Virginia Henley (25 page)

 

In the morning Catherine awoke with the same wistful longing she had felt when she went to sleep. As the day wore on it melted away, and it was gone by the time she and Maggie packed their clothes for Holyrood. That evening at dinner, Geordie presented her with a velvet jewel case.

“A wee brid told me ye’re in need of a gewgaw.”

Cat interpreted “brid” as
bird,
and “gewgaw” as
jewel
. She opened the case and saw diamonds glittering upon the black velvet. “How lovely! Did this belong to my grandmother?”

“Aye, Audra wore it when she had her portrait painted.”

Catherine lifted the diamond and crystal necklace with reverent hands. “It matches the crystal drops on my gown.”

“It must be magic,” Geordie said with a wink.

“It must be
Maggie,
who was cheeky enough to ask you if I could borrow Audra’s necklace.”

“Borrow, my arse! ’Tis for keeps. Her jewels are better worn by a lady who can do them justice, than hidden away.”

His words brought a lump to her throat. “I thank you with all my heart, Granddad. I shall wear them proudly.”

The following evening when Geordie escorted Catherine down to Holyrood’s reception chambers and the chamberlain announced them, Cat stepped forward with confidence and was delighted when a hush descended.
They are amazed at my transformation!

The males present realized the Earl of Winton’s granddaughter was a woman full grown, and a sophisticated and wealthy one at that. The females stared with envy at the petite, dazzling creature in vivid peacock blue with the fan-shaped ruff that framed her upswept, shining curls and showed off the diamonds blazing at her throat.

When she curtsied before the king and queen, she saw that James was wearing a kilt of Royal Stewart plaid and for once he did not look melancholy. Tonight he was celebrating his thirty-sixth birthday, and Cat realized for the first time that was not old.

“Lady Catherine, you must design me a ruff like yours,” Queen Anne declared as her eyes examined Cat’s gown and jewels.

“It would be my pleasure, Your Gracious Majesty.”
Queen Elizabeth would imprison me in the Tower and throw away the key! How fortunate she’ll not be visiting Scotland in the near future.

A skirl of bagpipes announced the approach of King James’s pipe band. When they marched into the chamber the sound almost raised the rafters. They paraded round the perimeter of the room several times, as they played one rousing Highland military march after another. Words had been written to some of the music and the lusty voices of the guests sang out in unison. When the pipe band marched onto the dais and stood behind the royal couple, everyone present burst into spontaneous applause.

Four bonnie youths with rosy cheeks filed into the chamber, each carrying two shining broadswords. They bowed to the king and queen, then bent and placed the swords crosswise on the floor.

“This is a traditional sword dance, Catherine.”

Cat knew it was Patrick behind her. The way he rolled the
r
in her name sent a delicious shiver down her spine. As she glanced at him she saw that he too was wearing the brilliant red Royal Stewart plaid. Her eyes quickly swung back to the dancers because his kilt, slung on his hipbones, was scandalously short.
I can see his muscled thighs! His legs are like young oak trees.

Cat tried to concentrate on the dancers, but even though their kilts swung to reveal their limbs, her wicked imagination was picturing a naked Patrick Hepburn. Aboard ship, she’d seen his bared chest with its dark pelt of hair and now she’d seen his legs. When she tried to fill in his more intimate parts her imagination failed her, but she recognized the ache growing in the pit of her belly as physical desire. Acute, wanton desire!

Catherine edged away from him until others were directly behind her. She knew that her diminutive height would not block anyone watching the sword dancing.

“Anne is extremely shrewd. She handpicked the male dancers to appeal to James’s special tastes.” Cat recognized the females conversing as two of the queen’s ladies.

“Strapping youths with blond curls ... what a waste!”

Catherine did not understand their asides. Her glance moved past the dancers to observe King James, whose attention was riveted upon the dancers; he was clearly enjoying himself.

The sword dancing garnered deafening applause as the performers went to kneel before the royal couple. The king, effusive in his thanks, reached out to caress the curls of one young man. Cat suddenly recognized him as Robin Carr, who’d asked her to dance the last time she was here. She wondered if he’d seek her out again.

