Heaven and the Heather (7 page)

Or was it because her life was more contorted than the plum boughs in Her Majesty’s orchard?

She stole a glance over her shoulder. The MacGregor had not followed her. Good. He had listened to her. At least he was not a fool.

But why did a tiny bit of her wish that he had insisted on escorting her? She imagined the astonished faces of the Lords and Ladies when she entered the Great Hall escorted by what certainly must be as fine a Highland man as the royal court had ever seen. Lord Campbell’s look of shock alone would have made such an endeavor worthwhile.

Suppressing a giggle behind her right hand, Sabine took one step forward into the masque and tucked her right hand into a fold of her gown.

She adjusted her mask over her face. It was a papier maché falcon decorated with a multitude of black, sepia, and white feathers. At her nose was a pointed beak, a perfect representation of the Royal bird of prey made especially for her by monsieur Le Canard. Falcons were willful things, kept prisoner for the service of the monarch,
this
Sabine understood with all of her heart.

The aroma of cooked meats, piles of fruits and nuts, pastries, and the finest French wines wrapped invisible tendrils about Sabine’s nose, reminding her that it had been quite some time since she had eaten. She wove her way toward the groaning board through the groupings of lords and ladies, the Scottish and French elite, with a few Italians sprinkled in.

She spied one of the Italians at a long trestle table staring expectantly in her direction. He was Davide Rizzio, a dwarfish, well-muscled man, and Mary’s closet advisor. He wore a mask that, like her own, covered the upper half of his face. His was that of a rat. It sparkled with silver dust on the fur. He patted his pudgy little hand on the velvet cushion of the dark, carved chair beside him before he stood and offered her a bow.

“
Signorina
Sabine. You look to be searching for a chair. I have one just for you.”

“How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“Your hair. It is the color of obsidian. I’d know you anywhere,
signorina
.” Rizzio, unlike others, would never be so rude to tell her the truth, that her right hand betrayed her identity to him.

He slid the chair out from the table.

Sabine sank into it, grateful to be off of her feet, grateful to have the chance to put some food in her hollow belly. The Italian raised one dark brow as he poured her a generous glass of wine from a cobalt glass carafe. She glanced beyond the table, to the area before the queen’s empty throne where servants hastily set up the props for this evening’s entertainment.

She mused at what could be grand and strange entertainment if that Niall MacGregor and his tousle-haired
ami
joined the
comédie
under monsieur Le Canard’s direction. She doubted those Highlanders could follow much direction. Such would be their mistake. Niall and his friend surely would spend this night in the gaol.

“Tell me what you know of this Scotland,
signorina
.”

Sabine lifted the goblet and took a sip. She sat it down thoughtfully.

“
Signore
Rizzio, I know nothing of Scotland beyond the boundary of this palace. ’Tis not in my capacity to wonder on such things.” That was as much of a lie as she could concoct. She was wont to wonder and wonder since she had met Niall.

Rizzio smiled, his tiny, dark mustache spreading across his upper lip like a woolly caterpillar. “Certainly Her Majesty has organized travels of her kingdom.”

“I’m not privy to such,
signore
.” Sabine took another sip of wine, and glanced about the great hall expecting turmoil to arrive at any minute. Niall MacGregor would step onto the stage before the queen and her lavish court and hang himself. Even a master of
l’arte de comèdie
as was monsieur Le Canard could not transform a Highland beast. Was that what she had truly wanted? The Highlander’s imprisonment or death?

The wine tumbled her thoughts. Where was the food?

“You look pale, my darling. I am most worried,” LOrd Campbell said startling her.

Sabine wrenched her gaze upward. The goblet almost slipped from her fingers.

“M’lord,” she managed, shakily placing the goblet on the table. “
Bonsoir.
”

He wore a black mask, feathered to look like a raven. His cruel mouth and pointed chin were clearly visible beneath it. Sabine had no trouble recognizing him.

“
Bonsoir
to you, my darling.”

