by Mary Wine
Bothan enjoyed seeing an English woman with a solid backbone. He reached up and tugged on the corner of his bonnet. She nodded before disappearing into the kitchens.
“If Brenda Grant intends to wed, there is little point in following her,” Maddox stated. A good number of Bothan’s men turned their attention toward them, waiting to hear what Bothan would say.
“Brenda will fulfill her promise to the King,” Bothan said clearly. “What I want to know is how does England’s queen feel about the Stewarts increasing their wealth and holdings through this union? I’ve come along to see if this queen is of a mind to allow the wedding.”
Maddox stroked his beard in response.
“We’re in England now,” Bothan explained. “I plan to petition England’s queen for Brenda Grant. James will have to be content if the English Queen forbids the wedding. I only showed meself to her so she’d no’ despair and think herself abandoned.”
“Clever,” Maddox conceded. “I do nae see how that will make Brenda Grant any more receptive to yer suit. Even if the lass is happy to have ye take her back to Scotland, it will no’ mean she’s of the mind to accept ye for her husband. She’s unbridled, as most of the Highlands knows because she makes certain to say it plainly.”
Bothan slowly grinned. A maid was pouring cider into a mug and caught sight of him. Her eyes widened, and he enjoyed knowing he intimidated her.
Strength was respected.
And being known for his ability to defend his land meant there would be fewer attempts to take what was his.
That translated into less blood spilled.
“Leave the matter of Brenda’s opinion for me,” he informed his men. “For all that I am yer chief, I hope ye’ll agree getting that lass into me bed is more of a private matter between Brenda and meself.”
There were chuckles in response. Bothan settled down to finish his supper as he contemplated the task in front of him. He’d left his land to seek out Brenda because he couldn’t shake her from his thoughts. The hunt was far longer than he’d anticipated, but even her stubbornness was making him wonder if he should rethink his attempt to win her.
So he’d see it through. Which meant he’d have to outsmart those thinking to keep him from the prize he’d decided to claim.
There was nothing he enjoyed more than a good fight.
Victory was sweeter that way.
* * *
Queen Elizabeth Tudor, the first of that name, didn’t stay in London during the summer.
The Queen fled the heat and rising stench as she embarked on her progress. It was also a way to visit the northern parts of her realm and allow her close supporters to make certain there were no plots brewing against her.
And then there was the cost of feeding and entertaining her court. When she visited her northern nobles, the court came too. People lined the roads, watching the baggage carts and wagons as they passed. It took a full two days for Progress to pass by a single point on the map. The large country estates where her nobles lived provided fresh game meat and plenty of room for her court to set up pavilions and enjoy the warm days of summer. Merchants would follow, setting up market fairs that generated tax income for the crown.
Elizabeth herself enjoyed riding. She took to the road on a mare with her favorite gentlemen alongside her. Galwell Scrope rode confidently by her side as Robert Leicester sent him a narrow-eyed look when the Queen wasn’t looking.
Galwell needed to be dealt with.
Robert followed the Queen into what had once been the Duke of Norfolk’s holding and was now in the hands of a more loyal noble. Lord Berkley was waiting on the steps, his senior household staff at attention, when the Queen of England rode up.
“Welcome, Your Majesty!” he called out as he removed his hat and lowered himself. Of old, noble blood, Lord Berkley had been raised to be the perfect host to his monarch. He smiled as he gave a small gesture of his fingers toward the musicians waiting to begin playing a lively fanfare to complete the moment. He was a slightly rotund man, his cheeks full from his enjoyment of feasting. Toward the back of the large house, the scent of roasting meat was wafting over the rooftops to prove Lord Berkley was going to welcome his monarch in grand style.
After dismounting, Elizabeth smiled and offered Lord Berkley her hand. He took it and placed a kiss on the back of her glove.
“Richard,” Elizabeth declared as he recovered and replaced his hat. “It has been too long since I have seen you.”
Baron Berkley smiled, his cheeks coloring. “All for good reason, Your Majesty,” he informed her jovially. “For I needed to return home and prepare for Your Majesty’s visit. No member of my staff could attend to the details as well as I might. It is my supreme hope that Your Majesty shall be impressed by my efforts!”
He extended his arm toward the front door of his home. Robert followed the Queen inside as behind them servants began to raise pavilions for the bulk of the court to reside in while the Queen was there. Ambassadors and other dignitaries were among the horde of people following Elizabeth on her summer progress. Whether she’d see them was always in question. Elizabeth liked to keep everyone guessing. It kept them all near and attentive to her whims.
He was no exception. Leicester made his way into the rooms provided for him. His servants had ridden ahead to make certain his things were ready to receive him. Two new suits of clothing were hung out and ready for him to inspect, while a groom sat polishing a pair of his boots in preparation for a hunt. There was a tailor working a needle while seated at a small table as he secured pearls to a sleeve for the earl to wear for a banquet while the Lord Berkley entertained the Queen. All of Robert’s personal belongings were there, ready for him the moment he arrived. Lord Berkley knew to extend the greatest amount of hospitality toward the earl—only the Queen ranked higher. A small stack of letters was waiting as well.
