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Spy.
Ewan glanced at the fireplace and moved slightly into the centre of the room. A grille might be used for ventilation, or might be a Laird’s lug, a shaft leading to a chamber where unseen ears might be listening. He noted Morayshill’s eyes tighten with approval.
‘My father was very discreet,’ Ewan said cautiously. ‘He kept his own counsel.’
‘Hamish Lochmore, discreet! Your loyalty to your father is admirable, but we both know that isn’t the case.’ Morayshill laughed.
‘Wasn’t. Not isn’t. And I would thank you not to defame his memory.’
‘As you say. And I say to you that your father was brash and sometimes lacking in subtlety, which worked to everyone’s advantage at times.’
Ewan dipped his head in acknowledgement. Spying was too sophisticated a word for what Hamish had done. There had been no covert meetings between velvet-clad and silk-tongued ambassadors, no ciphers slipped from sleeve to sleeve. Instead, Hamish would receive word that a particular group of merchants or travellers who had spent time recently in courts in England or on the continent would be arriving in one of Scotland’s ports. They would be greeted by Hamish, playing the role of loud, crass, overly friendly Highland laird—a part which he performed with ease—who would take them drinking and whoring as the mood took him. The visitors would wake the following morning with a headache fit to blind them, unsure of how loose their tongues had grown.
Though Hamish never revealed the details of what he learned or how it was used, his descriptions and impersonations of befuddled Flemish wool merchants or vomiting Italian minstrels had kept Ewan and John entertained long into the night. Ewan’s throat tightened with grief at the loss of the warm-hearted figure with the bellowing laugh. There would be no more drinking and laughing. No more days hunting or riding.
‘One of the men here today has been communicating with the English court for years,’ Morayshill said. ‘This is expected. We have agents in England and abroad, naturally. However, recent matters have had far-reaching consequences.’
Ewan listened, anger rising. Someone had passed crucial information regarding the Scottish troops to the English, to be sent to Queen Catherine in King Henry’s absence. Instead of hampering trade negotiations or causing dissent in the borderlands, the spy had directly contributed to the massacre of the men at Flodden.
‘Hamish believed he knew the identity of at least one agent. Did he tell you anything?’
Hamish had hinted to John and Ewan—if drunken growls of ‘I’ll skin that redheaded traitor alive, nae mind the consequences’ could be counted as a hint—but had never shared the identity of the man.
‘I’m sorry, no.’
‘Would you be prepared to assist in discovering the culprit?’
‘I don’t think...that is... I don’t have my father’s manner.’ Ewan’s jaw tightened at the thought of another role he doubted he could fill.
To his surprise Morayshill shook his head. ‘There might be matters that a young man with more discretion and an understanding of the complexities of politics could undertake. If you can point me down the right path to follow, there are others who can verify the truth.’
‘Aye, perhaps,’ Ewan answered uncertainly, feeling a little better. His education would be a benefit there, not a hindrance, and being described as discreet warmed him. By the time they parted, he had promised he would do everything in his power to discover the identity of the spy who had done so much damage at Flodden.
Ewan made his way to the table once again, but before he could reach it the crowds parted to either side of the hall. Margaret Tudor, widow of the deceased King, was making her way into the Great Hall. Her eyes were heavy and her face drawn. Her marriage had been political—designed to create a greater bond between the English and Scots—but it was said she and James had been happy. Her grief must have been greater because James’s body had not been returned to her from the battlefield, but had instead been taken to Berwick by the English.
Ewan had been denied the chance to lay Hamish and John to rest in the crypt at Castle Lochmore and felt a sudden stab of pity for the Englishwoman. He bowed as she passed and as he raised his head he found himself face to face with the French girl who had been walking in attendance with the other women of court. She paused and looked directly at him, tilting her head to one side and regarding him with wide brown eyes as curiously as if she was examining the apes or civets in the menagerie at Holyroodhouse.
Blasted woman! Those fine brown eyes reached everywhere. The sooner Duncan McCrieff took her away to be his bride, the better. Ewan drew a sharp breath, realising that was the last thing he wanted.
She took her place in the ranks of women at either side of Margaret where the other women started fussing over her as if she were a pet mouse. Ewan paid no attention to what Margaret was saying, but instead stared at the French girl, wondering how he could be so intrigued by her when they had barely spoken and everything she did irritated him.
