Ebba Seton tapped him on the shoulder. "Brother," she said, and the man turned, his face pinched with worry. Ebba gestured over her shoulder. "We have our mistress here."
Mary inclined her head.
George Seton pursed his lips in relief. "We need to find somewhere safe for Her Grace to stay until we see how things transpire here." He gestured at the smoke-filled inn.
Sir Thomas stepped forward. "I have a house just down the street that the queen can use. Down there," he pointed.
"But the queen's things and her jewels are still in there!" cried Mary Livingston. "We can't leave without them!"
Mary stared at the fire for a moment, her mind racing. Without her jewels to sell, her financial situation would be even more precarious. But what did the bible say? Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon Earth? And as Scotland's rightful ruler, surely God would provide?
Standing tall, she shook her head. "Jewellery can be replaced." She lifted her chin. "But I am sure Lord Seton has all in-hand. Let us go with Sir Thomas."
The fire appeared to have started at the back of the building, in the kitchens, and Michael's first thought was to duck through the pend to the stables behind, to rescue Mist and Spirit. But before he could beg the queen's permission to leave their group, he sighed with relief to see the stable-boy leading his snorting horses into the street.
"Bless you," he said to the boy, slipping him a penny. Now he just needed somewhere safe to lead the scared beasts.
While Michael had been worrying about his horses, Ferniehirst had offered his bastle house for the queen and her party. As Michael came close, Sir Thomas jerked his chin. "Join us, sire. Bring your horses."
With a swirl of his cloak, Ferniehirst set off down the street towards the river, leading the ladies and Lord Livingston. Taking up the rear, Michael and the stable boy followed with the horses, and after a short distance they turned right down Smith's Wynd and found a large bastle house situated in an orchard beside the river.
"There are stables at the end of the orchard," Thomas jerked his chin at the stable boy. Then he opened his arm, indicating the impressive three-storey stone building ahead of them. "And this, Your Grace, is the house we built on the orders of your father, King James, when he wanted all rich landowners to build a fortified tower to help defend against the English." He gave a bow. "I place it at your disposal for the remainder of your visit, should you wish."
With William Livingston and Thomas Kerr to open the house for the queen and her ladies, and the stable boy to care for his horses, Michael felt superfluous, and offered to return to the inn to organise the transport of the queen's luggage.
At the Spread Eagle, to Michael's relief the fire seemed to be mostly under control, with great clouds of black smoke billowing everywhere but little remaining evidence of flames.
Lord Seton caught sight of him and called him over. "Cranstoun! The fire seems to be contained now. Started behind the kitchens, so the landlord says. Can you show me where Ferniehirst has taken the queen?"
"Aye, of course." Michael gestured at the pile of luggage on the pavement. "Shall we take some of the queen's belongings wi' us?"
George shook his head. "I've sent a servant to fetch a cart. But I need to know where to send them."
Michael eyed the fourth floor of the building. "Could ye gie me a minute? I'll rescue my things, so I dinna smell o' smoke for the next week!"
Pushing past servants toiling down the stone stairs with kerchiefs wrapped around their mouths, Michael hurried up to his room and retrieved his saddlebag, throwing it over his shoulder, then rejoined Lord Seton. I will need to find me some alternative lodgings for tonight.
Back at the Kerr's bastle house, Michael and Seton found Sir Thomas in the first-floor banqueting hall, distributing rich red wine to the ladies. "Would you gentlemen like a glass?" he enquired as they entered. Then he noticed the saddlebag slung over Michael's shoulder. "And, Cranstoun, I know you were staying at the inn. Can I offer you a room at Ferniehirst for the night? 'Twill be full to overflowing here," he jerked his chin towards the crowd at the centre of the room, "but I have a small chamber you could use."
"My thanks," Michael gave a wry smile. "I should be able to get back to the inn on the morrow, but ye have saved me from a bed in the stables tonight!"
