Gosford's Daughter

by Mary Daheim

  From that point on, the Scots entourage was permitted more freedom within Chartley. Sorcha’s first excursion outside of her quarters was to seek out Gavin Napier, whom she had not seen since the day of the stag hunt. But to her cruel disappointment, she discovered that he had been gone from the manor house for almost a week. Sorcha passed through the early days of autumn in frustration and despair. The news that Mary Stuart had been removed to grim Fotheringhay moved her not half so deeply as Napier’s disappearance.

  “Where can he be?” she demanded of Ailis for what seemed to the serving girl like the hundredth time. Only that morning they had learned that Mary’s steward, Master Melville, and a handful of others, were heading out for Fotheringhay. “Surely he would not have gone there before them?”

  “We’d have heard if he had,” replied Ailis with a squinting stare. “Why do you fash yourself so? If ever a man could take care of himself by himself, I’d set my money on that one.”

  Sorcha wasn’t reassured in the least. “As a priest, he’s in mortal danger wherever he goes in England. To make matters worse, he’s known as a supporter of Queen Mary.”

  Ailis lifted her square shoulders. “He’s not known as a priest in these parts. It seems wasteful to me to fret over a man you hardly know.”

  If there was a trace of curiosity in Ailis’s voice, Sorcha decided to ignore it. Not that she couldn’t trust the serving woman; Ailis was as discreet as she was loyal. But Sorcha couldn’t admit the truth aloud—that she was madly, passionately, in love with a priest. She didn’t worry about losing Ailis’s friendship, but she did fear losing her respect.

  “I’m going outside.” Sorcha gathered up a light cloak and waited for some comment from Ailis. “I said I’m going outside,” Sorcha repeated. “I mean, outside the confines of this damnable manor house.”

  Ailis looked up from a hairnet she was mending. “Can you?”

  “I’m going to.” Sorcha’s mouth was set in a grim, determined line. Now that Sir Amyas had taken up residence with his royal prisoner at Fotheringhay, restrictions at Chartley had begun to slip away almost imperceptibly. “Don’t worry, I’ll come back.” She glanced at Ailis, who was meticulously tying two strands of gold thread together and not looking worried in the least.

  Despite her bravado, Sorcha was somewhat amazed to discover that she was at liberty to walk abroad as long as she never lost sight of the manor house and returned by noon. At first, she assumed she would be followed, but after ten minutes in the mild open air, she could detect no one in sight. It made sense, Sorcha decided—the defection of an unimportant lady-in-waiting was of no concern to the English. Indeed, Sir Amyas was still searching for ways to cut back on Queen Mary’s retinue and expenses. The previous day he had ordered that her coachmen be dismissed.

  It was a fine morning to be outdoors, with a light breeze and a full sun. The newly harvested earth was headily fragrant, the oak trees up ahead were splendid in their full-leafed grandeur, and the beeches beyond the low stone hedge had already turned from gold to flame. There was just enough of a chill when the wind picked up to make Sorcha wonder about the first frost.

  She had deliberately avoided the village, as she didn’t wish to speak to curious local gossip mongers. In consequence, she had no idea where she was heading, though it was south and east, as far as she could judge by the sun. No matter, she couldn’t get lost as long as she kept to the rutted dirt track, which was blessedly unpeopled this bright October morning.

  Yet as she rounded a curve, only a few yards ahead, Sorcha saw two figures sitting by an ancient, gnarled tree. Farmers, perhaps, or travelers. As she drew closer, she noticed another figure and several horses off to one side near a narrow stream. As she drew abreast of them, one of the men rose to his feet to join the man with the horses. Sorcha glanced without much interest at the seated figure, who wore a heavy cloak and hood. Idly, she wondered if he—or she—wasn’t overwarm on such a fine day.

  Sorcha stopped and stared. The bearded face and dark eyes that looked out at her from under the hood belonged to Gavin Napier. With a little cry, she rushed to him and sank to her knees.

  “Thank God!” she gasped. “Where have you been?”

  He gazed at her with curiosity—but nothing more. “I crave your pardon, mistress,” came the deep, smooth voice which betrayed no accent at all, “are we acquainted?”

  Sorcha saw the dark eyes twinkle with amusement. And realized there was no trace of the hunter, no haunted, vulnerable, searching gaze in this stranger’s face. Nor, up close, was the resemblance to Gavin Napier quite so remarkable. This man was thinner, his features more refined, probably not nearly as tall or as broad when standing.