He broke the seal on the one from the dowager Lady North Hampton and smiled when he finished reading the letter. Galwell’s sins were going to ensure the man didn’t enjoy being at the Queen’s side for much longer. Galwell had made a fatal error in judging the Queen. Elizabeth Tudor had spent her younger years as a pawn of those battling for control of the country. As a girl, she’d often been considered too feeble-minded to grasp the part she played in the struggle for power.
Robert knew better.
Much better.
He’d been there with her through it all. Elizabeth’s truest companion in darker times. He would never forget that though Elizabeth was a girl, she was Henry the Eighth’s daughter down to her bones. Galwell had missed it as he admired the female form she was encased in. Galwell would discover his error too late, when Elizabeth jerked the ambitious noble back into line like a hunting hound.
Elizabeth had survived countless years when she should have died in the darkest hours of the night at the hands of those seeking to have the throne or been shipped away to a far-off land to wed for the benefit of England. Somehow, between being branded a bastard and daughter of a witch, Elizabeth had survived to sit on the very throne her gender should have denied her. Her mind was Tudor, sharp and calculating. She was playing the marriage game now, keeping every man holding out hope that she would choose him and England would become a vassal state without a single drop of blood spilled. Galwell didn’t have even a glimmer of hope of gaining the hand of the woman Elizabeth was behind her smile.
But Robert did.
He was Elizabeth’s companion in cheating death. His own brother had lost his head for wedding Lady Jane Gray. It had been carefully plotted out by their families, of course, and they were mostly gone now. It was just Robert and Elizabeth, as it had been in the darker days. There was a bond between them, one no one could break. Galwell had his eye on the Queen of England, but Robert saw Elizabeth behind the presence of the Queen. It was Elizabeth’s heart he wanted to claim.
Robert put the letter
down and eagerly began to prepare for the evening.
He had a queen to woo.
* * *
The estate to which the captain delivered Brenda was more like a large city.
There were huge pavilions erected all over what had once been sprawling greens around a manor house. Servants were rushing to deliver food and clothing to their different masters. At the edge of the green, kitchens were set up to keep everyone fed. The amount of meat roasting and bread set out to rise was extraordinary. Brenda had never seen so much being prepared at a single time. Not even when the entire Grant clan assembled.
Beyond the pavilions, there were scores of women doing laundry along the banks of a river. Maids and grooms were hurrying across the expanse in a hundred different directions as they served their masters. It was astounding to see the highest nobles in the land making camp in order to stay close to their queen. The logic of it wasn’t lost on Brenda either. England’s Queen was sparing herself the expense of feeding her court and keeping everyone busy with traveling so they didn’t have as much time to plot against her. It really was quite clever. Just like a mother who made sure her children had plenty to do so they wouldn’t get to squabbling.
“It might be a bit before you are summoned by the Queen,” the captain informed Brenda once he’d escorted her to a small pavilion. “I’ll have to go up and deliver the formal letters from James and see when she’s of the mind to grant you an audience. I suggest you settle in.”
There was a dryness to his tone that implied he was understating just how long she could expect to wait.
Well, she was in no hurry, and that was a fact.
He swept Brenda up and down.
“I’ll send over a tailor,” the captain said. “You will want to be seen in a gown that is more English in design. Your husband-to-be can settle the debt.”
The captain inclined his head before moving away, leaving her to the care of his men. They were well back from the main house, in a city of pavilions. Behind her was a smaller pavilion the captain had claimed for her. Inside it was rather nice, with a receiving room complete with table and chairs. There was a chest with silver plate for the table and even glass goblets.
Two flaps opened to a bedchamber. The bed was assembled, with sheets and plump pillows awaiting her. Brenda smiled as she recalled summers in the Highlands when she’d been a young girl and run through the fields and slept in the stable loft simply for the adventure of it all. The grass beneath the carpet laid down under the bed was fresh.
Of course the estate would be destroyed by the time Elizabeth packed her court and left. The large expanse of lawn would be covered in brown patches from the pavilions, and there would be numerous tracks worn into it by the coming and going of the servants. The local game would be depleted for the rest of the season, leaving the locals to make do with meager fare. Not that things were so very different in the Highlands. Summer was a time to feast and enjoy the ample resources provided by nature. Once the harvest was in, winter would be a long, bleak season of bowls of porridge and not much else.
“Scots…ye do nae belong here!”
“Savages…”
“Go home to yer own country!”
Brenda heard the slurs, turning around to return to the flaps that made up the front of her pavilion. She looked out, her eyes widening as Bothan Gunn rode up to the front of the house. It was a huge estate, but its size didn’t deter him in the least. He sat proudly in the saddle, unconcerned for the way he was looked at by the English around him.
Brenda lifted her hand and stifled a little sound of amusement.
If she were to be completely truthful, she’d say Bothan was proud of the difference between himself and those sneering at him.