Her belly roiled at the endearment.

She offered him her hand. Let the farce continue. Her mind had been so occupied with Niall MacGregor that she had forgotten the reason for her being in the garden in the first place. Was there no escape from this man who was now pressing his dry lips against the back of her hand? She pulled her hand away. Lord Campbell sat down and took up her goblet.

“
Signore
,” Rizzio said, “I would be most happy to pour you a fresh glass of wine as I’m certain
signorina
Sabine has not finished what I have poured her.”

Campbell slammed his fist on the table. The plates rattled and the goblets toppled spilling the wine onto the dark wood, puddles spreading out like blood.

He leaned forward. The pointed feathers of his mask thrust toward the ceiling, glistening in the candlelight. His eyes, ringed by glossy black feathers, narrowed at the Italian.

“That masque suits you very well,
Rat-zzio
. ’Tis so very odd that Her Majesty would allow you in her court, joining those of us who have legitimate influence. You are an anomaly here, a freakish royal pet. So, presume not to tell me how to behave with my intended.”

Mortified by his behavior, Sabine tried to rise from her place to leave. Campbell rose as well.

“A delightful idea, my darling,” he said. “Her Majesty requested that you and I join her for the evening’s entertainment. Afterwards, I will publicly announce our betrothal.”

“You would dare marry one who is not as perfect as yourself?” she asked raising her right hand from her lap. Lord Campbell could not help but stare.

He reached out and wrapped his long fingers about her arm. In one painful squeeze he pulled her from the sympathetic gaze of Davide Rizzio, her only ally in court. Campbell seemed to know this very well.

“Some things are best kept hidden,
mademoiselle
,” he growled.

She struggled to free herself from the grip of this demented fool Her Majesty had seen fit to pair her with. No one should be allowed to order the path of another’s heart, not even a monarch. Yet, the queen had and there was nothing, beyond outright treason, Sabine could do about it.

Campbell escorted her roughly through the masked revelers, some dancing, some drinking, some eating. A low rumble at the base of her belly reminded Sabine that, other than a large goblet of wine, she had not had the chance to sample the array of delectable royal-worthy delights. Before she could utter a word of protest, Campbell released her, bowing so deeply that the feathers of his mask brushed the polished wood floor.

Mary entered the great hall. The crowd hushed and bent to her like wildflowers in a summer breeze. Sabine curtsied low, the drink in her head threatened to topple her balance. Where was the Highlander? Had he taken control of his senses and left? She prayed he had changed his mind and run all the way to his Highland den, but he still had her
sac
!

The rustle of rich silk and velvet signaled the queen taking her place on the throne. The swish of her royal gown against the floor, the scent of the finest French perfume, and the contented sigh were clues Sabine knew very well.

“Arise,” Mary commanded.

Sabine joined the others, and carefully stood upright. She blinked away the dizziness into the dazzle of the queen’s mask, a lavish affair of gold and silver decorated with dozens of little arrows pointing toward the ceiling, each topped with a precious stone. She was Diana, goddess of the hunt.

Sabine shifted her gaze to Her Majesty’s escort, a thin, bored-looking young man with wispy, dark hair. He was dressed in deep purple velvet pantaloons, a shining black leather doublet, black hosiery and finely cobbled leather shoes. His eye mask was made to look like an eagle, the feathers bright and sprinkled with gold dust. He took his place to the right of the throne, into the path of Her Majesty’s adoring stare.

“Our Sabine,” the queen said with a lilt to her voice, “how delighted we are to see you with Lord John.” Sabine nodded. She could not have been less delighted.

“Lord John, I believe you know my guest, Lord Darnley,” the queen said.

Campbell regarded the wiry man briefly. “No, Your Majesty, I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.” And from his tone he did not want the pleasure either. Sabine glanced at Lord Darnley. He looked to be no more than ten and seven. Mary certainly had him in her favor. The queen was allowed to follow the path of her heart, no matter who or how young, no matter—

When Mary said “we” she was not just referring to herself at that moment, she was referring to her five Marys and the ten attendants clustered behind her throne.