  The other men were watching them but made no move to intervene. Sorcha knew she was flushing deeply, but was too flabbergasted by the coincidence to care. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said in apology, “but I mistook you for someone else.”

  “A very fortunate someone, I’d wager.” He gave her a wide, winning smile. “I hope you find him soon.”

  “So do I.” Sorcha didn’t try to hide her worry. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen anyone in these parts who looks a lot like you?”

  The man’s grin widened even further; then it suddenly died away at the corners. “No.” The reply seemed abrupt, considering his previous good humor. But the eyes were still kind, and he pushed back the hood to reveal hair as dark as Napier’s but neither as thick nor as rich in texture. “Are you a Scot, by chance, mistress?”

  Sorcha hesitated, then nodded. “I’m … I’ve been staying at Chartley.” She could see no harm in telling this pleasant man the truth. “I just went for a walk. We haven’t been able to get out much until recently.”

  “Ah.” He made a rueful face. “I hear the fair Queen of Scots is at Fotheringhay now.”

  “That’s so.” Sorcha started to get to her feet. “I’d best be on my way. Do you head north, sir, or west?”

  He uttered an odd little laugh. “We follow the wind, my friends and I.” The man’s head nodded toward the others, who were conversing easily as they tended the horses. “The one you mistook me for—has he been at Chartley, too?”

  Surprised at the question, Sorcha sank back onto the ground. “Aye, but he left some weeks ago.” She was wary now, wondering why this stranger should inquire about a man he couldn’t know. Unless …. Sorcha leaned forward, the black hair falling over her shoulders to almost touch the grass. “Who are you?”

  The stranger didn’t blink. “I’m a Scot, like yourself. My name is Adam Napier.”

  There seemed to be a buzzing in Sorcha’s ears, yet it was late in the season for bees. It also seemed strange that it should have got so dark so quickly, since it had been quite early when she’d left the manor house. Dazedly, Sorcha opened her eyes and tried to concentrate on her surroundings. Three men, an old tree, and sunshine. One of the men looked like Gavin Napier, but he wasn’t. Except that he was a Napier. Sorcha rubbed her eyes and shook her head.

  “You seemed to have had a dizzy spell,” said the man who called himself Adam Napier. He was still seated opposite her, but the other two now knelt by Sorcha. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know,” Sorcha answered truthfully. “I’m confused, I do know that. Are you Gavin Napier’s brother?”

  The man laughed lightly. “We are all brothers, are we not? No doubt you refer to a kinsman of mine, one I’ve not met. Still, if he’s in the environs, I’d like to call on him. Did you say you knew where he’s gone?”

  “No,” retorted Sorcha, feeling more like herself, but still light-headed. “I wish to God I did.”

  The man glanced at the others. “Could he be at Fotheringhay?” he inquired of Sorcha.

  “He could be roasting Cecil over a spit at Windsor, for all I know.” Sorcha knew she sounded vexed and didn’t care. Her life was difficult enough without finding two Napiers tangled up in it.

  “Mayhap we’ll some day cross paths,” the man said, signaling for the ot
hers to fetch the horses. “It might be amusing to see a face so like one’s own. Especially one that inspires such concern from a bonnie lass.” He gave her the wide, winning smile again and kissed her hand.

  Startled, Sorcha awkwardly got to her feet. At least she wasn’t dizzy anymore. “A fair journey to you all,” she said, one hand waving in their general direction. “Wherever it may take you.”

  “Our thanks,” said the man, still smiling. “Pray forgive me if I don’t rise, mistress.” He uttered a self-deprecating laugh of apology. “I’m lame, you see. I cannot walk.”

  Sorcha gazed from his covered legs to the other men who were carrying a litter to the edge of the road. “Oh!” she exclaimed with sympathy, “I’m sorry!”

  “Don’t be,” the man said simply. “Better to lose one’s legs than one’s soul. No one yet has walked through heaven’s gate.” He bowed from the waist up as Sorcha gave him an uncertain curtsey. “Godspeed,” he called after her, “and when you find your Gavin Napier, take good care of him!”

