Chapter One Seven Years Later
Fairhope Tower
The door to the buttery slammed open. "A stranger's just come, my lady," said Amauri, the porter, as breathless as if he had run all the way from Carlisle. "He claims he's your husband."
Johanna turned around so quickly the wide cuff of her surcoat tipped over a crock of honey. Fighting back panic, she righted the jar before the sticky contents spilled onto the workbench. Were it not for the fear in the servant's eyes, she would have accused him of teasing her. "He said nothing else?"
Amauri's mouth pinched with disapproval. "Only that he was Drummond Macqueen was all."
Drummond Macqueen was dead, hanged years ago by King Edward I. Although she'd received no formal notice of Drummond's execution, she hadn't expected condolences from the Crown, the ruthlessness of Edward I toward his enemies was legendary. The arrival of this imposter did seem odd timed, since the old king had been laid to rest himself last year. The new king, his son, Edward II, had recently been crowned.
Surely the man played some jest or hoped to profit by posing as her husband. He'd soon learn that the widow Macqueen was no easy mark for tricksters.
"You mustn't worry, Amauri. Show him to the hall. Have Evelyn serve him the everyday ale, but she's not to chat with him. And you're not to carry his luggage."
"Aye, Lady Clare." He bowed and turned.
Johanna had answered to that name for so long it sounded natural. She did not regret losing her own identity; in taking Clares name she kept her sister's memory alive. But more, seven years after the fact, Johanna knew she was fulfilling her own destiny.
The porter stopped. "What shall I do with his elephant?"
"His what?"
"His elephant." The servant put his hands on either side of his head and wagged his fingers. "Massive beast with huge ears, a snout as big as last year's Yule log, and beady eyes."
Johanna glowered at him. "I know what an elephant looks like. I've seen the drawings in Alasdair's books."
Embarrassment turned the servant's complexion pink. He fumbled with the laces on his jerkin. "Sorry, my lady. I meant no offense. Everyone knows you're as bright as the king's own chamberlain."
At any other time she would have scoffed at his praise, but considering the meeting ahead, she needed every scrap of confidence she could muster. "And you're a prince among porters, Amauri. Where is the creature now?"
"Chained to a post in the outer bailey and drawing a crowd. The workmen from Saddler's Dale dropped their plows in the field and swarmed the creature. The cobbler's wife swooned."
Johanna imagined the excitement the beast would cause. She also wondered where the visitor had acquired the odd animal. She had heard of only one elephant in the land, and it was housed in the Royal Menagerie.
Alarm pricked her senses. The Royal Menagerie occupied a part of the Tower of London. Drummond had been taken there for execution. But what, her common sense demanded, would a man posing as a Highland chieftain be doing with an elephant?
Trying to still her racing heart, she dismissed the porter. "Fret not about the beast unless it causes trouble. Its owner won't be here long." Then she carefully rolled down the sleeves of her bliaud and stepped into the afternoon sunshine.
In the castle yard the wheelwright haggled with the blacksmith over the price of nails; the randy potboy bartered with a comely goosegirl over a more personal and earthy commodity. From the laundry shed came the fresh scent of lavender soap. An infant wailed. A horse whinnied. A small herd of sheep fled before a yapping dog.
The familiar sights and sounds soothed Johanna's jangled nerves and inspired rational thought. Once she had lived in fear of discovery, but after seven years she'd grown comfortable with the identity of her twin sister. Everyone, from the lordly sheriff of Dumfries to the poorest cabbage farmer, was loyal to her and protective of Alasdair.
At the thought of her son, she grew fearful again and paused near the rabbit warren. This had been his favorite place to play, until he saw the butcher slaughter an old buck. Alasdair had sworn never to eat rabbit again. Although she hadn't given birth to him, Johanna considered herself his mother. She had paced the floor and comforted him when a budding tooth made him fretful. She had watched with joy in her heart and tears in her eyes when he'd taken his first wobbly steps. She had made mistakes. She had showered him with too much affection. She had, in sum, spoiled him.
What if this stranger tried to take Alasdair? That possibility brought her to the point of panic. Comfort came with the knowledge that Alasdair was absent from the castle. After the midday meal, her son had gone fishing with Bertie Stapledon, but they always returned before dark. Instinct told her to get rid of this stranger before her son came home.
Eager to do just that, she pulled off her soiled coif and picked up the hem of her work dress. Then she hurried across the yard and raced up the steep steps to the hill fort. As she made her way to the upstairs hall, she laid out a plan for dealing with the man who awaited her. She would greet him kindly. She would listen to his preposterous story. She would name him a liar and order him off her land. If he refused she would have her guards subdue him. Then she would send word for the sheriff and insist he earn his retaining fee by sending back the pretender and his elephant from whence they'd come.
But the moment she saw the stranger, even from across the hall, she was forced to rethink her strategy.
In profile, he bore so striking a resemblance to Alasdair that Johanna grew panicky all over again. His straight nose with its high bridge and gently flaring nostrils marked him as a relation. His pitch-black hair reminded her of her son's untidy mane. A sensitive mouth and strong, square jaw confirmed the likeness. But more than his features, his intensity of concentration as he examined the needlework on the fire screen swayed her the most. Bending from the waist, he looked just as Alasdair had when he'd first seen a turtle draw into its shell. This man appeared interested and inquisitive. And breathtakingly handsome.
Without doubt, he was a Macqueen.
Terrified, she could not yet step into the room and announce her presence, but continued to watch him unnoticed. Rather than trunk hose and jerkin, he wore trews of soft leather and a full-sleeved shirt of loosely woven wool. His long legs were lean, his flanks trim, yet his shoulders were as broad as a blacksmith's. In his hand he held a Highland bonnet, ornamented with three tattered feathers and a shiny silver badge bearing an emblem she couldn't make out, but suspected was a wolf rampant, the symbol of Clan Macqueen. The device was repeated on the palmsize brooch that secured his distinctive tartan cape at his shoulder.
Over the years she had created fictional stories about Drummond, tales designed to inspire pride in a fatherless boy. To Alasdair, his sire was a heroic figure, pure of heart strong of will. Would this man, surely a Macqueen cousin or uncle, refute or enlarge upon the legends?
"I see improvement in your needlework, Clare," he said, still studying the framed tapestry.
Startled, Johanna stepped back. Then she caught herself. She would not fear this man neither would she allow his breach of etiquette to go unchecked. "I pray the same is true of your manners, sir, for you haven't the right to address me with so much familiarity."
He stood upright and strolled toward her. With an outwardly casual air, he studied her from head to toe; yet his blue eyes were intense in their inspection. "I haven't the right, Clare? You seem to have forgotten just how many rights I hold where you are concerned."
She felt invaded and clenched her fists