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Jack hesitated. ‘Some goods are for customers and others gifts for family and the church. I had thought it was probably best to leave all until Matt returns—but with the weather the way it is it’ll give us something to do, unpacking and listing everything.’ He turned to his sister. ‘You can help me with that, Cissie.’
She had calmed down somewhat and agreed, stretching out a hand for her bacon collop on the platter in the middle of the table and placing it on a slice of bread. ‘Father promised me a sheet of Flemish glass for my bedchamber window. At this time of year so many draughts manage to get through the gaps between the shutters and frame.’
Jack turned to her and his eyes were bright. ‘He kept his promise as he always did. He purchased a new kind of glass, not so thick as that in my bedchamber and much clearer. The trouble was that it was too large to load on to the packhorses—as were some of his other purchases, such as the glass he bought for the village church in memory of our stepmother. The shipping agent is sending them by cart. They were packed carefully and I pray that neither gets broken on the way.’
‘Me, too,’ she murmured, thinking the glass would be a gift worth waiting for. She took a bite of her food before getting up and wandering over to the pile of baggage.
Mackillin and Jack followed her over, but no one made a move to unpack any of the goods immediately. Cicely was remembering other such times when her father had produced gifts for his womenfolk’s delectation.
Noticing the sadness in her face and guessing the reason, Mackillin sought to detract her thoughts. ‘There is a fine thirteenth-century stained-glass window in the Cathedral of St Maurice in Angers,’ he said.
His mention of the saint roused Cicely’s interest. ‘St Maurice is the patron saint of cloth-makers. Do they make cloth in Angers?’
He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I only know that the women are skilful in tapestry work.’
He had surprised her. ‘How do you know this?’
‘My mother visited her French kin in Angers as a young girl and a few years ago she asked me to purchase a tapestry for her.’
‘Isn’t Angers the main city of Anjou?’ she asked.
Mackillin nodded. ‘The Queen of England’s father, King René, has his court there.’
‘You have visited his court?’ asked Cicely.
A slight smile lifted the corner of Mackillin’s lips. ‘If I said aye, admit that would surprise you, lass.’ She flushed, but did not comment, and he added, ‘I was no lord then, but he knew the Percys and so welcomed me. René is a good man, cultured, but with no airs and graces. He likes to talk to his subjects and visitors alike. We discussed painting, music, the law and mathematics.’
Indeed, he had amazed her, thought Cicely, finding it difficult to imagine this man conversing on such topics.
Jack groaned. ‘I wish you hadn’t mentioned mathematics. Father was adamant that every merchant should have a knowledge of the subject. There are books he wanted me to read. That’s why he wished to speak to Master Caxton. I never thought being a merchant would involve so much study.’
Mackillin winked at Cicely and instinctively she smiled. For a moment their eyes held and it was as if a flame passed between them. Her pulses leapt and she thought, this can’t be happening! Determinedly, she looked away. Just because he was proving not as uncouth as she had first believed him to be, that did not mean he was to be trusted. She spotted the rolled pallets and blankets in a corner and faced him again. ‘I will have the best bedchamber prepared for you.’
‘I would appreciate that…and a basin of hot water would not go amiss,’ he said, rasping the stubble on his chin with the back of his hand.
Jack swallowed the last bite of his bacon collop. ‘We can do better than that for you, Mackillin. Adjacent to the best bedchamber is a room with a tub.’
‘Aye,’ said Cicely, her eyes brightening. ‘I’m sure your lordship will benefit from a soak in hot water and some clean raiment.’
Mackillin desired only a few things more than sinking his smelly and aching body in a tub of steaming water and to don the clean raiment in his saddlebag, and he realised at the top of the list was an urge to bed the lass in front of him. Knowing that was out of the question, he teased her instead. ‘I could catch ma death of cold if I were to wash, lass.’
He had to be jesting, thought Cicely and said firmly, ‘Then put on an extra garment.’
Jack grinned. ‘I deem he does not wish to give you more work, Cissie. I saw Mackillin immerse himself in a barrel of water aboard ship when we crossed the sea. I wouldn’t have done it. The wind was freezing and from the north.’
‘Hush, laddie,’ said Mackillin, laughter in his eyes. ‘Your sister might start changing her mind about me.’
Cicely would not allow herself to be drawn on that subject and only said, ‘Then you would like the tub filled?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘It will be done, even if I have to wind up the buckets of water myself,’ she said, picking up one of the parcels and trying to guess its contents by feeling it.
