The Queen's Lady (19 page)

She pointed a finger at him and spoke sternly. “When the queen wins this battle, m'laird, ye'll hang. Mark me words, ye'll hang.”

He scowled fiercely. “What? Do ye be some witch, casting out predictions?”

“No witch, m'laird,” she said. “No witch, be I—just none other than a loyal Scot.”

Bryce let out a sound of disgust and thrust her toward his men. “Keep a careful watch,” he ordered them. “As for this one…she's young enough. Do with her what ye will. Then…well, we'll see. Like as not Laird Huntly will see that she hangs.”

As she was thrown forward, the woolen scarf around her head was loosened. She had lost too many of her hair pins during the reckless ride, and now the hairpieces she had borrowed from the queen began to fall away.

“She sheds!” cried a man.

“She's filthy,” added another.

“What whore is not?” Bryce MacIvey demanded. “Clean her up, if ye choose. There's a brook through yonder trees.”

Fergus MacIvey came riding through the group of men. “What foolishness is this, Bryce? We mustn't play with the queen's refuse. We must stay on guard.”

He dismounted and, coming through the crowd, grabbed hold of Gwenyth. She lowered her head, knowing it was best not to fight him. She was desperate to maintain her disguise. But he lifted her chin, despite her pretended subjugation.

He stared at her in stunned silence, searching her eyes, and then he started to laugh. “Bryce, y'haven't the eyes of a blind mole,” he announced.

Bryce MacIvey didn't appreciate the laughter, even from a kinsman. “Fergus, guard y'er tongue!” he roared.

“Take a look at y'er
servant
girl, me lad,” Fergus said.

Bryce MacIvey strode over, wrenching her from Fergus's grasp. He slipped his hand into her hair, jerking away the last of the hairpieces, bringing tears to her eyes and an involuntary cry from her lips as he did so.

Then he, too, started to laugh.

“Already,” he said to his men, “we have bested the queen.” His eyes narrowed, and he pulled Gwenyth closer. “And you, little witch, have lost indeed. There is no great Highland laird with his men to stop me now.”

G
AVIN CRAWLED BACK
down the tree.

“There's a goodly number of men. It appears that Laird MacIvey has brought the whole body of his kin. Say…fifty-odd fellows, hiding in the woods.”

Rowan considered the odds. They weren't good. But even as Gavin had taken to the height of an old oak to survey their options, he had watched as Bryce MacIvey had discovered the treasure he held.

Now he saw Annie step forward indignantly. “Touch her and the queen will see that y'er disburdened of all that ye hold. How dare ye put your faith in a man such as Laird Huntly, one who has wavered time and again in his own beliefs? Supporting the Covenant of the Protestants one minute, proclaiming Catholicism his true religion the next. Agreeing to his son's arrest one minute, joining him at arms the next?”

“Shut up, old woman,” Bryce commanded, his eyes still on Gwenyth.

“She's not an old woman,” Gwenyth protested. Rowan had to admit, she was not easily cowed. “I swear, Laird Bryce, if you touch me, you will die. That is both a promise and a prophecy.”

“A self-proclaimed witch, are you?” Bryce taunted.

“You will die,” she repeated.

“I think we'll consummate the union afore the ceremony,” Bryce informed her.

“You are seeking death!” she seethed.

“Oh? I am surrounded by my men. What oracle has assured ye that I'll die?” he taunted.

“A firm belief in God,” she informed him.

He moved to touch her face, and she reacted with a blow across his cheek that resounded throughout the forest.

Rowan winced, then felt a hand upon his shoulder. Gavin.

“You'll do her no good dead,” Gavin informed him wisely.

And he would not. What they needed was time. A troop of the queen's guard would soon join them.

“Time…we need to play for time,” Rowan said.

“They don't know me,” Gavin reminded him. He looked at Rowan, a question in his eyes.

“All right,” Rowan said at last.

Gavin grinned. “I've no costume, no disguise…but I will prove myself a fine enough actor. Just you wait and see.”

 

I
T HAD BEEN A MISTAKE
, striking the man. Even if she were the most able swordsman in the country, she could not best the number of men at Bryce's disposal. Nor did she have a sword.

Gwenyth saw that Annie was ready to jump to her defense again, and she was afraid that she was asking only for torture and punishment for them both. And so, as Bryce started to respond and all his men seemed to take a step closer, she spoke quickly. “Stop!”

To her amazement, they all paused.

