Читать книгу The Queen's Lady - Shannon Drake - Страница 9

IN 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.

ROWAN ACCOMPANIED LAIRD 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.

MARY 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.

Mary could not believe that anyone would dare to harm a royal, so she chafed at their restrictions, but at last she agreed that guards could be posted around the section of forest where they would be hunting. And so, with the hounds baying around their horses’ hooves, they began.

Scotland might not be as lush and rich as the continent, but the forest did have an almost eerie and beckoning beauty. It was barely fall, yet it seemed that under the green canopy, darkness came quickly. At first Mary rode ahead with James. Gwenyth, riding behind with Rowan, could not hear their conversation, though the two of them rode in silence, which seemed a strain to her.

Laird Rowan did not seem to notice, being caught up in his thoughts. Then, suddenly, he turned to her. “Will you go home soon to visit?” he inquired.

She stared blankly back at him. Amazingly, she had come here and not even thought about returning to her home on Islington Isle. She didn’t answer with the first thought that came to her mind.

I am not wanted there.

“I…have not thought so far ahead.”

“So far ahead? But you’ve known for some time that you would be returning to Scotland.”

“I’ve been worried about the queen, I suppose.” She found herself adding in a rush, “You don’t understand. This has been a difficult time for her. She is, despite her rank, an extremely caring and kind woman. She nursed King Francis through terrible times. She was with him when he breathed his last. Suddenly, despite her youth, she was the dowager Queen of France, and there were so many problems to be faced, so many people to be seen…. She was in mourning, but there were emissaries, strangers, coming to offer messages of solace from royalty and nobility, all of whom had to be seen and greeted courteously. All the while, she had to decide on the best course of action for herself and others.”

He was smiling as he watched her—sardonically, she thought.

“One would think that you, of all men, would not judge her but would have some understanding of what she felt,” she snapped.

His smile faded slightly, and he looked ahead. “I was thinking again, Lady Gwenyth, that our good Queen Mary is lucky to have such a staunch friend as you.”

She felt like a fool. “Thank you,” she murmured stiffly, then talking to cover her confusion. “Those who know her well truly love her—all those who know her, not just me.”

“Then she is very lucky indeed,” he said softly.

“Are you coming?” Mary called back to them then.

As she spoke, something thrashed in the woods ahead of them.

“Boar,” James said. “Let it be. We haven’t the men to cope if the hunt goes badly.”

But Mary never heard him; she was off. She was an excellent archer, and Gwenyth knew full well that she could make the kill. But James raced after her, concerned, and Rowan, muttering beneath his breath, followed.

Gwenyth kneed her mount, ready for the chase, as well, though she didn’t particularly like the hunt. Once she had seen a hart die a slow death; she had watched the glow go out of the beautiful beast’s eyes, and she had never desired to be part of the hunt again, though there were times, such as now, when she had no choice.

Ahead, the unfamiliar path twisted and veered. Gwenyth found herself alone and realized that the others had apparently taken a different turn. She wasn’t concerned; she did love riding. But as she slowed her horse, wondering where she had gone astray, she heard a thrashing sound.

Her horse heard it, as well, and began to shy. She talked soothingly, her hands firm on the reins.

All her experience did her no good. The mare suddenly shot straight up in the air, then flipped over, snorting and screaming, a blood-curdling sound. The next thing Gwenyth knew, she was on the ground, lying several feet from the mare, which struggled to its feet and bolted.

“Wait! Traitor!” Gwenyth shouted.

She stumbled to her feet, testing her limbs for breaks. She was sore from head to foot, covered in dirt and forest bracken. At first she was aggravated with both the horse and herself; there had been no way to keep her seat, but she should have been up more quickly, soothing the animal, keeping it near her.

Then she heard the noise again, and the boar appeared.

Arrows stuck out from its left shoulder. Blood oozed down the maddened animal’s side. It had been hit and badly wounded, and now it was staggering but still on its feet.

And it saw her.

It stared at her, and she stared into its tiny eyes in return. It was immense; she couldn’t begin to imagine its weight.

Die, she thought. Oh, please, die.

But it wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. It pawed the ground, staggered, snorted—and began to race toward her.

She screamed and ran, looking desperately for a clear trail—and a tree she could climb.

Was it the pounding of the creature’s hooves she heard, or the rapid thunder of her own heart? If she could just keep ahead of it long enough, it would have to die, given that it was losing so much blood. It seemed as if she ran for eons, and still she could hear it coming behind her.

Then she stumbled on a tree root and went flying into the brush. Despite being certain she was dead, she rolled, desperately trying to jump to her feet and run again.

The boar was almost upon her.

Then she heard a new thundering drawing near and heard the whistle of an arrow cutting through the air.

