Agnes looked at her with misty eyes. "Ye've been a blessing sent here by the Lord himself, milady. We all think it, and we're that sorry for the welcome you got from us when you come here. Everyone knows I have yer ear, me being your personal maidservant, and they ask me erry day to make sure ye know how grateful we feel."
"Thank you," Jenny said simply. With a wry smile, she added, " 'Tis only fair to tell you, though, that my ideas on the profits to be made from the tournaments and looms and things are those of a Scot—we're a thrifty lot, you know."
"Yer English now, if ye'll pardon me speakin' out 'o turn. Yer married to our lord an' that makes you one 'o us."
"I am a Scot," Jenny said quietly. "Naught will change that, nor do I want it to."
"Yes, but tomorrow, at the tournament," Agnes said with nervous determination, "we're hopin, all 'o us at Claymore and from the village—that ye'll be sittin' on our side."
Jenny had given permission for all the castle serfs to attend the tournament either tomorrow, which was the most important day, or the day after, and the atmosphere within the castle walls was positively tense with excitement amongst all who lived or worked there.
She was spared the need to reply to Agnes's unspoken question about where she intended to sit at the tournament by the arrival of mounted riders who were ready to escort her from the bailey. She had told Royce she meant to visit the Merrick pavilion on the western edge of the valley, and he had agreed—because he had no choice, Jenny knew—but only on condition that she be escorted there by his men. In the bailey she saw the "escort" which Royce evidently deemed necessary: all fifteen of his private guard, including Arik, Stefan, Godfrey, Eustace, and Lionel were mounted and armed.
At close range, the valley of brightly colored tents and striped pavilions was even more vivid and festive than it had seemed to Jennifer from the wall-walk. Wherever there was room, practice jousts were taking place, and in front of every tent where a knight was lodged, his banner and spear had been stuck into the ground. And everywhere there was color: tents with broad stripes of reds and yellows and blues; pennants and shields and badges emblazoned with red falcons, gold lions, and green bars—some of them almost completely covered with so many symbols Jenny couldn't help smiling at the display.
Through the open flaps of the larger tents, she glimpsed gorgeous tapestries and snowy linen spread across tables where knights, and even entire families, were having dinner on silver plate and drinking from jeweled goblets. Some families were seated upon plump silk cushions; others had chairs as fine as those in the great hall at Claymore.
Time and again, greetings were called out to one or the other of Royce's knights from friends, but, although her escort never stopped, it still took the better part of an hour to wend their way across the valley floor and up to the western slope. Just as in life, the Scots did not mingle with the hated English, for while the valley was the domain of the English, the northern hill belonged to the Scots. Moreover, the western rise was the province of the French. Because her kinsmen were one of the last to reach Claymore, their tents were pitched to the rear of the northern slope, well above the others. Or perhaps, Jenny thought idly, her father preferred the spot because it put him somewhat closer to the level of the lofty rise where Claymore castle stood.
She looked about her at the "enemy camps," existing for the time being in peace. Centuries of built-up animosity were temporarily set aside as all parties observed the ancient tradition that guaranteed any knight safe passage and peaceful dwelling while attending a tourney. As if he read her thoughts, Stefan said beside her, " 'Tis probably the first time in decades that so many people from our three countries have occupied the same territory without fighting over it."
"I was thinking much the same thing," Jenny admitted, startled by his remark. Although he invariably treated her with courtesy, Jenny sensed in Stefan a growing disapproval of her ever since her estrangement with his brother. He thought her unreasonable, she supposed. Perhaps—if he didn't remind her so painfully of Royce each time she looked at him—she might have tried harder to establish the same affectionate relationship she had with Godfrey, Eustace, and Lionel. Those three trod cautiously in the wide gulf between Royce and herself, but it was obvious from their behavior they at least understood her side of the conflict. It was also obvious that they believed the breech between Royce and she was tragic, but not irreparable. It did not occur to Jenny that Royce's brother, far more than his friends, might be much more aware of how acutely Royce felt the estrangement and how deeply he regretted his actions.
