by Mary Wine
Elizabeth looked at Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, her eyes glistening. “I forgive you the need of a son, Robin.”
Robert reached out for her hand, raising it from his lips to his forehead. Brenda caught her breath because the moment was so very touching.
And it made her more than a little envious of the fact that fate had never been kind enough to her to bestow such affection upon her.
“As I expect you to forgive me for not being able to wed you, Robert, because a Prince does not marry for her personal desires but for the interests of her people,” Elizabeth continued.
Brenda felt her heart clench. Marriage was a business. She’d encountered that hard reality before. Elizabeth loved Robert Dudley—it was clear in both their eyes—and yet she’d not wed him even though she was the Queen of England and no one could tell her no.
Elizabeth understood that her actions would have repercussions and that a queen must wed for an alliance. To do otherwise was to put her people at risk of civil war or attack from abroad.
Yer father told ye the same when ye wed the first time.
Brenda drew a deep breath, sealing herself against the tide of regret rising up inside her. It would be a poor marriage at best. She looked at Galwell and saw how very lacking he was. It was a sad truth that she couldn’t find a single thing to compliment.
And Bothan was his opposite.
Brenda was looking at him without realizing her gaze had wandered. Bothan shifted his attention, locking gazes with her. For a moment, there was nothing except him. She felt the breath freeze in her chest and heat flicker in her cheeks. Her reaction would be seen, and yet no amount of scolding herself seemed to matter.
“My Lord Galwell.” Elizabeth raised her voice slightly. “I find your lack of character disturbing. To offer contracts to a man for his niece and then to attempt to make her turn mistress—”
“It was my father’s doing.” Galwell defended himself.
“Perhaps it was your father’s choice not to finish the contracts, but it was yours”—she stressed the last word—“to lure the girl to your home while you knew it was improper and she thought you an honorable man.”
Elizabeth slapped the arm of her chair. “I will not have it, sir! Men think to demand virtue in a bride, and yet you believe you might insist on a girl discarding hers because you want her in your bed. Tell me, what would have become of the girl when you decided you craved another?”
Galwell’s eyes bulged, but the Queen looked toward Bothan.
“You are amused, Chief Gunn?” Elizabeth demanded.
Bothan inclined his head. “I’m pleasantly surprised to see the fire in ye, ma’am. It’s the truth there are a few in the Highlands who say ye are weak-willed and merely a puppet upon the throne.”
Elizabeth let out a soft little grunt of approval. “I am my father’s daughter, Chief Gunn.”
“As I see,” Bothan replied. “What I want to know now is if ye see James is too much of a lad to understand just how unjust this contract is between Brenda and Galwell.” Bothan looked at Galwell. “A scheming man such as he does nae deserve to increase his holdings.”
Elizabeth didn’t answer immediately. The English Queen sat still for a long moment as she tapped one finger against the head of the lion.
“James is anointed King,” Elizabeth stated formally. “As such, we shall give him due respect.”
Brenda felt her body tensing, every muscle she had drawing tight as the Queen prepared to announce her judgment.
“However.” Elizabeth shifted her attention to Galwell. “Chief Gunn is the leader of his clan, and you have accused him of being a thief, My Lord, while he was here to see our royal person.”
Bothan tilted his head to one side as he tried to determine where Elizabeth was going.
“If Chief Gunn challenges you over the slight, I will have to allow him the right to defend his honor, and the victor will claim the right to wed Brenda Grant. James will have to accept the outcome.”
Two
Brenda was in shock.
So was Galwell, but his was more of a mixture of horror and surprise. He looked between the Queen and Bothan, his eyes wide in his face as he paled.
“With pleasure,” Bothan growled softly.
Galwell gasped and reached for the pommel of the sword hanging from his hip.
He pulled the rapier free, earning a response from the royal guards. They surged forward, but the Queen held up her hand. “Do not interfere. I have said Chief Gunn has the right to demand satisfaction.”
