Whence Came a Prince (25 page)

The crowd parted, making room for a black-haired man who stood a full head taller than anyone near him. He walked with a loose-limbed swagger, tipping his cap at every lass who caught his eye, a considerable number. “Look who’s come to Keltonhill Fair,” John said as he reached them, clapping one of his meaty hands on Jamie’s shoulder. “I ne’er thought to see you again, old friend.”

“Nor I you, McMillan.” Jamie laughed, even as his throat tightened. Five years his senior, John McMillan was his closest neighbor in the remote fastness of the glen of Loch Trool. As lads, John, Evan, and Jamie had been inseparable, clambering over the hills together, fishing in the loch, and tracking roe deer in the Wood of Cree. A loyal friend, John, and honest. If there was news of Evan, he’d not keep it to himself.

Jamie nodded at both men. “John McMillan of Glenhead, meet Duncan Hastings, overseer of Auchengray in Newabbey.”

“Your uncle’s property, aye?” The two men exchanged greetings, John’s hand swallowing Duncan’s whole. “Have you settled there for good, Jamie, or will we see you in the glen soon?”

“At Lammas,” he answered with a measure of pride, knowing the
months of squirming beneath Lachlan’s thumb would end. “ ’Twill be good to see everyone again.”

John folded his arms across his massive chest and cocked an eyebrow. “Including your brother?”

Heat crept round Jamie’s shirt collar. “I believe Evan will be … ah, gone … by then.”

John nodded but did not comment, his gaze drawn to a chapman with a tray of ribbons and lace. He called out to the stoop-shouldered man, immediately garnering his attention, then pilfered a handful of silk ribbons from the tray and tossed the man a coin. “For the lasses,” John said with an indifferent shrug, stuffing the ribbons in his vest pocket. “As to Evan …” He eyed Duncan for a moment. “May I speak freely?”

“You may.” Jamie looked at Duncan. “Like most herds on the hills, we’ve no secrets between us.”

John directed them toward a narrow stretch of grass separating two busy tents, then planted himself between them like an oak, shading them from folk who might hear their conversation. “Here’s the truth, lad: When you left Glentrool, Evan spread the sorry news of your … er …”

“My deceit,” Jamie finished for him. “There is no other word for what I did to my father and brother. Will any in the parish receive me?”

John regarded him with an even gaze. “Your father does not speak ill of you. Nor your mother, of course. Only Evan. I’ve ne’er seen a man so fixed on vengeance. Mind you, I’ve not spoken to your brother in many weeks. He’s been venturing south a good bit, attending to business in Wigtownshire.”

“ ’Tis my understanding he plans to settle there. Have you heard when Evan and Judith will leave Glentrool for good?”

John dragged his hand across his chin stubble, the sound like emery paper against dried pine. “That I cannot say. In the glen truth does not travel as swiftly as
clack
.” He lowered his voice, his gaze growing more intent. “You’d best be sharpening your sword before you start west, Jamie. Evan will stop at nothing to protect his son.”

Jamie’s heart stopped. “His …
son
?”

“You mean to say …” John’s face was awash in disbelief. “Your mother didn’t
tell
you? Jamie, I’m …” He wagged his head, then started
again. “I’m verra sorry you’re hearing this from me: Judith was delivered of a son. Last October.”

Jamie sensed the ground shifting beneath him.
October
. The same month as Ian. As things stood, Jamie would inherit Glentrool and Ian after him. But if Evan succeeded in killing him, and if Evan’s son was older than Ian…

“When in October?” Jamie asked, dreading the answer.

John stared at the tent pegs near their feet, as though the date might be carved into the rough wood. “ ’Twas at the start of the month,” he said at last. “On a Saturday, for I recall Evan fretting o’er the auld rhyme.”

Duncan supplied it, though they well knew the words. “Saturday’s child works hard for a living.”

“So does Evan McKie now that I’ve robbed him of what was rightly his.” Jamie jammed his boot heel into the soft ground, angry only with himself. “Was it the first Saturday, then?” The day before Ian was born.

“Aye. The third of October, I remember it now. Judith and her babe had their kirkin at Monnigaff on Lukemas Day, the eighteenth.” John McMillan’s crooked smile, as broad as the rest of him, spread across his face. “The
kimmer
—Sally Crawford, you’ll remember her from Carseminnoch, a sonsie lass with the greenest eyes in Galloway—handed the child to his father for the minister’s blissin. A fine lad is wee Archie.”