The reason for Stefan's warmer attitude today was no mystery to Jenny: her father had sent her word of their arrival yesterday, and Brenna had included a message of her own in it—a message which Jenny had passed along, unread, to Stefan.
Jenny had sent a messenger back to her father, telling him that she would come to him today. She wanted to try to explain, and to apologize for, her overemotional and unjust reaction to his attempt to send her to a cloister. Most of all, she was here to ask his forgiveness for the part she had inadvertently played in William's death. It had been she who had asked Royce to have William stay. And it had undoubtedly been her outburst about the cloister that had upset William and angered Royce.
She did not expect her father, or the rest of her clan, to forgive her, but she needed to try to explain. In fact, she rather expected to be treated like a pariah, but as she drew up before the Merrick tents, she could see at once that this was not going to be the case. Her father came to the doorway of his tent, and before Stefan Westmoreland could dismount and help her alight, Lord Merrick was reaching up for Jennifer's waist himself. Others of her clan emerged from their tents, and suddenly Jenny was being enfolded in hugs and having her hand patted by Garrick Carmichael and Hollis Fergusson. Even Malcolm put his arm about her shoulders.
"Jenny," Brenna burst out when she could finally reach her sister. "I've missed you so," she added, hugging Jenny fiercely.
"And I've missed you," Jenny said, her voice hoarse with emotion over the kindness of her reception.
"Come inside, my dear," her father insisted, and to Jenny's shock it was he who apologized for misunderstanding her desire to go to a cloister rather than dwell with her husband. Which should have made her feel better, but, instead it made her feel more guilty.
"This was William's," her father said, handing her William's ornamental dagger. "I know he loved you better than he loved any of us, Jennifer, and he would want you to have it. He would want you to wear it tomorrow in his honor at the tournament."
"Yes—" Jenny said, her eyes blurred with tears, "I will."
Then he told her how they'd had to lay William to rest in an ordinary grave in unhallowed ground; he told her of the prayers they'd said for the courageous future lord of Merrick who had been slain before his prime. By the time he was finished, Jenny felt as if William had died all over again—so fresh was it in her mind.
When it was time to leave, her father gestured to a trunk in the corner of his tent. "Those are your mother's things, my dear," he told her as Becky's father and Malcolm carried the trunk outside. "I knew ye would want to have them, especially since you must dwell with the killer of your brother. They will be a comfort for you, and a reminder that you are and will always be the countess of Rockbourn. I have taken the liberty," he added, when it was time for Jenny to leave, "of having your own banner, the Rockbourn banner, flown beside ours on our pavilion at the tournament tomorrow. I thought you would want it there, above you, while you watch us fight your beloved William's butcher."
Jenny was so dazed with pain and guilt she could scarcely speak, and when they walked out of her father's tent in the waning afternoon light, she discovered that everyone she had not seen when she'd arrived was waiting now to greet her. It was if the entire village surrounding Merrick had come, along with every male relation she possessed. "We miss ye, lassie," the armorer said.
"We'll make you proud tomorrow," said a distant cousin who'd
never even liked her before. "Just the way you make us proud by bein' a Scot."
"King James," her father announced to her in a carrying voice that could be heard by all, "has bade me send you his personal regards and an exhortation that you never forget the moors and mountains of your homeland."
"Forget?" Jenny answered in a choked whisper. "How could I do that?"
Her father hugged her long and tenderly, a gesture so out of character for him that Jenny almost broke down and begged not to have to return to Claymore. "I trust," he added as he guided her to her horse, "that your Aunt Elinor is taking excellent care of everyone?"
"Care of us?" Jenny repeated blankly.
"Er…" he amended quickly and vaguely, "that she's making her tisanes and curatives while she's with you? To ensure you stay well."
Jenny nodded absently, clutching Malcolm's dagger, vaguely thinking of Aunt Elinor's many trips to the woods for her herbs. She was about to mount her horse when Brenna's desperate, pleading look finally reminded her of the carefully worded message Brenna had sent to her last night. "Father," she said, turning to him, and she did not have to feign her longing,
"would it be—possible for Brenna to return with me and spend the eve at Claymore with me? We'll ride to the tournament together."
