The Night Side (6 page)

Colin murmured appreciatively, discounting most of what the boy said, thinking all the while of Noltland’s household oddities and what they might mean. Obviously the boy did not care for his inheritance, which was in itself odd. And again, it was telling that both Colin and MacJannet were given the grandest rooms upstairs, where George and Frances also slept. They were either there so they could be observed by the castle’s mistress, or they were placed there to offer some protection from unknown dangers. Whichever the cause, it proved that something was definitely amiss in Noltland Castle.

Colin’s chamber was a far cry from his spacious rooms at home, but it was also less mean than many a bedchamber in a battle fortification. From his room he had a view of the ocean, which, at the greater height and on so pleasant a day, seemed a less fearsome thing. The tide had turned and was back on the rise, and the surf was shying about like a nervous animal as it came in contact with the upthrusts of coastal stone. It even seemed to murmur sweetly as it briefly withdrew from the rough shore, leaving only a line of thin white foam scalloped on the rocks. It was a transient pleasure. The
honeyed voice would only last until the next storm. With the wind driving it, the sea would scream as it was split open by the knife-edged rocks.

Colin had already seen entirely too much of Tearlach MacAdam but was not all that surprised when the newly dressed piper sought out him and MacJannet in chambers for further conversation.

“See that smirch’d floor?” Tearlach demanded abruptly, pointing at a darkened patch of stone beneath a carved chest. “That’s where the first master of Noltland got rid of his wife.”

MacJannet blinked.

“Leastwise, that’s where he put the top half of her. Done her to death with a reaping hook. But who could blame him, so shrewish was she. Balfours were always marryin’ witches and poisoners.”

“Perhaps the
wives
were driven to it,” MacJannet muttered.

Knowing that it was probably a mistake, nevertheless Colin asked: “And the lower half?”

“Tossed out the window intae the sea. Except she didnae go intae the sea as the tide was out and it made a right mess when she hit the rocks. The servants saw everything. Well, how could they not when there was bit of her all over the walls and ground?”

MacJannet was as stiff as a poker. Colin hoped it was disapproval and not superstitious fear that had arrested his breath.

“She’s still scarin’ the servants,” Tearlach added. “They say her legs gae runnin’ aboot on stormy nights. But I’ve seen ‘em sometimes just floppin’ about on the stones.” He
tsk
ed and looked up to see how this story was being taken.

“And the rest of her?” MacJannet asked in a faint voice.

“Well, she cannae get aboot without legs, can she? Nae, she just knocks on the chest askin’ tae be let out. But we never do let her. It’s a wicked enough time dealin’ wi’ her legs.”

Colin doubted this story, but if the ghost did disturb his rest, he would have the chest removed.

“And the Bokey hound?” he asked, sounding only mildly interested. This familial fixation with ghosts was getting annoying. So much superstition would impede any efforts at reasonable conversation.

“Aye, poor mutt. He mostly stays below stairs until some puir soul is tae die. He crawled there after the master beat him, and there he died, the miserable beastie. Some reward for knocking the poison cup out of the drunkard’s hand. But Balfours are mean.”

So! The beast might not be a hellhound. It could be a ghost. Animal spirits were rare, but Colin had once encountered a spectral horse and its ghostly rider in Cornwall.

“How charming. Does any room in the castle not contain some grisly ghost? Perhaps we would be safe in the privies?”

Tearlach’s brow furrowed. “Well, there is at times some howling and moaning in the privies.”

“That is not entirely supernatural,” MacJannet pointed out. “Particularly if the meat has gone bad.”

Colin shuddered. Tearlach’s vulgar conversation was beginning to affect even the prim MacJannet. The man was a verbal plague.

“Enough. When is the evening meal served?”

“After nightfall. We never eat before full dark,”
Tearlach answered reluctantly, clearly wishing to continue his discussion of ghosts and other horrors.

“Then I shall see you at dusk and not before,” Colin said, indicating to MacJannet that he should eject their visitor from the room.

