The Queen's Lady (35 page)

R
OWAN REMAINED IN THE
Highlands, though not staying in his own domain, lest he bring down the wrath of the powers surrounding the queen upon those he loved. It was easy enough for him to find support there, and due to family loyalty, his location would be protected. For the moment, he and his men had taken up residence with the MacGregors of High Tierney, a place with a barren rock fortress and many farms. They were surrounded by hills catacombed with caves in which many a Scottish noble had found refuge throughout the centuries.

Now, having climbed the rugged outcropping of high hillside lands that rose over the sea, he sat atop a tor, brooding. The wind was wicked, but he barely felt the force of it. In the distance, snow covered the mountains, but beneath him, the earth was green. He chewed upon a blade of grass, knowing that he should have been planning an appeal to the queen, because whatever message he sent must be very carefully worded.

But the thoughts that should have ruled his mind did not.

She risked my arrest, he thought in fury. Risked my men.

He could not believe it. But he had been there. He had no choice but to believe it.

She had said she intended to marry the man the queen had chosen for her.

One voice warned him about the fickleness of women. Another reminded him of how passionately they had made love, and told him that she had acted as she had out of fear, and in his defense.

They hadn't talked before he fell into her bed, and that was a mistake. Yet maybe what they had shared was more meaningful than any words.

Then again, maybe it had just been the meeting of two sexual beings long starved of contact.

He rejected that thought. He'd had his days of seeking simple physical pleasure when Catherine had become so ill, when he had longed for something that meant nothing, that hadn't tainted his love for his wife. What he and Gwenyth had shared in that bed was far more than mere physical pleasure.

He gritted his teeth, standing to face the whipping wind.

For the moment, he would bide his time. Every day, he gained greater and greater respect here, though he wasn't sure why. He might have been named a conspirator by the queen's consort and damned by the queen, but he was becoming a folk hero nonetheless. He had refrained from murder, he thought wryly, though he had been accused of it.

He turned his thoughts at last to the best way to approach Queen Mary.

She would be in official mourning for forty days. In that time, Gwenyth would be at her side, and nothing that wasn't of immediate importance would be decided.

And then…God alone knew in what direction the wind would blow.

T
HE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED
Darnley's death were strange indeed, Gwenyth thought. There were long periods of silence and genuine grief, as well as the inevitable state visits. And the accusations.

The Countess of Lennox had been released, and she was in a state of mourning and rage.

The Count of Lennox was demanding that James Hepburn, Laird Bothwell, be tried.

Laird James Stewart, Earl of Moray, had hastened to London, anxious that Elizabeth know he had nothing to do with the evil deed.

And somehow, in the midst of everything, Mary had come to the realization she had not been a target but that instead her lairds had conspired to see her husband had been killed. He had not been murdered because she was unhappy in her marriage. He had been murdered because her factious barons had wanted him gone from the scene of power.

Despite the aid that James Hepburn, Laird Bothwell, had earlier provided her, Mary saw to it that he was brought to trial soon after her official period of mourning for Darnley was ended with a solemn Mass of Requiem.

Lennox was not able to attend the trial, having been waylaid in England. Ever a gossip and troublemaker, he had been held at bay. Gwenyth learned later that Queen Elizabeth had sent a messenger requesting the trial be delayed. Mary either did not receive the message or did not care that the messenger had come.

Though the judges themselves noted in writing that it was considered common knowledge throughout the city that James Hepburn had been guilty of conspiracy in the grisly deed, there was no one to swear witness against him, so Bothwell went free after trial, boasting as he rode through the streets of Edinburgh.

The queen did not seem to care one way or the other about the outcome of the trial. She continued as she had been, most often displaying a calm face before her people, going about the business of government, and yet in private she sometimes gave way to feelings of loss and depression, and cried. Afterward she was quiet, as if still in a state of shock.

Mary Fleming, who had married Maitland—who had been in disgrace himself, since the queen had believed him to have been involved in Riccio's death, but since found pardon—tried in vain to speak with the queen. Still, it was through Mary Fleming that Gwenyth learned much of what was going on around their tight inner circle.

