Chieftain

Prologue

Scarborough Abbey

Summer 1301

Death stalked Clare Macqueen.

It dulled her honey brown eyes and turned her skin waxy white. Even her flowing golden hair had lost the luster of life. Usually tall and stately, she now seemed frail and childlike, swallowed up by the narrow bed.

Shrouding the ache in her heart, Sister Margaret pressed a cool cloth to the scratches on Clare’s cheek. Are you in pain?

I cannot feel my legs. Are they broken?

Nay, child. The half truth came easily, even to an abbess, for in two years, fate had dealt this injured girl enough misery to last a lifetime. You haven’t skinned a knee.

A bittersweet smile curled Clare’s lips. You patched up enough of those. Every time Johanna and I climbed the harvest oak. Where is she?

Sister Margaret’s chest grew tight. Strong, capable Johanna. What would she do when she saw her sister, Clare? She’d fall prey to temper, for Johanna had always been Clare’s champion. She’s stabling the horses and getting your servants settled in the guest cottage.

Clare’s eyes drifted out of focus. A wolf spooked my mount. I fell.

The horse had trampled her spine. Once the inevitable infection set in, sweet Clare would die. Praise God it would be a painless passing.

Sister Margaret blinked back tears. You couldn’t know a beast lurked in the shadows.

I should have stayed in the cart, but I wanted to ride.

At ten and five, Clare was still more child than woman. Neither marriage nor motherhood had settled her restless spirit.

Where is my son? Clare asked.

In the next room with Meridene. He’s taken a liking to goat’s milk.

Meridene loves children. Her husband should fetch her. ’Tisn’t fair that she was wed as a child, then brought here and forgotten.

True, but Meridene’s safe, just as you and Johanna are. Questions plagued Sister Margaret. What of your husband?

Tears pooled in Clare’s eyes. Taken by the king.

Edward I. The mere thought of him brought fresh pain to a wound fifteen years in the healing. Sister Margaret clenched her teeth to stave off the ache. The walls of the infirmary faded, and she was once again a carefree Highland lass who’d caught the eye and inspired the passion of Alexander III, the king of Scotland.

Oh, Alexander, she lamented, your merciful soul abides in these girls. His complexity of character had been passed on to his fair daughters: Clare, with her penchant for game and glee, and Johanna, inspired by her dedication to love and law.

Through a haze of seasoned misery, Sister Margaret stared down at one of her two children, who both favored a Scottish king long dead.

Did you hear me, Sister Margaret? The king ordered Drummond taken to the Tower of London.

Again and always Edward. Now that he’d vanquished Wales, the king had turned his armies and his wrath northward. The Hammer of the Scots, they called him. Clare’s husband, Drummond Macqueen, was only the latest victim.

Sister Margaret cringed when she recalled the cruelty of which Edward the Plantagenet was capable. Upon the death of their father, Alexander, the twin girls had been found by one of Edward’s many royal spies. Only by taking the veil and swearing secrecy had Margaret been allowed to accompany her daughters to this remote abbey in North Yorkshire.

Johanna and Clare knew nothing of their birthright, not even their family name. A pity, for their blood was as blue and their lineage as royal as any crowned at Westminster Abbey.

Thinking of that cruel deed, she feared for Clare’s three-month-old son. Will the king come for your boy?

Nay. Clare swallowed, fighting back tears. Like everyone else, he thinks Prince Ned rather than Drummond Macqueen sired my child.

Is it true?

Transfixed by the tapestry on the far wall, Clare spoke softly and with great regret. ’Tis true I was unfaithful, but Drummond had planted his seed the month before. In exchange for my favors, the prince promised me he would go to his father. He said the king would spare Drummond. Her mouth pursed in disdain. The pervert lied to me. My sin went for naught.

So you were allowed to keep your son.

Yes. The king gave me a writ granting us a demesne in Dumfries. Lifting a weak hand, she pointed to her traveling bag. ’Tis in my pouch. Will you get it please?

