by Mary Daheim
Sorcha had no idea how long or how far they rode. At last they came to a copse and slowed their horses to a walk. “God’s teeth,” gasped Sorcha, as winded as Thisbe, “I can’t guess what’s happening. Or perhaps I can,” she added, taking several deep gulping breaths and turning to Rob, whose face dripped with perspiration. “All I know is that you must head for Scotland.”
“I can’t!” Rob slapped angrily at the stray lock of red hair. “I can’t desert Her Grace! Not now!”
Sorcha reined up Thisbe, wishing there were a stream or pond nearby. The sunlight filtered through the beech trees, dappling the mare’s sweaty flanks. “Don’t be a fool, Rob.” Sorcha tried to keep the fear from her voice. “It’s not just you I’m thinking of—it’s all of our family. What will King Jamie do if he learns you’ve plotted to free his mother?”
Rob’s mouth was set in a stubborn line. “He’s a heretic usurper. Queen Mary is our true sovereign.”
Sorcha shook her head. Secretly, she gauged that Jamie would do little more to his Fraser kin than wave his hands in dismay over Rob’s defection. But bending the truth would sit far more lightly on Sorcha’s conscience than a dead brother. “That weakling king of ours is under the Master of Gray’s thumb. And Gray hates me.” That much was true. She saw the first flicker of misgiving on Rob’s flushed, perspiring face. “You know that. Nor do we have the old Gordon alliance to fall back on. Would you sacrifice our family for an aged and infirm relic like Mary Stuart? Our sire would not.”
Rob, still panting, wiped his face with his sleeve. Sorcha’s cruel words about the Queen rankled, yet he had to acknowledge his sister’s perspicacity.
“Sweet Jesu.” Rob spoke low, his hand covering his eyes. “How can I leave Her Grace?”
“Paugh, Rob, she has made her own fate, whatever it is to be.” Yet even as she spoke, Sorcha felt a pang of compassion for the poor Queen, caught in a deadly trap. “We Frasers have always stood together in time of trouble, you know that. Will you let Mary Stuart once more play havoc with our clan?”
Rob gazed up through the trees, squinting against the morning sun. At last he looked again at Sorcha. “Will you come, too?”
Sorcha sat very still in the saddle. There was no question but that she should ride away with Rob. It might be the only chance she’d have to escape for some time, perhaps forever. A tingling of fear crept along her spine as Thisbe pawed at the ground and whinnied softly.
“No, Rob.” Sorcha saw him start to contradict her, but she held up a gloved hand. “I must stay to defend you. And I can do it honestly, since I’ve no idea why you’re in trouble.” Recognizing that he was about to interrupt her, she waved the hand at him with vehemence. “There is Ailis, as well. I can’t leave her to fend for herself. Nothing will happen to me—whatever has transpired cannot touch me. I haven’t been at Chartley long enough. And I came with King Jamie’s blessing.”
Rob let his mount wander for a few yards to crop at the patches of short grass. The flush had faded from Rob’s face, which now wore a resigned expression. He nodded over his shoulder. “And Father Napier? What about him?”
Sorcha straightened her shoulders. “Father Napier can take care of himself.” She spoke the words with authority, yet the pang of fear twisted inside her rib cage. “Is he … involved?”
“No.” Rob looked away, gray eyes cast down toward the ground. “I still don’t understand what’s happened. It all seemed so … certain.”
“Most things in life are not.” Sorcha gave her brother a wry smile. “I learned that much from Johnny Grant. Now ride away, Rob, or I’ll take the crop to your horse myself.”
Reluctantly, Rob guided his mount close to Thisbe. He leaned from the saddle to give Sorcha a tight, loving hug. “God help us.” He chuckled. “I don’t know whether I fear Queen Elizabeth’s wrath more than I do our Lady Mother’s if she learns about all this.”
“I told you, I’m safer here than you’re going to be there.” Sorcha smiled as Rob adjusted his riding habit and patted his horse’s neck. “Godspeed, Rob. You go with my prayers.”
Her brother turned again in the saddle, blew her a kiss, tried to keep the distress from his eyes, and urged his horse into a trot. Sorcha watched him until he was swallowed up by the leafed-out trees, with only the echoing sound of hooves serving as counterpoint to the summer wind’s stately song.
