The Queen's Lady (37 page)

“I am God's creature,” she whispered.

Reverend Martin's hand cracked hard against her face. She tasted blood. “Do you care nothing for your immortal soul?” he demanded.

She was silent.

He shrugged, smiling slowly. “I have at my disposal, for I never travel without the tools of my trade, many ways to save you from the ultimate fires of hell.”

She held her head high but continued silent.

Once again his hand shot out. Her ears rang; it felt as if her head had split. When she would have fallen, he caught her.

“What? What?” he said loudly, leaning down as if listening, though she had said nothing. Then he allowed her to slip to the floor, everything around her blackening, but she was conscious long enough to hear his triumphant claim.

“She has confessed! The witch has confessed!”

And she knew, as well, that she heard the laughter of Fergus MacIvey.

M
ARY OF
S
COTLAND HAD LAST SEEN
Gwenyth on the road to Castle Black, so Rowan first rode there, and he rode hard. His personal forces, well-trained in his long absence by Tristan's careful hand, numbered in the hundreds, but to move quickly, he rode only with Gavin, Brendan and his customary ten men.

At Castle Black, he met with the lad who had rescued Queen Mary from the road. He hadn't known Gwenyth's identity, though he had known she was one of the queen's ladies.

He was heartsick at the losses sustained by the queen, but he was eager to help Rowan. “The rebels were hot on the tail of our dear queen that night. I tried to go back to help the lady, as I had promised, but the woods were full of men, and I could find her nowhere.”

Rowan felt ill, knowing she had been taken by someone under the confederacy of the barons, and he was no closer to knowing who, specifically, had captured her. The man from Castle Black seemed at a loss on that topic, but then one of his fellows stepped forward.

“They were a mixed group, that I know, fer I was ordered to backtrack and spy. There were Highlanders among the group, I know, for I remember thinking it curious that they moved on to the southeast, rather than heading toward their homes.”

And so they rode southeast. Rowan tried to use reason, rather than let a growing and frantic fear seize control of him. He ordered his men to dress as weary travelers, and they split up to roam the countryside, stopping at farm houses, villages and towns.

At last, at a public house, they joined with a group drinking in a pub. Rowan cast a glowering glance at Gavin when he appeared about to rise to fight at an insult to the queen.

“I hear,” Rowan said casually, “that one of her ladies was seized, as well, but none of them know of her in Edinburgh.”

An older man lifted his ale, shaking his head. “I know of her, and a sad story it is. She was seized on the road but stood loyal to her queen. There were some of the MacIvey clan among the group, and seems there was some grudge.” He shook his head, lowering his voice. “Madness! They brought in a witch-finder, claiming that the woman's witchery had brought about the murder of one of their clansmen, the laird that was.”

Rowan fought desperately to maintain a sense of calm. “They condemned one of the queen's ladies as a witch?”

The old fellow nodded. “It would nae ha' happened here. We're quiet folk, and we have sense in the heads upon our shoulders. But there is no help fer it. There's laws against witchcraft.”

“Where is she now?” Rowan asked, aware of the husky tenor in his voice as he prayed silently that she was not dead.

“I hear they've taken her to one of the old fortifications near the border.”

Not far. He had time. He would have to send for his men. Like it or not, he would be going to war, forced to kill the hapless fools who followed such men as the MacIveys.

The old man looked at him, face tightening in sorrow. “She's to die tomorrow.”

Startled by the news, Rowan stood, nearly knocking over the table.

“Rowan, no.” Gavin's warning came too late.

But the old man was the only one who heard the cry. A strange smile lifted his lips. “Ye're the Laird of Lochraven, are ye not, man?” he asked softly. He nodded sagely, not needing an answer. “Unless ye're riding with a host of hundreds, ye cannae stop it by force.”

Rowan wanted to protest, but he knew the old man was right.

“I am Finnan Clough,” the old man said. “I can offer ye little. But ye need nae fear me.”

Rowan thought rapidly. “Is there a chemist here?”