Ye do tend to agree…
Really, she should have chided herself for the thought, but what did it truly matter? Still, she schooled her features and felt something shift inside her. An odd little sensation that sent a shiver down her spine.
He came in spite of yer promise to wed at the King’s command…
Beyond the boldness of it, Brenda was left feeling something very foreign.
It was almost as if she might depend on him.
Brenda drew in a stiff breath. She must not allow herself to be weak. Thinking of Bothan’s arrival as anything such as a rescue was permitting herself to be less than strong when it came to what must be done.
Duty wasn’t meant to be enjoyed.
It was a tax one had to pay for the sake of higher morality.
Bothan wouldn’t be rescuing her because she would not permit him to.
The royal guards blocking his path didn’t impress Bothan. He argued with them, his back straight and the pleats of his kilt declaring him different from those watching.
A crowd was gathering as he stood his ground. There were parties of dignitaries who had not even been granted entrance to the main house. They waited, in full court clothing, for admittance past the royal guards. They had lace ruffs at their throats and handkerchiefs dangling from their hands, while the sunlight twinkled off the precious stones sewn to their capes and sleeves. Servants waited behind them with gleaming silver trays holding sugared grapes and slices of precious oranges from Spain.
The excess made Bothan want to growl. Now, he was not against enjoying a fine meal with treats to delight the palate, but the clothing made him angry because it was ornate and impractical and the expense of it could have fed an entire family for a year if not two.
He didn’t have time for games and vanity. The seasons were shorter in the Highlands. He needed to be home, overseeing the planting and building. The English Queen would simply have to deal with him sooner rather than later.
He dismounted and strode toward the door, intent on getting his business finished. He didn’t bother to smooth out his features but let his mouth settle into a scowl. Let the English yeomen fear him; it would make it that much simpler to get past them and before the English Queen.
But Bothan didn’t fare any better. He was barred from the main house, and he was fairly certain that wherever Elizabeth Tudor was, she could feel his frustration.
Bothan stood for a long moment, contemplating the yeomen of the Queen’s guard. Well, he’d already learned one thing when it came to his quest to have Brenda Grant for his own: there wouldn’t be any easy way of achieving his goal. If one path was blocked, he’d simply have to find another way around.
* * *
Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, was accustomed to hearing disputes over entry into wherever Elizabeth was staying. He’d been her confidant and friend for so many years. Now that she was the master, she enjoyed making sure everyone knew it. Such was not a matter of vanity or corruption. No, Robert understood how Elizabeth thought. She meant to keep everyone guessing as to what she was about to do. Her enemies would be far less likely to make a move against her if they were unable to predict her behavior.
Many felt she was wielding the power she’d inherited arrogantly, but he knew different. She was making sure everyone who vied for her attention learned the only way to get what they wanted was to mind their place until she summoned them. Only when she was in a pleasant mood would they receive the rewards they were all seeking from her. Failing to be patient with her would result in their suits being dismissed.
Robert had learned to obey her, while other would-be suitors made the error of attempting to use the Queen’s favor to bend her to their whims.
Today, though, Robert turned and contemplated the group of Scots arguing with the royal guard. They were not the normal Scots who came to Elizabeth from time to time. These wore kilts, in the Highland fashion. They were huge and rough, and their leader was a great hulking man who made it plain that in the harsh conditions of his northern home only the strongest survived. He wasn’t the sort of man who played at dancing or masquerades in an effort to gain an audience with anyon
e. No, he was there to take care of business and be gone.
Another captain had been admitted, coming up the steps with a look of disgust on his face.
“What does the Scot want?” Robert inquired.
The captain had been minding his steps. He looked up and ripped his hat off as he recognized Robert. “My Lord Leicester.” The captain lowered himself instantly.
Robert gestured the captain closer. “Tell me who that Scot is.”
“Chief Bothan Gunn,” the captain replied. “He’s here to convince the Queen to release Brenda Grant from a wedding agreement James of Scotland has decreed will be so.”
“I have never heard of Brenda Grant,” Robert replied.
“She has just arrived,” the captain answered. “I was tasked with escorting her down from Edinburgh. James thinks to settle a dispute concerning the Stewarts over a dowry property with her.”
“The Stewarts are always looking to increase their wealth,” Robert muttered. “I am glad to see someone willing to stand in their way.” He looked back to where Bothan and his men were standing. “I believe I will meet this man. Allow him inside.”
The captain was surprised, but he hid it well. He nodded, turning to hurry back down the steps and catch up with the Scot.
* * *
Knowing something and cultivating the patience to deal with it were two vastly different things.
Brenda remembered well the time needed for fittings when she had wed her first husband. Of course, she’d been young and impressed with the attention, still dreamy-eyed over silk and lace. The bite of a tightly laced corset for the sake of fashion had only thrilled her instead of making her think it was all such nonsense.
That was before she’d learned all of the dresses and accessories were in reality baubles for a pet meant to delight the owner while she was displayed.