Читать книгу The Queen's Lady - Shannon Drake - Страница 8

“I AM EXHAUSTED,” MARY sighed, throwing herself onto the bed in her chamber. She stared up at the ceiling and laughed softly, sounding for a moment like any young woman. “Actually, this is quite lovely,” she said, surveying the room. She rolled to stare at Gwenyth, who was standing nearby. “It is, isn’t it?” she whispered, and Gwenyth knew she was missing France.

“It is magnificent,” Gwenyth assured her.

Mary leaned back on the bed again. “Crowns,” she murmured. “They do weigh heavily.”

“My queen—” Gwenyth began.

Mary rose to a sitting position, shaking her head. “For now, I beg of you, please drop the formality. We are alone, and I must trust in you. You’ve not been gone so long from here, and you’re not after any reward, nor testing me, weighing me. Use my given name, as if we were nothing more than a pair of friends. For you truly are my friend, and that is what I need now.”

“Mary, I believe your arrival here was a complete success. Your people are delighted to have their young and beautiful queen returned.”

She shook her head. “These people seem so forbidding”

“They’re…” Gwenyth paused, not sure what to say. She shrugged. “They’re forbidding,” she agreed. She hesitated, then went on. “It’s due to John Knox and the way they have embraced their church.”

“Right. They can’t follow the English, heaven forbid, but they don’t want to believe in the old religion, either, so they must have their own church.” She sighed, then patted the side of the richly canopied bed to urge Gwenyth to join her. As soon as Gwenyth sat down, Mary gave her a fierce hug. “It’s cold here, have you felt it?”

“There’s a lovely fire burning,” Gwenyth said.

“You’re right. And it will be warming soon. This is so strange a place, though. In France, while my husband lived, there was such a marvelous sense of security in being queen. And here…it is as if I am being tested because I am queen.”

“You must remember, your half brother, Lord James, has been the power behind the throne since the death of your mother. Time has passed, and things have changed. But now, both lords and churchmen have gathered to welcome you home. You must remember that. Everything is going to be wonderful.”

“Is it?”

Mary rose and walked toward the fire to warm her hands. For a moment she looked lost, even tragic. “If only…” Then she steeled her shoulders and swung around. “I have barely arrived, we’re all dressed in the grays and blacks of our mourning, and do you know what was on the mind of those great and noble lords who greeted us and rode as our escort here to the palace?”

“What?”

“My remarriage.”

Gwenyth smiled. “My dear queen—”

“Friends, we are friends here tonight.”

“Mary, I’m sorry to say this, for I know your heart and know that you were deeply grieved by the death of your husband, but from the instant the king of France died, nobles and monarchs across our world were discussing your next marriage. You are a queen, and your alliances, both personal and political, can change the face of history. This is a sad truth to face when the soul is in pain, but it is the way of the world.”

“I am a commodity,” Mary said softly.

“You are a queen.”

Again, Mary paced. “You are right, I know. I scarcely had time to bury my husband with the honor that was his due before I, too, realized my future had to be decided. Today, when we stepped ashore, I had to wonder if perhaps I made a grave error. There were offers, you know, offers from Catholic royal houses. There is no right step to take, I fear. Were I to marry into such a house, I would turn Scotland against me. But here, today, I learned the minds of these men. They want me to choose one of their number as consort, a man who honors all that is Scottish, who bleeds pure Scottish blood, who will compensate for what they consider the disadvantage of my upbringing. Oh, Gwen, what is the matter with the people? How can I be anything less than true to what I have been taught all my life, to what I have read, to God as I know Him?”

“No one expects that of you.”

Mary shook her head in denial, and Gwenyth thought that, sadly, she was most likely right.

“They expect everything of me. But I am not an inconstant queen. I will honor and worship God as I see fit. But…” She turned away, lowering her head.

“But?” Gwenyth started to smile. She thought she had seen something in Mary’s face.

