"He has to be strong after the anarchy that has overrun the country," Angus Gordon said to his companions, defending the king.
"Strong, aye," Atholl agreed, "but it is not a crime to show mercy, my lord of Brae. James has no pity in his heart. He means to rule even if he must kill us all. While ye were away, a Stewart cousin struck a page in the king's hall within the king's sight. James Stewart ordered the miscreant brought before him. He had the man's hand extended out upon the high board, and the injured page stood at the king's command with a sharp knife upon the very wrist of this unfortunate. There they stood for an hour while our sweet queen, her ladies, and the clergy present pleaded for mercy for this Stewart cousin. Even the young page forgave the blow. Finally the king relented, but he banished his cousin from court and from his presence. This is a man who will be king at any cost, my lord of Brae. Ye would be well advised to be wary of him."
"Ye know the nature of the Scots well, my lord," the laird answered him. "Ye know that the king must be stronger than any other man if he is to retain control over his own kingdom. We are not an easy people, and in past memory too many of our rulers have been weak-willed, feebleminded, unscrupulous, unprincipled, or corrupt. This king is not like that. His love of justice is greater than any man's I have ever known, my lord of Atholl. In time, when things are more easily managed, James Stewart will be less stern with us. For now, I would trust in him."
"My nephew is fortunate in yer friendship, Angus Gordon," the Earl of Atholl said, "but ye would still do well to heed my advice and be wary of him. Put not yer trust in any princeling, my lord. Power changes men from what they once were into something quite different."
"I thank ye for yer good thoughts, my lord," the laird told him, "but I will put my faith in the king. He has never disappointed me yet, and unless he does, I would be a poor liege man not to believe in him."
Walter Stewart, Earl of Atholl, offered no further words on the subject to the laird of Loch Brae. Perhaps James Stewart would never turn on his old childhood friend. And then again, perhaps he would. The king was a man who had no trouble when it came to attaining his goals for Scotland. Atholl looked ahead over the hills beyond which lay England. They had important business to consider, and he would see his son again. It was all he could concentrate on now. Scotland was in good hands, even if his nephew was proving a stronger and harder man than any of them had anticipated. Scotland would survive, possibly even thrive, under James Stewart's rule.
PART III
Chapter 11
Celtic tradition was ingrained in the highlands. On February second the fires blazed on the hillside in the midst of a snowstorm. It was Imbolc- a time when the ewes lactated, indicating the lambing season was upon them-a tradition in the Celtic world celebrating the days growing brighter and longer, the spring that would eventually come despite the cold, the snow, and the general gloom surrounding them now.
Nairns Craig stood tall and dark upon its cliff. Icicles hung precariously from the eaves of the castle. Snow had to be shoveled daily from he roofs to prevent collapse. The two wells serving the castle were frozen. They were broken open every new day. Fiona was kept busy in her capacity as lady of the castle, treating chilblains on the servants and the men-at-arms, dosing coughs and runny noses. It was a bitter winter. The worst in memory.
Bed, it seemed, was the only place she could get warm. She looked forward to day's end, cheerfully making the rounds to be certain that all the fires were safe and banked, then hurrying to the master's chamber that she shared with Colin MacDonald. The great oaken bedstead, with its heavy homespun hangings that could be drawn about to keep the draft out, was her refuge. It was made with a large feather bed, lavender-scented sheets, and a fine down comforter. There was also a magnificent red fox throw that she was extremely grateful for on these snowy nights. And, of course, there was Nairn.
None of this was really his fault. He never would have thought to steal her himself. Had not the king said that he had been deliberately taunted into doing the deed? In the months she had been with him, she had learned a great deal about Colin MacDonald. There was no meanness in him. He was a big, kind, charming man, and, dear heaven, he loved her. She greatly admired the deep loyalty he had for his clan, for his eldest brother, the Lord of the Isles. There was an honesty about him that touched some chord within her. And she was softening in her attitude toward him. She could not help it.
The same could not be said of his mother, Moire Rose. This was not a woman jealous of her son's new bride. Moire Rose appeared to dislike her son almost as much as he seemed to dislike her. No. The old woman simply did not want to share the authority she had held over Nairns Craig for most of her life.
As for the servants, they were not unhappy to have a new and cheerful mistress. Fiona quickly made it plain she would not tolerate disobedience or thievery, but her tongue did not lash the servants to tears, nor were honest mistakes met with a beating upon bare buttocks until the poor unfortunate bled and begged for mercy. She was kind and patient.
"If ye are not hard," Moire Rose warned Fiona, "they'll steal from ye. Spare the whip and ye'll not get the best from them."
"Whatever they did for ye, lady, it was from fear," Fiona said calmly. "I have always treated my servants fairly and have not been disappointed in their behavior or their performance. Kindness is not a bad quality. I am not above turning out a bad servant."
Moire Rose retired to her apartment with her personal servant, a wizened old crone called Beathag, who had once been the lady's nurse. On the occasions she ventured out, the servants gave her a wide berth, and Beathag, too, for the crone was as difficult as her mistress.
"They say Beathag has the evil eye," Nelly confided to her mistress. "It is known she practices the black arts, my lady."
"She had best not practice them in my house," Fiona said sternly.
On Imbolc night Fiona bathed quickly in her oaken tub, shivering as she stepped forth to be briskly rubbed dry by Nelly. Nairn came in and dismissed the girl with a kind word. Then, taking up his wife's hairbrush, he began to work it through her thick black hair. When he had finished, Fiona braided the length into a single plait and climbed into bed. It had become habit with them to do this each night. Stripping himself, Nairn bathed in her tub, then dried himself swiftly, for the night was bitter. He joined her, drawing the side curtains about them but leaving the curtain at the bed's foot open so they might view the fire and enjoy its warmth.
"For the first time in my memory Nairns Craig seems like a home," he told her. "The servants are happier and work better, it seems. The meals the cook is preparing these days are far better than those which we ate before. Why is that, Fiona mine?" He half sat, the plump pillows behind his broad back, Fiona between his legs, where he might fondle her at his leisure.
"Everyone is content," she told him, "and that contentment makes for a pleasanter household. The servants are no longer frightened. As for yer meals, I tell the cook what to prepare. I have even showed him some new dishes, and how to use the spices he had hidden away. There is no magic to it, my lord. I am pleased ye have noticed these changes and are satisfied with them."