“The barons are in a fury, a frenzy of activity, and I don't believe the queen realizes the danger in what is happening,” she told Gwenyth in private. “The problem is that she is too good, wanting to see only goodness in those around her.” She lowered her voice, looking anxiously toward the queen's bedroom, where Mary rested. “She can't see the depths of evil and ambition in men. Lennox has raised a group against Bothwell already. The factions are becoming more roiled and angry.” She hesitated, looking at Gwenyth. “You should know this, but I beg of you, don't speak on his behalf as yet. It's said that, while the barons fought fiercely among themselves in council, they all proclaimed the innocence of Laird Rowan. And Mary roused herself at last and said that
in her eyes
he was pardoned. As there are no official charges against him, I believe he is a free man, no matter who speaks against him. But understand this, Gwenyth. Bothwell was angry when he heard that Rowan was cleared. He may be honored and adored by the country, and even forgiven by the queen, but he remains in danger.”

Gwenyth exhaled, wide-eyed with hope as she stared at Mary Fleming. “God knows the hours I have spent praying, but…can he be pardoned for what he did not do?”

“It's an acknowledgment that he did nothing, I believe.”

Gwenyth hesitated. “What of the rumors regarding his English marriage?”

Mary shook her head sadly. “Not even my husband knows the truth of it. During his last audience with Elizabeth, she did not tell him the rumors were false, nor did she say that they were true. Gwenyth, you must have patience and faith. The queen has not suggested again that you should marry Donald, and he is a part of Laird Bothwell's retinue. So, you see, she is not a fool at all. She is careful about any shift of power.”

Gwenyth hesitated but opted to trust her friend, and told Mary Fleming what had happened when she had been on Bothwell land. Both kept their attention warily on the queen's door.

“So…you claimed against him to preserve his life?” Mary Fleming said. Her cheeks were flushed, though Gwenyth had certainly shared none of the details of the encounter.

“But will he know that?” Gwenyth asked.

“In his heart, certainly!” Mary Fleming said, ever the romantic at heart.

The queen called out for them then. When they rushed to her side, she looked so weary and ill that it was no surprise when she said, “I would leave the city. I must see some of the country…a different place from Edinburgh. There is too much strife here.”

 

M
ARY HAD NOT BEEN WELL
, but she had insisted on going secretly to Stirling, where her son lived, for it was thought that Stirling was safe. Gwenyth did not mind Stirling; it was a beautiful place, with graceful hills and dales. It was also a place of national pride for all Scots, for it had been at Stirling Bridge that William Wallace had so thoroughly defeated the English. The castle was fine, comfortable and well fortified.

And she had been there last with Rowan.

She held silent about Rowan, as Mary Fleming had warned her, grateful that it proved to be true that Rowan's name was on the lips of the people, and spoken always with respect.

Mary, however, continued frail and ill, often swooning when disturbing matters were broached to her. She was happy only in the presence of her child, and in that, Gwenyth felt her own heart break. The world was cruel indeed.

Her own child would not know her by now. She missed him as she might a limb, an essential part of her being, like breathing, like the beat of her heart.

But she dared not see him until his rights in the world were guaranteed. And it was not without deep resentment that she served the queen while Mary tended to and played with her own infant.

But Mary was not at all the passionate and confident woman who had first come to Scotland. Those who loved her feared she had suffered a breakdown of sorts, and worried continually. She had acted with such extreme courage and cleverness after the murder of Riccio, had made quick decisions and extricated herself from a life-threatening position.

But now she remained listless, and she was so ill when they started their return journey to Edinburgh that they had to stop along the way at Linlithgow and spend a night at the beautiful palace where she had been born, overlooking the glory of the lake.

They were a small party: the queen, her ladies, and Lairds Huntly, Maitland and Melville, along with a small guard, and they were met at the Bridge of Almond, a mere six miles from Edinburgh, by a huge force of over eight hundred men, armed, mounted and unmistakably dangerous. Bothwell rode straight to the queen's side and warned her that terrible danger awaited her in Edinburgh, so she must accompany him to a place of safety.

There was dissension; Maitland, in particular, was wary of the man and his news, but Mary lifted a hand and declared that she did not mean to be the cause of more dispute. If Laird Bothwell thought there would be greater safety in escorting them all to the castle at Dunbar—which she had given into his keeping just a year earlier—then they would attend him.

In the circumstances, Gwenyth didn't see how the queen could have responded any other way. Bothwell had an army with him. The queen was guarded by only thirty men.

By nightfall they were in Dunbar Castle, the gates were closed, and hundreds of men were ready to fight against anyone who might come to challenge them for possession of the queen. They quickly learned that there had been no danger to the queen in Edinburgh. She had been kidnapped.