For a moment her father's face hardened, then a small smile appeared at his lips and he nodded instantly. "You can guarantee her safety?" he added almost as an afterthought.
Jenny nodded.
For several minutes after Brenna and Jenny had ridden off with their armed escort, the earl of Merrick remained outside his tent with Malcolm, watching them.
"Do you think it worked?" Malcolm said, his icy, contemptuous gaze riveted on Jenny's back.
Lord Merrick nodded and replied flatly, "She's been reminded of her duty, and her duty will overcome whatever lust she has for the Butcher. She'll sit in our pavillion and she'll cheer for us agin' the English while her husband and all his people look on."
Malcolm made no effort to hide his loathing for his stepsister as he asked snidely, "But will she cheer while we kill him on the field? I doubt it. The night we went to Claymore, she practically flung herself at him and begged him to forgive her for asking you to send her to an abbey."
Lord Merrick swung around, his eyes like chips of ice. "My blood flows in her veins. She loves me. She'll bend to my will—she already has, though she doesn't realize it."
The bailey was ablaze with orange torchlight and packed with smiling guests and fascinated serfs, who were watching Royce knight Godfrey's squire. For the sake of the six hundred guests and three hundred vassals and serfs in attendance, it had been decided that this part of the ceremony would take place in the bailey, rather than within the chapel.
On the sidelines near the front, Jenny stood quietly, a tiny smile touching her lips as her sorrows were temporarily overcome by the ceremony and pomp that accompanied the ritual. The squire, a muscular young man named Bardrick, was kneeling in front of Royce, clad in the symbolic long white tunic, red mantle and hood, and black coat. He had fasted for twenty-four hours and spent the night in the chapel praying and meditating. At sunrise, he had made his confession to Friar Gregory, heard mass, and partaken of the holy sacrament.
Now the other knights and several ladies who were guests were participating in his ceremonial "arming" by carrying each piece of his shiny new armor forward, one at a time, and laying them beside him at Royce's feet. When the last piece of armor had been laid out, Royce looked over at Jenny, who was holding the golden spurs that were the ultimate symbol of knighthood, since they were illegal for any but knights.
Picking up the long skirt of her green velvet gown, Jenny walked forward and placed them on the grass near Royce's feet. As she did so, her eyes were drawn to the golden spurs on the heels of Royce's knee-high leather boots, and she suddenly wondered if his knighting on the battlefield at Bosworth had been anything so grand as this.
Godfrey smiled at her as he went forward carrying the last and most important piece of equipment: a sword stretched across his hands. When that had been placed beside Bardrick, Royce bent forward and asked him three questions in a low, stern voice which Jenny couldn't clearly hear. Whatever Bardrick answered had evidently satisfied Royce, because he nodded. The traditional accolade came next, and without realizing it, Jenny held her breath as Royce raised his hand in a wide arc and struck Bardrick a resounding slap across his face.
Friar Gregory quickly pronounced the blessing of the church on the new knight and the air was rent with cheers as "Sir" Bardrick stood up and his horse was led forward. In keeping with tradition, he made a running mount of the steed without touching the stirrups, then he rode about the crowded bailey as best he could, tossing coins to the serfs:
Lady Katherine Melbrook, a lovely brunette only slightly older than Jenny, came up to her and smiled as she watched the knight cavorting on his horse to the accompaniment of minstrels. In the past week, Jenny had been surprised to find that she liked several of the English—and even more surprised because they seemed to have accepted her.
It was such a dramatic change from their behavior at Merrick on the night of her betrothal that she had remained slightly suspicious of it. Katherine Melbrook was the single exception, however, for she was so outspoken and friendly that Jenny liked and trusted her from the very first day, when she had laughingly announced: "Serfs' gossip has it that you are something between an angel and a saint. We're told," she'd teased, "that you tore a strip off your own steward for striking one of your serfs two days ago. And that a miscreant lad with an excellent throwing arm was treated more than mercifully."
