Loe raamatut: «The Queen's Lady»
The Queen’s Lady
Shannon Drake
For Joan Hammond, Judy DeWitt
and Kristi and Brian Ahlers, with love and
thanks for always being so wonderfully supportive
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART I: Homecoming
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
PART II: The Queen Triumphant
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PART III: Passion and Defeat
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
PROLOGUE
Before the fire
GWENYTH HEARD THE SOUND of footsteps and the clang of metal, and knew the guards were on their way to her cell.
Her time had come.
Despite knowing since the beginning that she was doomed, despite her determination to die defiant, scornful and with dignity, she felt her blood grow cold and congeal in her veins. Easy to be brave before the time, but now, faced with the reality of the moment, she was terrified.
She closed her eyes, seeking strength.
At least she could stand on her own two feet. She would not have to be dragged out to the pyre like so many pathetic souls who had been “led” into confession. Those who had seen the evil of their ways through the thumbscrews, the rack or any of the other methods used to encourage a prisoner to talk, could rarely walk on their own. She had given her interrogators what they had wanted from the beginning, standing tall and, she hoped, making a mockery of her judges through her sarcastic confession. She had saved the Crown a great deal of money, since the monsters who tortured prisoners to draw out the truth had to be paid for their heinous work.
And she had saved herself the ignominy of being dragged—broken, bleeding and disfigured—to the stake.
Another clank of metal, and footsteps drawing closer.
Breathe, she commanded herself. She could and would die with dignity. She was whole, and she had to be grateful that she could walk to her execution, having seen what they were capable of doing. But the terror….
She stood as straight as a ramrod, not from pride but because she had grown so cold it was as if she were made of ice, unable to bend. Not for long, though, she mocked herself. The flames would quickly thaw her with their deep and deadly caress. Instead of adding to the agony of the punishment, further torturing the doomed and broken souls delivered to their kiss, the flames were meant to see that such damned creatures were destroyed completely, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Before the flames were ignited, the condemned was usually strangled. Usually.
But when the judges were infuriated, the flames might be lit too quickly, without allowing the executioner time to hasten the end and lessen the agony. She had made enemies. She had spoken up for others; she had fought for herself. Her death was unlikely to be quick.
She’d made too many enemies, and that had led to her conviction and impending death. It had been easy to put the pieces together—after her arrest.
There were many who believed in the devil, believed that witchcraft was the source of all evil in the world—including the queen Gwenyth had served with such loyalty. They believed that mankind was weak, that Satan came in the night, that pacts were signed in blood, and curses and spells cast upon the innocent. They thought confession could save the eternal soul, that excruciating torture and death were the only way back into the arms of the Almighty. In fact, they were in the majority, for now; in Scotland and most of Europe, the practice of witchcraft was a capital crime.
She was not guilty of witchcraft, and her judges knew it. Her crime was one of loyalty, of love for a queen who, with her reckless passions, had damned them all.
Not that the cause mattered, nor the sham of a trial and the cruelty of the judgment against her. She was about to die. That was the only thing that mattered now.
Would she falter? What would happen when she felt the scorching touch of the first flames? Would she scream? Of course she would; she would be in agony.
She had been right and righteous.
Little good that did now.
And beyond the fear of death and pain, she was sorry. She hadn’t realized how much she had traded away in adhering to her ideals. The pain of what she was leaving behind had become a ragged, bleeding wound in her heart, burning as if salt had been poured on the tender flesh. Nothing they were about to do to her body could be as heinous as the agony tearing at her soul. For once she was gone….
What would happen to Daniel?
Nothing, surely. God could not be so cruel. The trial, the execution…they were meant to silence her and her alone. Daniel was safe. He was with those who loved him, and surely his father would allow no harm to befall him. No matter what she had done or how she had defied him.
The footsteps came closer, stopped just outside her cell. For a moment she was blinded by the light of the lantern they had brought with them into the darkness of the dungeon. She could tell there were three of them, but nothing more. Then her vision cleared and for a moment her heart took flight.
He was there.
