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  ARSENIC AND OLD ARMOR

  By

  MAY MCGOLDRICK

  Arsenic and Old Armor

  May McGoldrick

  ISBN: 978-0-9841567-3-3

  Copyright © 2010 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: May McGoldrick Books, PO Box 665, Watertown, CT 06795.

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Originally Published as Love and Mayhem by Nicole Cody (copy right holders Jim & Nikoo McGoldrick) by Penguin April 2006. All rights reverted back to author 3/16/2010

  Dedicated to the memory of May Cody McGoldrick

  With thanks for giving us your name…and your spirit

  CHAPTER 1

  Borders of Scotland, September 1513

  The English were coming.

  The battle at Flodden Field was lost. So many men had died. The king and most of his nobles were gone. Now it was left to the few remaining survivors to take the painful news to the families. It was left to them to warn everyone that the English were coming. Each family and clan would need to fend for itself.

  Limping through the Border hills toward Blackthorn Hall, the surviving remnant of the Armstrong men had spread the news along the way. Now they were almost home. Sir Iain Armstrong reined his horse to a stop at the split of the road. The two dozen wounded and weary warriors behind him halted, as well.

  The road to the right led to Blackthorn, Iain’s own keep. He was bearing tragic news for his own family…for his own mother. The laird was dead. But there was no time for Iain to grieve his father’s death. The villagers needed to be moved into the castle and every one of them armed. The gates needed to be barred. They would not surrender their ancestral hall to the enemy without a fight. He would not allow his people to be hurt and his land pillaged by the English.

  Iain glanced at the road to the left. It led to Fleet Tower and to Marion, his betrothed. John McCall, the Earl of Fleet, had been another casualty of the devastation at Flodden, and Iain was now the protector of all that lay on this side of the hills, as well. He motioned for Alan, his trusted and seasoned warrior, to approach. On their journey north, they had begun to speak about what needed to be done. Pointing at the road home, Iain gave his man his final orders.

  “Bring my mother the news. Begin the preparations. And as soon as you arrive at Blackthorn, send half a dozen men with fresh horses to Fleet Tower.”

  “The English cannon wiped out the McCalls, m’lord. They’ll have no men of their own returning.”

  “I know that.”

  “We canna defend both places against the enemy,” Alan warned.

  “I do not intend to try,” Iain assured him. “Everyone at Fleet Tower will be taken back to Blackthorn Hall…for their own safety. Everyone, that is, but Lady Marion. She shall be sent north, to an abbey on the Isle of Skye.”

  “You know her temperament, m’lord. Marion will refuse as sure as we’re standing here. She’ll demand to stay with her uncle and those two aunts of hers.”

  “She will go north,” Iain said firmly. “Her father is dead, and keeping her safe has been left to me. Marion has no choice but to obey me.”

  ***

  Brother Luke eyed the array of dishes on the table with amazement and appreciation.

  He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. The two women always prepared the most sumptuous meals imaginable for his visits. Still, Lady Judith and Lady Margaret, whom he’d known since his childhood across the valley at Blackthorn Hall, had outdone themselves this day…and it was not yet noon. Trays of mutton and capons. A plump, delectable fish nestled in greens. Bowls of fruits and sauces. Pitchers of cider and ale. He blessed himself and prayed that the Lord—and his brethren and his sisters over at Cracketford Abbey—would forgive his indulging himself. After all, he thought, he couldn’t be discourteous to his hostesses.

  The two middle-aged spinsters looked at him expectantly and he smiled broadly at them. Judith and Margaret beamed, and on the wall behind them, on the fine French tapestry he’d always admired, the lady who sat among the flowers with her delicate hand on the neck of the unicorn smiled back at him, as well.

  “Doesn’t Lady Marion care to join us this morning?” he asked as he drew a trencher filled with steaming mutton and broth toward him.

  “I think not,” Margaret answered.

  “No, indeed,” Judith repeated.

  “When I saw her last,” the first woman continued, “she was up on the parapet, keeping watch for her father’s return.”

  “We should be hearing from them soon,” Brother Luke commented, smiling at Judith as she filled his cup with ale.

  “We should be hearing soon,” Judith responded as she sat down again.

  “Very soon, indeed, I should think.” Margaret shifted in her seat, shooting an uncomfortable look at her sister. “Our dear brother William shall not be joining us this morning, either.”

  Brother Luke tried not to look too pleased with the news. Certain oddities in the Earl of Fleet’s younger brother had always made Luke feel a wee bit awkward. Sir William McCall had somehow come to believe he was the Wallace himself. Very odd. Lucky for William, his generous and kindhearted family thought nothing of it.

  “Perfectly understandable. Monday morning cannot be the most convenient time to receive company.”

  “But it is,” Judith replied.

  “It is, indeed,” Margaret added. She cast a hesitant glance in the direction of the steps and lowered her voice. “There has been a slight problem in William’s routine this morning.”

