The Royal Mile

by Mary Daheim

  “Ah!” Gordon couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Well, I must confess, the wedded state appears to agree with you. You’ve become bonnie as a May morning. You also seem to hold a grudge against me. I often wondered.”

  “I’ll wager you never wondered at all,” Dallas retorted, discovering she had gone one door too far and had to reverse herself, almost colliding with Gordon in the process.

  Iain Fraser answered her knock immediately. The room was dark, however, and Dallas assumed he had just returned.

  “Lassie!” he grinned at her, “I’ve been ....” But he stopped at once as he saw the hooded figure behind her. “What’s this? Have you brought a cleric to shrive me?” Gordon all but pushed both Dallas and Fraser into the room, then quietly but quickly closed the door. He threw back the hood and began speaking before Fraser could do more than utter an oath of astonishment.

  “I must talk to you alone.” Gordon turned to Dallas. “I appreciate your help, but both Iain and I will appreciate your silence even more.”

  Dallas looked from one man to the other. Fraser was lighting a candle and regarding Gordon quizzically.

  “I haven’t much time, Iain,” Gordon said impatiently. “Truly, I can’t speak in front of your wife.”

  Fraser sighed and turned to Dallas. “George is probably right. Although you do keep a secret well, lassie.” He bent down and brushed her lips with his. “Good night, wife—and be careful.”

  Dallas looked at him wistfully, then glanced at George Gordon. Instead of going directly to the door, she put her arms around Fraser’s neck and kissed him hard on the mouth. “Good night, Iain. You be careful, too.” With one last stare at Gordon, she swept out of the room.

  “You—and the Cameron!” Gordon shook his blond head. “Astounding! Why, Iain? She’s as poor as she is prickly.”

  “Never mind my domestic affairs,” Fraser replied rather testily. “What in Christ’s name are you doing here?”

  Gordon turned serious. “I’m on my way to my father-in-law’s country house. I had to see you before I left.”

  Fraser raised his eyebrows. “You? Run from a fight and hide in the bosom of your Hamilton in-laws? That’s not your way, George.”

  The other man sat down heavily on the bed. “True enough. But I’m my father’s heir and he’s already lost one son in this war of wills ....” Gordon stopped, shook his head in an abrupt, jerky motion and looked away for a moment.

  “Here.” Fraser handed Gordon a cup of whiskey, poured some for himself, and gestured for his visitor to continue.

  Gordon drained his cup in two gulps and handed it back to Fraser for refilling. “The Gordons know this terrain far better than the Queen’s troops. Her men are growing restless waiting and that’s bad for soldiers. And maybe you’ve noted that they aren’t as loyal as they might be—surely the sprig of heath which many wear in their helmets hasn’t eluded you with its significance. Those men secretly support the Gordons.”

  “I’ve considered that.” Fraser placed one knee on a chair and leaned across its back. “Does James know?”

  “He suspects, or so our spies tell us. That’s why he has divided the soldiers into two companies. The first into battle will be made up of ones he isn’t certain are loyal. The second wave will be those whose support is without question.”

  Fraser set both feet down on the floor and a loose board creaked beneath his heel. “So why risk your life to see me, George?”

  Gordon put down his whiskey cup and tucked his hands up inside his flowing black sleeves. He suddenly looked very pious and Fraser couldn’t suppress a grin. “The second company will be led by Lord James.” Gordon cleared his throat and looked quickly around the room as if eavesdroppers might be lurking in the shadows. “I think you should command the first.”

  The grin died quickly on Fraser’s face. “Good God, man!” Fraser exploded. “You talk treason! You’d have me lead disloyal troops in mutiny against the Crown?”

  Hastily, Gordon signaled for Fraser to keep his voice down. “I’m taking the longer view, Iain. Victory for the crown is victory for Lord James and the Protestant religion. Victory for the Gordons is ultimate victory for the Queen—and the old faith. Can’t you see where your real loyalties lie?”

  “Don’t play on religious sentiments which don’t exist,” Fraser declared in an annoyed tone. “I’ve never joined the Lords of the Congregation and I never will, but I’m no ardent Papist. I worship God in my own way and have no desire to slaughter my fellow human beings for the sake of kirk or clan.”

