Gosford's Daughter (55 page)

H
ours later in the same
chamber, with the fire turned to ashes and the only candle burned
down almost to the nub, Gavin Napier bade Sorcha good-bye. After
Sorcha had thrown on her clothes and raced off to the Queen, Napier
had met with Moray at the Earl’s town house. Fresh news had arrived
from the north, relating George Gordon’s further encroachment of
MacKintosh property around Badenoch. The MacKintosh chieftain had
formally asked for the help of Moray and the Earl of Atholl.
Neither noble was anxious to engage in a Highland war, but realized
that Gordon must be stopped before he gobbled up huge chunks of the
northern kingdom. Moray, in turn, had asked Gavin Napier to join
them; they would leave immediately.

Sorcha had been distressed not only at her lover’s
precipitous leave-taking but because the situation in the Highlands
had deteriorated. Ironically, Napier was being forced to side with
the Protestants he nominally opposed, against the Catholics he had
promised to protect.

“
It would seem,” a grim-faced Napier
had told Sorcha, readying his gear to head out into the dense fog,
“that the Church’s only real hope of surviving in Scotland lies
with the achievement of peace. Perhaps,” he added, donning light
chain mail over his leather jerkin, “the ultimate hope is union
with England.”

For Sorcha, such conjecture seemed irrelevant
compared to the imminent danger Gavin Napier would face in the
north. The mere sight of him wearing chain mail and carrying a
steel helmet had made her shudder. “I know it’s not like me,” she’d
admitted, clinging to him, yet hating the jagged feel of the chain
mail against her cheek. “Ordinarily, I’m quite a sensible person.
But this time you’re actually going into battle.”

“
To parley, more likely,” Napier had
replied.

Sorcha remained unconvinced. She’d argued that he
must take her with him, but Napier was adamant. If ever there was a
time when Sorcha was needed to watch the devious plotting of
Marie-Louise and Bothwell, it was now. “She threatened Moray, you
know,” Napier reminded her. “It makes no sense, since he and
Bothwell have always been friendly. Yet Moray was alarmed—not that
he’d admit it, but I know he was.”

That the Earl of Moray would take anything
Marie-Louise said seriously only added to Sorcha’s mounting fears.
Yet Moray must know that Marie-Louise was not to be dismissed
lightly. She had already dared to connive at the murder of a
king.

“
I wish now you’d stayed in Rome,”
Sorcha had exclaimed. “You might have been bored, but you would
have been safe.”

Napier had gazed down at her tousled dark head and
sighed. “Except for loving you, I feel as if I’ve lived a useless
life. What have I accomplished here in Scotland?”

Sorcha had known better than to try to dissuade him
further. In some vague, instinctive way, she understood that he was
a thwarted man who felt he’d failed his mission, his faith, even
his own brother. The fact that he had successfully concluded Father
Adam’s initial task with Mary, Queen of Scots was no consolation.
Gavin Napier would count himself a failure until he had unified the
Catholic clans and forged a policy of toleration.

At last, with the heavy fog swirling around the walls
of Holyrood Palace and the owls hooting mournfully from the eaves
of the Chapel Royal, Gavin Napier kissed Sorcha an ardent farewell
and rode out toward the Water Gate to meet the Earl of Moray.

“
La!” cried the Queen, bracing
herself against the gaming table with the palms of her hands, “I
have now the seven!” Her broad smile beamed at the other players.
“Who can defeat me?” Her blue eyes danced from Jean Sinclair to the
Earl of Morton to Marie-Louise, and finally to Sorcha, who was
sitting between Lord John Hamilton and his wife, Margaret. Despite
Queen Anne’s high good humor, the company was attired in black,
mourning the Countess of Moray, who had died of a wasting sickness
the previous month. As she was cousin to the King, the court had
observed her untimely death with a subdued Yuletide season. Now,
two days after Christmas, the Queen had rebelled at the ban and had
insisted on an evening of gaming.

After more than two hours, Jamie had long since tired
of the game. Sorcha, who had been forced from the table by a pair
of luckless ivory dice, crossed the room to join her royal cousin,
who was whipping off the covers from various dishes and sampling
most of them.

“
I hunted all day,” the King
declared, stuffing smoked mussels and capon legs and jellied lamb
into his mouth. “The winter weather gives me a hearty appetite.”
Still chewing lustily, he waved a crisp cabbage leaf in her
direction. “Alas, I forget my manners—you must be starving, too;
you always are. Try the lamb first.”