Sir Thomas handed Michael his wine with a quick nod of his head. "'Tis agreed, then."
They turned to the gathering in the main part of the room, where the queen and her maids sat chattering around the solid oak table that was the hall's centrepiece. They ladies were all talking at once, speculating as to the cause of the fire.
Lord Seton cleared his throat and bowed to the queen. "Your Grace, I will have the servants bring your belongings forthwith."
Sir Thomas pointed at the ceiling. "The queen can have the large bedroom above us, and her ladies the smaller rooms in the tower."
Seton nodded, and took his leave.
Taking a glass of wine from their host, Michael found that Flam had made a space for him between her and Beth.
"How are things at the inn?" she asked breathlessly. "Does the fire still rage? Do they know who started it?"
Cranstoun's answer was not what Mary expected, but it dispelled some of her worries.
"'Twas the bread the landlord was making for our breakfast," he said with a wry smile. "It started in the ovens."
So 'twas not the Protestant lords, after all. She had worried unnecessarily. But with the lords holding so much power—and hungry for more—a Catholic queen needed to be wary.
"But the damage hasnae been too extensive," Cranstoun continued. "If there's a good wind tomorrow, with the windows open to air the rooms, Your Grace should be able to return in a day or two."
Mary twirled the ruby ring on her little finger while she considered her options. This house had been designed for safety, it was big enough for her servants and trusted followers, and its build and position would make it harder for the lords of the congregation to attempt any wrongdoing.
She looked over at Ferniehirst. "Sir Thomas, if 'twould be convenient, I think I would prefer to stay 'ere while I am in Jedburgh."
Chapter 21
Thursday 10th October, 1566
AFTER A NIGHT at Ferniehirst Castle, Michael and Sir Thomas returned to the bastle house—which they had already started to call 'the queen's house'— the morning after the fire.
The day had dawned grey and dreich, and the heavy rain had dampened the ladies' enthusiasm for the trip to Stobs.
"Tomorrow!" insisted Flam. "We shall visit your castle on the morn. I am sure the sun will shine on us. But today you can join us here? This morning the queen is with her privy council. She issues edicts to the merchants of Jedburgh. Something about not raising their prices just because her court is in town. And then the assizes begin." She fluttered a hand in the direction of the tolbooth. "Very boring."
The Maries had been joined by a new maid, Libby Preston, a shy girl with silky fair hair and a curvaceous figure. Together they were good company for Thomas and Michael, sitting around the fire with their embroidery and whiling away the morning with games of piquet and gossip from court.
As a married man with an infant son, Sir Thomas got his fair share of attention, but by the end of the morning, the ladies had acquainted themselves with many of the details of Michael's castle, lands and family tree. Those details that he was prepared to share with them…
He told them of his father and how he had died fighting the English at the Battle of Pinkie—but not of the much-loved older brother who had died in the same battle, leaving ten-year-old Michael as the sole heir of Stobs. He told them of his education in France—but not of the lonely years in Fontainebleau during which, unknown to him, his estate back in Scotland fell to ruin at the hands of marauding armies and a scurrilous steward. He told them of the strong tower house with its barmkin walls—but not of the many weeks he'd spent rebuilding the castle, stone by stone, after it was ravaged by the English. He told
them of the tenants in their cottages—but not of the days he spent working alongside them, repairing dykes, planting and ploughing, to ensure his lands could provide some sort of a living to both them and him.
After hearing that he had no plans to marry—or none that he would admit to—Beth Beaton announced that the ladies would have to rectify that. "There are many young women—heiresses—who would be glad of your hand, Cranstoun. Why, there are some eligible heiresses in this very room," she said with a pointed look at Flam and Libby. "Or we can introduce you to others, if you would join us at court when we return to Edinburgh."
Her matchmaking looked to be getting rather out-of-hand, and Michael almost sighed with relief when he noticed the queen's terrier scratching at the door. "Ye must excuse me, ladies," he said, standing up, "The dog needs taken outside."
