His Duty, Her Destiny Read online

  ‘I think you will,’ he whispered. His mouth silenced her, his hands skilfully lured sighs of delight, melting her legs and opening them softly to his signal, receiving him like a victor, her arms wreathing his head.

  In his new position as Sir Fergus Melrose’s secretary, Ramond made a point of being seen to be working, not taking advantage of his relationship with his employer. There was plenty for him to do, and his basic training in law was already a good foundation for many of the things he was expected, and not expected, to do, which would save Fergus the expense of a qualified lawyer. They spent some time together going over problems that had accrued during Fergus’s absence, and Ramond dealt with them all with impressive efficiency. Nicola went to his cabin expressly to tell him of the appreciative remarks Fergus had let fall.

  With papers stacked on almost every surface, the cabin did not at once reveal where his bed was. ‘Under those ledgers somewhere,’ said Ramond, waving an arm. His dark head was still bent over a sheaf of papers, though there was no disorder; with a last scribble of his quill on a list, he lay it down and swivelled round on his stool. ‘Well, Almost Lady Melrose?’ he grinned. ‘You’re looking happier by the day. I take it things are going according to plan?’

  ‘There was no plan, Ramond. You know that.’

  ‘Not on your part, no. But you were convinced Fergus was only performing a duty. Now it looks as if there’s more to it than that. Even you must agree.’

  ‘Are you gloating, Ramond?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. But you must be feeling more certain about things now?’

  ‘As certain as one can be.’

  ‘But?’

  Nicola lifted a pile of letters off a chest and passed them to Ramond, sitting down and carefully spreading her skirts of cinnamon velvet over her feet. The time had come for some plain speaking, for some sharing of information. If she could not trust Ramond, then she could trust no one. ‘You remember I told you that there was another reason why I’d accepted Fergus?’

  ‘To do with Father, you said.’

  ‘Yes, something I’d discovered about that promise to Fergus’s father.’

  ‘A recent discovery. Yes?’

  ‘Well, it came as a bit of a shock, Ramond. You still want to know?’

  He spoke quietly. ‘I think I need to know. Does George know?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. Although he may suspect.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘Father had an affair. There was a child, born while he was spending so much of his time at Bishops-gate. Remember?’

  ‘Ah…yes, I do remember.’ In his mind, pieces were falling into place.

  ‘You’re not shocked?’

  ‘No. Why should I be?’

  ‘Well, because the woman involved lived next door. The prioress, Ramond. The one whose funeral we attended the day before yesterday.’

  This time, Ramond’s ‘Ah’ was well drawn out, and by the time he had let it go, one hand was resting over his pouch. ‘How do you know this?’ he said.

  ‘She sent for me. Look here.’ She delved into her embroidered pouch and lifted out the package she had received two days ago, unfolded it, and held it out for Ramond to see the delicate curl of baby hair. ‘There, see. That’s her. Our half-sister. And that’s her birth date. Fourteen sixty.’

  He leaned forward to look. ‘Copper. And you are quite convinced of this?’

  Nicola folded the package up and showed him the outside with their name on it. ‘I’m quite convinced that a prioress would not admit to such a thing unless it were true, Ramond. But there’s more. The child could not stay with the mother, and Father apparently couldn’t admit to having a child born out of wedlock, so he told his long-time friend Sir Findlay Melrose about it. He and Lady Melrose agreed to adopt it since she could have no more children and dearly wanted a daughter. The prioress had no idea where her child had gone, only that it was to someone called Melrose in Scotland. So she pleaded with me to find her daughter before she herself died and to give her news of her safety. She’ll be thirteen now, Ramond. But the crux of the matter is that this is the reason Father promised to wed me into the Melrose family. To thank them both for taking his bastard daughter.’ She sat back, watching Ramond closely for his reaction. It was not quite what she had expected.

  ‘And you would have been…how old?’

  ‘In fourteen sixty, on that very same date, I was eleven years old.’

