“Perhaps I’ll gie them a playmate one day,” she said coyly.
“If I hae not already gotten ye wi’ bairn after this week of trying, I am not the man I used to be,” her husband boasted, grinning.
“Matthew!” Agnes scolded, blushing.
Weakened as she was, Annabella giggled, for, despite being given quarters in an isolated part of the castle, Matthew was a noisy lover, and his efforts were heard by many.
“Annabella needs to rest,” her mother said. “Put the twins in their cradles by the hearth in their mam’s bedchamber,” she instructed the two little maidservants who stood anxiously nearby. Then she considered. “Has a second cradle been found?”
It had been, and the newborns were now settled within, each lying upon a thick piece of sheepskin that had been set beneath the tiny feather beds for warmth. Miniature down coverlets were placed over the sleeping infants. Annabella was now settled in her own bed, half-asleep, while her mother directed everyone.
The cradle rocker insisted she needed no help. “I hae two legs and feet, my lady,” she said. “Two are as easy to rock as one.”
“As ye will, then,” the proud grandmother said. How well Annabella had done. Despite the tragic loss of her first bairn she had still managed to give her husband two children within two years of marriage. Duin’s legacy was safe.
Chapter 10
With Annabella safely delivered of her bairns, and the weather still favorable, the laird of Rath and his wife departed for their own home. Annabella was sad to see them go, but their visit had been a happy and successful one. With Agnes now wed it was time to seek a wife for their only son and heir. The laird would not be happy until Rob had produced an heir for Rath.
Agnes turned seventeen. The winter set in. Christmas came, then departed. On the feast of Candlemas in February, Agnes announced she was enceinte. The winter dragged on with no visitors and consequently no word of what was going on outside of their little world. The snows piled up in the courtyard. Lambs were born. The days were becoming noticeably longer, but the wolves still howled out on the hillsides in the dark of night, reminding them that winter was not ready yet to relinquish its grip.
One afternoon a large vessel anchored in the cove beneath the castle. A small boat was rowed ashore, to be pulled up on the rocky beach. Its single occupant got out and slowly climbed the barely discernible narrow path up to a small door in the stone walls. He pounded upon the door for a time before someone finally came, opening the small grilled hatch to demand what it was he wanted.
“I’ve a message for the Earl of Duin from one James Hepburn,” the sailor said.
There was the sound of a key turning in a lock, and the hinges creaked resentfully as the small door slowly swung open. The seaman stepped inside and followed the man-at-arms who had opened the door down a long dark corridor lit only by the flickering torch the man ahead of him carried. The walls of the passage were covered in hoarfrost.
The visitor wondered whether it ever melted. They climbed three flights of stairs, finally exiting into a well-lit corridor that led to the hall. At the high board were seated what appeared to be a family.
“My lord,” the man-at-arms said, “here is a messenger come for ye.”
Angus Ferguson waved his guest forward. “Are ye off the ship now anchored in my cove?” he asked the man.
“Aye, my lord,” the sailor answered, pulling off his cap and bowing. “I have a message for ye from a James Hepburn.” The man spoke English but his accent indicated it was not his native tongue.
“Where are ye from then?” the earl asked him.
“Orkney, the isles,” was his reply.
“Where is Bothwell now?”
“Imprisoned in Denmark, may God hae mercy on him,” the seaman responded. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out a carefully folded parchment tied with a bit of string and sealed with a small blob of wax. He handed it to Angus Ferguson.
Gazing down at the parchment, the Earl of Duin saw Bothwell’s rabbit crest imprinted in the wax. Looking up, he said to the messenger, “Find a place for yerself at the trestles and eat.” Then, turning back to the parchment in his hand, he broke the seal and slowly unfolded it. There was Bothwell’s impatient writing upon it.
Angus, all is lost. I have failed my dearest wife, Mary. I have failed Scotland, and I have failed myself. With no gold or influence left there is no one who will come to my aid, for far too many fear me, and wisely so. I have named my nephew, Francis Stewart, my heir, provided he take the Hepburn name, which I know he will when grown, at his mother’s behest. Help my Mary if you can without endangering Duin. I regret little but that I shall never ride my beloved borders again. Remember me, old friend. Bothwell.
Angus felt tears welling up as he read the brief letter. James Hepburn, his friend. The most loyal of the queen’s men, gone from Scotland, never to return. Imprisoned. Never to be free. He remembered with a brief smile their days as young men in Paris. He remembered a brave, bold, and dashing man with little tolerance for fools, and yet it was the fools who had triumphed over them all. What a tragedy!
“What is it?” Annabella asked, seeing the play of emotions across his face.
He handed her the parchment. “Read it,” he said.
She did, and her own tears slipped down her cheeks. “Is there nothing we can do to help him?” Annabella asked, looking up from the parchment to her husband. “Nothing at all? There has to be something.”
“Nothing,” Angus Ferguson said. “James Hepburn was always a gambler, and he gambled he could help the queen control her lords if he were her husband. This is one of the few times he has cast the die and lost.”
“Ye hae gold,” Annabella said.
