by Mary Wine
“I won’t have it,” Galwell declared loudly before directing his attention to Brenda. “You might be a Scottish slut, but I will not be made a fool of.”
There was a flash of wool kilt and a hard connection of flesh on flesh as Galwell went flying into the tent flap. Bothan was right behind him.
“Brenda is a lady of grace and dignity, qualities ye don’t know the meaning of,” Bothan said. “Use that word again in me hearing to describe her, and ye’ll answer for it.”
Galwell was helped to his feet by his hovering attendants. One of them wiped the blood from the noble’s split lip.
“You will pay for this…barbaric assault!” He pointed at Bothan. “And once you are wearing chains for daring to strike me, I will have this slut whipped before your eyes.”
Past the front flap of the pavilion, Brenda’s escort was quick to notice the altercation. The men surged in and pushed Bothan back when he lunged at Galwell once more.
“We cannot allow you to strike a noble,” the captain informed Bothan.
“He already did!” Galwell declared. “Put him in chains, Captain.”
Brenda felt her blood chill. “Just escort him from the grounds. Please.” The last word stuck. It took effort to force it across her tongue, but her knowledge of the strained relations between England and Scotland was enough to give her the strength to accomplish the goal.
Her pride wasn’t worth seeing Bothan shackled.
She was certain a part of her would die if she witnessed such a sight.
He was too powerful to be chained.
“The Queen will hear of this!” Galwell declared before he turned, his jeweled cape flipping around him as he strode off toward the house.
“I sincerely hope so,” Bothan growled. “The sooner the better.”
“Ye shouldn’t,” Brenda argued. “We’re in England. Elizabeth could have ye thrown into chains or worse. Her father was not known for his even temperament.”
Bothan shifted his attention to Brenda, contemplating her for a long moment. His lips twitched, one side of his mouth rising into a grin. “I’m pleased to know ye care, Brenda.”
The captain and his men pushed Bothan away from the pavilion before she might debate the issue. She caught a hint of approval in Bothan’s blue eyes before he turned and complied. The men who’d been holding him were relieved to only need to fall into position around him.
Cared?
Yes, she did.
Not that she would ever voice such a thing to him.
It wasn’t really a matter of wanting to or not. She backed up as more of the captain’s men crowded her further back into the pavilion.
Her husband to be was going to make very sure she never got a chance to speak to Bothan again.
And it hurt to know it.
* * *
“Stay here, Lord Gunn,” the captain informed Bothan. “Until you are summoned. Galwell has been a favorite of the Queen of late. I don’t believe you will wait long.”
“That suits me well,” Bothan replied. “And it’s Chief. No’ Lord. Where I live, a man is more concerned with the respect of being elected by his men than some hereditary title passed down.”
The captain nodded, a gleam of approval in his eyes. “Makes me think about following you back up to your home. Elizabeth is a fine monarch to serve, but there are nobles who follow her who I have no care for. Still, it’s my duty, and I will not shirk from it. Stay here. I have no wish to place you under guard.”
“I will be here when ye come for me.” Bothan spoke loud and clear. “There is naught I wish for more than to be finished with this matter and on me way north. With Brenda Grant.”
The captain started to turn around, stopping to lock gazes with Bothan.
“She’s a good woman. I see why you are intent on claiming her,” the captain began.
“Save yer breath, man.” Bothan stopped so he could temper his tone. He’d never thought much about the way he’d been raised to dislike the English. For certain there was a great deal of blood spilled between their kind, but the man standing before him wasn’t a man lacking in morality.
“It would be a great deal simpler for me to not involve myself,” the captain replied. “Yet Mistress Grant has surprised me with her self-discipline. It’s plain to see she has no desire for this match—”
“Yet she’ll carry through with it for the sake of her cousin,” Bothan finished with disgust.
“And for you.”
Bothan had paced away from the English captain. Bothan turned and fixed the man with a hard look.
