The Queen's Lady

by Shannon Drake

  James smiled, pleased. “You will leave soon. Godspeed.”

  She thanked him, assuring him that, somehow, he and Mary would find peace, too, though in truth, she wondered. Feared.

  There was simply so little peace to be found when considering the lives of those of royal blood.

  GWENYTH STAYED A MONTH more, quietly, in the Tower.

  She was torn the entire time. She could not leave her babe when he was so young, yet she dared not tarry longer, even though every report that came from Scotland assured her that the queen was meeting with Rowan. She was resolute on putting off a trial, urging him to declare his absolute loyalty to her crown and her king.

  Hearing some of the reports, Gwenyth secretly damned him.

  Swear whatever she wants, she urged him silently. Save yourself.

  But she knew Rowan, and he would opt for care, consideration and the truth. He would never swear an oath that he did not mean. And it wasn’t that he didn’t wholeheartedly serve his queen. He would simply refuse to pledge himself to Darnley or damn James Stewart, and that would be that.

  Finally, the day came when she felt she had to leave her son in the care of Thomas, Annie and the nurse.

  “Ye’re beautiful,” Annie said. “With the figure of a lass again, so quickly. Ach, at times, ye don’t look old enough to be the mother of this fine child.” There were tears in the older woman’s eyes, a sign of her genuine sadness that she wouldn’t be going to Scotland with her mistress, but Gwenyth had told her that she trusted no one other than his godparents to look after Daniel.

  Gwenyth cried, holding Daniel, then kissing Thomas and Annie goodbye.

  She had been given an English escort; they would see her to the Borders, where she would be met by a company of Scottish soldiers, who would lead her safely on to Edinburgh.

  When she left the Tower itself, alone and by barge, she looked back.

  Lady Margaret Douglas was on the lawn. Still imprisoned. She must have known that Mary had demanded Gwenyth’s return and not her own. A chill fell over Gwenyth as the woman cried out, “Witch! Go on, harlot! She lets you leave, and not me, for you are a traitor to Queen Mary. Don’t think they do not beg for my release. Mary has written endless letters on my behalf. She pleads with Elizabeth to release me. I am held unjustly. But you…you bring your spells and enchantments before the queen and now the king, my son! I know it’s you—you who have caused the strife. They turn on my son because of witches like you. God will have his way. You will die, harlot witch, and the fires of hell will destroy you!”

  The woman was insane, Gwenyth thought, driven mad because she’d plotted and planned to get her son married to the Queen of Scotland, but she was paying a price.

  No, she wasn’t insane, and that was what was most frightening. She was simply furious. She was being a mother, protecting her child.

  She had no right to treat Gwenyth so cruelly, but that didn’t matter. At some point, somehow, Gwenyth would have to find a way to forgive the woman, even befriend her, for she was Mary of Scotland’s mother-in-law, and Gwenyth was the queen’s lady.

  Gwenyth found herself praying that Elizabeth kept Margaret imprisoned in the Tower for a very long time.

  ROWAN’S IMPRISONMENT was not without comfort, but for a man of action, it was exceedingly frustrating, for he was held to his room in the castle. There he spent endless days pacing, finding ways to release his pent-up energy, doing what he could to work his muscles. He was well taken care of, and he did not believe that Mary wished him ill. In her mind, he had conspired with James, and James had thoroughly drawn her wrath. She had lifted him up, given him titles and land, and he had shown her the worst possible ingratitude. Mary’s greatest fault lay in her frankness; she was not a person for whom intrigue came easily. Rowan had learned he was not yet facing a trial because evidence of his treason was still being studied.

  In early spring, Mary came to visit him, and she was not the same woman he had faced only months earlier.

  He had heard that she was pregnant. In December, the rumors had begun, though it had been whispered that the queen was merely ill. Then news came that she was expecting, and that, he knew, was a moment of sheer joy for all of Scotland. Should Mary have died without issue, there might well have been anarchy. James was illegitimate, as were many other possible contenders for the crown. Darnley would be a candidate, but one so hated it would be almost impossible for him to rule, despite his Lennox associations.