It must be the strange manner of her clothes that commanded his attention. He examined her now. Her dress was cut from one length of cloth and laced tightly beneath each arm; not a separate skirt and bodice tied at the waist in the Scottish fashion. The design caused the stiffened bodice to draw in closely at her slender waist and fall into a full skirt, hitched up at the front to reveal a waterfall of white underskirts. It was high necked and loose-sleeved. Nothing about it was indecent, but it gave Ewan a definite sense of her figure. The cloth was finely woven and, though without ornament or pattern, was of excellent quality. The cost of the gown would have fed the poorest of Ewan’s tenants for a year. She was not alone in that, however. Ewan glanced round in distaste at the wealth on display, himself included. He might inwardly chastise her for her bold behaviour and superior attitude, but could not condemn her for that.
Among the more extravagantly and brightly dressed members of court adorned with braid and brocade she shone. A dove among peacocks. He wondered how much of this seemingly modest dress had been carefully calculated to draw the eye rather than deflect it. It was no wonder Ewan could not help but look at her.
Satisfied he had solved the mystery of his inexplicable attention to her, he decided to finally find something to drink, but Queen Margaret had finished speaking and the girl was walking towards Ewan. Once again he found himself unable to move.
‘Why were you staring at me, my lord?’
She had addressed him directly and spoke without introduction or hesitation, and with a touch of indignation. Ewan shivered. He had noticed last night that her voice was low and deeper than her compact figure and youth would suggest. It should be high and girlish, not the creamy purr that stroked down his belly and made him want to roll over like his deerhound before the fire and submit to whatever attentions she bestowed upon him. Caught out, he blinked and answered more honestly than he intended.
‘I was looking at your clothes.’
‘Oh!’
She drew in on herself. Her hands disappeared inside the capacious sleeves as she crossed them over her chest and her breasts were pushed flat and upwards. The high-necked chemise that filled the gap between the top of her bodice and her neck concealed them, but the silk was fine and translucent enough that it bunched and dipped. Ewan suspected they would be full and firm when liberated from their bonds. He was consumed by a sudden and highly unacceptable urge to ease the gown from her shoulders and find out if he was right.
‘The style is very strange,’ he explained. Imagining that he was about to undress her did nothing to dispel the guilt that crept up on him, but she did not seem to have noticed his unease.
‘Is that how you knew I was French?’ She tilted her head to the right and gave him another of the sweet smiles that made his stomach rise and fall. Her mouth was wide and slightly uneven. It rose a little more to the right as she smiled. Perhaps she had developed the habit of tilting her head to the side so the smile appeared straight. Ewan found himself wanting alternately to smile back or run his fingers over the slight indentation that appeared in her cheek.
‘Aye, it was,’ he lied, not wanting to admit he had asked Angus about her. ‘I’m no expert, but I could tell you aren’t Scottish. You wouldn’t be English, not here at this time. You’re not fair enough to be Dutch or dark enough to be Spanish.’
She looked at him seriously, then gave a rippling laugh. It was high and girlish and was more akin to the voice he expected her to have.
‘How ingenious of you!’
He might have taken it as a compliment if she had not sounded so surprised. She had made it clear the previous night that she thought the Scottish were savages. His irritation flooded back and he intended to end the conversation then.
‘Did you wish to speak to me for a reason?’ he asked brusquely. If she thought him uncouth, why be anything other?
‘I know I should not speak to you when we have not been introduced, but I wanted to apologise.’ She reached out her hand as she had the previous night, but held it steady between them, regarding him with entreaty in her eyes. ‘I did not intend to cause any offence last night when I spoke of the wildness I saw. I am sorry.’
‘You didn’t cause any offence, at least not to me.’ It was a lie, but now she was beside him he had no wish to spoil it.
She looked relieved, but managed to ruin the thawing tension by continuing with a sigh, ‘I find it strange. That is all. I do not think the men of my country would behave so if they were nursing wounds after a defeat in battle.’
Ewan rolled his eyes and folded his arms. ‘A little more tact might be advisable.’
Her lips twisted down and she pressed them together to stop them from trembling. Ewan felt as though he had slapped a kitten.
‘Tell me where you had been yesterday evening,’ he asked impulsively.
She did touch him now, clutching at his wrist with urgency while her eyes darted from side to side. Once again Ewan stiffened. The chill of her fingers on his skin was enough to make him quicken, his blood sparking to life like a flint catching in straw.
‘Don’t speak so loudly!’
He hadn’t been and her consternation told him he had touched on something secret. He clasped her hand briefly before removing it from his wrist with fingers close to trembling, not daring to risk touching any longer. He glanced around. Duncan McCrieff was deep in conversation with Queen Margaret and was unaware his bride was elsewhere. Ewan privately thought that if this delicate little lass with large, innocent eyes were his woman he would not leave her alone in a room full of lecherous Scots to fend for herself.