  If only I could, Sorcha thought fervently, quickening her step back toward Chartley. After a few yards, she looked over her shoulder before rounding the curve in the road. The little party had started moving again, heading south. Toward Fotheringhay? she wondered—and felt as if she’d spent the last hour in a bizarre, disturbing dream.

  On the last Sabbath in October, Sorcha received several communications. First, there was a letter from Dallas, stating that Rob had returned safely in body, “though his brain be riddled by earwigs, or so it would seem,” their mother wrote with some asperity. Obviously, Rob had told her about his small role in the Babington conspiracy. Dallas would have been outraged, not just because Rob had risked his life, but that he had done it in the cause of the unworthy Mary, Queen of Scots.

  Dallas was somewhat less guarded in her wording about Rosmairi. “Her spirits have been revived by being so much in the King’s company. Still, she seems unnaturally aged for her years.”

  The letter contained little else of importance—how the McVurrich brood and Aunt Glennie fared, a few bits of harmless court gossip, and plans for Dallas and Rosmairi to go home to Inverness soon to make ready for the wedding of Magnus and Jean Simpson. Wistfully, Sorcha envisioned the grand ceremony and unbridled celebration. She longed to be at Gosford’s End for her brother’s nuptials, but instead, she was closed up at Chartley, feeling as if she were in limbo.

  There was no direct mention of Mary Stuart’s tragedy nor of any reaction by her former subjects. Dallas had been very careful. Nor did she make any reference to Gavin Napier—unless it was a veiled one in her closing line: “God keep you in His tender care, my daughter, and may your journey prove to have done you no lasting harm nor given you unwanted sorrow.”

  The second piece of communication had come from Fotheringhay: The commissioners who had sat in judgment at Mary Stuart’s trial had found her guilty of conspiring to assassinate Queen Elizabeth. It seemed to Sorcha that the verdict was a foregone conclusion. However, there was a rumor among the servants at Chartley that Elizabeth, never at a loss for coming up with surprises, would ask for clemency.

  In the wake of that news came word that Sorcha and the remaining members of the Scottish contingent would be allowed to attend Queen Mary at Fotheringhay. Sorcha received this message with ambivalent feelings. If Gavin Napier were neither at Chartley nor at Fotheringhay, what difference did it make where she stayed? Except that upon reflection, she knew she owed the Queen of Scots her comfort and support.

  The third and final missive was a brief, jerkily written note from Gillis Mowbray, who had been summoned to Fotheringhay a fortnight earlier. While she and Sorcha had hardly been close, an apprehensive Gillis had wept upon departure.

  “The chit writes an appalling hand,” Sorcha complained, knowing she sounded very like her mother. “I can scarcely make twixt or tween of this mess.”

  Ailis glanced over Sorcha’s shoulder and snorted. “I can’t see it at all. It looks to me like chickens’ feet.”

  Sorcha shook her head. “She hopes we’ll join her soon—I think. Truly, it reads as if she hopes we’ll join her ‘son.’ But as she is unwed and childless, that seems unlikely.” Sorcha made a droll face at Ailis over the rumpled parchment. “She says—perhaps—that the Queen spends much time with napping. Poor lady,” Sorcha remarked, frowning at the note. “I suspect she is exhausted from her tribulations. Oh!” Tapping at the paper with her finger, Sorcha’s eyes widened. “That’s not ‘napping’—it’s ‘Napier’! He must be at Fotheringhay, too!”

  “Well.” Ailis’s tone was dry, her gaze speculative. “Do we pack and await our call?”

  Sorcha felt her cheeks grow warm under Ailis’s scrutiny. With unwonted care, she folded Gillis’s note and shoved it under the other two letters. “Do you despise me, Ailis?” The green eyes invited candor.

  Ailis’s oval face held no expression, save for a certain thoughtful set of her small mouth. “No, certainly not. Nor is it my place to question your judgment.”

  The second statement seemed to detract from the first. Discomfited, Sorcha began to prowl the room. “I don’t know how to explain. It’s very distressing.” Though the misery was apparent in her face, she stopped to regard Ailis levelly. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

  “Mayhap it will pass.” Ailis had folded her hands at her waist. In her somber gray gown and matching wide bandeau, she looked very like a novice nun. The mental comparison only made Sorcha more uncomfortable. But, though Ailis remained detached, she was not without compassion. “Someday you will find a fine young laird to wed. Once we are back in Scotland, of course.”