To Jamie’s amazement, Sorcha shook her head. “Nay,
sire, I’m not hungry.” Indeed, her digestion had been unruly for
some time. “I’m overanxious these days—for many reasons.”

Even if Jamie had evinced interest, there was no
opportunity for Sorcha to relate her concerns. Secretary John
Maitland stood in the doorway, his dour face a peculiar shade of
sickly gray. He headed straight for the King and spoke without
preamble. “Your Majesty, I have the most astounding news!”
Maitland’s usually smooth voice was lowered to a gruff whisper.
“The Earl of Bothwell has invaded the palace!”

Jamie’s brows drew together. “Maitland, dear
Maitland, you have a tendency to bring me the most exasperating
news about Bothwell. What do you really mean? That he has inserted
spies among our royal presence?” Jamie giggled. “I don’t fear
spies; I make friends of them!”

Maitland’s nostrils were flaring like those of a
racehorse at the finish line. “I’m quite serious, sire. Bothwell is
inside this very palace!” Maitland’s whisper grew more frenzied,
attracting the attention of the players at the gaming table. “He
came to my chambers to kidnap me! A pot-boy heard him and warned
me.”

In a flutter of black brocade and lace, Queen Anne
rose from her chair. “Good Maitland, you speak of Bothwell,
ja
, aye, for certain?”

The answer came from outside the door to the gaming
room. “Damn!” breathed Jamie, making a fist and waving it
ineffectually. “I hear Bothwell, I truly do!” He whirled around,
looking both helpless and desperate. “Where is the Master when I
need him? Where are my servants?” His outrage mounting, he charged
at Maitland, his face as petulant as a child whose parent hasn't
kept faith. “Where is my army? You said I didn’t need an army,
Maitland! Well, I sorely need one now!”

John Hamilton quietly intervened. “What Your Majesty
needs now is a barricade.” Signaling to the Earl of Morton,
Hamilton moved briskly to a tall armoire at the end of the room.
“We’ll put this in front of the door. It should hold them off until
help arrives.”

“
What help?” wailed King James,
oblivious of the clutching hands of his frightened consort.
“Listen! They are battering down the very walls!”

Sorcha winced as she heard wood splinter outside but
kept her gaze on Marie-Louise, who had insinuated herself between
the King and Queen. It was clear that somehow she had helped her
lover gain entrance to the palace.

The armoire shuddered but remained in place against
the door. Crouched over the gaming table, King Jamie was beating
the green baize cover with his fists. “He’s gone too far this time!
I won’t have it!”

Sorcha sidled up to Lord Hamilton, who was bracing
his not inconsiderable weight against the armoire, while Morton
huffed next to him. “What does Bothwell really plan on doing, sir?”
she asked in a low voice.

Hamilton’s grave countenance took on a wry
expression. “I couldn’t guess. If I had to, I’d say he wishes to
embarrass his royal cousin. I’m afraid,” he added with an avuncular
air, “I’ve never quite understood how that laddie’s mind
works.”

It seemed a fair assessment, though Sorcha wondered
if John Hamilton was taking Bothwell too lightly. While the
hammering noises had all but stopped, she could make out other
ominous sounds in the hallway. Indeed, she thought she heard voices
and footsteps coming from another part of the palace. She took a
deep breath and suddenly stiffened. The air was tainted with smoke;
gray wisps curled ominously from under the door.

“
Your Majesty,” she called out in
alarm, “I fear Lord Bothwell has set a fire in the hallway.” Sorcha
moved toward the King, who regarded her as if she had lost her
wits.

Lord Hamilton, however, was nodding in reluctant
agreement. “Mistress Fraser is right, sire. It would appear that
Bothwell intends to smoke us out.”

The smoke was growing quite thick, obscuring the far
end of the room from Sorcha’s view. The Queen and the Earl of
Morton were coughing. Sorcha, feeling queasy as well as choked up,
put a handkerchief over her mouth. Outside, a crackling sound could
be heard; the King slumped against the gaming table, his thin
shoulders shaking. “May God curse the man!” he wailed into the
green baize cover.

The King of Scotland’s lack of composure distressed
Sorcha, who forced herself to move toward one of the open windows.
Marie-Louise had already steered the Queen to the nearest casement,
where Anne was taking in deep gulps of air. Sorcha leaned against
the embrasure, one hand clutching the damask draperies. It was
ridiculous to feel so puny, she reproached herself. The situation
was precarious; the smoke was thick as a lowland fog, but it was
hardly likely that any of their lives were threatened. Bothwell’s
antics smacked more of a prank than of danger.

