The Queen's Lady (31 page)

“I can't let you go. I brought charges against you. Now they must be disproved.”

“How do you suggest that I disprove your charges?”

“Publicly deny James. Call him the traitor that he is.”

He lowered his head. “Mary, you have just said that—”

“That I married a weak-willed, spineless, debauched husband?”

He arched a brow to her, as always keeping silent rather than agreeing with such remarks.

She shook her head. “James played me falsely, acting as if the nobles would entertain such an alliance, then standing firmly against it. Elizabeth is quite right in the games she plays. She knows there is no man she can marry who her subjects will accept without going to war. It is truly not fair that queens must suffer this idiocy while kings do not. But the point is that James did not know enough about Henry to loathe him, he was simply furious with the shift of power.”

“Perhaps he was insulted that his advice meant nothing once you met Darnley.”

She shook her head sadly. “What has come between us…it is bitter. Because Henry's mother was such good friends with Mary Tudor, because of my Catholicism…he thought that he could raise the Protestants against me. I have done nothing!”

“Mary, I beg you, reconsider your stance on Laird James. You two have been too close for you to let this divide go on forever.”

She looked at him very seriously. “I should prize you deeply, but…you stand so hard on his behalf.”

“But I don't stand against you.”

She rose suddenly, walking across the room. “You do know that I was absolutely furious with Lord Bothwell. Then he escaped imprisonment here, and now he has wheedled his way back into my good graces.”

He smiled. “Are you suggesting that I escape?”

“Would a queen suggest such a thing? Never!” she proclaimed. But then she leaned down by him where he remained upon one knee and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I needed to see you,” she said. “I know that I can trust you, that you will not repeat my words. Good day, Laird of Lochraven.”

She went out the door, and he did not hear the locks snick in her wake. Still, he waited, waited until the moon rose high over the castle walls.

The door was not locked.

He slipped out to the hallway. There was no guard. He strode to the winding stairs that led from the tower where he'd been incarcerated to the winding turret stairs that led straight to the yard. He kept close to the building as he stepped out into the night. A quick look up showed him that there were guards atop the parapets.

A movement in the night warned him that someone was near. He held dead still, waiting. He had no intention of doing murder now.

Someone moved furtively near him. He waited, taking great care, then shot out in the dark when the figure was almost upon him, catching the fellow unawares, his arm around the man's torso and his free hand clamped over the man's mouth.

“Don't betray me. I don't wish to hurt you.”

A soft mumbling came in response. Still keeping the greatest care to constrain the man and see his face, he turned him, and a smile sprang to his lips.

It was Gavin.

Rowan released his hold and said in relief, “Gavin.”

“My Lord, come. We need to hurry. I do not entirely know what is happening, but the queen's lapdog, that little whelp of a man Riccio, suggested that I come tonight with a hay wagon and a monk's cloak.”

Riccio?

The mention of the man's name was not reassuring, but he had heard that the queen trusted him in all things, and so long as the man did the queen's bidding, not that of the nominal king…

“Where is the cloak?”

“Here, on the ground. I dropped it when I thought you were a guard near, intent on slitting my throat.”

“I'm sorry. I thought
you
were a guard.”

“Well, here we are, and I suggest that we hurry.”

Gavin stooped quickly to retrieve the lost bundle of coarse brown wool. Rowan immediately slipped the cloak over his head and around his shoulders, pulling the hood low.

“This way,” Gavin said softly.

Rowan bent his head as if in deep prayer, and clasped his hands together before him. They passed by a number of people busy at their assigned tasks, even so late in the night. A silversmith was rolling up his tarp, a tinker closing the cover over his basket of needles and small wares.

“The wagon is yonder,” Gavin said.

They did not walk too fast, nor did they go too slow. As they reached the hay-strewn vehicle, Rowan saw that it was pulled by a single white horse. It was one of his own from the stables at Castle Grey, an older but reliable warhorse, Ajax. He was still capable of picking up speed, once they had cleared the gates.

“Best you hide yourself in the hay, my Laird Rowan.”

“I think not. I think we're safer if I sit at your side.”

“Oh? And what do you know of being a monk?”

“Not much, my good man. But neither do I care to be skewered if a guard chooses to thrust his weapon into the hay, searching for contraband.”

