by Kira Morgan
The youth raised a puny fist and spoke through his teeth. “Ye’d better say your prayers.”
The redbeard was too drunk to recognize the threat. “I won’t be takin’ orders from ye, nor from that French trull.”
The lad growled a warning.
Drew groaned inwardly. The last thing he needed was to get caught in a brawl. This wasn’t his fight. He wasn’t Scots. And he didn’t care a whit about the queen. He was already having a miserable day. He didn’t need to make it worse.
But the lad was half the redbeard’s size. A strong wind would blow him over. Drew couldn’t just stand by and watch the young pup get his arse kicked. He laid a restraining palm on the lad’s shoulder. “Easy, half-pint.”
“He’s right!” a third man chimed in from Drew’s other side, suddenly placing Drew squarely in the middle of the battle. “No Scot should have to kiss the derriere of a French wench.”
The lad shrugged off Drew’s hand. “Mary was born here, ye lobcocks!” he insisted, his voice breaking with his vehemence. “She knows our history. She speaks our tongue.”
“Ye’re a daft grig!” the redbeard crowed, raising his cup of ale. “No sensible Scotsman would let a hen rule the roost, eh, lads? Even John Knox says so!”
Drew grimaced as the surrounding men cheered in accord.
He could practically feel the heat rising off of the angry youth beside him as the lad ground out, “John Knox is a bloody blockhead.”
Drew had heard the preachings of John Knox, who was an infamous misogynist, and he had to agree with the lad. But he couldn’t afford to be trapped in the midst of a rabid pack of battling Scots. He leaned down to murmur a few words of friendly advice to the reckless youth. “Careful, lad. Ye’re outnumbered.”
The lad whipped his head around, facing Drew directly, and answered him with all the fearless passion of youth. “I’ll gladly fight them all in Mary’s defense.”
Drew recoiled, not from the youth’s bold oath, but from a startling revelation, a revelation that the men surrounding him had not yet had.
All at once, the crowd began cheering wildly, and the debate was forgotten as everyone turned toward the road. The procession had arrived at last. People clapped and shouted and waved their arms. Some chanted—whether in welcome or mockery, Drew couldn’t tell.
Nor did he much care. He was far more interested in his new discovery. He stepped back a pace and let his gaze course down the back of the youth beside him. ’Twas hard to tell with the ill-fitting shirt and the oversized hat, but Drew would have wagered his putting cleek that the brazen half-pint standing beside him, making bold threats and swearing like a sailor, was a lass.
Josselin was so caught up in the excitement of Mary’s arrival that she forgot all about her quarrel with the drunken redbeard. She stood on her toes to try to get a better view as a loud fanfare sounded to announce the procession through Lawnmarket.
This was what she’d come for—to see the queen, to lay eyes on the ambitious lass who, though no older than Josselin, had already forged for herself a powerful legacy.
As Alasdair had explained to her, Mary, the descendant of both King Henry VII of England and King James II of Scotland, had not only been wife to the dauphin of France, but would also now be queen of Scotland and might well inherit the English crown from Elizabeth.
Josselin admired Mary’s spirit and ambition, for she knew what ’twas like to be a woman fighting for a significant place in the world of men. This new queen was going to change things. She was sure of it. And Josselin wanted to be a part of that change.
As she peered over the shoulders of the people in front of her, she spied the first wave of the procession. Dozens of yellow-robed Scotsmen disguised as Moors—their limbs blackened and their heads covered with black hats and masks—cleared the way through the flowers the townsfolk had strewn in the wide street. Behind them came the Edinburgh officials, who carried aloft a purple canopy embroidered in gold with French lilies and Scots unicorns.
French soldiers and Scots lairds made up the bulk of the impressive entourage. Behind them, four lasses of Josselin’s age rode shoulder to shoulder, and she knew they must be the Four Maries. Seeing their lavish velvet gowns and rich jewels made Josselin curse her guardian all over again for forcing her to disguise herself in his baggy trews and saffron shirt.
