The Queen's Lady (23 page)

“Mary is a good queen,” she told him earnestly.

“Aye, she has proven so,” he agreed.

“You still do not sound certain.”

“Twenty years from now, I shall be certain,” he said, and he threw off the covers, then held himself poised above her. “My lady, you serve her well in her chambers—may we keep her out of ours?”

He waited for no answer. The morning had come, but he did not intend to forget the night.

At last he lay beside her again, cradling her to him, surprising her with his passion when he spoke.

“If only we could remain right here.”

“If we remained here,” she reminded him, “we would not reach Elizabeth. We could not convey to her the respect in which Mary holds a man's choice of religion. We could not make her understand that Mary is her proper heir, deserving of recognition.”

His fingers threaded through hers. “We could not return to the queen and gain her consent for our marriage,” he said flatly.

Gwenyth rolled to him, rising up on her elbow, seeking his eyes. “Rowan, I swear…I'd not trap any man into marriage.”

“Well, you were certainly bold,” he said softly, and with affection, “but I do believe that I did the trapping.”

“I suppose that's what you
must
believe,” she teased.

“It is the truth, and therefore what I believe.”

He pulled her close again, and kissed her long and tenderly. But when that kiss threatened to become more, he drew away with regret. “There is nothing I would like more than to remain here,” he said with a sigh, his eyes still tender. “But we have to ride. We are still only in the north of England.”

He turned away then and rose, but he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead before he picked up his strewn clothing, dressed, and at the door bid her rise.

“Breakfast, then the road,” he told her.

“Aye, I shall move,” she promised him as he closed the door in his wake.

The sheets still held a hint of his scent, so she remained where she lay, hugging her feather pillow.

It seemed impossible to be so happy.

She would never leave him, she vowed.

And surely, whether he said so or not, surely he loved her. Would do so always.

L
ONDON
.

The city seemed huge.

Gwenyth reminded herself that she was quite accustomed to Paris, and London was not so different, merely very…

English.

Rowan's townhouse was near to Hampton Court, just down the river. A handsome barge sat out back, which could quickly bring them to an audience with the queen.

Although she had known that Catherine was English, Gwenyth had not realized just how welcomingly Rowan was received in his wife's country. As they moved about the city, they constantly met people who knew him and were glad to see him back in England, and who stared at her with ill-concealed curiosity.

Rowan took her to Westminster Cathedral so she might see the coronation church of the English royalty, and they were received, as well, by the warden at the Tower of London. At home, she was given her own wing, which included a parlor just behind the bedroom, with access to the floor above, where Annie had her room. Rowan's master's quarters included a room with a massive oak writing desk and chairs for his accountant and other business attendants.

Their first days in London seemed almost magical. They rowed upon the Thames, walked in the parks and visited the markets. He did so as her escort, and in public, they were entirely circumspect.

The nights, however, were hers.

At last the day came when they received a letter from Queen Elizabeth. She had set aside an evening to spend time with her “dearest Laird Rowan,” and professed herself anxious for all and any messages from her “dearest cousin, Mary of Scotland.”

“She sounds most genuine in her affection,” Gwenyth told Rowan.

He arched a brow at her, amused. “Don't rely on ‘beloved cousin' for victory,” he warned her. “Elizabeth is a crafty queen. And she is careful always,” he added.

The steward of this house was a cheerful old fellow named Thomas, and Thomas—if he noticed the closeness of Laird Rowan and Lady Gwenyth—was careful not to comment upon it. Rowan had assured her that he had employed the penniless old soldier for his ability to keep a strict confidence, and he didn't seem at all alarmed by anything said or done in the man's presence, but for the sake of Gwenyth's honor, he was circumspect.

Thomas had brought the queen's letter to his master's quarters, and Rowan, though not completely dressed, had crossed the hall to Gwenyth's realm. She hadn't risen, but rather enjoyed the services of Annie and Thomas here; each morning, one or the other of them brought her a tray of coffee and pastries. She had never had coffee before, though Rowan told her it was a popular drink in Constantinople. It was far less popular in London, though, and most of the country had never so much as heard of it. But years before, when Rowan had been a lad, the elder laird had taken his young son on a long voyage that took them to the Continent and even to the East, where he had developed a taste for the bitter beverage. “All things can be obtained, my lady,” Thomas had assured her, “when you know the right merchants. And, of course, can afford the price.”

