Macbeth's Niece

  Chapter Three

  That night there were guests for dinner, and Tessa was introduced to her Uncle Biote, the thane of Cawdor. This man she regarded with some curiosity, since he was her mother’s brother and she might have been sent to live with him. Three daughters of marriageable age gave him enough to handle, so she’d been sent to the childless Macbeth.

  “I heard you were a beauty, and it was not a lie,” Biote said as he kissed his niece’s cheek in greeting. Grouch had let Tessa make over one of her old dresses, since she’d had only two and neither very grand. The dress was of the softest fabric she’d ever owned, made of deep green wool that suited her coloring. The fact she’d botched the sewing a bit in her haste to finish didn’t show unless one looked closely. Uncle Biote was red-haired, like his sister Kenna, but thin-lipped and becoming paunchy. “I have all lasses meself, more’s the pity. Ooch! The expense of those three! But they are dear to my heart,” he boomed, offering his arm to Tessa as they went to the table.

  The boards had been set up on trestles in the center of the great room, and here, family, household, and guests met for the evening meal. They usually ate simply here in the north, but there were enough people in the thane’s household to make the evening meal a large endeavor, and extra care had been taken tonight because of Cawdor’s visit. There was always meat, of course, but tonight there would be several kinds: venison, fish, beef, and fowl, roasted on large spits in the cookhouse. Bread and scones made fresh daily would be served with preserved berries and fruits put up by Gruoch herself, a source of pride for her. There would be a large pudding for dessert, and of course, haggis. The room hummed with good humor and smelled of a dozen tasty dishes. Tessa had a large appetite despite her tiny figure and looked forward to the meal with enthusiasm.

  The evening soon became more interesting. Tessa sat next to her Uncle Cawdor as directed by the steward just as an amazing man appeared in the doorway, his clothes the finest Tessa had ever seen. A long tunic of gleaming white wool fell loosely over closely fitted white hose. On one shoulder hung a short cape, also of white and trimmed in some sort of fur. The toes of his shoes were pointed, and around his waist was fastened a belt of thin gold discs with a scabbard at the side for his knife. Tessa’s own knife hung at her belt, but the belt was simply a leather strap, and the knife slipped through a loop of twine.

  Apart from his wonderful clothes, the new arrival was nothing short of perfect in form and face. Over medium height, he towered above the servant who announced him, yet moved with the grace of an athlete. Blue eyes and black hair made an odd but striking combination. A wayward lock hung over his forehead, returning there immediately each time he swept it back with a hand. At one side of his mouth, a small line appeared and disappeared from time to time. Tessa would soon learn its appearance signified repressed humor. His skin, browned from the out-of-doors, was smooth, his face cleanly shaven. Handsome was hardly a word to describe him, but in Scotland, no male would appreciate being called beautiful.

  “I’m sorry to be late,” the man said, and his accent gave Tessa a shock. He was English! A great deal of her interest drained away. Handsome to be sure, but a waste of good looks and fine clothes if he came from such a place! She knew from stories, songs and discussions around the fire in her father’s home that the English were a cowardly, conniving lot who respected none but themselves. It was surprising such a one was guest to her uncle.

  “We were sitting down this minute,” Gruoch answered, always the cordial hostess. “Come, sit next to me, sir. I am interested to hear of your travels.” She made an imperious motion and the three people on her side of the table moved down the bench to make room for the Englishman.

  As the young man obeyed, he was introduced to the assembled diners by Macbeth. “This is Jeffrey Brixton, who has brought us a new bull from his brother’s herd near York, for which I am grateful.” Tessa understood the need for new breeding stock for healthy cattle, even from England, so she supposed the man must be fed.

  Brixton addressed the whole table. “Being the fourth of four sons, I am expendable and sent on all sorts of errands. Some might complain, but I appreciate the chances I get to see the world.” He spoke in a silly, overdone manner that, Tessa reminded herself, one should expect from Englishmen. His head bobbed slightly from side to side as he spoke, and his voice was too high and drawling to convey masculinity. In spite of this, Brixton made himself the center of attention as he praised Macbeth’s hall, his lands, and especially his wife. “I had heard of the lady’s beauty,” he gushed, “but it is beyond the rumors. Macbeth is the luckiest of men to have found such a treasure.”

  Macbeth thanked Brixton solemnly as Gruoch smiled patiently. She was used to such praise, being a beautiful woman despite her cold personality. She called a page to fill a cup for Brixton, Macbeth spoke to the steward, and the serving commenced with efficient clanks and chops. Only Tessa, still taking in the stranger’s spectacular appearance, saw him glance around the room with an expression that belied his earlier friendliness. The unguarded look was calculating and unfriendly.

  Something was wrong about this man. Contrary to appearances, the Englishman was not happy to be there but was watchful and alert beneath his pose of clownishness. Sensing Tessa’s interest, he turned toward her. The striking eyes met hers for a moment and by the merest movement managed to convey something she did not understand. Acknowledgement of her beauty? A jibe at himself? She had only the briefest sense of it and could not fathom its meaning. Brixton’s attention returned to his hostess, who handed him a wine cup with her own hand in thanks for his compliment.

