Whence Came a Prince (24 page)

Amid the freckles dotting her face, wisdom shone in Jessie’s blue eyes. “Rose is not you,” she said simply. “Your sister handles Ian with a certain confidence now, and ’tis obvious she cherishes the boy. Still … she is not his mother, however fondly she may dote on him. But when
you
are with him, Leana …” Jessie’s eyes grew moist. “I have ne’er seen a mother love a child the way you love Ian McKie.”

Neither spoke for a bit. A small heath butterfly, its orange wings decorated with two dark brown dots, flitted nearby.

“I
do
love Ian to distraction,” Leana said at last, combing her fingers through his hair. “A blessing since I cannot love his father.”

“I ken ’tis true, Leana.” Jessie’s voice was low, comforting. “Yet it grieves me to hear you say it.”

Leana gathered Ian onto her lap, kissing his cheek in passing. “ ’Tis harder than I e’er dreamed it might be. To see Jamie with Rose. To realize the love we once had is no more. I truly would despair if not for the certainty of God’s love and his blessing on my womb.”

Jessie gave her a baffled look. “What blessing might that be?”

Leana froze. “Th-this one.” She held on to Ian, her heart racing. “My son, Ian.”

“Oh!” Jessie laid her hand over her heart. “I thought you meant you were expecting another bairn. Wouldn’t that be something? You and your sister both carrying children sired by the same man.”

“It would be … something,” Leana agreed, pressing her warm cheek to Ian’s head, praying Jessie didn’t notice. Perhaps if she changed the subject at once, her face might cool, and Jessie would be none the wiser. “Is Alan bound for Keltonhill Fair on Tuesday?”

“He is.” Jessie flicked a rowan leaf off her sleeve. “Most of the parish men will be there and some of the women as well.”

Not this one.
Leana could not imagine a less comfortable place for an expectant mother or a less hospitable one for a gentlewoman.

She considered getting up from the ground, for her legs were begin
ning to ache, then thought better of it. Jessie would surely notice her protruding stomach as she stood and jalouse the rest. Instead, she shifted her weight and eased Ian back onto the grass. “Jamie and Duncan are riding to Keltonhill together, intent on purchasing a horse.”

“ ’Tis the largest horse fair in the south of Scotland. If e’er a man wanted to buy a mount, he’d find one at Keltonhill.” Jessie winked. “That is, if his silver isn’t stolen.”

K
eep yer purse oot o’ sight,” Duncan warned as he and Jamie neared yet another boisterous company of travelers, “and gather yer wits aboot ye.”

Jamie adjusted his seat, his backside sore from riding. At least the skies were clear and the roads dry. The freshening air from the Solway bore no hint of rain as it ruffled the yellow blooms of St. John’s wort growing by the hedgerows. Jamie tipped his head toward the wildflowers. “Shall I pick one and hide it under my vest?”

Duncan made a face. “An auld wives’ tale.
Oniewise
, ye’re tae pick it on St. John’s Eve if ye mean tae ward awa evil.”

“ ’Tis not what the plant keeps away but what it draws near that interests me: peace in the house and prosperity in the sheepfolds.” Jamie eyed the tall stems in passing, remembering what his mother had taught him.
I will pluck thee with my right hand, I will preserve thee with my left hand.
“Suppose I choose a bloom on the way home to wear beneath my arm. Naught but one day early. St. John will not object.”

“Suit yerself,” Duncan said, “though ’twill be late.”

“Aye, but still light.” Tradition dictated that Keltonhill Fair fell on the first Tuesday after the seventeenth of June, coinciding with Midsummer, the longest day of the year. In Galloway the sun rose not long after four o’ the clock on the solstice, lighting the sky until nearly ten the same night—ideal for a one-day fair, though it made for a lengthy outing.

After a hasty breakfast at dawn, the two men had departed Auchengray. Leana watched from the garden, lifting her hand in farewell. Astride Walloch, Jamie had waved in return, gazing at her longer than propriety allowed. She seemed more peaceful of late. Less wary in his
presence. He was grateful, since it eased the tension between them. Yet he could not deny the pain that gripped him each time he thought of taking her son and bidding her farewell. There was nothing to be done, no other option afforded him, but his chest ached nonetheless. He could never beg Leana’s forgiveness enough.

