The Queen's Lady (8 page)

Mary seemed amused. And her smile deepened when she saw Gwenyth. “Ah, my fierce little hummingbird,” she said laughing. “Ready to battle the entire Church of Scotland in my defense.”

Gwenyth stopped in the doorway, frowning. How had word gotten back so quickly?

Mary rose, setting her embroidery aside, and walked forward to hug Gwenyth. “I will miss you so dearly,” she said, drawing away but still holding Gwenyth's hands.

“I needn't go,” Gwenyth said.

“Yes, you must,” Mary said. She flashed a glance at James. “Perhaps it is particularly important that you leave now.”

“I but defended Your Grace,” Gwenyth said.

“You are ever loyal, and I am grateful. I, too, am furious with the zealots who are so blind that they cannot see beyond their own narrow interests. But were I to forcibly silence them, I might well create an uprising, so I will just let them speak and hope to create a climate in which they are forced to silence themselves. Now, are you ready for your journey? Are you anxious to see your home?”

No,
Gwenyth thought, she was not. She had neither father nor mother left to her, only a strict, dour uncle to whom duty meant everything in the world. Her home was a crude rock fortress virtually surrounded by the sea. The people there fished, eeled and tended a few rugged sheep for their livelihood, or eked out a living from the harsh, rocky earth. Usually they were happy. They had families, loved ones. In her uncle's eyes, however, she deserved no such frivolity; she had duty to occupy her. Angus MacLeod was surely loved by the fierce John Knox.

“I am anxious about you, Your Grace,” she said.

Mary's smile deepened. “I am blessed, truly. You must go.”

Gwenyth admitted to herself that she was not going to win the argument. Rowan had known it. Now she was going to have to hurry to be ready by his deadline. And she would not allow herself to be late, to give him any opportunity to wear that look of irritated, forced patience because of her.

“Then…
adieu.
”

“You'll return quickly,” Mary assured her. “It seems long, but it will not really be so.”

Gwenyth nodded. They hugged, and then she was startled when Laird James came over to say a warm farewell to her. He was not a man prone to easy displays of affection, she knew, and she was pleased when he awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Go with God, Lady Gwenyth. You will be missed.”

She smiled and thanked him. Then she fled the chamber before the tears she felt welling up in her eyes could spill. This was life, she told herself brusquely. When Mary had been but a child, she had been sent overseas, without her mother, to meet the man she would wed whether she liked him or not. Women were sent from place to place constantly to honor marriage contracts—and often, it was as if they had been sold to horrid beasts.

Her heart froze for a moment. Customarily, despite the fact that her father's title was hers, her great-uncle Angus had the power to decide her future. She could only thank God that because of her position at court, Mary had to approve any plan for her life.

Mary would never force anything heinous upon her. Would she?

No. Even now, Mary had but sent her on a journey to feel out the chance for a friendship with her cousin, the powerful English queen. She had never forced her will on any of her ladies.

Except now.
Then Gwenyth chided herself for the uncharitable, even traitorous, thought.

In her room, the little private chamber she so loved, she found a middle-aged, slightly stout woman awaiting her. She had cherubic cheeks, a warm smile and an ample bosom. “My lady, I'm Annie, Annie MacLeod, actually, though any relationship is certainly quite distant.” She grinned, a rosy and cheerful expression, and said, “I am to accompany you and serve you, if you will grant me the honor.”

Gwenyth smiled. At last, here was someone who seemed to be nothing but cheerful and nice—and glad to be with her.

“I am delighted to have you, Annie.”

“I've sent your trunk down to our small caravan. I am ready, my lady, when you are.”

So this was it.

She had dressed for the long day's ride when she had headed to the kirk, expecting to leave feeling refreshed and blessed by the word of God. Instead…No matter, will it or nil it, she was ready.

“Annie, it is time. We need to be on our way.”

She closed the door to her sanctuary within Holyrood. It was with a heavy heart that she hurried down the stone stairs and out to the courtyard where the packhorses, the small retinue of guards—and Laird Rowan—awaited.

 

A
T LEAST THE
L
ADY
G
WENYTH
was not an elderly or sickly ward, Rowan thought. On his own, he could easily make fifty miles in a day. If he'd had to move with a coach and a great deal of baggage, he would have been slowed almost to a stop. As it was, the Lady Gwenyth had shown herself pleasantly capable of packing lightly. The cheerful woman chosen to accompany her was far greater a burden, actually, albeit through no fault of her own. She was a decent enough horsewoman, comfortable on her placid mount, but as she had not spent endless hours in the saddle before, Rowan was forced to stop regularly so they might stretch their legs, sup and rest.

On his own, he might have made Stirling on that first day. With the women, he thought it best to spend his first night at Linlithgow Palace, which sat almost midway between Edinburgh and Stirling.

At the gates, he was greeted by an armed guard, recognized and welcomed. The castle steward, knowing Gwenyth's name and position, was both curious and charmed. Though they had arrived late, he and Gwenyth were ushered into the massive great hall, while their four-man escort was shown to berths above the stables, and Annie and his man were brought to the kitchen to eat and then given beds in the servants' quarters. He and Gwenyth stayed awake talking with the steward, Amos MacAlistair, for the robust fellow was fond of telling how Queen Mary had been born at the palace, though alas her father had died just six days later. Rowan watched Gwenyth as she listened, rapt, smiling, as the old man talked about Mary as an infant. Rowan decided the day had gone well—especially considering the morning. He and Gwenyth had kept a polite distance for the long ride, and he hoped they could keep moving on in similar harmony.

