Chapter 10
The morning of Fiona’s wedding day dawned bleakly under cloudy skies. But the air was warm, and Lady Sutherland assured her that all was in train to see her properly wedded and bedded before she left for her future home.
Although Fiona remained uncertain about the bedding, she told herself that if every other bride had survived it, she would, too.
Concerns lingered about her future husband and her own ability to adapt to a way of life about which she knew almost nothing. Even so, the strongest emotion she felt was anticipation, even eagerness, to see what lay ahead.
The other maids of honor and their seniors, including the Queen, were eager to aid in her preparations. Joanna, Lady Sutherland, and Lady Malvina were the only ones, however, whose insistence that they would miss her seemed sincere.
Others, including Lady Huntly, seemed more interested in discussing who might take Fiona’s place when she left. Such positions were highly prized, and noblemen and women of all ranks schemed and competed fiercely to place their sons and daughters as close to the royal couple as possible.
Political maneuvering was the least of Fiona’s worries, albeit a primary cause of her increasing eagerness to enter the new phase of her life. Even so, some fears remained strong. Several had an irritating tendency to interject themselves just as she was growing eager to learn what marriage was all about.
While those helping her bathe and perfume her body chattered with one another, her thoughts drifted to the man who was about to take her away from the life she knew.
Would his people like her? She had not met any of them, unless one counted his friend Caithness. He and Sir Àdham seemed to treat each other more as kinsmen than fellow warriors or casual friends. Moreover, Àdham said he had not been to Perth before, so the two had not met in St. John’s Town. She had no notion where the Earldom of Caithness was, though. Perhaps it neighbored Àdham’s Strathnairn.
Although her first impression of Caithness had been startling, she had quickly come to like the young earl’s cheeky smile and his charm.
Àdham did not fit her image of charming or courtly. Kind, yes, and untidy, but she would try to persuade him to furbish himself up after they married.
She had never seen him angry. How, she wondered, would he behave then? Although they had briefly discussed men who beat their wives, and he had admitted that Highlanders sometimes did, she did not recall his saying that he would not.
She would simply have to learn to read him and understand his moods.
Doubtful now, she grimaced into her looking glass, because although she could read her brothers and her father, she had oft managed to anger them, even so.
She would be so far from home and all that she knew. Faith, she was far from home now, but by suppertime tomorrow she would be miles farther away.
Feeling salty tears prick her eyes, she dashed them away and got up to make sure that Leah was packing her clothes carefully.
She had pictured her husband and their wedding quite differently.
In her imaginings, her husband had been a strong, handsome warrior, much like her brother Davy—or Àdham, come to that—lanky and agile, but refined and lacking every vestige of Davy’s devilish temperament. If that husband had sported a beard, it would be stylish, not so shaggy that one could see naught of his face save his hawklike nose and his intriguingly green eyes under their thick, dark brows.
Her imagined husband would have been somewhat smaller, too, and less overwhelming. At over six feet, Àdham was too big. His frame was also too powerful-looking and muscular to suit her notion of perfection. Everything about the man, including his hands and feet, was large.
“Fiona-lass, it be time tae don your dress,” Lady Sutherland said. “We ha’ less than an hour now, wi’ the wedding tae take place afore midday High Mass.”
“Aye, my lady,” she said quietly. Leah helped her take off her robe, under which she wore only a new white kirtlelike silk shift that she had had made to wear with her court dresses but not yet worn. It felt soft and clingy against her skin.
The gown Joanna had chosen was a yellow houpland, its sleeves and hem trimmed with ermine. Royal seamstresses had made it for her grace, and those same seamstresses had altered it to fit Fiona’s slimmer figure. The houpland’s wide sash, gaily embroidered with colorful wildflowers, nipped it in loosely below her breasts.
Her head was bare, her hair unbound, and the lacings of her houpland and shift untied, all as tradition demanded. But Joanna had assured her that people at what amounted to a royal wedding, attended by both the King and Queen of Scots, would never so far forget themselves as to snatch the laces from the bride’s gown, let alone from her shift, as often happened at less stellar weddings.