Instantly the laughter died in his eyes and he looked horrified. ‘Nay, mistress, it is not a task for you. Robbie will help me to draw water. We’ll also fill the empty water butts. It will help pass the time and prevent my body from getting soft…. And before you remind me that lords don’t do such menial work,’ he added, ‘I tell you that this one has done plenty in the past. We’ll make a start now. Who’s to say when next I’ll be able to bathe if the ground freezes and the water in it, too?’
She put the parcel down. ‘Then we would have to break the ice and when the water butts ran out we’d dig snow and melt it in pans over the fire,’ she said promptly.
‘You’re a lass of good sense,’ he said gravely.
She flushed with pleasure at the compliment and watched as he and Robbie left the hall. ‘Has Mackillin mentioned a wife to you, Jack?’ she asked casually.
He hesitated. ‘Why don’t you ask him if you’re interested? I’m certain Father did not wish you to marry Diccon.’
‘If he did not speak to you about it, how do you know?’ demanded Cicely.
Jack’s expression changed. ‘Take my word for it, Cissie. He had someone else in mind for you.’ Before she could ask whom, he hurried after Mackillin and Robbie.
Frustrated, Cicely went upstairs to prepare the best bedchamber for Mackillin.
It was to be a couple of hours before the tub was ready and Mackillin followed her upstairs. His eyes were drawn to the seductive sway of her hips in the black gown and he wondered what Diccon Fletcher was thinking, to leave her here unprotected when he must have known her father was away in Europe. He remembered Diccon now. A pleasant-looking young man, hot for adventure and keen for advancement. After Nat Milburn had introduced them, they had later met in a tavern in company with the young Edward of York and some of his followers. Diccon had drunk too much and spoken of King Henry failing to keep his word and reward him for services rendered. Mackillin did not doubt for a moment that Diccon was now Edward’s man. It concerned him only as far as it would affect Cicely’s future. Nat Milburn’s dying words made him uneasy in the light of what he now knew about his daughter and her relationship with Diccon. What if he was killed in battle? Who would she marry then?
He told himself that it was not his concern, he was for Scotland and a bride of his choosing. Even so he could not take his eyes from Cicely as, holding the lantern high, she turned right and led him along a passage. Now he was only a pace or so behind her and could smell the perfume of her hair. He was reminded of the camomile daisy that grew in profusion on his French kinsman’s estate. He had seen the women gathering the flower heads and drying them to use in their washing water, but their scent had never affected him as it did now.
She stopped in front of a large, carved door that stood slightly ajar and pushed it wide. ‘I hope you will be comfortable here, Mackillin.’
‘I’m sure I shall. You can have no idea of the state of some of the places I’ve slept in,’ he said, indicating that she precede him into the bedchamber.
She hesitated, but then told herself it was unlikely he would make advances to her now he knew that she was the daughter of the house, only to recall seconds later his pulling her on to his lap in the middle of the night. If only Diccon would return. Surely she would not be so affected by this man’s presence if he was near?
She placed the lantern next to a bowl of dried rose petals, lavender and gillyflower heads on an ornate circular table. This stood beneath the polished metal of an oval gilt-framed mirror. On the other walls there were several tapestries. The sky had darkened and snow was falling again, but the chill had been taken from the room by a charcoal brazier. The bedchamber was bright with the light from several costly beeswax candles.
It was obvious to Mackillin that much care and money had been lavished on the room. He glanced at the bed that was of a width in which two people could lie in comfort. Its hangings and coverlet were made from a damasked cloth, woven in reds and yellows, and he imagined tossing Cicely on the bed, drawing the curtains and ridding her of clothing before smothering her body with kisses. He felt himself grow hard and forced himself to look away from the bed.
There were two armoires, as well as a large carved chest, and underfoot a floor covering thick enough for his boots to leave an impression. If he had not known already that Jack and Cicely’s father was a rich merchant, then he would have recognised just how wealthy he was now. He remembered his parents having separate bedchambers and neither were half as well appointed as this one. He could have laughed out loud at the thought of his mother being introduced to Cicely and finding her wanting as a suitable wife for him because she was a commoner. She had more grace and spirit and good taste than many a lady he had met in his Percy kinsman’s Northumberland castle.