Loud voices and scuffling sounds erupted on the other
side of the door. Sorcha strained her ears to catch a sound or a
voice that might reveal what was happening in the hallway. Shouts
and running feet, the ring of steel, the sound of blows—the melee
ascended to deafening proportions. And then, astonishingly, it
spiraled down into silence.

Jamie Stewart had gotten to his feet, standing
unsteadily and wiping saliva from his chin. The Queen was half
fainting, leaning on Marie-Louise, who was not only looking
supremely smug but curiously unaffected. It suddenly occurred to
Sorcha that the Frenchwoman had been through a far more frightening
trial by fire than this, at Armand d’Ailly’s family home. Despite
the weakness that still nagged at Sorcha, she cast a withering,
scornful look at Marie-Louise, who deigned not to notice.

Someone was calling from outside the door, a frantic
voice begging for entry. Recognizing one of his lieutenants, Jamie
heaved a sigh of relief and commanded that the armoire be removed.
Moments later, a dozen members of the household guard and twice as
many staunch burghers crowded into the still-hazy gaming room.
Jamie had by now assumed an air of nonchalance, thanking his loyal
subjects who had rallied to their sovereign’s aid. A sheepish
Maitland, who, Sorcha realized, had disappeared during the crisis,
clumsily crawled out from under the gaming table.

“
I must insist upon justice, sire,”
Maitland said to Jamie as the troop of armed men trailed out of the
room. “Clearly, Bothwell has committed high treason.”

“
Oh, indeed.” James sighed, wiping
his reddened eyes with a fist. “Yet,” he went on, finally
remembering his husbandly duties and going to stand by the chair
into which his wife had collapsed, “I should like to know who
helped him gain admittance to the palace in the first
place.”

“
Bribery,” stated the Earl of
Morton. “Palms crossed with gold. It’s as simple as
that.”

“
I wonder,” mused Hamilton, pouring
whiskey for his monarch and the others.

Surprised by Hamilton’s perspicacity, Sorcha
gratefully sat down on a petit point covered bench. Servants had
already removed the battered, burned door from its hinges and were
busily cleaning up the debris in the hallway.

One of the guardsmen had returned, bowing his way
over the threshold and looking crestfallen. “My Lord, Bothwell has
escaped, apparently the same way he entered, through the Duke of
Lennox’s stables.” The man hung his head, as if he were solely
responsible for Bothwell’s brazen behavior.

King Jamie’s eyes grew very round. “By the Holy
Cross, the man must be found! He
will
be found!” Jamie
whirled on Maitland. “I swear it, I’ve done with that sorcerer! He
means me great harm! I’ll have everyone in the palace interrogated,
tortured, if need be. See to it, Maitland!”

“
We could start in this very room,”
Sorcha announced with a calm she didn’t feel. Her green eyes
traveled deliberately to Marie-Louise, who stood next to the King,
behind the Queen’s chair. “It is no secret,” Sorcha declared in a
reasonable tone, “that the Frenchwoman in our midst has been
Bothwell's paramour for some time. Who would be more likely to
conspire with him?”

Marie-Louise lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.
“
Ma foi
.” She laughed in her throaty voice. “How the Scots
love to accuse the foreigners! Do they ever make us feel welcome
instead of suspect?” The question seemed to be posed to everyone,
yet Sorcha knew it was directed at Queen Anne.

Indeed, Her Majesty was sitting bolt upright,
squinting at Sorcha with bleary eyes. “That is so,” she remarked in
careful tones. “It is difficult to be a stranger here, I
think.”

Sensing a major confrontation, John Hamilton chose
the role of peacemaker. “It’s been a nerve-racking night,” he
intervened tactfully. “I suggest we all withdraw to rest, so that
on the morrow our minds will be fresh to contemplate these problems
with more clarity.”

Morton was about to voice his eager agreement, but
Sorcha was on her feet. “I crave your pardon, My Lord, but I didn’t
speak lightly. I must stress that if Bothwell was aided in entering
Holyrood Palace, it was through the offices of his mistress.” She
stood erect, her chin jutting, the green eyes level. “I trust that
upon reflection, you will all see the common sense of what I
say.”