India Black and the Widow of Windsor (25 page)

But while the Queen was snuffling into her handkerchief and Lady Dalfad was patting her hand and whispering consoling words in her ear, I noticed Red Hector stagger away from the group in the corner and approach the Queen. French made a halfhearted attempt to catch the fellow’s arm, but Red Hector jerked it away and lumbered on, his swinish eyes glittering with spite. He planted himself before the Queen, and she looked up in astonishment, her nonplussed expression quickly altering to one of fury. Apparently, Red Hector hadn’t gotten the memorandum that informed houseguests they were never to approach the Queen without being asked to do so by Her Highness, but then, as the man was clearly potted, he couldn’t have read it any way. Now, this, I thought, could be interesting.

One of the military chaps who’d sat near the Queen at dinner stepped in with a snarl. “See here, old boy . . .”

Red Hector brushed him aside like a troublesome mosquito. A terrible silence descended upon the room. The ladies huddled together, dismayed, with their lace mittens over their mouths. The responsible male members of the party were holding sotto voce conversations about the best way to subdue this drunken sot, and the servants were exhibiting an unhealthy interest in the spectacle taking shape. Dizzy’s ebony ringlets bounced in agitation. French looked on with a cold eye. I noticed he had followed Red Hector and now stood nearly at his side, within easy striking distance of the man. French’s right hand had strayed into his pocket, where no doubt it rested upon his Remington .41 rimfire derringer, beloved weapon of American gamblers in the saloons of the western frontier, and a deadly weapon at such short range.

Red Hector swayed dangerously, then regained his balance. “I’m pleased to see that Your Majesty is a great fan of our Rabbie. He was a damned fine wordsmith. There’s a song of his that I’m verra fond of, and I think you’ll like it, too.”

He thrust back his head, fixed his eyes on the stag’s head over the mantle and opened his mouth. I can’t say much for Red Hector’s singing voice, but it hardly mattered. It was the song that he sang that made the Queen’s eyes pop out and shouts of protest ring around the room. If you’re the literate type, you’ll recognize it immediately as “Scots, Wha Hae,” which is the bard’s rendition of Robert the Bruce’s address to his army of Scotsmen, just before they whipped King Edward’s English forces at the Battle of Bannockburn. If you haven’t heard this verse before, I’ve set it out below, just so you’ll get the flavor of the thing and understand the row it kicked up when Red Hector belted it out before the Queen.

Red Hector finished with a flourish, bowing deeply at the waist and nearly falling over as he did so. There was a moment of stunned silence, then a hellish babble broke out with all the military duffers wheezing asthmatically, the ladies chattering shrilly, and the politicos harrumphing into their beards.

“How dare you?” hissed Lady Dalfad.

“You impertinent little whelp,” growled some earl or other.

There were cries of “cad” and “bounder” and “bloody Scottish louse,” which fazed Red Hector not one bit. He grinned widely at his audience, his eyeballs drifted toward each other, then they crossed entirely, and he toppled over slowly onto the tartan carpet.

It was close on to midnight before the uproar had died down, with the marchioness cackling like a crazed hen (which earned her an almighty scowl from Lady Dalfad), and the ladies being bustled out of the room while the gents stayed behind to speak in outraged tones about what to do with such an irresponsible rogue. I expect a few were calling for his head, and I anticipated hearing the sound of gallows being erected in the courtyard at first light, but in the event I was disappointed.

I finally wrestled the marchioness into bed and drifted off to my own, musing about Red Hector’s performance. If he was the Marischal, he’d passed up a first-class opportunity to scrag the Queen. I didn’t number many political assassins among my acquaintances (well, none, if I tell the truth, and I always do, unless necessity dictates otherwise), but I didn’t think there would be many who’d opt to sing a tune to their victims instead of knifing them in the gut. Puzzling. I resolved to raise the issue with French, when next we met. I fell into bed with my clothes on, not even bothering to remove my shoes, and my foresight was rewarded when the marchioness summoned me less than an hour after I’d left her. She was wound as tight as a spring from the evening’s events, and she gassed on for ever so long about Red Hector and his boldness. She sounded half-admiring, but I suppose it was the Scot in her, as our northern brothers love nothing so much as a daring charge against hopeless odds.