  ‘I see. So take a look at this.’ From his pouch he withdrew the folded copy of the letter to Sir Findlay Melrose. ‘This was written by Father only two months before he died. I found it yesterday.’ He rose to his feet and went to lean his back against the door. ‘Listen,’ he said. He read:

  To Sir Findlay Melrose, my Dear Friend of Many Years, know that You and Your Lady Wife are much in My Thoughts, so long it is since We last met. I pray that You still prosper, and the Boys. It is on this last Matter that I write, having heard of your Younger Son’s marriage last year, to recall the Matter of Our Agreement made in the Year 1460 when Nicola was but eleven years old. It is for This that I take the Liberty of urging You to speak favourably to your Eldest Son Fergus about the Matter, omitting what He need not Know concerning the reasons. At his age, we too had sown our Share of wild oats, though our Settling Down came rather earlier, but now my Daughter is also of an age to bear a family and is attracting quite some Attention in the Counties, and there will be little I can do if she wishes to make a choice soon, she being Headstrong and knowing her Mind regarding such Things. My dear Friend, I fear that I may not live to see this happen, and it would give me Great Ease of Heart to know that Our Intentions would be carried out. I am aware, of course, that You and Fergus did not see all things man to man at one Time, as I and Patrick never did, but Trust that You are now Best of Friends and that You will do your best to bring about the Wishes of Your Most Grateful Bertrand Coldyngham on this 17th day of April in the Year 1472. I Trust that this will reach You before Your departure for the Gold Coast. I pray for Your Safe Return and for Lady Beth’s health.

  May God Bless You both.

  ‘Well,’ said Ramond, lowering the letter, ‘it did reach him in time, I believe, but the prayer for his safety was not too effective, I fear. But does that tell you anything you didn’t know before?’

  ‘It simply confirms what the prioress told me, Ramond. As for what it is that Fergus doesn’t need to know, well, that’s obviously about Father’s other daughter. What I want to know is where this daughter is now and why we have never heard a whisper of her until this. It’s all very mysterious. I wonder if Father was ever given news of her and, if so, why he didn’t pass it on to his mistress. He must have known how desperate she would be.’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t fit too neatly, does it? So there’s something else here that we don’t know about. Do you want to put it to Fergus?’

  ‘No…no, Ramond. Absolutely not. Not until I have to. We shall be meeting Lady Beth before the week’s out. She’s the one with the answers. I shall confront her with what I know, and demand—’

  ‘Hold on, love. I don’t think demands are appropriate in this case. You may find that Father’s prayers for Lady Beth’s health were little more successful than those for her husband.’

  ‘Why?’ Her eyes widened in alarm. ‘She’s not—?’

  ‘Oh, no, she’s with the Scottish Queen at Whithorn, I believe, but Fergus told me—in confidence, I should add—that she’s far from well. For pity’s sake, don’t let on that you know, love. He doesn’t want you to be concerned.’

  ‘Oh, dear, Ramond. This is so very sad. I had such a strong case, such good intentions. I was doing my charitable thing for the prioress, and I was doing my duty to both of our fathers. I was pleasing Fergus, at last. Now look at it.’

  Brotherly, he took her in his arms and held her without speaking for a while. Then, like a lawyer, he advised, ‘Hold things as they are for now, love, until we can discover what it’s all about. Keep your happiness with
Fergus. That can only improve matters. Learn to trust him. He’s not devious, Nick. He’ll look after you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I think I do trust him, Ramond. I think I do.’

  Chapter Ten

  It was not the news she had wanted, now of all times, when she had thought herself to be well on the way to discovery. Nor was it only for the prioress’s sake that she needed to know of her half-sister’s whereabouts, but for her own sake too. The girl was her half-sister, the one relative she had most longed for and needed, the one whose company she would have enjoyed. Four brothers were all very well, but a sister would change so many things for the better.

