“I admit nothing. What do you suppose you’ll have to do this day? The minstrels are up in their gallery, but I see instruments next to the king and queen’s dais as well.”
“Which instruments?”
“Hmmm,” said Alastair, craning his neck a little. “Harp, flute, pipe, lyre, and lute. You are skilled with flute and lyre. As long as His Grace does not choose an instrument for you, or make you stand on your head to play it, of course.”
Callum sighed as they found a less crowded space next to a fireplace. “At this point, nothing would surprise me. The king does enjoy keeping us on our toes. I don’t want to stare…but how are the other men faring? Are they happy or anxious?”
Alastair glanced around. Red held one corner of the Great Hall, telling an eager group of courtiers a rather bloody tale of a stag hunt. Lord Spalding sipped from a goblet of wine while sharing jests with several beautiful ladies. Lord Hamilton of Arran stood with his arms folded on the other side of the Hall, his impatience unmasked as he spoke only to his squire. Sir Leslie Hay and his squire were admiring a tapestry of a unicorn and scantily clad maiden frolicking beside a loch. And Lord Ruthven of Perth, taller than everyone in the room, was devouring a handful of pastries with his squire.
“Well enough,” he replied reluctantly. “I believe they all think to progress to the sword fighting.”
A flourish of trumpet notes sounded.
“His Grace the king! Her Grace the queen!” bellowed the herald.
Everyone in the hall turned as the royal couple entered; the king resplendent in scarlet satin doublet embroidered with gold thread, black hose, and ermine-lined cloak, his chains of state gleaming in the mid-morning sunshine that streamed through the pairs of tall windows. The queen wore a cream velvet gown embroidered with silver, and like the king, her clothing was also lined with ermine. She near-dripped with jewels; her gable hood and girdle were studded with pearls, and she also wore an elaborate sapphire necklace and many rings. They nodded to those they passed, before settling on carved chairs at the center of the dais, in pride of place on the north wall. If any were unsure before, this confirmed it. The revels weren’t for Isla at all, but a stage for Scotland.
“The Earl and Countess of Sutherland! Lady Isla Sutherland!”
The great lord of the north strode into the hall like a king himself, his wife’s hand resting on his sleeve. They were night and day; he with silver-touched black hair and dressed in blue so dark it appeared black, while she wore yellow with gold embroidery and looked like a sunbeam. A cold sunbeam.
Alastair frowned. Both Lord and Lady Sutherland were smiling but the geniality looked forced, and their gazes darted about the Great Hall as though searching for something. Behind them, Isla walked alone wearing an embroidered gable hood and rose-pink gown, a color that reminded him so much of her nipples that he ground his teeth against a rush of lust. Yet Isla did not nod or smile at anyone. Instead, she stared directly ahead, her shoulders rigid. Even when she and her mother and father took chairs to the right of the king and queen, Isla did not look at the tourney entrants or the honored guests, only the king.
All was not well.
He folded his arms to stop himself marching forward and tossing courtiers out of the way to discover what pained her. Yes, Isla hated wearing a gown and gable hood, but this seemed far more than that annoyance. The magnificent lass who had easily defeated him with her sword, kneeled at his feet and taken his cock in her mouth, sobbed her pleasure at his touch, cuddled against his chest, and giggled at his hair braiding…had vanished.
Alastair leaned down to Callum. “Our lady is unhappy.”
“Yes,” muttered his laird grimly. “With us?”
“I don’t think so…she is not looking at anyone. Only the king. It is very odd.”
“The earl and countess are looking at us, though…I think this is how a rabbit feels just before it is torn apart by hawks.”
Alastair nodded. “I’m thankful to have never faced the Sutherland on the battlefield. Or his lady wife for that matter. Could they know about the visits?”
Callum hesitated. “I’m not sure. They are staring at several men in that manner—”
The king clapped his hands and rose to his feet. “Welcome to my Great Hall! Queen Margaret and I are delighted you have come this day to watch the revels. Six men remain in my tourney to win the hand of Lady Isla, and shall entertain us all first with a tune on the instrument of their choice, then a dance with the lady. As my queen is most accomplished in both arts, she will assist me in deciding the final four to progress to the sword fighting.”
Margaret preened at her husband’s praise. “I have seen the best of the English court,” she declared. “Now I wish to see the best of the Scottish.”
The king smiled indulgently. “I assure you it will be merry. However…”
“Standing on my head,” Callum groaned softly. “As you said.”
Alastair didn’t reply, already his heart had sunk to his shoes. What would James demand this time? At least they weren’t the only ones reluctant to hear the news, murmurings around them revealed the other entrants were equally wary.
“However,” the king continued. “For the tune, each entrant must be accompanied by his squire. He may sing or play an instrument, but they must both take part. A good husband, worthy of Lady Isla, shall have a range of skills and the trust and respect of those closest to him.”
His spirits soared. At last, rather than just applaud or encourage or massage, he could truly assist his laird in winning the tourney and Isla’s hand. Lady Maude had taught them both to dance and play instruments in her solar, and those times were some of the happiest of his childhood. The old laird had disapproved, shunning anything he deemed ‘soft’ but thankfully had not forbidden either activity.
“Excellent,” called Lord Spalding. “Who shall entertain you and your lovely queen first, Your Grace?”
“Sir Leslie Hay,” announced the king. “Followed by Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe, yourself, Lord Hamilton of Arran, the MacDonald of Carnoch, and to finish, Lord Ruthven of Perth. My lords, lairds, ladies, and honored guests from Scotland or abroad, please do sit and be entertained.”
The young knight looked a little ill at the thought of performing first, but he played the pipe more than passing fair, and his squire sang with a deep and powerful voice. When they finished, applause rippled around the Great Hall.
Now it was their turn.
“They were very good,” muttered Callum as he chose a wooden flute, while Alastair reached down for the lute.
“We’ll be better,” Alastair replied. “Now is not the time to be modest; the king and queen must have no choice but to choose you as one of the final four.”
All eyes were upon them as they returned to the center of the Great Hall, apart from Isla who glanced, but just as swiftly looked away. Irritably, he stared down at his lute, cradling the pear-shaped instrument against his chest. His left hand curled about the long neck, while the fingers of his right hand plucked at each course of strings, the first a single, then five pairs.
Plague take it, what was wrong? Did she have regrets about the hours they’d spent together?
Did the lady regret submitting to an orphaned, penniless squire? Had she decided, as most did, that he was unworthy of her time and affection?