Chapter 7: Tide and Tempest
The journey north was a silent, jolting affair. The king, a stern-faced man who regarded Kate as a necessary but suspect acquisition, had indeed refused to expel Lord Howard. Instead, he’d dispatched his son and new daughter-in-law to the remote coastal estate of Dunslair, a place he referred to as a “honeymoon retreat” with a dismissive wave. It felt more like an exile.
Three days on horseback through relentless wind and sudden, cold rains had left Kate saddle-sore and perpetually chilled. James rode ahead, speaking only when necessary to the small contingent of his most trusted guards. The easy understanding from the morning after the wedding had vanished, replaced by the same brooding distance she’d first encountered. She wondered if she’d imagined it.
Then, on the fourth day, the land fell away.
They crested a ragged hill, and there it was. The North Sea, a vast, churning expanse of gunmetal grey, crashing against black cliffs with a roar that silenced the world. Spume flew like ghosts into the leaden sky. Perched on the very edge of the precipice, as if growing from the rock itself, was Dunslair.
It wasn’t a castle in the grand, turreted sense. It was a fortress of sheer, brutal utility. A square tower house of dark stone, lashed by salt and centuries of storms, windows narrow as arrow slits. It didn’t welcome; it dared.
“Home,” James said, his voice barely carrying over the wind as he reined in beside her.
Kate said nothing. The desolation of it stole her breath. This was to be her refuge? It felt like a punishment.
They picked their way down the treacherous cliff path, the gulls screaming overhead. As they approached the towering wooden gates, James looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in days. The sea-wind whipped her dark hair across her face, and she pushed it back, meeting his gaze.
“Your eyes,” he said, his tone unreadable. “They’re the same colour as that.” He nodded towards the furious water. “Just before a storm.”
She turned her face towards the sea, then back to him. Was it a compliment? An observation? A warning? His expression gave nothing away. She settled on a flat, “How poetic.”
A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth might have been a smile. Or a grimace. The gates groaned open.
Inside, the roar of the ocean became a distant, constant thunder. The air was damp and cold, smelling of wet wool, peat smoke, and brine. An elderly steward, his back bent with age, met them in the vaulted entry hall. His eyes, milky with cataracts, passed over Kate as if she were a piece of furniture.
“Yer rooms are prepared, Yer Highness,” he said to James, his voice a dry rustle. “The lady’s chambers are in the east tower. The… wedding suite wasnae ready. Damp in the walls.”
James absorbed this without reaction. “Fine. See the Princess’s things are taken up.”
“My things are fine where they are,” Kate said, the words sharper than she intended. She was tired, cold, and the sting of separate rooms, even expected, felt like a fresh humiliation.
The steward blinked slowly, turning his clouded gaze towards James, ignoring her completely.
James’s jaw tightened. “Take her trunks to the east tower, Alistair. Now.”
There was a finality in his voice that sent the old man shuffling into motion, directing two dour-faced maids. James glanced at Kate. “We’ll eat in an hour. The hall.”
He walked away, his boots echoing on the flagstones, leaving her standing alone in the cavernous, dripping dark.
Her room was high up a spiraling stone staircase, a circular space that was more cell than chamber. The bed was large, hung with heavy, moth-fretted tapestries that did nothing to ward off the chill. A meager fire spat and hissed in the small hearth, fighting a losing battle against the pervasive damp. The single narrow window offered a breathtaking, terrifying view of the sea, a sheer drop to where the water smashed itself to foam on the rocks below.
One of the maids, a girl with lank hair and a surly expression, lit a few tallow candles. “Will there be anythin’ else, mo bhean?” she asked, the Gaelic title sounding like an insult.
“No,” Kate said. “Thank you.”
The girl left without another word.
Kate walked to the window, resting her forehead against the cold, salt-crusted glass. The fury of the sea mirrored the churn in her stomach. Separated. Isolated. Sent to this wet rock at the edge of the world. The message from her father-in-law was clear: you are of use, but you are not trusted. You are not family.
She thought of James’s face as he’d looked at the sea. As he’d looked at her. The same colour as that. Just before a storm.
An hour later, scrubbed clean and wearing a dry gown of deep green wool, she descended to the great hall. It was slightly less bleak than the entryway. Tapestries depicting bloody hunts covered some of the stone. A long, scarred table ran its length, and a fire roared in a hearth big enough to stand in. James was already there, pouring wine from a plain clay jug.
He’d changed into dry clothes as well—a simple linen shirt, a leather vest, no finery. He looked more like a garrison commander than a crown prince. He poured a second cup and pushed it towards her as she approached.
They sat. The stewards brought food: a tough, salty fish stew, coarse black bread, hard cheese. They ate in silence, the only sounds the crackling fire and the distant, endless roar of the sea.
Finally, James spoke, not looking up from his bowl. “My father didn’t refuse to send Howard away to slight you.”
Kate broke a piece of bread. “It feels precisely like a slight.”
“It’s politics. Sending him away on my word, after one incident, looks like weakness. Like I’m controlled by my new English wife.” He took a swallow of wine. “Sending us here, however, removes his source of information. Cuts the snake’s head off without appearing to bend. Howard remains in Edinburgh, writing his reports to a castle suddenly empty of its main subjects. He’ll be recalled within the week, having achieved nothing.”
Kate considered this, the stew turning tasteless in her mouth. It was clever. Devious. “So we are pawns in your father’s game of appearances.”
“We are the crown,” James corrected, his voice low. “Every move is for appearance. The bruise on your rib was an unacceptable move. It has been dealt with.”
She remembered Isobel’s sharp fingers, the cold fear. “Has it?”
“Isobel has been reassigned to the laundry. She will not touch you again.” He said it with utter certainty. “But my father’s solution—this place—is his way of maintaining control. Of reminding us both.”
“Of what?”
He finally looked at her, the firelight dancing in his brown eyes. “That our union exists for Scotland. And for England. Not for us.” He paused. “The separate rooms. That was his direct order. A… cooling period. To ensure passion doesn’t complicate strategy.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “No danger of that.”
James’s eyes held hers. “Isn’t there?”
The question hung in the smoky air between them, charged and uncomfortable. She thought of her mouth on him in the grey dawn, the shocking, furious intimacy of it. The way he had looked at her afterwards. Not with disgust, but with a reassessment.
She looked away, towards the window where the night was now absolute, the sea an invisible, booming presence. “This is a miserable place.”
“It’s my favorite place on earth,” he said, surprising her. He leaned back in his chair. “Here, the noise of the court, the scheming, the expectations… the sea drowns it all out. Here, there is only the wind, the rock, and the truth of survival. It’s clean.”
“It’s barren,” she countered.
“It’s honest.” He stood, setting his cup down. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow, if the rain holds, I’ll show you why it’s not all misery.”
He left her sitting alone at the long table. She finished her wine slowly, listening to the three sounds that seemed to define her new life: the howl of the wind, the crackle of the fire, and the relentless, pounding truth of the sea.