  “Of course.” Sorcha couldn’t help but smile, albeit weakly. She was touched by Ailis’s concern. Any show of sympathy on the other girl’s part was worth ten times that of a less taciturn, more extroverted sort of person. “Meanwhile, though,” Sorcha said, unable to keep the eagerness from her voice, “you’re right—we had best pack up our belongings.”

  But the trunks and boxes sat in lonely readiness for all of November and much of December. Summer now seemed long ago, as the trees around Chartley shed their leaves to stand starkly barren against the gray, gloomy skies. Heavy rains filled the moat and flooded the duck pond in the manor house gardens. From Fotheringhay, word came that Mary, Queen of Scots had stood trial. Her bearing had been regal, her composure unruffled, her arguments irrefutable. Not that either matter or manner could change the verdict. It was a question of when, not if, Mary Stuart would be executed.

  For the few of her followers who remained at Chartley, the news came as a devastating, if expected, blow. Sorcha was disturbed at the thought of Queen Mary’s impending death, but she soon grew depressed as well. With the end no doubt near, it was possible that she and the other Scots would not be summoned to Fotheringhay at all.

  Christmas was all but ignored at Chartley. Only a skiff of snow in the morning changed the dreary pattern of the winter landscape. Sorcha had a sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to go home to Scotland.

  But at last, on a chill, bleak late December day, word came that all who supported the former Queen of Scotland should make ready for Fotheringhay. Despite herself, Sorcha’s spirits soared as she and Ailis headed out with the others on the journey from Chartley to Northamptonshire. Whatever tragic hours lay ahead were all but obscured by Sorcha’s knowledge that within the dark, stern walls of Fotheringhay, Gavin Napier also waited.

  * * *

  Handsome, stately Chartley might possess its own unhappy memories, but Fotheringhay’s menacing towers and the double moat that ran along three sides made it impossible for Sorcha to think the castle had ever been used as anything but a prison.

  “Jesu,” murmured Sorcha to Ailis as they walked their horses up to the massive gateway that served as an ominous counterpoint to the hulking keep looming over the courtyard, “to think I found Doune Castle ugly!” She shivered in the saddle as the pounding waters of the River Nene beat against the worn
stones of Fotheringhay’s unmoated side.

  If the structure itself seemed inhospitable, the inhabitants of Fotheringhay were even less inclined to offer a gracious welcome. To Sorcha’s surprise, she and the rest of the little party were met not by Sir Amyas Paulet, but Sir Drue Drury, who had been appointed by Queen Elizabeth to share the burden of Mary Stuart’s captivity.

  Drury was a balding, boxlike man with pale blue eyes and a small scar on his full upper lip. He scowled with disapproval when the Scots rode into the courtyard. “This is a most unseemly arrival, seeing as how you were told not to come to this place,” intoned Drury, the pale eyes focusing somewhere near the ground rather than on any individual face. “We are at a time when less, not more, attendants are required herein.”

  Sorcha and Ailis exchanged perplexed glances with the others. “We were summoned here, sir,” Sorcha said at last, realizing that no one else in their small party was about to speak up, “by express command of Sir Amyas Paulet. Who countermands his orders, may I ask?”

  Drury made a quick shift of his feet, looking rather like a portly court dancer responding to a cue. “That was the original order,” he replied, still avoiding Sorcha’s gaze, “but a second message was sent the following day. It nullified the original.” Drury lifted his chin, now appearing to stare off in the direction of the northwest castle turret.

  “Well, we missed it, then,” Sorcha said, as a snowflake drifted down to touch her nose. “We left immediately.”

  They had, indeed, with Sorcha so anxious to head for Fotheringhay and no one at Chartley outranking her authority among the Scottish contingent. Her hands and feet were already numb from the last raw miles over the bleak plains of Northamptonshire, and Sorcha’s patience had begun to ebb. Ironically, she was reminded of her arrival at Chartley under a sweltering summer sun half a year ago—and of the equal lack of civility shown by Mary Stuart’s English gaolers.

  “Come now,” urged Sorcha, wondering how—and why—a middle-aged subject of Elizabeth Tudor’s would bend gracefully to the will of an unknown Scottish lass not yet twenty. “Will you let us freeze our haunches out here in the courtyard, or may we at least come in to warm ourselves?”