by Mary Daheim
“Was it important? What did Daniel Cameron say?”
The old man shook his head slowly. “Nothing. Not to us. Daniel paid us for the bauble, a fair sum, he was a fair man, and told us the writing was not meant to be bruited about. Then he went back to Edinburgh. We were pleased enough, since you had run away before he got here. And that,” he concluded as he got up to poke again at the fire, “is all I ever knew.”
Fraser silently cursed Griogair Cameron for his ignorance. Daniel Cameron must have given the “bauble” to someone for safekeeping. But whom? Fraser could guess, but the knowledge helped him little and what had become of the bauble since might forever remain a mystery. His journey into Cameron country had not been in vain, but he was mightily disappointed.
Standing up, Fraser took out a pouch and dumped some coins onto the table. “I believe you’ve told me all you know and I’m grateful,” he said in a constrained voice. “Accept this as a sign of my gratitude.” He saw the old man’s eyes glint at the sight of the money. And suddenly Fraser wanted to get out of the cottage as quickly as possible.
Griogair Cameron followed him outside. “Wait up, man. It’s pitch dark. Bide here this night.”
“Nay,” Fraser replied, untethering Barvas. “I must be elsewhere in an hour or so.” It was the truth: He had to be anywhere else, save under Griogair Cameron’s roof.
Mary Stuart’s spirits revived at Falkland. It was a favorite hunting place, with great stags leaping through the enclosed woods and an occasional wild boar set loose for the Queen’s pleasure.
But John Gordon’s execution and the deaths of her French uncles and her half-brother, Johnny, had been hard to bear. She missed Bothwell, she missed Fraser, she missed John Hamilton. For once, she became adamant with James: If the first two could or would not rejoin the court, at least Hamilton must be permitted to return. Considering him the least of three evils, and alarmed by his half-sister’s faltering health, Lord James relented.
Hamilton had been at court for several days when Dallas saw him for the first time. She had reluctantly joined the other courtiers in a boar hunt and was thinking that the animal which now hung by its feet from a strong yew branch looked a great deal like the Earl of Morton. But when the slain beast was laid before the Queen, and Lord Robert Stuart plunged a knife into its belly to remove the entrails, Dallas turned away, nudging her mount towards a small glen tufted with newly unfurled bracken. Just beyond her a small spring gurgled up through watercress and a throstle cock flew out of the reeds towards the sanctuary of a hazel tree.
“Turn back!” called a voice from behind Dallas. “That ground grows soft under the bracken!”
Shifting in the saddle, she saw John Hamilton reining in his bay gelding just a few yards away. He had been in the company of the Queen most of the morning and Dallas had glimpsed him only from a distance, purposely avoiding him. Hamilton had always seemed a most agreeable sort, kind and decent, yet the unexpected kiss he’d bestowed on her that night in her room made her remember the comments of Master Forbes about her effect on him at their first meeting. It would probably be unwise to encourage any familiarities on Hamilton’s part.
But she could hardly avoid him now. Carefully, she guided her horse in his direction, noting that the animal’s hooves were already covered with mud. “Thank you, John,” she said somewhat stiffly. “I’d not noticed how marshy it was here.”
“I saw you go off alone in this direction,” he explained, placing a steadying hand on his horse’s neck as the animal moved nervously, “and feared you might not realize the hazard.” The brown eyes regarded her with warmth. “I’m glad to see you again, Dallas.”
“And I’m glad to see you,” Dallas said, thinking her reply vapid, yet realizing she spoke honestly. She was glad to see him, to note his solid presence next to her, the wide-shouldered body attired in a light brown hunting costume edged with black. He was as handsome as ever, perhaps even more so since the days of his exile had given him a new maturity, reflected in the scattering of prematurely grey hairs at his temples and in his moustache. His face was somewhat leaner, the brown eyes a trifle sadder. No doubt he grieved for the pitiful state of his brother, Arran, whose madness seemed irreversible.
They walked their horses out of the glen but away from the other courtiers who were readying their javelins for the next kill. Hamilton spoke of his months at Arbroath, of long days passed in hunting and fishing, of supervising the old abbey’s renovation, of watching the winter storms blow up out of the North Sea, of wondering if he and his family would ever be restored to favor.