  She did not, however, appear to be an ecstatic mother-to-be when she came to the castle to speak with him, her “traitorous” subject. She came with a number of attendants, including her wizened new favorite, the musician and now her secretary, Riccio.

  Rowan stiffened, knowing that not only James but many of her nobles—even those loyal to her and her marriage—loathed the man. Only recently had the queen come to depend so desperately on him, and Rowan knew in his heart it was another mistake on her part.

  Her husband, however, was not with her.

  Rowan rose hastily, paying her the honor due her. “Leave us,” she told the others. The warder hesitated, as if Rowan had been a bloodthirsty murderer rather than a loyal subject who had submitted to this degradation rather than create any possible conflict. He would have been resentful, had the queen not said impatiently, “Leave me. Good God, the man is my nephew. He will not harm me.”

  Everyone disappeared down the corridor, and the warder, still wary, closed the door at last.

  “My deepest congratulations,” Rowan said, nodding toward her swelling belly.

  She arched a brow. “In this, at least, my marriage is a success.”

  He held his tongue; whatever she had just said, Mary did not wish to hear anyone preaching to her about her choice of husband. “I’m sure, Your Grace, that you will always do as you see fit. And Scotland will be grateful for an heir.”

  “The heir has not yet breathed his first,” she pointed out.

  “There is no reason for you to fear. You are young and have the strength of…of a queen,” he said softly.

  “I am sorry to do this to you,” she told him.

  “I believe that you are.”

  “But you have betrayed me.”

  “Never.”

  “You will not call James the traitor that he is.”

  “I never lifted arms against you.”

  “No,” she said, and there was a petulant tone in her voice when she went on. “You were busy seducing one of my ladies.”

  “I love her, Your Grace.”

  “That is ridiculous.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She waved a hand in the air, brushing him aside as she sat and turned away. He remained standing. “Only a fool believes in love.”

  She looked at him suddenly, her huge, dark eyes wide and haunted. “I have married Henry, married him before God. I have lifted him up. And he is a fool. A very pretty fool, but a fool nonetheless.”

  “He is your child’s father.”

  “A pity,” she said bitterly.

  He kept silent, knowing there was nothing he could say that would not be a mistake.

  “I have made this bed…” she murmured.

  He knelt down before her, taking her hands, searching her face. “Mary, you are my queen. Scotland’s queen. You entered into a marriage you deeply desired. You…chose to lift Darnley up as your…more than your consort.”

  She offered him a wry smile. “A Scottish parliament will never grant him the title of king in his own right. I see that now, and I see why. He cares nothing for government. He is vain and selfish. He wants only to hunt and gamble and drink…and spend his nights whoring, I imagine. What have I done?” she whispered.

  “Mary, you have been a good queen. You must remain a good queen. You are the sovereign. If any at your side demand that you go against your own better judgment, deny them. Be the Queen Mary your subjects love, and don’t let any man take that from you.”

  She nodded, offering him a slight sm
ile. “I can’t let you go, you know.”

  “I have never offered you harm. I have never offered you anything but my loyalty.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Then…?”

  “I can’t let you go. I brought charges against you. Now they must be disproved.”

  “How do you suggest that I disprove your charges?”

  “Publicly deny James. Call him the traitor that he is.”

  He lowered his head. “Mary, you have just said that—”

  “That I married a weak-willed, spineless, debauched husband?”

  He arched a brow to her, as always keeping silent rather than agreeing with such remarks.

  She shook her head. “James played me falsely, acting as if the nobles would entertain such an alliance, then standing firmly against it. Elizabeth is quite right in the games she plays. She knows there is no man she can marry who her subjects will accept without going to war. It is truly not fair that queens must suffer this idiocy while kings do not. But the point is that James did not know enough about Henry to loathe him, he was simply furious with the shift of power.”