“Laird Bryce, what you desire is my estate, and that is something you'll acquire only through marriage. You're under the belief that you can perpetrate a rape, and then I'll be forced to marry you. You are mistaken. If you wish to have my lands, then you must make me believe that you are desirable enough to marry.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “You are quite unbelievable.”

Fergus stepped toward him. “She is playing ye, Bryce. Ye cannae trust her.”

There was a sudden thrashing in the trees. Everyone spun to face the sound, and Gwenyth's eyes widened as a man strolled into the small clearing. He was wearing only his hose, breeches and dirty white linen shirt, along with what seemed to be half the forest, leaves in his hair and covering his clothing.

He walked with a strange lurch and came to a stop in the middle of the company, looking around. “Why, 'tis a celebration right here in the heart o' the wood. Welcome, good gentlemen.” He sketched a low bow. “Ye've entered me realm. I am Pan o'the Forest. Welcome, welcome, especially if ye've brought some good ale.”

Gavin!

This meant that Rowan was not far behind.

“'Tis a lunatic,” Bryce said with disgust. “Get him gone.”

“Gone?” Gavin protested. “'Tis me abode ye've entered.
Ye
be gone.”

“Do something with him,” Bryce demanded of his men.

“Leave him be,” Gwenyth said. “Cause injury to one of God's poor creatures and you'll not be a man I would marry.”

Fergus strode forward, hands on his hips as he accosted her. “My, we're a fine piece of work, m'lady, are we not? A marriage can—and will—be forced.”

“And it will mean nothing, nothing at all, if it is not blessed by the queen,” she assured him.

“Or the king,” Fergus said smugly.

“You are far more a lunatic than that poor man there,” Gwenyth said with a pleasant smile. “Do you think it will be so easy? John Gordon must win the day, and I do not believe he can prevail against the queen's forces. I think you will hang, my good man.” She raised her voice, looking around at the men who filled the clearing, some on horseback and others afoot. “And those in your company, if all is lost, will hang, as well.”

Rowan had to smile grimly, despite the circumstances, as Bryce's men moved back
en masse,
if only half a foot or so.

“Don't let the queen's
spy
unnerve ye from y'er cause!” Fergus cried out. “'Tis fear alone that can vanquish ye, men.” He looked at Bryce, working himself into a rage. “Take her, take her now, and be done with it. She's playing ye for a fool, lad. Be a man!”

Fergus's taunt sent Bryce into action. He wrenched Gwenyth toward him, but she was no easy opponent. She lashed out, and Rowan heard Bryce's roar of pain, as the man stumbled back from her again.

It might be the only real chance he had, Rowan knew, and he made his decision with split-second timing.

He drew an arrow, strung his bow, and let the arrow fly.

Bryce was struck dead center in the chest.

He did not even recognize his own death at first, only stood, staring at Gwenyth in shock for a moment, and then, at last, he fell.

“We are surrounded!” someone cried out in fear.

And the troops began to break, horses bolting, men crying out.

“Stay!” Fergus raged, rushing to Bryce's side. He saw immediately that his kinsman was dead, and he rose, staring at Gwenyth in such a rage that Rowan could hold his position no longer. He kneed Styx and went crashing through the forest. The bow and arrow were no longer useful; he drew his sword.

When Fergus strode forward, heedless of repercussion, ready to strangle Gwenyth, she was prepared. She ducked his hold and raced across the clearing, heading for the protection of the trees. Just as she reached them, Rowan burst into the clearing, his sword swinging.

Fergus shouted a fierce order, for not every man had deserted. It seemed there were suddenly men everywhere, some running into the fray in loyal defense of the clan, others running away in pursuit of self-survival.

Rowan's initial aim had been to battle Fergus, but he was diverted from that cause by the onrush of soldiers. Gavin, meanwhile, dropped his pretense of insanity and hurried to Bryce's fallen body, then unsheathed the dead man's sword.

Bryce's men were little match for the training Rowan and Gavin had received from the masters at both the Scottish court and as guests of the English queen. MacIvey's forces began to fall around them.

“Rowan!” came a cry.

It was Gwenyth. A man was rushing him from the rear.

Weaponless, she had nonetheless found a clump of dirt to throw the enemy's way. With his attacker temporarily blinded, her warning and missile gave Rowan time to turn to face the attack.

In seconds they heard the arrival of the queen's men, a multitude of horsemen, thrashing hard and furiously through the forest. At that point, it was a matter of mere minutes before the skirmish was ended.

When he had faced his last enemy, Rowan dismounted and approached Gwenyth, trying to contain his anger.

