her state banquet and royal guests; Jamie spending his days out herding game toward a notoriously bad section for hunting; a whole court packing up and traveling miles upon miles; a lord known for his stinginess being forced to support for at least two weeks a most profligate court. Everyone was being discommoded so that the Lady Islean could have her dress stitched by the woman of her choice. It struck her funny bone! Would that a dress had been the only reason she had connived and engineered the banquet and that a hunted beast's life were the only life at stake.

"Grand-mere grand-mere, c'est moi!
It is me!" called a small
voice in bad Scots. Leaning over the rail that lined the musician's gallery above the Great Hall was a dark-haired charmer. Looking up at him, she decided life had its compensations. Here in this child was her immortality. That tonight she would aid his father in renouncing his birthright bothered her not a bit
...
well, a little, but she vowed she'd make it up to him some other way.

Already she was beginning to review what boys of good birth she could entice to Seaforth to be companions to her grandson. "Come down, my love, I have a treat for you—pumpes." She signaled for the butler to take away the bowl from which she'd served the lad's father. "But not these my sweet. They were perfect for your father. But for you, we'll get fresh. Fresh, tender, chewable ones. And then you must tell me again all you remember of your mother."

CHAPTER
7

The wooden double doors to the hall were thrown open from within. There, framed in the opening, stood three bagpipers dressed head to toe in the blue green tartan of the Campbells. The courtiers, peering over their monarch's shoulder, oohed and ahhed and applauded. Never before had they seen anything like it! A whole suit of tartan! Many immediately decided they too must have the same. James V, King of Scotland, his hostess the Lady Campbell on his arm, was speechless. Not more man a month before, he had secretly ordered such a suit for himself in the red blue royal Stewart tartan. Now, here in a desolate castle in the Lowlands, before his suit even had been delivered, the Campbells had stolen a march on him. Treason! Treachery!    .

Before James could roar his wrath, the pipers shrilly drew breath to launch, with a 'wabble and a warble, into the
Bodaich nam Brigisean,
the clan's pipe music. Inside the massive three-story-high dining halls were more tartan-clad attendants. Poverty makes good mathematicians out of kings in constant need of borrowing funds. James, multiplying their number by the cost of his suit—214 ells of variant-colored velvet for the short coat at six shillings the ell, and three ells for the threws at four shillings the ell—the result made him gasp. His hostess interpreted his reaction as complimentary and preened accordingly. Carefully, she neglected to mention that the Countess of Seaforth had arranged for the clothing and supplied most of the attendants, too.

Despite the newly lime-washed walls, the hall itself was dark and
gloomy. The windows of thin polished horn, sited up high, effectively kept out both light and enemy invaders. Rush dips and flares burning in crude sockets only emphasized the gloom. However, in honor of the royal guest, Lady Campbell had ordered down the candle beams. Diners above the salt would eat by fine beeswax candlelight. Lighting those below were candles of tallow that swiftly melted into rancid fat and overflowed the grease pans to drip onto the hats of those farmer down.

At the far end of the hall, out of reach of wayward sparks from the central hearth was a low dais with—luxury of luxuries—four box chairs. Of the four chairs, only one was owned by the Campbells, the others lent by Lady Islean. The balance of the court made do squeezing onto bare, backless benches and low wooden chests, their hardness softened only by the spreading of a lady's voluminous multilayered skirts and petticoats.

No sooner had the court been seated than the dark brown homebrewed ale began to flow. As the pipers desisted with a wheezing bray, the trumpeters announced the arrival of the warner. Three men staggered under the weight of this two-foot-high masterpiece of sugar and plaster—courtesy of the Seaforths—which depicted the king with his crown of gold, hunting the hart on the copse with his court. Genuine plaudits and compliments greeted it, even from the royals; and the Lady Campbell, basking in the limelight, not only was glad Lady Islean had been delayed but prayed the countess might never make the banquet at all.

Even as the warner was completing its circuit about the hall, the trumpets sounded again for the arrival of the first course: a porpoise roasted whole, an entire salmon, a mammoth dish of stewed eels and oysters in Bastard Gravy, the king's favorite dish, as the Lady Islean knew. She had even helped make the gravy, carefully adding salt, pepper, sugar, and ginger to the mixture of ale and oyster liquid. Carefully she supervised as Lady Ann added, strand by golden strand, the precious saffron worth its weight in gold. Only when the gravy was pronounced just right, were the oysters lowered gentry to bask in the spicy golden liquid. If things had gone differently, this was the dish Lady Islean planned to poison, the king being so, fond of it that he never failed to eat at least two servings, and if it were particularly good, a third, or even a fourth.

Tonight was a four-helping night. Sated, James passed up the next several courses, not being tempted again until the swan was served. Its wings spread and tied open, its neck gracefully curved, its feathers, head and feet left intact although the meat had been cooked and minced and mixed with rice before being stuffed back inside. A piece of camphor held within the gilded beak was lit just before the bird, poised as if to fly, was carried in on a charger. Out of deference to his young hostess, the king allowed himself to be served a small portion. It was his experience that elegant as it was on the water, the swan at table was most often a tough old bird. Wonders of wonders, this swan was tender, moist and lightly spiced. It made James uncomfortable. Like everything here at Castle Dolour, the swan was too good, the servants too many, the servers too attentive, the ale too free-flowing. Only the hostess, to his way of thinking, was just right; she hung on his every word, blushed at his every compliment, and ignored her husband completely.

His host, on the other hand, James disliked more with every new proof of his wealth, immediately, he began planning how to neutralize Campbell's obvious importance in this corner of Scotland.

The new Spanish ambassador to Scotland from the court of Charles V was also impressed by the magnificence of the banquet. Already he had begun mentally drafting his next report to his master. If minor lairds, which was what Campbell seemed to him to be, had such wealth, Scotland should be accorded a role bigger than that of a mere pawn in the international game of chess which the Holy Roman Emperor now pursued.

Oblivious to this little sallow-complexioned man in their midst, the court of Scotland was enjoying itself. Drunkenly and loudly. Servants, charged with filling the cups, went wary of the suddenly outstretched foot of knight or lady attempting to ease a cramp or pursue a caress. Hounds added to the confusion as, watching for droppings from the table, they grew ever more bold and fought among themselves for each tidbit. To add to the air of Donnybrook Fair, someone took it upon himself to add another armful of wood to the fire burning in the center hearth. It burned fitfully, the wood obviously being fresh-cut and giving off thick billows of smoke. Taking a roundabout route to reach the smoke-hole in the roof some

thirty feet above, the smoke gradually engulfed the hall in a gray haze.

The king, whose eyes were smoke-sensitive and inclined to weeping, cursed himself for choosing Castle Dolour for a hunting trip. "The hunting best be good," he said to himself, "if I am going to have to put up with smoke-hole and outhouse. Outhouse! In this day and age—how old-fashioned! And if that hunting isn't good, I'll just take to my bed and extend my visit another two week. That will bleed Campbell's treasure chest a bit!" He smiled at his host at the thought, and pompous, stupid Campbell smiled right back.

Just then, James noted a stirring among the courtiers nearby. Many had half risen and were craning necks to get a better view of the other end of the hall, now totally obscured by smoke. James turned to his hostess for explanation. "Lady, have you planned entertainment for us?"