The captain stood up to it. “Mistress Grant has enough of a burden. You might think about how it will end for her if you persist in provoking her intended groom.”
The captain nodded before turning and moving off toward the house. Plenty of people looked toward Bothan and his men.
Going inside was the last thing Bothan wanted to do. Returning to the pavilion where Brenda was, that he wanted to do. But the captain was correct. Brenda would be the one to reap the anger Bothan stirred up in Galwell Scrope.
His men lifted the flaps and moved inside to sit at the table and benches. Bothan ground his teeth together with frustration. He preferred a man-on-man fight. Not the way the King was soothing tempers with negotiations and dowry gifts. But he wasn’t a fool either. Sometimes, negotiation was better than seeing blood spilled. As a chief, he had to do what was best for his people. Just as Brenda was making sure her clan didn’t end up branded as traitors. It was a damned mess, but he ducked under the entrance of the pavilion and went to join his men because he wasn’t going to give up. He was a chief. Galwell Scrope wouldn’t be enjoying the spoils of ill-gotten gains if Bothan had any say in the matter.
But it was only a few moments before someone was striding up to stand in the open doorway.
“I seek Bothan Gunn.”
Bothan dressed like his men, ate with them—in short, was one of them in all things because it made certain there was no cause for anyone to say he took luxuries while those serving him made do with less.
The man standing in the tent door opening wasn’t able to distinguish Bothan from his men because he didn’t understand that the three feathers on the side of his bonnet signified his rank. Bothan wasn’t planning on enlightening the man, either. He’d learned more than one thing by leaving himself unnamed. Things messengers such as this one might say if they thought they were only in the company of their peers.
“Who are ye?” Maddox asked.
“Henry Trappes,” the man said clearly. He reached into his doublet and withdrew a letter. “Laird Symon Grant wrote to me, informing me I should seek you out when you arrived.”
“I am Bothan Gunn,” Bothan said, declaring himself. “And ye are Athena’s uncle.”
The man nodded. “I’ve been following Her Majesty for weeks in an effort to clear my niece’s name. Elizabeth has yet to receive me. I’ve no doubt Galwell Scrope has played a hand in ensuring my suit doesn’t come to her attention.”
Bothan scoffed. “Considering the man would be proven a black-hearted liar if ye did gain the chance to speak, I find myself in agreement with ye.”
“It seems you may have found the means to ensure we are heard,” Henry said. “I could not help but overhear Galwell sputtering like a newly baptized cat.”
Maddox chuckled. “He squealed, sure enough.”
Henry shook his head. “He’s accomplished at the art of deception. Elizabeth has been keeping him close to her side. There are rumors she is even pondering wedding him to punish the Earl of Leicester for his secret wedding to Lettice.”
“In that case, it sounds like a fine thing to know Athena is staying in Scotland,” Maddox answered.
“Yes,” Henry replied. “For all that I was forced to send her north in a moment of desperation, it seems the Lord has ensur
ed she did not come to an unkind end.” Relief washed over his face.
“Symon Grant will enjoy knowing he was doing the Lord’s work.” Bothan chuckled.
Henry Trappes didn’t join him in the moment of amusement. There was worry in the man’s eyes. A concern Bothan wasn’t immune to. Elizabeth Tudor enjoyed keeping her realm under her control. Anyone who doubted she would be the mistress in England tended to learn firsthand how much like Henry the Eighth she was.
Bothan didn’t dwell on the matter. He’d go through the famed lion’s daughter if needed to gain Brenda.
“Seems ye’re right about Galwell being able to get to the Queen whenever he chooses,” Bothan said. Past Henry’s shoulder the captain was heading back, a dozen of his men following. Henry turned and looked toward the house where the Queen was being entertained.
“At last,” Henry muttered.
Henry might be an older man, but there was heat in his tone. Bothan nodded approvingly. Unlike half the men following the English court, Henry wore good wool britches and doublet. His clothing was fine and yet functional. The man wasn’t a fop. And his tone told Bothan Henry wasn’t going to allow the slight to his family name to go unchallenged.