“Oh, Thisbe,” murmured Sorcha, “I would to God we’d all stayed in the Highlands.” With some annoyance, she brushed at a tear which had trickled onto her cheek.
The sun was at her right, halfway in its path to midday. Chartley must lie to the west. Sorcha had just guided Thisbe in what seemed to be the right direction, when Gavin Napier came plunging through the copse on foot.
“God’s teeth!” exclaimed Sorcha, “you frightened me!” With trembling hands, she urged Thisbe to stand still and dismounted without waiting for Napier’s assistance. “By the Virgin, I wish someone would tell me what’s happening this fine summer morn!”
Napier brushed impatiently at a dead branch that clung to one sleeve. There was a bruise on his cheek, and his right knuckles were badly skinned. Yet despite his disheveled appearance, he appeared exhilarated. Sorcha had seen the expression on stable boys after a particularly exuberant fistfight. She had also seen it on the faces of her father and brothers, depending upon which one had emerged victorious from some sporting event.
“Rob is gone?” Napier was actually smiling through the dark beard. He saw Sorcha nod, and his wide shoulders relaxed. “Praise God.” The smile faded. “And you? Why didn’t you join him?”
Sorcha was tempted to tell Napier the truth. Because I want to stay with you. Because I want to make sure nothing horrible happens to you. Because I love you, Gavin Napier, priest or not. Instead, she merely brushed the long black hair away from her forehead and lifted one slim shoulder. “I couldn’t leave Ailis. And Rob can travel faster without encumbrance. Where’s your horse?”
Napier made a face. “He went lame. I shouldn’t have rammed him into the other mounts. But I could think of no other way to prevent the guardsmen from following you and Rob. One of the men was knocked unconscious. I managed to help the other follow suit.” Gingerly, Napier touched his skinned knuckles.
Sorcha winced at the bloody, broken skin. “Where is the Queen?”
Napier shook his head. “I’m not sure. God help her. I fear the worst will befall her now.”
“Can you tell me why?” persisted Sorcha, letting Thisbe wander at will in the little clearing.
Napier paused, apparently reluctant to enlighten Sorcha. At last, he eased himself onto the ground, leaning against a sturdy tree trunk. “It was a wily trap, set and sprung by Queen Elizabeth’s secretary, Master Walsingham.” Napier sneered slightly at Walsingham’s name. “It would seem there were two plots, but both involved messages sent by Queen Mary in the beer kegs that were delivered to Chartley’s brewer. Alas, the brewer was employed by Walsingham. And the correspondence, which was in part exchanged with a fervent young Catholic noble named Anthony Babington, involved the assassination of Elizabeth and setting Mary in her place.” Napier stopped speaking and shook his head ruefully. “Most dangerous. And foolish.”
Sorcha fingered her lower lip in puzzlement. “Queen Mary consented to the murder of Elizabeth?”
Napier lifted his palms upwards. “So it would seem. But after all these years, she would pay any price for freedom. With a crown thrown into the bargain, mayhap she can’t be judged too harshly. At least by us. After all, to Catholics, she is the rightful queen of England as well as of Scotland.”
“And this Babington? Was he in league with Walsingham, too?” Sorcha had dropped to the ground beside Napier, heedless of a patch of damp earth near her hem.
“Nay, he was genuine in his wish to rescue Mary and dispatch Elizabeth to her eternal reward. A silly young man, caught up in chivalrous deeds and misguided theology.”
“But Rob—how did he come to find out?” Sorcha w
as so engrossed in Napier’s story that she failed to notice her skirts rested on the priest’s booted leg.
“It took some time for him to win Her Grace’s trust, but within the past few days he had been asked to help with her infamous letters. The plotting has been afoot for some months, and I suspect Queen Mary convinced Rob it was close to fruition. I daresay she thought this morning that the horsemen had come to save her, not arrest her.” Napier’s brow furrowed as he absently plucked at a tuft of grass. “Mayhap Rob thought so, too. It would appeal to his youthful ideals and religious zeal—as it did to Babington and like young gentlemen in London. By God, our bonnie lady has been the undoing of many a man, from one end of her life to the other!”
The full implication of what Napier had revealed began to creep over Sorcha like a huge, smothering hand. “Jesu! If Rob is caught, he may die for his folly! Will they follow him?”