‘No one will hear over the music, but I shan’t if you tell me,’ he said, grinning to cover the bewildering surge of emotions that her fleeting touch had awoken in him.
She cast him a look of pure indignation.
‘I shall not, for it is no business of yours!’
Her hands moved to her breast and she began to fiddle with a heavy pendant that hung from a long gold chain, her thumb rubbing in small circles over the etched patterns. The gesture looked like a long-formed habit and Ewan wondered if she was even aware she was doing it. He watched her fingers moving over the polished gold. They were long and slender with nails shaped like almonds and he could not tear his eyes from them as they moved deftly.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘I would have said you were meeting your lover, but I know McCrieff was in the hall before you.’
‘He is not my lover!’ She blinked rapidly, which made her thick, dark eyelashes flutter in a manner that caused Ewan’s heart to do similar. ‘I have no lover. If you slander me in such a way, I shall have to tell Duncan.’
‘You’ll inform him that I saw you slipping in furtively from somewhere you should not have been?’
She pouted, dropping her head.
‘I simply wanted to be alone.’ Her voice was filled with melancholy that spoke to the misery in Ewan’s chest in a language that needed no words. Had her necklace been a gift from whomever she was mourning? It was all Ewan could do to stop himself from drawing her into his arms in an attempt to comfort them both, but from the corner of his eye he saw Duncan McCrieff was now winding his way through the groups, heading in their direction. He wore his customary surly expression. Ewan thought about leaving the girl alone, but McCrieff had already seen them standing together and had increased the speed at which he jostled his way towards them. To depart now would be more suspicious than to stay. The girl had noticed his approach, too, and Ewan didn’t like the way her pale cheeks grew even paler.
Ewan lowered his voice and inclined his head a little. ‘It is probably not my place to say, but in a strange country with an unfamiliar husband I would try to win as many friends as I could.’
‘Yes. I do need friends,’ she whispered.
Her eyes grew wide and gleamed. She looked as if she was about to cry and Ewan felt a stab of remorse that he had contributed to her unease. He wondered if she was aware that she had edged closer to him as her bridegroom approached so that her skirt was brushing his leg. He could say nothing because Duncan was upon them.
Chapter Five (#uc9a6212d-6e83-5f53-a487-3d65130d1f22)
Duncan’s smile exuded warmth that Ewan believed was entirely false. He lifted his bride’s hand to his lips, then nodded curtly at Ewan, all warmth frozen over.
‘Lochmore.’
‘McCrieff.’
The girl was looking at them, surprised by the openly hostile tones they spoke in.
‘I hope you are not assaulting my bride again.’ McCrieff held up his hands in a parody of submissiveness. ‘Wait. I jest! I jest!’
Ewan eyed him coldly, wishing he had a sword to hand. ‘I merely stopped to speak with her to confirm she had not been injured last night,’ he said.
Duncan looked suspiciously between Ewan and his bride. She spoke rapidly in French, too quickly for Ewan to follow every word, but he understood she was confirming what he had said. It gave him a curious pleasure that she was joining him in the lie.
If Ewan had to gamble on anyone betraying Scotland, he’d bet every piece of silver plate in Castle Lochmore it would be a McCrieff. He tried to curb his prejudice, reminding himself that he had no evidence and the only reason for this was the longstanding enmity between the clans.
Duncan was the middle son of the Chief’s brother. He spent his time travelling around Malcolm’s lands, assisting when his cousin Donald was not capable, or venturing abroad or across the border into England. By any measure Duncan was nobody, yet he had risen high and risen fast. He’d had the knack of being in the right place at the right time. Some men were born with a kiss from Fortune herself. Duncan McCrieff was one such man, it seemed, and now he had won that delicate little blossom of a woman who looked up at him with nervous eyes and lips that were quivering.
‘My congratulations on your betrothal,’ Ewan said. ‘It must be five years since Elizabeth died.’
‘Almost six,’ McCrieff said, referring to the death of his first wife. ‘My congratulations to you also. You’ve acquired yet more land, I see. You’ll be hard pushed to keep it all under control.’
If Ewan hadn’t genuinely feared the same thing he’d have had his dagger at McCrieff’s throat for the slur without hesitation.
‘Fortunately there are men I can trust to ensure the tenants are well cared for and safe from attack by raiders.’ He let that hang there. They both knew it was from McCrieff men the Lochmore farmers were most at risk where their lands shared boundaries. ‘It’s a shame you weren’t equally fortunate yesterday.’
Duncan smirked. ‘I don’t crave land. It’s my wealth I’m trying to increase. It’s less bothersome to keep control of and doesn’t require me to throw a costly feast at it every autumn and spring.’