Sister Margaret retrieved the rolled parchment and read of the king’s meager bequest and his condemnation of Clare’s husband. Why didn’t you go to this place?

I know no one in the Borders, and the king forbade me to take any of Drummond’s people. Not that they would’ve followed a known adulteress. Drummond denounced me publicly. I was ashamed, lonely, and afraid. I thought only of coming to you.

Bless the Virgin you did. All will be well. Rest now.

Clare’s eyes drifted shut. Sister Margaret expelled a breath and began to pray for the soul of her daughter.

Sometime later, she heard voices in the next room. Taking the royal scroll, she tiptoed from the infirmary and found Johanna and Meridene huddled around the baby’s cradle.

Johanna looked up, her brown eyes clouded with concern. How is she?

Dying.

Meridene gasped and scooped up the babe.

Making a fist, Johanna punched the air. She had no business riding that trail at night. She knows better. What kind of a beast is her damned husband to have so little care of her?

Johanna!

Sorry, Sister Margaret. Johanna folded her arms at her waist, jostling the ring of keys that dangled from a leather thong. Lord Drummond should have traveled with her.

Johanna possessed a maturity beyond her years and a logic to rival any Oxford scholar. Although younger than Meridene and only five minutes older than Clare, Johanna had always been the leader.

Where is her husband? she asked.

Sister Margaret waved the parchment. Lord Drummond is taken by the king. He could not have seen to her welfare. She relayed Clare’s tale of woe.

Her jaw taut with anger, Johanna held out her hand. May I see what our generous sovereign has left her?

Sister Margaret handed over the document and reached for the babe. Meridene kissed the boy’s brow and placed him in Sister Margaret’s arms. Her grandson was a handsome child with a grin as big as the Highlands. What would the future hold for him?

Johanna squared her shoulders and moved to the door. I’ll sit with her.

Sister Margaret visited Clare’s servants, Mr. and Mrs. Stapledon. Two years ago, when the king himself had taken Clare to the Highlands to wed the dashing Scottish chieftain, she had convinced the Stapledons to come with her to her new home. But Macqueen Castle was now ruled by Drummond’s younger brother.

Bertie Stapledon scratched his beard. The king’ll execute Lord Drummond, do ye see. What’ll become of the babe then?

A chill passed through Sister Margaret. I do not know.

According to the writ, Lord Drummond’s family was prohibited any congress with Clare or the child. Meridene would help Sister Margaret raise the wee Alasdair. Johanna was too busy overseeing the farmers and shepherds who occupied the abbey’s land.

By the next evening the deathbed vigil had begun. Practical, dependable Johanna paced the room, swearing under her breath. Meridene held the child, plying him with a wooden rattle and humming a lullaby. Sister Margaret prayed.

Clare’s complexion now glowed with the flush of fever, and her skin felt hot to the touch. In a voice drained of feeling, she called for her twin.

Johanna hurried to the bed and leaned close. Sister Margaret fought back tears at the sight of her daughters, both fair haired and as lovely as a summer day. Johanna had stayed at Clare’s side through the night. Their whispers and occasional laughter brought back memories of their youth.

Tell them, Johanna, Clare whispered.

Later, she said, stroking her sister’s brow.

Tell us what? Sister Margaret insisted.

When Johanna didn’t speak, Clare said, When I— She swallowed, then took several shallow breaths. When I’m gone, you’re to say Johanna died. Mark my grave with her name.

Meridene began to cry.

Sister Margaret crossed herself. Nay.

Clare’s fever-bright eyes pleaded. You must agree, Sister Margaret. Let her take my son. Go to that land in the Borders. She could raise Alasdair. Help him seek his destiny.

Quietly, Johanna said, Who’s to know ’tis me rather than Clare?

Anyone who has ever spent five minutes with the two of you, hissed Meridene. You may favor each other in physical appearance, but in temperament you’re as different as moonrise and sunset.