Maddox straightened his doublet. “Never thought I’d meet an English queen.”
“I did,” Bothan informed his man as he moved past Maddox and out into the open where the captain was approaching them. “It’s what I came here to do.”
And God help Elizabeth Tudor if she didn’t have more sense than James of Scotland did.
* * *
Brenda had no love of monarchs.
Or, more precisely, Brenda decided she didn’t care for the way her insides tightened as she was led toward a large drawing room where the Queen of England was currently sitting on a throne-like chair.
There was no dismissing the tension, though. The woman sitting with her fingers resting on carved lion’s head that was on the end of the armrest of the chair was very much a monarch. Elizabeth Tudor had red hair and blue eyes, but there was a sternness to her features that made it clear she had every intention of passing judgment and didn’t need anyone to help her do it. Nor did she doubt for a moment that it was her right to rule those in front of her.
“Are you Brenda Grant?” Elizabeth demanded.
Brenda lowered herself properly before answering. “I am.”
Elizabeth stood and went over to a table. There were dozens of parchments on it, and a man sat at the end with a quill and inkwell. He inclined his head as his mistress came near.
“James the Sixth of Scotland has sent you to wed,” Elizabeth said as she tapped a slim finger on the top of an open parchment. She looked toward Brenda. “You agreed to this?”
“The alternative was to see me cousin lose his new wife,” Brenda said.
Galwell grunted. “That is not what the Queen asked you.”
“It’s the truth of the matter,” Bothan added as he came through the doorway. He paused to tug on his cap and incline his head, but that was as polished as his manners went. There was an older Englishman with him who lowered himself before the Queen. Bothan sent Galwell a hard look. “Brenda is loyal to her family and did no’ care to see her cousin labeled a traitor because he’d not allow his wife to be taken from him over a dowry she never knew about,” Bothan said firmly.
“Yet you know about it,” Galwell snapped. “And you’re here trying your hand at making it yours.” He sniffed disdainfully. “Nothing but a thieving Scot!” Galwell declared loudly with his nose in the air.
Bothan let out a snarl. What made Galwell turn toward him was the very controlled way the sound came from Bothan’s lips. The Queen’s guards took notice, moving forward.
“My Lord Galwell.” Elizabeth stood her ground, her voice firm and just as controlled. “As it would seem you think you know so very much about Scotland and its people, perhaps we should appoint you as our ambassador to Scotland.”
Galwell paled. “Glorianna…you cannot mean to put me so far from your side.”
“I mean to have one mistress in England, sir.” Elizabeth sent them all a hard look before she slowly sat again in her chair. She settled herself, grasping the carved lion’s head at the end of the armrest before she spoke again.
“Henry Trappes,” Elizabeth began. “Did Galwell present contracts for your niece?”
The goldsmith inclined his head before he answered. “Indeed he did, madam.” There was a crinkle of parchment as he withdrew the documents. “Your Majesty will see that the seals are all here, from the Baron Scrope. I would never have allowed my niece to be courted if the matter were not correctly in hand.”
Elizabeth fixed her blue eyes on the parchment. “So I see.” She shifted her attention to Galwell. “And the land.” Elizabeth snapped her attention back to Henry. “Is it listed?”
Henry shook his head. “I never knew of the land. Not until I received this letter from Laird Symon Grant.”
Elizabeth slowly returned her gaze to Galwell. “And now, My Lord, you suddenly find yourself more agreeable to the union?” She made a scoffing sound beneath her breath. “And men claim women are fickle creatures.”
Galwell lowered himself. “It is my father who has changed his thinking. I am but a dutiful son.”
“I see,” Elizabeth remarked slowly. “Henry Trappes, how did your niece come to be in the presence of James of Scotland?”
