Gosford's Daughter (56 page)

Jamie, digging at one nostril with thumb and
forefinger, pondered Sorcha’s words. “Women—whether French or
not—do strange things for love,” he admitted, though Sorcha noticed
he would look neither at his wife nor her favorite lady-in-waiting.
“I should hate to think that anyone would betray our consort’s
trust,” he added, not without bite.

A great guffaw of contempt erupted from
Marie-Louise’s red lips. “That women do strange things for love is
so true, Your Majesty!” She took two gliding steps around the
Queen’s chair and pointed a long finger at Sorcha. “This trollop,
for example, is my own husband’s mistress, and even now seeks to
shame me to hide her harlotry!” In two more swift steps,
Marie-Louise was glowering down at Sorcha. “I see through your
childish game! You wish to dishonor me because you carry my lord’s
bastard!” The long fingernail wagged dangerously close to Sorcha’s
eyes. “Deny it, Highland whore! You, who eats like a pig, can’t
bear the sight of food! You, brown as a berry, now pale as ash!”
Her menacing finger dove downward toward Sorcha’s belly. “You, with
your quaintly unfashionable waist, bulging like a birthing bitch!
Dare you accuse me of betraying our sweet Queen?”

Only the terrible truth of Marie-Louise’s damning
onslaught could force Sorcha’s surrender. She reeled—the room was
far more hazy than it had been earlier—and would have toppled over
had not John Hamilton caught her in his arms. She knew nothing else
until she awoke in her own bed, with a worried Ailis sitting by her
side.

T
he King of Scotland and a
garishly feathered parrot were scrutinizing a small round dish that
contained coarse yellow powder. Jamie grunted as the parrot
squawked. Both looked up with startled expressions when Sorcha was
announced.

Jamie jabbed at the bowl of yellow powder with his
index finger. “See this? It’s a witch’s concoction, seized from
that last batch of hags we roasted in North Berwick.” He gazed up
at Sorcha with eyes that were as righteous as they were frightened.
“Our justice consumed their earthly bodies. Those evil crones can’t
harm me now, can they, Coz?”

For all his bravado, uncertainty tainted his voice.
Sorcha sought to reassure him, but wished he’d first bade her sit.
She had spent a sleepless night, overcome by her own terrors. Ailis
had bathed her forehead with rose water, plied her with brandy,
massaged the tension out of her neck and shoulders. But still
Sorcha had not slept. The episode in the gaming room had undone her
usually staunch nerves.

“
I suspect,” said Sorcha carefully,
leaning one hand on the table to support her flagging body, “those
so-called witches never did Your Majesty harm when they lived. I
shouldn’t worry about them now if I were you.”

Instead of relief, James evinced a scowl. “Coz, are
you saying that we acted unjustly? Surely you can’t mean that after
last night. First, Bothwell escaped from Edinburgh Castle; then he
harasses us in our very chambers. Who else but a wizard could
manage such feats?”

Risking reproach, Sorcha sat down unceremoniously in
an armchair anointed by dried white streaks that looked
suspiciously like parrot droppings. “Bothwell is an inventive,
athletic, daring sort. He’s also calculating, despite his daredevil
manner. Getting out of Edinburgh Castle was probably not nearly as
dangerous for him as it would be for most men. Besides,” she went
on pointedly, “I still say he had accomplices in both
circumstances. Queen Anne may disagree, but I believe that
Marie-Louise has been in league with Bothwell all along.” She gazed
boldly at the King, though the parrot had assumed a far more
defiant posture than its master.

“
Yes, yes,” Jamie agreed irritably,
“I—we, that is—have always given considerable weight to what you
tell us. Yet Marie-Louise is so devoted to the Queen, and I—we—are
so indebted to her, since often we aren’t able to be with Her
Majesty due to … uh, affairs of state.” While Jamie didn’t
have the grace to blush at his own subterfuge, he at least allowed
Sorcha the hint of a wink. “Even now, Anne is quite inconsolable,
between Bothwell’s outrageous escapade and your accusations
concerning her favorite lady-in-waiting.” He rapped his knuckles on
the table, making the small bowl bounce, its contents shivering
like pollen in the wind. “I wish Moray were here—he’s the only
other person who can soothe our Queen.”

At Moray’s name, Sorcha looked away, her thoughts
diverted to Donibristle, where even now she supposed Gavin Napier
was meeting with the Bonnie Earl. The Highlands remained on the
verge of a blood-letting, with George Gordon’s troops still poised
at the edge of MacKintosh and Grant territory. She had received two
letters from Napier since he went north, the first from Gosford’s
End, the other from Badenoch. In neither had his news been
good.

