Tamed by the Barbarian. June Francis
his altered appearance might convince her that he was no savage. He ran a hand over his freshly shaven jaw as he strolled into the bedchamber with the drying cloth slung about his lean hips.
Mackillin reached for his drawers and hose and pulled them on. He then put on a petticote beneath a linen shirt and donned a green woollen doublet, embroidered at neck, cuffs and hem. Over this he pulled on a sleeveless brown velvet surcoat that reached to his hose-covered calves before placing a vellum-backed book inside a concealed pocket. He combed his hair, which had been cut to just below his ears. Now he felt fit to be in a woman’s company.
Thinking of Cicely again brought a lift to his heart, but a frown to his face as he slipped on a pair of leather shoes that laced up the sides. He took the lantern from the table and left the bedchamber, locking the door behind him. He placed the key in his pocket and strolled down the passage. As he went downstairs, he spotted Cicely sitting by the fire and scowled. She had covered her hair with a black veil; with her black gown and surcoat, this gave her a nun-like appearance. Was it deliberate? Was she saying, Do not touch?
As he approached, the dogs lifted their heads and she glanced up from her sewing. He saw her eyes widen and knew he had achieved the effect he had aimed for. His mood lightened. She half rose in her chair, but he told her not to disturb herself, so she resumed her seat and bent her head over her embroidery.
Mackillin settled himself in a chair close to the fire and took out his book. It was one that an elderly Percy relative had left him in his will and was over fifty years old. Fortunately the handwriting was still legible. As he carefully turned the pages, he was aware that Cicely was watching him.
‘Whenever I take up this book, I think of the copyist working for months on end, writing out thousands of words,’ he said.
‘What book is it?’ asked Cicely, impressed not only by his appearance but that he should produce a book and to all purposes seem intent on reading it. She was relieved that he appeared to have no idea that she had seen him in his skin and yet felt vexed with herself for wanting to touch his shaven cheek and run her fingers through the chestnut hair that curled about his ears. What would her father have thought of her for having such desires? How could she be grieving for him, be in love with Diccon and yet still be attracted to this man?
‘The Canterbury Tales—have you heard of it?’ asked Mackillin.
‘Aye. But I’ve never seen a copy before.’ She was surprised that her voice sounded normal.
‘Perhaps you’d like me to read some to you?’ He had found the place where he had left off and, without waiting for her answer, added, ‘This is part of “The Monk’s Tale”, a piece written about Count Ugolino of Pisa.’
‘Who was this Count, my lord?’
‘Mackillin,’ he said automatically, reading in silence for a few moments before lifting his head and grimacing. ‘Perhaps not.’
‘Why—why not?’ She stared at him and their eyes met and held for several quickened heartbeats.
‘Because it is a tragedy and you have enough sadness to deal with at the moment,’ he said brusquely, lowering his gaze and turning pages. ‘“The Miller’s Tale” is amusing and brings tears to the eyes, but it is not suitable for a maid’s ears. Perhaps “The Second Nun’s Tale” would be best. There’s an “Invocation to Mary”, daughter and mother of our Saviour in its pages.’
‘Daughter and mother?’
‘Aye, such is what the writer has written here…maid and mother, daughter of thy son.’
‘I have never thought of our Lady being both daughter and mother to our Saviour before….’ She stumbled over the words, but added, ‘Of course, if He is part of the Trinity—Father, Son and Holy Ghost, three in one—then it must be so. And yet…’
‘It is a mystery, I agree. Do you wish me to read on? Or would you rather I read…what have we here?’ He smiled. ‘An “Interpretatio Nominis Ceciliae”. Did you know that the name Cecilia in the English tongue means Lily of Heaven?’
‘Aye! My father told me so. Cecilia was a highborn Roman woman and my name derives from hers.’ Cicely was amazed that they were having such a conversation and not only because she was reneging on her decision to distance herself from him.
‘You know her story?’
She nodded, filling in a flower petal with blue thread and thinking of the Cecilia who had converted her pagan husband to Christianity. ‘If you have not read it before, then I do not mind hearing it again,’ she murmured.
‘It is of no matter. I know the story.’
He closed the book and, excusing himself, rose and went over to where some of the baggage was still piled in a heap. Silence reigned but for the crackling of the fire. He wondered if she was tired after their disturbed night and that was why no more inroads had been made on exploring the contents of the goods here. Perhaps it would be wiser to leave her alone to her embroidery and her grief. Yet he found himself wondering if this was the only leisure pastime she occupied herself with to help pass the winter days when the weather kept her indoors. Even when Nat was alive it must have been a lonely life for her after her stepmother died and with the males of the family busy elsewhere.
He recalled the moment when a courier had arrived at his kinsman’s manor in France. His mother had pleaded with him to return to the keep in the Border country, which had never felt like a home; rather he had considered his own house in the port of Kirkcudbright with its busy harbour as home. As his eyes roamed the tapestry-covered walls, he realised why he felt relaxed here. ‘This hall reminds me of my house in Kir’ coo-bri.’ He pronounced the name in the dialect of that area of Scotland. ‘It was to that port I used to escape when life became unbearable when we stayed at my grandfather’s castle—and there I discovered a love of ships and a longing to travel.’
‘In what way does this hall remind you of your house?’ asked Cicely, wondering why he had found his grandfather’s castle unbearable.
‘Its size and…’ He went over to a wall and fingered a tapestry of The Chase. ‘This tapestry. I wager your father bought this in Angers.’
‘I cannot say for sure. France certainly.’ She gazed openly at his back, her eyes lingering on the hair at the nape of his strong neck, his broad shoulders and the firm muscles of his calves.
He turned suddenly and she lowered her eyes swiftly, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment because he had caught her looking at him…and looking in a way that was unseemly. She cleared her throat and rushed into speech. ‘Father had one of his agents purchase several for my stepmother soon after we moved here. The walls were unadorned and filthy after the smoke from the winter’s fires…as they are now. But you being a lord, surely you will live in a castle with a great hall when you return home to Scotland?’
Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘No. My father’s elder brother inherited the castle. Have you ever visited the Scottish Borders, Mistress Cicely? The place I return to is not like the great edifices of England, such as my kinsman Northumberland’s at Alnwick. The building that I have inherited is a keep in a wild lonely place. At the moment my mother is Killin’s chatelaine, which is within a day’s journey of Berwick-on-Tweed.’
She dug her needle into the linen and murmured, ‘My father used to speak of Berwick-on-Tweed. Is it not on the Eastern seaboard and has changed hands several times—as did the border during the wars between our countries?’ she asked.
‘You are well informed,’ he said approvingly, returning to the fireplace.
She flushed. ‘I am a merchant’s daughter and as such am interested in the places my father visited. He has estranged kin up near the border, but we have naught to do with them.’
There was a silence before he said carefully, ‘Then they have never visited this manor?’
‘Not while I’ve lived here. Probably they might have visited during my great-uncle’s time.’ She