“What do you suppose the Queen will do?” I asked.

“Send the boy packin’, I should say. And tell the Earl of Nairn that his favorite nephew is a bloomin’ idiot.”

“I don’t suppose Red Hector can expect another royal invitation any time soon.”

The marchioness chuckled. “Och, he’ll not be asked again. Still,” she added wistfully, “’t was a fine ballad he sang, drunk as he was. It’s one of my favorites, but our English cousins are always so touchy when Bannockburn is mentioned.”

We talked Scottish history for a while, or rather the marchioness did, for I was falling asleep in my chair, but I woke just long enough to interject some question or comment before falling back into a muddled haze. The old trout had an encyclopedic knowledge of every battle fought between the English and the Scots (and if you know your history, you know there’s a fair number of them), so I got an earful of Bruce’s spider and the Young Pretender, and “Butcher” Cumberland and the perfidy of Clan Campbell at Glencoe. All very interesting, if you’ve a head for things of that sort, but I had to struggle to stay up with the narrative. I suppose the lesson I derived from the marchioness’s maunderings was that Scots have long swords and short memories.

Toward daylight, Ross the piper marched in stately and solitary procession around the castle, his pipe bleating like a lost sheep, stopping the marchioness in midspate.

“Good heavens, it’s nearly time for breakfast. Why on earth have ye kept me up this late, Ina? I should have been asleep hours ago.”

I shrugged helplessly.

“And I’ve been invited by the Queen to visit the stables with her this mornin’. There’s a new litter of collie pups I want to see. I breed ’em, you know.”

I assumed she meant that she bred canine bitches to studs, but who knows what goes on north of the border?

“When are you to be ready, my lady?”

“Eleven. Or was it noon? Cursed if I know.”

“I’ll find out and be here in time to get you dressed and ready. Shall I have breakfast sent up?”

The marchioness nodded vigorously. “Yes, do. And tell them to put extra marmalade on the tray. Bit stingy with it yesterday. There wasn’t enough to cover a shillin’.”

 

 

 

Toward noon I corralled the marchioness, and we joined the small party invited by the Queen to see her new pups and the Highland ponies in the stable. This interested me about as much as joining cricket practice, but Miss Boss had caught me in the kitchen and informed me that the Queen was still shaken from Red Hector’s outburst of the night before, and it would be best if the marchioness were kept under surveillance to ensure she did nothing to upset Her Highness. So there I was, diligently following the requisite three steps behind the marchioness across the frozen cobbles and wondering what the old turnip might find to inhale in the stables.

French was a member of the party. He leered at me, touching the brim of his hat. One or two of the old ladies in the group spied his greeting and tut-tutted under their breath. They gave him the cold shoulder for the rest of the tour, but he just sauntered along, twirling his walking stick in his hand and looking unconcerned.

The Queen led the parade with John Brown, her hand resting delicately on his arm, while the Prince of Wales stamped along behind with a scowl on his face. You’d have thought Brown was the King of England himself as he strutted along with his whiskers blowing in the wind and Her Majesty leaning against him, looking adoringly into his face. I could understand how Bertie must feel, watching his mother, ruler of almost a half-million souls around the globe, behaving like a giddy schoolgirl in the throes of first love. So much for dear departed Albert, I thought.

It was a beautiful day. The sun on my shoulders was warm, and though there was a sharp wind off the mountains, we were protected from it in the walled courtyard. We visited the pups first, and as dogs go, they were adorable. The ladies billed and cooed over the tiny wriggling bundles of black and white, and stroked them delicately while the marchioness pinched one by the nape of the neck and hauled it up for a critical perusal. I didn’t know you could look at a dog for that long, but the marchioness examined every detail of the mutt, muttering appreciatively at the length of a toe or the thickness of a whisker, while the bitch (I mean the pup’s mother, of course) whined and fretted and capered about nervously underfoot. When my employer had finished inspecting the little fellow, she dropped him briskly back into the pen, to be nuzzled anxiously by his mum and pushed about by his littermates. He went searching for the milk dispenser, apparently none the worse for his experience.

