February, 1321
Three months later
Picardy, France
“Monsieur MacAdams?”
“Aye, that’s me.”
Vivienne paused in her recitation of Roman de la Rose, another of her father’s favorite poems, and glanced up.
Snow flurries swirled into the keep around Kieran’s booted ankles. Just outside the open door stood a young messenger lad, the hood of his cloak drawn up against the cold.
“Deliveries from the King of Scotland,” the lad said, pulling a sack from beneath his cloak. “And from King Philip’s court.” He produced another, smaller sack from his other side.
“Mon Dieu, what is all that?” Vivienne said, setting aside the book and rising.
“I dinnae ken, though I have a suspicion,” Kieran replied, hefting each sack experimentally. He turned to the messenger. “Come in out of the cold, lad, and have something warm to eat and drink.”
The lad nodded eagerly and stepped inside.
“Oui, come in,” Vivienne’s father called from his seat before the fire. “And tell us the news from court.”
Vivienne set off for the kitchen, but Claudette rose from her seat beside Vivienne’s father and caught her arm gently.
“Allow me.”
Vivienne took the chastising edge off her words with a soft smile. “Claudette, you are not the chatelaine anymore, nor a servant.”
And Vivienne couldn’t be happier about it. When she and Kieran had arrived at the estate a few months past, her father and Claudette had taken her aside with somber, worried faces. She’d feared terrible news, only to learn that the two had fallen in love several years ago.
They had kept it from her, they’d explained, because they did not wish for Vivienne to worry that after all her hard work to find a suitable caretaker for her father, Claudette would prove to be a charlatan attempting to take advantage of Lambert. Nor had they wanted to disrespect the memory of Vivienne’s mother, despite the fact that it had been nearly a decade since her passing.
To their surprise, Vivienne had flung herself into both of their arms, happy tears streaming down her face. She’d reassured them that their happiness meant the world to her, and that she could imagine no greater joy than to see them joined in love.
But even a month after the two had said their vows before God, Claudette, who had grown used to looking after Lambert, occasionally forgot that she was no longer a caretaker, but a member of the family.
Claudette’s mouth curved in a smile that matched Vivienne’s, lifting her dark eyebrows. “Oui, but I can tell you are eager to follow your husband to the solar to see what is in those packages.”
Kieran cocked his head in invitation. “Care to join me, wife?”
Claudette squeezed her arm warmly. “Go on. I’ll see to the lad.”
“Thank you,” Vivienne said, eagerly falling in behind Kieran as he mounted the stairs toward the solar. Curiosity niggled at her about the deliveries from both Scotland and the French court. Hopefully all was well with both.
When they reached the solar, Vivienne took up one of the upholstered chairs while Kieran dropped the parcels on the oak desk and moved to sit in the chair behind it.
He began with the satchel from the Bruce. He pulled out a small stack of folded missives, then a rectangular package wrapped in oiled canvas. Setting the package aside, he began to open and read the missives.
Most he passed along to her after quickly scanning them. One was a personal note from Elaine congratulating Lambert and Claudette on their nuptials, which Vivienne had written to her about. To Vivienne’s joy, Elaine and Jerome had been able to visit France to attend Vivienne and Kieran’s wedding not long after their own. Still, that had been nearly three months ago, and she missed her spirited, kind-hearted English friend.
The other missives regarded smaller matters in Scotland, including the Bruce’s departure from Scone for the winter season. He’d returned to Cardross, where he was having an estate built for his wife and family.
But one missive, which bore the seal of the King himself, gave Kieran pause.
“The Bruce sends his felicitations,” he said, scanning the missive. “And news of England.”
Vivienne’s brows drew together. “Oh?”
“It seems that tensions in England are escalating into an all-out civil war,” he commented. “Which is good news from the Bruce’s perspective, as it is keeping the English out of Scotland’s hair. Apparently he is considering involving the Corps to further aggravate the strain between King Edward II and his nobles. The more trouble the English face internally, the less harm they can do to Scotland.”
“Would you be called to England, then?” Vivienne said, worry knotting her stomach.
“Nay, nay,” he replied quickly. “The Bruce still wants me here. But he writes that he may call upon other members of the Corps.”
Vivienne considered that. “Will, Niall, and Mairin all seemed to impress the King with their role in hunting down de Soules.”
