Gosford's Daughter (63 page)

Napier smoothed her tangled hair with one hand.
“Don’t fash yourself. Nothing matters except that you’re safe.”

Craning her neck, Sorcha saw Armand give Rosmairi a
reassuring hug before he left her to see what was happening to the
men who held Marie-Louise. To Sorcha’s surprise, she recognized
several Fraser kinsmen, including Magnus, rounding up George
Gordon’s outnumbered soldiers.

“
Your shot only grazed the witch’s
arm. Do we carry out justice or not?” Armand had taken over custody
of Marie-Louise, with a firm grip on one wrist and his dagger at
her throat.

Over Sorcha’s head, Napier frowned. “With the sheriff
dead, there is no one to act in the King’s name. I suggest we take
her into Edinburgh.”

As far as Marie-Louise was concerned, Armand was done
with mercy. “She’s not to be trusted! You of all men know that!”
Aghast at Napier’s apparent lack of fortitude, Armand yanked
Marie-Louise by the wrist. “She calls herself a witch! Let us prove
we believe her! Up there where the fires of Donibristle still burn,
let us roast this sorceress and forever destroy her
evil-doings!”

Fleetingly Napier gazed at Marie-Louise, who wore an
expression of mingled contempt and rage. Her muddied hair fell over
her smudged cheeks, her billowing cloak was torn in several places,
and blood ran down her right arm.

“
We have no right,” Napier asserted,
his expression suddenly haggard. “At least,” he added in a hushed,
shaken voice, “I do not.”

Sorcha felt his arm tighten around her. She knew she
ought to say something, either to encourage his sense of equity or
at least to support his magnanimity. Yet she could do neither.
Marie-Louise was his wife, and her fate was held solely in his
hands.

Bristling with self-righteousness, Armand propelled
Marie-Louise toward Sorcha and Napier. Magnus, with Rosmairi at his
side, had joined the little group. “In Scotland, every person has
the right to a fair trial,” he told his brother-in-law. “Judgment
may be a foregone conclusion. But the process is still maintained
under our laws.”

Armand waved his little dagger at Magnus. “Was that
justice that sent the honorable Moray to his death? Did this
villainess deal fairly with my family or the King of France? Was
she, right here on Scottish ground, going to give your sisters and
me a fair trial? Come, come, my good Magnus, such altruistic talk
of the law is a farce!”

Magnus pulled at his long chin and regarded Armand
ruefully. Yet before he could speak again, Marie-Louise, taking
advantage of Armand’s diverted attention, broke free and raced
toward the sea, her cloak flying behind her. With a stunned cry,
Armand started after her, Magnus on his heels. Napier would have
joined them, but Sorcha held him back. “They’ll never catch her,”
she whispered hoarsely.

Napier swallowed hard and nodded once. At the water’s
edge, he saw Armand and Magnus waving their arms and calling out to
Marie-Louise. She had plunged into the waves, and the moonlight
shone on her golden hair.

“
What are they doing?” demanded a
shaken Rosmairi, whose face was blotchy with anxiety.

Neither Sorcha nor Napier answered her.
Marie-Louise’s cloak spread out behind her on the water as she
moved purposely out to sea, then let the outgoing tide carry her
away. Armand had waded in up to his knees, but Magnus, always the
family’s strongest swimmer, had dived into the water. They could
make out his rapid, sure strokes as he swam after his elusive prey.
He was within a few yards of Marie-Louise when her head disappeared
in the wake of the undertow. Magnus’s shouts could be heard over
the waves; he swam out further, then dove and dove again.
Mesmerized, the others watched in silence. At last, they saw Magnus
heading back toward shore, much more slowly, his strokes laboring
in acknowledgment of defeat. Armand waded out farther to meet him;
then the two men walked back close together over the damp sands of
Aberdour.

Leaning against Napier, Sorcha shuddered violently.
She tried to speak but found no words. Napier was still staring
straight ahead, out to the undulating waves where he had last
glimpsed Marie-Louise. “Fire was a tremendous force in her life,”
he said at last through lips that barely moved. “Mayhap she should
have died at the stake as witches do. Yet, somehow, it seems
fitting for the sea to claim her. After all, water quenches
fire.”