The musicians who played the music for the country-dances and reels entered the chamber and began to tune their instruments, and the guests began to mingle and converse. The two females who’d been behind Catherine stared at her elegant peacock gown, and then had a murmured exchange about her.

“’Tis said that English ladies at Elizabeth’s Court are slaves to fashion, Christina,” one of them drawled.

“Rumor also has it English ladies are cold as icicles. Is that true, Lady Catherine?” the other one asked spitefully.

From the corner of her eye Cat saw Hepburn advancing upon her. She looked the queen’s lady in the eye and said sweetly, “Look ravishingly available, but be unobtainable. Keeps men coming back for more.” She smiled. “Hello, Patrick, are you pursuing me?”

He looked at the three females with amused eyes. “Do you ladies know each other?”

Christina said, “Yes indeed, Lord Stewart, we were just discussing the oddities of English ladies.”

His lips curved. “If this is a cat fight, my money’s on the wee lass. Which one of you ladies will partner me in the reel?”

Catherine gave him a ravishing smile. “England concedes the honor to Scotland, or would that be Denmark?”

“It would be my pleasure to partner you, my lord, in the dance or in any other way,” Christina offered suggestively.

The young Earl of Gowrie bowed before Cat. “Lady Catherine, would ye do me the honor of partnerin’ me in the reel?”

“It is you who honor me, my lord.” She glanced at Patrick and saw him frown. It pleased her immeasurably. She grew less pleased as the evening progressed and Hepburn did not ask to partner her again. Whenever she caught a glimpse of him dancing, his kilt was swinging so high it made her gasp. “Vain swine!” she muttered beneath her breath.

When the dancing was followed by a fireworks display in honor of the king’s birthday, however, Patrick was there to escort her outside and refused to take no for an answer.

In the vivid, elegant gown Catherine had never looked more sophisticated, he thought, yet he honestly preferred the lovely innocence of her white Court gown. “Perhaps you should sheathe your claws when conversing with the queen’s ladies. It would be wise to make a friend of Anne, rather than an enemy.”

“Some of her ladies may dislike me, but I am already firm friends with Queen Anne. She asked me to design her a gown.”

“That’s good, Catherine. Anne is the future Queen of England.”

Cat stared up at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about when James Stuart becomes King of England.”

“But Elizabeth will have to die before that can happen. Elizabeth Tudor has no intentions of dying, Patrick. You are speaking about the very distant future. She isn’t even ready to name her successor.”

“Of course not,” he conceded.
Elizabeth is so firmly entrenched in the minds of her courtiers, they think her immortal.
“Look at that!” He pointed to the sky as a shower of golden rain exploded, followed by a fountain of cascading silver stars.

“You can make a wish on a falling star!” Cat exclaimed.

He gazed down at her and touched a finger to the glittering diamonds at her throat. “My wish is that you’ll come and stay at Crichton next week. Robert and Liz are coming.”

She swayed toward him. “Perhaps I will ...” Her voice trailed off in a half promise. “But not until the end of the week.”

“Don’t cock tease, Hellcat; you’ll get your tail singed.”

Chapter Fifteen

I
t was the early hours of the morning when James Stuart left his birthday revels and retired to bed. Before he left he had a quiet word with Patrick Hepburn and Robert Carey asking them to attend him in his Privy Chamber before lunch the next day.

When the two men arrived in the antechamber, Patrick refrained from telling Robert about the psychic episode he’d had when he awoke. He had again envisioned the Carey family genealogical table, clearly showing the date of Lord Hunsdon’s death, but made a decision not to speak of it until Robert had seen the king.

Jamie left Carey in the antechamber to cool his heels while he had a private word with Hepburn. “I’ve carefully crafted a letter tae Elizabeth that I want ye tae read before I give it tae Carey. I believe I’ve followed Cecil’s instructions tae the letter. He warns me against any mention, ever, of the succession. Not even a hint. He advises me to secure the ‘heart of the highest’ by much praise and by showing no curiosity in her actions.” King James handed Patrick the letter.

It was filled with flowery flattery and adulation for Elizabeth, telling her how much James appreciated her friendship and guidance. Sprinkled throughout were classical quotations.