  “You’ll slaughter us.” Gordon’s blue eyes regarded Fraser with genuine pain. “What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is I’ve vowed to serve the Queen.” Fraser sighed, his anger turning to regret. “God knows I mislike Lord James as much as you do, George. You know what these Protestant fanatics have done to the Highland customs, the language, to things that have no bearing whatsoever on religion. They’ve plundered more than churches and convents with their harsh, artless hands—they’ve tried to change a way of life treasured for centuries by a race of poor but proud people.” He shook himself and banged his fist against the casement. “Christ, I sound as fulsome as Knox himself!”

  Gordon said nothing for a long time. When he finally spoke, it was with a sigh of resignation. “But you’re still saying no. I’m sorry, Iain, I’d hoped for a different reply.”

  “I’m sorry, too, George.” Fraser put out his hand to the other man. “Most of all, I’m sorry that this battle has to be fought in the first place. Now for God’s sake, get the hell out of here before your poor sire loses yet another son.”

  The autumn haars faded early on the morning of October twenty-second, 1562. At the Earl Marischal’s house in Aberdeen, Mary Stuart waited anxiously with her women. At Corrichie Moor, her troops waited for the Gordons.

  A tumbling burn separated the royal army from Huntly’s men, who had gathered on the Hill of Fare. The sky was a pale grey, the sun an ineffectual white globe. Broadswords and axes stood ready and a few of Huntly’s men clung to their bows. Across the burn, Lord James had augmented his forces with 120 expert harquebusiers.

  As Huntly moved to the head of his men, James Stuart cantered not to his own position of command, but to where Iain Fraser stood beside Barvas at the edge of the burn.

  “A fair enough day for victory, eh, Iain?” James called out, reining in his mount. The Queen’s half-brother seemed uncharacteristically jaunty.

  “It’s not raining, if that’s what you mean,” Fraser answered back.

  James chuckled into his dark beard. He and Fraser had scarcely spoken since their tense meeting at Linlithgow in August.

  “I’m trying to be optimistic. I think I have reason to be, don’t you?” He gestured with a gloved hand towards the troops which were poised a hundred yards or so beyond Fraser. “You will lead the first van, Iain, along with Lord Forbes and Lord Hay.”

  Fraser did not react visibly, but inwardly, his whole being revolted at the order. It was a trap, clever and deadly. He would be in command with two men whose loyalty was questionable, whose troops were ready to bolt in Huntly’s favor. If that happened, Fraser would either be abandoned to the Gordons or, if he survived, charged with treason along with the other rebel soldiers. If he’d accepted George Gordon’s suggestion in the first place, he would at least have had the advantage of a well-defined tactical plan. But being forced into the situation at the last minute, uncertain of what either Forbes or Hay intended, Fraser was at a dangerous disadvantage. The alternative, however, was equally perilous—if he refused, James would denounce him as a traitor.

  “I’d be honored to share the leadership,” Fraser replied without inflection. “I had no idea you put such faith in my abilities.”

  James forced a smile. “I’m a good judge of men, Iain. Even you must admit that.”

  Fraser caught the irony in James’s tone and merely laughed. He watched the other men salute and gallop away, then turned to t
hree of his Fraser clansmen. “Keep close by me, to my rear,” he commanded in a low voice. “The enemy may be in more places than we suspect.” The Highlanders glanced around, noting the soldiers who wore sprigs of heath in their helmets. They, too, had heard rumors of possible defection and were no more anxious than Fraser to take a blade in the back.

  Swinging up into the saddle, Fraser scanned the second company to make sure James’s harquebusiers were well out of range; a bullet would be no more welcome than a sword thrust. As a final precaution, he would see to it that Forbes and Hay rode out ahead of him. “Well, Barvas,” he murmured, patting the big stallion’s neck, “we are about to have our mettle tested.”

  The pipers began to play the old, familiar war songs that raised the men’s blood to feverish fighting pitch. The horsemen and foot soldiers stirred. Across the glen, Huntly’s men held their ground, waiting for their chief to give his signal.