He felt out of place in his mud-splattered and smelly garments and a desire to improve his standing in Cicely’s eyes swelled inside him. ‘This tub?’ he asked, noticing his saddlebags had been unpacked by Robbie and raiment laid out on the bed.
‘Through here,’ said Cicely, casting a glance at the garments.
She led him over to a small door that stood ajar in the corner of the chamber. As she did so there came a sound at the outer door and a discreet knock. They both turned their heads to see Tom, carrying a steaming bucket. ‘More water for his lordship, Mistress Cicely. Shall I top up the tub?’
‘Aye, Tom.’
Mackillin held up a hand. ‘Nay, man. Just place the bucket inside the room. I’ll need to test the water first. Do you know where Robbie is?’
‘He’s seeing how the horses are doing.’
Mackillin’s brow puckered. ‘I’ll need you then to help me off with my boots. Have you any skill with barbering?’
‘Aye, my lord, I used to shave my grandfather,’ said Tom.
Mackillin nodded and flashed a smiling glance at Cicely. ‘My thanks, lass. I’ll not keep you.’
She hurried from the chamber and forced her mind along different channels from that of him shaved and bathed. She had not seen her brother for a while and wondered if he had placed some of the goods that had been unpacked in his bedchamber. She knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she opened it and peeped inside. It was empty.
She searched for him downstairs and when she did not find him, wondered if he was in the stables with Robbie. She hoped he had not done too much by using his damaged arm to cut cords. She decided to return upstairs, wanting to check with Tom that Mackillin had all he needed. On passing the chest in the passage, she noticed a tablet of soap on its lid and thought she must have forgotten to place it alongside the drying cloths in the tub room. She picked it up and hurried to the bedchamber. The door was ajar and she called Tom’s name. When he did not answer, she decided that most likely he was with Mackillin. She could hear splashing from the adjoining room, which surely meant his lordship was already in the tub.
‘Tom!’ she called. No response. ‘Mackillin!’
She hesitated before knocking on the antechamber door and peering inside. She could see the tub and a few wisps of steam, but no sign of either man. A whooshing noise caused her to almost jump out of her skin. A head broke the surface of the water and then shoulders and chest. She gaped, staring at the double-wing shaped mat of dark coppery curls and the long silvery scar beneath the left collar bone. She felt such a heat inside her. As if in a trance, she watched him reach blindly for the sword lying on the drying cloth on the stool.
She scooped up his dirty garments as he flicked back his trimmed hair and stood up, water streaming from his body. Cicely gasped and closed her eyes tightly. She had seen her brothers naked in a tub when they were tiny, but never a fully grown man exhibiting such masculinity. She opened her eyes, threw the soap in his direction and fled.
Chapter Three
‘Cissie, where are you going in such a rush?’ asked Jack, passing her on the stairs. ‘You’ll break your neck coming down at that speed.’
Thankfully diverted from the vision of the naked Mackillin, she placed the dirty garments behind her back and slowed to a halt, resting her free hand on a baluster. ‘Where’ve you been? I was concerned about you.’
A crack of laughter escaped him. ‘Why? What do you think could happen to me when we’re snowed in? I’m not such a dolt as to attempt with a damaged arm to ride ten leagues or more in deep snow and the heavens throwing more of it down.’
Alarm caused her to blurt out, ‘You’ve thought of doing so? You’re concerned about Matt?’
A wary expression flickered in his eyes. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Do you sense he’s in danger?’
He hesitated. ‘I imagine he’s anxious and fearful, but that shouldn’t surprise either of us in the circumstances. Why don’t you sit by the fire with your embroidery and rest?’
‘What about the rest of the unpacking of the goods you brought home?’
‘They can wait. You’re always hurrying hither and thither. I’m sure the servants know well enough what to do about preparing our next meal without you overseeing them more than necessary.’
Cicely considered his words. Sitting quietly by the fire with her embroidery held a definite attraction. But what if Mackillin should come down and find her alone? She did not know how she was going to look him in the face. Her eyes would travel south. No! She must not harbour such a thought. If only he had not come here, she thought fretfully. If only her stepmother had not died, she felt certain her father would not have set out on his travels again. If he had allowed Jack to go abroad with one of his agents, he would still be alive and Mackillin would not have hotfooted it here for a reward. She must keep telling herself that was his only reason for being here. Although, perhaps it would be best not to think of him. Instead, she would consider how they were to get the news of her father’s murder to Diccon.
