by Mary Daheim
Ironically, Sir Amyas Paulet still lay abed, arms and legs swathed in bandages to cure either alleged gout or, as lane Kennedy put it, “other ill humors.” And still no messenger rode posthaste from London with a warrant for the Queen’s execution.
It hadn’t snowed for almost a week, but graying patches lingered on the plains around Fotheringhay. On a clear but cold late January evening, Sorcha grew restive as she watched the Queen and Gillis Mowbray play piquet. Gillis, Sorcha noted with some disdain, had no card sense, and was beaten easily by Mary Stuart. The Queen invited Sorcha to play. Unable to sit still, Sorcha suggested that Elizabeth Curle take her place. Asking to be excused, Sorcha exited the royal chambers to wander aimlessly through the drafty halls of Fotheringhay.
Despite Elizabeth Tudor’s vacillation, eventually the time would come for Mary Stuart’s final scene. It was a subject Sorcha had dwelled on at length in the days since her illness. Once the Queen was dead, her household would be quickly dispersed. Sorcha, Gillis, Ailis, and most of the others would return to Scotland, though some of the French attendants might go back across the Channel. In any event, Sorcha thought glumly as she passed a scrawny tabby cat that seemed to be in search of the castle kitchens, she was almost certain that Gavin Napier would go out of her life forever. It was an overwhelming thought, pressing down upon her with the weight of a powerful fist, unleashing her need for him at the same time that it stifled her soul.
Not that it did any good to be near him, she reminded herself for the hundredth time; yet at least she could derive some pleasure from his presence, his voice, his searching hunter’s gaze. How he had reacted to her declaration of love she could not guess. They had not really been alone since that August morning when Queen Mary had been led away and Rob had fled to Scotland. Either by chance or by design, Gavin Napier did not seek her out. It was right, of course; it was honorable. For all Sorcha knew, Napier had been shocked and horrified by her ardent avowal.
She had seen him only once since her recovery, in the Queen’s chambers while he read aloud from a tattered book of French sonnets. Sorcha had met his gaze just briefly, as he looked up at the end of a particularly affecting verse, and she could have sworn that the dark eyes bore right through her like twin torches.
A noise made her whirl around, but as she peered about the dimly lighted corridor, Sorcha saw only the tabby cat, which had apparently followed her. She bent to pet the animal but it flew off in the direction of an ancient but elaborately carved door. Unless she had lost her bearings, Sorcha had reached the inside entrance to the chapel. It was no longer used, she’d heard, but she tried the latch, on the slight chance that it might be unlocked.
To her surprise, it was. The door creaked open to reveal a high-ceilinged nave, a handful of rickety chairs, and a sanctuary that had been stripped of decoration. Sorcha jumped as the draft caught the door behind her and slammed it shut. From behind the latticed chancel, Sorcha sensed rather than heard movement. She was about to head for the door when Gavin Napier’s voice called out.
“Is that you, Sorcha?”
“Oh! Aye.” She slumped in relief and tried to adjust her eyes to the gloom. “Where are you?”
Napier stepped out onto the altar, then descended the three steps to the center aisle. “What are you doing here?” His voice sounded strangely suspicious.
Sorcha tried to move so that the faint moonlight that filtered through the clerestory windows might offer further illumination. “I was … exploring.” She cleared her throat and attempted to walk nonchalantly up the side aisle. “I’ve never seen the chapel. It’s been stripped by the reformers, hasn’t it?”
“Years ago, I should guess.” Napier’s words echoed slightly in the empty nave.
Pausing in front of the altar, Sorcha shook her head. “I was about to genuflect. But of course there’s no host or tabernacle.”
“Nay.” Napier stood with his boots firmly planted on the worn rounded stones of the chapel floor. “Why are you not with the Queen?”
Sorcha twisted her hands in a nervous gesture. Their lowered voices sounded loud in the echoing chapel. “I grew restless. Her Grace gave me permission to withdraw.” Forcing her hands to her sides, Sorcha gave Napier a sidelong glance. “And you?”
“I?” There was defensiveness in the word. “I come here to pray sometimes. ’Tis still a chapel, after all.”
