See approach Proud Edward's pow'r-

Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?

Wha can fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's King and law,

Freedom's sword will strongly draw;

Free-man stand, or Free-man fa'?

Let him follow me!

By Oppression's woes and pains!

By your sons in servile chains!

We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!

Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty's in every blow!

Let us do, or die!

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 h.e.l.lish 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 "b.l.o.o.d.y Scottish louse," which fazed Red Hector not one bit. He grinned widely at his audience, his eyeb.a.l.l.s 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 pa.s.sed up a first-cla.s.s opportunity to scrag the Queen. I didn't number many political a.s.sa.s.sins 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 ga.s.sed 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" c.u.mberland 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 a.s.sumed she meant that she bred canine b.i.t.c.hes 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 b.i.t.c.h (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 a.s.sistants 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.

The Queen and her guests had finished petting the ponies and we were all moseying toward the door, when there was a metallic screech overhead, followed by an ear-splitting creak as wood splintered. All eyes turned to the block and tackle overhead, which had tilted precariously to one side, where it teetered and held for a moment, then succ.u.mbed to the pull of gravity and tumbled through the opening. There was a b.l.o.o.d.y great commotion, as you can imagine, with the ladies shrieking and the gentleman dashing about, throwing themselves on the nearest feminine flesh and shoving the females out of the way of the plunging machinery. I made a grab for the marchioness and caught one wispy arm, yanking her from harm's way and tossing her aside as though she'd been a rag doll. Then French bore down on me like a demented wrestler, wrapping me in his arms in a flying tackle that knocked the wind from me. We crashed into the side of a loose box, which collapsed under our weight, and tumbled into the hay.

"India, are you alright?"

My mouth was full of hay and my ribs had been crushed by French's overzealous defense of my person. It was impossible to speak.

French seized my arms and shook me vigorously. "India, speak to me!"

I tried to draw breath, without success. My uncharacteristic silence spurred French to action. His brow furrowed with concern, he thumped me sharply between the shoulder blades. This had the effect of removing the hay from my mouth but left my lungs bereft of air. Consequently, I remained speechless. French squeezed me to his chest, his grey eyes boring into mine with an intensity I found both irritating and strangely touching.

There was an infernal hubbub going on, with some of the weaker s.e.x wailing like banshees and several of the elderly gentlemen mumbling hysterically (especially the politicos, who were used to nothing more upsetting than weak tea in the afternoon), but I could hear one of the retired military types barking orders and chivvying the groomsmen and servants. As yet, no one seemed to notice that one of the n.o.bility seemed preoccupied with a certain lady's maid, but it was only a matter of time before one of the aristocratic harpies noticed French ministering tenderly to me, and then we'd both be in the soup.

I drew a strangled breath. "The Queen?"

At the sound of my voice, some of the intensity drained from French's gaze. He reluctantly dragged his eyes from mine and gazed around. "She appears to be unscathed. It looks as though Brown pulled her aside."

Wheezing like a Welsh pit pony, I struggled to sit upright.

"Here," said French anxiously, "let me help you."

I shook my head. "The marchioness?"

French issued a soft bark of laughter. "She's wandering around the sight of the accident, telling the young ladies to pull themselves together."

"I need to tend to her."