Surely he could not mean for her life to end this way. Despite his anger, his warnings, his threats, he couldn’t have intended this. He had told her often enough—accurately, she had to admit—that she was far too like the queen she had served, rashly speaking her mind and blind to the dangers inherent in such honesty. But still, could he really be a part of this charade, this spectacle of political injustice and machination? He had held her in his arms, given her a brief, shimmering glimpse of how the heart could rule the mind, how passion could destroy sanity, how love could sweep away all sense.
They had shared so much. Too much.
And yet…
Men could betray one another as quickly as the wind shifted. For their own lives, for the sake of position and wealth, property and prosperity. Was he indeed a part of this travesty? For she had not been mistaken.
Rowan was here in all his grandeur. His wheaten hair was golden in the flickering torchlight, and he epitomized nobility in every way—kilted in his colors, a sweeping, fur-trimmed cape adding to the breadth of his swordsman’s shoulders. He stood before her now, flanked by her judge and her executioner, chiseled features grim and condemning, eyes as dark as coal, cold and disdainful. Long fingers of ice reached up and gripped her heart. How foolish she had been to believe he had come to her rescue.
He had not come to help her but to further condemn her. He was not immune to the political machinations of the day. Like so many of the nobility, with skills honed through years of bloodshed, he was adept at straddling a wall, then landing on the winning side in battle, whether on the field or in the halls of government.
She stared at him without moving, the other men invisible to her. She forced herself to ignore her own filthy and disheveled state—clothing torn and damp, crusted with the dirt and mold of her dungeon cell. She refused to allow herself to falter beneath his stare. Despite the rags that clung to her now, she remained still and regal, determined to end her life with grace. He watched her, his scorching blue eyes so dark with condemnation that they appeared to her like stygian pits, a glimpse into the hell into which she would find herself cast once she had breathed her last in this life and endured the final agony of the fire.
She met his look with scorn, barely aware that the judge was reading the accusation and the sentence, informing her that the time had come.
“Burned at the stake until dead…ashes cast to the wind…”
She didn’t move, didn’t blink, simply stood quite still, with her head held high. She realized that Reverend Martin had come up behind the others. She was almost amused to see that they had sent their esteemed lapdog to try to force her into abject terror and a renewed confession, even at the stake. After all, if she were to assure the crowd that she was indeed the devil’s pawn, guilty of all manner of horrors, then the whispers that she was innocent, a victim of a political struggle, would not rise to become shouts that stirred resistance the length and breadth of the country.
“Lady Gwenyth MacLeod, you must confess before the crowds, and your death will go easy,” the rector said. “Confess and pray now, for with your deepest repentance, our great Father in Heaven may well see fit to keep you from an eternity in the very bowels of hell.”
She couldn’t tear her eyes from Rowan, who appeared so tall and indomitable among the others, though he was still watching her with such loathing. She prayed that her own disgust outshone the fear in her eyes.
“Take care, reverend,” she said softly. “I stand condemned, and if I speak now before the crowd, I will say that I am guilty of nothing. I will not confess to a lie before the crowd, else my Father in Heaven would abandon me. I go to my death, and on to Heaven, because the good Lord knows I am innocent, and that you are using His name to rid yourselves of a political enemy. It is you, I fear, who will long rot in hell.”
“Blasphemy!”
She was stunned, for it was Rowan who shouted out the word.
The barred door of her cell was flung wide with terrible violence. Before she knew it, he had seized hold of her, the fingers of one hand threaded cruelly through her hair, forcing her to stare up into his eyes, powerless to escape the touch of his other hand against her cheek.
“She must not be allowed to speak before any crowd. She knows her soul is bound for hell, and she will try only to drag others down into Satan’s rancid hole along with her,” Rowan said, his voice rough with hatred and conviction. “Trust me, for I know too well the witchery of her enchantment.”
How could such words fall from his lips? Once he had sworn to love her forever. Before God, he had vowed his love.
Her heart shattered at the thought that he had come not only to bear witness to her agony but to be a part of it.