“Oh, well, yes.” Sorcha peered upward, as if envisioning the large crucifix that must have once hung over the altar. Yet she could see nothing, except the vague outline of Napier’s tall figure on her left. She could feel him, sense him, as if they were already touching. Sorcha shuddered and abruptly turned back toward the side aisle.
“Wait!” Napier sounded an urgent note in his command.
Sorcha hesitated, took another step, and then stopped to lean against an aged confessional. “Why?” She turned questioning green eyes upon him, demanding not a reason, but asking everything of Gavin Napier.
His answer was to sweep her into his arms, covering her face with hungry kisses—her eyes, her forehead, her mouth, her cheeks. He held her with that same fierce intensity she remembered from the morning in the copse, as if he expected demons to try to drag her from him. His tongue delved into her ear, his lips caressed her throat, he buried his face in the masses of her black hair. Sorcha moaned in his arms, digging into his back with her fingers.
Slowly, inexorably, he was lowering her onto the hard, cold stones of the chapel floor. He cushioned her body with his arm, as he lay down beside her. Her eyes now accustomed to the gloom, Sorcha glimpsed the naked passion on the dark, ragged face and let out a little gasp, though whether it was of awe or pleasure, she neither knew nor cared.
Napier pulled at the fabric of her moire gown, heedless of buttons or the small ruffed collar. Somehow, Sorcha thought hazily, I should stop him. But I can’t. Nor do I want to. This was not a braw laddie like Niall, nor a debonair lord like Moray; this was Gavin Napier, the man Sorcha loved and wanted above all else.
The flame of his desire slowed apace as he freed her breasts to hold them in his hands. “Oh, my love,” he breathed as the hunter’s gaze locked with her glittering green eyes, “you are so fair!” Napier lowered his head to the valley between her breasts, then brushed each nipple with his beard and grinned. “Are we mad, sweet Sorcha?”
“Yes!” She grasped his hair in one hand and flicked her tongue over her lips. “I thought you didn’t want me!”
“Oh, God!” The words were a groan of denial. “Can you guess the struggle I’ve endured with myself?” His dark eyes held shadows of secret, scarring conflict. “How many times did I almost flee to France? No heretic ever stalked his prey as you did me!”
The accusation should have stung, even inspired fear, considering Napier’s priestly status. But Sorcha shut out everything except her need for the man whose head rested on her bared breasts. “I couldn’t stop myself,” she admitted. “If it be wrong, then what’s right is meaningless.”
The shadows seemed to deepen in Napier’s eyes. “For us, for now, there is neither right nor wrong.” He took a deep breath, and Sorcha felt the weight of him more keenly and welcomed its burden. “There is only us,” he averred, “and all else is a sham.” Slowly at first, then with the animal intensity returning, Napier mouthed her breast, sending sharp shocks of yearning throughout Sorcha’s entire body. She strained toward him, instinctively arching her womanhood against his chest, demanding that he assuage her all-consuming hunger.
He had lifted his lips from her breast to sweep up the skirts and petticoats, attempting to pile them under Sorcha for comfort’s sake. But the hard stones could have been a swans-down couch; the only agony Sorcha knew was the incessant throb which cried out for Napier.
There was just a moment’s hesitation before he slipped down her undergarment. She caught the shadowy, haunted look in his eyes and stifled a little cry. Did he perhaps not really want her after all? Was he thinking of the sin they were about to com
mit? Was he unwilling to take her here in the chapel, even though it had already been desecrated by the hands of heretics?
And even as his mouth touched the soft flesh of her belly, Sorcha knew the truth. Her heart, her soul, her whole spirit, soared with joy that was matched only by the ecstasy of feeling Napier’s deft fingers probe into her very core. She writhed with pleasure, pressing her thighs together, trapping him within her, then letting go so that he might at last unite them in the ultimate gift of love.
The pain was sweet, swift, and piercing. Sorcha’s scream floated up into the nave to mingle with the lost music of forgotten choirs. In that moment, the night seemed to open wide with a brilliant glow, bathing the chapel in light. Sorcha felt Napier flood her with his passion, and she went limp in his arms. He stayed within her for several moments; with the burnished sheen of an unnatural midnight turning their entwined bodies into molten gold.