She was kept with the Laird Bothwell and away from her friends for days. Even within Dunbar, there were rumors that the queen and Bothwell had planned the abduction together. But when rumors circulated that Mary had agreed to a seduction, as well, Gwenyth knew them to be a lie. Mary had always adhered to a strict standard of morality.

When Gwenyth saw the queen again, she found Mary to be as listless as ever. There was certainly no joy in her voice when she told her ladies, “I have agreed to marry Lord Bothwell.”

“But he is married!” Gwenyth said in shock.

Mary didn't rise to anger, only lifted a hand. “See the strength and power he has? He has abducted a
queen
in the middle of her country. He is arranging a divorce.” She looked away, her eyes vacant. “Jean married him because it seemed a good alliance. She will not mind the marriage being set aside. Perhaps an annulment will be arranged. But it will be a Protestant wedding.”

At Dunbar, the queen's loyal retinue was aghast, but they were powerless.

Mary Fleming and Gwenyth spoke late into the night, as they were sharing a room. “It is as if she is transfixed,” Mary said. “He raped her, and she is not in a strong enough state to protest. She is lost as I have never seen her before. They are saying such terrible things, that she was sleeping with him before Darnley's death. But they're wrong. Remember when she first fell so madly in love with Darnley? Then, she was passionately involved. I do not see her behaving that way at all about Bothwell.”

“It's madness. The country will be up in arms.”

“Aye,” Mary Fleming agreed gravely.

“This…this can't be,” Gwenyth murmured,

“But it is.”

At last, with Bothwell riding at the queen's side, they returned to Edinburgh. The guns were fired in honor of the queen, but it seemed, even to those who loved her, that Bothwell was in charge.

With unseemly haste, Bothwell's marriage was dissolved.

Twelve days later, Mary and Bothwell were married, in a Protestant ceremony, as sure a sign as there could be to those who knew Mary well that she was changed. The Mary who had first come to Scotland would never have set her God and her faith aside.

Even as they exchanged their vows, the people of Edinburgh began to protest. There were cries in the streets, shouts of “Only wantons marry in the month of May!” and “Marry in May, regret it for aye,” Scottish dialect for “forever.”

Gwenyth was certain Mary found no happiness in the days that followed. She was gentle and cultured, and Bothwell could be brutal and cruel. The queen had once admired him for his power, but he was a jealous man, and now she often excused herself from the company around her, and Gwenyth knew it was because the man too often drove her to tears.

By the end of the month, it was apparent that there would be bloodshed in the land before long.

And in all that time, Gwenyth had not seen Rowan, nor heard from him, or even of him.

Just weeks into the marriage, Bothwell, Mary and their retinues moved to the castle at Borthwick, but they had barely settled there before the castle was surrounded by insurgents. Bothwell left the castle by night to gather supporters, leaving Mary behind to defend it, though he knew that the castle could not withstand a siege.

Gwenyth helped Mary dress as a man, and she did the same, darkening her face with soot, wearing the clothes of a worker. By night, they departed.

As they neared Castle Black, where they hoped to take refuge, they paused, hearing a cry in the night. It was a messenger sent from the Wauchope family, neighbors and supporters of Bothwell.

When the horseman reached them, Mary was ready to fall.

“Is it the queen?” the man asked anxiously, and he dismounted quickly, looking at Gwenyth.

“Aye. You must take her, and quickly. She is about to faint,” Gwenyth advised him.

“What of you, m'lady?”

“I will be fine walking, if you will but set me upon the right road.”

Gwenyth watched as the fellow gallantly set the queen atop his horse, then mounted behind her. He looked back anxiously at Gwenyth, then along the road on which they had been traveling.

“Go quickly,” Gwenyth ordered him.

“I will come back for you.”

“I thank you, and God bless you,” she told him.

He was quickly gone, and Gwenyth was grateful the queen was in good hands, but she found herself sorely afraid, alone along the trail. She walked with speed, suddenly aware of every whisper of wind, of the sighing of the trees and the snap of every branch.

Night, she told herself, nothing but the noises of the night. There might be boars in the forest and other fearsome creatures, but there were no creations as frightening as ambitious men.

There was a sudden loud crack to her left. It was no forest sound, and she started to run.

And then it seemed that the woods came alive. There were men everywhere.

“The queen!” someone shouted.

“We have found her!” came another shout.

“Don't be daft, it isn't the queen. She hasn't the height.”

She ran, but it didn't matter that her heart pounded, or that her legs burned. They were everywhere, and she could only pray that Mary had made it safely through the forest before their arrival.