The Beauty of the Mist (2 page)

Shipwrecked. Stranded. Vulnerable.

The thoughts swept over the young woman with a numbing coldness, like nothing she’d ever experienced. Maria fought back her tears as she looked over her shoulder at the dying Spaniard stretched in the bow of the boat. How easy it would be to close her eyes and lie back like him, to let nature take its course. The sailor hadn’t moved or even moaned for quite a while. She wondered if he was still alive. He looked at peace. The musket shot that had wounded her Aunt Isabel had found its final resting place deep in the chest of the poor man. Perhaps it would have been better if Maria herself had been the recipient of such a wound. Perhaps, then, she’d be the one at peace, far beyond the cold and the aching muscles and the stinging hands, and the overpowering weariness. She shook her head and tried to rid herself of such morbid thoughts.

Glancing back at her aunt, Maria thought for a moment to ask Isabel to go past her and check on the sailor. But then she decided that even asking her to hold the oars while she herself moved forward to him was foolishness. The thought of unbalancing the boat with the shifting of weight was unthinkable. It could mean disaster for them all.

“I think we’ve been going in circles,” Isabel muttered as petulantly as she could manage.

“You’re probably correct. And you should add lack of navigation abilities to my list of shortcomings,” she whispered, then looked down at the smear of blood spreading from her palms onto the wooden oar handles. Her fingers were stiff and numb, and her muscles were cramping terribly. She silently thanked the Virgin Mother that her hands were sticking to the oar handles. It was the only reason her arms had not fallen off. Yet.

John Macpherson peered in vain through the dense fog that enshrouded the
Great Michael
. Turning his eyes upward, he gazed for a moment at the mists that threaded in and out of the rigging, obscuring even the banner that he knew must be hanging limply at the top of the mainmast. In this inconstant March weather, there was no telling when a fog would lift.

Becalmed not long after sunrise, the ship had quickly been surrounded by the enveloping mist. It had rolled in like some heavy fleece and tucked around them. John had taken one last look at his other three ships, bobbing on the flat sea a half mile or so away.

As the morning had slowly passed, the sound of muffled cannon fire had signaled a fierce battle being waged far to the south, but John and his crew had heard nothing now for hours. The ship’s master turned his gaze to the south once more.

As if reading his thoughts, David Maxwell, the ship’s navigator, stepped up to the railing beside his commander. “If we hadn’t run into this windless fog, Sir John, we might have found ourselves in the middle of a lovely fight.”

“Aye, David,” John returned with a side look. “Not exactly the kind of action we were planning on this trip.”

“Then as ungodly as this dismal mess seems, perhaps there’s something providential in it, eh?”

“Perhaps so, Davy.” The Highlander paused thoughtfully, then turned to acknowledge the short, thickset man who was just joining them. It occurred to John once again that throughout the early going of this journey, he couldn’t turn around without finding Sir Thomas Maule a step away. Colin Campbell, the Earl of Argyll, had cautioned him about this beforehand, but John had not wished to make changes in their traveling plans. After all, Sir Thomas—despite the extreme possessiveness he demonstrated in matters regarding what he considered his own—was a good man, and the Highlander did not want the aging knight excluded from the honor of bringing home Scotland’s next Queen.

Truthfully, John knew the problem did not lie with Sir Thomas, in any case. The difficulty lay in the fact that Sir Thomas’s bride, who was accompanying them on this journey, was none other than Caroline Douglas, a woman known to all as John Macpherson’s former mistress. But as far as John was concerned, everyone was also well aware of the fact that the rocky affair between them had ended long before the lady accepted the hand of Sir Thomas Maule in marriage. In John’s opinion, Caroline was now only an old acquaintance. Nothing more.

“Well, navigator,” the stocky man queried, “how far to the south do you think those guns were this morning?”

“Hard to tell, Sir Thomas,” David responded carefully. “As any sailor can tell you, the fog can do tricky things to the sound. That fighting could have been ten leagues south of us, or two. I wouldn’t want to wager my share on a guess about it.”

“I should have hoped for a better report than that, lad. But perhaps you’re lacking in experience.” Sir Thomas Maule turned in the direction of the ship’s commander. “And you, Sir John? Would you care to wager on the distance?”