The royal guards obeyed their queen, but several of them took a knee in front of her, making it clear they would defend their monarch should the fight come too near her.
Bothan didn’t have a sword. His larger broadsword had been left outside the home, taken by the captain of the guard. That fact didn’t give him a moment’s hesitation, though. He pulled a long dagger from his belt, his lips curving up as he faced off with Galwell. “Come here, My Lord, and discover how a Scotsman deals with slurs to his name.”
“No,” Brenda announced. She really wasn’t certain when she decided to interrupt, only that she was in motion, on her way to keep the razor-sharp point of Galwell’s rapier away from Bothan.
Maddox slipped behind Brenda, pulling her back as the men circled one another. Galwell recovered his poise as he looked at the dagger with a clear gleam of disdain in his eyes.
Brenda shuffled back at Maddox’s urging, setting her teeth against her lower lip to remain silent. The rapier was thin but deadly sharp. She’d seen the Italian weapons at court and knew they could kill with only a small wound to the chest or through an eye or the throat. Galwell handled it expertly, proving why the rapier was becoming well known in England. The rapier meant brute strength was no longer the deciding factor in a fight.
It was a weapon that could equalize a man such as Galwell against a larger one like Bothan.
“Come, Scot,” Galwell mocked Bothan. “Let’s get this finished so I can get on with my wedding.”
Bothan was moving slowly, skillfully, as he gauged Galwell’s reactions to his movements. Time became Brenda’s greatest tormentor as seconds passed by like hours. Everyone in the room knew how grave the consequences would be. They were deathly still, so much so that the first swish of Galwell’s rapier through the air made Brenda flinch.
Bothan turned his body sideways so the sharpened end of the weapon sliced through the air where his neck had been. Galwell had extended his arm with the strike, and Bothan made good use of the opening, lifting his leg and kicking out at his opponent. Galwell stumbled back with a grunt, but he twisted, angling the rapier up so the point neatly cut across Bothan’s bare thigh when he brought his leg down.
“First blood is mine,” Galwell announced.
Declaring his victory was a mistake. In that moment when Galwell was staring at the bright-red blood dripping onto the floor from Bothan’s leg, Bothan lunged forward. The rapier wasn’t any good in close-quarter fighting. Galwell learned that fact as Bothan smashed him in the face with his elbow. Galwell stumbled back, colliding with the wall. A second later, Bothan had the edge of his dagger against the Englishman’s throat.
“Trust a man such as ye,” Bothan growled, “to think a little prick is all he needs to claim victory.”
Bothan had his arm wedged across Galwell’s neck as he pressed the tip of his dagger against the soft spot in his throat. Galwell’s court shoes were slipping on the floor as he tried to gain footing and fight, but the effort was laughable when measured against the pure brawn Bothan represented. They couldn’t have been more opposite from one another.
“I suggest you yield, Galwell Scrope,” Elizabeth advised him after watching the struggle. “Else there will be a large mess for Lord Berkley’s staff to clean up.”
Galwell’s eyes were bulging. His face was red, and he’
d pressed his lips together as he fought to deny the truth.
“He’s no’ worth the stain on me soul,” Bothan said in disgust.
Bothan released Galwell and turned to look at the Queen. Elizabeth Tudor’s lips lifted into a very small smile of praise.
“You have proven yourself to be more than the savage Lord Scrope claims you are,” Elizabeth said. “The matter is settled. Brenda Grant will wed you.”
“I will no’,” Brenda exclaimed. “You are a queen in yer own right. Ye of all people should understand why I have no wish to wed again.”
Bothan’s body tensed. Brenda watched the way the muscles in his neck corded. But Elizabeth chuckled softly.
“It seems you have another challenge to face, Chief Gunn,” Elizabeth said. The English Queen shifted her attention to Brenda.
“One I am eager for,” Bothan declared gruffly. “I mean no insult, ma’am, but there is nothing else in this life that could have enticed me to cross into England except Brenda Grant.”