“Archibald, is it?” Their grandfather’s name. Evan had bested him twice. “I’ve a fine lad of my own,” Jamie declared, not caring if he sounded boastful. “Ian James McKie. Born October the fourth.”

“Have you now?” John had no sooner congratulated him than his countenance fell. “A day apart? I fear ’twill be the older and the younger all o’er again. And here I’d hoped to see you two joined as brothers. Like the days of auld
lang
syne at Buchan Burn.”

“A time best forgotten,” Jamie said, though his memories held fast: he and Evan dunking each other under the Buchan’s cool linns, tumbling down the slopes of the glen together, trading punches on the winding paths along the loch, and laughing all the while. Aye, they had been brothers once. But too many years and too many sorrows had come between them.

Watch your back, man.
Evan’s last words to him, spoken in anger.

“ ’Twas good of you to tell me.” Jamie clasped McMillan’s arm with gruff affection. “I’ll be better prepared come Lammas.”

“Have your dirk where you can reach it, for Ian’s too young to lose his father.” John’s gaze lifted, aimed over Jamie’s shoulder. His smile returned in force, a glint of gold in his eyetooth. “If it’s not the verra lass I’d hoped to see. The one I mentioned by name, Sally Crawford.” He gave Jamie a conspirator’s wink. “Must have called her to me, aye?”

Jamie chuckled, stepping aside, their conversation ended. “Our paths will cross again, John McMillan.” His friend raised his hand, already past him as he navigated the wide expanse between the two lines of tents, headed straight for a buxom lass with golden hair and a blush on her round cheeks.

Duncan snorted. “We’ll not see him again this day, I’ll wager.”

Jamie watched in amusement as John presented Sally with a bright blue ribbon from his pocket. “I’m sorry to see the man go. We’ve a long history together, John and I.”

“ ’Tis guid tae be thinkin’ o’ hame, Jamie.” Duncan steered him toward the far end of the tents, where the sale horses were gathered. Their progress was slow, for no one was in a hurry to be anywhere but the place they were standing. “Guid tae be thinkin’ aboot how ye’ll mend things wi’ yer
brither
.”

“Mend?” Jamie stopped in his tracks. “Duncan, we’re not talking about some boyhood argument, easily put to rights.”

“What are we talkin’ aboot then, lad? For ye’ve niver told me—”

“You’ve never asked,” Jamie shot back, regretting it immediately. “I’m sorry, Duncan.” He groaned, releasing some of his frustration. “If you’re willing to listen—for ’tis not a pleasant story—I’ll tell you the whole of it.” Jamie aimed for the village street, suddenly thirsty.

If a man fancied a drink, he did not have far to walk. Rhonehouse’s four inns, including the Boar’s Head and the Crown, overflowed with patrons tossing back ales to slake their thirst. Every house in the village had flung open its doors, pouring libations and serving cold victuals. Evan McKie might be found in any one of them, Jamie realized. Or none of them.

“We’ll not be drinkin’ awa our silver,” Duncan declared, pointing
him toward a booth selling lemon punch. “Buy us twa cups, and we’ll find a place tae rest.” Procuring the punch was simple; locating somewhere to sit was not. They’d started well down the other side of Keltonhill before they stumbled on a patch of grass not yet trodden to mud, offering a fine view of pastoral hills rimmed with woods and dotted with farmhouses.

Once they were seated and their punch cups put aside, Jamie wiped his lips dry, wishing he could dispatch his past as easily. On the night of Ian’s birth, when Duncan had seen him through the agony of Leana’s travail, the subject of what had happened at Glentrool had been broached. Duncan had spared Jamie from sharing any details.
I ken all aboot that. There’s none at Auchengray who don’t.
The time had come for his friend to learn the things that no one knew.

“You’ve heard the gist of it,” Jamie began, the punch already souring his stomach “If I say ’twas my mother’s idea, I will sound like the coward I am.”

“Ye’re nae coward, lad.” Duncan’s voice was kind, utterly without judgment. “Ane Sabbath I watched ye stand tae yer feet in the kirk and defend yer wife whan she sat on the stool o’ repentance.”

“Leana, you mean.” Jamie rubbed at his mouth, stemming his nausea. “ ’Tis another subject, one I cannot face this day.”

“Anither day,” Duncan agreed. “Tell me aboot yer mither. Is she at a’ like her brither, Lachlan McBride?”

