Warrior and the Wanderer (17 page)

“Aye, but ’tis treason to escape the goal, is it not?”

“I agree, but the Duke of Argyll granted him leave from the goal.”

“Leave? The Duke of Argyll has his words in a bind. Leave. Only Her Majesty, the queen regent, or her wee lad, our good King, can grant ‘leave’. There is no hole in his prison chamber as he claimed. The turnkeys have looked. All they found were soiled rushes and rat droppings. This Ian MacLean is a traitor, an Outeral, an
Englishman
.”

“He was born in Scotland,” Bess said.

“He may have been born here, but I strongly suspect he was weaned beyond the fair borders of Scotland, far beyond. There are many odd things about this man,” Spittal said looking at the jacket. “One would venture to say he’s bewitched.”

Here it comes, Ian thought, the burning at the stake.

“He is a bit odd, I’ll admit,” Bess said. “But he is a—”

“—Bard of rare quality,” Spittal said.

“Not really,” Ian protested.

“Wheesht!” Bess hissed at him. She turned her attention back to Spittal. “I ask you to hear this bard sing.”

Ian shook his head. “No way.”

“I knew your brother, Lady Campbell.” Spittal relaxed in his chair. “In respect to his good memory, I will hear him.”

What a load of shite, Ian thought. This bastard in gold thread and velvet who sat so high and mighty claiming to be close to the royals also claimed to be a friend of Lachlan MacLean. Did Bess know this?

“Let Ian sing for Her Majesty and the king,” she said.

“Her Majesty will return two days hence. The King will pay her a visit from the Palace at the Holy Rood one day hence from that,” Spittal announced.

“The Duke told me Her Majesty would return in a week.”

“The Duke exaggerates the extent of his influence on this court, Lady Campbell. In three days there will be a grand celebration for the young king’s arrival. The queen regent has already ordered me to make the preparations.”

“And her entertainments?” Bess asked.

Ian pulled hard against the guards. Bess was acting like nothing short of his manager, and why? He knew. She wanted to soften the queen regent and her son, the king, with song and partying so she may gain their royal favor against Lachlan. She had said he had qualities favored by the queen, but she had not mentioned singing in the bargain. And Ian would not have offered it.

“Presenting a bard of rare quality, Lady Campbell, might guarantee you royal favor,” Spittal said.

“For you and for me,” Bess told him.

“For no one, Blaze!” Ian shouted. Exactly like his bloody manager. Thinking she knew what was best for him. Wind Ian up, tease him with some good sixteenth century nookie, and he will sing for the king. No bloody way.

Spittal suddenly tossed Ian his jacket. “You will sing…
bard
.”

“No,” Ian growled.

Spittal nodded at Bess, “See that this bard sings or you shall not be welcome in court.”

“I will.” Bess’s tone was resolved.

“No she won’t,” Ian said. “I would rather be tossed back in prison before I’ll sing a note for your royal party!”

“As you wish.” Spittal nodded at the guards.

When they dragged Ian away, Bess did not turn around. She kept her back to him, and her head in her hands.

* * * *

If it were not for ignoring or fending off the constant river of rumors surging through the castle for the past three days, the time would have seemed like an eternity to Bess. Soon, she would have the answer to the question that plagued her ever since Ian had been dragged from Lord Spittal’s cabinet. Would he agree to sing for the queen regent and her son, the king? Or was he still in the gaol?

What she wanted to know even more was why Ian refused to sing for the royal court? She had caught him singing in private.

Was that it? Was he only inclined to sing without an audience? Shyness was not an attribute she would attach to him. Why would he prefer the gaol to singing at this gathering? And where was he?

 
Bess surveyed the lords, ladies, and elite of Scotland imbibing in drink, good food, and a great deal of speculation. Spittal had strutted proudly about the crowd announcing the spectacular array of entertainments planned for the Majesties. Bess had tried to ask him if Ian was out of the gaol, and if he had agreed to sing. But Spittal was difficult to catch alone. Every time she had managed to get near him, he would slide off to brag to a member of royalty about finding the best entertainment in all of Europe for this evening.