  In the face of the newest setback, she accepted Ramond’s advice to build on her relationship with Fergus and to learn what mattered to him most, what he had kept hidden from her, or disguised, and most of all what she had misunderstood about his very high standards. She watched him with the crew and saw how their respect bordered on affection, for he tended to their needs as few other owners did. As Ramond had told her, he did not mince words with anyone, but the hard-edged manner she had once found so offensive was now seen in context and, because she loved him, she was able to accept it. What was more, his attempts to show her his compassionate side, his wonderful loving and his undisguised interest in her as a woman and free spirit had won over the heart around which she had erected a suit of armour where he was concerned. Piece by piece, he had removed it until now the only barrier she refused to relinquish concerned the core of the reason for this parental promise, which she was quite sure had influenced Fergus’s choice of her as his marriage partner. Without that, he would certainly not have come to find her, duty or no duty. Conversely, without her extra incentive to find her half-sister somewhere in his family, she would probably not have accepted him either. Well, not for quite some time, anyway.

  The voyage turned out to be the perfect way to spend the next few days in personal discovery, or with her maids reading, singing, sewing and watching the sea, or with Fergus’s chaplain, Ramond, or Captain Ben Munro and his senior officers. There was no shortage of company, nor did the weather become so rough that they were put in danger. Their second port of call was the Island of Flatholme in the Bristol Channel, their third night was spent moored off the Isle of Anglesey, which Nicola had never heard of, and on the fourth night they berthed at the harbour of Peel on the Isle of Man, which she had heard of. Here she was told that the Bishop of Whithorn, where they were bound, actually owned land on Man and held the title of baron with his own manorial courts. He was also Fergus’s uncle. The next day, Captain Munro told them, should see them in Whithorn, in Galloway.

  ‘Tell-im-to-go-way!’ shrieked the popinjay from his wicker cage, but then added some very nautical-sounding curses that, had the parrot but known it, put its future in some doubt as a suitable pet for a lady.

  Their entry into the busy harbour on the Isle of Whithorn, actually a promontory linked to the mainland by a thread, was one of many that day, for the port thrived under the interest of pilgrims and other visitors to the shrine of Saint Ninian, increasing the trade in hospitality and, inevitably, the trade in goods. Traders’ boats bobbed about like water-beetles in the shallows and, on the green and shingled shoreline, tents stood like a field of mushrooms in the sunshine, swarming with people and their animals. Over on the rocky peninsula that extended from the harbour, lines of people wended their way to and from the small stone chapel; the first thing travellers did on arrival was to give thanks for a safe journey.

  They had all been given small pilgrim-badges to wear. ‘For your safety,’ Fergus told them. ‘As long as you wear those and don’t stay in Scotland for more than fifteen days, you have the royal protection. Oh, and you have to behave like pilgrims, too. No violence, Master Ramond, if you please.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Ramond, soberly. ‘No lewdness, either? No swearing or drunkenness?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Fergus squeezed Nicola’s hand, including her in the jest.

  Like the three ladies, he had dressed elegantly for their disembarking. His long mantle of blue Cyprus cameline was decorated with narrow bands of gold and red, the immense dagged sleeves lined with red silk, though his arms bypassed these, emerging through slits in the sides. He wore a low-crowned red felt hat with a jewelled band, and around his shoulders was a gold collar studded with huge garnets.

  Without planning it, Nicola had matched her colours to his, and her paler blue silk gown lined with gold fitted tightly to her figure, low-belted upon her hips, tight-sleeved, revealing her lovely shoulders. After the Burgundian fashion, her head-dress was tall and jewelled over which a veil floated in the breeze, though Rosemary and Lavender wore padded heart-shaped rolls in a less ostentatious style, and far less jewellery than their mistress. Heads turned as they entered the small chapel, boosting a surge of pride in Nicola’s breast that she quickly and guiltily snubbed. Even so, she felt the stares, as much for Fergus as for herself.

  Hiring horses to take them the three miles to the town of Whithorn proved not to be necessary, after all, for the highly efficient Master Ramond had sent a message to the royal court to say that they had arrived. Within the hour, harnessed animals had been sent for their use and so, with the ladies riding pillion behind their men, the party set off to meet their hosts at last, Nicola giving full rein to her excitement by a tight hug around Fergus’s body.

  She heard him suck in his breath and realised she had hurt him. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered from behind. ‘Another rib gone?’

  ‘Almost,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You excited, then?’

  ‘Ooh, yes. Are they nice, the royals? Who shall we see first?’

