The Queen's Lady (3 page)

“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?”

He studied her for a moment, almost fondly, as if he had stumbled upon a curious child. “The wind will blow, and it will bend the great trees in the forest, whether I wish it were so or not,” he said. “When there is a storm brewing, 'tis best to take heed. The bough that does not bend will break.”

“That,” she said, “is the problem with the Scots.”

“You are a Scot,” he reminded her.

“Yes. And I have seen far too often how easily great lords can be bribed to one point of view or another.”

He looked ahead. Whether she liked him or not, the man had a fine profile: strong, clean-shaven chin; high, broad cheekbones; sharp eyes; and a wide brow. Perhaps it was his appearance that allowed him to be so patronizing without fear of reprisal.

“There are things I know, my lady, and things I know about my people. They are superstitious. They believe in evil. They believe in God—and they believe in the devil.”

“Don't you?”

He looked at her again. “I believe in God, because it comforts me to do so. And if there is good, then truly there must be evil. Does it matter to a greater being—one so great as God—if a man believes in one interpretation of His word or another? I'm afraid He does not whisper His true wisdom into my ears.”

“How amazing. From your behavior, one would assume He did,” she retorted.

He smiled slightly. “I have seen a great deal of tragedy and misery—sad old women condemned to the flames as witches, great men meeting the same fate for their convictions. What do I believe in? Compromise. And compromise, I propose, is what the queen must do.”

“Compromise—or bow down?” she inquired, trying not to allow the heat she felt into her words.

“Compromise,” he assured her.

Then it was he who moved on. Perhaps he had decided he was wasting his wisdom on a mere lady-in-waiting, that he no longer found her amusing….

“I shall tell the queen about you,” she murmured to herself, more worried than she cared to admit about the doubts he had planted in her mind. The barons here were indeed powerful men, men whose loyalty Mary needed to retain.

Lord Rowan, she convinced herself as the day wore on, was a man to be watched, to be wary of. There was no reason to expect anything but the best for both Scotland, and the queen. The nobles had come to greet her with full hearts, as had the common folk. The very air seemed alive with hope and happiness. And why not? Mary offered youth mixed with wisdom, an eagerness to be home and pleasure at the sight of her people—whether her heart was inwardly breaking or not.

Some things were true. Though Gwenyth did not believe her own beloved homeland was barbarous or uncouth, it could not be denied that the landscape was rough, wild and often dangerous. As could the Scottish nobles.

No, this was not France, but it was a land with much to offer its lovely queen.

 

A
S THEY CONTINUED ALONG
the road to Edinburgh, Rowan was pleased to see that prudence was evident in the populace's welcome to the queen. People lined the streets, many among them costumed and employed to both welcome and amuse. Fifty men were dressed as Moors, turbaned, wearing ballooned trousers of yellow taffeta, and bowing the procession along as if offering tremendous riches. Four young maidens representing the virtues greeted the queen from atop a hastily erected stage. A child walked up shyly to present Queen Mary with a Bible and Psalter.

There had been heated arguments before the queen's arrival, with several of the Protestant lords desirous of presenting an effigy of a burning priest for Mary's viewing. Many among their own number had furiously decried such an idea. There were some subtle hints as they rode past that this was no longer a Catholic country: burning effigies of biblical sons who had worshiped false idols, and a slight hint in the child's speech that the queen should embrace the religion of her country. But none of it was heavy-handed, allowing the new queen to ignore what she might not like. And the festive tenor of the day was real; people were ready and willing to welcome back such a beautiful monarch.

As Rowan carefully watched the activity surrounding the queen, he found his eyes frequently straying to her maid, the Lady Gwenyth, whose eyes were fixed upon the queen and those around her. The young woman was strikingly beautiful. In fact, all the queen's attendants were attractive—something, he mused, that the queen probably allowed because she herself was so regal and lovely, so she did not fear the glory of those around her. It was something that spoke well of her, Rowan thought.

But what was it about Lady Gwenyth that drew him so strongly? Certainly she was lovely, but the same could be said of many women. There was something, he realized, about her speech and her eyes that he found most provocative. A fire simmered within her, a fire to match the color of her hair—not really brown, not really blond, streaked with shades of red. And her eyes, a tempestuous mix of green, brown and gold. She wasn't as tall as the queen, but as even few men equaled Mary's height, it was not surprising that her maids were all diminutive in comparison. Still, Gwenyth was of a respectable height, perhaps five-foot-six. She gave her loyalty, and did so fiercely. She had shown herself ready and able to argue her point lucidly and with an effective command of language. She had a sharp wit. He smiled, thinking that when she disdained someone, she would do it with a cutting edge. When she hated someone, it would be with fervor. And when she loved, it would be with a passion and depth that could not be questioned or mistrusted.