Rosmairi was running toward Armand, her arms
outstretched. Sorcha watched husband and wife reunite with great
joy, and suddenly the enormity of what had just transpired struck
Sorcha with the force of a hurricane. For all the horror of the
past few hours, despite the tragedies she had witnessed, one fact
suddenly overwhelmed her: Gavin Napier was freed from his awful
burden, liberated at last from the evil spell cast by
Marie-Louise.

Yet, noting his grim expression, Sorcha realized this
was not the moment to speak of his freedom. As her sister and
brother-in-law walked wearily over the strand, with Magnus
expressing his regret over not having been able to rescue
Marie-Louise from her act of self-destruction, Sorcha jumped as the
bairn kicked vigorously. Excitedly, she grabbed Napier’s hand and
pressed it against her abdomen. “Feel,” she whispered, “new life.
Our
life.” Sorcha turned a radiant smile on his anxious
face. “Marie-Louise would have taken that life—and mine.”

Napier looked down at Sorcha, the corners of his long
mouth slowly turning upward, though the smile that emerged in the
dark beard was bittersweet. “I need no reminding, my love. I know
all the things you’d wish me to know.” He paused, signaling for the
others to join them. ‘‘But there is still pain,” he said, dropping
his voice so that their companions couldn’t hear. “Only time—and
you and our child—will ease that for me.”

Sorcha’s smile didn’t falter. As Magnus put a
brotherly hand on her shoulder, she reminded herself that at last
she and Gavin Napier had all the time in the world.

A
fortnight later, a young
lad searching for mussels near Dunfermline found the body of a
beautiful woman washed ashore a few miles east of Aberdour. His
initial shock was overcome by how perfectly preserved and unmarked
she was. Except for a graze on one arm and what looked like teeth
marks on the other wrist, she might have been asleep under the old
dock’s pilings. Being a responsible sort, he reported his discovery
to the local magistrate. Since no one in the vicinity had any
knowledge of the dead woman, the magistrate ordered that she be
buried in a nearby potter’s field. Two grave diggers set about
their work, but the first broke his pick, the second, his shovel.
New tools were acquired, but the ground refused to yield, and the
day, which had begun in sunlight, turned dark and threatening. The
grave diggers retired to a tavern in the town, where they mulled
over their difficulties and quaffed several tankards of ale. At
last, just as the sun set over the Firth of Forth, they reeled back
to the potter’s field. The hastily built coffin had disappeared;
the earth beneath it was freshly turned and smoothed over. What
appeared to be a tiny silver cross had been stuck into the dirt at
one end of the plot, but upon closer inspection, the men were
astonished to see that it looked more like a dagger. Utterly
bewildered by such a turn of events, they raced back to the tavern
to down more ale before collecting their wages, and pledged to each
other that they would never discuss the unnatural doings at the
grave site. Later that night, shortly before the storm broke, a
newly married couple strolled past the potter’s field hand in hand,
their pet terrier frisking up ahead of them. As the pair lingered
to exchange a kiss, the dog ran off toward the new grave, stopped
abruptly just where the freshly turned earth met the old, and let
out a mournful howl. Puzzled, the newlyweds went after the animal,
which seemed rooted to the spot. They coaxed and petted and finally
became exasperated, but still the terrier refused to budge. At
last, a black cat prowled out of the darkness, and the dog barked
sharply, then gave chase. The cat seemed to vanish almost at once,
and very soon the terrier came panting back to his master and
mistress. From that time on, the potter’s field was said to be
haunted, and no one ever walked that way again by night.

The lingering June light guided Gavin Napier all the
way to Falkland. For that he was grateful, since he had ridden
south only with the greatest reluctance. The bairn was already
overdue, and if it hadn’t been for Sorcha’s insistence that he race
to warn the King of Bothwell’s mad new intrigue, Napier would still
be at Gosford’s End. But with that huge bulge of new life thrust
out before her like the bow of a mighty galleon, Sorcha had been
virtually impossible to refuse. Indeed, in the four months since
Father Adam had married them in the chapel at Beauly Priory, Gavin
Napier had found it difficult to deny his wife much of anything.
The peace she brought to him, the surcease of pain, the sense of
joy that might be marred but never supplanted, all made up the
myriad gifts Sorcha readily offered in the name of love.