The boar wasn’t ten feet from her when the arrow caught the creature cleanly in the throat. It seemed to back up a step, then wavered and fell dead.

She inhaled deeply, hunched down on the forest floor, shaking like a leaf. She blinked, and was barely aware when strong arms came around her, lifting her to her feet. She had never thought of herself as a coward, yet her knees gave way. She barely registered that it was Laird Rowan who had come for her, who had so unerringly killed the boar with a fraction of a second to spare, and who now lifted her cleanly to her feet, holding her close, soothing her as gently as he might a child. “You’re all right. It’s over.”

She clung to him, her arms around his neck, and as she leaned against the powerful bastion of his chest, she was all too aware that she was continuing to tremble.

“She should not have shot as she did,” he muttered.

“She” was the queen, Gwenyth knew. He was criticizing the queen.

She felt her indignation grow and gained strength from that. Her trembling ceased, and she realized Laird Rowan was shaking, as well, and she almost kept silent, but in the end she had to speak. She stiffened in his arms and said, “The queen is an excellent shot. Laird James should not have raced after her. He no doubt distracted her.”

“He was concerned for her life,” Rowan retorted instantly. “Apparently he should also have been concerned with yours.”

“Set me down, please, this instant,” she demanded, offended that he so clearly saw her as a useless fool.

He did as she demanded, and she wavered, then fell against him again. She really was a fool, she thought. She had not realized that her limbs had remained as weak as jelly.

He steadied her, not allowing her to fall. She fought desperately for strength and finally found it. “Thank you,” she enunciated, stepping back on her own at last. Of course, she must have made a sadly ridiculous picture, she thought, her riding hat gone, every pin lost from her hair, wild strands of it flying everywhere and filled with leaves and twigs. There was dirt on her face; she could feel it. Her riding costume was completely askew.

Embarrassed by her appearance, she knew she was defensive, and she even knew she had been wrong to take offense, when he had so clearly saved her life. As he stared at her, she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and she wanted desperately to open her mouth and speak, yet something—pride? shame?—kept her from it.

She saw disappointment seep into his eyes as she remained silent, and that made it all the worse. Why did she care so much what he thought of her?

She managed to whisper words at last. “It wasn’t the queen’s fault,” she said, but she knew those words were not enough. He’d saved her life. She needed to thank him.

It didn’t help that he just kept staring at her.

At last she dredged up some dignity, as well as her manners. “Thank you,” she said primly and quietly. “You saved my life.”

He bowed low to her courteously, as if her words had not come shamefully late. “Perhaps you’ll learn to ride with greater authority now that you are home,” he said, and turned away, heading for his mount.

Naturally his horse had obediently awaited him.

She followed him, moving with swift and certain strides. “I ride quite well,” she informed him.

“Oh?”

She flushed again. “My horse shied and fell,” she told him.

“I see.”

She could see that he didn’t believe her. “She reared straight up, and then went over,” she elaborated.

“Of course.”

“You are impossible!” she exclaimed.

“I’m so sorry. Why is that?”

“You are not listening to me.”

“Of course I am.”

“You do not believe a word I say.”

“Did I say any such thing?” he demanded.

She tried very hard not to grit her teeth as she gathered up her torn riding skirt so she would not trip. “Again, I thank you for saving my life,” she said, and started down the path.

Unaware that he had followed her, she was startled when he grasped her arm. She spun around and stared up at him, her breath catching, her heart beating too quickly. Like him or not, he was imposingly tall and strong. He was also aggravating beyond redemption. But there was nothing repulsive about his touch.

“Where are you going?”

Where indeed?

“To find the queen.”

“On foot?”

She exhaled. “My horse, as you may have noticed, is nowhere to be seen.”

“Come.” When she continued to stand stiffly, he smiled at last and said, “You don’t need to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“Perhaps not, but you’re wary.”

“You haven’t learned to love the queen. Maybe you will now,” she informed him.

“I serve Queen Mary with all that is in me.”

“But it’s Scotland you love,” she informed him.

His smile deepened. “If it’s Scotland I love, she is the persona of Scotland, is she not? Now come along. Join me in the saddle, so we can find the others.”

“You’re horrible, and I don’t think I can sit a horse with you.”

He laughed out loud then. “I agree with you, and you attack me.”

“You are not at all agreeing with me.”

He reached out and touched her forehead, brushing a strand of leaf litter from her forehead. It was an oddly tender gesture. Suddenly she didn’t want to argue with him, she wanted to…

Feel his fingers brush her flesh again.

She stepped back quickly. He had a wife. One he adored, though she was so gravely ill.

