The Queen's Lady (11 page)

He dismissed such a thought from his mind.

She was the queen's lady, and she had lived in France too long. She needed to reaccustom herself to the reality of her own country, to learn that she was not the law and couldn't argue with the new faith of the land.

His wife was dying. He could rage against heaven, but he could not change that.

He was startled when Catherine spoke suddenly, her voice so low, so weak, that he had to return quickly to her side and lower his head to her lips to hear her words.

“The angel…” Catherine whispered.

He was at a loss.

“I'm here, my love. What do you need?”

Her eyes opened, huge blue pools dominating her face, and she frowned, staring at him. “The angel,” she repeated.

“My love, it's all right. You are not alone. I am here.”

“She was here….” Again, the words were so soft that he could barely hear them.

“Catherine, it's me, Rowan, your husband, who loves you.”

She didn't seem to hear him, or if she did, his words meant nothing. “I need her,” Catherine said, and her features twisted fretfully.

“Catherine,” he said softly, almost desperately, again. “Please, it's me. Rowan.”

It was as if she did not hear him.

“She sings a song, and it is sweet and beautiful and keeps away the demons,” Catherine whispered.

He held still, barely breathing for a moment, his heart in tatters.

She wanted Gwenyth.

“I will bring you your angel,” he told her.

A
LMOST THREE WEEKS LATER
, taken beyond the castle walls and gently cradled in her laird's arms so she could have one last glimpse of the Highlands, Lady Catherine breathed her last.

Rowan had ridden out with Catherine seated before him on his great stallion, and there, atop the tor, she had looked out over the beautiful landscape.

In the end, she was lucid. She whispered to him that she loved this valley, then looked up at Rowan, touched his face and closed her eyes for the final time. She was at peace.

Gwenyth was there, only a few feet away, for Catherine had decided somewhere in the recesses of her mind that she had found in Gwenyth both an angel and a true friend.

There had been nothing for Gwenyth to do but sit at Catherine's side, as bidden. Not that she minded. There was something gratifying about being so needed and able to perform some small service for another human being in pain. There was equally something agonizing in it, finding such a trusting friendship with someone she was destined to lose so quickly.

At the very end, Gwenyth had been pleased to see that Catherine had recognized Rowan and asked him to take her out into the countryside. Annie told Gwenyth that she'd seen such a change before, that, sadly, it often came right before death, a last shining reprieve before moving on to heaven, for surely there was nowhere else that such a sweet lady as Catherine might go.

Rowan spent the weeks leading up to Catherine's death in a cloud of rigid silence. If he had not kept such a cold distance from her, looking through her as if she were not there at all, she would have been unable to feel anything other than a deep sympathy for him, though she knew he did not want anyone's sympathy, most especially hers. He didn't want her there at all, she knew, and tolerated her only because Catherine desired her presence.

None of them had dismounted. Gwenyth was upon her mare, next to Tristan, the Reverend Reginald Keogh, Annie, Catherine's nurse, and several other members of the household. They held a silent vigil behind the laird of Castle Grey and his lady.

Rowan was silent for a long while, and then he turned to them. “It is over,” he said simply. He was cradling the body of his wife tenderly, his gaze distant. He had nothing else to say, merely turned his horse and started down the hillside toward his home.

When they returned, Rowan carried Catherine back to her bed, leaving the others to await his word. Even Reverend Keogh was not asked to attend the laird's private prayers for his departed lady; like the others, he awaited his time to serve. Gwenyth could only imagine what demons taunted Rowan while he sat with Catherine. Though he had so often infuriated her, she didn't think he had done Catherine any wrong; he had seen to her care to the best of his ability.

As evening neared, Gwenyth could bear the potent silence of the castle no longer; she went down to the stables and sought out her mare. The stableboy, like all the other servants, wore a look of mourning, but he was quick to help Gwenyth and advise her on a path to take for her ride.

“M'lady, 'tis not always safe for one who does not know our forests,” he warned. “Ours is a rough landscape.”

“I will not go far,” she assured him.