She went and placed Mackillin’s dirty clothing in the laundry room. Then she fetched her embroidery and thought to cover her hair with a black veil to complete her mourning attire before settling in front of the fire. She soon realised it was a waste of time trying to work out a way to get news to Diccon while they were snowed in. Instead she allowed her thoughts to drift to what it would be like to travel the seas on Mackillin’s ship and see those places that her father had visited. She regretted deeply that never would she be able to hear his voice describing Venice, Florence, Bruges and all the other cities she would have liked to have seen in his company; but she sensed that his lordship had her father’s gift for painting pictures with words.
Mackillin was thoughtful as he rubbed himself vigorously with the drying cloth. His skin glowed and a wry smile creased his face. At least Mistress Cicely should be satisfied that he no longer stank of honest sweat and horse. Had it been she who had thrown the soap? He had glimpsed a whisk of a black skirt vanishing when he opened his eyes and his soiled garments had disappeared. Hopefully she had not seen enough of him to frighten her away. He smiled wryly, remembering on his travels how pleasant it had been to have a wench wash his back and generally make herself useful. Vividly, a picture came into his mind of Cicely behaving in a similar fashion and he imagined the soft swell of her breasts beneath silk brushing his bare shoulder. Desire rushed through him and he shook his head as if to rid himself of such longings. She was not for him, whatever Nat Milburn had promised.
He must concentrate his thoughts on his intended bride. From what he remembered of her from their last meeting, Mary was as different in appearance to Cicely Milburn as could be, but then she had only been a child and would surely have improved. She had dark hair, not the colour of corn like Mistress Cicely. He had never felt it, but doubted it would be as silky as Jack’s sister’s was when he had seized a handful of it while he had kissed her. Hell and damnation, he must stop thinking of her! Marrying Mary Armstrong would provide him with all he needed. She was sturdy and strong and no doubt could produce healthy sons and pretty daughters. His elder half-brother had wed and sired children, but no offspring had lived beyond infancy. As for the younger one, Fergus, his wife had died in childbirth last year and the baby with her, poor lass.
His lips tightened as he relived Fergus’s teasing and bullying, the challenges and hard-fought tussles on the battlements of their grandfather’s castle in the south-west of Scotland and his father’s keep in the Border country. The scar beneath his collarbone throbbed as if experiencing afresh the plunge of Fergus’s blade. Mackillin would never forget the hatred in his eyes for the son of the English woman who had replaced their mother. Now the three men were dead, killed in an ambush. His mother did not seem to know who was responsible. Due to his half-brothers leaving no heirs, Mackillin had inherited Killin Keep and its lands.
He was reminded again of Cicely, wondering if she would change her mind about his being a barbarian if she knew he was half-English. At least his altered appearance might convince her that he was no savage. He ran a hand over his freshly shaven jaw as he strolled into the bedchamber with the drying cloth slung about his lean hips.
Mackillin reached for his drawers and hose and pulled them on. He then put on a petticote beneath a linen shirt and donned a green woollen doublet, embroidered at neck, cuffs and hem. Over this he pulled on a sleeveless brown velvet surcoat that reached to his hose-covered calves before placing a vellum-backed book inside a concealed pocket. He combed his hair, which had been cut to just below his ears. Now he felt fit to be in a woman’s company.
Thinking of Cicely again brought a lift to his heart, but a frown to his face as he slipped on a pair of leather shoes that laced up the sides. He took the lantern from the table and left the bedchamber, locking the door behind him. He placed the key in his pocket and strolled down the passage. As he went downstairs, he spotted Cicely sitting by the fire and scowled. She had covered her hair with a black veil; with her black gown and surcoat, this gave her a nun-like appearance. Was it deliberate? Was she saying, Do not touch?
As he approached, the dogs lifted their heads and she glanced up from her sewing. He saw her eyes widen and knew he had achieved the effect he had aimed for. His mood lightened. She half rose in her chair, but he told her not to disturb herself, so she resumed her seat and bent her head over her embroidery.
Mackillin settled himself in a chair close to the fire and took out his book. It was one that an elderly Percy relative had left him in his will and was over fifty years old. Fortunately the handwriting was still legible. As he carefully turned the pages, he was aware that Cicely was watching him.
‘Whenever I take up this book, I think of the copyist working for months on end, writing out thousands of words,’ he said.