In other parts of Fotheringhay and all over England, it was said that someone great was about to die. The brilliant, blazing comet was an ancient sign, and even those who had long ago given up popish ways crossed themselves and closed their eyes.
Chapter 16
Sorcha and Napier had not spoken until after they left the chapel and were back in the Scottish household’s part of the castle. Even then, Napier discouraged conversation. “I hear voices everywhere,” he cautioned. “This heaven-sent radiance has awakened the lot of them.”
“But Gavin ….” Sorcha interjected, as two young scullery knaves ran past them, “there are many things we must talk about. Urgent matters that can’t wait.”
He put a finger over her mouth and shook his head. “They’ll have to. I must go to the Queen. I suspect the comet will be taken as a sign, even by her.” He saw Sorcha start to protest further, but pressed the finger against her lips. “No, not now. Tomorrow.”
Sorcha couldn’t keep from pouting, though she was still so dizzy from the joy of surrender that she couldn’t be angry. Half expecting Napier to kiss her good-night, she waited with upturned face, but he merely patted her arm, grinned somewhat sheepishly, and strode away down the hall.
It was just seconds later that Sorcha realized she was practically ready to fall on her face with weariness and repletion. Somewhat shakily, she continued in the other direction to her rooms, hoping that Ailis wasn’t awake. If anyone could sleep through a natural phenomenon, it would be the dour serving girl.
But not only was Ailis sitting up by the window watching the dazzling nocturnal display, so was Gillis Mowbray. Neither, however, seemed much interested in Sorcha’s arrival. After exchanging a few words with the other women, Sorcha, shielding her torn dress with her hand, hurriedly got into bed.
The whole world could come apart and England might catch fire from one end to the other, but this night Sorcha didn’t care. She had tasted love, and for the moment, there was nothing else in life but Gavin Napier.
Nor was she touched by guilt. Sorcha had found more than love in the chapel at Fotheringhay; she had also discovered truth. Whatever dire fate the comet that blazed across the winter sky might portend, Sorcha saw only the promise of hope.
As ever, the household was too taken up with its mistress’s nerve-racking dilemmas to note anyone else’s troubles. Sorcha told herself that was just as well; until she could unravel the skein of deception that Gavin Napier had wound, it would be much better if they kept the secret to themselves.
Still, Sorcha felt as if she would burst unless she talked to someone. Ailis, perhaps, with her guarded tongue and dissuasion to judge others. Not that Ailis would understand how gloriously happy Sorcha was or the cause for her unbridled joy. Nor would anyone comprehend why Sorcha wasn’t in despair over losing her honor. Certainly she had been brought up to guard her virtue, but Sorcha’s instincts told her that Gavin Napier was the man who held her life in his hands. As before, when he had seen her naked at his dwelling in Edinburgh, Sorcha knew no shame. Despite the impossible barriers between them, she had recognized that they belonged together. It was as if they already were one, from the beginning, for all time. The happiness Sorcha derived from the consummation of their union could not be tarnished by anything on heaven or earth. She needed very much to share these overwhelming feelings, to hear the reasons for her bliss being uttered aloud.
Sorcha, however, retained enough basic common sense to realize that the atmosphere at Fotheringhay was not conducive to the euphoric ramblings of a lass in love. Although Queen Mary had rallied from her digestive indisposition, the chill, damp February days made her rheumatic joints swell and pulse with pain. If that suffering weren’t enough, the uncertainty of her fate still dangled over her like a boulder suspended on a fraying thread.
After two days had passed since the passionate encounter in the chapel, Sorcha’s state of elation began to erode. She had learned that Napier had been closeted with the Queen for most of Monday, and the following day he had gone with Dr. Bourgoing to search for herbs that might alleviate the Queen’s rheumatism. On Wednesday, wherever she went in the castle, she seemed to miss meeting him. Outside the Queen’s rooms, Jane Kennedy told Sorcha that he had just left for his own quarters; there, Dr. Bourgoing informed her that Napier had gone to inquire after Sir Amyas Paulet’s health; at the entrance to Paulet’s suite, an English servant professed to have no idea where the Scotsman was. Her once-ecstatic emotional state was gradually being reduced to rubble. Impatient and anxious, Sorcha stomped back to her own chamber, where Ailis reported that she’d seen Napier in the courtyard only ten minutes earlier. He was, of course, gone when Sorcha descended to the main entrance.