Napier looked down at the folds of plum-colored fabric that covered his knee and part of his calf. He frowned, then turned to Sorcha. “I doubt that he’ll be pursued. He came late into the conspiracy and, with luck, has gotten far enough away to elude the English.”
Sorcha slumped against the tree, one hand raking through her hair. “How did you learn of this?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.
Napier shifted his legs, shaking free from Sorcha’s skirts. She felt rather than saw his gesture and was suddenly embarrassed. The priest, however, seemed to pay no heed. “It was all wrong, this flurry of letter writing, though I knew not what it concerned. Here was our Queen, with a gaoler more strict than any she had ever endured—and yet her spirits had soared, her optimism flowed more freely by the day. Finally, when Rob confided that he was helping with some very special correspondence, I knew there must be a new scheme afoot, even though he refused to tell me. He had been sworn to secrecy, of course. But for three days, I kept close watch, eventually discovering that letters were being smuggled out of Chartley in those damnable beer kegs. I managed to slip away the other evening to visit the brewer.” Napier paused, fingering his bearded chin. “I misliked the man; I didn’t trust him. Call it instinct, but I knew that Rob—and the Queen—were in mortal danger. I also knew his only chance of escape was during the hunt, and that I couldn’t speak to him before then, nor could I convince him if I did. So,” he added with a shrug, “I had to leave it up to you.”
“Jesu,” Sorcha murmured again, grateful for Napier’s omniscience, thankful for her own powers of persuasion. She turned wide green eyes on Napier, one hand outstretched. “What can I say? I owe you my brother’s life.”
Napier gazed from her face to the slender hand that almost touched his chest. “You can say your prayers, for him, and for the Queen. Doubtless this means the end for Mary Stuart.” He was frowning again, his voice gruff.
Sorcha’s hand fell into her lap, limp as a wilted rose. “And what of us?” she demanded in a tone that was surprisingly angry. “Are we to suffer for a crime we didn’t commit?”
Abruptly, Napier got to his feet. “You could have gone with Rob. Why didn’t you?” He loomed over her, appearing almost as tall as the beech trees themselves. “You don’t belong here, after all.”
“Nor do you,” Sorcha shot back. “You can’t perform your priestly duties, and in any event, the Queen has been stripped of her household. Isn’t your first duty still in Scotland, mending the rifts between the Catholic families?” None too gracefully, Sorcha also stood up. She almost tripped over an exposed root but Napier didn’t offer a hand to steady her.
“Someone with a cool head should remain with the Queen’s people.” Napier sounded defensive as he once again touched the tender knuckles. “Who else, since Secretary Nau is implicated up to his eyes in this ghastly affair.”
“Oh, rot!” Sorcha cried, throwing up her hands. “Those people have been together for years and years! See here,” she said earnestly, waving a forefinger at Napier, “we could still ride away to safety. I worried about Ailis at first, but she’s really quite self-sufficient. And unquestionably innocent of this matter. Why shouldn’t we go, while there’s still time?”
The guarded, hunter’s look faded from the brown eyes. For one moment, Gavin Napier seemed very young and guileless. He moved swiftly to Sorcha, gathering her into his arms. She had no will to fight him, though she knew she should. His hand was in her hair, as his mouth came down hard and feverish on her own. One kiss, thought Sorcha dazedly, one kiss will not send us straight to hell. Mayhap it’s all we’ll ever have ….
She clutched at his back, feeling his tongue delve inside her mouth, sensing the surge of longing that fired through both their bodies. If this be sin, Sorcha told herself, then I’ll welcome the flames of purgatory.
Napier drew back just enough to look into her upturned face. To Sorcha’s astonishment, there was no arrogance, no stern authority; Gavin Napier’s searching gaze revealed only an uncertain man. But there was something more, Sorcha realized, the shadow of bitterness, or a haunting memory. She had seen it there before and knew it was a warning. Sorcha paid no heed.
“Why did you stay?” Napier’s voice was low, almost desperate.
Sorcha leaned her head back against his hand. Maidenly virtue required that she not tell him the truth; the vows he had taken demanded a lie. But Sorcha’s innate honesty compelled her to candor. “I couldn’t leave you,” she said simply. “Having come this far, I couldn’t go back.”