Then, beneath the canopy, riding upon a white palfrey, came Queen Mary herself, more magnificent and beautiful than Josselin had imagined. Though Mary had recently lost both her mother and her husband, she’d discarded her white mourning shroud in favor of a more festive gown of purple velvet with gold embroidery. Jewels twinkled from her neck, waist, and wrists, but they couldn’t outshine the charming sparkle in Mary’s eyes. As Josselin looked on in awe, the queen nodded regally to the crowd, her face lit up by a serene smile.
A huge, brightly painted triumphal arch had been erected across the road at Lawnmarket, and from the gallery above, a choir of children began to sing. Riding forward, Mary waved to them in greeting.
As she passed beneath the arch, a mechanical globe painted like a cloud slowly opened to reveal a child dressed as an angel. Josselin watched in amazement as the angel was lowered on a rope to hand the queen the keys of the gates.
Then the child began to recite an eloquent welcome to Mary in verse. But as the words became clear, the Catholic queen’s smile faltered. Buried in the prose was a thinly veiled reference to the Reformation.
Some in the crowd gasped, and some, including the men Josselin had been arguing with, sent up bellows of approval.
Josselin’s blood simmered. Who dared insult the new queen with such obvious blasphemy? She rounded on the red-bearded oaf who’d earlier called Mary a tart and shoved him.
Someone gripped her elbow. “Not now, lass,” a man murmured into her ear.
It didn’t occur to her that he’d called her “lass” at that moment. Her hackles were up, and she was itching for a fight. She wrenched her arm free and shot him a scathing glare over her shoulder.
Then she cast her gaze back to the spectacle before her. The child angel was handing the queen two purple velvet tomes now, a Bible and a psalter, and Josselin knew without a doubt that they were Reformer books
“A fittin’ gift,” the redbeard whispered loudly to his friend, “for the whore o’ Babylon.”
“Aye,” another added. “’Twill show her she’d best leave the pope in France.”
“Shut your mouths, ye jackanapes!” Josselin fired back, her blood now seething.
Once more the man behind her seized her arm, this time more forcefully, hissing in a strong Highland accent, “’Tisn’t worth it, lass.”
Again, she twisted away.
John Knox must be behind this travesty, she decided. ’Twas rumored the Reformer meant to meet with the queen next week in order to personally challenge her faith. That might be, but by God, Josselin didn’t intend to let anyone humiliate Mary today.
“Refuse the books, Your Majesty!” she shouted in encouragement over the crowd. “Go on! Toss them away!”
The Highlander made a choking sound. “Cease, lass. Are ye daft? Don’t draw attention—”
The redbeard yelled up at the child suspended from the arch. “’Tis no use tryin’ to court Mary, wee angel! She’s already wed to Rome!”
The men nearby howled with laughter.
Josselin had had enough. It was bad enough that the new queen had to hold her own against the bloody English without having to deal with detractors among her own countrymen. With a roar, she unsheathed her dagger and faced the drunken dastard. “Defend your slander with a blade!”
The Highlander swore in exasperation.
The redbeard took one look at her dagger, threw down his cup of ale, and went for his weapon.
“Aye, that’s it,” Josselin goaded, beckoning him with the fingers of her free hand. “Come on!”
The Highlander stepped suddenly between them to address the drunk. “Ach, man, ye don’t wan
t to be doin’ that.”
“Out o’ my way!” the redbeard bellowed.
“Aye,” Josselin agreed. “Out o’ the way, Highlander, unless ye want to get skewered.”
The Highlander turned to her then, filling her vision and sternly commanding her gaze, and for one stunned instant she couldn’t breathe. She hadn’t paid much heed to him before, but now she saw he had the face of a dark angel—strong yet sweet. His eyes were the clearest blue she’d ever seen, like the sky on a warm spring day.
His heavy brows lowered as he said pointedly, “Ye can settle this… later.”
The redbeard shoved him aside. “Stay out of it, man. ’Tis between the lad and me.”
Rattled, Josselin nonetheless managed to raise her knife and face her opponent, eager to resume the duel. “No one insults my queen, ye traitor. Ye’ll answer to me for your offense.”