Tearlach, who was finally beginning to read Colin’s gestures, hied himself away without further argument, though with a great deal of muttering. MacJannet closed the door gently and then cleared his throat.

“Go ahead and speak your mind,” Colin invited. “I know that you are unhappy with what you have seen.”

“I believe that we may have barely arrived in time to prevent a disaster. You must see that Mistress Balfour cannot continue to care for the boy and this keep alone. She’s sly, but that is not sufficient to keep the local wolves away.” He sounded disapproving. MacJannet had very set notions about the roles of the sexes.

Colin grunted. “Aye, I do see it. And I know that clever females can be a nuisance, particularly if their hearts are evil, but do you know, MacJannet, in spite of the current fashion, I have never cared for a total absence of wit in women? And especially not in one who must serve as an ally.”

“I do not think that we are seeing any such lack now. And I did not say that she was evil,” MacJannet protested mildly. “’Tis simply not a task for a woman alone. And she must be made to see it before disaster befalls this keep.”

“No, she’s
not
lacking in wits, is she?” Colin smiled widely. “I think Mistress Balfour is a very devious and brave creature. And likely quite willful. This is going to be a most interesting time, and possibly even an arduous one, wresting power from her tiny hands.”

“Indeed.” MacJannet sounded considerably less happy than his master.

His pessimism with their circumstances was confirmed quickly after Colin said: “I suppose that you made note of the complete lack of pampered paunches in this keep.”

“I did. Winter may see the end of some of these people if supplies of meat are not found.”

“That is also my belief,” Colin replied. “And so…we will have to journey back south almost immediately, I fear.”

“Aye?”

“The remaining Balfour men must be brought home, of course. I suspect you’ll find them somewhere near Blar-na-leine.”

“And how shall you arrange their freedom from the queen’s service? She’ll be reluctant to let any of her men go,” MacJannet said. He was not challenging Colin, only seeking enlightenment.

“I believe that the Bishop of Orkney may be of some help. He can probably persuade the regent that the royal child’s interests are better served by allowing the men to return north and defend the castle.”

MacJannet blinked. “I didn’t know that you included the bishop among your many acquaintances. You generally do not involve yourself in religious matters.”

Colin smiled. “He doesn’t like Beaton, you see. And any enemy of the cardinal can be made good use of.” Seeing MacJannet frown, Colin added: “My friend, it is nice to know that I still have some secrets from you.”

MacJannet shook his head. Plainly he did not agree. “I cannot say that I care for this plan. There are too many variables to calculate, and any of them may go disastrously awry.”

“Nor do I love it,” Colin agreed. “But it is the only one that has presented itself, so what choice have we? You can’t be suggesting that we leave these innocents to the MacLeod’s tender mercies.”

MacJannet shook his head.

“At least the castle is sound enough,” he said after a moment, trying for something cheerful to say. “I doubt that anything larger than a hare could get in or out of it with the yett in place—and not even that if the gates are barred. They look strong enough to hold back the ocean.”

Colin gave his friend a playful look. “I hope that you are wrong, my friend, for I fear that we are going to face some heavy rain and I’d prefer it escape the castle, for I would as soon not get my feet wet when I explore the dungeons this evening.”

“You won’t like drowning, either,” MacJannet said unhappily.

“You think the dungeons may flood when the tide is in?” Colin clarified. “But I shouldn’t think the tide would often get that high. And it will not, unfortunately, rain so much until December. I’ll likely end up playing gowff every bloody day.”

MacJannet shook his head. “I was speaking of the drop-hole down to the sea. It is almost certain that they have one. No Scottish dungeon is truly complete without one,” he added without irony.

“You have a point. It has to be examined, though. A sea egress is an improbable choice of entry for a malefactor, but it is something else to investigate in order to say with certainty that the castle is secure.” From human enemies, at least.

“It is best examined from a safe distance,” MacJannet warned. “And with a torch.”