Oh, please, Sister Margaret, Johanna pleaded. Clare abided by the king’s wishes. She never told anyone in Scotland that she had a sister. She never revealed that we chose the name ‘Benison’ for ourselves because it means ‘blessed.’ We have no blood kin, save little Alasdair. Do not deny me the chance to have a life outside the abbey.

A refusal perched on Sister Margaret’s lips, but she paused, swayed by the plea in her daughter’s voice. Johanna was as capable as any man at running an estate. She was fair in her judgments and honest in her ways. No one knew her in Dumfries; the land lay in the Borders between England and Scotland, far from Scarborough Abbey and farther still from Castle Macqueen.

And she deserved a life of her own. One thing held Sister Margaret back. Years before Edward had branded both Clare and Johanna with a hot iron and declared them wards of the crown. The symbol, a blunted sword no bigger than a thumb, signified the conquests of Edward I. The only trouble was, Clare’s brand appeared right side up, Johanna’s upside down.

What of the brand? Sister Margaret asked.

Johanna’s hand flew to her shoulder. Clare’s husband will be hanged, she said. Who’s to see the mark?

True, said Sister Margaret. But it could be dangerous. Should any who know Clare come to visit that place, you’ll be found out.

A familiar confidence twinkled in Johanna’s eyes. The Stapledons will go with me. They know all of the Macqueens. Should any of those Highlanders defy the king and come to Dumfries, Bertie can alert me. She blotted her sister’s brow. In her typical authoritative voice, she added, I’ll see that your son makes a fine man, Clare.

Clare closed her eyes and smiled. You will not. You’ll teach him to swear and skip Mass.

Tears streamed down Johanna’s cheeks. Her composure faltered. I’ll tell him an angel left him on my doorstep.

At least you won’t have to deal with his father, Clare whispered.

A candle sputtered, the tiny flame struggling for survival, much the same as Clare clung desperately to life. The stone walls seemed to close in on Sister Margaret; how could she, in the space of a day, send one of her daughters to God and the other to an uncertain future? Desperate to keep one, she said, Johanna, there is much you do not know about Clare and Lord Drummond.

Not so. She has told me all I need to know about the chieftain, said Johanna. I’ll raise Alasdair to believe his sire was a legend among men, although I know it for a lie.

Oh, Johanna, you have it crosswise, said Clare, so near death she gasped for breath. Drummond isn’t bad. He hates only me. She closed her eyes and sighed. And with good cause.

Chapter 1

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 oddly 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 Clare’s 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 unruly 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 palm-size 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 and 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 to keep from slapping him. Who are you?

He tisked and shook his head. Shame, shame, my dear. Not that I expected you to welcome me with open arms. You preferred to save your embraces for other men.

A pigeon landed on the sill of the open window. Seeking a diversion from the compelling man and his just accusations, Johanna shooed the bird away. Casually, she said, I asked your name, sir.

One side of his mouth curled up in a smile. "I haven’t changed that much. You know precisely who I am. Why pretend otherwise?"

Resisting the urge to call him a knave, Johanna summoned patience. Because Drummond Macqueen is dead. The old king hanged him.

Not so. Edward the First, rest his soul, chose to be merciful. His son proved benevolent and upon taking the crown, set me free. Anger glittered in his eyes and tightened his jaw. But then, as I recall, you have intimate knowledge of our new king, do you not? Have you presented him with more bastards?

He was referring to Clare’s affair with the Plantagenet prince who was now the king. With dread Johanna remembered that all the Macqueens knew. Thank God their lands were far away in the Highlands, for her heart wrenched, thinking Alasdair might be scorned for another’s sin. Yet how dare this brute be so rude as to bring up Clare’s mistake? Johanna had no intention of addressing her sister’s indiscretion. She sighed and lifted her chin. Who are you, and what do you want?

With no more vigor than a carpenter choosing wood, he said, You have a brand here—a wee blunted sword. He pulled his shirt aside and touched the thick muscles above his right collarbone. ’Tis why you wear modest gowns.