  “Perhaps he was insulted that his advice meant nothing once you met Darnley.”

  She shook her head sadly. “What has come between us…it is bitter. Because Henry’s mother was such good friends with Mary Tudor, because of my Catholicism…he thought that he could raise the Protestants against me. I have done nothing!”

  “Mary, I beg you, reconsider your stance on Laird James. You two have been too close for you to let this divide go on forever.”

  She looked at him very seriously. “I should prize you deeply, but…you stand so hard on his behalf.”

  “But I don’t stand against you.”

  She rose suddenly, walking across the room. “You do know that I was absolutely furious with Lord Bothwell. Then he escaped imprisonment here, and now he has wheedled his way back into my good graces.”

  He smiled. “Are you suggesting that I escape?”

  “Would a queen suggest such a thing? Never!” she proclaimed. But then she leaned down by him where he remained upon one knee and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I needed to see you,” she said. “I know that I can trust you, that you will not repeat my words. Good day, Laird of Lochraven.”

  She went out the door, and he did not hear the locks snick in her wake. Still, he waited, waited until the moon rose high over the castle walls.

  The door was not locked.

  He slipped out to the hallway. There was no guard. He strode to the winding stairs that led from the tower where he’d been incarcerated to the winding turret stairs that led straight to the yard. He kept close to the building as he stepped out into the night. A quick look up showed him that there were guards atop the parapets.

  A movement in the night warned him that someone was near. He held dead still, waiting. He had no intention of doing murder now.

  Someone moved furtively near him. He waited, taking great care, then shot out in the dark when the figure was almost upon him, catching the fellow unawares, his arm around the man’s torso and his free hand clamped over the man’s mouth.

  “Don’t betray me. I don’t wish to hurt you.”

  A soft mumbling came in response. Still keeping the greatest care to constrain the man and see his face, he turned him, and a smile sprang to his lips.

  It was Gavin.

  Rowan released his hold and said in relief, “Gavin.”

  “My Lord, come. We need to hurry. I do not entirely know what is happening, but the queen’s lapdog, that little whelp of a man Riccio, suggested that I come tonight with a hay wagon and a monk’s cloak.”

  Riccio?

  The mention of the man’s name was not reassuring, but he had heard that the queen trusted him in all things, and so long as the man did the queen’s bidding, not that of the nominal king…

  “Where is the cloak?”

  “Here, on the ground. I dropped it when I thought you were a guard near, intent on slitting my throat.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you were a guard.”

  “Well, here we are, and I suggest that we hurry.”

  Gavin stooped quickly to retrieve the lost bundle of coarse brown wool. Rowan immediately slipped the cloak over his head and around his shoulders, pulling the hood low.

  “This way,” Gavin said softly.

  Rowan bent his head as if in deep prayer, and clasped his hands together before him. They passed by a number of people busy at their assigned tasks, even so late in the night. A silversmith was rolling up his tarp, a tinker closing the cover over his basket of needles and small wares.

  “The wagon is yonder,” Gavin said.

  They did not walk too fast, nor did they go too slow. As they reached the hay-strewn vehicle, Rowan saw that it was pulled by a single white horse. It was one of his own from the stables at Castle Grey, an older but reliable warhorse, Ajax. He was still capable of picking up speed, once they had cleared the gates.

  “Best you hide yourself in the hay, my Laird Rowan.”

  “I think not. I think we’re safer if I sit at your side.”

  “Oh? And what do you know of being a monk?”

  “Not much, my good man. But neither do I care to be skewered if a guard chooses to thrust his weapon into the hay, searching for contraband.”

  “Ah,” Gavin murmured. “Hop up.”

  And so they both sat atop the driver’s plank on the poor wagon, and Rowan took up the reins. They crossed the courtyard and came to the gate, where the guard looked at them curiously. As Rowan had expected he might, he held a long pike.

  “Where are ye off to, this hour o’the night?” he demanded.

  “The priory atop the hill. I have been summoned by a woman of the queen’s own true faith,” Rowan replied.