“Of course, my friend. Of course. I’ll use every caution.”

MacJannet snorted, not at all reassured. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

They had not saild a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
Until she espied his cloven foot,
And she wept right bitterlie.

—
“The Ballad of the Daemon Lover”

Frances watched tiredly as one by one the ribbons of dying light were pulled down from the clouding sky and tucked below the horizon. It was night again. At last their daily labors were at an end. Only the cook and sculleries still had heavy work before them; she had ordered that as sumptuous a dinner as the larder could bear was to be prepared that evening in honor of the new arrivals.

All afternoon while Frances had worked at the loom, her thoughts had been dwelling upon her new Master of the Gowff. Silly of her to be so distracted by him. Even though he was obviously of good birth, it was not as though he was a potential suitor, particularly not in her present situation when she already had too many men pursuing her. Still, she dwelled upon his face. She was even annoyingly weak of knee and careless of hand, which twice caused her to miss with the shuttle and snarl her work.

Frances sighed at her wandering wits and consoled herself with reason. She was not to be blamed for her
inquisitiveness. It was an inborn trait. And Colin Mortlock was not at all what she had expected. In her experience, sporting-mad gentlemen were not interested in mundane household matters. To their minds, meals appeared by magic. Linens mended themselves. One might completely disarrange the furniture or set new servants to old tasks, and as long as they had a place at the table and a fire in the hearth, most men would not notice any difference. They cared for golf and hawking—and perhaps debauchery—and nothing else.

Yet, from the moment he had entered the castle, she could see that Colin Mortlock was making careful observation of its arrangements, assessing the people who worked there and treating everyone—except Tearlach—with great courtesy and interest. He’d even urged George to confide in him about their alterations to the castle’s defenses and dungeons.

Frances bit her lip. Perhaps it had been a mistake allowing anyone into the castle. Colin Mortlock and MacJannet were temporarily isolated at Noltland and could not carry tales back to England, but eventually the world would suspect that there were almost no men left at the keep—only ancients and babes—and then others would come calling, swords in hand. What if Colin said something to these tiresome men when they came to woo her by force? Though probably reticent with her other neighbors, he would likely speak to his cousin…

She had hoped to delay the time when their extreme weakness was revealed until George’s position had been strengthened by recognition from the new regent, or her father’s men had returned home from the war. Could Colin be trusted? Could he be convinced to hold his tongue?

The facts as they stood were grim enough without betrayal from within. She wished that she could simply throw a blanket over the unpleasant truth and smother it forever. But that was not possible now. She would have to tell this Englishman and his manservant something plausible about why there were no men in the castle, or else reveal the truth and throw herself on his mercy and plead that he keep silent if he ever left them, or if his cousin came to call. Unfortunately, trickery wouldn’t serve. She had no way of conjuring soldiers even for a day.

Of course, begging for his indulgence didn’t appeal to her either, so that left honesty and an appeal to his better nature.

However, the amount of truth she told—and when—was still negotiable. She would likely begin by suggesting that most of the men were away taking cattle to market, which would conveniently explain why there were no cattle at Noltland, or else she could say that they were looking after sheep in faraway crofts. It wasn’t a completely preposterous tale to tell a city-dweller from England, especially if everyone told the same story.

Of course, convincing everyone that they must be discreet was going to be a difficult matter. Desperation was mounting with the approach of winter. Hope that the survivors from Noltland Castle would return home had faltered with word of the English invasion at the Borders. The last of the poor crops was being harvested now. If the winter were light, they would be well enough situated—but if it were long and harsh?

Many of the women felt that it was better to surrender to one of the other clans than to risk starvation. Frances did not agree. The local chieftains were
apt to go to war upon Noltland the moment control passed into a neighbor’s hands, through sheer bloodymindedness at being denied the castle for themselves. They would then be not only invaded but also besieged. Besides, she was not ready to sacrifice her freedom and George’s birthright just yet.

