by Mary Daheim
Nor, Sorcha thought with bitterness, did it matter how elegant she looked as far as Gavin Napier was concerned. She dared not be comely; she must force herself to resist any show of encouragement. If she had been resolute in turning Moray away, she must be ten times as determined with Father Napier.
So ran her thoughts as Napier closed the door behind them and led her down the shadowy corridor. While Chartley’s tall windows might fill the manor house with sunlight on a summer day, Sir Amyas’s economies didn’t permit the luxury of more than an occasional sconce at night. Sorcha imitated Napier’s purposeful step as they passed two guards and a pot-boy on their journey to the Queen. Napier didn’t utter a single word, nor did he so much as glance at Sorcha. At last, even as she could see two more guardsmen flanking a chamber door near the end of the long passage, Sorcha bit off the question she had vowed not to ask:
“Are you truly displeased that I came here?” She was startled by the harsh sound of her voice.
Napier paused almost imperceptibly before speaking. “Aye.” The affirmation rambled out like an animal growl.
Of course there could be no other answer; Sorcha had known that before she asked. So why did she feel that heavy, dull thud in her breast; why had the color drained from her face? She was afraid to look up at the grim, set profile, well aware that it exhibited all the rigid self-control she had promised to show him.
“It was a royal command,” she replied with a crispness she scarcely felt. Nor was the explanation entirely accurate; Jamie’s self-righteous pleading had been more likely an apologia. But Napier needn’t know that. Like her kingly cousin, Sorcha felt obligated to make excuses.
“As you will,” Napier muttered, waving one hand toward the mildly curious guards. “Her Grace awaits.” He turned on his heel, leaving Sorcha to face Mary Stuart alone.
Over the years, Sorcha had heard the Queen of Scots described in great extremes. She was frivolous; she was plagued by bad luck; she lacked political acumen; she was blindly willful; she was easily swayed; she paid no heed to sound advice. Depending upon individual bias, Mary Stuart ran the gamut from saint to whore. But virtually everyone who rendered an opinion agreed upon one thing: the former Queen of Scotland was a charismatically lovely creature whose charms were either heaven-sent or the work of the Devil. Tall, graceful, auburn-haired, skin like alabaster—even Mary’s enemies had to acknowledge her beauty.
It was natural then that Sorcha should almost make the second mistake of her life in failing to recognize a royal Stuart. Yet there could be no doubt that the sad-eyed, sallow-skinned, middle-aged woman who sat up in the heavily curtained bed was Mary, Queen of Scots. A terrier lay on the counterpane, and a lady-in-waiting announced Sorcha in a mournful tone.
Sorcha took a deep breath before dropping to her knees. The hand that reached out to her was stiff with rheumatism, and the lips that formed a smile seemed so thin as to almost disappear inside her mouth. Yet the eyes were bright and lively; the voice held the famous lilting French inflection from the Queen’s youthful years abroad.
“Ah, ma petite! Another Fraser joins us in our English cage.” She gestured clumsily toward a high-backed chair as the terrier stirred on the bed and went back to sleep. “Pray sit. Tell us fresh news of your family.”
Sorcha composed herself as decorously as possible in the chair. Swiftly, she calculated the Queen’s age—middle forties, younger than Lady Fraser. Yet she looked at least ten years older, no doubt the result of too little exercise and too much sorrow. Sorcha was moved to pity.
“There is nothing much to tell,” Sorcha said carefully. “My father is away on a voyage.” She saw the Queen’s lips twitch slightly. “My mother and my sister, Rosmairi, are at court. Though,” she added hastily, “this is their first visit in many years.”
“So your gentle brother tells me.” A flickering smile touched the Queen’s mouth. “Ah, ma chère, are there many in Scotland like your father?”
Sorcha could not keep the puzzlement from her green eyes. She saw the lady-in-waiting cast an urgent glance in her direction. “My father … you refer to his concern for your welfare, Your Grace?”
The faded lashes drooped against the waxy cheeks. “Ah, yes, our welfare. From this distance in time and place, we cannot be sure how many care about us.”
“He cares very much,” Sorcha replied stoutly. “He always has.” She saw a trace of color creep into the other woman’s face, and continued with more vigor. “I’m sure there are many who lament your fate. And who keep you constantly in their prayers.”