“Well…” Mary inhaled deeply. “I loved him, but my late husband…he was never well.”

“There was no romance,” Gwenyth whispered.

Mary spun and rushed back to the bed. “Am I terrible? I have seen someone who…well, I was newly widowed when I saw him. He is a distant cousin, in fact.” She looked at Gwenyth mischievously. “He is most handsome.”

“Who is he?”

“Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley.”

“Ah,” Gwenyth murmured, looking away, thinking that Mary deserved some genuine happiness. She had spent her life doing what was expected of her, performing her duty. To hear that whisper of excitement in her voice was, Gwenyth thought, most gratifying.

Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, was, like Mary, a grandchild of Margaret Tudor, the sister of the late English king, Henry VIII. Gwenyth did not know him so much as know of him. He was living in England currently, a so-called guest of Queen Elizabeth, due to what that monarch considered his Scottish father’s sin in standing against her. His mother was an English peeress, however, so his stay could not properly be considered incarceration.

Gwenyth had met Lord Darnley only briefly, at the same time as the queen, when he had come to bring condolences on the death of King Francis. He was indeed handsome, as Mary had said, and he could be charming. Other nobles, she knew—especially many of the Highlanders—did not like him. He was fond of drinking, gambling and all manner of debauchery. He had Stewart blood, but he had English blood, as well. Then again, so did many of the Scottish nobility.

Gwenyth looked at Mary then with a definite sense of unease, though happily Mary did not take that look to mean personal dissatisfaction with the one man who seemed to appeal to her on a sensual level.

“Don’t look at me like that! Why may I not enjoy the fact that I have seen a man who is both acceptable in the minds of many and appealing? Fear not, I have not lost my senses. I am in mourning, and despite everything, I did love Francis, dearly, though it was…it was perhaps more a deep and tender friendship than a passionate love. I remain in mourning, and I will not be rash in my decisions. I will be careful, and I will be listening to my advisors. No decision can be made for some time. I am still considering negotiations with Don Carlos of Spain and other foreign princes. My greatest strength lies in where I will cast my die. I shall not forget that for me, even more so than most, marriage is a matter political alliance, not love.”

“Mary, I know you will do what is right, but you certainly must allow yourself to dream of what will make you happy, as well,” Gwenyth said.

Mary, so tall and elegant in her robe trimmed with fur, looked at her with wide, beautiful dark eyes. “I am frightened,” she whispered. “Frightened that no matter how hard I try to do the right thing, I cannot make my people happy.”

“Oh, Mary! You must not feel so. It was a wonderful homecoming. And you’re going to be a wonderful queen. You are a wonderful queen.”

“It is so…so different here.”

“These are your people. They love you.”

“They’re so…” Mary paused, then offered a smile. “So Scottish.”

“True, this is not France. But, Mary, it is a wonderful country, filled with wonderful people. Who do outsiders look to when they seek military assistance? They offer rich rewards to entice Scotsmen to fight in their battles, because we are fierce and strong and loyal.”

“But I seek peace.”

“Of course. But peace is often obtained through strength.”

“Not in Scotland.”

“Ah, Mary. That’s not true, not always. Think back. We are a country because of the determination and courage of men such as William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, your own ancestor. Scotsmen are also poets and scientists. They go to schools elsewhere, and they learn about the world. You have only to love the Scots and they will love you.”

Mary let out a soft sigh. “I pray…yes, I pray. And I thank you—my friend. My four Marys are most dear to me, but they do not know this land as you know it. They, like me, have been away too long. Tonight I dearly needed your friendship and understanding, and you have not disappointed me.”

“Mary, anyone who knows you is aware that you have a great heart, that you are both kind and wise. You don’t need me. You need only to believe in yourself and to be willing to understand your own people.”

“I intend to try. For I intend to be a great queen.” Mary hesitated. “Greater, even,” she said softly, “than my cousin who sits on the throne of England.”