Sabine caught Lady Fleming’s hard stare.

“
Merci beaucoup.
” Sabine gave the queen a small, slightly faltering curtsy.

“Set you down, Sabine, and Lord Campbell.” Mary gestured to two vacant chairs to the far left of the throne. The Marys and attendants took their place in two semicircles of chairs near the throne, in Sabine’s periphery.

Light, bright applause broke her thoughts. She looked toward the props set before the throne. Monsieur Le Canard stood there and winked at her. Then he bowed low before the queen.

“Your Royal Highness and honored guests!” he boomed. He stood upright and thrust out his great chest. Spittle leapt from his lips. “I indulge your entertainments this evening by presenting for Her Majesty’s pleasure
L’Historie de l’Ecosse
!”

He waved his arms toward the props: painted trees, and dark, brooding hills. With as much flourish as a big man could muster, he leapt clumsily out of the way.

Sabine sat rapt. The wine made her vision a little misty. She fought to concentrate on the players who moved out from behind the painted scenery.

“Norse marauders!” Canard shouted. “Viking invaders from Denmark! Men in furs and long boats! A terrible sight to behold!”

Sabine searched the players, dressed in rainbow shades of satin trimmed with white fur, wearing gilded pointed hats with gilded horns, and could not find Niall in any of them. Perchance he had taken flight, found some sense.

She relaxed a fraction in her chair, keeping her back perfectly straight. She let her breath out and tried to ignore her hollow stomach. The “Vikings” rode their long boats through waves of blue velvet. The players chanted poetry about pillaging and defeating Scotland. Then they disappeared behind the scenery.

Lord Campbell yawned while everyone else applauded.

“Delightful!” the queen exclaimed. She leaned in toward Lord Darnley, who forced a wan smile in her direction.

Sabine clapped as monsieur Le Canard stepped out from behind one of the false trees. “
Alors!
” he exclaimed a hand to his ear. “Savages remain in Scotland. Men with wool on their backs and little else! Men who hide like the fox and the bear in dark, unhappy hills.
Alors!
They come…beware!”

He slipped back behind the “trees” with a flourish.

Sabine leaned forward, her hands gripping the arms of her chair, steadying himself. A hush fell over the spectators, collective breaths held in anticipation of the next act.

The servants waved long green cloths. Two figures stepped tentatively out from behind the scenery. One was taller than the other and wore a bear mask that covered his entire face. The other, a head shorter than the bear, wore a half-mask of a ginger-haired fox. This figure stepped forward into one of the wavering cloths.

Sabine leaned to the edge of her seat.

The “fox” aimed its pointed snout to the floor, throwing his profile Sabine’s way.

She gasped at the sight of the thick waves of auburn hair flowing from under the mask touching the top of…what was he wearing?

She recognized the length of wool, it looked cleaner, brushed. His common linen tunic, the one he wore when he invaded the palace grounds, was gone, switched with a doublet of saffron and green. The garment was open to the center of his chest, revealing muscle forested with dark auburn hair. His cross-hatched wool was wrapped about his hips in the same familiar fashion. She dropped her gaze to his legs, well-muscled, powerful, partially concealed in strips of red brocade over the calves down to his own pieced leather shoes, covering his rather large feet.

The “fox” continued to regard the undulating green wool barricading him from the throne before he grabbed it with one fist and yanked it from the hands of the astonished servants. He dropped it unceremoniously on the floor leaving no barrier between him and his Royal audience.

Monsieur Le Canard nervously cleared his throat. “Unh, the fox…unh…the prince of the forest commands the wood, allowing nothing to deter him.”

The Highland bear lumbered behind the fox.

Sabine sat up very straight, her spine as rigid as a pike. She stared into the eyes of the Highland fox. The fox grinned slyly back at her, displaying perfect pearls of white teeth. In her periphery, she saw Lord Campbell staring at the fox then at her.