Frances bit her lip. It bothered her to lie to Colin Mortlock. It would be difficult to look into his knowing eyes and utter half-truths—well,
quarter
truths—but it simply had to be done. He was from England, not part of the politics of the North, and therefore might be sympathetic, but until she knew whether his loyalties would lie firmly with Noltland and George, she could take no other chance.

Frances sighed again and turned from her narrow window. It was a bother, but she changed her gown before going in to dine. Part of keeping up the pretense that all was well at the castle was her acting the role of confident mistress. Ladies did not receive guests—even those who would be working members of the household—at their tables with woolen lint clinging to plain homespun.

She chose a dress of dark uncut velvet in deep sanguine red to wear over her willow green chemise. The unboned bodice could be worn with a modest bumroll, and did not yet show signs of wear. It would also be warm in the drafty hall.

Frances paused near the base of the stairs and surveyed the room before her. The air was more festive than it had been since her arrival from France, but it still seemed oddly uncomfortable and cold. She would never get used to the unpleasant atmosphere of the castle.

It wasn’t that there were too many shadows. The dining hall was fitted with dozens of flaring torches and a bright fire in the hearth, so only a few precious candles were needed on the table. Frances tried not to fret that there were a dozen more candles burning than she would have liked to have seen. She knew that they still had a reasonable supply, but they had to be made to last, at least until she found someone to send for supplies. At present, she dared not let any of the castle occupants leave, for once it was known to the outside world that unescorted women were seeing to such tasks, the speculation about Noltland’s weakness would begin.

Annoyed, she snatched up the hem of her skirt and started down the stairs. Immediately her foot tangled in the thick velvet, and without a banister nearby to check her fall, she began a headlong tumble down the remaining steps.

But in less than the blinking of an eye, Colin Mortlock was before her, receiving her into his strong arms and restoring her balance with a swift embrace. His hands were firm but gentle as he set her on the floor.

“You look flustered, mistress,” he said, taking her gently by the elbow and guiding her toward the table. “Please allow me to see you to your chair.”

“Thank you,” Frances answered, still a little breathless from her averted tumble. She smiled gratefully, much struck by Colin’s grace and swiftness.

She also had to admit that her gallant rescuer looked quite comely by firelight, which flattered his dark hair and brows.

“I am but a little tired by my day out on the moor. Usually I do not play for so long,” she added truthfully. “I fear fatigue has made me clumsy.”

He hummed sympathetically, studying her face in return. “In that case I shall have to make certain not to tire you out with such long games. I have no desire to see you harmed through my offices.”

Colin seated her carefully, his hands touching fleetingly in the middle of her back. It was of course impossible that she could actually feel the temperature of his palm through the thickness of her clothing, but her imagination said that his hands were very warm. She flushed, aware of the eyes upon them.

Confidently, he took a seat at her side and leaned down to greet a pale George, who suddenly looked quite small and thin seated behind the massive board. His all too apparent vulnerability made her heart clutch. How was she going to keep him alive?

Food was brought at once. Frances recognized the oysters en gravey and wondered where the wine for the dish had come from. A quick sniff told her that it was heavy with leeks and missing aromatic spices, but it had some almonds for decoration and would probably pass.

There was bread, too. She knew it would be good if rather heavy. They did still have eggs and flour, and a bit of ale and honey for flavoring.

Next came the chawettys. The pies, made without suet because there was little left, could have anything in them. They were what became of all the kitchen scraps that could be mixed with crabapple cider that had gone to vinegar and stuffed into a coffin crust.

The last dish brought to the table was a pair of chickens. They were not served with pears and grapes for none were to be had, but the chopped parsley, hyssop, and savory smelled nice, stewed and prepared with more wine.

At first there was little conversation, as the women were busy devoting themselves to their meal, but presently they began to speak among themselves and to answer MacJannet, who had set himself the task of putting everyone at ease. She noted carefully that even the servant had the manners of a gentleman. Perhaps it was the English way. If so, she liked it. In her experience, Scottish men were too rude and direct. Some, like her father, were even brutal.