“The Latin phrases are the perfect touch,” Hepburn approved.

“I’m sending the letter tae Cecil enclosed inside one I’ve written tae him.” James handed Patrick the second letter.

James had thanked the Secretary of State for his trust and assured him it was reciprocated. He asked Cecil’s advice about courting popularity in England and if it was possible to start setting up an English Court for the King of Scotland. Hepburn knew that Cecil would tell him it was not advisable, but decided it would be better if Jamie heard it from the horse’s mouth.

The king took back his letters and began to affix his seals. “Let’s have Carey in. I want him tae leave today and bring back an answer
posthaste.
”

Within half an hour the two friends left the king’s Privy Chamber. “Liz will be extremely disappointed that we cannot come to Crichton, Patrick. Can you think of some plausible excuse I can give her that she will believe?”

“Unfortunately I can, Robert. I had a prophetic vision about your father. I believe he died in his sleep last night. I didn’t want to tell you until after you had seen James.”

“Dear God, though he’s aged and ailing and I’ve been expecting it, it still comes as a shock.”

“By the time you cross the Border and stop at Bewcastle, your brother George should just be receiving the message that he is the new Lord Hunsdon. You’ll be able to travel to London together.”

When they arrived at Carey’s chamber, Liz had already finished packing. “Hello, Patrick. You just missed Catherine. She came to say good-bye, but gave me her word she would come to spend a few days at Crichton this week.”

“Liz, my dear, we won’t be able to visit Crichton,” Robert replied. “I’ve just received word that Father has died. We must leave today.”

“Oh, Robert, that is such sad news. I’m glad that I had the chance to get to know him a little.” She put comforting arms about her husband and held him for a moment. “Patrick, if I write a note to Catherine, would you be kind enough to deliver it?”

“I shall give it to her personally, Liz. Your visit to Crichton can wait. My deepest condolences to both of you.”

As Hepburn rode home from Edinburgh he was glad that Geordie and Catherine had departed earlier for Seton. He was in no hurry to deliver Liz’s letter to Catherine. If she believed that Liz and Robert were at Crichton, she might come. Once she learned otherwise, she definitely would not.

The following day at Seton, Catherine decided she needed some additions to her wardrobe. She went in search of a length of Winton plaid. One of the castle sewing women took her to the solar, where an ornate cedar chest held bolts of cloth. Among the finely woven wool, Cat discovered dark green Winton plaid and Winton hunting plaid, which had a great deal of white woven into the green. She chose the Winton hunting plaid because its two main hues were Tudor colors, though she much preferred the brilliant red of the Royal Stewart that Patrick had worn.

As her hands sorted through the material, Cat touched a piece of cloth that was so soft, she knew she must have it. When she separated it from the rest, she discovered that it was doeskin in its natural shade. She carried the two lengths of material down to Maggie. “I would love a riding skirt made from this doeskin.”

“I thought ye were off to Crichton today. Instead, yer planning a new wardrobe,” Maggie commented.

“Just because the arrogant Lord Stewart invited me to stay at Crichton for a few days doesn’t mean I shall go.”

“Oh, aye.” Maggie’s voice was laced with skepticism.

“Well, I do mean to go, but certainly not today ... perhaps not even tomorrow. I’m not at Hepburn’s beck and call.”

Maggie lifted the length of tartan. “I remember Audra wearing a skirt made of this plaid. It was so full, it swirled about when she moved quickly to reveal her trim ankles. Ye want the same?”

“Ankles be damned. I want a kilt,” Catherine said lightly.

“Ye mean pleated like a kilt?”

“I mean
short
like a kilt.”

“
Above
yer ankles?” Maggie asked, scandalized.

“Above my
knees
!”

“I’ll have nothing to do with such a wanton garment.”

“Then I’ll make the bloody thing myself!” Cat declared. She sought out Geordie’s valet and asked if he’d let her have a look at one of her grandfather’s kilts to see how it was made.

He explained it was a simple length of cloth, gathered into pleats and held in place by a wide belt. A large pin prevented it from blowing open when caught by the wind. Any excess material was thrown over the shoulder.