Sorcha spent most of the next day with the Queen. “England does not agree with you, ma petite,” Mary Stuart declared that afternoon as Sorcha brushed the Queen’s thinning gray hair. There were still hints of the auburn tresses that had complemented Mary’s youthful alabaster complexion, but for years she had tried to conceal some of the ravages of age by wearing wigs. “It was only a few days ago that you were quite ill,” the Queen went on, turning with effort to look up over her shoulder at Sorcha. “I had thought you fully recovered, yet today you are peaked again.”
“It’s being cooped up so much,” Sorcha replied, remembering to say as little as possible about her violent illness lest she reveal that there had been an attempt to poison her mistress. “At home, in the Highlands, I spent much time out of doors, even in winter.”
“Ah, yes, the Highlands.” A reminiscent expression crossed Mary Stuart’s face. “Your sire taught me those strange dances. So many of the people in the North were loyal to me, yet I found it a desolate, alien place.”
“My Lady Mother would agree with you,” Sorcha said, pausing to pluck a few strands of hair from the tortoiseshell brush. “She has always preferred the city.”
“Edinburgh, you mean?” For an instant, the Queen’s face showed disdain. “Oh, but of course, your mother was born and raised there. For me, there could never be a city such as Paris or a court such as that of France, with the great chateaus along the Loire and the Cher. If only I could have been permitted to return there, to live out my last days in peace. At a convent, perhaps ….” The shadowy lids drooped over Mary’s eyes, making her seem suddenly ancient and corpselike. “One of my four Maries,” the Queen went on, looking up again as she made reference to the quartet of Scottish noblewomen who had served her devotedly from childhood, “retired to the convent of Saint Pierre at Rheims some years ago. How I longed to join her there!”
To Sorcha, it sounded much like exchanging one prison for another. Still, within the sanctified walls of the convent, there would be no Puritan gaolers or prying eyes to hound Mary Stuart’s every word and step. From the perspective of the Queen’s age and experience, a cloistered life might have great appeal. But for Sorcha, not yet twenty and wildly in love, the notion seemed as hopelessly bleak as the dreary winter day. The late afternoon was overcast, a cruel wind cut through the drafty walls of the castle, and if this first week of February bro
ught any small signs of spring to Northamptonshire, they were well camouflaged by the stark, fiat, colorless landscape that surrounded Fotheringhay.
When Sorcha returned to her chamber, a half dozen rushlights flickered next to the window seat where Ailis was reading, her face almost touching the pages of the book. When Sorcha entered the room, Ailis peered at her over the leather-bound volume. “I hear from one of the laundresses that Father Napier is ill.” Ailis’s features remained carefully composed. “It would seem that Fotheringhay Castle is not a healthy place for those who dwell here.”
Sorcha twisted at the silver chain that hung from her waist. “I should ask about his welfare,” she said, though there was a question in both her voice and her eyes.
“He was solicitous when you were sick.” Ailis spoke without inflection, squinting once more into the pages of her book.
Pausing just long enough to make it appear she wasn’t bolting from the chamber, Sorcha went back out into the chilly, ill-lighted corridor. At least she now knew why Gavin Napier hadn’t sought her out in the past day or so. The fears that had been slowly building up inside the secret places of her heart were brought out into the open and summarily dismissed. Gavin Napier had not been overwhelmed with remorse, he had not found Sorcha undesirable, he felt no shame for their frank, ardent declarations of mind and body. Sorcha all but flew down the corridor, stopping to take a deep breath before she rapped on Napier’s door.
Again, it was Dr. Bourgoing who answered her importunate knock. “A debilitating illness,” he explained, the kind eyes not quite meeting hers. “Ague, or some other weakness, I should say. He is abed, mistress, and sleeps most deeply.”