“It is time to go,” Joanna said quietly a short time later. “Art sure this marriage is to your liking, Fiona?”
Fiona looked directly at her and smiled. “I am content, your grace. Faith, even were I not, I would lack the courage to say so to his grace.”
“If you want to say nae, you need say it only to me,” Joanna replied calmly. “James believes strongly in the rule of law. He particularly believes that our laws must be clear and apply to every citizen, including himself. The laws of Holy Kirk and those of Scotland agree that a woman can reject marriage to any man, regardless of who demands that marriage. Now, what do you say, my dearling?”
Fiona hesitated but only because she realized that her curiosity about Sir Àdham had long since overwhelmed any fear she might have had of marrying him.
“By my troth, your grace,” she said, “although I am more grateful than I can say for your concern and your kindness, I am content.”
“So be it, then,” Joanna said, indicating that the others should precede them.
Àdham stood in the transept of the monastery chapel, near its high altar, flanked by his grace on one side and the Mackintosh and Sir Ivor on the other. The King had informed him on his arrival that he would aid him in his dressing and meant to stand up with him. So, Àdham, unhappily clean shaven, constrained, and uncomfortable, now stood between his grace and the burly Malcolm.
The monastery chapel’s soaring nave teemed with townspeople and most of the nobles who had come to St. John’s Town for the King’s Parliament.
Barefaced, in a fashionably tight-laced, tight-fitting doublet, to which James’s own manservant had attached a pair of too-snug woolen hose with thongs, their thread-wrapped tips passing through brass-wire-lined eyelets, Àdham felt more exposed than when he was naked. Worst of all was the baglike thing called a codpiece. Trussed with similar thongs to both doublet and hose, it confined his genitals snugly, too snugly. The whole process of dressing had taken too long, and how the devil he was to untangle himself from the lot later, he knew not.
“Stop twitching,” the Mackintosh growled. A thickset man, the top of whose head barely reached Àdham’s shoulder, Malcolm’s voice carried nonetheless easily over the liturgical chanting of friars in their choir stalls. “And dinna scratch!” he added. “Ye be behaving more like a gallous heathen than a knight o’ the realm.”
A man who knew his own worth and capabilities, Malcolm often boasted that, built lower to the ground than most Highland men, he was better able to endure extremities of weather, scarcity, or want of rest. Although unpolished with letters, he had been fortunate in war and had accomplished most of his goals in life.
“I note, sir, that you do not wear such garb as this,” Àdham muttered. “Nor have you shaved off your beard.”
“I wear what I choose tae wear, as always. And I’m fond o’ me beard.”
James said, “Ye’re wearing Lowland garb to please your lady bride, sir.”
“As ye agreed, yourself, to do, Àdham, the shaving likewise,” Sir Ivor added sternly from beyond Malcolm, ignoring the fact that Àdham’s agreement was to trim, not shave, his beard. “So snick up, and leave that fool hat be, too. If ye knock it off to the floor, I’ll give ye a clout.”
The clarion blast of a trumpet from the west entrance silenced them, and the friars’ chanting faded when minstrels with a harp and lutes began to play.
At the far end of the center aisle, the women of her grace’s court had gathered in readiness to approach the transept.
The congregation rose to its feet from collective prayer stools and everyone turned to watch the procession, led by the Bishop of St. Andrews and two acolytes.
Her grace’s three remaining maids of honor followed the bishop, one by one, and four of her senior ladies came next, two by two. The Queen walked serenely behind them, alone. When the bishop stopped at the foot of the altar dais, his acolytes continued up two steps to stand, one on each side of the high altar.
The Queen’s ladies turned toward the empty choir stalls left of the transept and took their places facing the friars and lay brothers in their stalls on the right.
Àdham saw Ormiston then, beyond her grace, at the nave’s entrance. He did not yet see Fiona but assumed that she stood beside her father.
When the last two maids of honor stepped from the aisle into the ladies’ choir stalls, Joanna entered the transept, moved to the left, and turned with her hands folded at her waist to look back toward the nave entrance.
Àdham had his first full view of Fiona then and realized from her stunned expression that it was also the first time she had been able to see him or, perhaps, recognize him in his fashionable and damnably uncomfortable splendor.