“And you, Dallas?” he asked at last as the turrets of Falkland rose up above the budding plane trees. “I heard your lord was wounded at Corrichie Moor.”
Dallas felt her grip tighten on the reins. “He recovered.”
Hamilton’s full mouth twitched slightly. “But though returned to health, not to court, I understand.”
“No.” Dallas felt her terse answers gave away more than she wished. She went on, trying to sound casual instead of defensive. “His estates in the Highlands require attention. Highlanders love their land.”
Sensing her embarrassed manner, Hamilton let the matter drop, but in the weeks that followed, Dallas frequently found herself in his company. He never made an improper advance, never uttered a word that went beyond commonplace court flattery. If his hand lingered a bit too long on her waist when he helped her up into the saddle or if his fingers strayed occasionally to her bare throat when they danced, well, that was his way. Yet, Dallas knew that the others were watching them with amused curiosity.
“If Lord John demonstrated as much devotion to the Queen as he does to you, I think she might wed him forthwith,” Mary Fleming teased Dallas one warm afternoon in early June as the two women arranged huge bouquets of spring flowers for the evening’s banquet. The feast was in honor of Secretary Maitland’s return from London.
“Lord John is an old and trusted friend,” Dallas replied coolly, thrusting an iris into a bowl of ruby cut glass. She paused for a moment, astonished at herself for describing Hamilton as a friend. He was, she realized, the first friend she’d ever had. To cover her surprise, she plunged ahead. “We enjoy each other’s company, nothing more. No doubt he’ll wed someone soon, if not the Queen. He’s over thirty, you know.”
Mary Fleming mopped up some water she had spilled on the shining beechwood table top. “That’s what puzzles me,” she said. “He is rich, his family is royal, he possesses great personal charm and good looks—yet, he’s never married. Oh, he’s had his mistresses, at last count he’d acknowledged at least two bastards, but ....” She shrugged in that Frenchified way all the Marys had acquired during their stay on the Continent.
“Bastards?” Dallas blinked and promptly impaled her thumb on a rose thorn.
“The man’s no monk. But it’s said his mistresses are always well provided for and whatever issue—as long as he’s convinced the bairns are his—will be recognized and supported.” Mary Fleming worked as she talked, creating a wonderfully imposing arrangement of tulips, peonies, narcissus and syringa massed against a background of pink rhododendrons with their shiny green leaves. “There! What do you think?”
“Lovely,” murmured Dallas, sucking at her thumb, and thinking something else entirely. So no man was different from another, as far as women were concerned. John Hamilton and his mistresses, Iain Fraser and Catherine Gordon and Delphinia Douglas and Lord only knew who else. She picked up a bunch of marigolds, thrust them into a tall Chinese vase and wondered why her flowers always looked woefully displaced instead of gracefully arranged as Mary Fleming’s did.
Chapter 12
Dallas had to admit that Donald McVurrich looked splendid in his guardsman’s livery. She had secured the post for him as soon as Mary Stuart had recovered from her initial period of mourning over Lord Johnny’s death. The new position in Her Grace’s household gave Donald not only a sense of belonging but a new eloquence as well. He had fairly str
utted before Dallas in his new attire, regaling her with a long list of his duties. She had listened patiently, glad to see the young man so well pleased with himself.
During the banquet for Maitland, Donald was posted at one of the doors, tall and expressionless. Dallas waved at him from her place between Hamilton and Lord Erskine. Donald had darkened just a bit but otherwise remained motionless.
“Your protege looks suitably imposing,” Hamilton said as he offered Dallas a bit of partridge from his own plate. “Any number of ladies are chattering about the transformation.”
Dallas allowed Hamilton to pop the partridge into her mouth. “No doubt he’ll break a heart or two before he’s much older,” she said after she’d swallowed the succulent fowl.
The Queen, however, was not eating at all. Dallas noted that Mary Stuart looked unusually pale and petulant as she refused a steaming dish of mussels.