  Fraser knew the battle plan. Despite Huntly’s good position on the hill, the royal troops were to make their charge straight across Corrichie Moor and through the glen. Fraser glanced at Forbes and Hay who nodded their assent to move out. Lifting their broadswords, all three commanders cried out, “A Stuart!” The waiting game had ended.

  The first van moved out, down through the heather and the wet earth. Across the burn they marched, horsemen following foot soldiers. The cloud cover held and the air was cold and damp.

  The first company reached the Hill of Fare without difficulty. Though a few rocks proved slippery, the footing was generally firm enough. Crowding up the slope, the men kept their eyes fixed on the sea of blue and green plaid which lined the summit.

  At last Huntly gave the orders to advance. His son, John Gordon, raised his sword and their followers moved off the crest of the hill in a swirl of pipes and a rattle of chain mail.

  From halfway up the hill, Fraser saw them advance. He reined up on Barvas for a brief moment to assess the situation. Huntly had remained on the hilltop. One phalanx was led by John Gordon, and Fraser spurred Barvas on just as the first contingent of rebel forces collided with the royal troops.

  Swinging his sword at the first man who approached him, Fraser knocked his opponent flat with one blow. The man wasn’t dead but would fight no more that day. Wheeling Barvas around, he fended off a second soldier whose horse went out from under him. Then a commotion from behind diverted his attention. Turning cautiously, he saw what he had feared to see: The royal troops were flinging down their weapons, some of them rushing to embrace the enemy.

  “Whoresons!” he shouted, though no one could hear him over the din of clattering weapons and charging horses. Two Gordon supporters stood very near, not attacking, apparently waiting to see if he intended to give up the fight, too.

  “You think I’ll run like a craven coward?” he yelled, and this time he was heard, his three Highlanders keeping close behind him. Lashing out with his sword, Fraser caught one opponent in the arm. The other man struck at Fraser with his axe, but the thrust was neatly parried.

  Fraser whirled for the next onslaught, but instead of a charging enemy, he saw the Earl of Huntly sitting atop the hill, watching the battle rage ’round him. Fighting his savage way through the earl’s supporters until he finally faced the Gordon chieftain, Fraser was shocked to see how wretched the proud old nobleman looked, with his red eyes and corpulent body and the sprig of heath wilting in the sun.

  “Iain,” Huntly said in almost pleasurable surprise. And then the proud old earl plunged forward and crashed onto the marshy ground.

  Fraser jumped down from his horse and knelt beside Huntly. “He’s dead,” Fraser said in a sharp voice. “His heart was not as great as his valor.” Other troops from both sides gathered around them in a tight little circle. They stared at the crumpled figure and some of the Gordon soldiers crossed themselves.

  Straightening up, Fraser did not hear the cries of victory from the royal troops as they moved quickly up the Hill of Fare, unimpeded by the Gordon defenders. He took Barvas’s reins and led the stallion away as the stunned soldiers parted ranks to let them pass. Somewhere during the confusion, he’d been separated from the three Highlanders but that no longer mattered, the battle was over. Fraser’s sword was still clutched in his hand and a sudden weariness overtook him. Down the hill he went, as soldiers rushed by him, shrieking in wild jubilation, waving bloodied scraps of Gordon plaid like victory banners.

  In the glen, it was relatively quiet. Fraser walked with Barvas to the burn and let the horse take a few measured drinks from the rippling water. The dead and wounded lay about them, but the battle had not been heavy with bloodshed, for the burn still ran clear. When Barvas was done, Fraser threw himself onto his stomach, cast off his helmet, and drank freely. He was just putting his hands down on some rocks for leverage to raise himself when he felt the blade go deep into his back. The last thing he remembered was how his chain mail had been rent to permit the thrust and that his old instinct for danger had finally failed him.

  Chapter 10

  Mary Stuart greeted her half-brother, James, with a warm embrace. But her eyes grew misty when he described Huntly’s death. “I would rather he had died in battle,” she said. “What of his sons?”