“Come,” he said again, this time impatiently, then gave her no choice, picking her up easily and setting her atop the tall stallion before jumping up behind her. There was no help for it; his arms came around her as he managed the reins. She swallowed deeply, wondering how this person who could be so blunt and rude seemed to arouse something in her that she had never felt before.

It was absurd. And wrong.

Keeping her seat was not difficult. His horse was an immense ebony stallion, but completely under his control. The animal’s gait was smooth, even and swift. Gwenyth leaned back in an uncomfortable combination of misery and arousal, more aware of a human touch than she had ever been in her life.

At last they returned to the copse where James and Mary awaited them. The queen cried out, upset, rushing over to Gwenyth and pulling her close the minute Rowan set her on the ground, hugging her fiercely, then withdrawing to search out her eyes and look for any injury upon her person.

“Are you hurt? My poor dear, it was my fault.” She accepted the blame while casting an angry eye toward her brother. “What happened? You found the boar. No, obviously, the boar found you. Oh, dear God, to think of what might have happened…”

“The creature is dead at last. We’ll send someone for it, Your Grace,” Rowan said.

Mary cast him an appreciative glance, then looked back at Gwenyth. “You are all right?”

“My dignity is sadly shaken, but in all else, I am fine,” Gwenyth assured her, then drew a deep breath. “Laird Rowan arrived with miraculous timing. He—” Why, she wondered, did she hate so to say it? “He saved my life.”

“Then we are beyond grateful to Laird Rowan,” Mary said gravely.

He nodded in easy acknowledgment of her words. “Your Grace, I am pleased to serve in any way that I can.”

James said gruffly, “Let’s return to the palace. Lady Gwenyth needs care and rest.”

“Your horse?” Mary asked Gwenyth.

“I dare say the mare has returned to the stables. I’m certain she knows the way,” Rowan said. “Styx is broad and strong,” he added, indicating his horse. “Lady Gwenyth and I will reach the stables as easily as we rode here.”

To protest in the circumstances would be futile and she would merely look the fool, so Gwenyth acquiesced with no more than a murmur.

Later, when they returned, and stablehands and servants ran about shouting and hurrying to assist in whatever ways they could, she heard Laird James speaking softly with Rowan. “If they are to prowl the forests seeking diversion, then they must learn to ride.”

Gwenyth longed to turn and confront the man, but then, to her surprise, found she did not need to do so.

“James, I believe the lady rides as well as any woman, perhaps as well as any man. No one can stay atop a falling horse. If the horse is flat upon the ground, so shall the rider be.”

Startled by Rowan’s defense of her, Gwenyth was not prepared when one of the large, bulky guards came to take her arm and escort her within.

“I can stand on my own, please,” she insisted. “I am not hurt, merely wearing much of the forest floor.”

She was not released on her own say-so. The guard looked to Mary, who nodded, and only then was she allowed to stand on her own.

She fled to her apartments, anxious to escape being the object of so much concern.

ROWAN WATCHED GWENYTH GO, surprised by the tugging she could so easily exert upon his heart. He didn’t know if it was the look in her eyes, the passion in her voice, or even the ferocity of her manner combined with the innocence that lay beneath.

“Laird Rowan,” Mary said.

“My queen?”

“I did wish to speak with you away from the palace, but the opportunity did not present itself. And so, if you will attend me in chambers…?”

“Whatever your desire.”

He realized that she and James must have spoken while he was rescuing Gwenyth, for the other man now clearly knew exactly what Mary intended to say to him. Indeed, James was the one to lead the way to the small reception chamber near the queen’s apartments.

An exceptional French wine was brought for their pleasure. Rowan preferred good Scottish ale or whiskey, but he graciously complimented the queen on her choice. She did not sit in the regal high-backed chair she would be expected to take when receiving foreign ambassadors but rather chose one of the fine brocade upholstered chairs grouped before the fire.

James didn’t sit. He stood by the mantel as Mary indicated that Rowan should join her, which he did, his curiosity growing by the second.

“I have it on good authority that you are on friendly terms with my cousin,” Mary said.

He sat back, caught unprepared. “Queen Elizabeth?” He should not have been surprised, he chided himself. Mary had very able ministers who had served her for years.

“Yes.”

“My wife’s mother is distantly related to Queen Elizabeth’s mother,” he said.

“Relationships are a good thing, are they not?” she inquired. “We are taught to honor our fathers and our mothers, which makes it strange that, in matters of politics and crowns, so much evil may be done to those we should love. But that is not of import now. We are engaged in quite a complicated game, Elizabeth and I. I have never met my cousin. I know her only through her letters and the reports of others. Serious matters occupy us now. I have not ratified a treaty between our countries. And that is because she has not ratified her will.”

This was something that he already knew. “I suppose,” he replied carefully, “that Elizabeth still considers herself to be young and is not eager to contemplate what will happen upon her death.”