“Nay, I agree with David.” John responded. “We’d be fools to let down our guard completely, assuming them far away. Whoever they were, the chances are that one of them tasted blood and may be hungry for more. And we’d be fools to assume them too close, losing all sense and exhausting our men with extra watches for no purpose. The fog will shield us from them for now. And when the mists lift, and we get some wind in our sails, we’ll have time enough to decide whether we need to fight. In any case, we’re prepared for whatever action is needed.”

“If this were any other mission, Sir John” –Thomas Maule nodded seriously, patting the long sword at his side— “I wouldn’t mind a little action.”

“But on the sea, Sir Thomas, battles differ greatly from those on the land,” David cautioned pointedly. “A strong arm and a mighty sword are all for naught when there is no solid ground for your footing.”

John held back his smile. The voyage from Edinburgh’s seaport at Leith had taken too long for his men’s liking. Most of them, as pleased as they were to look upon the pleasing faces of noblemen’s wives and daughters, had little respect for the shallow shows of courtly behavior by the husbands and fathers. Having a group of land dwelling nobles onboard had already presented a number of problems with the rough and plain speaking sailors of the
Great Michael
, though nothing had, as yet, gotten out of hand. But John could only guess at the problems of discipline that would accompany their trip back to Scotland. After all, they would have a queen and her entourage to contend with.

“For us who fought in the muck at Flodden, laddie,” the squat warrior retorted, squaring off with the young navigator, “no deck made of wood will ever be cause for alarm.”

“Aye, Sir Thomas,” John broke in, trying to head off what he knew could quickly develop into a full-fledged brawl. “As you say, were this any other mission. But for now, you might make yourself comfortable. We could be in for quite a long wait. Thank you, navigator.”

David Maxwell, perceiving the hint from his master, bowed slightly to the two noblemen and detached himself from them. John watched the navigator as he worked his way forward, the white feather in the young man’s bright blue cap bobbing cheerfully as he stopped and talked with each sailor that he passed.

“That lad,” Sir Thomas began, “he’s lacking all sense of rank and position, wouldn’t you say?”

John continued to watch his man.

“We all have our flaws. But David Maxwell is as sharp as the blade of your dirk, and he fears no man. David’s as loyal to Scotland as any man alive, though he may be, perhaps, just a wee bit proud of his seagoing mates.” He turned and looked at the stocky fighter beside him. “These folk who sail the high seas have as much right to be called warriors and heroes as those that fight on land. But most have not been credited, as such.”

Sir Thomas rubbed his sausage-like fingers thoughtfully over his chin.

“And being a man who has spent his whole life in the service of his country,” John continued, “you know, perhaps better than most, the reasons that drive a young man like him.”

The elder man nodded slightly.

“He is the best navigator I’ve ever seen.” John turned his gaze back to the scene before him. “He’s been to the New World, and he’s gone around Africa, clear to India. He is a fine young man, Sir Thomas.”

John Macpherson looked on as the watch changed. From the forecastle, a half-dozen men emerged, saluting their leader before scurrying nimbly up the dripping lines of the rigging to their posts aloft. A few moments later, the sailors who’d been relieved began to work their way down to the deck, disappearing forward into the crew’s quarters.

With the exception of Sir Thomas, the members of the delegation of nobles who were sailing on the
Great Michael
had hardly stepped foot on deck at all. This certainly suited John.

In the few brief instances when he’d joined them below, John had found the conversations consisted of the same idle prattle as he’d found in every court in Europe. The last time the Highlander had been below decks, one of the ranking nobles had tried to engage his opinion on Mary of Hungary and her apparent inability to bear any children by her late husband. A bad sign, the nobleman had whispered gravely to the nodding heads around the table. The future queen, he’d said, shaking his head. Barren, undoubtedly. And what would become of the Stuart line then?

But John had shrugged them off without responding. His duties certainly did not include fortune-telling.

Leaning out over the side of the vessel, John eyed the sturdy timbers of the hull and considered the knight for a moment. He knew Sir Thomas was keeping an eye on him. And that was perfectly acceptable to him. In fact, remembering Caroline’s style of love play, he had wondered at times if she had already started her games, had begun to make Sir Thomas wild with jealousy. Knowing her so well, John was prepared to respond should the time come, but he was still not sure if her unfortunate husband even knew the game was on.