“Deuced fine litter, Yer Highness,” said the marchioness to the Queen.

The Queen’s sour countenance split into a genuine smile. “Do you think so? They’re out of Megan by my old fellow Sharp.”

“If Sharp’s the father, then I shall certainly take one. There’s never been a finer dog than Sharp. Sharp is his name, and sharp he is,” the marchioness announced.

The Queen beamed. “There will never be another like him,” she cried.

While Her Highness and the marchioness chatted about the merits of various collies they had known, and the kennel master and his assistants stood around silent and respectful, I wandered off a bit and surveyed our party. The ladies were still making eyes over the pups, and the gentlemen had formed little knots and were chuntering on about politics, the state of the Empire and the next winner at Exham. French had removed himself from the crowd and was enjoying a cheroot. John Brown was chewing on one of the lads about the straw bedding in the kennels, and watching Brown from a distance, his mouth puckered with hatred, was Archie Skene. Brown must have felt the man’s gaze upon him because he straightened abruptly and turned to face Skene. Brown didn’t acknowledge Skene, just gave him a look of such arrogant superiority that I immediately decided to back Skene, whether he was a member of the Sons of Arbroath or not. I sucked in my breath, waiting for fisticuffs to break out, while the rivals stared at each other across the yard. Skene looked ready to burst with rage, fists clenching and unclenching, face contorted, and his eyebrows twisting like trapped weasels. Brown was a cool customer, haughty as a young lancer, smirking as he watched Skene wrestle with the urge to lay him out in front of the Queen. After a staredown that lasted for an eternity, Skene turned and stalked away, while Brown’s smile broadened until his attention was claimed by the Queen, who wanted confirmation of the intelligence of the dear departed Sharp.

French discarded his cheroot, grinding it beneath his heel, and crooked his finger at one of the doors into the stables. Vincent scuttled out and held a brief conversation with his lord and master. French patted him on the shoulder, and Vincent stole off in the direction Skene had taken.

Our party moved into the stables for a visit to the equine residents. No stylish Thoroughbreds here; these were Highland ponies, built to trek the mountain trails and pick their way over the moors. I could see why the Queen was so fond of them, for they bore a decided resemblance to one another, both being stout, broad and rather dowdy in appearance. The ponies had bright, kind eyes, but their colours were muted and dull, ranging from cream to mouse to grey. They put their heads over the stall doors and neighed softly, expecting a handout, which of course they got in spades, as both the ladies and the gentlemen of our group vied to hand out carrots and apples and lumps of sugar. The Queen pointed out her favorite and described the many wonderful rides she and Mr. Brown had shared through the nearby mountains, while Brown simpered and played up to the old bag, and the two teased each other like married folk. I figured Skene must be frothing at the mouth somewhere, listening to this drivel.

I had seen the exterior of the stables when I had followed Robbie Munro to his rendezvous with Skene. The interior was neat as a pin, with stalls and loose boxes for the horses arranged along one of the exterior walls and on either side of a dividing wall down the center. The fourth wall was reserved for tack; bridles, saddles and harnesses of various types hung on pegs on the boards or were laid out on sawhorses and tables. Overhead, a long loft ran the length of the stables, where, the helpful Brown informed us, bedding and fodder for the animals was stored. I was pleasantly relieved that the floors were clean, though I supposed I shouldn’t have been; I doubt the Queen would have tolerated even a speck of manure on the floor. There were openings in the ceiling above each stall or box, so that hay could be forked into the mangers below, and two large openings through which hay and sacks of grain could be hauled into the storage room above. There was a block and tackle at each of the large apertures, so the stable boys wouldn’t strain themselves. All in all, it was a neat operation, and about what you’d expect to see when the owner of the stables is a monarch and has the cash to throw around on such things.