Henry looked his queen straight in the eye. “Galwell lured her to his townhome, using these contracts to gain her trust, and tried to force her to become his mistress. When she refused, he had the constables called to arrest her. I sent her north so I could gain support against his allegations. I am a humble man, Your Majesty. My own sister was abandoned by her noble husband when she presented him with a daughter. This noble family has not once asked after my niece, not given a single penny toward her care. Lord Scrope swore to have me thrown into prison as well. I needed time to contact men who would speak on behalf of my character. I have followed you for months in an effort to present my case.”
Elizabeth’s blue eyes shifted over to Galwell, her displeasure clear.
Henry withdrew another packet of paper, but Robert Leicester stepped forward. “I will speak as to his nature, Your Majesty.” Robert offered her a courtly reverence that showed off his inner leg. “The very necklace around Your Majesty’s throat is one I had made by this man’s hand. I have dealt with him on many occasions and always found him to be of the highest noble character.”
The Queen’s gaze met Robert’s, her features softening. Brenda felt her breath catch for there was no denying the affection displayed. True love couldn’t be hidden.
“I spoke in haste.” Galwell hadn’t missed the exchange between Robert and the Queen either. Panic flickered in his eyes as he tried to regain her approval. “When I realized I was going to lose Athena, I was mad to keep her.”
“As your mistress?” Elizabeth asked, her tone making her distaste clear.
Galwell ducked his chin. “I do not regret it, Your Majesty, for it brought me to your side. Where I have learned a greater meaning of the word love.”
Elizabeth’s face was a perfectly controlled mask. A closer look had Brenda realizing the monarch’s mind was as sharp as it was rumored to be. Elizabeth was sorting through everything she’d heard and seen. She was wise enough to realize she might learn a great deal if she did nothing more than hold her tongue and allow the men in front of her to argue.
“Your love is so great, yet you are fighting with another man over marrying Brenda Grant?” Robert demanded slyly of Galwell.
“You have a new wife, do you not, My Lord Leicester?” Galwell parried.
A little sound came from the Queen, a small “harrumph” that spoke volumes about her understanding of the realities of life. She lifted a hand, silencing Galwell as she looked at him sternly.
“From what I understand, Galwell, you were just threatening Chief Gunn with imprisonment for merely being in the same pavilion with your intended bride,” Elisabeth said slowly before her eyes narrowed with her temper. “How dare you reproach Robert for the same sin you clearly planned to commit yourself?”
Galwell opened his mouth but shut it as he tried to think his way out of the situation. Brenda fought the urge to say exactly what she thought of him. Elizabeth didn’t miss it though. The Queen of England turned to look at her.
“You appear less than enamored with the man my cousin James has sent you to wed,” Elizabeth remarked while tapping her finger against the lion’s head.
“I am here out of loyalty to my family.” Brenda spoke her mind. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest thing to say, for a husband had a great many rights over his wife. “My first marriage was for their sake as well. Were it left to me, I would end my days as I am now.”
Many would have told her how rash her words were. Nobles and royals didn’t tend to appreciate opinions that conflicted with their own. Still, Brenda decided she would rather be beaten for honesty than duck her chin like a coward.
“You have courage,” Elizabeth observed.
Brenda slowly smiled. “I’m often told more than a healthy amount of it for my gender.”
“Something I know about myself,” the Queen answered before she cast her attention to Bothan.
He was standing his ground, his feet braced shoulder-width apart, his arms crossed over his chest. He was imposing, and Brenda drank in the sight of him, knowing it was very likely her last opportunity to indulge in seeing him. Bothan didn’t shrink. He stood firmly in front of the Queen of England, no fear on his face.
No, his expression was one of determination.
Brenda would have sworn she felt the heat from it.
“Indeed, I know a thing or two about being coveted for what I have,” Elizabeth said in a tone edged with loathing, “while being told to mind my place as a woman. Yet God has seen fit to make me a Prince.”
For a moment, the Queen was lost in thought. Brenda didn’t make the mistake of thinking Elizabeth’s mind was soft. No, this woman was taking the time to think long and hard on a matter before she spoke. Something life had taught her through bitter experience.