King Jamie had risen, taking the parrot off its perch
and onto his shoulder. Heedless of whether Sorcha sat or stood, he
began to pace the audience chamber in his bandy-legged, graceless
gait. “I have had to assure Anne that Marie-Louise will not be
punished,” Jamie said, dispensing altogether with ceremony and
reverting to the first person pronoun. “For her own part,
Marie-Louise has forsworn Bothwell.” He heard Sorcha’s snort of
disdain and whirled about; the parrot nervously flapped its wings
and flew noisily over to the mantelpiece. “She gave guarantees.
Don’t think me foolish, Coz—I insisted she prove her allegiance.
This very day she rides north to George Gordon, with a letter of
Fire and Sword to use against Bothwell.”

Sorcha gripped the edge of the table with rigid
fingers. Her brain whipped into a frenzy of thought, torn between
basic mistrust of Marie-Louise, her fear of George Gordon’s
vaulting ambition, and most of all, what this unexpected
development might mean for Gavin Napier. “Do you think George
Gordon will desist in his Highland aggression to come south and
pursue Bothwell? They used to be allies, you know.”

“
Of course I know! I’m the King!”
Disgruntled, Jamie prowled next to the mantel, pausing to pat the
parrot, which flexed a claw in the King’s direction. “But George is
basically loyal. More to the point, he must see Bothwell—who, after
all, possesses royal blood—as a serious rival. I should guess that
would mean more to him than acquiring a forest full of stags and
rabbits.”

“
Canny,” murmured Sorcha, offering
the King a little smile. “You could be right,” she allowed, though
fear still tugged at her heart. “I pray you’ve defused the
situation in the north.”

“
Aye, and why not? As I said, I’m
the King.” He puffed out his narrow chest and smiled in that
lopsided manner Sorcha found quite endearing. “Now,” he said,
marching in his ungainly way toward the chair where Sorcha perched
not unlike the anxious parrot on the mantel, “I must inquire, being
not just your sovereign lord, but as your kin, is it true that you
are with child?”

The question, posed with that unexpected candor James
increasingly exhibited, caught Sorcha off guard. Her fingers slid
from the table into her lap, as if protecting the babe in her womb.
“Aye,” she replied softly, glancing up through her lashes at Jamie,
“I am.”

“
Ah.” James’s response was equally
soft-spoken. “Good Christ,” he muttered, “is it all true? Is
Marie-Louise’s husband truly your lover?” Before Sorcha could
reply, Jamie frowned deeply and wagged a finger at her. “Wait—his
name is Napier; I remember that now. But long ago, there was
another, an ancient drone you sought to insert in my mother’s
household. I recall hearing later, after she … she died, that
this Napier was neither ancient nor a drone.” Jamie was leaning
over Sorcha, his small eyes like slate. “Did you deceive me, Coz?
Have you deceived us all?”

“
Certainly,” Sorcha replied, her own
frown a match for Jamie’s. “I had no choice.”

Sorcha’s frankness diverted Jamie’s wrath. “Good
Christ,” he said again, tugging at the surcoat that hung awkwardly
from his shoulders. “How could you? You’ve dishonored our name, our
royal house!”

“
Oh, God’s teeth,” expostulated
Sorcha, “had it not been for your grandfather dishonoring my
grandmother, we wouldn’t be related in the first place! Please,
Sire, this is no time for homilies on virtue! Gavin Napier doesn’t
know about the child yet; no one does, except my maid, Ailis. At
least I didn’t think anyone else knew until that vile Marie-Louise
sniffed out the truth last night.” To her horror, Sorcha had begun
to cry. “I just … want to … go home,” she sobbed,
covering her face with trembling hands.

Disturbed by Sorcha’s outburst, the parrot flapped
from the mantel to a curved wall sconce across the room. Equally
discomfited, Jamie shifted from one foot to the other, then
clumsily patted Sorcha’s heaving back. “Now, now …. If you’d
like to go home, why not?” Certainly Sorcha’s departure would save
the embarrassment of having one of the Queen’s ladies—and a cousin
to the King at that—bear a bastard child at court. “Let me think.”
Jamie ruminated, chewing on a fingernail. “You can’t marry this
Napier because he’s already married to Marie-Louise. Now, I know I
promised you a husband years ago; mayhap all this is my fault—I
didn’t keep my word.” He fretted his beard, worried his nether lip,
and fussed with the sable trim of his black surcoat. “There was
never anyone quite suitable, at least not someone you’d want to
marry. Truly, Coz, I’d hoped to find you a noble, wealthy, braw
bridegroom, a man worthy of your ….” He halted, snapping his
fingers. “By our Sweet Savior! Why didn’t I think of it sooner!”
Jamie beamed down at Sorcha, who was regarding him dismally through
her tears. “Moray! He’s perfect! I’ll speak to Maitland at
once!”