“Aye,” Kieran said, rubbing his palm along the faint shadow of growth on his jaw. “I was mistaken about the lot of them at first. I’m glad they proved me wrong for hesitating to trust them initially.”
He handed her the missive, which she scanned quickly, but her gaze kept tugging to the wrapped parcel on the desk. “And what do you suppose that is?”
“Let’s see what arrived from court first,” he said, a strange, knowing twitch pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Before she could question his odd behavior, he pulled open the other sack and removed a small, square box with a missive tied to it with ribbon.
“This looks to be for ye,” he said, passing her the little package.
Recognizing the Queen’s seal on the front of the missive, Vivienne excitedly untied the ribbon. But she held off on breaking the seal on the parchment, and instead opened the little wooden box first.
Inside, she found a bundle of fluffy white wool—wrapped around a delicate stained glass vial. With an exclamation of excitement, Vivienne lifted the vial free of the wool and removed the cork stopper.
The delicate scent of violets drifted up from the oil inside.
“Oh,” she gasped. “How did she know?”
Kieran grinned. “A wee birdie may have written to the Queen to inform her that her favorite former lady-in-waiting lost the oil she so dearly treasured.”
Vivienne excitedly dabbed the stopper on her wrists and neck, tears stinging her eyes. “Thank you.”
“What did she write to ye?”
Carefully setting the glass vial aside, Vivienne broke the wax seal and began reading the Queen’s missive.
“She wishes for me to visit court soon,” she said over the parchment.
“If the snow doesnae begin to stick, mayhap we could go within the sennight. The Bruce will want me to keep King Philip abreast of his intentions regarding the English civil war.”
Vivienne nodded, but as she continued to read the Queen’s note, her heart sank. “She writes specifically that she wants me to sit and read to her and the other ladies—from her favorite story, The Song of Roland.”
She hadn’t let herself dwell on the loss of that most dear book in the fire. She’d come away with her life, after all, and so had Kieran, which was all that truly mattered. Still, sadness washed over her to think of it.
“I will have to select some other story to read, if the Queen will allow it,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice.
Kieran frowned, but his pale blue eyes danced with something Vivienne couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“Och, well, it would be a shame to deny a Queen.” Slowly, he reached for the rectangular package on the desk and handed it to her. “Mayhap this will help.”
Vivienne’s heart suddenly leapt into her throat. What on earth was Kieran up to?
With trembling fingers, she unwrapped the oil parchment. What she found inside stole her breath.
It was the finest book she’d ever seen. The cover was made of leather dyed dark blue and embossed with a border of flowers and leaves. In the center were the words—
“The Song of Roland.” Her head jerked up and she fixed Kieran with a wide-eyed stare. “How did you…”
Her voice failed as emotion tightened her throat and blurred her vision.
Through her tears, she saw the slow, soft smile spreading across Kieran’s rugged features.
“I thought ye ought to have a new copy.”
She lifted the book, tracing the embossed lettering, painted gold, with one shaking hand.
“The flowers and such were yer father’s idea,” Kieran commented. “When the plan occurred to me, I went to him first. He helped make all the decisions. But I picked the blue for the cover—I ken ye favor the color.”
With an overwhelmed nod, she let her fingertips glide along the rich gilding on the edges of the parchment, then carefully cracked the book. Each page was a small work of art, every letter hand-painted with skillful, precise flourishes.
“This was meant to be a wedding gift, but apparently scribes cannae be rushed over such things,” Kieran said with a shrug.
“This…this is…” She looked up. Another thought occurred to her through her shock. “This must have cost a small fortune!”
Kieran cocked an amused brow. “Aye, well, in that regard I cannae claim all the credit. When the Bruce learned what I was about, he insisted on paying for it as a token of his gratitude to ye.”
Vivienne returned her gaze to the book in her hands. Though the expense of such an item would be staggering, the thought and love behind it meant so much more to her that the coin used to buy it.
“I ken it isnae the same as having the one yer father gave ye,” Kieran said quietly. “But—”
“It is perfect.”
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Do ye like it, then?”
Vivienne rose, setting the book on the desk and moving around to Kieran. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks now. “I love it. I love you.”
He pulled her into his lap, his eyes shining with love. “I promised to give ye the kind of life ye read about in stories. And this is only the beginning.”
The End
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