And truly, she did not mean to do so. But she soon found herself in the midst of a striking landscape, cliffs that rose high as if touching the heavens, valleys that were deep and beautiful. She passed tenant farms with workers in the fields, grazing lands so rich with sheep that they appeared as deep pools of white clouds. She reached a cliff traversed by a well-worn path and took it, aware that she was climbing higher and higher, but not entirely aware the sun was falling. From her vantage point, when she looked out, she could see the coast, the setting sun dazzling upon the water. On this day, when Catherine had died, there was no mist, no foul weather and no hint of rain.

Looking out, she could see the ferries returning to the shore. She realized she did hardly know her own home when she stared across the sea right then. Shading her eyes against the dying sun, she thought Islington Isle might be the very large spit to the far right. She could see the red rays strike an edifice there on the rock that made up most of her family's home.

Islington. Her home. She realized that she feared it, dreaded it. She had left when she was just fourteen. She had been schooled in Edinburgh under the care of Mary of Guise for several years, until she was sent to France when it was decided that Queen Mary must have a new lady-in-waiting, one more aware of the changing conditions in the queen's own realm.

She had been glad to leave. She had grown up with kindly nurses, but they had been under the harsh control of Angus MacLeod. He wasn't a bad man, merely a grim one, and he had always begrudged the decision that she should bear her father's title, though the law would customarily have granted the title and lands to the male heir. Her father's death while fighting for JamesV had caused the Queen Mother, regent following her husband's death, to decree that the title went to Gwenyth, just as her daughter became the queen at so tender an age.

The rock edifice that seemingly rose straight from the rocks and the water appeared to shimmer for a moment, as if in welcome. Perhaps, she thought, it was not welcome but warning. She gave herself a mental shake. She was as filled with pain as the rest of the household. Such a sad fate never should have struck such a gentle lady as Catherine. Now she was gone, death having claimed her at last. There would be no more suffering and no more fear. And so, despite the beauty of the day, there was now a pall about them all, Gwenyth thought.

The sun fell, leaving the cold to wrap itself around Gwenyth, who realized suddenly that she was atop a dangerous tor in the near blackness of the night.

“Come, girl,” she told her mare, keeping all signs of the sudden nervousness she felt from her voice. “It's time to head back.”

The mare, despite Gwenyth's best efforts, sensed her unease. As she tried carefully to wend her way back down the path, the mare pranced nervously.

“One does not
prance
on such ground,” Gwenyth informed the horse, but to no avail. “And I am not losing my seat again, my love,” she announced firmly.

They made it down the first slope and came to a valley. There were no longer sheep everywhere. Where the herders had taken their flocks, she did not know. In the dark, everything about this rugged land looked alike.

She eased her grip on the reins, allowing her mare to take the lead. She heard the cry of an owl as they started back across a field and nearly jumped herself. The mare shied, but still Gwenyth kept her seat.

“Home, girl, home,” she said softly, urging her horse forward again.

She rode through gentle fields, without seeing another human being.

After a few hours, she realized they were getting nowhere, either going in circles, or heading north rather than southeast. She stopped, desperately trying to get a feel for the position of the water, so she could regain her sense of direction. She thought that the breeze, which was making the night ever colder, was coming from the northwest, and having made that determination, she took control of the reins once again.

What had happened to all the farmhouses she had seen earlier? She had not come upon a single one since riding down from the peak. She chastised herself for her foolishness in getting so lost, though she knew that berating herself, whether in silence or aloud, would certainly do her no good.

At last she decided that she should find a copse, which would at least provide a place to sleep, and renew her hunt for a path back to the castle once it was morning. At the far end of the valley she could see a rising thicket of trees outlined in the moonlight, and she thought she could find a sheltered place there, a brook for water, surely, and a lumpy bed of pine needles.

There was little to fear, she assured herself, since she hadn't seen another human being in hours.

Laird Rowan would certainly not notice her absence that night, so she needn't fear she would worry him. And yet…

She felt a new sense of despair as she realized that Annie and Liza would certainly notice when she didn't return, and they would set up an alarm. With luck, Tristan would see to it that someone went out in search for her without disturbing Rowan's nightlong watch over his beloved Catherine.