“You fool! You risked your life, Annie's, Gavin's and mine,” he informed her coldly.

She stiffened, staring at him, dignified and
regal,
despite the soot on her face and the total dishevelment of her person.

“I am on the queen's business,” she informed him.

He felt his jaw lock. It was difficult to argue against such a statement, so he turned away.

“You were not asked to risk your life!” she called after him.

He straightened his back and did not turn to face her again but strode back to Styx. She was on the queen's business, was she? Then the queen's personal guard could see that she was safely returned to her mistress.

Besides, he did not want her to see how he was shaking.

 

T
HE SKIRMISH IN THE FIELD
was nothing compared to what lay ahead. Rowan didn't have time to worry about what transpired between Gwenyth and the queen; it was imperative that he take command of his own troops, for the real battle was at hand.

In addition, he admitted to himself that he was furious with the queen, and therefore, he knew he had to avoid her. He was astounded that she had so mistrusted his advice that she had apparently needed to have his words verified. And he was horrified that she would let one of her ladies wander into danger rather than rely on the men who were honor bound to serve her with their lives.

He took control of his own forces, under the general command of Laird James and Laird Lindsay, along with Kirkcaldy of the Grange and Cockburn of Ormiston. The queen now had in her service one hundred and twenty harquebusiers and a number of cannon.

The day began with the queen's men firing upon Huntly's numbers upon the hill. They were sorely ravaged by the cannons and the harquebus fire, and began to fall. When the command was given, the cavalry rode in hard, followed by the infantry. The battle became hand to hand.

But the Highlanders never deserted the queen, as Huntly had surely prayed. In the midst of the fighting, as Huntly's troops grew ever thinner, mowed down or slipping away, the remaining men were forced into the swamp, as Rowan had foretold.

He was riding with Laird James when Huntly, Sir John and one of Huntly's younger sons, Adam, were caught and brought before them. As Laird James rode forward to face Huntly, the man stared back. Then, without a word, he tumbled from his horse. Laird James cried out, seeking to know what mockery the great earl was up to, then discovered that the man had died.

Sir John leapt down from his own mount and rushed to his father's side. He was not allowed his grief, for he and his young brother were quickly seized, and Laird Huntly's body was tossed over the haunches of a horse and taken from the scene.

It was over. The swamp was a gruesome arena of dead men, body parts and blood. And the queen's forces, with the support of the countryside, stood triumphant.

 

A
T THE MANOR
, G
WENYTH
paced her quarters restlessly. Mary had ridden out to address her troops before sending them off to fight, but Gwenyth had not been allowed to attend her. She was deeply dismayed and had argued the point, but apparently the queen regretted her decision to send Gwenyth out to spy and was horrified at the danger she had cast her lady into. At first Gwenyth had been certain that Rowan had brought such a grievance before Mary, but then she discovered that he had not seen the queen at all; he had gone to lead his own troops.

Throughout the day, Annie came at intervals to report on what was happening.

Gwenyth could not help but ask about Laird Rowan.

“I've heard naught of him, but the queen's forces hae prevailed throughout the day, m'lady.”

As the day faded, Annie returned, filled with news of the victory. “The queen is gloating, radiant. It was a massacre, so they say. And hear this! Laird Huntly died in his saddle, not a mark upon him.” Annie paused to laugh. “It was just as Lady Huntly's witches said it would be—he has been brought to the tollbooth at Aberdeen, and there he will lie through the night, not a mark upon him. His heart gave out, I imagine, at the loss. He knew his noble head would fly. I don't know what vengeance the queen will take upon his clan, but this much is sure—the Gordons will no longer defy Queen Mary and keep the nor'east and the Highlands from her rule.”

“What of Laird Rowan?” Gwenyth asked.

“I know not, m'lady. I have still heard no word.”

When Annie was gone, Gwenyth returned to her pacing. She had obeyed the queen throughout the long day; she had remained in her chambers, safe from danger. But now the battle was over, the day won, and she longed to know that Rowan was all right and to see him. She wasn't certain why. He had been so angry with her, when he'd had no right. They were both servants of the queen. She owed him no explanation.

No matter. She had to see him.

 

R
OWAN FELT WEARY
, bathed in blood.

He had chosen to leave his quarters in the manor, and that night he took over one of the smaller hunting lodges just beyond the town, in the forest where the MacIveys had thought to make a stand and win the approval of Huntly. It was now peopled with his own men, the men of Lochraven.