The Night Side (18 page)

I saw the new moon late yestreen,
Wi the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we’ll come to harm.

—
“The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens”

The bride looked both nervous and wrathful, sitting in the middle of the nuptial bed. Colin could understand that. Thwarted desire made him wrathful, too. However, he suspected there was more to her ire than frustration at delayed gratification, and was practically certain Anne Balfour was to blame for the new chill in the bedroom air.

“You look quite cross, my love.” His tone was light in spite of his anger. The Bible might be correct that a soft word could turn away wrath.

Frances said pettishly: “Those women seemed unable to conceive of me undressing myself. Do I not manage this task every evening?”

“The men had a similar conceptual problem,” Colin answered soothingly, pouring out some of the wine he had ordered brought to their chamber and bringing her a glass. “But they are gone now.”

All except the one ghost who hovered near the fire. Colin might have thought her to be Frances’s mother,
but the mode of her dress was wrong. He did his best to ignore her silent witness.

Frances took the wine but still did not meet Colin’s eyes. She bowed her head slightly and the fall of her hair served as a dark curtain that draped the side of her face and hid her further from view.

“Why don’t you have a little wine and then tell me what Anne Balfour said to upset you,” he suggested gently.

Frances’s startled gaze fluttered up briefly.

“You’d best tell me about it,” he urged. “Distrust and anger grow like some horrible fungus in the dark shadows of doubt. Obviously Anne has been busy planting poisoned words. Best we clear them out before you have ugly mushrooms pouring from your ears.”

Frances didn’t smile at this silly sally, proving that she was actually very upset.

“Speak, my dear, or forever hold your peace.
Ce soir ou jamais,
as they say, it is tonight or never. Once this marriage is consummated, there will be no going back.”

In point of fact, they were already past the point of undoing events. And even if they had not been, Colin would never permit her to throw their union away because of anger at a small misunderstanding. Still, he knew better than most how to be politic in his replies.

“Very well then! Have your truth—and so shall I. You have deceived me from the first! You almost took me as a lover—and all the while you lied about what you are! I thought this was something wonderful between us, and now you have poisoned the pleasure. I believe all men are deceivers!”

He found interesting that she objected to deceit in a lover and not in a husband. He was also very interested in where and when Anne Balfour had come by her news.

“To begin with,” Colin answered calmly, “I did not lie. I said I wanted you to wife and I still do.
Cherie,
please consider the source of these rumors before you allow them to spoil your pleasure in your wedding day. Your cousin has not distinguished herself with loyalty and charity of mind or action. She is, in fact, a traitor. She knows me for an enemy of her schemes and will of course try to blacken my name to you. Doubtless she would have blamed me for your father’s death and King James’s, as well, had she thought you would believe it.”

Frances’s voice moderated, but her face remained stormy, proving that pain was often recalled by the sufferer long after an injury was inflicted. “But her traitorousness does not alter the facts that
do
exist, does it? You are not who you pretended to be.” The lower lip trembled. “How can I know now if anything you say is true? I…I am so…how do you say
decevoir
?”

“Disappointed.” He sighed. “I am sure you are.”

“
Oui
! I had hoped that in spite of the mystery around you, I would be moving into a more honest life. One more open and free, where I did not have secret enemies. Now I discover that I have more than ever before!”

Frances tilted back her goblet and drained it. The sudden rush of spirits brought a hectic flush to her cheeks.

Colin seated himself on the edge of the bed and possessed himself of her empty hand, which he clutched
tightly against himself. “Frances, look at me. I am speaking the absolute truth now. This I swear, before God and on the life of my sovereign. I am Sir Colin Mortlock, owner of Pemberton Fells. I came to Noltland to be your Master of the Gowff at my cousin MacLeod’s request—just as I told you.”

“But…but you are not
just
Sir Colin Mortlock, are you? You work for the English king against the Scots.”

