The Night Side (17 page)

“I believe I know who our traitor inside the castle is.” Colin added gently: “And I think you suspect her as well.”

“But Colin!” Sadness filled her voice, replacing the brief music of happiness. She pleaded, “We cannot punish her on a suspicion. Even to accuse her would be a terrible disgrace. It might even kill her. And I do not know if I could punish her anyway. She is my cousin. She was also the wife of my brother. She came to me for protection when he died, and I promised to stand a sister to her. How can I forget this?”

“You won’t have to punish her,
cherie.
That task is mine now. I know you would make the compassionate decision for as long as you could. I, too, prefer forgiveness and understanding whenever it is possible. But mark me well,
mignonne.
I give no parole to traitors, for with them the sin never ends. I shall not act against anyone without some proof, but if she again attempts to hurt you, or George, then she shall die, woman or no.” He added gently: “Get thee to rest now. I’d as soon not have my bride looking as pale as a ghost when she stands at the altar.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it fleetingly. He added with feeling: “Dream of me,
cherie.
”

Arthur O’Bower has broken his band
And he comes roaring up the land;
The King of Scots with all his power
Cannot stop Arthur of the Bower.

—
Scottish nursery rhyme

There was little time to prepare for the wedding ceremony, as Colin did not announce their intention until after everyone had broken their fasts, and law dictated that nuptials and the bridal feast had to be performed before the sun had set on the shortening autumnal day. This suited Colin fine, as it meant everyone was kept busy with preparations and would have no time to warn the outside world of what was afoot. After the event was accomplished, he would be pleased to have events known to all who passed for society in those northern parts. But he wanted no last-moment interruption from thwarted suitors to mar the occasion, or to interfere with the Archimedes lever he meant to employ to save George and Frances Balfour.

A visibly stunned Cook, after slave-driving the sculleries in a manner worthy of any of history’s great tyrants, declared herself prepared for a wedding feast just an hour before sundown. As the pale bride also agreed that she was ready, the ceremony went forth at once.

Though it caused some murmurs, they were not using the small Balfour chapel for the ceremony. The tiny room that had served her Catholic masters was decorated with a stone cross and a likeness of the Virgin Mary, which would offend their Reformist guests. Also, the small, cold room would not have comfortably held all of the Balfours and their somber visitors.

The children, free from any understanding of the whys of what was about to take place, were not so solemn as their harried elders. They were arrayed with bride laces and had sprigs of rosemary tied about their sleeves. They looked quite gay and excited to be participating in their first wedding.

Colin knew not everyone was so pleased. A swift look into the far corner of the room located a stonyfaced Anne Balfour. She looked pale and frozen with disdain, her face as unforgiving as an executioner’s, her eyes as cold and hard as a headsman’s axe. It was probably a good thing that Angus MacBride was unlikely to ask the congregation for objections to the marriage, because Colin wouldn’t put it past Anne to find one.

Colin thought about approaching Anne with a word of warning about interference, but a loud atonal wheeze from the grand staircase interrupted before he could decide what to say to this woman he suspected of betraying her kin.

The processional began. Frances appeared on the steps, her hair loose as a maiden’s should be, and dressed in scarlet finery. She was led into the great hall between George and Morag, looking a bit pale and dazed, the silver and gold of her traditional bridal ornament pulling down the shoulder of her low-necked
gown where it was fastened to the soft fabric. Colin had to wonder at the size and style of the brooch she wore. It had to be some ghastly Balfour heirloom, because it was far from the delicate, modern silver seal that symbolized a bride’s chastity. He wondered idly if Michael Balfour had had the hypocrisy to force it on his wife before their own wedding.

Though it was an uncharitable thought on their wedding day, Colin felt rather glad that his father-in-law was no longer among the living. His own gift to the bride, a plain ring he wore for luck on the small finger of his left hand, was one that had belonged to his maternal grandmother. It was inscribed in Gaelic with the loving phrase
For the pulse of my heart.
It was much smaller and better suited to the delicate Frances, though he planned on giving her another ring—perhaps set with pearls—once they returned to Pemberton Fells. It would be his pleasure to give her many things. If she wished it, he would even clear away a part of the woods to make a meadow where she and George could play golf.