She didn't really understand all of Rowan's holding, nor did she really care about his property or wealth. With all her heart, she simply loved the man.

She couldn't, however, regret the fact that he could afford coffee. She loved it, especially when Thomas served it with rich cream and sugar, another commodity that was not always easy to purchase.

That morning, she had just set the tray aside when Rowan came in to show her Queen Elizabeth's letter. He'd handed it to her, and she had marveled at the fact that it had been handwritten and closed with the queen's seal. It had offered such a familiar tone of friendship.

“It sounds as if you know Queen Elizabeth better than Queen Mary,” she told him a little primly.

He laughed. “I happened to be in England and was able to support the queen when things were not going in her direction.”

“Oh?”

He sighed, stretching out upon the sheets of the bed he had left not long ago. “Now it seems that Elizabeth sits so comfortably upon her throne, while Mary is still gaining the support of her people, but it has not always been so easy for Elizabeth. Believe me, she understands Mary's dilemma well. And while there are others besides Mary with claims to the English throne, there are none so viable. And I believe that is Elizabeth's personal opinion, as well.”

“Then she should simply sign her name to that,” Gwenyth said, moving closer to his side.

He smiled. “Nothing is ever so easy and you know why. Mary has yet to sign the Treaty of Edinburgh.”

“She can't sign the Treaty of Edinburgh, because as it is currently written, she would be giving away her claim to the throne of England.”

“There's more,” Rowan said with a shrug, smiling and slipping his arm around her. “Think of it this way—Elizabeth came to the throne at the age of twenty-five, young and beautiful. She was, beyond a doubt, the most outstanding marriage prize to be had.”

“But she has turned down all those who have requested her hand.”

“She has said many times that if she marries, it will be as queen.”

“And that means?”

He gently touched a lock of her hair, smoothing it back from her face. “It means that she loves to be loved—she is still a striking woman in a man's world. She will not marry a Catholic prince and give power to any other country over her own, and she will not marry an English noble, because she will not give power to one family over another. If she marries, she intends to keep her title in reality, as well as in name. She will rule and no other. She has learned, however, the difficulties of being both a queen and a woman, with a woman's heart. Robert Dudley was one of her favorites, and many thought they were far too intimate, especially since Dudley had a wife. His wife died—her death was deemed an accident, but many believe it was suicide, that she was distraught over her husband's assumed infidelity with the queen. But she held her head high throughout the scandal, and she has made it clear that she will not marry Dudley. Indeed, there's been rumor that she's offered him as a potential bridegroom for Mary.”

Gwenyth gasped. She was indignant. “Queen Elizabeth would suggest such a man, her…
discard,
to our queen?”

Rowan laughed, pulling her toward him. “Such pride! But, indeed, I am quite certain that Mary would never accept Elizabeth's discard, as you call the man. Actually, Elizabeth has a sense of humor and thinks that perhaps she should have married Dudley, as long as she had his promise that he would then marry the Queen of Scots if she should die. By marrying two queens, the man would have double the chance of fathering at least one royal heir.”

Gwenyth studied him carefully. “She does not sound like such a virginal queen.”

He shook his head. “Who ever knows what goes on in the heart or mind of another? But there was a scandal when she lived with her stepmother, Catherine Parr, and Somerset. The man would have loved to take her as his bride, rather than her father's widow. He tried too many times to climb too high, and he lost his head upon the scaffold. It is dangerous to be noble with royal aspirations.”

She hesitated, studying him. “If rumor holds true…” she teased.

“It isn't rumor, m'lady, it is fact. My mother was the child of King James V of Scotland, recognized and loved, as he recognized his other children.”

“And you have no royal aspirations?”

“I value my head, thank you. My claim would come behind more than a dozen others. And,” he added, “my love is for Scotland. My own land. My own life.”

The last was gently spoken, and his smile was tender.

She smiled, then regretfully rolled away from him and rose. “I have to dress, and carefully, my good laird.”

Rowan shrugged and rose, as well.

“You will enjoy taking the barge down the river,” he said, then left her.