A chill snaked along Gwenyth’s spine. Elizabeth was proving to be a very powerful monarch. She was ten years older than Mary and had been queen of England for several years now. And she was Mary’s opponent in the political arena, for when Mary Tudor had died, the French royalty had declared Mary Stewart not just Queen of Scotland and of France, but Queen of England and Ireland, as well, considering Elizabeth to be Henry’s bastard and therefore lacking the right to rule.

Politics could be a very dangerous game. Gwenyth knew Mary did not wish to oust her cousin from the throne, but she was loyal to her religion. It had become quite apparent that not only did the English not wish to have anyone other than their own Queen Bess, they wanted nothing to do with a Catholic monarch, and therein lay the seeds of potential—or perhaps inevitable—conflict.

Throughout the centuries, wars with England had torn Scotland apart. None wished to have more bloodshed to be forced upon them by the English, yet every alliance was like a dagger in the heart of some other nation. The English warily watched Scotland’s friendship with the French, and the Spanish watched them all, so they watched the Spanish in turn. Such concerns would have a crucial impact on Mary’s future marriage. She could bring an ally to their cause—and create a wellspring of enemies, as well.

As if reading Gwenyth’s thoughts, Mary said softly, “I do believe it will be best if I marry within this realm in time. And he is good looking, isn’t he?”

“Who?”

“Lord Darnley.”

“Ah, yes.”

Mary narrowed her eyes in amusement. “I gather you think someone else is also handsome? I believe I know of whom you speak.”

“You do?”

“Laird Rowan.”

Gwenyth started, and could feel her spine stiffening. “He is very rude.”

“He’s blunt, and as you’re the one teaching me about my people, you should know that such a laird, well-versed in both battle and politics, will be blunt. He is the epitome of a perfect Scottish nobleman.”

“In that case, why don’t you have your eye on Laird Rowan?”

“Now you are joking with me, are you not?”

Gwenyth frowned. “I’m not joking at all.”

Mary laughed. “Well, then, I suppose rumor is not as rife as one would imagine.”

“Mary, please, whatever are you talking about?”

“My father had thirteen recognized bastards, you know. Some of them lovely people, actually. Like my dear brother James,” she said, and Gwenyth wondered if she heard a touch of bitterness in the queen’s voice.

There had been talk at one time of having James Stewart legitimized, though it had come to nothing in the end.

Gwenyth’s frown deepened. “He isn’t one of your father’s bastards, is he?” she asked incredulously.

Mary let out a small dry laugh. “No. Though he is the son of one of my father’s bastards. His mother was the first issue of one of my father’s first dalliances.”

“Is this true—or rumor?” Gwenyth asked.

“Don’t be so concerned, my dear friend, or you will furrow terrible wrinkles into your brow. Laird Rowan’s lineage is considered quite acceptable, I assure you. However, to find one’s nephew to be attractive is quite another. Besides, he is married.”

“Oh,” Gwenyth murmured.

“Quite sad, really. He is married to Lady Catherine of Brechman.”

“The daughter of the Lord of Brechman—but…those are English lands,” Gwenyth said, realizing that she was about to hear the truth about Laird Rowan’s mysteriously tragic past.

“Yes. And how do I know all this and you do not?” Mary inquired, seemingly pleased to be able to share what she knew. “I suppose, in the last months, I have had quite a lot of communication with my brother James, and he has told me the story. It’s terribly sad. They were madly in love, and Rowan boldly declared himself to the lady’s father. They were granted permission for the union by both my brother, James, and Queen Elizabeth. She became with child immediately, but shortly before the babe was due to be born, she was in a coach accident on her father’s lands. She was badly injured and fell into a raging fever. The child did not survive, and Lady Catherine has not been of sound mind since, nor has her health ever improved. She is now quite insane and lives in Laird Rowan’s castle in the Highlands, where she is tended by a nurse and the Laird’s steward, who is both kind and loyal. She is very frail and, most fear, soon for the grave.”

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.