“Ah,” Gavin murmured. “Hop up.”

And so they both sat atop the driver's plank on the poor wagon, and Rowan took up the reins. They crossed the courtyard and came to the gate, where the guard looked at them curiously. As Rowan had expected he might, he held a long pike.

“Where are ye off to, this hour o'the night?” he demanded.

“The priory atop the hill. I have been summoned by a woman of the queen's own true faith,” Rowan replied.

The guard scowled but didn't insist on seeing Rowan's face. Rather, he moved to the back of the wagon and began thrusting his weapon into the hay, just as Rowan had feared.

“True faith indeed,” he muttered beneath his breath. “Pass.”

Rowan didn't reply, only flicked the reins, and Ajax obediently moved forward.

Rowan forced himself to keep the horse at a slow gait while they made their way from the city and past the most heavily populated area, but as soon as they entered the woods beyond the fields, he again flicked the reins, urging Ajax to go faster.

They had nearly reached the farmhouse that Gavin had told him was their goal when he knew they were being followed. He quickly drove the wagon off the road, into the trees.

“How many?” Gavin asked tensely.

He listened. “Two, no more.”

Gavin drew a knife from one of the leather sheaves at his calf and quickly handed it over. “I dared bring no larger weapons,” he apologized.

“It doesn't matter. We have to catch these men and bind them. I cannot kill them.”

Gavin looked at him as if he had gone mad. “They will come with swords, m'laird. Do we die here tonight?”

“Nay, we take grave care.”

He rid himself of the cumbersome cloak and cowl, and glanced around, glad of the darkness. “There,” he told Gavin, pointing across the road. Then he turned to quickly catch a branch and shinny up an old oak.

Gavin had scarcely found his own position before the horsemen came trotting down the road. Indeed, they were castle guards.

“He'll have headed north, to his Highland fortress!” one said, not even bothering to lower his voice.

“Aye, and that's why there's just two of us sent off in a vain chase southward,” the second fellow complained.

They were both armed with swords, but neither was prepared for attack. Rowan motioned to Gavin, and, as one, like spiders in the dark, they fell silently from the trees.

The men were easily taken down from their mounts. They struggled for their swords, but both were breathless and stunned. The fellow Rowan had taken was corpulent, puffing, easily disarmed. While the younger man might have given Gavin a bit of a struggle, he did not have the chance, for Rowan stepped from the puffing fellow to the other, seizing his sword from his belt even as he scrambled for it. He set the point at the man's throat.

“Gavin, strip the good man's horse of its bridle. We have need of the reins.”

“The animal will head back to the castle,” Gavin pointed out.

“It can't be helped,” Rowan said softly.

Gavin did as bidden, then returned with the leather reins to be used to truss the guards.

“They know ye're out, traitor,” the younger one dared to say.

“So they do,” Rowan responded calmly.

When he went to tie up the heavier, older guard, the man cringed. “Good God, man, just sit still. I have no intention of harming you,” Rowan said impatiently. Even so, the man watched him warily.

“Traitor,” the first man muttered again.

“Nay, the man is no traitor. We'd be dead if he were,” the older one said.

“But—”

“Ye have me gratitude fer me life,” the older guard said.

Rowan nodded as he finished securing the man. “It's a busy enough road. Help will be along by daybreak.”

“Can ye pull us over by the trees?” the older man asked. “It would be a hard lot if we were to survive the…” He paused. There hadn't really been a fight. “If ye chose not to kill us and we were to be trampled to death upon the first light.”

“Aye, that we can do,” Rowan assured him.

When they were about to leave and had moved out of earshot of the prisoners, he took a good look at the remaining horse, which they had tethered to a tree, then turned to Gavin. “You don't happen to have Styx stashed away somewhere, do you?” he asked.

Gavin grinned. “Nay, and we must return the wagon at yonder farm. Truly, the queen didn't wish to harm you. Styx was returned to Castle Grey soon after you were taken, but I think you'll find he's closer than that now.”

“That is a mercy.”

“We must quit Scotland, you know,” Gavin said somberly.

“We'll leave the wagon here and take this horse. And we'll go quickly now, even if the majority of the queen's men are headed toward the Highlands.”