They attended the queen at Hampton Court, and were invited into the Withdrawing Chambers, the queen's personal rooms, rather than the more public Privy Chamber or the Presence Chamber, where many were welcomed. One of the queen's retainers showed them into her presence. She wasn't in her bedroom but a parlor suite, with the bedroom just beyond. A small table was set for dinner; a servant was there to offer them wine or ale when they arrived; and the queen appeared from her bedchamber as they entered. Rowan bowed deeply, and Gwenyth knew that protocol demanded she sink into a low curtsy and await the queen's summons to rise, which she did.

Elizabeth was in her early thirties, and Gwenyth couldn't help but judge her quickly. She was fairly tall, her own height, nowhere near as statuesque as Mary. She had well-coifed golden hair with a touch of red, and dark eyes. She was decked in a gown of silk with a doublet in velvet, and her crown sat comfortably atop her head. She was not a great beauty, but she was certainly attractive.

“Ah, my dear Laird Rowan,” Elizabeth greeted him, waving him near that she might bestow a kiss upon each of his cheeks. Her hands upon his shoulders, she stood back to survey him, then nodded, as if in approval of what she saw. There was a spark of mischief in her eyes.

“And,” she murmured and turned, beckoning to Gwenyth, “my
dear
cousin's maiden, the Lady of Islington.”

Gwenyth bowed her head low in acquiescence.

“Well, child, let me see you,” Elizabeth said, and Gwenyth looked into the eyes of the English queen.

“You're tall.”

“Not so tall,” Gwenyth said.

Elizabeth laughed, pleased. “Careful—I'd say you're an inch above my own height, and I like to believe that I am tall.”

“You
are
tall, Your Grace,” Gwenyth said dutifully, bringing a smile of deep amusement to Elizabeth's face.

“You spent a year in France, I believe, so I have ordered a French wine in hopes that you will like it,” Elizabeth told her.

“You are very kind.”

“Actually, I am intrigued,” Elizabeth said, but instead of elaborating, she turned to Rowan then. “I am so sorry for your loss,” she told him. “Some time has passed, and I hope you are doing well.”

“Aye, well enough, thank you.”

“You were involved, I imagine, in your queen's battle with Huntly.”

“Aye.”

“A matter nicely solved. I was interested to hear all that transpired, and pleased to know that my cousin feels as I do on the matter of religion. Men do, and will, continue to die over their protestations of faith, though I try to minimize their opportunities.”

“I swear, Your Grace,” Gwenyth said earnestly, “Queen Mary does not intend to interfere with the Church of Scotland in any way.”

Elizabeth looked at her. “Very well said. Of course, I had heard all about you. Mary has sent you as her most ardent enthusiast, and you are somehow to convince me that my good cousin is, as she claims, a proper heir to my throne.”

Gwenyth felt her cheeks growing flushed. “She is indeed all that she claims,” she said very softly.

“But I am not dead yet,” the queen said, amused. “And do you know what I have decided, dear Rowan?”

He was wearing a half smile; the queen's attitude apparently amused him.

“What is that, Your Grace?”

“I don't need to name an heir to this throne. I have decided that I am quite unwilling to die.”

“I don't think any of us intends to die, especially not so young,” Gwenyth offered.

“Ah! The lady called me young. Well, I can see already that we shall be dear friends,” Elizabeth said, and seeming even more amused. “Rowan, be off for a bit. My ladies will all be quite happy to see you, I'm certain,” she added wryly.

Rowan stood, watching her without moving toward the door.

Elizabeth made a waving motion with her hand. “Rowan, do go on. I wish to speak to this delightful creature alone.”

“As you wish,” he said at last and, having no choice, left them alone.

Elizabeth wandered to the large chair in the center of the room, indicating a divan across from it. “You may sit.” As Gwenyth did so, Elizabeth said, “Go on. Tell me of the wonders of your queen.”

“She means to be a good queen, to be fair and just in all things. You don't know how it broke her heart to battle Huntly, a Catholic laird, but the kingdom, and the people, are most important in her heart. She would dearly love to ratify the Treaty of Edinburgh, but she feels that she cannot. She was grateful when you gave her safe conduct to Scotland, though it came when we had long sailed. She wishes nothing other than to be, in truth, your dearest cousin, your friend in all things.”

“She will not be my friend,” Elizabeth said sharply, “if she continues to negotiate any possible marriage contract with Don Carlos of Spain.”

Gwenyth answered carefully, for there might still be secret negotiations taking place with Spain, even if she hadn't been entrusted with that information. “Mary is very aware that, like yourself, she must marry for her country.”