She was beautiful. Her yellow gown opened from just beneath her bosom to the floor, revealing shimmering white silk beneath it. The hem of that white garment, edged with a band of pink, yellow, and green embroidery, skimmed the tops of pale yellow slippers. The slim fingers of her right hand rested on Ormiston’s left forearm, those of her left hand gripped a small bouquet of pink and yellow flowers, doubtless plucked from the Gilten Herbar.
Her dark hair, crowned with a circlet of similar flowers, flowed unbound, unnetted, and unveiled down her back, reminding him of his first view of her. When she turned to hand the bouquet to her grace, he saw that her hair gleamed in midday sunbeams from the clerestory windows and reached well past her hips.
He smiled ruefully as she approached, and saw her eyes widen. He decided then that her earlier shock did stem from belatedly recognizing him, so he grinned.
To his delight, she grinned back, raised her chin, and left her father standing at the transept, while she walked with head high to join Àdham before the bishop.
“Who gives this woman to be wedded to this man?” the bishop demanded.
Stepping forward a pace, Ormiston said, “I do, your eminence. I am her ladyship’s father, Ormiston of Ormiston.”
“Then,” said the bishop solemnly, “as we ha’ gathered here in the sight o’ God to join together this man and this woman in the honorable estate o’ holy matrimony, if any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together by God’s law and the laws o’ this realm, let him now speak or else hereafter and forever hold his peace.”
Àdham held his breath. At this point, he’d strangle anyone who spoke.
Hearing movement and whispers from the audience behind her, Fiona knew from other weddings she had attended that such sounds were common during the silence that followed those words in the wedding service. Even so, she nervously dampened her lips, fearing that someone might object to the marriage, although she could not imagine what “just cause or impediment” he or she might offer.
When the bishop raised his hands, the whispers stopped.
Looking from Àdham to Fiona, Bishop Wardlaw said, “I require and charge ye both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day o’ judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either o’ ye knows any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, that ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured that anyone coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow be not joined together by God. Neither is their matrimony lawful.”
Fiona glanced at Àdham and saw that he was gazing at her.
The bishop turned with a smile then to Àdham, and Fiona listened while he repeated his vows to take her for his wife until death parted them.
She continued to watch him, thinking how handsome he was without his beard and scarcely heeding the words until the bishop said, “D’ye have a ring, sir?”
“Aye.” Àdham took it from Sir Ivor’s hand and gave it to the bishop.
Intoning, “By the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” as he touched the ring to Fiona’s left thumb and first two fingers, Bishop Wardlaw slid it onto her ring finger.
Her vows followed next, and she repeated them, promising to be meek and obedient in bed and at board. Then, at last, the bishop bade them face the congregation while he pronounced them husband and wife and introduced them formally as Sir Àdham and Lady MacFinlagh.
“Ye may kiss your bride, sir.”
Àdham put warm hands on Fiona’s shoulders and gently kissed her lips. His lips were firm and warm against hers, but quick, and the moment was gone.
She felt as if she were standing beside herself watching her life change irretrievably. But the lingering warmth of Àdham’s lips on hers was real. And when he smiled as he stepped back, she felt the warmth of that kiss spread through her body.
High Mass followed, but although Fiona stood and knelt automatically when Àdham did, she heard not a word of it. Kneeling on her prayer stool beside him on his, she was conscious only of his warmth and strength and the sound of his deep, rich voice when he made such responses as the mass required of the congregation.
Everything had happened so quickly that, despite her father’s assurances, and her grace’s, she felt a surge of panic, as if her life had fled beyond her control.
By the time they adjourned through the crowd of guests to the refectory, which lay brothers had turned into a regal chamber for the wedding feast, her sense of being a bystander at someone else’s wedding had swept back. When anyone spoke to her, she replied politely but scarcely heeded her own words. She hugged her father and let Lady Sutherland and Malvina hug her. But, if she had one sensible thought of her own before she and Àdham made their way onto the dais and sought their places at the high table, she had no memory of it later.
When they stood at their places, Àdham murmured, “Do you like your ring?”