His hand was large, his fingers long and strangely gentle, despite the fact that he was so accustomed to wielding a sword. She recalled with renewed pain how those fingers had once reached for her only to stroke with the greatest tenderness. And his eyes…eyes that had gazed at her with such delight, such amusement, even anger at times, but most of all with a deep, shattering passion that touched her soul as she could never be touched in the flesh.
Now they were nothing but dark, brutal.
As he stared at her, held her defenseless, he moved, and she realized that he was holding something. It was, she saw, a small glass vial, and he held it to her lips as he bent closer and whispered for her ears alone, “Drink this. Now.”
She stared at him blankly, knowing that she had no choice, and almost smiled, because she saw the flicker of…something in those eyes that were so blue a color that they defied both sea and sky. She saw desperation and something more. Suddenly she recognized what it was. He was playing a part. He had not forgotten her.
“For the love of God, drink this now,” he said.
She closed her eyes and drank.
In an instant, the room began to spin, and she realized that there had been mercy in him, after all, some memory of the sweeping passions they had shared, for he had given her poison to spare her the searing agony of the flames devouring her flesh, roaring until she was nothing but ash cast into the wind.
“She’s Satan’s bitch! She seeks to make a mockery of us all.” Rowan growled as she felt his hands tighten around her throat.
He wanted them to think that he had strangled her not as an act of mercy, but to keep her silent before the crowd.
Darkness began to encroach upon her vision, and a numbness invaded her limbs. She could no longer stand, and she sank against him, grateful that she would be dead before she was consumed by the fire.
And yet, in those last moments, she raged against the agonizing truth that the man she had once trusted, had loved above life itself, with whom she had shared ecstasy, known paradise, should be the one to take her life.
She saw his eyes again, bright like blue flame, and wondered if those fiery beacons would follow her even unto death.
Her lips moved. “Bastard,” she told him.
“I shall meet you in hell, lady,” he replied, his voice a whisper, and yet, like the fire in his eyes they would surely follow her into eternity.
Was there a smile curving his lips? Was he mocking her, even as she died? Her vision fading, she looked into his eyes for confirmation and saw both sorrow and something more, as if he were trying to convey something to her, something the others must not see.
For as long as she could, she continued to meet his eyes, trying to see all that was in them and to convey her own message to him.
Daniel…
She wanted to say his name, but she dared not. She knew—knew—that he would love their son, that Daniel would never want for anything. Rowan would see to that. Unlike her, he would never fall prey to the vicissitudes of power. He had always been a statesman; his enemies never underestimated his strength—or his popularity.
The darkness closed in more fully around her, yet she felt no pain, wishing she had learned the lessons of statesmanship more fully.
That the queen had learned them, as well.
She wondered if she, like Mary, had given way too often to passion and her own convictions, her own definitions of right and wrong. Had there been a better way to stand her ground, to help the woman who even now knew she was in grave peril? The queen, too, might well lose her life; she had already been forced to abandon everything that made life worth living.
How could she have known? How could any of them have known? It had begun with such power and grandeur, such a beautiful and glorious dream. Even as the light faded, she remembered how it had shone once, so long ago.
PART I
CHAPTER ONE
August 19, Year of Our Lord 1561
“WHO IS THAT?” one of the maids whispered, hovering behind Queen Mary as they arrived, earlier than expected, at Leith. Gwenyth wasn’t sure who had spoken; Mary, Queen of Scots, had left her native land as a child with four ladies-in-waiting, all of them also named Mary: Mary Seton, Mary Fleming, Mary Livingstone and Mary Beaton. Gwenyth liked them all very much. They were all charming and sweet. Each had her individual personality traits, but they were known collectively as “the Marys” or “the queen’s Marys,” and sometimes it seemed as if they had become one collective person, as now, when Gwenyth wasn’t sure who had spoken.
They were all—including the queen—watching the shore, their eyes on the contingent awaiting them. The queen’s beautiful dark eyes seemed, to Gwenyth, as misty as the day itself.
Gwenyth didn’t think the queen had heard the question, until suddenly she replied. “Rowan. Rowan Graham, Lord of Lochraven. He visited France with my half brother, Lord James, some months ago.”