Lord Erskine saw Dallas’s puzzled gaze. “Perhaps you have not heard the latest, madame,” he commented, dabbing his fingers in a bowl of rose water. “The Queen is much vexed this night, having received a message Maitland brought back from Elizabeth.”
“Surely Her Grace is resigned to Elizabeth’s whims by now,” Hamilton put in.
“It’s not that,” Erskine said, keeping his voice low. “The English Queen has had the arrogance to suggest her former lover, Rob Dudley, as a suitor for our sovereign lady’s hand.”
Both Dallas and Hamilton were genuinely shocked. “The cheek!” Dallas cried. “To offer an infamous discard as husband for our Queen!”
“That’s assuming she’s actually discarded him,” Erskine replied. “Some say Elizabeth and Dudley are still thick as thieves.”
“Then she’s not serious, but merely insulting,” Hamilton declared, turning sympathetic brown eyes towards the Queen, who was disdaining a glass of white wine proffered by Lord Fleming. “I scarcely blame Her Grace for being so galled.”
Servants were moving discreetly among the tables, removing empty plates and uneaten food. At one end of the banquet hall, musicians tuned up their instruments.
“A pavane,” Hamilton said into Dallas’s ear. “Will you dance?”
Dallas would have preferred to remain where she was but didn’t want to hurt Hamilton’s feelings. Rising from her chair, she let him lead her onto the floor.
“You look exceptionally lovely tonight,” he said. “Black becomes you.”
Dallas, along with the rest of the court, wore mourning for Lord Johnny Stuart. Her black silk dress was cut low in the bodice but filled with delicate white lace which floated up to her shoulders and formed a graceful frame for her face. Her hair was piled high, held in place with silver combs, and the only jewelry she wore besides her wedding ring was a pair of dangling pearl eardrops. The dress was cut away at the waist to reveal a great flounce of white lace petticoats, edged in silver.
“You’re flattering me,” Dallas said absently, well aware that he wasn’t. She knew she looked well tonight, but somehow it didn’t seem important. If Iain Fraser didn’t return soon, Dallas had decided to leave the court. Pining away from loneliness might be easier in less crowded surroundings. The stately dance continued, with Hamilton making occasional comments about the other courtiers. Dallas listened with half an ear and, when the music stopped, announced she was feeling rather warm and preferred to sit.
Hamilton took her by the arm and steered her over to a window embrasure. “It’s the warmest night of the year,” he said, sitting next to her on the cushioned seat. “See, the casement is open and yet I don’t feel a breath of air.”
“Aye,” Dallas sighed, wishing she hadn’t left her fan at the table.
Before either could speak again, they both became aware of a distraction near the main doors to the banquet hall. A group of courtiers had congregated, apparently welcoming a newcomer. “What’s going on?” Dallas asked, craning to see between the black and white wave of dancers. Already several couples had moved off the floor to join the group at the door. When their numbers finally parted, Dallas saw Iain Fraser striding up to the Queen’s dais.
Hamilton let out a deep sigh of regret, which Dallas did not hear. She was on her feet, ready to move across the banquet hall floor, when Hamilton put his hand on her black-clad arm. “Stay, Dallas. You’d run to him after he’s left you alone for all these months?”
Dallas regarded him quizzically. He was right, of course. Had he guessed all along what she was thinking? Dallas plopped back down on the cushions and adjusted an eardrop. “It’s the first of June,” she explained pettishly, “and I haven’t received my allowance for the month.”
Hamilton gave her a sidelong glance, then turned his attention back to the royal dais. Lord James stood rigid beside the Queen, keeping tight rein over his careening emotions. Mary Stuart was smiling and speaking with animation for the first time that night. Several of her ladies, including the odious Delphinia Douglas, were fairly fawning over Fraser. Dallas felt her excitement turn to ash.
The musicians had ceased their playing and the whole room seemed to be riveted on Fraser and the Queen. Dallas shifted on the windowseat and pushed the casement open even further. She felt a great need for more air.
At last, Mary Stuart signalled for the music to begin again. Her fair skin flushed, she allowed Fraser to lead her onto the dance floor. In a rush of excited chatter, the other courtiers chose up partners and resumed dancing.