And so they rode together on the remaining mount until they came to the farmstead, where an anxious man awaited them. Rowan told him where he might find his wagon, and warned him to go quickly, while there was still darkness and before the guards could be discovered.

“You'll find that the horse we've left for you, Ajax, is a fine one. Gavin, we've a gold piece for this fine man, haven't we?”

“Indeed.”

“See that my horse is well when I return,” Rowan said.

“I'll feed the good fella apples aplenty from me own hand,” the farmer promised.

They mounted, both on their fresh horses, and Rowan was deeply pleased to be reunited with Styx, then headed out quickly, not wishing to bring any danger to the farmer.

“To London?” Gavin said.

“Aye.”

Rowan had never intended any other course of action; his one driving thought each day, all that had kept him alive, was his eagerness to see Gwenyth again. Even so, when Gavin had spoken, his heart had given an unexpected jolt. Leave Scotland, and not as an ambassador traveling south.

In exile.

“There is no other course of action,” Gavin said.

“I know.”

Gavin smiled at him. “There is one bright spot, my lord.”

“My lady wife.”

“And more,” Gavin said, still grinning. “Your son.”

His jaw dropped; he felt it but could not control it. At last he managed to speak, albeit in a croaked whisper. “What?”

“I have it from Maitland, my lord. It is no rumor, though the birth was kept very quiet. You have a son, now several months old, hale and hearty. Daniel Rowan, your lady christened the lad.”

G
WENYTH ARRIVED
in Edinburgh at the end of a long day's ride, and Mary Fleming was the first to greet her, riding astride outside the castle walls.

“Gwenyth!”

The Scottish guard of ten men, fine fellows who had met up with her at the Borders and taken over the task of escort from their English counterparts, allowed them the time to greet one another. The lady's maid sent by Elizabeth herself, a young girl from Stirling who would go onward to her father's home, was equally discreet, holding back out of earshot.

Gwenyth thought she would fall from her beloved Chloe, Mary Fleming gave her such a fierce hug from the saddle. When they pulled apart, Mary said, “There's so much to be told. We'll get you to Holyrood, and I will bring you up-to-date on the most recent affairs.”

“Laird Rowan, do you know of his fate?” Gwenyth asked anxiously.

“He escaped. All believe that the queen intended him to do so. Yesterday, there was a session of parliament, and she demanded that a bill of attainder be drawn up against the lairds in rebellion, yet she chose not to have his name mentioned, though he is still banned from the country.”

“He escaped?” Gwenyth repeated dully.

Surely it could not be true and God so cruel that she had been allowed to reach Edinburgh, so close to seeing his face again, only to find him gone.

“Aye. There is word that he is over the border, perhaps with Laird James at Newcastle.” Mary Fleming appeared very sad and grave and set a hand comfortingly on Gwenyth's shoulder. “He is safe. Guards went after him, but he managed to leave them trussed up on the road. They spoke highly of him, and now his reputation with his peers and the people grows. No one believes that the queen ever wished him harm. She is just in such a temper about the rebellion, and—”

“Let us get to Holyrood. Away from prying eyes and ears.”

At last they reached the palace and the room that had long ago been assigned her, where she sat upon the bed and listened to Mary Fleming.

“You have been gone so very long. We've missed you, Gwenyth. Sometimes it seemed that you could say things we could not. We are all Scots, but we came here with so much that was French. Mary often had more faith in your words. Of course, once she had such faith in James, her brother, as well. The trouble all began with Lord Darnley. And now…while the queen awaits the birth of her child, he is out drinking each night, and God knows what other diversions he seeks. I believe there is a conspiracy all around us.”

“Against the queen?”

“Perhaps. It is so hard to tell truth from fiction. I know only that certain lairds remain furious about Darnley. They whisper that he has become far too much a Catholic monarch. The lairds despise him, and there is a rumor that some are suggesting he be given more power—so that our good queen may lose her rights and a Protestant monarch can be set in her place. Always, everywhere, secrets are whispered behind our backs. I fear for Mary.”

“But…she is about to have a child. She will produce an heir for Scotland, and she will…she will win over the people and the lairds.”

“I hope you are right. Now you must get ready. The queen is planning a small supper party in her rooms tonight. She knows that you are here, and she is delighted.”

“Will Laird Darnley be at this supper?”