The Highlander’s face grew grim. He knew the going could get rough, perhaps even bloody, depending on Sir Thomas. Indeed, if he could get through this voyage without having to deal with Caroline Maule, he would count the trip as miraculous.

“Tell me, if you would, Sir John, your opinion.” Sir Thomas ran his heavy hands thoughtfully over the wet railing. “How is it that the Holy Roman Emperor Charles, the most powerful monarch this side of Suleiman the Magnificent, agrees to let us convey his sister to her new husband?”

“Tradition, I assume,” John responded after a pause, glad to see that the man beside him had found an agreeable topic to converse upon. “And the nature of the bargain. If we lose her, there’ll be war to settle the affair—along with a certain demand for the return of the first dowry payment that the Lord Chancellor’s presently keeping in Stirling Castle.”

The elder man hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words for what was on his mind. “It can all be a...a nasty business. Can it not?” he asked at last under his breath. “Marriage, I mean.”

“Many believe that to be the case, Sir Thomas.”

“It doesn’t need to be, you know.” The man continued to stare down at his hands and the dark wood beneath them. “As one who is going through it a second time, I tend to see it differently.”

John nodded noncommittally.

“I am inclined to believe that not only royal marriages, but that most betrothals—even among the lowliest—are often ruined by the financial motives that so often bring two families, and hence, a man and a woman, together.” Sir Thomas turned and eyed the warrior. “What’s your opinion on the topic, Sir John?”

The Highlander knew what he was asking, and he did not mind to speak the truth.

“I have not found this to be the case in my own personal experience, Sir Thomas. But I believe you are correct in what you say. However, I do believe there are exceptions. And once a union is formed, perhaps love can create the truly lasting bond.”

“Ah. But what do you think the elements are that foster that difference in a marriage. That give some people such an edge, such a chance for lasting happiness?”

John stared out at the wisps of fog that continued to rise and settle around the ship. Though it halted the progress of his mission, there was real beauty in the mist. If only he knew the answer to the man’s question. His face clouded over.

“You are speaking to the wrong man, Sir Thomas.”

There was silence. Even though her name had not been mentioned yet, this was the closest the two had ever come to discussing Caroline.

“You are the last of your brothers to wed.” Sir Thomas was determined.

John turned and looked at him. “That’s true.”

“If you truly believe what you’ve just said, then what is it that’s held you back? Marriage, by all accounts, suits the Macphersons well. They seem to be among those exceptions you speak of. They seem to be among the happy few.” The elder warrior’s eyes were piercing. “So why not you?”

The Highlander paused. He wanted to give a quick answer and put the man’s mind at ease. But he couldn’t. How could he speak of the happiness that he saw in his own brothers’ marriages without sounding envious of their great joy?

He could have asked Caroline to be his wife. Many thought he would. Their intermittent affair had lasted nearly seven years. But still, when it had come to the end, when she’d demanded an answer, taking her as wife was a choice he couldn’t make. He’d let her go.

She was not Fiona, nor was she Elizabeth. Those women whom John’s brothers had been fortunate enough to wed were rare creatures, and the Highlander knew it. Caroline was not like them, and what had existed between the two of them was far different from what he had seen in his family. They shared their moments of physical passion, sure enough, but real love had never been within their grasp. And passion with Caroline was not a particularly suitable subject of discussion, at the moment.

“My answer,” John said at last, “is that I have not felt...inclined to marry. Not yet.”

“Then no second thoughts?” Sir Thomas asked quietly.

John met his direct gaze. Surprisingly, there was no hostility in the man’s honest face. John knew it was his right to ask.

“None. None at all.”

The loud squawk of a seabird somewhere overhead brought the elder woman back to the present.

Isabel leaned forward, hiding a wince and looking concernedly at her niece. My God, she thought, what had she done? The torn and bloodied cloak that was draped over the young woman was in better shape than the creature within. Isabel looked at a bruise on Maria’s forehead, and the new one on her chin. She saw the pale skin and bloodless lips. Maria’s eyes had lost their shine and had taken on a vacant look. She could hardly believe this was the same princess and queen, the same woman renowned for such flawless beauty. Isabel inwardly cursed herself for seeking out the child, for suggesting that if she was so unhappy, then she should go against her brother’s will in the matter of this senseless marriage. Isabel cursed herself for putting her niece into the position of dying on this floating nightmare.