Gwenyth had heard the name. Rowan Graham was considered to be one of the most powerful nobles in Scotland. She seemed to recall that there was some strange tragedy connected with him, but she didn’t know what it was. She also knew that he had a reputation for speaking boldly and having the personal power and political strength to assure he was heard.
She sensed at that moment that this man was destined to haunt her life. He was impossible to miss, standing beside the queen’s half brother and regent, Lord James Stewart. Mary herself was tall, at five feet and eleven inches, taller than most of the men who served her. James himself was not as tall, but even if he had been taller than the queen, the man by his side would have towered above him in the mist that shrouded the land. The light was thin, but what there was of it gilded his wheat-gold hair, turning him into a golden lord, a warrior knight, akin to the Viking raiders of long ago. He was clad in the colors of his clan, blues and greens and, despite the fashionable raiment of the group assembled to greet the returning queen, he was the man to whom eyes turned.
Lochraven, Gwenyth thought. A Highland holding. Even in Scotland, the Highlanders were considered a race unto themselves. Gwenyth knew Scotland better than her queen, and she knew that a Highland lord could be a dangerous man, for she was from the Highlands herself, and very aware of the fierce power of the clan thanes. Rowan Graham was a man to be watched.
Not that the queen had a reason to fear any man in Scotland. Mary had been asked to return home, but there were things Gwenyth knew that the queen did not. Just a year ago, Protestantism had become the official religion in Scotland, and with fanatical men—persuasive men—such as John Knox preaching in Edinburgh, the queen’s devotion to the Catholic faith could place her in danger. The thought made Gwenyth angry; Mary’s intent was to let people worship as they chose. Surely the same courtesy should be extended to the queen.
“Home. Scotland.” Mary murmured the two words as if trying, in her own mind, to make them synonymous.
Gwenyth was startled from her own thoughts and looked at her sovereign and friend worriedly. She herself was delighted to return home. Unlike many of the queen’s ladies, she had been gone but a short time, only a year. Mary had left her home before the age of six. The Queen of Scotland was far more French than Scottish. When they had left France, Mary had stood at the rail of their ship for a long time, tears in her eyes, repeating, “Adieu, France.”
For a moment Gwenyth felt a surge of resentment on behalf of Scotland. She loved her homeland. There was nothing as beautiful as the rocky coast, with its shades of gray, green and mauve in spring and summer turning to a fantasy of white come winter. And she loved her country’s rugged castles, a match for the steep crags of the landscape. But perhaps she wasn’t being fair to Mary. The queen had been away for a long time. It couldn’t help that the French themselves considered Scotland a land where barbarians still roamed, possessed of nothing that could compare with the sophistication of their own country.
Mary was barely nineteen and a widow. No longer Queen of France but ruler of the country that was her birthright, a country she hardly knew.
The queen smiled at those around her. “We have won through,” she said with forced cheer.
“Yes,” agreed Mary Seton. “Despite all those wretched threats from Elizabeth.”
There had been a certain sense of nervousness when they had sailed, since Queen Elizabeth had not responded to their request for safe passage. Many in France and Scotland had feared that the English queen intended to waylay and capture her cousin. There had been a terrifying moment when they had been stopped on their journey by English ships. However, the English crews had merely saluted, and their vessels, other than those in Mary’s immediate party, had been inspected for pirates. Lord Eglington had been detained, but he had been assured of safe conduct after interrogation. At Tynemouth, Mary’s horses and mules had been confiscated, with promises of a safe return once proper documents were obtained.
“This is quite exciting,” Mary Seton said, indicating the tall Scotsman.
The queen looked out at the shore again, staring at the man in question. “He is not for you,” she said simply.
“Perhaps there are more like him,” Mary Livingstone said lightly.
“There are many like him,” Gwenyth said. They all turned to stare at her, and she flushed. “Scotland is known for birthing some of the finest warriors in the world,” she said, upset with herself for sounding so defensive.
“I vow we will have peace,” Queen Mary said, her gaze still on the shore, then she shivered slightly.