“Do you jest?” Mary Fleming said drily. “No. Laird Darnley—or King Henry, as he calls himself and as the queen honors him—will be out drinking and carousing, as is his way. His chamber lies just beneath the queen's, but he rarely comes up the privy staircase that connects them.”

When Mary left her, Gwenyth lay upon her bed for a long while, heartsick that she would not see Rowan, yet also grateful that he was out of harm's way. She was bitter, however, that she had come to Scotland from England just when he had left Scotland for England.

At last she rose and, with the help of a castle maid, dressed. Shortly thereafter, a tap on her door from one of the queen's chamber servants alerted her that the time had come for supper.

Mary's personal quarters were in the northwest tower of the palace and consisted of four rooms: a presence chamber that led to her bedchamber, and beyond her bedchamber, two smaller—though far from small—rooms that could also be reached via the privy staircase into the bedchamber. As Mary entered the queen's bedroom, heading for the supper room beyond, she heard the soft sound of the queen's voice and she noted the stairway that now led to her husband's, the
king's,
chambers.

Then she forgot the past, for Mary saw her, even in the midst of her company, and hurried through the supper room to greet her. Gwenyth forgot that she was angry with the queen, so concerned was she to see how much Mary had changed. The laughter that had once lurked constantly in her eyes had dimmed, and her features were gaunt. She seemed to have aged greatly.

“My dearest Gwenyth,” Mary said and held her tenderly, as if she meant the words.

“Your Grace.” Gwenyth dipped low with all propriety.

Then the queen swept her inside. “You know your friends, my dear Marys, of course. And you no doubt recall Jean, Lady Argyll and Robert Stewart.”

Of course, Gwenyth thought. Jean was the queen's illegitimate half sister, and Robert was her illegitimate half brother. Robert had evidently not fallen from favor along with James.

The queen went on with the introductions. “This is my page, Anthony Standen, Arthur Erskine, my equerry…and David Riccio, my musician and my most estimable secretary.” She turned to the others. “This is Lady Gwenyth, freed at last from the hold of my cousin Elizabeth.”

They all greeted her. She had met Anthony and Arthur before, and they were true men who served the queen well. Jean had never been anything but a loving and supporting friend to Mary, and Robert, too, seemed to have her best interests at heart. The Marys were always her loving servants. At least in the night's company, the queen had surrounded herself with those whose loyalty could not be questioned. Except for David Riccio, Gwenyth thought, whose true character was a mystery to her.

As the meal progressed, Gwenyth noted that, although David Riccio might have been as ugly as a toad, he was a clever man with a dulcet voice. He had the ability to make the queen laugh, something that, Gwenyth thought, she clearly did not do often of late.

The little man grinned at her. “Welcome home,” he said. “I still know so little about this vast and wild land, though I have been here these many years. Such passions and tempers here, such
life.
”

Gwenyth smiled, about to answer him, when they were disrupted by a loud noise from the bedroom area. Looking to the door of the supper room, Gwenyth saw that Lord Darnley had entered.

She understood Mary's waning affection. The man was young, yet he managed to look old and dissolute. “The king arrives!” he announced.

The others rose. Mary did not. “Henry, how lovely of you to take the time to join us,” she said.

He smiled, and even from a distance, he smelled as if he had all but bathed in a keg of ale. Walking into the room, he tilted to one side.

A second man made an appearance from the direction of the staircase. It was Patrick, Lord Ruthven. Gwenyth knew him, but still, she was amazed to see him. He had been ill, she knew, something Mary Fleming had told her earlier. Indeed, he looked as if he were still ill, and he sounded delirious when he began to speak.

“Let it please Your Majesty,” he said, offering Mary a sweeping bow that all but tumbled him from his feet. “May it please Your Majesty that yon man, David Riccio, has stayed far too long in your presence, in your bedroom.”

“Have you gone mad?” Mary demanded furiously, looking from Ruthven to her husband. “David is here at my most royal request,” she announced firmly, then looked at Darnley. “This can only be due to your ridiculous machinations.”

“Blame not your good lord, my queen,” Ruthven insisted. “Riccio has bewitched you. You don't realize that people talk, that they say you make a cuckold of your good husband.”

“I am with child!” the queen roared, still disbelieving all that she saw. “I play cards and I listen to music, while my dear sainted husband plays at other games.”