It was probably true enough, Sorcha told herself, though her primary concern was to give this pitiful, tragic woman a word of cheer. Surely she must hear few of them, shut off from the rest of the world for so long. Fleetingly, she thought of Jamie Stewart and cursed him for treating his mother so shabbily.
“We wonder,” Mary Stuart said in a low, musing voice. “We have so little else to do … except wonder. And pray.” As if to prove the point, she slowly placed the tips of her crippled fingers together on her breast and closed her eyes.
Sorcha glanced at the lady-in-waiting, who made a small gesture with her hand signaling that the Queen was not yet finished. Patiently, Sorcha sat very still, though Mary Stuart’s eyes remained shut and her breathing seemed labored.
“Better times are coming.” The Queen spoke without appearing to move her lips. The eyes slowly opened again. “Your arrival is most propitious.” She smiled at Sorcha, this time with greater warmth, and the years receded from her face. “Our fortunes have changed since Rob came. He brought hope and springtime. Now that you are with us, mayhap we’ll look forward to the harvest.” Mary groped for Sorcha’s hand and gave it an awkward pat. “So often your sire brought me good luck. Now you and Rob, eh bien?”
“I hope so, Your Grace,” Sorcha replied with a smile, though inwardly she questioned the Queen’s optimism. The company of any sympathetic newcomers must buoy Mary Stuart’s spirits, especially, Sorcha decided, when her gaolers were so odiously oppressive.
A sudden spasm of pain twisted the Queen’s face. The lady-in-waiting rushed to the bedside, motioning for Sorcha to move away.
“It’s nothing,” gasped the Queen, stiff fingers waving the woman aside. She smiled with majestic apology. “Still, it grows late, and you’ve had a tiring journey.” Without further resistance, she allowed the waiting woman to make her comfortable among the pillows. The terrier remained where he was, snoring softly. Sorcha bade the former Queen of Scotland a restful night and curtsied her way from the room.
Much to her consternation, she did not see the Queen, Rob, or Gavin Napier during the next few days. Gillis Mowbray was summoned to attend Mary Stuart, but Sorcha was informed by the gaunt matron that there would be no crush of ladies in attendance on the royal prisoner. “You will bide until it is your turn,” the matron had informed Sorcha with unconcealed malice. “Sir Amyas’s understanding was that only one waiting woman would be sent to replace Mistress Curle.”
Sorcha hadn’t given the woman the satisfaction of a response. But once she and Ailis were unpacked and settled in their cramped quarters, time hung heavy on their hands. There were no playing cards available, though an aged chess set was unearthed by a surprisingly cooperative servant. Despite the fine weather, they were not allowed outside the manor house precincts. What few books they could find were mostly turgid Puritan tracts. By comparison, Sorcha’s stay with Uncle Donald was beginning to seem like a bacchanal.
Finally, at the end of the first week, Rob came to see Sorcha. She was so glad to have him join her that at first she didn’t notice the overbrightness of his eyes or the unaccustomed excitement in his manner. For Sorcha, there could be only one welcome explanation.
“God’s teeth,” she exclaimed as her brother accidentally upset a vase of lilies Ailis had picked outside the manor house, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in love!”
Rob flushed as he stooped to help Sorcha retrieve the long-stem
med flowers and restore them to the vase. “Nay, nay. Nothing of the sort.” He looked up into his sister’s probing eyes. “Why? Do I behave strangely?”
“A bit. You’re standing in a puddle of water in your house slippers. Isn’t that a trifle odd?”
Startled, Rob stared down at his feet. “The soles are quite thick.” He gave his sister a sheepish smile. “Perhaps I seem strange because I’ve been mewed up so long,” he went on without much conviction. “That’s why I’ve come. Incredible as it may sound, tomorrow Sir Amyas is permitting the Queen to go riding. He and his minions wish everyone out of the manor house so that they may give it a thorough cleaning.”
“Everyone?” Sorcha tilted her head at Rob. She wasn’t satisfied with the explanation about his behavior but realized it would do no good to pry.
Rob nodded, as he searched the cupboards for a rag with which to wipe up the spilled water. “You and I, Ailis, Father Napier—everyone. It should be a fine day.”
