The Queen's Lady (5 page)

Gwenyth simply stared.

Mary smiled sadly. “Close your mouth, my dear.”

“I…I…how sad.”

“Yes.” Watching her carefully, Mary said, “Don't fall in love with him.”

“Fall in love with him? He's a…wretched, uncouth boor!”

Mary smiled. “I see. Well, though this may be of no interest to you, I must tell you that he no longer cohabits with his wife, which would be pure cruelty, since she has the mind of a small child. And he has maintained a certain dignity in his situation.”

“Dignity?”

“I know this only from James, of course, but they say that though Laird Rowan has not become celibate, what affairs he has are…discreet and with women who cannot be hurt. And I would never want to see you hurt, my dear friend,” Mary said gravely.

“You needn't worry,” Gwenyth assured her. “Ever. I've no intention of falling in love. It does nothing but make dangerous fools of any of us. And if I
were
to be idiot enough to fall in love, it would never be with a Highland savage such as Laird Rowan.”

Mary looked at the fire, smiling distantly. “There, you see, is the difference between us. How I long to fall in love, to know such great passion…. Ah, well. Marriage for me is a matter of contracts. Still, to once know that kind of love…”

“Mary,” Gwenyth murmured uneasily.

“Don't worry, dear friend. When I marry again, I shall not forget what I owe to my people. Still, even a queen may dream.” She waved a hand dismissively in the air. “This has been a long, and difficult day, and there will be many more such to come.”

Aware that the queen had clearly declared that it was time to sleep, Gwenyth hastily headed for the door. “Good night, then, my queen.”

“Gwenyth…”

“I am on my way out. Now you are my queen.”

“And you remain my friend,” Mary said.

Gwenyth lowered her head, smiling, and departed, eager for her own bed in this great Scottish palace that would now be her home. As she hurried down the long hall toward her chambers, she heard voices and paused. She realized she was overhearing a conversation from one of the smaller chambers reserved for state occasions.

“There is nothing else to be done. You cannot go back on your word.” The words were spoken in a deep, masculine—and recognizable—voice. Laird Rowan Graham.

“We are asking for trouble.” She knew the second speaker's voice equally well. James Stewart. Was the queen's half brother really her friend? Or did he, in secret, covet the crown and believe it should have been set upon his own head?

“Perhaps, but there is no other option. We can only hope that the queen's determination to avoid religious persecutions will prevail.”

“Then, as you have said, we must be prepared.”

“Always.”

Gwenyth was stunned when the door swung open and Laird Rowan exited, and she was caught standing, quite obviously eavesdropping, in the hall. She blinked and swallowed, as he eyed her gravely.

“I'm…lost,” she managed.

“Are you?” he inquired skeptically.

“Indeed,” she told him indignantly.

He offered a smile of grim amusement. “The ladies' chambers are there—you should have turned. If you were seeking your own bed, that is.”

“And what else would I have been seeking?” she demanded.

“What else?” he repeated, then bowed mockingly but did not answer. He simply turned and left, and she was startled to feel a deep anger that he had dismissed her so easily.

Good God, why?

She disliked him intensely. True, she was sorry for the poor man's wife, but it did not sound as if he led a very Christian life, and he was rude and annoying and presumptuous and…

She was exhausted. She was going to bed, to get well-deserved sleep. And she would not think of him at all.

Her room was small, but it was all her own. Not that she cared so much. Traveling with the queen in France, she had sometimes had quarters of her own, and sometimes, she had shared a bed with one or more of the Marys. That had led to much laughter, for they loved to imitate the esteemed princes, nobles and diplomats they met. Like the queen, they loved to dance and also to gamble, and they deeply enjoyed music. They had been together so long that they were like a family, and they had kindly accepted her into it. Still, she would never entirely be one of them.

And here at Holyrood she would sleep alone, she thought, as she surveyed her new home. She had a tiny window and even a tiny fireplace. The glow from the fire lit the window, and though it was small, she saw that it was stained glass. The firelight played across the image of a dove alighting on a tree. Below it was the Stewart coat of arms, the colors beautiful in the muted light.

She decided that here, back home in Scotland, she was glad for her privacy. The Marys had forgotten too much about Scotland. She loved them and did not want to lose their friendship, but she did not want to hear the country constantly vilified in comparison to France.

If she grew angry with someone, she could come here and rant into her pillow.

If she needed to think, she could find solitude.

If she needed to hide….

From whom would she need to hide?
She mocked herself.

It didn't matter. This lovely little place was her personal sanctuary.

Her mattress was comfortable, her pillow plump. Next to the fireplace was a very narrow door. When she opened it, she discovered that she even had a private necessary room. Amazing.

All in all, it was lovely to be home.