It was not the cold, Gwenyth thought, that caused the shiver. She knew that Mary was thinking that France was a far grander country than Scotland, offering far more comfortable accommodations along with its warmer weather. Much of the known world, and certainly the French themselves, considered the country to be the epitome of art and learning and felt that Scotland had been blessed to be tied to such a great power by marriage. In France, Mary had known the finest of everything. Gwenyth feared that the queen would be disappointed by the amenities her homeland offered.
Cheers went up from the shore, as Mary offered a radiant smile. Despite their early arrival after five days at sea, a good-sized crowd had mustered. “Curiosity,” Mary whispered to Gwenyth, a dry note in her voice.
“They’ve come to honor their queen,” Gwenyth protested.
Mary merely smiled and waved; radiant, she stepped from the ship, to be greeted first by her half brother James and then the milling court around him. The people were shouting joyously. Perhaps they had come out of nothing more than curiosity, but they were impressed now, as well they should be. Mary had never forgotten her Scots tongue; she spoke it fluently, with no trace of an accent. Her voice was clear, and she was not only beautiful—tall, stately and slender—but she moved with an unmistakably regal grace.
Gwenyth stood slightly behind the queen and Lord James. The towering blond man, Lord Rowan, slipped past her, bending to whisper in Lord James’s ear. “It’s time to move on. She’s done well. Let’s not take a chance that the mood will turn.”
When he moved to retreat, Gwenyth caught his eyes and she knew her own were indignant. He wasn’t, however, cowed in the least by her fury; instead was amused. His lips twitched, and Gwenyth felt her anger deepen. Mary of Scotland was a caring queen. True, she was young, and she had grown up in France, but since the death of her young husband—not just the King and her marriage partner, but her dear friend since childhood—Mary had demonstrated a firm grasp of statesmanship. That this man should doubt her in any way was nothing less than infuriating. And, Gwenyth decided, traitorous.
Soon they were all mounted, ready to ride to Holyrood Palace, where they would dine while the queen’s rooms were prepared. Gwenyth sighed softly. This homecoming would be a good thing. The people would continue to rally around Mary. Meanwhile, Gwenyth herself was content simply to revel in the familiarity of the truest home she had ever known. Though the day was a bit foggy, even what some might call dismal, the gray and mauve skies were as much a part of Scotland’s wild beauty as the rugged landscape itself.
“At the least,” one of the young Marys said, “it seems that Mary will be adored and honored here. Even if it isn’t France,” she added sadly.
Gwenyth was dismayed to feel a strange chill as they rode through Leith. There was nothing to cause her such discomfort, she assured herself. People were cheering the queen’s passage with great enthusiasm. She had no reason for uneasiness.
“Why the frown?”
She turned, startled, to see that Rowan Graham had moved up and was riding at her side—and regarding her with amusement.
“I am not frowning,” she said.
“Really? And to think I had imagined you might have the intelligence to worry about the future despite the fanfare.”
“Worry about the future?” she said indignantly. “Why should I worry that the concerns of the world might impose themselves upon a queen?”
He stared forward, a strange look of both amusement and distance in his eyes. “A Catholic queen has suddenly come home to rule a nation that has wholeheartedly embraced Protestantism in the last year.” He turned back to her. “Surely that is cause for concern?”
“Queen Mary’s half brother, the Lord James, has assured her that she may worship as she chooses,” she said.
“Indeed,” he said, and laughed aloud, which she thought quite rude.
“Would you deny the queen her right to worship God?” she inquired. “If so, perhaps you’d be best off returning to the Highlands, my lord,” she said sweetly.
“Ah, such fierce loyalty.”
“No more than you, too, owe your queen,” she snapped.
“How long have you been gone, Lady Gwenyth?” he asked softly in return.
“A year.”