“Oh, I’ll answer ye,” the redbeard assured her. “I’ll carve a cross into your flesh to remind ye o’ your misbegotten faith.”
“Ye won’t get the chance,” she promised.
“Put your blades away, both o’ ye,” she heard the Highlander mutter. Nobody paid him heed.
They faced off, and the crowd gave them room.
“Sheathe. Now,” the Highlander insisted.
She ignored him, waving her dagger at the redbeard like a taunt. But before she could get off a good swipe, the Highlander stepped toward her.
“Fine,” he said.
She half wheeled in his direction, thinking he meant to attack her as well. Instead, he snatched the hat from her head. She gasped as her curls spilled over her shoulders like honey from a crushed comb.
The redbeard’s eyes widened, and he retreated, dropping his knife.
Josselin tossed her head, angry that her secret was out. But she wasn’t about to call off the fight. Her heart was pounding now, and she was primed for battle.
“What, ye sheep-swiver?” she sneered at the red-beard. “Are ye afraid to fight a woman?” She twirled the dagger once in her fingers. “Pick it up, coward! Pick up your knife.”
Then she noticed that the crowd had suddenly grown quiet.
’Twas more than a silence of surprise.
’Twas a silence of warning.
She saw tense misgiving in the faces around her, and the back of her neck tingled with apprehension. Slowly, cautiously, she lowered her dagger and turned toward the procession.
Staring at Josselin from atop her noble white steed, a curious, inscrutable half smile playing upon her royal lips, was Queen Mary herself.
Josselin gulped. As she stood there, breathless, the queen slowly perused her from head to toe. Finally Mary passed the Bible and psalter to her captain, then waved her fingers in a beckoning motion.
Josselin instinctively started to step forward, but the Highlander dug his fingers hard into her shoulders, holding her back.
Mary’s gesture hadn’t been meant for her, but for one of the royal officials. The distinguished-looking man approached the queen, who bent to whisper something in his ear, nodding toward Josselin.
While Josselin watched with bated breath, Mary gave her a slight dismissive nod, then urged her mount onward down the road.
The official straightened his belt and strode directly toward Josselin. The crowd parted to make way for him.
He was French, tall and thin, perhaps a dozen years older than she, and he looked mildly displeased. He had perceptive brown eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and a long nose that he probably found useful for looking down on people.
With a curt nod, he introduced himself. “I am the queen’s secretary, Philippe de la Fontaine. The queen has commanded that you make yourself known to me. You and I are to have a rendezvous today at the White Hart. You know the place?”
Josselin tried to speak, but her voice refused to come out. Sweet Mary, she’d received a command from the queen herself!
The Highlander answered. “I know the inn.”
“Very well,” the secretary said. He gave Josselin a belittling frown. “I expect to see you there this afternoon, Madame…?”
“Josselin,” she managed to croak.
“Zhos-a-lahn,” he repeated, using the French pronunciation. Then he gave her a brief, contemptuous inspection. “See if you can stay alive long enough to make the appointment.”
The secretary hastened off to catch the royal entourage, and gradually the crowd resumed its chattering. But Josselin’s pulse was still racing when the Highlander gently pried the dagger from her white knuckles.
“Ye aren’t from around here, are ye, lass?” he murmured.
“Nae,” she answered in a daze. “From Selkirk. Faith, did ye see that? Did ye see how she—”
“Who brought ye to Edinburgh?”
She stared in wonder after the procession. “I came alone.”
“Alone?”
“My da said I could,” she said dreamily. The queen was well down the road now, but Josselin kept watching. “As long as I don’t talk to strangers. Or go to taverns. Or lose my temper.” She smiled. “Ach! Wait till I tell Da that the queen herself—”
“A piece of advice, lass,” he confided. “Hie home to Selkirk straight away.” He scooped up her hat, dusted it off, and pressed it into her hands. “Ye could be halfway there by afternoon.”
She snapped out of her stupor and frowned up at the man with the dark hair and the clear blue eyes, who really was quite handsome… for a Highlander. “Home? Why would I want to go home?”
He looked at her as if she were daft. “Ye aren’t thinkin’ o’ keepin’ the appointment?”