Ewan laughed. The twice-yearly gatherings of as many of the clan as could make it was one of his favourite traditions. ‘Some of us enjoy the feast and dancing. Perhaps your new wife would enjoy it, too.’
‘I think Mademoiselle Vallon has experienced enough of your dancing.’ Duncan gazed down at her and patted her cheek affectionately. Ewan tried not to show his disgust openly at the sight of a man of thirty-five leering at a girl young enough to be his daughter. Mademoiselle Vallon simpered. Disdain crept into Ewan’s heart that she could appreciate such behaviour. To think he had been on the verge of feeling sorry for her when, with her fine clothes and jewellery and silly opinions of his country, she was nothing more than a pampered pet.
‘Where is your cousin?’ he asked Duncan.
‘Donald left at first light for Castle McCrieff to take news of the land he was granted. I’m sure he will pass on your good fortune to Malcolm.’
Ewan was sure of it, too, and that the reaction would not be favourable. The land he had been granted was at the meeting point of both the McCrieff and Lochmore borders. It was fertile land further inland from Kilmachrie Glen and would provide a good income.
‘I’ll be leaving myself in the morning,’ he said, preparing to bow farewell. ‘I need to distribute the alms to my tenants.’
‘We’ll be staying a few days longer,’ Duncan said. ‘I’m interested to see who becomes Regent for our new King.’
‘It will be Albany, surely,’ Ewan said, his intended departure delayed by the opportunity to discuss the impending regency. There had been such great losses at Flodden that there seemed to be barely anyone left who was able to stand to the role. ‘He is closest to the throne.’
‘Possibly the widowed Queen will wish to rule in her son’s name,’ Duncan suggested.
‘An English Regent?’
‘Aye, it will be unpopular at first, but she has friends here and the backing of her brother in England.’
‘But a woman!’ Ewan scoffed.
‘Why should she not be Regent? Are women incapable?’ Mademoiselle Vallon had spoken. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes were bright. She looked at him sternly, her straight, dark eyebrows coming together, and Ewan was astonished to see fierce intelligence in the dark brown eyes that flashed in his direction. It gave her an earnest air that he found surprisingly endearing. He didn’t want to argue as much as coax her into agreeing with him.
‘Do you think the English Widow Queen should be Regent for Scotland?’ Ewan asked, giving her his full attention. ‘Isn’t your allegiance towards a French faction?’
She looked delighted that he had answered. She raised herself to her tallest, straight backed and chin tilted up. ‘Why should I feel more allegiance towards my country than to my sex? Besides, your country is my country now, or will be before long.’
She tailed off, her fierce expression replaced by a furrowed brow and look that Ewan could only interpret as disgust. His hackles rose to hear her casting yet another slur on Scotland. She seemed to gather her thoughts and dropped her eyes.
‘I merely question your belief that a woman is not capable of ruling.’
‘You are best suited to ruling our hearts, Marguerite, my sweet. Best keep to your sewing and playing. To give you our kingdoms would be unwise.’ Duncan gave an indulgent laugh and patted her hand again. Ewan wondered that she did not ball her fist and give him a blow to the ear for his cloying pawing at her. She merely gave him another simpering smile, but her eyes were dull and placid. Ewan wondered how often her intelligence was allowed out to play and once more felt a stab of frustration that she was to be married to Duncan, who would not appreciate such forthrightness in a wife.
‘As for the Queen,’ Duncan continued, ‘while her husband lived he guided her. I am sure she will be able to make her case well. She has friends as well as enemies at court who will doubtless support her claim.’
‘Do you count yourself as one of her friends?’ Ewan asked. ‘Your first wife came from England with Queen Margaret. You must have some inclination to believe she has a claim.’
‘Ah, but as you can see, my new bride is French.’ Duncan smiled, but his eyes were steel. ‘No one could doubt my support of the Auld Alliance with such a treasure at my side.’
Ewan smiled back, equally frostily. ‘An admirable cause for a wedding celebration.’
‘It would be, if I had not fallen deeply in love the first time I saw her and begged her father to give her to me.’
The future bride gave them both a brittle smile that did not reach her eyes.
‘Then I wish you good fortune on your wedding,’ Ewan said. He had never wished anything less.
‘That reminds me, my sweet,’ Duncan said. ‘I was telling Her Grace how well you play the clavichord and she is eager to hear you. She plays herself, as you know.’
Mademoiselle Vallon shrunk back. ‘I don’t think...that is... I have not played for a month at least. I am sure to disappoint.’
The expression of modest denial of her skills could be an affectation, but Ewan thought not.
