As High as the Heavens

fflOR~AN

I will thank you, Lord, in front of all the people. I will
sing your praises among the nations. For your unfailing
love is as high as the heavens.

Psalm 57:9-10

jan(aRy, 1568, CRamp1an Reggion, Scoztand

"Och, help me endure this winter. And help me accept the life that fate-and my father-have decreed
for me!"

As the sun's fading rays slanted through the birches
lining the road to Dunscroft Castle, Heather Gordon bit
back further entreaties-futile but instinctive after years
of religious instruction-to a God who had long since
ceased to care, and stepped back from the deep, stonecut library window. Usually protected from within by
heavy iron shutters that could be firmly bolted against
possible attack, the window stood unobstructed this day
to catch the watery, winter light. The meager illumination, however, did little to brighten the gloomy, tomeladen room. If not for the view of rolling hills and distant
mountains, Heather didn't know how she could've borne the sense of restless entrapment she always experienced
this time of year.

She made her aimless way past the globe of the world
and high-backed wooden settle covered with cushions
to the bookshelves inset in the dark, wainscot-paneled
walls. Ah, she thought, but she was so very weary of winter, and it was only mid-January. At least three months of
cold, damp, and snow still remained here in the Grampians, the mountain range that formed a natural division
between the Scottish Highlands and Lowlands.

If this year, though, were the same as all the years
past, she'd have to endure only three more months and
all would be well. Three more months, and she could
once again accompany her father to Edinburgh to immerse herself in the heady charm and excitement that
was Queen Mary's Court. Always before, such plans had
indeed been sufficient to pin one's hopes and dreams on
in the dreary days and weeks ahead.

But not this year. This year the queen no longer resided
in Edinburgh. In truth, since her unwilling abdication
last July in favor of her infant son, after the defeat of
her and her third husband the Earl of Bothwell's forces
by rebel troops at Carberry Hill, Mary was no longer
officially queen.

There'd be no banquets or outings or dances led by
the beautiful, carefree monarch this spring. Mary was
imprisoned in Lochleven Castle, ensconced on its tiny
island in the middle of Loch Leven, and her brilliant
but illegitimate half brother, James Stewart, the Earl of
Moray, had no intention of allowing her to rule again.
The kingdom would survive with Moray now as regent for the infant king, but life as they had all known it would
never be the same.

Expelling a deep sigh, Heather ran her emerald-andpearl-beringed fingers along the row of leather-bound
books, considering then discarding a number of titles
before settling on a book of Scottish verses by William
Dunbar. She pulled out the small, gilt-etched volume,
opened it, and read a few of the poems. For a change,
however, none of the compositions caught her fancy.
With an even deeper sigh, she carefully returned the
book to its spot and lifted her gaze to the next higher
shelf.

Plato, Socrates, Aristotle. Gavin Douglas's translation of Virgil's Aeneid into the Scots language. Heather
grimaced. Somehow, their stirring words didn't beckon
today. Though she wished for a book thought-provoking
enough to distract and help while away the hours until
suppertime, when she hoped her father would be finished
with his meeting with the Lords Fleming and Seton, and
lesser noblemen George Douglas, John Beaton, and John
Sempill, Heather wasn't in the mood just now for any
heavy philosophical treatises.

Next to the ponderous tomes of the ancient Greeks and
Romans sat yet another small volume, entitled The Book
of the City of Ladies by Christine Pisan. Though Heather
knew the writings of the famed French scholar and poet
of the past century nearly by heart, she never tired of
rereading her eloquent words in defense of women. Perhaps some of those declarations would soothe her restive spirit now. Perhaps, this time, she'd finally find the
answers to what was really needed for a happy, contented life. Answers she'd of late so avidly sought and had yet
to truly find.

Taking down the volume, Heather thumbed through
the pages. The first words that caught her eye only
plunged her heart deeper into the morass of confusion
and resentment that had plagued her for the past year.
I considered myself most unfortunate, she read, because
God had made me inhabit a female body in this world.

Heather gave a snort of disgust and quickly reshelved
that book as well. "God's injustice to women! As if, atop
it all," she muttered, "I needed that reminder of yet another source of my discontent."

Just then the stout oak door swung open, ushering
in a chill gust of air from the hall. Heather shivered,
pulled her fine, crimson wool damask wrap about the
shoulders of her tightly cinched, emerald green velvet
gown with its high, stiff ruff collar, and turned. There,
in the doorway, a preoccupied frown marring his strong,
noble features, stood her father.

As dark as Heather was light, Lord Robert Gordon was
a tall, robustly built man who, even in his fifties, carried
himself with the athletic grace and vigor of a man a score
of years younger. Well aware of the striking figure he still
made, he dressed in the height of Court fashion, from his
fine leather shoes with slashed decorations to his black
knitted silk stockings and short trunks roundly padded
with horsehair, to his ebony velvet doublet with its low,
pointed waist, puff sleeves, and white linen ruff collar.
Also in the current fashion, his graying, dark brown hair
was cut close and short, as was his full beard.

Her despair and discontent dissipating in her renewed swell of affection for her handsome, dashing father,
Heather hurried over. "Is the meeting finished so soon?"
she asked, barely masking her eagerness with what she
hoped was a beguiling smile. "Ah, I pray so. Being relegated all afternoon to the confines of the library has
long ago lost its appeal."