Flam pushed her chair back and hurried to the door with him. "I shall come too. Jupiter might run off, since he doesn't know you very well."
And so, minutes later, Michael found himself in the orchard with Flam, both huddled under their cloaks against the persistent drizzle. Distant shouts and screeches from the marketplace echoed dully through the rain and acted as a counterpoint to the huffing of the dog, who carefully inspected—and baptised—every tree that they passed.
"The orchard was planted by the monks from the old abbey, so they say," said Flam. She stopped and tweaked an apple from a low-hanging bough. "And they've planted many varieties. This one," she took a bite from the rich red fruit, "is a Pippin. And that," she pointed at the next tree, "is a Monk's Pear. And, over there, a White Warden." She chuckled. "That one must've been planted to honour you."
Michael raised his eyebrows. "I wouldna have taken ye for a gardener."
Flam gave him a coquettish look. "There's much you don't know about me, sire. But when we were in France with the queen—before she came to Scotland—I was…" she hesitated, "friends with a French duke. He had vineyards in the Loire Valley, and would introduce me to the plants in the palace gardens." She stopped under a particularly large apple tree and looked up at him, her blue eyes flashing mischievously. "He also knew which shrubs were the best to hide a couple from prying eyes."
Looking behind them, Michael realised that they were, indeed, hidden from view down in this quiet corner of the orchard. "But you left this duke in France?"
With a lift of her shoulder, Flam pursed her lips. "When Francis, the queen's young husband, died, we—the Maries—vowed not to marry before the queen was ready to remarry. So the duke was not for me."
"But Mary is married to Darnley now. You could rekindle things with your duke?"
"Your concern is touching, sire, but he is wed now, with two children and a third on the way." She looked him in the eye. "And you should perchance be less noble? If you spend your days espousing the cause of others, you will never find yourself a rich heiress!" She tilted her chin and added softly, "Especially not one who has learned the ways of love in the courts of France."
With her face raised towards him, full lips slightly parted and her hand on his arm, she was almost asking to be kissed. And Michael, ever the gentleman, was sorely tempted to oblige. But even in this intimate moment with a beautiful woman who was obviously interested in him, a vision of Alexandra's tumbling raven locks and wide smile filled his mind and doused any attraction he felt for Flam.
There was something refreshing in the simplicity of Alexandra's wholesome looks and lack of artifice. In comparison, these courtly ladies might be beautiful, refined and clever, but they were more reminiscent of elegant lilies than unruly forget-me-nots.
Michael cleared his throat. "Methinks ye are too kind, my lady Fleming. The ladies of France would be sore disappointed by a lowly laird like me. Now," he turned back to the house and whistled for the dog, "we should return and get ourselves out of this infernal rain."
Masking her features so as not to show relief that the privy council was finally over, Mary dismissed her lords and withdrew to an ante-chamber where luncheon had been provided by the merchants of the town.
It had been a stormy morning, with the earl of Moray, as usual, pushing for his favoured concerns and Mary stonewalling on many counts, especially when Moray's agendas related to further extending his power or were to the detriment of the old faith—as they often were.
Early in her reign, Moray, her half-brother, had been a valued adviser, giving strong counsel and wise direction. He had helped her, a French-raised Catholic woman, to win the grudging support of the majority of the Protestant lords.
But things had gone badly wrong when she had fallen in love with Lord Darnley.
The lords could not accept the Catholic Henry Stewart as her suitor, instead supporting the suit of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester and lover of the English queen, Elizabeth.
Having gained the support of the king of France, and blinded by love—or magic—Mary had defied them and married her cousin, whose lineage would add further strength to her claim for the English crown.
It was only afterwards that Mary began to wonder if her eyes had been clouded by enchantment rather than lust for her handsome swain. For Darnley's uncle, Ruthven, was said to be a sorcerer of the black arts. Could he have cast a spell, causing her to overlook the arrogance, vanity and selfishness exhibited by her young husband?