To gainsay her, even as the hour of her labor
approached, would have been unthinkable. Certainly her request was
not only reasonable but of great consequence. Word had reached
Gosford’s End that Bothwell, having once more been chased from his
Borders by the King’s men, had sought sanctuary with the turbulent
Earl of Caithness. In the most northern reaches of Scotland, at
Castle Sinclair, Protestant Bothwell connived with Catholic
Caithness to make yet another attempt to capture the King’s person.
Yet Caithness’s wife, Jean Gordon Sinclair, had dissuaded him from
active participation in the plot. While her brother, George,
remained at large following Moray’s despicable murder, Gordon lands
and holdings had been ravaged by the combined forces of Grants,
MacKintoshes, and Frasers. The circumspect Jean, Countess of
Caithness, saw any further violation of the King’s law or person as
inviting calamity for both her husband and her brother. For once,
Caithness heeded her words.

But, according to the Flemish trader who had called
at Inverness after a stop at Sinclair’s Bay, Bothwell remained
undeterred. Accompanied by a clutch of his faithful Border rowdies,
he had planned to ride south the same day the Fleming had lifted
anchor off Noss Head. Fortunately, his vessel had had the benefit
of a favorable wind, and with any luck, Gavin Napier should be at
least a half-day’s ride ahead of Bothwell.

Slowing Naxos to a trot as they entered the town
through the West Port, Napier could make out the palace’s sturdy
twin gatehouse towers outlined against the rose-tipped sky.
Falkland’s High Street was all but deserted so late in the evening,
no doubt in deference to the local curfew. While the palace guards
at first eyed him with suspicion, when Napier identified himself as
son-in-law to Lord Iain Fraser, Baron of Beauly, he was escorted
promptly into the King’s presence.

A long, if profitable, day of hunting had left King
Jamie faintly irascible. When Gavin Napier arrived, Jamie was in
the company of Patrick Gray, who still clung tenaciously to his
post as Master of the Wardrobe. Gray eyed Napier with hauteur; the
King studied the newcomer with curiosity.

“
After all these years,” James said
somewhat querulously, “we finally meet face-to-face. Did you know
that for some time we believed you to be an ancient pedant, bowed
down with learning and dried up with virtue? We were duped, so that
you might dash off to England and insert yourself in my mother’s
household as a Papist spy!” Jamie had worked himself up into a
fairly impressive royal rage. When Napier merely inclined his head
to one side and offered no apology, the King turned to Patrick
Gray. “I hate it when my subjects deceive me! Don’t look so smug,
Patrick, my Apollo-like confrere, you’re no better than the
rest!”

To Napier’s surprise, Patrick Gray wore a sheepish
expression, though the smile he bestowed upon his monarch was
engaging. “Mayhap some of us hide the truth to spare you, sire.
Your responsibilities weigh so heavily.”

Jamie snorted and took a deep drink from his
sapphire-studded wine goblet. “Paugh. I’ve been King since I was a
bairn. If any sovereign could recognize responsibility in the dark,
it’s me.
Us
,” he amended pettishly and drank again. “We grow
weary of having others try to carry it for us.” Still peevish, he
turned back to Napier, whose studied patience was fraying around
the edges. “So? What gives you call to burst into our chambers this
late in the day?”

Napier gazed blandly at the King, then at Gray, and
back again. “I’d prefer speaking with you privately, sire.”

Patrick Gray lifted an elegant hand. “Speak freely,
Master Napier. His Majesty and I have no secrets.”

Napier’s dark brows drew close together, but before
he could utter a rejoinder, Jamie broke in. “A pox on your
impertinence, Patrick! I’ll share with you whatever I choose to
share! Now, begone. Go sort through my small-clothes or whatever
needs to be done in your exalted capacity.” The King glared at
Gray, who did his best to conceal his humiliation. With an offhand
remark about always being ready to serve his sovereign, he made an
exquisite bow and left the room.

With time running out, Gavin Napier came right to the
point. He explained Bothwell’s latest brazen plot and was met with
a mixture of fear and exasperation. “What was I just saying?” Jamie
ranted, getting up from his chair, and crossing the room to pull
the bell cord. “Protestant, Catholic, friend, foe, minister,
priest—I can count on none of them to be loyal! Self-seeking,
that’s the whole lot of them. Rapacious, greedy, grasping knaves on
every side.” Giving the bell cord an angry tug, he stared at
Napier. “What’s your game? What is it you want from this?”