The full meaning of Sorcha’s words only struck her after she had uttered them. But it didn’t matter; they were true, in every sense. Napier saw the thick black lashes dip against her cheeks, the white teeth bite her lower lip, the flurry of long, dark hair sprawl over his arm and her shoulders. “God almighty,” he muttered fiercely, “I wish it were otherwise!”
The green eyes flew open. “I know, I should never have spoken! Or let you kiss me or come to Chartley or thought about you twice!” With great effort, she strained away, though he still had a hand at her waist. “It would seem that I am doomed to choose the wrong men in my life. Am I accursed?”
His fingers dug into the flesh between her ribs. “Nay!” He hurled out the word defiantly, pulling her close to him once more. “I am the one who is accursed,” Napier asserted, gripping her chin and bringing it within a scant inch of his face. “Don’t blame yourself, Sorcha. Nor ever let me blame you.”
His words confused her, but it was scarcely a time for concentrated thought. She closed her eyes, anxiously awaiting his ardor.
A few yards away, near a moss-covered log, Thisbe reared and nickered sharply. Sorcha and Napier both froze, stared at the startled horse, and then listened intently to what sounded like approaching hoofbeats.
Sorcha gestured at Thisbe. “Shall we flee?”
Napier shook his head. “Your mount is weary. She’d have to carry us both, in any event.” He bent to kiss her temple. “We’re too late. But then we knew we would be.”
As the horsemen came nearer, she pressed against Napier. “I love you,” Sorcha whispered. “It may be a sin, but I love you.”
Napier’s reply was to hold her so tight she wondered hazily if her spine might snap. Then he released her abruptly, just as a half-dozen members of Sir Amyas’s household came into view among the beech trees.
Their leader was a deceptively cherubic man who hissed slightly when he spoke. “You are both to return to Chartley, or suffer Her Majesty’s grave displeasure. Where is the other one?” He gestured at the air with his riding crop.
Sorcha started to reply, but Napier stepped in front of her. “He had been ordered home. By King James of Scotland.” Napier planted one booted foot in front of the other. “His sister remains, at His Grace’s request.”
The cherubic man fingered his round chin thoughtfully. The Scots were all a pack of devious, cunning liars. Sir Amyas Paulet and Sir Thomas Gorges had no wish to expend a great deal of effort on any of them, but two of the three proved easy prey. The household guards would not return empty-handed.
Napier was ordered to ride Thisbe back to Chartley, while Sorcha had to endure sharing a mount with a buck-toothed boy not much older than herself. Fortunately, he seemed far more embarrassed by their close contact than she was. There was some good-natured banter between the other men, but Sorcha paid little attention. Her mind was filled with different matters, though she managed to offer a prayer of thanksgiving for Rob’s apparent safe deliverance. Now, she must concentrate on her own—but whether she wished most to be delivered from English hands or the spell of love cast however unwittingly by Gavin Napier, were questions she could not answer. As they cantered out of the copse and across the moors under the brilliant summer sun, Sorcha knew that both she and Napier might face great dangers in the days to come. But at least, she thought, with a bittersweet smile, they would face them together.
Chapter 14
Mary, Queen of Scots, had been taken to Fotheringhay Castle, a dank, gloomy place whose very walls seemed to scoff at hope. For over two weeks after the fateful outing in the park at Tixall, Mary had been confined there at Sir Walter Aston’s country house. It was during that fortnight that Gavin Napier secretly made his way out of Chartley and seemingly evaporated into the late summer air of Staffordshire.
After Mary’s confrontation with Elizabeth’s men, virtually all of the Scottish Queen’s attendants had been returned to Chartley. Each had been interrogated relentlessly by Sir Amyas Paulet and his cohorts. Nau and Curle were deeply implicated and carted off to London. Sorcha’s obvious innocence of the plot spared her more than the others, though Paulet persisted in his questions about Rob.
“Think you,” Sorcha inquired archly, “that the man designated by King James himself to attend his mother would connive at a matter so transparently opposed to his master’s best interests?” While her scornful manner annoyed Paulet, the rationality of her words eventually satisfied him. Sorcha was dismissed just in time to help Jane Kennedy and Gillis Mowbray deliver Barbara Curle’s baby.