Those traits had made him many enemies at court, most notably Moray, who Darnley had accused of being too powerful and owning too much land.
Ever since, Moray's face had blackened any time he was forced into company with the king; but more often than not he absented himself on some flimsy excuse. Typically, he was also absent when Riccio had been murdered, although gossip had him as one of the plotters. And recently, word had reached Mary that Moray plotted with Elizabeth—also a Protestant—to set the Scottish crown upon his own head.
The fiercely royalist people of Scotland would not support it, but Mary knew that the majority of her lords would support whichever side they thought would win, and they commanded large armies.
As was so often the case, the sovereign had to walk a narrow line, keeping favour with the lords by passing enough laws promoting their causes to keep them happy, whilst quietly backing other statutes to uphold her own interests.
All of this politicking had tired her, and she was glad of some food to recharge her energy before the assizes would start in the afternoon.
She hoped the court proceedings would give her a chance to assert her authority and show a strong hand by dispensing stiff penalties onto the miscreants that Bothwell and the Border lairds would bring before her. Maybe then my lords will support me, rather than Moray, she thought, knowing even as she did so that some of them were irredeemable.
The sweetness of some honeyed almonds had almost dissipated her sour mood when a messenger arrived and delivered a note that almost stopped her heart and threw her plans into disarray.
The afternoon brought a significant development which promised to elevate Michael's status and further delayed the ladies' proposed visit to Stobs.
Michael and Flam had not long returned from the orchard when a messenger arrived from the queen, requesting the presence of 'the deputy warden of the Middle March' at the tolbooth.
At Michael's questioning look, Sir Thomas gave an eloquent shrug. "Mayhap the Queen needs your knowledge of the Marches?"
And indeed, Ferniehirst proved somewhat correct. When Michael presented himself, rather nervously, to the queen, he discovered that the earl of Bothwell had been seriously injured while apprehending reivers at Hermitage, and Mary wished Michael to take his place, providing counsel as she presided over the assizes.
With her trusted Earl Huntly on her right, Michael was astonished to be shown into the seat to the left of the queen, between Her Grace and her secretary, Maitland; a position of such honour that he had to swallow hard and quell the racing of his heart as he sat down.
"You can advise me, Cranstoun," the Queen leaned towards him and whispered, "you know these Borderers bett
er than I."
And so the next five days proceeded, Mary dispensing justice to the ruffians and villains brought before her, and earning Moray's displeasure by her leniency. The assizes were quieter than they might have been, due to the lack of Bothwell and his Liddesdale prisoners, but busy enough that Michael's days were full—and his evenings too, in the company of the queen and her ladies.
It was only in the mornings, when he quickly exercised Spirit, or at night when he tossed and turned in his room under the eaves of the Spread Eagle, that Michael's thoughts turned to his predicament.
His conversation with Flam in the orchard had disquieted him. How will I ever marry if I can only think of an Englishwoman who is unavailable to me? He had no answer to that. Try as he might to persuade himself that Flam was a better match, he could do no more than behave courteously to her, quietly deflecting her hints and flirtations, and waiting for the day when he could return to his quiet life at Stobs, free from the gossip and intrigue of the royal court.
Chapter 22
Tuesday 15th October
THE LADIES FINALLY got their visit to Stobs—a full week after it was originally suggested.
Six days of assizes were followed by a formal reception for Philibert Du Croc, the French ambassador, after which the queen announced that she wished to travel to Hermitage Castle on the morrow, to visit Bothwell on his sick bed and receive a briefing from him as governor of Liddesdale.
"You can be our guide, no?" she asked Michael, and of course he could not refuse.
"'Tis a long ride, ma'am," he replied. "I'd offer ye to stay overnight at Stobs, but sadly I havnae enough chambers to fit everyone."
A Love Divided: A Scottish Historical Romance (The Reivers Book 1) Page 9