“She is. My mother is clever with words and not above using trickery to get what she wants.” Much as Jamie hated confessing it, the similarities could not be discounted. Nor the differences. “Rowena McKie is more charming than my uncle, though, and more caring. I’ve ne’er doubted her love for me. But therein lies the
tickler
, Duncan.” He stretched out his legs, crossing his boots at the ankle. “My mother favored me, and my father favored Evan. They compared us like sheep at market. ‘This one has a sound mouth.’ ‘Aye, but this one has an even coat.’ ”

“Och.” Duncan spat his last taste of punch onto the grass. “ ’Tis a daft parent wha pits ane bairn against anither. I’ve warned me dochters o’ that verra danger.”

“Would that you’d been round when we were born. Twins, but not
identical. A minute apart, yet on two different days, for our births straddled the clock at midnight.”

A look of awe came across Duncan’s face. “Ye were birthed at sic a canny hour? Folk say—”

“So they do.” The mention of the old belief made Jamie’s hands grow cold. To think of having the ability to see the Spirit of God abroad in the land simply because he was born just after midnight.

At Duncan’s prompting, Jamie continued. “While Evan and I were still in her womb, my mother sought the advice of a pious midwife. The woman declared that, by and by, the older would serve the younger. She assured our mother ’twas a word from the Almighty. My mother determined it would be so.”

A bevy of lasses strolled by, trying to catch Jamie’s eye, but he paid them no mind.

Duncan nudged him. “What did yer mither have ye do, Jamie?”

The words seeped out like blood from a wound. “My father announced he was ready to bestow his blessing on his heir, an irrevocable act. He sent Evan to hunt a roe deer for the celebration. While he was gone, Mother prepared goat meat seasoned like venison. She dressed me in my brother’s plaid and covered my hands in goatskin, for Evan is birsie.”

“Ye dinna mean ye pretended tae be yer brither?”

“I did.” Jamie hung his head, ashamed all over again.

Duncan’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Surely yer faither could tell the difference atween ye?”

“Alec McKie has lived more than eighty summers, and his eyesight is failing.” Jamie stared at his hands, remembering his father’s trembling fingers unwrapping the bread. Reaching for a glass of claret. Touching his son’s head. “He believed I was Evan.” Jamie swallowed, the words sticking in his throat. “But ’twas not my father’s eyes that deceived him.”

The pain on Duncan’s face mirrored his own. “Jamie, ye didna lie tae yer ain faither?”

“I … did. Repeatedly.” He ground his teeth hard, wanting it to hurt. “After he … blessed me, I apologized for leaving so soon. But I did not truly ask his forgiveness.”

“Have ye niver done it?” Duncan’s disappointment was carefully checked, but Jamie saw it in his eyes. “Did ye not make amends afore ye left or write the man syne?”

“My mother smoothed things over before I left that night, but since then I’ve done … nothing.” He pulled his knees toward his chest, slumping over them, hiding his shame. “Nothing except beg for the Lord’s mercy seventy times seven.”

“Och.” Duncan chuckled softly. “That’s how mony times ye’re tae forgive ithers, Jamie. Not how mony times ye ask God tae forgive ye. Once will do on that score.” Duncan hung his arm round Jamie’s shoulders, a father’s embrace. “Ye’ve some work tae do whan we get hame, aye? Some letters tae write?”

Jamie straightened, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Aye.” His burden of guilt had not lifted, but it had lightened.

“Yer raik tae Glentrool will be easier if ’tis paved wi’ guid wirds, not guid intentions.” Duncan slapped his back once, then scrambled to his feet. “And if ye have a fine horse tae get ye there, that’ll help as weel. ’Tis what we came for, lad. Time we got on wi’ it.” He led the way toward the paddocks. “The sale’s aboot tae start, for the bell’s rung.”

With Jamie’s eye for horseflesh and Duncan’s skill at bargaining, they were not long in finding a mount. Horse dealers from Ireland and England trotted out roan-colored horses, chestnuts, bays, and dappled gray thoroughbreds. Jamie knew what he wanted—Walloch’s twin—and was pleased to find a black gelding from nearby Buittle that came close to the mark. Another piece of silver went to a blacksmith to shoe the horse, then Jamie led his new mount downhill toward the stables, his eye fixed on the road bound northeast.

“Weel, laddie, ye didna spot yer Gypsy nor yer brither.” Duncan slapped his back good-naturedly. “But ye’ve a fine horse tae carry ye hame at Lammas. Have ye thocht what ye’ll call the beast?”

Jamie stopped long enough to be certain the overseer was listening. “His name will be Hastings. To remind me of a good friend I’ll miss when I leave Auchengray.”

The slight sheen in Duncan’s eyes caught the sunlight. “I’ll miss ye as weel, Jamie. Aye, I’ll miss ye sairlie.”