Mary's fury was so great that Gwenyth was afraid that she would soon burst into tears and fall into a state of emotional distress that would harm both her and her child.

Suddenly, the room began to fill with more men. Gwenyth didn't know all of them, but she recognized George Gordon, the younger, Thomas Scott and Andrew Ker.

“If you've an argument with David Riccio, then he will appear before parliament,” Mary said evenly.

But her words had no effect. Gwenyth could see immediately that, whatever they might later claim, these men had come to do violence.

David Riccio, too, had realized that something dire was afoot, for he leapt from his chair as if to run, but there was nowhere to go. He headed toward the massive window, behind the queen's back.

Gwenyth stepped back just as the rush of men overturned the table. Someone managed to hold on to a single candle as the others were extinguished, the threat of fire fading and the only light in the room now coming from the fireplace, and the one remaining candle.

David Riccio cried out in a confused mixture of French and Italian, “Justice, justice! Madam, I pray you, save my life!”

The men had pistols and daggers, and a terrified Riccio literally grabbed the queen's skirts, trying to hide behind them.

Gwenyth sprang to life, grabbing Mary Fleming's hand. “Help! We need help here! Do they mean to murder Riccio?”

“Or the queen, as well!” Mary Fleming cried.

The men had Riccio, wrenching his fingers from the queen's skirts and dragging him, kicking and screaming, through the supper room and into the bedchamber.

“Justizia, Justizia, sauvez ma vie!”

Gwenyth heard the sounds of David Riccio being thrown down the privy stairway, and she cried furiously, “Help! Help! To the queen! The queen's life is in danger!”

Suddenly the room became a sea of confusion; Mary's own servants arrived in panic, bearing brooms and dust mops, whatever weapons they had found. Members of the Douglas clan had apparently been about in the castle, and they rushed in next, followed by the queen's guard, brandishing real weapons.

There were shouts, furious accusations—and a bloody battle ensued.

Gwenyth and the queen's ladies tried hard to form a protective barrier around Mary, but Ruthven had dared to set his pistol against her stomach while his fellows had wrestled Riccio from her presence.

In the end, the rebels were left in control.

David Riccio, the tiny Italian, lay dead, a bloody pulp almost unrecognizable as human, so many dagger wounds had torn into his small frame. When word of his death reached her, Mary cried. But then, she responded with courage as she looked at those who had taken over the palace of Holyrood.

“I am ill,” she announced. “I carry the heir to Scotland. You will leave me be with my ladies to attend me and let me rest.”

The men looked awkwardly at one another, then decided to obey Mary and left.

But they were all still in dreadful danger, Gwenyth knew. As most of the rebels drifted from the room and Mary took to her bed, Gwenyth found a renewed sense of love and loyalty for the queen.

As Gwenyth helped her into her bed, Mary whispered, “We will yet find vengeance. Pay heed to every whisper and word our captors speak. Listen for every nuance. We will escape.”

The queen's eyes were alight with fire and she leaned heavily on Gwenyth's arm, feigning distress in hopes that those rebels still in the room would leave. She cried out, as if in pain, and at last was left with only her ladies and her supporters.

“Come close,” Mary whispered to Gwenyth, and together they began to plot.

 

R
OWAN ARRIVED IN
L
ONDON
on a strangely beautiful day. The weather was disarmingly mild as he made his way to the town house. He had not even reached the door when Thomas and Annie came running down the steps, almost embarrassing him by the ardor with which they greeted him.

There was a great deal that he needed to know; but, having reached the house at last, he had only one thought. “My lady?”

He saw the confused expressions on their faces.

“She…has gone at last to Edinburgh,” Thomas said.

“Sweet Jesus!” Rowan cried.

“But the babe, Daniel, dwells here, safely with us, at her command,” Annie assured him.

And so it was that, as he bitterly rued the freakish accident of fate that had sent them in opposite directions, he was brought to see his son.

“My God,” he breathed in awe. The child slept, but he had to awaken him. His son gave a tremendous shiver when Rowan picked him up and then let out a cry of indignation. But then he stared at his father. His eyes were wide, very blue. He had blond curls, and Rowan found himself amazed, touched as he had never been before, and shaking himself as he sat down to hold his child.