  Jeffrey Brixton quickly became Tessa’s greatest challenge since arriving at Inverness. While others at the table found him amusing, even hilarious, she grew less and less able to control her dislike of the man. Throughout the meal he entertained with stories of his travels, all told in a simpering manner with much waving of his hands and rolling of his eyes. His tales centered on himself, making fun of his position in life and the various circumstances he had gotten into while carrying out his brother’s somewhat trivial and often complicated orders.

  Brixton manor provided well-respected breeding stock all over northern England and Scotland. Jeffrey was often dispatched to escort the animals to their destination, sometimes with humorous results. According to one story, he had delivered thirty hens to a neighboring manor for an exchange that would serve to freshen each estate’s stock. “The only problem was that the rooster, overcome with joy at the sight of all the hens, flew in my face with great enthusiasm, leaving two distinct claw prints on my best linen tunic,” he finished with a moue that brought guffaws of laughter.

  The company enjoyed the unexpected entertainment, and it seemed only Tessa was irritated by the man’s manner, his attitude, indeed, his very presence. She could not say why she disliked Brixton so. He was English, true. He was silly, also true. But something in the look she had observed earlier said he was dangerous as well.

  The hall, of course, was noisy with the coming and going of servants, as platter after platter was brought in from the kitchen, a small building at the back of the castle, and placed at the head table. Before each place lay a slice of bread that served as a plate. Each person helped himself to whatever he liked, using the knife at his belt to cut chunks of meat, bread, or cheese from the platters, and laid it onto the bread, where bite-sized morsels were cut and carried to the mouth with the same knife. Bowls of gravy set along the tables were for dipping bits of meat or bread in, and small bowls of salt graced the main table, allowing the more privileged at the meal to sprinkle the precious stuff on their food. When the meat was gone, the bread, soaked with the juices, could be eaten, too. Young pages stood by with pitchers of wine and cider to refill the tin cups at each place.

  Laughing diners threw bones and scraps over their shoulders to the dogs. It was wise to be sure these landed far enough away to avoid canine arguments under the table. The noise of dogfights sometimes became clamorous, bu
t at a word from Macbeth the animals slunk away to a corner to wait more patiently. It being spring and the weather having broken, the ducks and geese that often wandered the hall, cleaning up the smaller scraps from the floor, had been shooed outside. Over all was the babble of many voices raised in the genial conversation that attends a good meal. Jeffrey Brixton’s very different accent rose and fell among the others, and Tessa found herself more and more irritated by it.

  When the meal was concluded and the boards and trestles stacked against the wall to clear the room, some of the household members brought out musical instruments for evening entertainment. Brixton volunteered to teach them dance steps from England. “I insist on returning value for my welcome by brightening the evening,” he gushed, flopping his hands like a puppet. “Of course, I am a poor dancer compared to others I have seen, but you must needs make do with me for lack of another.” Despite the fact that this was something any polite guest might offer, Tessa found his manner insufferable, as if he were offering pearls before swine. He assumed no one there knew the latest English dances and also assumed they wanted to learn them. How like an Englishman to think himself above those who’d fed him!

  “I’ll need a partner.” He paced the room dramatically for a few seconds. “You’ll do.” Coming out of her thoughts, Tessa found Brixton standing before her, indicating with open arms she should dance with him.

  The girl felt pulled in two directions. Her mother’s voice commanded her to be ladylike and submissive, but her own inner voice rose up for the first time in months. She could not pretend this man was as charming as he obviously found himself. Scottish men had been rejected for taking Tessa’s assent for granted. Why should an English fop fare better? She raised her eyes to Brixton’s, her chin high and mouth a thin line. “I do not dance,” was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

  Immediately, Tessa sensed a chill like an actual draft from the general direction of her aunt. Girls did as they were told, even when they didn’t want to, and a good hostess saw to it the wishes of her guests were indulged. Something in Tessa rebelled still further as weeks of watching every word and facial expression caused a sudden break in her self-control. In Jeffrey Brixton’s blue eyes glinted something that might have been a challenge, and heedlessly, she finished the thought. “And if I did, it would never be with an Englishman!”

  “Tessa!” escaped from Gruoch at the same moment that a growl escaped the Thane of Glames.

  “Apologize to our guest, child, and leave us. If you cannot be civil, you’ll bide by yourself.”

  Her uncle’s face was stern. Thoughts of complying with the command formed, but Brixton’s expression stopped her. He faced her, away from Macbeth and his lady, and the look in his eyes was not at all that of the character he had displayed thus far. There was danger, turbulence, and passion in it, and she felt something in herself responding to this man. Her response frightened her, angered her, and decided her. She would never apologize to this man, even if they beat her!

  With head held high, Tessa stepped around Jeffrey Brixton as if touching him would be odious, which it would. Fleeing the room, she heard her aunt making apologies, heard the words “young and untaught.” She felt the heat of Brixton’s eyes burning into her back and could picture the expression on his face, though she’d known him for only an hour. There would be that line of amusement beside his mouth, and the blue eyes would spark dangerously. There, Mother, the girl thought bitterly. All your predictions for me have come true! My traitorous tongue has ruined two months of careful behavior!