The Duke of Argyll stepped up and handed her a goblet of wine, just as Spittal slipped behind the stage set at one end of the great hall.

“M’Lord,” Bess said with a small curtsy. She took the goblet.

“You look as parched as you look worried, my dear,” he said.

“Thank ye for the concern, m’Lord. But ’tis no’ necessary.”

“You take too much to heart,” he continued, his tone fatherly and oddly comforting. “I’ve arranged for you to have a private audience with Her Majesty.”

Bess bowed her head demurely to hide her enormous smile and said, “Thank ye, m’Lord. I am most grateful. But ye must know that I need to bring Ian MacLean before Her Majesty as my witness.”

“Aye, my dear. Mid-morning. Her Majesty will see you both mid-morning on the ’morrow.”

“Have ye arranged for Ian to leave the goal?”

“I am not his only admirer.” He offered her a small knowing smile.

“M’Lord?”

“You shall see, my dear Bess. Enjoy the evening.”

After a brief nod, the Duke strolled away and took his place in one of the dozen rows of chairs arranged before the stage.

“Ian MacLean,” she murmured looking around the great hall. “Where are you?”

“Ian MacLean? Is he the one?” a female voice asked.

Bess turned to her right and looked into the eyes of not one, but six eager young women who stood in a semi-circle before her.

She raised a brow. “Aye? D’ye ken him?”

One of them stepped forward, goblet in hand, eyes shining as much as the gold thread sewed into her gown, and placed her free hand on Bess’s arm. Her tone low, a queer smile on her face, she said, “Rumor has it that Ian MacLean will perform for their majesties this evening.”

Bess widened her eyes. She knew Ian?

“’Tis not what I heard tell,” another young woman said, with a haughty tilt to her head. “I heard that this Ian MacLean was singing in the goal.”

Bess thought that she had been privy to most of the rumors regarding Ian. The ones she had heard included the words “bewitched”, “noose”, “gallows”, “burning.” Those words had come from the turnkey and the guards who would not let her past the first of many doors to Ian’s cell. She had heard sounds coming down the long, stone corridor, but none of them were singing.

The young women looked at Bess and then turned away in unison. Their eyes shone in the hundreds of candles all about the room, their slender necks encased in jewels craned toward the stage. She suspected they had not seen Ian, only knew about him from rumors. Why were they acting as if the second coming was about to appear on that stage?

She strolled away from the huddle, taking a long drink from her goblet, and keeping her attention on the stage.

The crowd suddenly fell hushed. A pair of trumpeters stepped into the great hall and heralded the arrival of Margaret, the Queen Regent, and her young son, James, the King. Bess stood on tip toe, the hem of her silk brocade gown brushing the floor. It had taken the servants half a day to brush it out and flatten the creases after Bess had stuffed the gown in one of her saddle packs. She gripped the folds of the skirt that cascaded down from the stiffer-that-stiff bodice that same servant had had to lace tightly up her back. Dear God, she would be grateful to be back in her Highlands where the well-born nature of a woman was not measured by how tight she wore her bodice, or how well her skirts rustled. Following the lead of the assemblage, Bess curtsied low, head down, struggling to breathe in the restrictive clothing.

She guessed the royals must have taken their thrones against the center of the wall behind the chairs for the guests as everyone else shuffled in a low murmur to take their seats for the entertainment. The royals would have an unobstructed view down the wide center aisle between the two groupings of chairs. Taking a deep breath, Bess rose from her curtsy and took a seat behind the row of young women who sat on the edge of their seats. She drained her goblet and placed it on a tray as one of the servants passed by, considered taking up another goblet, but declined. She did not want to see anything that may come from behind those curtains through a wine haze. She took a deep breath and sat up taller.

The young women in front of her settled into quiet, behind-the-hand giggles, then grew silent as Spittal proudly strolled onto the stage.