As she headed toward the deeper darkness of the copse, she shivered and chastised herself again, mocking her own foolishness.

Then she saw a glow from somewhere in the trees.

She reined in the mare and narrowed her eyes. She could just make out a campfire burning, and she hesitated, but only briefly. True, the Highlanders were known for being a law unto themselves, but she was convinced that none would hurt her. She was the queen's lady, and she was under the care of one of their own, Laird Rowan of Castle Grey. She urged the mare forward, even when the horse protested, trying to wheel and run.

Later she would rue the fact that she hadn't allowed herself the good sense to follow the mare's instincts.

As she headed toward the light, the darkness suddenly filled with sound, a rustling in the trees before her, then behind her, at her side.

The mare shied, and Gwenyth tried to turn, to run.

But she knew it was too late.

 

R
OWAN REMAINED WHERE HE
had been for hours, seated, his head low, at the side of the bed. He didn't look at Catherine's beautiful features; he knew death had brought a peace to her face that he had not seen for far too long; she looked now as if she merely slept in great comfort.

He wanted to feel agony. He longed for pain. Anything…

Anything to banish the heavy burden of guilt.

He gritted his teeth. He had never offered another woman what he had offered her. Once upon a time, she had ignited every breath of passion and loyalty within him. They had laughed; they had loved; they had shared deep discussions on the state of the realm, on horses, even on the improvements that must be made to the castle.

Once upon a time….

But it seemed so long ago now. And far too often since her accident, he had been eager to escape the castle, grateful for his duties because they had taken him away from the cruel specter of what was, compared to that of what had been.

And when he had returned this time…

Not only had she not known him, she had longed for the solace of a stranger.

And then, just hours before her death, she had known him and, sensing the approach of her own death, had bade him take her to the tor, that she might see the land and the sky one last time.

He had never offered another soul his love, but he had tarried often enough with other women while she had lived. Whores, strumpets, no one who mattered or could be hurt, no one who even engaged his mind, much less his heart. They had not mattered, had meant nothing….

Yet now, as she lay here, he felt he had betrayed her. He had left home not just for duty, but by choice.

He wanted to punish himself for deserting her, wanted to feel the pain, not the dullness, the cold, that had settled around him.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, hands clenched before him. “Catherine, dear God, I pray you can forgive me.”

At first he paid no attention to the commotion in the hallway; he knew no one would disturb him. Despite Reverend Keogh's opinion that he needed to allow the body to be preserved, set to rest in a coffin, prepared for services, he knew he would be left alone, that everyone would await the end of his personal mourning.

But finally the to-do grew so loud and so close that he could ignore it no longer, so he stood, frowning, and strode to the door, casting it open.

Tristan was a dozen feet away along the hallway, speaking anxiously—and loudly—to Annie and Liza. Both women were obviously upset, and even Tristan looked deeply concerned.

“What is going on?” Rowan demanded.

The three of them spun around, looking at him with surprise, concern—and dread.

No one answered.

“Tristan? God, man, has a cat got your tongue?”

Tristan cleared his throat. “Laird Rowan, we did nae mean to take ye from y'er lady. We've a bit of a problem here, but I'll deal with it, m'laird, I swear.”

Rowan strode down the hall toward them, frowning. “What is this ‘bit of a problem'?”

“Lady Gwenyth rode out, my Lord Rowan!” Annie cried, distressed. “And she has not returned.”

“She rode out,” he repeated blankly.

“Aye.”

“Who allowed her to do so?” he demanded, staring at Tristan.

“M'laird, I should have been far more attentive, but…she asked no one's permission, she simply left,” Tristan explained. He stood tall, ready to accept his master's displeasure.

Oddly enough, Rowan felt no anger for Tristan. He knew Gwenyth far too well. But with her, he was furious. And, strangely, he was glad to be furious, to feel an emotion, to feel…

Alive.

“When did she leave?” he demanded.

“A few hours before dusk, I believe,” Annie said.