Duncan, riding close beside him, caught his eye. “Rather than wearin’ St. John’s wort tae scare awa the
de’il
, ye’d be better off lettin’ Leana make ye an infusion.” He paused, as if letting Jamie figure it out for himself. “Tae cure yer melancholy.”

“When I have my own mount, you’ll see my spirits lift.”

“Och, is that what’s been eatin’ at ye a’ month? Not havin’ yer ain horse?”

Jamie shrugged, knowing Duncan saw through his ruse. “Lachlan made it clear I would not be taking Walloch with me to Glentrool. Though we’ll not find his equal today, there’ll be horseflesh enough to choose from.” He touched a hand to the purse concealed inside his vest. “We’ll need coins for food and ale. The rest will buy my mount.”

Duncan guided his horse round a deep gouge in the gravel. “Hard-earned silver it is.”

Jamie’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, still angered by Lachlan’s stiff-necked response to his request for a loan. “If it’s silver you’re needing, Jamie, sell a few lambs. There’s a flesher in Dumfries who’ll be happy to fill your purse if you’ll fill his meat hooks.” When Jamie had protested, having already lost five score to the reivers, Lachlan showed no mercy. “You were the one who chose sheep over silver, lad. If you want money for a horse, turn to your lambs, not to me.” And so Jamie had herded a small flock to Dumfries yestermorn, much as it grieved him. The cold silver in his palm felt like a betrayal. His lambs were meant to graze the hills of Glentrool, not feed hungry stomachs in Dumfriesshire.

Jamie scanned the crowded highway for familiar faces. Folk from his home parish of Monnigaff flocked to Keltonhill along with the Irish, the English, and every Lowlander in between, it seemed. Elegant carriages vied with peasants on foot for a share of the road. Families in wheeled carts, gentlemen on horseback, barefoot servants, Gypsies in
colorful clothes and tattered caravans—all were headed one direction: southwest to Keltonhill. As the morning warmed, the smell of unwashed bodies and fermenting fruit in saddlebags mingled with the more pleasant scents of freshly cut grass and heath, creating an aromatic cloud that traveled with them.

He’d come to the fair once with Evan the summer of their fifteenth year. While he entertained himself eying the lasses, his twin brother had visited the tippling houses, sampling the whisky and getting into fist-fights with the local lads. At sunset Jamie had thrown his inebriated brother across his horse and led him home to Glentrool, promising his mother they’d never visit Keltonhill again.

A decade later here he was. Might his brother make an appearance at the fair as well? They’d hardly parted on speaking terms, with Evan threatening to kill him and Jamie fleeing for his life.
A brother is born for adversity.
Aye, that was Evan. On Jamie’s first Martinmas in Dumfries, he’d mistaken another man on the High Street for Evan and nearly seized the red-headed stranger before the man turned round and Jamie realized he was not his brother. He’d not make a similar blunder this day, though Jamie still intended to keep an eye out for broad-backed men with red hair and a staggering walk.

They emerged from Carlinwark with a short distance to go and a long line of carts and carriages ahead of them. Duncan gestured toward the temporary stables by the roadside. “If ye dinna mind the walk, we can leave our horses.” They chose the most reputable looking of the stablers and made arrangements for their horses to be well fed and well guarded. Walloch had already been stolen from Jamie once, only to be recovered with Lachlan’s silver; he would not lose the gelding again.

Without their mounts, the men were able to wend their way through the crowd and head for the high ground. Duncan pointed out a large Gypsy encampment in passing. “Billy Marshall’s folk.”

The Marshalls were one of many Gypsy families in Galloway. Jamie counted two dozen or more wagons, each with a pair of shelties standing nearby, nibbling on the grass. Mean tents, made of rough canvas and held up with sticks, were stationed round steaming kettles. While
the women tended the cooking fires, their men sat on blankets, mending pots and carving spoons from ox horns.

“We also have Marshalls in my parish.” Jamie’s hand went to his purse, making certain it was well concealed. “One of them was standing o’er me the Sabbath morning I woke from my
unco
dream.”

“The same Gypsy who
staw
yer boots?”

“The very one.” As they walked past, Jamie looked for the elderly Marshall with his thick arms and short-legged strut, his dark eyes glowing, his breath reeking of onions. A man doesn’t get tricked out of his boots and not remember the clever Gypsy who managed it.