“Anon! Anon!” he shouted. He took a very deep bow; the tip of his silver chin-whiskers almost brushed the stage. “Your most gracious Majesties!” He stood upright and opened his arms wide as if he were going to embrace the entire audience. “I offer you these delightful entertainments!”

Bess sat still and silent through the endless
comédies
, melancholy over-acted dramas, and jugglers. Everyone around her laughed and clapped when they should, or nodded knowingly when they should, then clapped pretending they knew what the drama they had just seen meant. The trio of musicians to one side of the stage played a bored melody throughout the entire discourse of bland entertainment.

Bess had seen far more exciting fare at the many
ceilidhs
she had attended in Inverary: the Campbell warriors displaying their prowess at swordplay, the ladies sharing a particular bawdy verse of a waulking song after imbibing too much drink, there was always too much drink, which always contributed to the high confidence of some of the warriors to invest themselves closely with the first maid that caught their eye. Bess had only been an observer, with her brother standing nearby, his fierce gaze upon anyone, everyone he deemed unworthy for his sister. Yet, he had offered her hand to Lachlan MacLean.

And she was waiting for the man who she had pushed, without asking him, into singing for the royals, hoping it would help soften them toward her cause when she brought Ian to them as her witness. His singing had enchanted and intrigued her. Surely it would do the same for the queen regent and young King James. Would it not?

Spittal took the stage. He walked not too proudly this time. There was hesitancy in his gait. He stopped center-stage and removed a scrap of paper from the waist of his pantaloons. He glanced nervously about the room. Bess sat up straighter. His manner had to be because of Ian. Spittal showed every sign of having been exposed to Ian’s odd manner, his strange words, everything about him that was off-putting, unsettling, and, to her, somewhat endearing.

Spittal read from the paper in his hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, Your Majesties, Spittal…um…
productions
is most honored to present the comeback performance of Scotland’s own. Aye, the magic is back…um…, back for one night only. So, put your hands together for the return of
Ian MacLean
!”

Put your hands together? Bess glanced warily about the great hall. Everyone had followed Spittal’s direction. They sat quietly, eyes rapt on the stage, and their hands were clasped firmly together in their laps. She put her hands together as well, but she knew these were Ian’s words. Put your hands together had to mean—

She clapped. The rest of the gathering slowly joined her.

The noise summoned Ian to the center of the stage. Spittal gave him a nervous glance and stepped out of sight behind the curtains.

The young women in front of Bess sighed in unison. With one look at Ian, she knew why.

Stifling her own sigh, she stared at Ian on the stage. He wore his snug black trews and the leather doublet. They had both been cleaned. Beneath the carelessly open doublet he wore a fresh white tunic unlaced to the center of his chest. His finely cobbled boots were polished. Ian’s person was as equally freshened. What manner of goal had he been staying in? He was freshly shaven, and his short dark hair was tamed back thickly from his forehead.

He nodded to the trio of musicians, a drummer, a fifer, and a lute player. They glanced at the papers in front of them and took instruments in hand. They began playing a halting, harsh melody. But that was not nearly as shocking as Ian’s sudden change in demeanor.

He stood, legs apart as if prepared to do battle, boots firmly planted on the stage. He aimed one hand at the ceiling and the other he pointed down the center of the great hall, at the royals. That was a rude breech of protocol. Then he lowered his head, and looked out from beneath a furrowed, fierce brow. His stance and his stare were nothing short of predatory.

The musicians struck a particularly harsh cord, and Ian began singing. His beautiful voice sang about heartbreak and something called a hotel. He sang every word deliberately, ending with growls and grunts as if he was making love. He sang now like no one she had ever heard before. There was a primitive sensuality in his song and demeanor. Her heart beat a little faster, and she clenched the fabric of her gown in bloodless fists.

The young women sitting in front of her suddenly squealed, and then quickly covered their mouths and looked guiltily at the stern faces all about them. Bess couldn’t take Ian from her sight.