Their friendship had sprung up from that, and Katherine had regularly been at Jenny's side, helping to ease matters and direct servants whenever Jenny and Aunt Elinor were busy elsewhere.
Now she drew Jenny's attention from Sir Bardrick as she teasingly said, "Are you aware that your husband, even now, watches you with a look that even my unromantic husband describes as tender."
In spite of herself, Jenny glanced in the direction Katherine Melbrook was looking. Royce was surrounded by a group of their guests, including Lord Melbrook, but he seemed to be absorbed with the conversation amongst the men.
"He looked away the instant you turned," Katherine chuckled. "He was not, however, looking the other way tonight when Lord Broughton was hanging at your skirts. He looked ferociously jealous. Who would have guessed," she rambled on cheerfully, "that our fierce Wolf would become as tame as a kitten after less than two months of being wedded?"
"He is no kitten," Jenny said before she could stop herself, and with such feeling that Katherine's face fell.
"I—please forgive me, Jenny, you must be in a dreadful state. We all understand, truly we do."
Jenny's eyes widened with alarm that her private feelings about Royce had somehow become public. Despite their estrangement, they had agreed more than a week ago, when unexpected guests began arriving at the gates for the tournament, that they would not inflict their differences on their guests. "Everyone understands?" Jenny repeated cautiously. "About what?"
"Why, about how difficult tomorrow will be for you—sitting in your husband's gallery at the tourney and giving him your favor with your own kinsmen looking on."
"I've no intention of doing either," Jenny said with calm firm.
Katherine's reaction was anything but calm. "Jenny, you aren't planning to sit on the other side—with the Scots."
"I am a Scot," Jenny said, but her stomach was twisting into tight knots.
"You are now a Westmoreland—even God decreed a woman must cleave to her husband!" Before Jenny could reply, Katherine took her by the shoulders and said desperately, "You don't know what you'll cause if you publicly take sides with his opponents! Jenny, this is England and your husband is—is a legend! You'll make a laughingstock of him! Everyone who's come to like you will despise you for it, even while they're deriding your husband for not being able to conquer his own wife. Plea
se, I implore you—don't do this!"
"I—I have to remind my husband about the time." Jenny replied desperately. "Before we realized we'd have so many guests, this night was set aside for the vassals to come to Claymore for the swearing of fealty."
Behind Jenny, two of her serfs stared after her as if they'd been slapped, then they rushed over to the smithy who was standing with two dozen Claymore grooms. "Her ladyship," one of the serfs burst out in anxiety and disbelief, "is sittin' with the Scots tomorrow. She's sidin' agin us!"
"You're lyin'!" exploded a young groom whose burned hand Jenny had tended and bandaged herself yesterday. "She'd never do that. She's one o' us.
"My lord," Jenny said when she reached Royce, and he turned to her at once, cutting off Lord Melbrook in the middle of his sentence. "You said," Jenny reminded him, unable to banish Katherine's words about the way her husband looked at her. It did seem, Jenny thought dazedly, that there was something in his eyes when he gazed at her…
"I said what?" he asked quietly.
"You said everyone normally retires early on the night before a tourney," Jenny explained, recovering her composure and arranging her face in the same politely impersonal expression she'd tried to adopt with him since William's death. "And if you mean for everyone to do that, then 'twould be wise to get the swearing of fealty over and done with before it grows any later."
"Are you feeling unwell?" he asked, his narrowed eyes searching her face.
"No," Jenny lied. "Just tired."
The swearing of fealty took place in the great hall, where Royce's vassals had all assembled. For nearly a full hour, Jenny stood with Katherine, Brenna, Sir Stefan, and several others, watching as each of Royce's vassals approached him one at a time. In accordance with ancient custom, each one knelt before him, placed his hands in Royce's, humbly bowed his head, and swore him fealty. It was an act of obeisance, oft portrayed in paintings of lofty nobles with their lowly subjects, instantly recognizable by posture alone. Jenny, who'd seen it done at Merrick, had always thought it needlessly humbling to the vassal. So, in a way, did Katherine Melbrook, who quietly observed, "It must be very demeaning to a vassal."