She carefully discarded her travel clothing, storing everything in her trunk; the room was far too small for clutter. Clad in her soft woolen nightgown, she was warm and comfortable. And exhausted. Yet when she lay in her bed at last, cozy and comfortable, she lay awake.

Thinking about Laird Rowan.

Her disturbing thoughts were broken when a clatter arose from the courtyard.

She leapt out of bed as if she had been singed by the fire. Panic, dreadful fear for the queen, seized her, and heedless of shoes or robe, she burst out into the hallway, the din from below continuing. She heard an incoherent screeching sound, followed by voices.

Along with many others who had been roused by the noise, she raced down the hall toward Mary's rooms, where the door to the hall stood ajar. As Gwenyth and the ladies and guards rushed in, they found the queen awake and standing at one of the windows, looking down.

“It's quite all right,” the queen assured them, lifting a hand and smiling at those who all but tumbled one over another in their headlong rush into her bedroom. “My subjects are greeting me. I am being serenaded,” she called cheerfully. She appeared wan and very tired, and yet she kept her smile in place. “Listen.”

“Mon Dieu!”
cried Pierre de Brantome, one of Mary's French escorts. “That is not a serenade. That is a like the sound of a thousand cats being stepped on.”

“Bagpipes,” Gwenyth heard herself say irritably. “If you listen, the sound is quite beautiful.”

“I have heard them before,” Brantome said with a huff, and stared at her, his eyes narrowing, as if he had just remembered that she'd been raised in what he clearly considered a benighted backwater.

“They have a lovely quality,” she assured him. “Which Mary, Queen of Scots, quite obviously appreciates.” She had never been quite sure what Pierre de Brantome's role was in the household, though he considered himself a diplomat and courtier. Gwenyth wasn't fond of him; he was too mocking of everything for her taste. But he did love Mary Stewart, and so, Gwenyth decided, he must be tolerated.

“Oh, yes, I love the cry of the pipes,” Mary said. “My dear Pierre, you must acquire a taste for this form of music.”

“It's certainly loud,” Brantome commented drily.

That much was true. It seemed as if a hundred of her people, at the very least, were outside, that the cry of the pipes was mixing with the efforts of an off-key chorus.

Mary looked strained, clearly weary, but she was ever the queen. “How lovely,” she said simply.

And so they all listened until the impromptu concert ended, the French ministers muttering beneath their breath all the while, and then there was chatter and laughter as the household slowly returned to bed.

Gwenyth was the last to bid Mary good-night, and this time she headed unerringly down the hall to her own chamber.

Back in her own bed once again, she slept, but in her dreams she pictured Laird Rowan's poor mad wife singing along to the plaintive call of a pipe, her laird, no longer her lover but her keeper, towering somewhere in the distance.

“Don't fall in love with him,” Mary had warned.

How absurd.

If anything, she would have to fall out of loathing, if she could bring herself to do so.

I
N THE FIRST DAYS THAT
followed their arrival, Gwenyth began to feel with relief that the forebodings that had plagued her had been absurd. The Scots clearly loved their queen.

The Frenchmen among their party—and even those Scots who had lived so long in France that they seemed to think of themselves as French—began to cease their complaints. Holyrood was not just a beautiful palace but peopled with a household eager to serve the young queen, who was unceasingly kind to those around her. The forest surrounding the palace was thick and wild, and soon became a popular spot for the court to go riding, and there was always an impressive view of Edinburgh Castle, high upon its rocky tor.

The view of the stalwart stone fortress even had its effect on those who had been less than happy to leave France behind. Gwenyth had taken the Marys on an afternoon shopping expedition along the Mile, and they had commented on the very unique charm of the Scottish capital. Everything seemed to be going well.

Then came the first Sunday.

“This would not happen in France,” one of the French retainers declared.

Though she was herself a Protestant, Gwenyth had vowed that she would attend Mass at the queen's side while they resided in Scotland, in support of her choice, and then observe her own rites, as well. The queen was now ready for church, having been assured by her half brother that she would be free to celebrate Mass just as she had in France.

Mary's French mother had been a devout Catholic, and when Mary had left as a child, the outcry against Catholicism had not yet begun.

Gwenyth had come to know enough about James Stewart, himself a son of the reformed Scottish church, to believe he intended to honor his vow to Mary. He was a dour and stalwart Scotsman by nature, but she had no cause to doubt his word. Perhaps he felt somewhere in his heart that he should wear the crown, but though he bowed to the Church of Scotland, he was like Mary in many ways. Like her, he abhorred the concept of violence over religious differences, and he proved it now.

A rumbling, threatening crowd had formed outside the small private chapel directly in front of the palace. The priest who was to say the Mass was shaking, afraid to walk forward to the altar. The servants carrying the candles were in terror, and their fear grew when some among the crowd laid hands upon them.