A strange searing pain suddenly tore at his heart. Strange, for he had long ago accepted the tragedy of his own situation. He could not forget, would never truly heal. Yet he could not deny the carnal reality of his nature, though he allowed it free rein only when circumstances conspired to provide an acceptable mixture of time, place and partner. This girl in the queen's retinue was never to be taken lightly, and therefore…

Never to be taken at all.

He should keep his distance, yet he smiled as he recalled the joys of debating with her. She was far too amusing. Far too tempting.

Her eyes met his suddenly, and she didn't flush or look away. She gazed at him instead with defiance. Understandable, given that he had dared to express his wariness about this homecoming. A homecoming that, he was forced to admit, was going exceptionally well, at least so far. He was surprised to find himself the first to look away, and to cover his feelings, he rode forward, nearer to James Stewart. Nearer to Queen Mary. The people continued to boisterously cheer her, but….

He would be the last to deny that there were fanatics in Scotland, and he was relieved when the queen's party at last reached Holyrood Palace.

Perhaps appearances could be trusted and the queen was going to be accepted and loved—maybe even revered and adored. He didn't understand the deep feeling of dread that had settled over him when the day dawned for the young queen to arrive. Lord James, her half brother and, in essence, ruler of Scotland, had seemed pleased enough that his sister had been bound for home. Having accompanied James to France, Rowan had met her briefly already. She had been everything a country could long for in a monarch—elegant, poised and tactful. She was also beautiful, and her unusual height simply added to the impressiveness of her appearance. He simply found it worrying that she had spent virtually her entire life in France.

He himself had nothing against the French. He found their nobles' more than occasional slurs against the Scots to be amusing—and almost complimentary. Yes, theirs was a remote and rugged landscape. Yes, there were those among the Highland lords who were not only rightfully proud but fierce. They were not a dandified people, were fighters more often than courtiers, but their hearts were strong and true. And he knew that when his people accepted a belief into their hearts, they did it without stinting. Such was the case now, with the Protestant cause.

And the queen was Catholic.

He laid no blame upon her for that; in fact, he admired her loyalty. She had spent her life living with the God of the Catholic Church. She was constant in her beliefs. Throughout the years of his own life, he had seen far too much brutality committed in the name of religion.

Elizabeth now held the throne of England, herself a Protestant monarch. But though the Queen of England was judicious, not one to order executions lightly, she was not afraid of doing what must be done. Against the odds, she had created a realm in which no one needed to die for choosing to worship in his own way.

But here in Scotland, it had been only a year since the fever of Protestantism had taken hold, and Rowan knew his people. What they embraced, they embraced with abandon. He could not help but dread what was to come.

When they at last arrived at Holyrood Palace, he felt some of his forebodings ease away. Holyrood was magnificent. Set outside the city walls of Edinburgh, it was surrounded by magnificent vistas and delightful forests. Holyrood had been established as a tower, but in the days of the queen's father, it had been extended and improved upon in the style of the Scottish Renaissance. French masons had been brought in to do much of the work. Rowan thought proudly that Holyrood rivaled many a continental palace. Both Holyrood itself and the neighboring abbey had been burnt seventeen years earlier by the English, but in the years since, everything had been lovingly restored.

He saw Queen Mary's face as they arrived, and was glad to see her obvious pleasure at the sight of her new home as Scotland's queen. She had been nothing since her arrival but tactful and diplomatic, but he himself had played the game of diplomacy for many a year, and he knew that her delight in seeing the palace was genuine.

Rowan noticed that Gwenyth was anxiously watching the queen, as well, and he diverted his attention from the monarch and directed it toward the maid.

The Lady Gwenyth was an enigma. It was evident in her words and manner that she did not take her position in the queen's court lightly; she seemed to feel something for Mary that was precious even among kings and queens: real friendship. And yet here she was clearly no fool. She had not been gone long from the country of her birth and, though she loved Scotland dearly, she could not help but be aware, as the queen who had been so long away could not be, of the dangers here, perhaps more aware than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

The steward and servants assembled in the courtyard as Queen Mary and her noble entourage arrived, activity tempered by awe as the household staff awaited a greeting from their queen and mistress. Mary did not fail them. Once again, Rowan had to admire her charisma and character, for she remained every inch a queen while offering courtesy and even affection. Lord James took charge of his half sister, leaving the others of lesser station to discover their quarters for themselves, leading to a state of some confusion. He heard several among the French escort muttering with relief that the palace seemed to offer surprisingly comfortable accommodation, while clearly lamenting the lack of art, music and poetry in this sadly uncultured land.

“Rowan?”

He heard his name familiarly spoken and turned. Laird James Stewart was at his sister's side, glancing Rowan's way in question. Rowan nodded, aware that the northwest tower had been chosen for the establishment of the royal apartments, and that his help was being requested.