“Aye, there is. And I can find ye anything ye need, but—”

“I need a drug. A good chemist will know. It slows the heart and the lungs. It makes one appear to be dead.”

The fellow laughed suddenly.

“What?”

“I know the drug. I am ever on the lookout fer its effects meself—I am the gravedigger at the kirk here, ye see.”

“The gravedigger?” Rowan said.

“Aye.”

“You, good man, can help me far more than you might imagine. I have a plan,” Rowan said.

Both Gavin and old Finnan listened.

“'Tis risky. If they discover yer ruse, ye'll die with yer lady,” Finnan said when Rowan had finished speaking.

“I have nothing left but the risk,” Rowan told him.

 

T
HEY FOUND LODGING
at the public house, and there, at the crack of dawn, Rowan garbed himself in his best tartan, dirk at hand in case of need, knives at both calves, sword in the sheath at his waist. His men were dressed with equal grandeur, and they led an extra horse that carried “supplies” bound in a blanket.

He was sickened to see the air of frivolity about the town when they arrived. People were out on the streets, farmers, milkmaids, good wives, men-at-arms. Out on a hill, a scaffold and stake had been prepared, and Rowan imagined that the faggots around it were half green. The fire would take longer to catch in full, prolonging the accused's agony.

His presence was noted by many, his colors too obvious to pass unnoticed. He was glad, for he had meant for his identity to be known.

He went straight to the kirk, where he found Reverends Miller and Donahue at prayer. He did not see any of the MacIvey clan, and of that he was glad. He was certain they did not mean to arrive until it was time for the fire.

He startled the ministers as he entered the kirk with all the noise he could muster.

Both men rose, and Donahue gasped softly. “Rowan, Laird of Lochraven,” he said in surprise.

Reverend Martin strode toward him. “There will be justice seen here today, m'laird. Whatever past fancy you might have shared, I'm sorry. The lady must die.”

“Indeed, she must,” Rowan said, his words flat and cold. “I have my own reasons to despise her wickedness.”

Reverend Donahue heaved a sigh of relief, while Reverend Martin appeared greatly pleased.

“I wish to see her. I want her to know that I am here to witness her death.”

The two men looked at one another uneasily.

“I wish to see her before you take her out in public. I wish to stop her—if there is anything damning, any lie, she might try to utter it at the stake.”

“Ah,” Donahue said knowingly. “But the time is now.”

“Then you will take me quickly,” Rowan said.

“I will escort you to her cell,” Reverend Martin told him. “Come with me, good laird.”

And so it was that the man easily walked him from the kirk to the stark remnants of the fortification. There was little left for it still to be termed a castle, but there was a roof, and the men within were armed as they sat about at cards and other games. There were twenty of them.

Quite a lot to guard one slender girl,
he thought.

One of the jailers joined them, carrying something at his side. A black cowl, Rowan thought.

He was to be the executioner.

They walked down a flight of steps, and it was then that he saw Gwenyth at last.

His heart leapt and thundered. Her beautiful hair was in such sad disarray. Her clothing was torn and ragged, muddied, and she was far too thin. But in her dishevelment, she seemed to have a greater dignity than ever before.

The reverend spoke as they walked. “Thus let it be with all evil. Those who embrace the devil will be burned at the stake until dead. In fire, there is purification, and the root of ungodliness will be ashes cast to the wind.”

Rowan found himself pushing ahead of the reverend, but the man continued to speak.

“Take care, reverend,” she said softly. “I stand condemned, and if I speak now before the crowd, I will say that I am guilty of nothing. I will not confess to a lie before the crowd, else my Father in Heaven would abandon me. I go to my death, and on to Heaven, because the good Lord knows I am innocent, and that you are using His name to rid yourselves of a political enemy. It is
you,
I fear, who will long rot in hell.”

“Blasphemy!” Rowan shouted. She had been staring at him so defiantly, even as she spoke to the reverend. But his cry had stunned her, he knew.