“I have never worked against the Scots, just against their most recent king, who was an idiot—and I am
always
Sir Colin Mortlock.”

She snorted, but her hand relaxed. He preferred her scorn to the threat of tears, though he would rather have had smiles from his lady on this, their wedding night.

“That may be truth, but it is not all the truth.”

“You are correct. Sometimes, when the king has need of me, I am more besides.” Colin looked into those darkly troubled eyes and tried to explain what he did. “Put aside your hurt, if you can, and consider the world of the monarch. As powerful as they are, there are places where sovereigns may not go. There are things a wise ruler needs to see and know if he is to guide his country, but may not be told by his advisers—perhaps because they are pursuing their own political ends, perhaps because they are blind to everything except their own ambitions or obsessions. It is unfortunate, but still true, that these obsessed men are often the sorts who are drawn to power. Imagine how frustrating this would be for you if you were a king who actually wanted to make informed decisions.”

Frances nodded once. Colin thought it was an agreement simply to consider his words, not to assent to his points.

“Sometimes that desired information is trivial, but other times it is vital. On the occasions when the information is most crucial, it nearly always happens that discretion is required while acquiring it. In these cases, I—and my father, and his father before him—have served in times of crisis as the eyes and ears of the king. This was our duty—just as your father felt it was your family’s duty to lay down their lives for your king at Flodden. My presence here is dishonesty in a sense, because I have lied by omission in not announcing my sometimes occupation, but it is not deceit. It is simple survival. Everything I have done here has been for your well-being and our future happiness. It has nothing to do with my king or politics, English or Scottish. I see danger here and have moved to intercept it before it can do you or George harm.”

There was a long silence as she mulled this over. The concerned ghost drew nearer. Colin made an effort to ignore her, since she didn’t seem to mean any harm.

“You see it as the same thing—what you do and what my father did?” The question was, to Colin’s relief, thoughtful rather than sarcastic. The tide was turning in his favor. He blessed the streak of curiosity that ran through her pragmatic mind.

“Aye, I do,” he answered truthfully. “It is required that we each serve our monarchs according to our gifts. This ability to live two lives simultaneously is a peculiar talent that seems to belong to the Mortlocks.
It is decried by some men, but the power of dissembling is essential to the art of the intelligencer. Few men of morals and loyalty have the gift, for if they know truth they feel they must always speak it. And others are intent on silencing them so the truth shall not be known. These
honest
men do not survive long in the world of kings.”

“But Colin!” She waved her free hand. “To live your life for politics. It is so petty.”

He laughed shortly. “Petty and almost always dangerous to some degree. But I tell you that a well-thought-out stratagem wins more battles than generals and their armies. Frances, you have no concept! Petty politics sway behavior in ways that you have not ever considered.” Colin set his wife’s empty goblet aside and took both her hands. He drew a breath and then spoke more openly than he ever had in his life, even to MacJannet. His first truth surprised him when he heard himself say: “What a lot of virtues—like discretion—I have set aside since coming here.”

Frances sniffed, apparently still unimpressed and unforgiving. “Politics. What is there to consider? It is just the maneuvering of greedy men who have no other sensible occupation.”

“Perhaps, but I am quite serious about this point. Think about it, Frances. Use your wits. I know it is not your usual realm of thought, but you have seen first-hand the effects of royal maneuvering and can understand this. Consider that politics, at the very least, influences fashion—from deciding what clothes we wear to what musicians and artists will be favored in society. It even decides what sports we shall play. Look at how the bishop’s men dress. Look at how your gowns
are different from what ladies here wear. Think why it is that you may not go veiled into a kirk. It isn’t God’s revealed will that causes this. It is the whims of kings and priests that have caused this.”

Surprised at his words, Frances looked down at her silken night rail, and acknowledged that this was true. No other woman in the keep would wear silk, because of religious prohibition.