Mary shook her head. “She must agree that I am the natural heir to her crown.”

Rowan held silent. He was certain that Mary was aware of why Elizabeth was hesitant. England was staunchly Protestant now. If she were to recognize a Catholic heir to the crown, it could create a tremendous schism in her country. He knew the Protestant powers in England were not looking to the Catholic Queen of Scotland. Though the line of sucession would most probably recognize her claim, there were other grandchildren of Henry VIII, among them Catherine, the sister of poor Lady Jane Grey, known as the Nine Days Queen. The Protestant faction had set Jane upon the throne following the death of Henry VIII’s one son, Edward. The forces behind another Mary, this one the daughter of Catherine of Aragon, a Catholic, had easily routed Jane’s defenders, and in the end Jane had lost her head upon the scaffold. She had died not because her family had urged her toward the throne, but because she had refused to change her religion at Mary’s demand. It had been Mary’s legitimate right of succession to the throne that had won her so many followers, and it had been her order that so many Protestant leaders be executed that had earned her the title “Bloody Mary.” At her death, when Elizabeth had ascended the throne of England, she had put an end to religious persecution, but the memory of blood was still rife in the hearts and minds of the English, and they wanted no Catholic ruler now.

“We all know why Elizabeth stalls,” he said.

“But here is the thing. You know, Laird Rowan, that I have no intention of forcing my beliefs on my people, who are so set now in the ways of the Church of Scotland. If Elizabeth knew this, believed it as you do, I don’t believe she would balk. You are on friendly terms with her. You can seek an audience to wish her good health, and during that audience, you can tell her what you have learned about me.”

“Rowan, you’re being sent to London,” James said bluntly.

Rowan looked at James. The man was so often an enigma. He knew so much about the people of Scotland, having served as regent. He knew the law, and he had asked his sister to return, ceding the crown to her. And yet there must have been times when he thought that this country would be in a much better position had he been his father’s only legal issue.

“Naturally I am willing to obey your every command.” Rowan hesitated. “Though I was planning a trip to my estates,” he said huskily. “There are matters to which I must, in good conscience, attend.”

Mary set a hand on his arm. He saw the deep sympathy in her eyes, and he realized that one thing her supporters said of the queen was very true: she had an enormous heart. She was kind and cared deeply for those around her.

“You certainly have leave to travel home and to take whatever time you need there. But then I would have you journey westward as escort to Lady Gwenyth, then on to London.”

“Escort to Lady Gwenyth?” he repeated questioningly.

“I have received a letter from Angus MacLeod, great-uncle to and steward for Lady Gwenyth’s estates. He is anxious that she return to visit, to greet her clansmen and allow herself to be seen. You will do me great service if you act as her escort, bringing her to Islington Isle before you yourself travel onward to England.”

He was startled by the request, and dismayed, though he was not certain why. “Perhaps, as speed is of importance, I should simply ride to my estates and then on to England without even attendants of my own,” he suggested.

Mary frowned slightly. “No, Laird Rowan. I think not. I would prefer that the Lady Gwenyth should travel the full journey with you, accompanying you to the English court once she has visited her own home. I shall have you serve as guardian for her, and it will be known that I sincerely wish for her, my dearest lady, to know more about the English way of things, that she may tutor me in understanding my close neighbors, in the interest of the continuing peace between our two countries.”

Trapped.

There was little he could say or do. For how could a man tell the queen that she was asking him to be escort to far too great a temptation?

No. He would be expected to be the staunch guardian, whatever his thoughts or desires.

“Rowan, Mary asked my advice on this matter,” James informed him. “I think your friendly visit to Elizabeth will mean much, and bringing Lady Gwenyth along will help matters. She attends Mary but remains Protestant herself. She loves Mary dearly, but her blood and her ways remain far more Scottish than French. Unofficially, she will serve as an ambassador for our queen’s cause.”

“Does Lady Gwenyth know about this?” Rowan inquired.

“Not yet,” Mary said. “But she will understand perfectly what I want from her. I am newly here, though not newly queen, for that has been my title since I was but days old. My desire to bring only good to my country must be understood, as must my desire for peace. You, sir, are the man who can hold out the true hand of friendship in what is most important, an unofficial capacity. I will not be bound to words you exchange, while, if my ministers and ambassadors make foolish statements in the heat of the moment, I am held to them. You will bring Elizabeth some personal gifts from me, and I know that she will be enchanted by Gwenyth. I have yet to meet anyone, commoner or king, who has not found her to be charming and intelligent. Her nature will serve me well.”

“When did you intend that I begin this journey?” Rowan asked.

“After the next Sabbath,” the queen informed him gravely.