  “A slight problem,” Judith whispered.

  Luke cast a wistful look at the scrumptious food before him. It would be unmannerly to start while the two women were speaking. “Pray, continue.”

  “Today is Monday,” the older sister explained.

  “Indeed, Monday,” Judith agreed, looking at the clergyman as if that explained everything.

  “What of it?” Brother Luke asked.

  “Why, Monday is a solemn day,” Margaret whispered.

  Her sister nodded. “Very solemn.”

  “And why solemn?” The mutton was making his mouth begin to water. There were dainty white mushrooms peeking at him from the broth, and tiny onions floated along the edges. And the smell was absolutely heavenly.

  Margaret looked around at the arched doorway leading to the stairwell and Judith followed her gaze.

  “Because of the English,” the older sister said.

  “The English,” Judith repeated, nodding.

  Brother Luke forced an air of confidence into his tone. “Nothing to fear, my ladies. Our good King Jamie and his brave armies went south to solve that once and for—”

  “William is preparing,” Margaret interrupted.

  “Indeed, preparing,” Judith agreed.

  “Preparing?” Luke asked, perplexed.

  “As of late, he always paints his face on Mondays.”

  “Always on Mondays.”

  Brother Luke’s recen
t visits must not have fallen on Mondays, as he didn’t recall this ritual. “Do you mean—”

  “Indeed we do.”

  “We do,” Judith echoed.

  Margaret leaned closer. “William has gotten it into his head that the Wallace painted his face on Mondays.”

  “Sir William Wallace,” Judith added.

  “William always paints his face on Monday.”

  “Paints his face.” Judith gestured as if she were painting her wrinkled visage, just to make certain he understood what her sister had meant.

  Actually, Brother Luke found himself at a loss for words. Though he couldn’t understand it, these two lovely ladies were perfectly comfortable with William’s peculiarities. He looked into both of their sweet faces. They simply accepted their aging brother as he was, with all of his…well, eccentricities. Luke nodded weakly.

  “But this morning,” the older sister continued, “as the poor dear went to mix his pigments, as he always does before he readies himself for battle…”

  “For battle…”

  “It appears he found that one of the new chamber lads had moved his pigments from his window ledge…”

  “From the ledge…” Judith motioned to an invisible window ledge beside the table.

  “And that was enough to throw poor William completely off balance.” Margaret leaned back in the chair and shook her head solemnly. “Our brother has been in a dither all morning.”

  “Indeed, a dither.”

  “What do you mean?” Luke asked, suddenly concerned.

  “He’s been under his pallet all morning, and we cannot get him to come out.”

  The sisters looked at each other apprehensively. Luke stared at them, wondering what he should do. These two women were the kindliest and most generous souls of all the people whom he knew and visited. It pained him to see them in such distress over the absurd antics of a half-wit brother.

  “The last time this happened,” Margaret continued, “it was three days before we saw him.”

  “Three days,” the younger sister agreed with a sigh.

  Before the monk could answer, shouts could be heard from the courtyard. The sound of horses arriving. The two sisters immediately jumped to their feet and rushed to one of the windows facing out on the yard. Two of the windows had cushioned window seats, and the sisters knelt on one as they peered from the window. While they did, Brother Luke threw a longing glance at the food before him and reluctantly pushed away from the table.

  “Oh my, Brother Luke,” Margaret tittered excitedly. “It is your nephew…Iain Armstrong.”

  “Your nephew,” Judith echoed.

  Margaret pushed open the wooden shutters all the way and called out an enthusiastic greeting. Judith’s short, round body covered the distance to the stairwell with surprising speed and she called up the stairs to her niece, announcing Iain’s arrival.

  In spite of their excitement, an uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of Brother Luke’s stomach when he saw that Iain was accompanied by only one other rider. His nephew had left Blackthorn Hall in the company of his father and the Earl of Fleet and at least a hundred armed warriors. His appetite suddenly gone, Luke went to greet the young man as he came into the great hall.

  Iain Armstrong’s blue eyes registered relief at the sight of his uncle, and he embraced the monk warmly. It was clear from the mail shirt he still wore that the young man had come directly from the battle. Indeed, Iain’s clothes and boots were covered with mud, mixing with dark stains that were surely the blood of men. The young man’s face was pale, and a deep gash cutting across his forehead disappeared into the brow above his left eye. Tall and powerful with the rawboned strength of a man still a year or two away from his prime, Iain stood back and looked at the two middle-aged women.

  “How delightful!” Margaret clapped in joy, causing Iain to glance with surprise at his uncle. “You’ve arrived just in time to join us for this meal.”

  “Indeed,” Judith whispered with glee. “Just in time!”

  “I fear I cannot,” the young man replied quickly. “We haven’t much time, ladies. We need to move all of you to Blackthorn Hall.”