Colin, taking his place at the altar, was amused to see that Harry the hound was also in attendance, tied to the long table with a short stout rope, but allowed to share in the festivities by wearing a sprig of rosemary in his borrowed ruffed collar, Colin’s second-best, lent to George for the occasion. The neck was stretched obscenely and the pleats would never be the same again, but Colin counted the loss worthwhile. Still enjoying the effects of his first bath, Harry very nearly looked like the lion he was named after. He did not behave as a lion, though. The pipes had set him to sympathetic howling, which caused those standing nearby to draw back with their ears covered. Fortunately,
no one muttered anything about ill omens at the hound’s howling as the bride went to the altar.

A richly if darkly clad Lucien went toward the makeshift altar before Frances, carrying a large bride cup overhead, which was filled with a goodly bundle of rosemary, hung with silken ribbons and scraps of lace dyed all colors, so the absence of flowers was not so keenly felt. A few late marigolds were also mixed in with the herbs. Colin hoped he would not be called on to eat them. He had never subscribed to the belief that eating the yellow flowers would provoke lust. In any event, the provocation of such desire was unnecessary. Frances was lure enough.

A completely dressed Tearlach came next, playing the pipes as softly as he was able, which was still entirely too loud in the enclosed space, but Colin did not complain. It was tradition and supposed to bring luck—something they all needed.

Then came the unmarried Balfour women, some bearing small bride cakes filled with seeds and grains, and others festive garlands of feathery seagrass also dyed pretty autumnal hues. It was a strange but still grand wedding party, and Colin felt something akin to genuine pleasure stir in his breast. Was it not fitting that their wedding be unconventional?

Colin was likewise finely appareled, though not in red like his bride. He knew that scarlet was a favored color by the Gaels at weddings, as it represented fertility, but he preferred the more dignified appearance of somber brown. It was also more in keeping with the preferences of their guests, who served as his groomsmen. Though not entirely wanted on this occasion, he also had a bridal escort, made up of men in hodden gray and also reluctantly wearing laces on their sleeves.
Though they sported this bit of frivolous color on their clothes, their miens were uniformly solemn, as weddings were not considered riotous occasions.

Colin, not previously a sentimental man, found himself wishing MacJannet and the smiling faces of Pemberton’s servitors were with him to help celebrate. He keenly missed the joyous celebration that would have been theirs at Pemberton Fells, and vowed to plan a feast for the missing guests as soon as he and Frances returned to his home.

There was no delay of ceremony after the short procession. Angus MacBride began as soon as the last shrieking notes of Tearlach’s pipes and Harry’s baying died away. He wasn’t a man filled with fatherly tenderness for humanity, and looked out over the sea of faces he suspected were rife with sin, then began austerely: “Greetings, all my brothers and sisters. We are gathered here to join this man and this maiden in holy wedlock, and to consider the great happiness that may flow from a full and perfect union of this kirk and kingdom, by joining of all in one and the same covenant with God.”

With these words, embers of fanaticism flared and the tones of evangelical hellfire began licking at them all as he spoke.

Frances turned her head and looked at Colin, a question in her eyes. Colin wanted to groan at what was obviously to be a ceremonial mix of religion and politics, but confined himself to a small encouraging smile.

Angus went on after drawing another breath. “We are now thoroughly resolved in the truth by the word and spirit of God. And therefore we believe with our hearts, confess with our mouths, subscribe
with our willing hands, and constantly affirm, before God and the entire world, that this only is the true Christian faith and religion, pleasing God, and bringing salvation to man, which now is, by the mercy of God, revealed to the world by the preaching of the blessed evangel; and is received, believed, and defended by many and sundry notable kirks and realms, but chiefly by the kirks of reborn Scotland. Let us pray.”

Colin nudged a shocked and outraged Frances, winked once, and then bowed his head for a longwinded prayer. He supposed he should be happy the bishop hadn’t sent John Knox.

“…and shall defend the same, according to our vocation and power, all the days of our lives; under the pains contained in the law, and danger both of body and soul in the day of God’s fearful judgment.”