  The guard scowled but didn’t insist on seeing Rowan’s face. Rather, he moved to the back of the wagon and began thrusting his weapon into the hay, just as Rowan had feared.

  “True faith indeed,” he muttered beneath his breath. “Pass.”

  Rowan didn’t reply, only flicked the reins, and Ajax obediently moved forward.

  Rowan forced himself to keep the horse at a slow gait while they made their way from the city and past the most heavily populated area, but as soon as they entered the woods beyond the fields, he again flicked the reins, urging Ajax to go faster.

  They had nearly reached the farmhouse that Gavin had told him was their goal when he knew they were being followed. He quickly drove the wagon off the road, into the trees.

  “How many?” Gavin asked tensely.

  He listened. “Two, no more.”

  Gavin drew a knife from one of the leather sheaves at his calf and quickly handed it over. “I dared bring no larger weapons,” he apologized.

  “It doesn’t matter. We have to catch these men and bind them. I cannot kill them.”

  Gavin looked at him as if he had gone mad. “They will come with swords, m’laird. Do we die here tonight?”

  “Nay, we take grave care.”

  He rid himself of the cumbersome cloak and cowl, and glanced around, glad of the darkness. “There,” he told Gavin, pointing across the road. Then he turned to quickly catch a branch and shinny up an old oak.

  Gavin had scarcely found his own position before the horsemen came trotting down the road. Indeed, they were castle guards.

  “He’ll have headed north, to his Highland fortress!” one said, not even bothering to lower his voice.

  “Aye, and that’s why there’s just two of us sent off in a vain chase southward,” the second fellow complained.

  They were both armed with swords, but neither was prepared for attack. Rowan motioned to Gavin, and, as one, like spiders in the dark, they fell silently from the trees.

  The men were easily taken down from their mounts. They struggled for their swords, but both were breathless and stunned. The fellow Rowan had taken was corpulent, puffing, easily disarmed. While the younger man might have gi
ven Gavin a bit of a struggle, he did not have the chance, for Rowan stepped from the puffing fellow to the other, seizing his sword from his belt even as he scrambled for it. He set the point at the man’s throat.

  “Gavin, strip the good man’s horse of its bridle. We have need of the reins.”

  “The animal will head back to the castle,” Gavin pointed out.

  “It can’t be helped,” Rowan said softly.

  Gavin did as bidden, then returned with the leather reins to be used to truss the guards.

  “They know ye’re out, traitor,” the younger one dared to say.

  “So they do,” Rowan responded calmly.

  When he went to tie up the heavier, older guard, the man cringed. “Good God, man, just sit still. I have no intention of harming you,” Rowan said impatiently. Even so, the man watched him warily.

  “Traitor,” the first man muttered again.

  “Nay, the man is no traitor. We’d be dead if he were,” the older one said.

  “But—”

  “Ye have me gratitude fer me life,” the older guard said.

  Rowan nodded as he finished securing the man. “It’s a busy enough road. Help will be along by daybreak.”

  “Can ye pull us over by the trees?” the older man asked. “It would be a hard lot if we were to survive the…” He paused. There hadn’t really been a fight. “If ye chose not to kill us and we were to be trampled to death upon the first light.”

  “Aye, that we can do,” Rowan assured him.

  When they were about to leave and had moved out of earshot of the prisoners, he took a good look at the remaining horse, which they had tethered to a tree, then turned to Gavin. “You don’t happen to have Styx stashed away somewhere, do you?” he asked.

  Gavin grinned. “Nay, and we must return the wagon at yonder farm. Truly, the queen didn’t wish to harm you. Styx was returned to Castle Grey soon after you were taken, but I think you’ll find he’s closer than that now.”

  “That is a mercy.”

  “We must quit Scotland, you know,” Gavin said somberly.

  “We’ll leave the wagon here and take this horse. And we’ll go quickly now, even if the majority of the queen’s men are headed toward the Highlands.”