Shouts rose from the courtyard.

“Kill the priest!”

“Shall we suffer the worship of idols again?”

“Dear God,” the priest prayed, eyes rolling.

Then James Stewart, with the imposingly tall and broad-shouldered Rowan Graham at his side, stared at those gathered in the courtyard and roared, “I have given my word.”

“You will honor the promises given to your queen,” Rowan announced.

“Ye're not of them. Ye're not Papists!” came a cry.

“Queen Mary had decreed that no one shall be persecuted for choices that lie between God and a man or woman,” Rowan replied harshly. “Would you see the wretched fires burn here as they did in England during the days when heresy was at the whim of the monarch?”

There was more muttering, but the crowd subsided, and, with James, Rowan and a troop of their trusted men as escort, the royal party entered into the chapel.

The priest shook throughout the Mass and spoke so quickly that the service was over in what seemed to Gwenyth like mere moments.

Mary was clearly shaken, but she managed to wave to the people and return to her apartments, and then James dispersed the crowd that had gathered in the courtyard.

Gwenyth had expected Mary to be deeply disturbed by what had occurred, but the queen was surprisingly resilient. “They'll understand soon enough,” she told her ladies, as they all sat with her in her chambers, “I will not tolerate violence against Catholics—or those who have chosen any faith, including the Church of Scotland.”

Though she loved embroidery, which was occupying her other ladies, Mary was also an avid reader. She was able to read in many languages; at the moment, she was reading the work of a Spanish poet. But she looked up suddenly, oblivious of the volume she held. “It's Knox!” she said vehemently, and stared at Gwenyth. “He is the very personification of fanaticism and violence.”

There was silence in the room, and for a moment Gwenyth thought that the queen's eyes seemed almost to condemn her—as if, because she was more familiar with recent events in Scotland, she should somehow have been able to avert the morning's trouble.

Gwenyth drew a deep breath. She knew that Mary couldn't intend violence or even punishment against John Knox, for if she were to take such a position, not only would she be contradicting her own stance against religious persecution, she would be inviting her people to rebel. Gwenyth shook her head, a rueful smile curving her lips. Mary didn't want violence; she sought an understanding of the man. Gwenyth suddenly realized that the queen meant to debate him.

“My queen…John Knox is well-traveled and well-read. Despite that, he is of the opinion that women are inferior to men.”

“Though they do need us, do they not?” Mary Livingstone said, a sweet grin upon her face as she looked around at the other Marys—Fleming, Seton and Beaton—and at Gwenyth.

Gwenyth offered a swift smile in return but looked back to the queen and spoke in all seriousness. “Most men here believe women to be inferior, but they are willing to accept a queen as…a necessary evil, if you will. They also believe that an ill-suited ruler is best off removed. Or…dead. Knox is an excellent speaker, filled with fire, and though the new church took hold with the masses first, Knox swayed the nobles to accept it, and it was certainly his influence that caused the legal formation of the Church of Scotland just a year ago. He is an intelligent man, but a zealot. You must…you must beware of him.”

“I must meet him,” Mary said.

Gwenyth thought she should protest, but what could she say? If Mary was determined, she was the queen.

But Mary had never seen Knox speak. And Gwenyth had.

 

R
OWAN ACCOMPANIED
L
AIRD
James Stewart on the appointed day when John Knox was to have his audience with the queen. He was not surprised, when they greeted Knox and brought him into the reception hall to meet the queen, to find that she was with only one attendant, Lady Gwenyth MacLeod of Islington Island. Gwenyth, he gathered, had heard Knox speak at some time during her young life. And of all the queen's intimate circle, though her many ladies might be Scottish by birth, Gwenyth was the only one who knew at first hand about the recent mood of the country.

Rowan was afraid that this day would bring fireworks, because Knox was a very dangerous man. All fanatics were.

John Knox was in his late forties, and had a fevered and intense gaze. The minister of the great parish church in Edinburgh held tremendous sway among the people. He was, however, courteous enough, behaving with decorum and civility upon meeting the queen, who was cordial in return, indicating that they might speak privately, while her brother James, Rowan and Gwenyth took up chairs some distance away, closer to the fire, in attendance but not close enough to interfere with a private conversation.

“Foul weather, eh, lass?” Laird James said kindly to Gwenyth as they took their appointed positions.

“It does seem as if fall has come with a vengeance, my lord,” Gwenyth replied.

James smiled, but Rowan didn't venture a word, only watched her intently. In truth, they were all attempting to listen to the queen's conversation, despite their pretense of holding private conversation of their own.

Things seemed to begin well. Knox was courteous, if brusque, and Mary firmly stated that she had no intention of disturbing the Church of Scotland. Then Knox began offering his views. And they were blunt.