Colin saw a flush of anger stain his bride’s cheekbones and wondered if much of the congregation looked the same. He didn’t think the bishop would understand if his soldiers ended up dead, poisoned by angry Balfour women. He wondered also if evangelical MacBride noticed the hostility, and thought not. The man’s eyes and voice were raised in prayer directed at the ceiling in the back of the great hall as if the Lord himself were hovering there; he noticed nothing else.

“I swear we shall be married again by a priest if you desire it,” he whispered to Frances, setting lips against her ear.

“
Merci,
but I feel that I shall be quite married enough,” she muttered back, her lips barely moving. “Can he not make haste? The sun is nearly set.”

That was an exaggeration, but it was getting darker as clouds gathered and blotted out the waning light.

“…so that we are not moved with any worldly respect, but are persuaded only in our conscience, through the knowledge and love of God’s true religion imprinted in our hearts by the Holy Spirit, as we shall answer to him in the day when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed. As we desire our God to be a strong and merciful defender to us in the day of our death, and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ; to whom, with the Father, and the Holy Spirit, be all honor and glory eternally, so shall we be strong and honorable.
Amen.”

The echoed amen was heartfelt. Apparently appeased by their sincerity, MacBride at last began the ceremony of marriage. Colin mentally urged him to hasten. A feeling of nervousness had begun tickling the back of his brain. Perhaps it was the coming darkness and the castle’s many ghosts that unnerved him, but he wanted to reach the moment when he pushed aside the bell of his bride’s long sleeve and slipped his ring upon her hand. He’d have no peace until the deed was done.

Cook had arranged a viand royal in a very short space of time. The bridal supper had three courses, each with its own soup. The cranky goose had made the ultimate sacrifice for the occasion and appeared arrayed in a magnificent sauce, which was spiced with Tearlach’s remaining surrendered ginger and sweetened with honey. There were oysters en gravey and chawettys filled with mutton, and a sotelty of the family coat of arms made out of dough. And to smooth the way for this rich feast, there was mulled wine.

Harry had been freed after the ceremony and he spent his time capering about with a sort of magnificent
gallop that a pony might envy. Colin had been prepared to order George to take his pet lion away, but the sagacious hound had not committed the sin of begging at the table. Colin suspected this was because George was supplying the beast with adequate treats beneath the board, but Colin did not comment on the abuse of Cook’s fine cuisine. It pleased him to see boy and dog so happy.

The bride was very quiet, and not in appetite, but Colin could hardly blame her; he felt no inclination to gluttony either. His senses, his intuition, were still actively warning him that something was amiss. It would not surprise him to learn that Frances felt the same way.

Or—he looked over at her—could it be that she was feeling shy?

Colin shook his head, wondering at his stupidity. Of course she was nervous! This was her wedding night. The fact that they had nearly made love already did not mean she didn’t face this moment with trepidation. MacBride’s talk of spiritual purity had probably driven all thoughts of desire from her head and had her nearer to panic than anticipation. He wondered if he should say something to her. But nothing reassuring came to him.

Very soon, it was time to retire. The Balfour women made a ring about Frances and led her away. It did not please him to see Anne Balfour among the bridal party. He hoped she would say nothing untoward.

His own somber groomsmen likewise rose from the table, intent on seeing him to his chambers and into his nightclothes, and who knew what thereafter. Among his party were the castle ghosts. They showed no understanding of what had just passed, no joy or anger.
They were probably simply attracted by the activity, or so Colin assured himself.

Glancing back at a worried-looking George, who sat alone stroking Harry and staring after his cousin, Colin decided he would permit his escort as far as his door, but no closer to the bride. Whatever the local tradition might be, he was not subjecting her to the barbaric custom of having the bride’s deflowering witnessed. This wasn’t a royal wedding. There was absolutely no need for it. If some proof was absolutely necessary, they could hand the sheets out in the morning.

There was another excellent reason to keep them away from the bridal bed. Their gloomy presence, condemning anything that looked even mildly pleasurable, could make a man impotent. It could even so damage a delicate girl’s sensibilities that she might never enjoy the act of consummation. He would not let these creatures ruin this marital happiness for them!

Belatedly, it occurred to him that this would have been just the thing to say to put Frances’s mind at ease. He would reassure her as soon as they were reunited.