Staggering slightly, Sorcha got to her feet. “Oh,
nay, Sire, he’s but widowed a month! It would be unseemly, such
haste! Nor would he wed someone who carried another’s child! Think
again, I pray you!”

But the hard, chilly slate had returned to Jamie’s
eyes. He wore a cunning expression, though he gazed not at Sorcha
but across the room, in the direction of the parrot, which appeared
to be going to sleep on the wall sconce. “Our consort grows
overfond of him,” the King mused, as if to himself, or possibly the
parrot. “I would see the Bonnie Earl otherwise occupied.” Abruptly,
he swung back to Sorcha. “It’s a marvelous match, dear Coz,
fashioned by fate. Besides, he already has children by another
woman. They need a mother, just as your bairn needs a father. Think
on it; you’ll see I’m right. So will your good parents.”

What her parents would think of Sorcha’s pregnant
state was something she had shut out from her mind. Yet, for the
moment, it would do no good to consider their explosive reactions.
Sorcha knew that only one thing mattered—now that she was past the
early, nauseated state of her condition, she must brave the winter
weather and head for the Highlands. Never mind that Lord and Lady
Fraser waited there—in the north she would find Gavin Napier and
the haven of his arms.

Hastily, she wiped her eyes with one lace-trimmed
cuff and straightened her shoulders. “A litter, perhaps, if you’d
be so kind.”

Momentarily puzzled, Jamie pulled his right ear. “Ah?
Oh, in which to seek out Moray? Well enough, though wait until I’ve
conferred with Maitland.” He made a face at his chancellor’s name.
“I wonder, sometimes, how well he serves me. What if Bothwell
intended to kidnap him because Maitland wishes me ill?”

Drained and weary, Sorcha had no desire to discuss
John Maitland’s skittish politics. She was saved from responding
when the parrot suddenly opened its eyes and swooped onto the
table. Before King James could stop the bird, it pecked freely from
the little bowl, devouring beakfuls of yellow powder.

“
Holy God!” Jamie shrieked, batting
at the parrot, which squawked raucously before flying high above
their heads, circling twice, and landing on one of the heavy rods
that held the dark green brocade drapes over the room’s west
window.

Jamie was waving his arms at his pet, cursing and
cajoling. “He ate witch’s brew! He’ll die! Or turn into a
demon!”

Her composure regained, Sorcha inspected the bowl’s
contents closely. She sniffed, touched the coarse powder with her
finger, then put it to her tongue. James cried out, aghast. But
Sorcha tasted a few grains and gave a little shrug. “Don’t fash
yourself so, Sire. ’Tis nothing more than maize, or corn that the
Indians eat by the bushel in the New World.”

The King of Scotland goggled at his cousin, looking
as if he expected her to turn into a gargoyle before his very eyes.
“Maize? Nay, nay! It was taken from those witches! At least three
savants have attested to its Satanic properties!” He paused,
realizing that Sorcha stood calmly before him, idly rearranging her
disheveled coiffure, but otherwise quite unaltered. “I don’t
believe it,” he asserted, looking very much like the petulant boy
Sorcha remembered from their first meeting at Stirling Castle. “How
do you know of this maize?”

Sorcha screwed up her face in the effort to recall.
“Some years ago a sea captain my father knew brought some to our
home. Our cook, Catriona, baked it into a sort of bread. It was
very tasty.”

Jamie’s shoulders slumped, though his expression grew
speculative. “Then,” he asked, eyeing the yellow meal in the bowl
warily, “it might be … harmless?”

Sorcha shrugged again. “It is harmless.”

In silence, he considered the implication of her
words. “Are you saying those hags might have been harmless as
well?” His tone begged her denial.

“
I did not sit in judgment.” Sorcha
sounded more severe than she’d intended. Seeing Jamie’s stricken
look, she took pity on him and his ill-founded fears. “Perhaps they
wished you ill. Thoughts can sometimes be powerful weapons. If I
were you, I’d consider witches less and wickedness
more.”