  ‘I’d like to find my mother first, but that will depend on who meets us. It may be some time before we get to see anybody. There must be thousands here.’

  ‘Did you get all the cargo off the ship?’

  ‘Only one waggonful. Just a sample. Look over there…the town…and over there in yon fields are the royal tents.’

  ‘They’re not living in tents, surely?’

  ‘You should just see them. They’re like palaces inside. Lined, heated, carpeted, hung with tapestries, all the furniture they need. It’s not exactly a hardship to live in one of those for a while.’ He pointed to the fluttering pennants and the bright flash of metal as armed men moved about, the size of the largest pavilions being bigger than some of the huts they were passing. No, it would be no hardship to stay in such luxury while so many ordinary pilgrims slept out in the open, summer and winter.

  In droves, the pilgrims flocked towards the abbey up on the hilltop, some barefoot and limping, some on crutches or carried in litters, others festooned with badges like the ones they wore to show which other shrines they had visited in every part of Christendom. With utensils clanking on their backs, with bags and dogs and packhorses, the infirm and wretched joined shoulders with the professionals, some singing, some wailing prayers, others reciting merry tales or playing pipes and banging drums. It was impossible for Nicola not to compare the terrible plight of some of them with her own problems. What, after all, was the loss of a house when many of these people had never had one to lose?

  She had not expected their arrival at the royal enclosure to prompt an immediate reaction of any sort, and she had been quite prepared to wait an hour or two before making brief contact with the recipient of Fergus’s luxury goods. But men had been briefed to watch out for them, and suddenly there was a cacophony of Scottish words that to English ears was more like a foreign language than a dialect. Fergus and his Scottish sea captain were home at last, their deep voices wallowing in the guttural musical explosions of sound. The royal party, they learned, had been to the abbey that very morning to give thanks for their firstborn child and were now resting after their meal. If the party of Sir Fergus Melrose would care to wait in the anteroom, the chamberlain would see if they could be admitted to the royal presence.

  ‘Queen first, my mother second,’ Fergus murmure
d to Nicola.

  She caught Ramond’s eye. ‘Won’t your mother be with the Queen?’ she said.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Fergus. ‘Ramond, would you go and make enquiries for me?’

  ‘Certainly. I’ll find her and tell her you’re here. Leave it to me.’

  ‘He’s invaluable,’ said Fergus to Nicola. ‘And if the King wants you, you’re not for sale. You hear me?’

  ‘He has a seventeen-year-old wife. He’s not likely to look at me twice.’

  ‘I think you may find that he won’t be able to take his eyes off you. I’m having the same trouble myself.’

  Remembering their last night together moored in Peel harbour with the boat swaying gently beneath them, Nicola felt the sincerity of his compliment, for again she had woken to find him lying there just watching her sleep, feasting his eyes upon her nakedness. ‘What’s she like?’ she whispered.

  ‘Not my type,’ he replied. ‘Shh! We’re to go in.’

  By anybody’s standards, the anteroom had been sumptuous enough, but the inner chamber of the royal pavilion was furnished and adorned with so great a display of ostentatious wealth that Nicola’s first reaction was of claustrophobia, followed by a wonder that the royal couple’s outward piety was so poorly reflected in their acquisitiveness. Every surface was cluttered with gold and silver plate, with textiles, rugs and cushions, glassware and boxes of jewellery as if both the King and his Queen were in the process of choosing what to wear or buy. As to Fergus’s remark that the young Queen Margaret, formerly of Denmark, was not his type, Nicola could now see what he meant.

  Sitting by the side of her twenty-year-old husband, King James III of Scotland, the Queen was dressed becomingly in a black silk full-skirted riding-gown with black velvet collar and sleeve trimmings, though its quality did little for her pallid complexion, her rather small eyes and double chin. Petite and childlike, her youthful figure had presented the king with a son in March of that year, and it was for that event, after almost four years of marriage, that they were here at Whithorn to give thanks. She beckoned to Sir Fergus and Lady Nicola to come forward without waiting for the King to do it, yet it was he who spoke for them both.