“O’ course I am. The queen herself commanded it.” The sound of that sent a shiver of excitement through her. “The queen.” She couldn’t wait to tell her guardians.
He arched a stern brow. “Look, lass, before ye get your trews in a twist, I don’t expect ye’re bein’ invited to supper.”
Supper! That idea hadn’t even occurred to her. Was it possible? She tucked the corner of her lip under her teeth, imagining it. Then she realized, “She smiled at me.”
“Royals always smile whilst they’re sharpenin’ their swords.”
She lowered her brows. The damned Highlander was ruining her good mood. “Ach! What would ye know?”
“I know ye brought the procession to a halt.” He shook his head. “I don’t imagine the queen’s too pleased about that.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. He had a point. Josselin had made an impression on the queen. But what if ’twas the wrong kind of impression?
“I did draw a blade,” she admitted.
“Aye.”
“And I was brawlin’ in the street.”
She looked at him uncertainly.
“I’ve heard in the French courts,” he said, eyeing her garments, “they even have strict laws about dress.”
She looked down at her saffron shirt, clutching a fistful of it. “Do ye think I offended her?”
He gave her a maddening shrug.
Her shoulders sank. “I didn’t mean to offend her.”
Then she narrowed her gaze at the Highlander.
“This is all your fault!” she decided, swatting his chest with her hat. “If ye hadn’t stolen my hat, none o’ this would have happened.”
His lips curled into a smirk that was half-smile, half-frown. “Oh, aye, lass. Instead ye’d be wheezin’ at me through a knife-hole in your chest.”
She scowled at him, jamming the hat back over her head. “Ye’ve obviously never seen me fight with a blade.”
“I’ve seen enough to know ye’ve got a hot temper that likely ruins your aim.” He handed her dagger back to her, hilt first.
She snatched it from him in irritation and slid it back into its sheath. Her da had told her the same thing a hundred times. She didn’t need to hear it from a bloody Highlander, no matter how handsome he was.
The crowd was dispersing. Mary’s procession was moving toward the Tollbooth. Drew could easily make his escape now, r
etreat to the comfort of his lodgings, settle in front of the fire with a frothy pint of ale, and forget all about the whole upsetting debacle.
But something prevented him. Something with flashing green eyes, wild honey hair, and a filthy mouth. Something that was quickening his pulse and rousing the beast in his trews.
As a rule, Drew kept his distance when it came to exchanges with the natives. The less they knew about him, the better. His dark scowl kept most people away. For those to whom he had to be civil, he’d learned to affect Highland charm to steer the conversation away from personal matters. As for intimate encounters, he employed discreet wenches who charged for their services and their silence.
Why he felt drawn to engage a wee, fiery-tempered, cross-dressing lass who was a danger to herself and others, he didn’t know. Surely it had nothing to do with her rosy pink lips, the rough whiskey timbre of her voice, or the thought of what bewitching charms might lie beneath that baggy shirt.
Lord, he thought, shaking his head, he’d spent too many days of late on the links and not enough feeding his carnal appetites.
The lass might be beautiful, but she was trouble. ’Twas a mistake to intervene in the affairs of quarrelsome Scots. And the last thing Drew needed was to draw the notice of their queen.
But he supposed he was obliged to help the maid. She was partly right—it had been his idea to expose her. The queen might never have noticed her had it not been for the waving pennant of her dazzling curls.
Besides, be they Scots or English, he’d never been the sort who could walk away from tiny, helpless creatures. Especially ones with sparkling eyes and tempting lips.
He’d at least get the lass out of immediate danger and on the road home. He owed her that much.
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Cynthia Eden
Dear Reader,
I like to be afraid. No, let me qualify that—I like the thrill that comes from being afraid, but I also like to know that I am completely 100% safe.
As a teen, I was a horror movie addict. I jumped every time a killer popped out of the darkness on-screen, and I yelled each time the foolish/brave heroine walked into the woods by herself. I loved the rush that came from watching those movies—and that same rush got to me even more intently when I read scary books. (It still gets to me!)