  The two sisters looked at each other in confusion. Brother Luke asked what he knew had to be the inevitable. “What happened?”

  “We lost, Uncle,” Iain said thickly.

  “Will my brother John be coming back today, as well?” Margaret asked in her high pitched voice.

  Iain cleared his throat before answering. “No, m’lady. He is not coming back today. I have much to explain, but time is running short. We must move you all first. I shall explain all when we are safe at Blackthorn.”

  “But the dinner is ready.” Margaret motioned toward the feast spread on the table.

  “Indeed.” Judith nodded enthusiastically. “It is all ready.”

  Iain looked desperately at his uncle.

  “Tell them all of it,” Brother Luke advised. “Briefly, if you must, but tell them.”

  The young man’s weary face turned to the older sister. “We lost, Lady Margaret. We were slaughtered in the battle. The king is dead. So is my father, and so is your brother, the good Earl of Fleet. But we have no time to mourn now, my ladies…for the English are surely coming.”

  At the sound of the gasp, all eyes were drawn to the arched doorway leading to the kitchens and a circular stairwell. The hem of Marion’s dress could be seen disappearing up the stairs.

  Judith put her hand on Iain’s arm. “Then will the English be staying for dinner?”

  Brother Luke shook off his own grief and motioned for Iain to go after his betrothed.

  “Go to her, lad. I shall try to explain this to my good friends here.”

  ****

  Marion raced all the way up the winding stairs to the top of the great square tower house. Bursting into the fresh air and sunshine, she ran along the stone parapet and out onto one of the corner bartizans. Her breaths were short and the quiet sobs escaping her were lost in the whistling wind. She leaned out between the blocks of stone and looked down at the earth far below. Beneath her, yellow leaves were swirling in the air, carried by the breeze. Tears dropped from her cheeks, disappearing before they reached the ground.

  Her father couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be gone. He’d promised her he would come back.

  “Marion.”

  Iain’s sharp call snapped like a whip in the morning air. She didn’t look at him.

  “Marion, step back away from that ledge.”

  She leaned farther out; she would not be ordered around. She was in no danger of falling the four stories. His powerful hands were around her waist in an instant, though, and he lifted her bodily away from the edge. She stood with her back against the opposite wall, the flash of anger disappearing as thoughts of her father returned.

  “You heard what I told your aunts,” he said in calmer voice.

  She stared at the tops of the trees in the distance and nodded. Her chin quivered, but she fought back the tears.

  “I am sorry, Marion. I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad news.”

  It was the gentleness in his voice that choked her up again. She slid her back down the wall and wrapped her arms around her knees, burying her face against them.

  “We have no time for grieving now.” He crouched before her. “I told your aunts the same thing. The English are surely coming, and I need to move everyone here to Blackthorn Hall. I told your father I would see to his people’s safety.”

  “Will we be safer at Blackthorn?”

  Iain frowned. “I cannot say for certain. It is more defensible than your father’s tower house. But you shall be safe, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are going north.”

  Her gaze locked on his face. “Where are you sending me?”

  “To the Isle of Skye. There is an abbey there…with a convent. It will be perfect for you. And safe.”

  “I shan’t go,” she argued. “I want to stay with my
family.”

  Iain shook his head firmly. “It is not your decision. It was your father’s wish that if anything were to happen to him, you would be cared for properly. I gave him my word.”

  “I am cared for properly…by my family. I shan’t—”

  “Do not argue with me,” he snapped, his tone harsh. “With any luck, you will not need to stay there too long, and I—”

  “One day is too long. Aunt Judith and Aunt Margaret have been mothers to me for all these years. Uncle William has been like a father…whenever my own has been away.” Marion preferred to not beg, but she would if she thought it would have any effect on this coldhearted man. “And they need me, too.”

  “It is out of the question,” he said, standing up. “Your own father, their brother, did not wish to leave you in their charge. He knew they are not able to care for you, and I think even less of them.”

  “You are vile and mean-spirited,” she said furiously. “How could you say these things after all the times you have been a guest at their table?”

  “You are my responsibility,” he replied, his voice low. “I shall do as I must. And right now I am telling you that you need to prepare to travel north.”

  She could not go. She had just lost her father, and now she was to be taken from the rest of her family. An idea occurred to her, and she looked up at him towering over her. “I am your betrothed, Iain. If you do not trust the care of my aunts, then move me to Blackthorn Hall.”

  “I cannot be certain of your safety there. Besides, it would not be right to move you there until we are wed.”

  “Then marry me now. It is not as if I have any options about choosing a husband. I have been stuck with you since the age of three.”

  Iain crouched down again, his head sinking into his hand. Marion looked at the bloodstained hand as his fingers dug into his long brown hair. She felt she might have a chance. For the first time, she noticed the nasty gash on his brow, but she fought back the urge to reach out and touch it.