Elizabeth returned her gaze to Bothan. One of her eyebrows rose. Bothan inclined his head, but that was as far as any manner of apology went.
“Your Majesty,” Galwell began. The Englishman had taken time to regain his poise. He was standing in perfect courtly stance, his inner leg on display for Elizabeth’s enjoyment. “I really must beg you—”
“Indeed, you should beg,” Elizabeth interrupted, her tone sharpening, “for you have played me for a fool.” The Queen was gripping the armrests of her chair. “Have you not heard me say I am a Prince? Do you dare to judge me so lacking in sense as to have my head turned by pretty words? That I do not require sincerity?”
Galwell tried to speak. “Glorianna—”
“Seal your lips!” Elizabeth snapped. “I would banish you if I did not worry you would only find another innocent to beguile. You and your family have far too much ambition to suit my taste. So you shall remain with my court, sir, in silence until I bid you speak.”
Galwell’s eyes had bulged again. His complexion was crimson and his forehead bright with perspiration. But he lowered himself in a long reverence before straightening and doing as he was told.
Elizabeth Tudor turned her attention toward Brenda. The English Queen was no longer in the first blush of youth. Brenda realized Elizabeth’s face powder hid a great many fine lines. But Elizabeth’s blue eyes were still sharp, proving her mind was not feeble.
“I do understand why you do not wish to wed, Mistress Grant,” Elizabeth said. “And yet I also understand what it is like to wait long to wed and have fate make such impossible. That is when regret shows its face.” The Queen’s gaze fluttered momentarily toward the Earl of Leicester.
Brenda started to argue, but the Queen raised her hand once more. Brenda set her teeth into her lower lip.
“Yet you are here because you understand duty,” Elizabeth continued. “I have a duty as a Prince to understand why our royal cousin James has decided it is best for you to wed. Good will between our nations benefits us all. I could not tell James I dissolved his wedding contracts.”
Galwell perked up, opening his mouth. The Queen proved how observant she was by snapping her fingers at him. “I am your master, sir!”
Galwell inclined his head instantly.
“As I said,” Elizabeth spoke once more, “I shall not dissolve the contracts out of respect for our royal cousin. However, I will have to send word to James on the matter of the challenge issued by Lord Scrope toward Chief Gunn and the outcome.” Elizabeth aimed her gaze directly at Galwell. “You, sir, have lost the dowry, and I am the witness.”
Galwell was shaking. His hands clenched into tight fists, but he lowered himself in obedience.
“I shall also witness your wedding, Brenda Grant.” Elizabeth looked at Brenda. “For to do otherwise would be to insult James. As you have proven how much you understand the necessity of performing one’s duty, I expect you to argue no further.”
Oh, ye understand.
And still Brenda wanted to scream with fury. For the briefest of moments, she’d felt the noose lifted away from her throat with Galwell’s defeat. A short-lived relief. Now she was facing Bothan and the certainty of wedding him.
Better than Galwell but still another man, set to do with her as he pleased. One she would wed for the sake of politics. She lowered herself before Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England, and watched the way the monarch’s lips curled into a soft smile.
It was nice to know someone was pleased.
* * *
Elizabeth Tudor wasn’t planning on drawing matters out. Brenda barely made it back to her pavilion before the Berkleys’ Head of House came hurrying after her. The woman was flushed from running, the front of her apron wrinkled from where she’d grabbed handfuls of it so she might lift it high.
“You must come with me back to the house, Mistress Grant,” the woman said. She stopped to drag in a deep breath. “Her Majesty has decreed the wedding shall be tonight. We must get you bathed and dressed, and there is your hair, and…” The woman stopped stammering long enough to draw in another breath. She was flustered, lifting her apron up to dab at her forehead before she lowered the fabric and sent Brenda a look designed to get her moving.
Brenda didn’t argue. Doing so would have been pointless. However, the real reason she went with the Head of House was because she desperately needed escape from her thoughts. The only way to do so was to fill her time with enough tasks to blind her to what she would be facing that night.