“But politics does much more than this when it becomes a quest for power and influence over men’s minds.” Colin shook his head, searching for a way to explain how large this princely power was and how it was growing into something nearly impossible to control. “In recent years it has left the throne and climbed into the pulpits. There it has put words into the mouths of priests, and through them, political beliefs have been implanted into the hearts of otherwise godly men. It makes some into zealous reformers, and others doubt their own beliefs and become crippled by conflicting thoughts. It can be a tool for change, a weapon of destruction, even a vile usurper of princely power if perverted…what it
cannot
be is ignored. Not if you are a king. Not if you are a loyal subject who serves his monarch faithfully. As goes the king, so goes the country. Politics and the politicians, ugly as they often are, are about our survival.”

She spoke hesitatingly. “And you are paid to do this?”

“Aye—handsomely,” he answered, refusing to feel shame. He had never felt that idleness made possible by wealth made one man better than another who toiled for his bread. “But the best reward this occupation can bring is safety.”

Frances’s eyes widened.

“Safety?”

“Knowledge is power. Power, naked or disguised, is what keeps you safe. And if you have not enough of this strength on your own, then knowledge lets you borrow from others in times of need. But you already know this at some level. Do not forget, Frances, that you are also a dissembler.”

Frances’s eyes widened.

“
Qu’est-ce que
?”

Colin nodded. “Has your recent life at the castle not been all a tapestry of lies? Lying to neighbors, lying to my cousin, even lying to your own people about what we have arranged for them, weaving together an illusion—and all so that George and your family may be kept safe from the wolves at your door?”

“But that isn’t the same,” she protested halfheartedly.

“Of course it is. You practiced a social deceit to save your family when nothing else could. Your trickery and ingenuity is what has kept your kin safe all these months since your father died. And though I could, I would never reproach you for lying, for luring MacJannet and me here when the situation was so precarious. I honor you for your ingenuity because I understand what made you do the things you do.” He added: “And I never believed in the
la vie galante
anyway. It is only a troubadour’s myth. We are all sometimes moved to selfish action by necessity.”

He smiled suddenly. “Just think what our children will be like! With us to guide them in the development of their wits, they shall be masters of two lands.”

Frances did not smile back, though her eyes had opened wide at the mention of children. Perhaps she
had been so distracted by other events that this consequence of marriage had not occurred to her before. Colin wondered if it was fortuitous that he had thought to bring up the subject in an already difficult conversation.

“So you believe that there can truly be honor without complete honesty? Deceit can be practiced without disloyalty?”

Colin nodded. “Aye, I do. As long as man is true to himself and his own morals.”

“And therefore there can be some form of sensitivity to others without genuine sentiment? Can there be that, as well?” She sounded as though she were trying not to give in to some fierce inner struggle.

Colin drew in a breath and asked straightly: “Are we speaking now of our marriage? For that is a matter quite separate from politics.”

“Is it?” Frances looked away. The turned cheek offended him. “Colin, is there anything else I should know about you before we…we consummate this bargain?”

Exasperated, and still unwilling to discuss his plans for their future, which involved removing her from Scotland, he finally ceased trying to reason with his untrusting bride. “Aye, there is.” Colin took her stubborn chin in hand and turned her face to his. Whatever she saw in his countenance caused her eyes to widen. “This is a marriage, not a bargain. And I am a jealous husband. And I will guard what is mine.”

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against hers. They sank into the bedclothes. After a moment, the initial rigidity left her body and she relaxed against his harder, heavier frame. Colin lifted his head.

“If there must be struggles this night, let it be with
me and not your thoughts. There will be no more talk of duty or bargains,” he said, voice low, watching as the firelight played over Frances’s face. Then, more softly: “
Cherie,
your emotions see lies and deceptions where there are none. Look at me. Know the truth.”

“I feel I must—
reveiller,
” she whispered, a hand coming up to curl into his hair. The touch was tentative but behind it he could feel all her longing for closeness begging to be let out. “It seems that this is all a strange dream from which I cannot awake.”