“The blackguard!” Dallas had sprung to her feet in a flurry of black silk and white lace. “Almost seven months he’s been gone and he dares dance the coranto before greeting his own wife!”
Hamilton frowned. “Etiquette demands ....”
“Etiquette be damned! Don’t you dare defend Iain to me, John Hamilton! I’m leaving,” she went on, quickly lowering her voice as a curious Earl of Morton plodded by with Jean Argyll on his arm. “You’ve been most gallant this evening and I’m grateful, but I refuse to stay here while my husband humiliates me in public.”
Hamilton was torn: He wished to detain Dallas but she was right—he would not, could not defend Fraser further. His only option was to leave with Dallas. Cautious as ever, he speculated briefly over the repercussions. Before he could make up his mind, the dance ended and Iain Fraser was standing in front of them, bowing low.
“May I intrude or is this a private party?” The hard gleam in the hazel eyes belied the indolent tone of his voice.
Dallas pointedly kept her hands folded in front of her to ward off the obligatory kiss of her fingers. “Your intrusion appears welcome by most,” she replied archly. “Some of us, however, are more amazed than thrilled.”
“Amazed?” Fraser’s gaze turned blandly innocent. “How so, wife?”
Dallas winced at his form of address. “Your comings and goings are so unpredictable, sir. Especially since you go so much more than you come.”
A tight little smile played at the corners of Fraser’s mouth, but Hamilton intervened before the other man could speak. “I’m surprised that you came back to court at all,” he said in a controlled voice. “I thought you’d settled down in the Highlands to tend your sheep and till the fields.”
Fraser shrugged. “I stayed there for a time, as you did at Arbroath. But I daresay that whatever compelled you to remain within the fastness of your family compelled me to do the same.” He continued without changing inflection, “Just as what drew us back to court may have been the same.”
“The Queen sent for me,” Hamilton declared with a touch of asperity. “And did she do so with you?”
Fraser chose to ignore this barb. He turned to Dallas and extended his hand. “Are you still overcome by amazement or will you dance with me?”
“I think not.” Dallas stood as erect as she could, well aware that both men towered over her, but determined to salvage as much dignity as possible from an awkward situation. “I was about to withdraw. So if you’ll both excuse me ....”
But Fraser’s patience was overtaxed. “I think not.” He
grasped Dallas by the elbow and propelled her onto the dance floor. Hamilton made as if to stop them, considered the consequences, then resigned himself to discretion.
“You whoreson,” Dallas hissed at Fraser, her dark eyes blazing with wrath. “You’ve no right to force me to dance with you!”
“I’ve every right, since you’re my wife,” Fraser responded, as incensed as she. “What kind of homecoming is this after seven months?”
“That’s the point,” she retorted, hoping the other dancers couldn’t hear them. “Not a word from you, not a message of any kind, except the damned allowance, which you probably arranged in advance to send me through Cummings!”
“You knew I had matters to tend to, you knew I would go to sea. I do have a wife to support after all, and I notice that her tastes are far from simple.” Fraser eyed the silver-edged lace and the eardrops. “Are those pearls or plover eggs?”
“They cost less than you’d imagine,” she snapped back. “My upbringing taught me how to drive a shrewd bargain.”
The hazel eyes turned hard. “So it did. But your 'bargains’ are costly to everyone.”
They had both stopped dancing, though the music played on. Several courtiers slowed their own pace and began to stare.
“I must attend the Queen,” Dallas announced with a haughty lift of her head. “I forgot, I’m to spend the night in her chambers.” With a swish of silk and lace she marched off, heading for the royal dais where Mary Stuart was chatting amiably with Lord Patrick Ruthven and Gavin Hamilton, who had been reinstated with his cousin, John.
The Queen, however, was not yet ready to retire. Buoyed by Fraser’s arrival, she was enjoying herself and declared that she’d dance until the candles burned themselves out. “But there’s no need to wait for me, Dallas,” she said with a knowing smile. “Mary Beaton will take your place tonight. I’ve already made the arrangements.”