The elder and often sourly disposed Anne Balfour would say that it was typically English, and that it was objectionable. But she had a deep-rooted dislike of all things foreign, Frances’s clothes among them. Nor did her dislike stop at the border; she disliked Lowland Scots, too. Many days, it seemed that it was all she could do to tolerate George.

Frances glanced several times at her new companion while they dined, but could not think of any harmless conversational topic to inaugurate with those thoughtful eyes always upon her. Of course, she was also uncomfortable eating while under scrutiny. After her clumsiness on the stairs, she feared she might well upset her plate with her careless hands.

Finally she sighed and turned slightly in her seat so that she faced her Master of Gowff head on. She tried to think of something intelligent to say.

“Mistress Balfour,” Colin said quietly, also leaning slightly in her direction. Their cuffs touched and the embroidered threads clung to one another. “If you will forgive me for being forward…?”

Frances blinked and raised her eyes from their hands and entangled linens. “But of course.”

“I think it might be a reasonable precaution to invite
Sir William Kirkcauldy to visit Noltland,” he said unexpectedly.

“The Bishop of Orkney?” she asked with understandable surprise, and even a bit of confusion. “But—I am a devout Catholic, sir. He might not accept.”

“True, he does not love Catholics, but the rest of your people are not so devoted. And neither is George.” Colin picked up the ewer, which had been left on the table, and poured out a measure of wine for her. His tone was soothing. “The bishop isn’t a bad fellow, really. And previous bishops have had ties to Noltland.”

“But why would he come to see me? Is he not very busy vilifying the Catholics to the south?”

“Just Beaton, who has plainly begged to be vilified,” Colin said with a fleeting smile, which Frances found most appealing in spite of the subject of their conversation. “And he has a new apprentice named John Knox who may carry on the harangue in his absence. As to why he would come to Noltland, as it happens I have had some dealings with this man and believe that he would be willing to visit me and to make the new laird’s acquaintance.”

Frances shook her head, not in negation but in an effort to shake loose from her jumbled thoughts, which impeded the route of logic through her tired brain. “Again, I must ask why. Even if you have some familiarity with him, why would he come here rather than asking you to visit at his convenience? And why should we ask him? As you know, I am yet in mourning and we invite no one to the castle.”

Colin’s face grew serious. “It would be a good thing for the Balfours to be seen with strong friends. And
there is nothing wrong with turning to a man of God in your hour of need.”

“And why should we need strong friends?” Frances asked, assuming an easy pose, though she was rather alarmed by the trend in their tête-à-tête. It was disturbing to think that her new Master of the Gowff could claim intimacy with someone like the Bishop of Orkney. It suggested that he was very aware of the region’s politics and even had preformed sentiments. Perhaps she should have expected this, coming as he did from a Protestant nation, but she had hoped that his being English would mean a high degree of ignorance of politics in the North.

“Everyone needs friends, mistress. The Balfours more than most. And I could not, in good conscience, recommend asking any of your neighbors for support, for it would likely embroil you in their old feuds and bring suffering to your home.”

Frances was not happy to have her own concerns voiced aloud. And if he was this aware of local dealings, then obviously tales about distant crofts and cattle markets were not going to serve. Her heart began to thud.

“You seem to know a great deal about our affairs for one so newly arrived from the South.” She took up her goblet and drank, trying to decide what was best to do. Her impulse was to send this man away immediately. But was that wise when he already knew their weaknesses? And how could she transport him back to Dunnvegan? He would surely demand an escort, and there was none to be had.

“We have politics in England, too,” he answered wryly. “I’ve seen a great deal of political machination in my time. And I must tell you, mistress, that you
have done a magnificent job of keeping the wolves at bay. I know of no one who has ever done better at outwitting her foes.”