Duncan nudged him. “Did ye spy the Marshall mark in his hand?” He held out his weathered palm and drew an
X
between the thumb and forefinger. “The lines in me ain hand go their separate ways.” He picked up Jamie’s hand long enough to glance at it. “Yers do as weel. But folk say true kin o’ Billy Marshall, chief o’ the Gypsies, have a mark on their palms, like I showed ye. The sign o’ the cross.”

Jamie nodded as they neared Rhonehouse, only half believing the tale. “I’ll be sure to check the man’s hand if I see him. Though ’tis not likely in this crowd.”

The riotous sound greeted them first, then the inescapable smells, and finally the astounding sight of a sleepy village transformed. Two long lines of colorful tents created an avenue of grass along which bright flags waved in the passing breeze. Down the makeshift street hundreds of folk bustled and jostled, quarreled and caroused, the whole human mass in constant motion—farmers, tinklers, drovers, fishers, smugglers, thieves.

“This way.” Duncan guided Jamie to the right, one hand gripping his elbow lest the two men become separated by the crush of people. Raised voices with foreign accents clamored to be heard. The hawkers pitched their calls above the din, promoting their wares as they held them aloft.

Duncan nigh to shouted in his ear, “I come
ilka
year, and ’tis the busiest I’ve seen it.
Maun
be the guid weather.” He tugged Jamie toward a blanket covered with leather goods, dressed and colored by the currier who sat proudly beside them. “What say ye tae a new pair o’ boots?”

“The pair I have will do,” Jamie said absently, moving on to the hosier’s bounty of silk, wool, and cotton stockings, some with ornamental clocks, a decoration on the side of the stocking meant to hide the seams. He soon found
fairings
for Ian—a spinning top and a wooden soldier—and at the glovers he fingered a pair of kid gloves, thinking of Rose.

The men spent several hours working their way round the tents, taking it all in, keeping watch for cutpurses and pickpockets. One merchant, a chandler, caught Jamie’s eye when he spotted cakes of heather soap among the candles. “Two,” Jamie told the bearded man, fishing out a coin, then slid the small cakes inside his vest as he winked at Duncan. “At least they smell better than St. John’s wort.”

Despite the pungent aroma of cattle and horses that permeated the air, Jamie’s nose led him to a tent where
sweetie-wives
held court, their trays of sweetmeats on tempting display. His eyes were soon as glazed as the confections spread before him: candied fruit, sugar-covered nuts, butterscotch, vanilla
tablet
, barley sugar, treacle candy, sticks of
glessie
, bars of rich comfits stuffed with bits of fruit, and a charming young sweet seller prepared to take his pennies.

“What’ll it be, sir? Toffee?” She held out a bite of glessie for him to sample, and he was quickly sold, buying a handful of the buttery sugar candy.

Duncan returned from the pie sellers tent with potato fritters and mutton pies for their dinner. Since there was nowhere proper to sit, they simply stood in a tent corner, enjoying their humble meal and watching the gentry and peasantry of Galloway rub shoulders for one Midsummer Day.

“Time for some entertainment, and then we’ve a horse to buy.” Duncan led him past several low platforms on which mountebanks extolled the virtues of various medicines by way of storytelling and chicanery. They steered clear of the noisy cockfighting pit, where oiled gamecocks fitted with spurs sent feathers and pennies flying. Farther along, a tenor balladeer, his voice already hoarse, sang a tragic tale of love won then lost, while printed broadsheet ballads were offered for sale. A juggler deftly tossed wooden balls in the air as fruit sellers with
trays of apples hung round their necks made their way through the jubilant crowd, holding up their ripened goods.

Each time the two men stopped, Jamie searched the crowd for one face in particular.

“If ye’re leukin’ for that Gypsy, ye’re wastin’ yer time.”

“I’m looking for my brother,” Jamie admitted, “though I’ve yet to see any man with hair the shade of his. If Evan’s here, I do believe I’ll spot—”

“McKie!” A familiar voice rang above the throng, stopping Jamie cold.

S
everal heads turned when Jamie’s did. It wasn’t his brother bellowing across the fairgrounds, but it was a voice he knew—a voice from home—and a braw face he remembered well. “John! John McMillan!” Jamie hollered back, not caring who heard. He motioned the giant of a man in their direction, even as he grabbed Duncan’s arm. “Come meet an old friend of mine from the glen.”

Duncan’s eyes widened. “Glad tae hear he’s a
freen
, for he’d be a
meikle
enemy.”