She looked carefully at the gold band on her finger. Finely engraved with tiny, exquisite curlicues and flowers, it gleamed and sparkled, reflecting candlelight from the hall. “It is beautiful,” she said sincerely. “How did you come by it?”
His cheeks reddened but he answered frankly, “His grace gave it to me. He said I should tell you that it is a gift for us both from her grace, the Queen.”
“I will cherish it forever, for she has always been kind to me. I shall miss serving her, too. Does it trouble you that someone else provided it?”
“Nae, lass. It pleases you, and I am not so selfish. Moreover, ’tis the symbol that binds us together, so I am content to see it there. You are to sit now,” he added, standing behind one of the two central chairs and indicating the one to his left.
Still stunned to know that her ring had come from Joanna, Fiona obediently moved to her place but kept gazing at her ring, watching the light play on it. Only when she realized that the person who stood next to her was Joanna did she collect her wits. “Your grace, forgive me! I should not be standing in your place.”
“Every new-married bride has the right to act as hostess at her wedding feast, my love,” Joanna said firmly. “You will sit there, and I shall sit beside you.”
“Àdham told me about the ring,” Fiona said. “I will treasure it always.”
Joanna touched the back of Fiona’s left hand. “I will miss you, dearling.”
Feeling tears well in her eyes, Fiona was grateful that the King gestured then for the bishop to say the grace-before-meat, so she could blink her tears away. When everyone had taken his seat, James signaled the minstrels to begin playing.
Àdham kept his gaze on his trencher but his attention fixed firmly on the lady beside him. Her nearness radiated allure. Her concern for how he might feel about her ring had touched him. But her proximity provided more cause to curse the garments into which his clansmen and King had so ruthlessly stuffed him.
Whenever she looked his way, certain parts of him squirmed uncomfortably. What the devil possessed men ever to confine themselves so? he asked himself.
A bagpipe sounded from the kitchen end of the refectory, and he saw a piper taking slow steps down a cleared path toward the room’s center. Behind him came a wheeled cart bearing a tall pyramid of what looked to Àdham like round rolls stuck together with honey and jam. He had never seen anything like it.
He looked to his right to find James grinning at him. “’Tis a fine creation, that, lad. It was popular in London, especially for weddings. A French chef visiting there called it a croquembouche, and when it appears at a wedding, the object is for the chef to pile the rolls as high as he can without toppling the pyramid. A bride and groom standing opposite each other must kiss over the croquembouche without toppling it. If it falls apart, they say the marriage will, too, so ye must take good care.”
“It is a custom in the Borders, too,” Fiona said. “The rolls are fried, so they are crunchy, and they often contain a custard.” Smiling at Àdham, she added, “Shall we attempt the feat, sir, and see if our marriage will prosper?”
Grinning, Àdham said, “For another chance to kiss my bride, aye, I’ll do it.”
When the rectangular cart stopped a few feet from the dais, perpendicular to the high table, its attendants stepped back. Àdham took Fiona’s hand and, cheered on by clapping, stomping feet, and delighted cheers, led her to stand on one long side of the cart and took his own place opposite her.
Noting that the top of Fiona’s head appeared barely higher then the pyramid of rolls, he could not be surprised when general laughter broke out, along with a few ribald shouts of doom for their marriage.
Then, to his surprise, Gilli Roy Mackintosh stepped forward with a stool. Stopping at the end of the cart, he flicked a conspiratorial glance at the high table, waited for the laughter to stop, and then said confidently, “His grace said her ladyship would require this, Àdham. But he said I must first ask if ye’ll permit it.”
“Aye, sure, lad, and right gratefully,” Àdham declared, grinning again. The stool provided all the aid he needed to avoid the croquembouche and kiss his bride without toppling it, and he took full advantage to the general merriment of his onlookers.
The festivities included music and ring dancing, and lasted until late afternoon when the King stood at last to announce a final toast to the newlyweds. As he did, Joanna leaned near Fiona and said loudly enough for Àdham to hear over the cheers from below the dais, “’Tis time for us to go, love. We must prepare you for the marriage bed.”