‘What book is it?’ asked Cicely, impressed not only by his appearance but that he should produce a book and to all purposes seem intent on reading it. She was relieved that he appeared to have no idea that she had seen him in his skin and yet felt vexed with herself for wanting to touch his shaven cheek and run her fingers through the chestnut hair that curled about his ears. What would her father have thought of her for having such desires? How could she be grieving for him, be in love with Diccon and yet still be attracted to this man?
‘The Canterbury Tales—have you heard of it?’ asked Mackillin.
‘Aye. But I’ve never seen a copy before.’ She was surprised that her voice sounded normal.
‘Perhaps you’d like me to read some to you?’ He had found the place where he had left off and, without waiting for her answer, added, ‘This is part of “The Monk’s Tale”, a piece written about Count Ugolino of Pisa.’
‘Who was this Count, my lord?’
‘Mackillin,’ he said automatically, reading in silence for a few moments before lifting his head and grimacing. ‘Perhaps not.’
‘Why—why not?’ She stared at him and their eyes met and held for several quickened heartbeats.
‘Because it is a tragedy and you have enough sadness to deal with at the moment,’ he said brusquely, lowering his gaze and turning pages. ‘“The Miller’s Tale” is amusing and brings tears to the eyes, but it is not suitable for a maid’s ears. Perhaps “The Second Nun’s Tale” would be best. There’s an “Invocation to Mary”, daughter and mother of our Saviour in its pages.’
‘Daughter and mother?’
‘Aye, such is what the writer has written here…maid and mother, daughter of thy son.’
‘I have never thought of our Lady being both daughter and mother to our Saviour before….’ She stumbled over the words, but added, ‘Of course, if He is part of the Trinity—Father, Son and Holy Ghost, three in one—then it must be so. And yet…’
‘It is a mystery, I agree. Do you wish me to read on? Or would you rather I read…what have we here?’ He smiled. ‘An “Interpretatio Nominis Ceciliae”. Did you know that the name Cecilia in the English tongue means Lily of Heaven?’
‘Aye! My father told me so. Cecilia was a highborn Roman woman and my name derives from hers.’ Cicely was amazed that they were having such a conversation and not only because she was reneging on her decision to distance herself from him.
‘You know her story?’
She nodded, filling in a flower petal with blue thread and thinking of the Cecilia who had converted her pagan husband to Christianity. ‘If you have not read it before, then I do not mind hearing it again,’ she murmured.
‘It is of no matter. I know the story.’
He closed the book and, excusing himself, rose and went over to where some of the baggage was still piled in a heap. Silence reigned but for the crackling of the fire. He wondered if she was tired after their disturbed night and that was why no more inroads had been made on exploring the contents of the goods here. Perhaps it would be wiser to leave her alone to her embroidery and her grief. Yet he found himself wondering if this was the only leisure pastime she occupied herself with to help pass the winter days when the weather kept her indoors. Even when Nat was alive it must have been a lonely life for her after her stepmother died and with the males of the family busy elsewhere.
He recalled the moment when a courier had arrived at his kinsman’s manor in France. His mother had pleaded with him to return to the keep in the Border country, which had never felt like a home; rather he had considered his own house in the port of Kirkcudbright with its busy harbour as home. As his eyes roamed the tapestry-covered walls, he realised why he felt relaxed here. ‘This hall reminds me of my house in Kir’ coo-bri.’ He pronounced the name in the dialect of that area of Scotland. ‘It was to that port I used to escape when life became unbearable when we stayed at my grandfather’s castle—and there I discovered a love of ships and a longing to travel.’
‘In what way does this hall remind you of your house?’ asked Cicely, wondering why he had found his grandfather’s castle unbearable.
‘Its size and…’ He went over to a wall and fingered a tapestry of The Chase. ‘This tapestry. I wager your father bought this in Angers.’
‘I cannot say for sure. France certainly.’ She gazed openly at his back, her eyes lingering on the hair at the nape of his strong neck, his broad shoulders and the firm muscles of his calves.
He turned suddenly and she lowered her eyes swiftly, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment because he had caught her looking at him…and looking in a way that was unseemly. She cleared her throat and rushed into speech. ‘Father had one of his agents purchase several for my stepmother soon after we moved here. The walls were unadorned and filthy after the smoke from the winter’s fires…as they are now. But you being a lord, surely you will live in a castle with a great hall when you return home to Scotland?’