Sorcha agreed. She wondered, however, if Mary Stuart were capable of several hours in the saddle. But when she put the question to Rob, he laughed. “The mere idea of fresh air and exercise transforms Her Grace. She is already in a state of excitement, choosing which costume to wear and how the others should dress.”
For the Queen’s sake, Sorcha was pleased. Reflecting on the famous Stuart charm, Sorcha finished tidying up after Rob had departed. No wonder most of the Queen’s gaolers had been accused of falling in love with her. Except for Sir Amyas Paulet.
It was Paulet who stood in the courtyard, his shadow long in the setting sun, his head inclined as he engaged in earnest conversation with two other men. Servants, thought Sorcha, leaving the window as someone rapped at the door. Ailis, perhaps, returned with the laundry she’d collected from the washer women down by the moat.
It wasn’t Ailis, it was Gavin Napier. Surprised, Sorcha all but fell back a step or two when he strode into the room. “Are you alone?” he asked, glowering at the room in general and Sorcha in particular.
“Aye.” Sorcha closed the door firmly behind her. “Rob just left.”
Napier gave a brief nod, appeared to consider sitting down, but remained standing in front of Sorcha with a grim look on his face. “Did Rob tell you about the hunt?”
“Hunt?” Sorcha was annoyed to hear her voice sound unduly high-pitched. “A riding party tomorrow, he told me. Yes.”
“All right, then.” Napier put his hands on Sorcha’s shoulders, forcing her to meet his dark eyes. “Now hear me out—you must convince Rob to run away while he has the chance. I don’t know how, but you must do it.” Napier took a deep breath as his grip tightened. “His life depends upon it.”
Sorcha was staring at him openmouthed, as disconcerted by his touch as by his demand. “Why? What’s happening?”
Napier shook his head. “I’m not sure. But I do know Rob is in mortal danger.”
Sorcha thought back to Rob’s giddy behavior. He had denied being in love, but it was clear he kept some sort of secret. A dangerous secret, it seemed, and Sorcha felt the perspiration break out on her palms and her back.
The dark-eyed hunter’s gaze still held hers. So did the strong hands at her shoulders. Sorcha forced herself to concentrate on Rob, yet despite the urgency of Napier’s tone, it was the physical contact that sent her mind into turmoil. “I can’t think,” she protested. “I don’t know how I can convince him when I don’t know what I’m talking about. Why don’t you speak to him?”
Gavin Napier let go of her and stepped back a pace. “I have. He will not listen. But he might, to you.”
For several moments, she stood in silence, gazing without sight at the bouquet of lilies Rob had toppled earlier in the evening. “I’ll go see him,” she finally said. “Where would he be this time of night?”
“With Her Grace.” Napier moved about the room, going to the window, where the last rose-hued streaks of sunset rode low in the western sky. “It’s unlikely you could get word to him this late. You know Sir Amyas’s curfew is very strict.”
The green eyes were curious. “How is it that you’re abroad. Father Napier?”
For a moment, Napier didn’t respond. Then he pointed to his boots which were covered with dust. “I’ve been further abroad than you might guess. Don’t ask more questions, mistress. Tomorrow, just do what you must to get Rob away from here. Go with him, if need be.”
And leave you! The question clamored unbidden at Sorcha’s inner ear. For the first time, she realized that he might be in danger, too. Without thinking she put out her hands to shake Napier by his black-clad arms. “What about you? Will you come with us?”
Napier’s heels locked into the floor. He stood like a graven image, though his stern expression had softened slightly. “Nay. There is no need. Believe me, Sorcha.” The last three words were a low rumble. Resolutely, he pulled free, and was gone.
Sir Amyas Paulet could not have chosen a better day for the buck hunt. It was high summer, those green and golden days when England sparkles under the friendly sun and winter is no more than nature’s empty threat. The party rode toward the moors, where purple heather bloomed like a royal carpet, awaiting the Queen’s pleasure.
Rob had been right—Mary Stuart was indeed transformed, her thickened figure jaunty and erect in a handsome, if outmoded, black riding habit set off with bold touches of white and red. She rode at the head of the group, in the company of Secretary Nau and Sir Amyas. Sorcha purposely lagged behind with Gillis Mowbray and Rob, wondering how and when she’d have an opportunity to speak privately with her brother.