Àdham groaned then, painfully. But when Fiona looked back in concern, he said, “Just go, lass. All of this flummery will soon be over.”
Hoping he was right and that the King and the other men would not keep him long, he watched until she was out of sight.
Every moment after that seemed twice as long as the one preceding it, until at last, Caithness shouted, “We must prepare the man for his bedding, lads!”
The result was wholly unmonastic chaos, making him yearn for rescue from Father Prior or Brother Porter. But most of the friars still in attendance just laughed and raised goblets to toast his departure.
Àdham put up little resistance, knowing that the sooner his friends got him out of his clothing and upstairs, the sooner he could claim his bride. That goal and at last ridding himself of the loathsome, constrictive garments were all that mattered.
By the time they reached the landing outside the allotted chamber, he was praying that his captors would quickly leave him to his duty and that he would be able to find his customary garments after he claimed his bride.
Someone opened the chamber door. Then, before anyone else moved, a stentorian voice above them on the stairway bellowed, “Hold there, men! Ye’ll recall that ye be in a religious house—my house, since I be prior here. Ye’ll stay outside o’ that chamber if ye please, or even if ye dinna please. I will bless the bed wi’ the pair o’ them in it. Then I shall leave them to their duty, and so, by heaven, will ye!”
A few groans and daringly ribald comments followed his stricture as the men shoved the now-naked Àdham into the chamber. The men of his escort parted then to make a path and stood quietly while Father Prior followed him inside.
The chamber was small, containing only a pair of sumpter baskets against the nearest wall, a washstand, a bed, and one narrow, east-facing window.
The men on the landing stood in near silence, peering in.
“Get along now, the lot o’ ye,” the prior said, shutting the door.
Àdham, staring at the bed, where his bride awaited him with the coverlet drawn up to her chin, glanced at Father Prior.
“What be ye waiting for, lad? Get ye in, get ye in!”
Smiling reassuringly at his bride, Àdham obeyed, cautiously turning back the covers to avoid exposing her to the prior’s gaze. That, he felt certain, would disconcert all three of them.
As soon as he was in the bed, the prior made the sign of the cross over it and spoke a brief blessing. Then, he left, shut the door, and they were alone.
Able to think only of her own nakedness and Àdham’s beside her, Fiona lay stiffly as near to the wall as she could get. The cupboard bed had walls on three sides and a curtain to pull for privacy. It was not a wide or a long bed, although it would likely have seemed wide to one who slept in it alone.
Àdham was too big for it, she was sure. His muscular legs were so long that his feet would hang over the side.
“Art frightened, lass?”
“I . . . I don’t think so,” she murmured. “In troth, I do not know what I feel. Everything today has seemed as if it were happening to someone else, not me.”
“I know,” he said, surprising her. “I have felt much the same.”
“But, surely, you do not fear what the future may bring you.” Realizing what she had blurted out, she added hastily, “I do not mean for you to think that I do. . . .”
“You don’t?” He turned his head toward her and smiled. “I would fear for your sanity, Fiona, if you did not have fears. You cannot know much about how we live in the Highlands, and I know that you worry about being far from your family and unable to speak with some of my people at Rothiemurchus and Finlagh.”
“Rothiemurchus?”
“Aye, where Sir Ivor and his family live, including my foster grandfather, Shaw Mòr. It lies on our way, so we will bide at least one night with them.”
“Where else will we bide on our journey?”
His smile widened as he said, “We can discuss that later, or tomorrow as we ride. For now, we should get on with this duty of ours.”
“Tell me what I must do.”
“I’ll show you and teach you as we go,” he said. “This first time, the doing itself should not take long. But I mean to take my time preparing you, both to ease our way and so that you may know how pleasurable certain parts of it can be.”
She could not imagine such an act as Lady Sutherland had described to her being pleasurable. But Àdham, doing no more than turning onto his side and stroking her body, soon proved that he knew what he talked about.
Before long, he had her squirming yet hoping he would not stop what he was doing. Hearing a moan escape from deep in her own throat, she told herself that she should not make so much noise. But she could not seem to stop moaning until he touched her between her legs where no man had touched her before.