Seeing his strong hand and remembering the passion Clare had attributed to her marriage bed, Johanna fought back a surge of longing. She would not risk losing her independence or revealing her true identity, not for the sake of passion. Your knowledge of the mark proves nothing.

You cannot possibly have forgotten me. A trace of vulnerability laced his words and his massive shoulders slumped.

Sensing a weakness in him, she took advantage; Clare had risked her immortal soul for her husband, and Johanna had too much to lose. "Forgotten you, an imposter? she scoffed. You may be memorable in some circles, but here …" She let the insult trail off.

The troll laughed, a hearty sound that seemed natural. Very well. I offer you more intimate proof. He plopped down on a bench. Resting his arms on his knees, he stared into the mug. You suffer dreadful cramps during your menses, which are as regular as Sunday Mass. You used to cuddle beside me in bed or lie awake until I joined you. Who else but a husband could know that?

Appalled, Johanna felt herself blush. Unlike Clare, she didn’t suffer for being a woman. That he knew the particulars of Clare’s cycle created the first doubt in Johanna’s surety. But she hadn’t built a successful life by withering before every man who challenged her. You are not my husband.

Surprise lent elegance to his rugged good looks. He took a long pull on the ale. Have you annulled our marriage?

She wanted to rail at him; instead she began to pace the rush-strewn floor. How long, sir, will you continue this farce? I am not your wife.

He chuckled, but the sound held no humor. "You’re not a very good wife."

Enough of your rough talk! She whirled and marched over to him. I can see you are a Macqueen. I give you that much.

Then I’ve made progress. Hurrah for me.

Which Macqueen are you?

He stared at her breasts. The only one you know in the carnal sense—at least I believe that is so.

The insult deserved a like reply. Have you come here for money?

He almost choked, and his gaze leaped to her face. Money?

She’d made him uncomfortable. Hurrah for her. If so, you’ve made a useless journey, for I haven’t a mark to squander on a man who cannot earn an honest wage.

He craned his neck in an exaggerated examination of the tapestries on the walls, the brass brazier, and the diamond shaped panes in the windows. You expect me to think you are poor, amid all of this prosperity? The largesse of the Plantagenets, I assume.

To build the keep, she had sold all of her jewelry and Clare’s. When that had not been enough, she had indebted herself to the neighboring laird of Clan Douglas. During the construction she and Alasdair had lived in a crofter’s hut. She had repaid the debt, and to this day, worked as hard as anyone in her demesne. You know nothing about me or the origins of Fairhope Tower.

You needn’t explain, Clare. ’Twould seem we have the same benefactor. His expression grew hard, and he slammed down the tankard. But I will not share you again.

His possessiveness gave her pause, for Clare had spoken at length about her husband’s jealous nature. Perhaps it was one of many family flaws. Clare had loved Drummond more than life. She might still be alive were it not for his warring ways. The old heartbreak returned. You have the poisoned brain of a madman.

An interesting observation, he growled. Especially from a faithless wife.

Suddenly afraid and desperate to get rid of him, she said, I’ll summon my guards.

He waved her off. "Summon your new king, should it suit you. He bids you well, by the way. But I’m certain you often receive his greetings."

She had seen Edward II only once. He’d been a prince back then. The truth came easily. I haven’t had the honor of seeing His Majesty since I came to this land.

It was the wrong thing to say. His eyes narrowed, accentuating the length of his lashes. "Come now. Our gracious new sovereign cannot say enough about the way in which you honor him. He was particularly verbal about his sojourn last year in Carlisle."

In January of 1307, the old king had convened Parliament in the nearby city of Carlisle, but neither he nor his son had communicated with her. What game did this man play? At a loss for a convincing denial and weary of defending herself to a stranger, she again spoke the truth. You have been misinformed. Ask anyone here.

I’ll not reap the truth from them. These people will be loyal to you. He gave her