The next evening was equally fine, for they were greeted by the steward of Stirling Castle, and accorded equal consideration and respect. Gwenyth seemed to love Stirling, and, indeed, the castle was impressive and the town beautiful. People whispered about their arrival in the streets; Gwenyth smiled as she saw the townsfolk, calling out greetings. She was, he had to admit, a charming unofficial ambassador for her queen, even here.

It wasn't until the next afternoon, when they were on their way to the Highlands, that the journey took a foul turn.

They had come to the small village of Loch Grann, though the loch was really no more than a small pool. As they rode along, nearing the village, they could hear shouting.

Gwenyth, who had ridden abreast with Annie most of the way, trotted her mare forward to reach his side. “What is the commotion?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don't know.”

She kneed her horse and rode ahead of him.

“Will you wait?” he called in aggravation.

Following Gwenyth, he passed several charming cottages, a kirk and the unimpressive building that passed as the thane's manor here, and then reached the village center, where a narrow stream trickled through.

Gwenyth had reined in, horror evident on her face.

He immediately saw why. The shouting was coming from a mob of townspeople, urged on by what appeared to the local thane's men-at-arms. The object of their derision was a young woman bound to a stake, with faggots and branches piled at her feet. She was stripped down to a white gown of sheer linen; her long dark tresses were in sad tangles; and the look on her face was one of utter defeat and anguish.

“They are going to burn her!” Gwenyth exclaimed in horror.

“She has probably been convicted of witchcraft, or perhaps of heresy,” Rowan informed her.

She looked at him, those immense golden eyes of her alive with indignation. “Do you believe in such ridiculousness?” she demanded.

“I believe that even your precious queen believes in it,” he said softly.

“But…tried
here?
” she demanded. “Not in Edinburgh? By what law?
Whose
law?”

“Local, I daresay.”

“Then you must stop them.”

He had to wonder what he would have done had she not been with him. He was frequently appalled by the harshness of the Scottish laws. As a lad, he had seen a young man hanged at St. Giles in Edinburgh, his crime no greater than the theft of a leg of lamb. His father had told him sadly then that such was the law; he could not stop the execution.

He did not believe in superstition, or that certain women had the evil eye, and before God, he certainly did not believe it was possible to make a pact with the Devil. But there were laws….

“Do something!” Gwenyth cried. “Please, Rowan, they are about to light the fires.”

“Hold, and watch at the ready,” he told Gavin, head of their escort.

She had never before called him by his given name, Rowan realized, and in her eyes there was nothing but honest and sincere entreaty. Emotions, he thought; they become the downfall of us all.

He spurred his horse forward, a display of power as he raced through the townspeople to confront the churchmen. “What is this mockery of justice?” he demanded angrily. “What right have you to impose the sentence of execution?”

As he had hoped, the size and evident breeding of his horse and the colors he wore indicated his association with the royal house. Most of the crowd fell back in silence, but one black-clad minister stepped toward him. “I am reverend of the kirk here, my laird. She has been duly tried and found guilty.”

“Duly tried? What manner of court do you have here? Is it authorized by the queen?” Rowan demanded.

“It was a local matter,” the man protested.

He looked around. The crowd had remained silent. The only sound came from the young woman at the stake, who was sobbing softly.

“Release her,” he said quietly.

“But…but she has been tried.”

“By no proper court. In a matter of life and death, according to the dictates of both law and conscience, my good man, you surely know you should seek higher authority.”

The pastor looked more closely at Rowan, noted his colors and the presence of his armed escort, and took a small step back. “You are Rowan Graham, Laird of the Far Isles?” he asked uneasily.

“Aye. Sworn to the Stewarts of Scotland.”

The pastor arched a brow. “The
French
Stewart?”

“The Queen of Scotland. And I have long ridden at the side of James Stewart, Earl of Mar, the greatest law of our land, our regent following the death of the queen's mother.”

A woman stepped forward. She was middle-aged and stout, and despite the set look of her jaw, he felt sorry for her. She was worn, looking to be a bitter woman whose life had held little joy.

“Ye do nae understand, great laird. She looked at me. Liza Duff looked at me and gave me her evil stare, and my pig died the next day,” the woman said.

A man found courage and joined her. “My babe took sick with the cough after Liza Duff looked at me.”

“Did no one else look at you?” he queried sharply. “Good people! Life is God's domain. Do you so easily feel it your right, without seeking the highest authority in the land, to condemn any woman or man to so heinous a death because misfortune has befallen you?”

He reached into his sporran, seeking a few gold coins, which he cast down before the two who had spoken. “Buy more pigs,” he said to the embittered matron. “And you,” he told the man. “Perhaps there is some medicine that you can buy.”

They scrambled for the gold coins, clutching them. The pastor stared at him.

Gwenyth rode forward, staring down at the pastor before turning to Rowan. “She cannot remain here,” she said. “If she is so despised,” she said softly, “they will take your gold, then try her again tomorrow, and we will only have delayed her execution.”

She was right.

He looked down again at the pastor. “I will bring this woman, Liza Duff, to my homestead, where she may serve in my household. Should we find there is truth in your accusations, she will be brought to Edinburgh to stand trial before the proper authority.”

He wasn't sure he needed to have added the last; his gold and status seemed to have turned the tide in their direction.

“That sounds a fair and solid proposition. She will no longer be here to torment the tenants of this village,” the churchman said.