“Then such pretense on your part is either foolish or you are sadly not as well-read or intelligent as I had imagined. You speak of loyalty, but surely you know loyalty is something to be earned. Perhaps your young queen does indeed deserve such a fierce defense, but she must prove herself to her people, having been gone so long. Have you been gone so long that you have forgotten how it is here? That there are parts of this land where the monarchy and government mean nothing, and devotion is given first and foremost to one’s own clan? When there is no war to fight, we fight among ourselves. I am a loyal man, my lady. Fiercely loyal to Scotland. Young Mary is our queen, and as such, she has not just my loyalty but every shred of strength I can provide, both my sword arm and my life. But if she wishes to gain real control as a monarch, she will have to come to know her people and make them love her. For if they love her…no battle in her name will be too great. History has proven us reckless, far too ready to die for those with the passion to lead us into battle. Time will tell if Mary is one such.”
Gwenyth stared at him, incredulous. It was a heroic speech, but she sensed something of a threat in it, as well. “You, my lord, haven’t the manners of a Highland hound,” she returned, fighting for control.
He didn’t lose his temper, only shrugged. She was further irritated when once again he laughed out loud. “A year in France has made you quite high and mighty, has it not? Have you forgotten that your own father hailed from the Highlands?”
Was that a subtle rebuke? Her father had died on the battlefield with James V, though he’d not left such a great legacy as the king. He’d been Laird MacLeod of Islington Isle, but the tiny spit of land just off the high tors barely afforded a meager living for those who lived upon it. Riches had not sent her to France to serve Queen Mary; respect for her father’s memory was all that had been left her.
“It’s my understanding that my father was stalwart and brave, and courteous at all times,” she informed him.
“Ah, how sharp that dagger,” he murmured.
“What is the matter with you, Laird Rowan? This is a day of great joy. A young queen has returned to claim her birthright. Look around you. People are happy.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “So far.”
“Beware. Your words hold a hint of what might sound traitorous to other ears,” she informed him coolly.
“My point,” he said softly, “is that this Scotland is a far different place than the Scotland she left so long ago—indeed, even from the Scotland you left behind. But if you think I am less than pleased to see Mary here, you are mistaken. It is my entire aim to keep Mary on her throne. I, too, believe a man—or a woman—must worship God from the heart and as seems best, not turning upon details that have so torn apart the Catholic Church and the people of this country. Men of power write policy and interpret words on paper, yet it is the innocents who so often die because of that simple fact. I speak bluntly and boldly—that is my way. I will always be here to guard your Mary—even against herself, if need be. You, my dear, are young, with the idealistic perceptions of youth. May God guard you, as well.”
“I hope He will start by helping me avoid the boors of my own country,” she returned, her chin high.
“With one so charming and dedicated as yourself, dear Lady Gwenyth, how could our Maker not oblige?”
Kneeing her horse, she hurried forward, keeping her place within Mary’s vanguard, but putting some distance between herself and the rough Laird Rowan. She heard his soft laughter follow her and shivered. He had managed to cast a pall over what should have been a day of unalloyed triumph. Why, she wondered, did she let his subtle byplay disturb her so deeply?
She turned her horse back toward him. Riding was one of her finer talents, and she wasn’t averse to displaying her abilities as she swerved her mount, covered the distance she’d put between them, then swerved once again and rode up beside him.
“You know nothing,” she informed him heatedly. “You do not know Mary. She was sent to France as a child and given a husband. And she was a friend, the best friend possible, to him. The poor king was sickly from the beginning, but Mary remained a dear and loyal friend—and wife. In the end, despite the wretched conditions of the sickroom, she never once wavered. She cared for him until his death, then mourned his loss with dignity. And as the world changed around her, she kept that dignity. As diplomats and courtiers from all over the world came with petitions and suggestions for her next marriage, she weighed her options, including what was best for Scotland, with deep concern and a full understanding of the statesmanship demanded by her position. How dare you doubt her?” she demanded.
This time, he didn’t laugh. Instead, his eyes softened. “If she has the power to earn such passionate praise from one such as yourself, my lady, then there must be deep resources indeed beneath her lovely and noble appearance. May you always be so certain in all things,” he said at last, softly.
“Why should not one be certain, sir?” she inquired.
“Because the wind is quick to change.”
“And do you, like the wind, change so easily, Laird Rowan?”