  Brusquely James stated that John and Adam had been taken captive. “Neither should be spared,” he asserted. “It’s bad enough that George is safely tucked away with those damnable Hamiltons.”

  The Queen shook her head. “No—at least not Adam. He’s but seventeen.” She turned to Maitland. “What think you, master secretary?”

  Maitland, still attired in his chain mail, inclined his head. “I think you should make the most of your victory, madame.”

  “Maitland is right, of course,” James said swiftly, not wanting to allow his half-sister time to think the situation through. “John should be executed immediately and I’d not show mercy to Adam, either, young as he is. As for Huntly, you must try his corpse, as tradition dictates.”

  The Queen glanced away from James to her ladies. Dallas, Jean Argyll and Mary Fleming all looked as revolted by the idea as did the Queen herself. “I don’t know—I must have time to think this out.” She pressed her hands to her head and sat stiffly in a carved armchair. “Perhaps you should leave me now, gentlemen. I thank you most heartily for your efforts on my behalf this day. Oh, and I must thank Iain, too. Where is he?”

  Maitland glanced quickly at James who cleared his throat more loudly than was necessary. The Queen looked at them both questioningly but neither seemed willing to speak out. It was Dallas who finally broke the silence.

  “Well, my lords,” she demanded, fighting back a surge of panic. “Where is my husband?”

  It was Maitland who stepped forward to take her hand, which she immediately snatched away. Further disconcerted, the usually suave secretary broke into a stammer: “I’m s-sorry, madame. Your husband received a grievous wound. I’m afraid he will n-not recover.”

  From somewhere in the room, there were gasps and whimpering noises, but Dallas didn’t hear them. She brushed past Maitland and went directly to Lord James. “Where is he?” Her voice was hoarse, the words coming out through clenched teeth.

  Lord James shifted uncomfortably. “I believe he was taken to a crofter’s hut near Corrichie Moor. But you’ll be informed when ....”

  “Get me an escort! Now!” She was blazing with emotion and the others watched her, transfixed.

  Recovering from his astonishment at being ordered about like a potboy, Lord James stood his ground. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. No woman could go near that battlefield today. The wounded are still being removed and it would be nightfall before you got there.” His icy demeanor had returned, but he could not conceal a glimmer of triumph behind the hooded eyes.

  “I’ll do as I please!” she announced and turned back to Maitland. “You’ll see that I have an escort immediately, sir, if this unfeeling piece of granite here won’t come to my aid!”

  Maitland looked from the rigi
d James to a sobbing Queen and back to Dallas. Inwardly, he cursed Dallas for putting him in such an awkward position but knew he could not refuse. “If you’ll permit me,” he said to the Queen who nodded in assent, “then come along, Mistress Fraser, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Dallas followed him hurriedly from the room but not before she had given James one last look of utter contempt.

  Fifteen minutes later, Dallas was attired in her riding habit and in the company of four men, including Will Ruthven. Except for the most formal greetings at court, it was the first time she had spoken to him since the night of her father’s death.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Iain,” Will said diffidently as the horses were readied in the Earl Marischal’s stables.

  Dallas scarcely heard him. She swung up into the saddle without aid and was the first one down the gravel path.

  The sun was beginning to set as they headed towards Corrichie Moor, but Dallas never paused to consider the scenery. Will now led the way since Maitland had told him exactly where Fraser had been taken.

  It was not far to the crofter’s hut, and by the time they reached the battle site, all of the men, living and dead, had been removed. Only the scarred ground, a discarded weapon or some shreds of plaid gave witness to the day’s momentous events.

  “A quarter of a mile further,” Will called out to Dallas. She nodded grimly and spurred her horse to keep up the pace.

  A half-dozen black-faced sheep grazed atop the Hill of Fare where earlier that day Stuart and Gordon troops had joined in combat. They ignored the intruders and continued munching at the few tough little patches of grass left intact by the soldiers.

  The little party found easy going on the downside of the hill. Just beyond, in a narrow hollow, a small stone farmhouse lay huddled against a copse of larch and pine. Dallas pulled ahead of the others, and within five minutes she had reined in, dismounted and was banging on the cottage door with her riding crop.