Rowan nodded toward the guard who would stand as executioner, and the door to her cell was thrown open. There was no choice in this; he caught her cruelly by the arm and spun her around. His fingers tore into her hair, forcing her eyes to his as he spoke again. “She must not be allowed to speak before any crowd. She knows her soul is bound for hell, and she will try only to drag others down into Satan's rancid hole along with her,” Rowan said, his voice rough with hatred and conviction. “Trust me, for I know too well the witchery of her enchantment.”

He held her so that their faces could not be seen by the men watching them, held her so that he could slip the vial from his sleeve, and force it toward her lips. He dropped his voice to a whispered plea. “Drink this. Now,” he commanded.

She looked at him. Stared at him with such contempt and hatred in her eyes that he had to grit his teeth to maintain control. “For the love of God, drink this now,” he said, and forced the vial to her lips.

Then, the light in her eyes began to fade as the drug took hold.

“She's Satan's bitch!” he cried. “She seeks to make a mockery of us all.”

She was almost unconscious; she was sinking against him. He wrapped his hands around her throat.

“Bastard,” she managed to whisper hoarsely.

He raised his voice again. “I shall meet you in hell, lady!” he cried.

Her eyes closed, but he kept his hands around her throat and pretended to choke the life from her.

“Stop! You'll kill her,” the reverend said, annoyed.

Rowan froze. He tried not to let her fall too hard, but he had to drop her to maintain the charade. “She is dead,” he said, as her body slumped to the cold stone floor.

“You would cheat the fire?” Reverend Martin raged.

Rowan spun around in equal fury. “You are a fool! You don't know what manner of words she might have found at the stake. Would you have had this execution turn on you?” He reached down, picking Gwenyth up from the floor. She hung limp in his arms.

He fought hard not to caress her, shake her, assure himself that she did indeed live, so truly dead did she seem. He pulled his magnificent furred mantle from his shoulders and swept it around her, covering her face. He had to hurry; his timing had to be perfect.

“No one need know that they have been cheated,” he announced, rising with his burden. “Reverend, lead the way.”

They returned to the main floor of the ruined fortification and walked out into the sunlight. As they did so, Gavin and Rowan's men came riding straight toward them.

“So she is dead, then?” Gavin asked, as if deeply satisfied. But as he spoke, the men circled their horses around Rowan.

“The people are waiting,” Reverend Martin said, annoyed.

“Let them wait. I'll not waste a good mantle in the fire,” Rowan said irritably. “Give me a blanket, Gavin. We cannot let the spectators see her face, lest they realize death has already claimed her.”

They moved quickly and with practiced agility. Rowan made a show of letting his mantle sweep through the air as he replaced it with a coarse woolen blanket.

Ignoring the others behind him, Rowan strode quickly to the scaffold. The crowd, aware that the time of execution was here, hurried to the site.

To Rowan's unease, the guard given the role of executioner leapt atop the scaffold and helped him secure the body.

“Light it, quickly, before someone protests that they cannot see her face,” Rowan demanded.

“Aye,” the fellow agreed, looking around as if suddenly aware that there might be a protest, and that he could bear the brunt of it.

The fire was quickly lit, the green faggots creating such a black and heavy smoke that those nearest began to cough.

“Wait!” the reverend shouted furiously. “I did not say the words—”

“Behold! A witch burns, a punishment justly deserved by those who would embrace Satan!” Rowan called. Even as he spoke, he saw a group of horsemen thunder up the hill. Fergus MacIvey, the young Laird Michael at his side, was in the lead.

“Rowan of Lochraven!” Fergus shouted, astonished and uneasy. He reined in his horse; the animal did not like the smoke and fire, and reared high. “You will not stop this!”

Rowan arched a brow. “Stop it? I brought the lady to the flames.” He dared not linger then, so he looked at the man with contempt. “It is done,” he said briefly, then walked back past the crowd. Only Gavin awaited him, holding Styx's reins. Gavin leapt atop his mount as the rancid odor of burning flesh filled the air.

Rowan looked back to see Fergus and Michael MacIvey staring at the fire.

“Ye can't kill 'em,” Gavin warned him. “Not here, not now.”