Next, most daringly, he eased a finger to her opening there.
A squeak of protest escaped her lips.
“Don’t stiffen up now, Fiona-lass,” he murmured. “This won’t take long, but we must complete our duty.”
“That hurts,” she said a moment later, indignantly.
“I believe you,” he replied. “I’m told that it does hurt the first time but only then. We’ll see tomorrow if that is true or not.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Aye, for we’ll be in a proper bed tomorrow night. We’ll likely sleep on the ground the night after that.”
“On the ground?”
He chuckled. “Caithness doubted that you’d ever slept on the ground before. I expect he was right.”
“He certainly was,” she said, aware that his finger was well inside her and moving around. The sensation was not exactly unpleasant, but it was unlike anything she had felt before. “H-How can anyone sleep on hard ground?”
“One sleeps where and when one needs to sleep,” he said. “A warrior must sometimes sleep sitting up against a tree or a rock with one eye and both ears open. Highlanders oft sleep on the ground when they travel. Sakes, many of our clansmen sleep on the ground, albeit on straw pallets, even in their homes.”
“Aye, Borderers sleep on pallets, too,” she said, reassured to hear something familiar. “I slept on one when I was a bairn. So did my brothers and sister, I think.”
“We do not carry pallets when we travel,” he said. “I am going to change my position now, lass. Do not be alarmed.”
“If you are going to insert something larger than your finger . . .”
“I am,” he said as he positioned himself over her. “But it will fit, too.”
She did not believe him, but she had promised to be meek, and if it hurt, it hurt. It did, too, more than he had said it would. He seemed to fill her completely and to expand the part of her that was admitting him until she wondered what sort of consequences might result from such widening.
A sharper pain surprised her into another squeak.
“You’re a woman now,” he said with a warm smile. “And you are mine, lass. Never forget that.”
The last three words disturbed her, because it sounded as if he thought that he owned her now, like a cow or a horse. She had heard men speak so of their women before, but Davy’s wife did not act as if Davy owned her. Nor did Davy. Even Buccleuch’s wife did not act so, although since Buccleuch owned much of Teviotdale, he might think of his wife and bairns as some of his chattel.
Those thoughts vanished in another burst of pain when Àdham began moving faster and deeper in and almost out of her. Then he stiffened for a long moment, gasped, eased in and out gently a few more times, and then fell to one side of her in such a way that she was glad he had not fallen atop her.
He lay at her side, breathing deeply, until she feared he had fallen asleep.
“Sir Àdham?”
“Just Àdham,” he murmured.
“What did you mean when you said I was yours and never to forget it?”
He was quiet until she opened her mouth again to ask if he had fallen asleep. As the words were about to leave her tongue, he said, “Did that irk you?”
Before she could imagine how to answer him, he added, “I’m thinking now that if Uncle Fin had said those words in that same rather curt manner to our Catriona, she’d have had his head off his shoulders and into his lap.”
Fiona laughed then. “Borderers say the same thing, that an angry woman might hand someone his head in his lap. But you should know, sir—”
“Àdham.”
“You should know, Àdham, that I have an imagination that flings up images of what people say to me. No one could imagine someone my size handing someone your size his head in his lap.”
He rolled to his left side again, bent his elbow, and rested his chin on his palm, holding her gaze as he did. He was grinning, and she marveled as she had before at how nice his smile was and how strong and white his teeth looked.
“Fiona, mayhap I should not have said what I said in the way that I said it. In troth, I was feeling proud of you and pleased that you are my wife and not someone else’s. I am not by nature a jealous man, but I do believe in loyalty, so it would irk me to see my wife flirting, or worse, with another man.”
“But that is good,” she said. “A man should feel so about his wife, just as a wife should feel so about her husband. Is that not also true, sir . . . Àdham?”
Grinning again, he bent and put his lips to hers. But that kiss grew to be nothing like the chaste one in the kirk or the one over the croquembouche. It began gently, his lips just touching hers, then firming as he moved closer and planted his right hand on the other side of her, shifting her hair out of its way. Her lips parted slightly, and his tongue took advantage, darting inside, making her gasp.