And there was much to do.
Brenda enjoyed the bath, taking the time to scrub herself from head to toe. She’d likely not gain another opportunity to indulge in a hot bath before she made it to the Highlands.
She had no idea what sort of home Bothan would be taking her to. Not that it mattered. Her first husband had lived in a finer castle than her father had, and she would have traded it for a croft in a moment if such a bargain would have freed her from the abuse of her husband.
Bothan will not abuse ye…
Brenda went still for a moment, closing her eyes and willing herself to believe those words. He’d never given her a reason to suspect he’d raise his hand to her. But men often changed after the wedding and bedding were over.
“Come now…out with you.” The Head of House had returned to the room in the back of the kitchen where Brenda was bathing.
The Head of House was carrying a fresh smock and stockings. She smiled as Brenda stood and a maid brought her a length of linen to dry herself with.
“The mistress has opened her own closets for you.” The Head of House beamed as she fingered the fine fabric of the smock. “This will feel like heaven against your skin.”
Brenda sat on a bench in front of the fire first so her hair would dry. She recalled well how it felt to have servants in the room without a care for her modesty. It was something else she didn’t miss. Living at Grant Tower as a widow had been some of the happiest years in her life. Even better than her childhood, for there had been no one telling her about her duty to wed. She had been her own woman.
Yes, but taking a lover didn’t satisfy ye…
It was a truth that still puzzled her. Bhaic MacPherson had shown her there was pleasure in bed sport. She’d truthfully though it nothing but a rumor made up to help men seduce women. She had certainly been disappointed after her first wedding night.
Pain she’d expected on that first night. But the reality had been so much more than what her young mind could have grasped.
There had been the physical pain. And then there had been the emotional torment.
It had been a grand match between her and the Campbells. Her father had settled a fine dowry on her, and the Campbells had been eager to ensure they claimed it before her father changed his mind. So she’d wed before turning sixteen.
She shuddered, struggling to shut the doors
on the memories. But with the maids in the room and the Head of House so very content being there while Brenda was completely bare, well, Brenda discovered there was no way to ignore the similarities between her last wedding and her next one.
“Here now,” the Head of House announced when yet another maid arrived with a tray of food. “Come and eat, for you’ll likely get naught else until tomorrow.”
It was sage advice, but Brenda only managed a few spoonfuls. The Head of House propped her hands on her hips and contemplated Brenda for a long moment.
“It’s not your first marriage,” the woman stated.
“I assure ye,” Brenda answered, “I was less nervous before my first wedding, for I did not know what was to come.”
She locked gazes with the Head of House. They shared a moment of knowledge only women might truly understand.
“Yes, well, best to get on with it,” the Head of House offered.
Yes, best to get on with it indeed.
* * *
Maddox was fingering his beard, which meant he was deep in thought.
Aye, it was also likely his friend was trying not to laugh outright and give Bothan a reason to smash him across the jaw.
Bothan gave his captain a warning look, but true to Maddox’s nature, the burly Highlander grinned in spite of the warning. Bothan tightened his fingers into a fist and heard his knuckles pop.
“I cannae refuse to wear it,” Bothan defended himself. “The English Queen will be insulted if I turn me nose up at her fine wedding clothing.”
Maddox swept Bothan from head to toe. “Oh nae, we could no’ have her feelings injured.”
Bothan growled, but he turned and looked at his reflection. The room he was in had a full-length mirror. Somewhere, there might be one in the twin towers that made up the stronghold of the Gunn chiefdom, but he’d never gone looking for it. Not that he’d been chief very long. Moving into the upper floors of the towers had been enough of an elevation. He still slept in the hall more often than in the master chamber that was his now. If there were luxuries abovestairs with no purpose beyond feeding one’s vanities, he’d not taken time to notice. But he admitted he would favor something more than the rough life he’d been living.