While Mary felt it was possible to allow people to choose their mode of worship, Knox vehemently believed there was but one true way. There was a constant danger, he insisted, that, as she was a Catholic monarch, Catholics would rise up in revolt and foreign princes and armies would attempt to stamp their own Catholic religion back on the surface of Scotland.

“One Mass,” Knox informed her in righteous tones, “is far more frightening to me than ten-thousand armed enemies, madam.”

Mary again tried to show reason. “I offer no threat to what is established. Do you not see that I was taught by great scholars, that I know the Bible, that I know my God?”

“You have been misled by misguided scholars.”

“But many men, great in learning, do not see the word of God as you do,” Mary protested.

And they began again to go around.

“It is right for men to rise up against a monarch who does not see the light of God,” he said.

“That most certainly is not right. I am God's choice as your queen,” Mary snapped in turn.

“It is not fitting that so frail a creature as a woman should sit upon a throne. It is a hazard of circumstance, and a true hazard indeed,” Knox replied.

“My dear man, I am hardly frail. I tower over you,” Mary retorted.

Their voices dropped again.

Rowan was startled to see that Gwenyth was smiling. He arched a brow to her in question.

“She is enjoying this,” she said.

Even James appeared proud of his sister. “She is deeply intelligent and has the weapon of words at her disposal.”

Rowan nodded, aware that Gwenyth was staring at him. “Aye, the queen holds her own. But Knox will not stop, and he will not bend.”

Even as he spoke, they could hear Mary's voice rising again.

Gwenyth started to stand, alarmed. Rowan shook his head imperceptibly. To his amazement, she appeared uncertain and sat again.

Knox went on to tell Mary that, despite his misgivings, he would accept her, just as the apostle Paul had lived under Nero's rule. He lamented her lack of learning, for surely that was what kept her so stubborn. She assured him that she had read a great deal.

In the end, it was an impasse.

But when they all rose, Rowan was certain that Mary had discovered much about Knox—and that Knox had learned a new respect for the so-called lesser being who was his queen.

When Knox was gone, Mary spun to face them. “What a horrid little man.”

“Your Grace, I tried to tell you—” Gwenyth began.

“I actually did enjoy sparring with him,” Mary said. “Though he is stubborn as an ox, and misled. But, James,” she said, addressing her brother, “doesn't he see I mean him no harm? I intend to rule with respect for my people, and I will honor the Church of Scotland.”

James sighed, at a loss. Rowan stepped in. “Your Grace, men such as Knox are fanatics. There is but one way to salvation in his eyes, and you do not follow his way.”

“Nor will I.”

Rowan bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Mary looked at Gwenyth. “I did match him, argument for argument.”

“You did.”

Mary offered them a wide smile. “Now we must hunt.”

“Hunt?” James said in dour confusion.

“My dear brother, there are times to work hard, and there are times to play.”

James rolled his eyes.

“Do not be dour,” Mary commanded. “If there were no hunts, how would we eat anything beyond mutton and beef? I long to ride today, to hunt.”

“I will see that it is arranged,” Gwenyth promised. “Shall I call your ladies and the noble French gentlemen of your retinue?”

“No, I would prefer a small hunt today. We will take a fine meal with us of meat and cheese and wine, and we will dine in the fresh air.”

James was still staring at her. “Mary, there are grave matters to be dealt with. There is the matter of the treaty you have refused to sign with Elizabeth.”

“There is the matter that Elizabeth still refuses to acknowledge me as her heir,” Mary informed him, her tone slightly sharp. “There are indeed many serious matters ahead—and I will devote my full attention to every one of them. I will be the queen you wish to see upon the throne, brother. But not this afternoon. I will meet you in the courtyard in an hour. We must let no more of the day go by.” When it looked as if James would protest once again, Mary continued quickly. “Why did God place this wondrous forest near the palace if it is not to be appreciated? Remember, brother, all men must eat. And we will also discuss an order of business…Laird Rowan.”

James Stewart's bushy brows shot upward. He had been taken by surprise. Gwenyth, however, smiled, and Rowan was more aware than ever that she did indeed know her queen. What she didn't know, he realized as he looked at her more closely, was what the queen wanted with
him.

 

M
ARY WAS AN EXCELLENT
rider and hunter; she had a fine kennel of sporting dogs, as well as the many smaller lapdogs she so loved. She had an exceptional air of happiness about her as they set off into the forest. She had been desirous that they go alone, though neither James nor Rowan was at ease with that, and Gwenyth understood why. They could not be comfortable, not when men such as Knox were preaching from the pulpit that a man had a right to remove a ruler who was ungodly. In his narrow mind, ungodly meant anything that did not precisely match his teachings, so the queen could well be in danger from religious zealots.