“How welcome is the breeze, the sun, the wide horizons!” exclaimed the Queen as they trotted up a hillock toward Tixall. “Sir Amyas, how do you fare? You’ve been indisposed of late, I’m told.”
Sorcha, straining to catch Mary Stuart’s words, marveled at the Queen’s gracious manner. “I should have hoped the old goat would perish from his lack of charity,” Sorcha murmured to Rob.
But Rob gave a little shake of his head. “Scarcely a charitable wish on your own part,” he chided gently.
“Paugh,” retorted Sorcha, eyeing the broad back of Gavin Napier just ahead. She wished they were riding through less open country, or at least could drop further behind. Nor was Gillis’s presence any asset. Sorcha had already suggested that she might prefer the company of Jane Kennedy, but Gillis had timidly demurred, asserting that she would rather keep to those she knew better.
As for Rob, he seemed blissfully unaware of his sister’s concern. His mood was lighthearted, though Sorcha noticed that he lapsed into moments of deep thought. Or was it prayer? She was about to ask, when a company of horsemen appeared in the distance, galloping rapidly in their direction.
“Who might they be?” Sorcha inquired of Rob as their own party reined up.
Before Rob could reply, Father Napier turned in the saddle. “It’s time,” he announced, his dark, now fierce gaze on Sorcha.
Gillis’s rabbitlike face paled at the ferocity of Napier’s words. He motioned for Sorcha to move closer to him; she obeyed, as if by instinct.
Rob was clearly puzzled as he gazed from Napier to Sorcha and back again. The horsemen were now just a few feet away. Mary Stuart sat tall and majestic on her black gelding, the white egret plumes of her hunting hat drifting with the wind. Except for Secretary Nau, who seemed to be asking a great many questions of no one in particular, the little group had fallen ominously quiet.
With one eye still on the approaching horsemen, Sorcha leaned toward Rob. “We must flee,” she whispered in as urgent a tone as she could muster. “Don’t talk, don’t argue, just ride!”
But the intransigent gaze that met hers dashed Sorcha’s hopes for a clean, swift victory. “Don’t fash yourself, Sorcha,” Rob whispered back. “These men may be friends, not foes.”
Rob’s optimism was unfounded. The leader of the horsemen, an imposing figure wearing the badge of Elizabeth Tudor, dismounted and walked quickly toward Mary Stuart. Sir
Amyas Paulet introduced him formally as Sir Thomas Gorges, Queen Elizabeth’s emissary. Sorcha’s hands froze on the reins, and Thisbe seemed to shudder beneath her as Gorges made his ringing, damning announcement.
“Madame, the Queen, my mistress, finds it very strange that you, contrary to the pact and engagement made between you, should have conspired against her and her state, a thing which she could not have believed had she not seen proofs of it with her own eyes and known it for certain.”
For once Mary Stuart’s royal aplomb deserted her. Turning to Nau and gesturing freely, she protested Gorges’s words. “My royal cousin must be mistaken! Surely I am the victim of malicious gossip!” Mary stared at the implacable Paulet and the stalwart Gorges. “There must be a wicked plot afoot, dressed in lies and riddled with innuendo!”
“There is no mistake,” Gorges declared in brusque, even tones. “You will come with us, and your servants will be taken away, since they are as involved as yourself in this vile scheme against our sovereign lady.”
“Now!” hissed Sorcha, wheeling Thisbe around and rapidly spurring her to a gallop.
Rob sat as if paralyzed, then followed his sister, their mounts plunging through the heather, voices shouting out to them on the clear summer air. Sorcha’s plum-colored riding hat blew off, her skirts whipped at her legs, and Thisbe broke into a sweat. Rob and his horse were right behind, but three riders were in close pursuit. Daring a backward glance, Sorcha saw that one of them was Gavin Napier.
Seconds later, Sorcha heard the scream of horses and the thudding of bodies. Curses rent the air, then Napier’s cry resounded like summer thunder: “Don’t stop! Ride on!”
Against her will, Sorcha obeyed. But again she looked over her shoulder, glimpsing a frenzy of activity among the purple heather. Two of the horses and all three men were down, though one of the riders appeared to be very still. Sorcha couldn’t be certain, but she thought the third man and Napier were grappling on the ground.