The Queen's Lady

by Shannon Drake

  “Where is she now?” Rowan asked, aware of the husky tenor in his voice as he prayed silently that she was not dead.

  “I hear they’ve taken her to one of the old fortifications near the border.”

  Not far. He had time. He would have to send for his men. Like it or not, he would be going to war, forced to kill the hapless fools who followed such men as the MacIveys.

  The old man looked at him, face tightening in sorrow. “She’s to die tomorrow.”

  Startled by the news, Rowan stood, nearly knocking over the table.

  “Rowan, no.” Gavin’s warning came too late.

  But the old man was the only one who heard the cry. A strange smile lifted his lips. “Ye’re the Laird of Lochraven, are ye not, man?” he asked softly. He nodded sagely, not needing an answer. “Unless ye’re riding with a host of hundreds, ye cannae stop it by force.”

  Rowan wanted to protest, but he knew the old man was right.

  “I am Finnan Clough,” the old man said. “I can offer ye little. But ye need nae fear me.”

  Rowan thought rapidly. “Is there a chemist here?”

  “Aye, there is. And I can find ye anything ye need, but—”

  “I need a drug. A good chemist will know. It slows the heart and the lungs. It makes one appear to be dead.”

  The fellow laughed suddenly.

  “What?”

  “I know the drug. I am ever on the lookout fer its effects meself—I am the gravedigger at the kirk here, ye see.”

  “The gravedigger?” Rowan said.

  “Aye.”

  “You, good man, can help me far more than you might imagine. I have a plan,” Rowan said.

  Both Gavin and old Finnan listened.

  “’Tis risky. If they discover yer ruse, ye’ll die with yer lady,” Finnan said when Rowan had finished speaking.

  “I have nothing left but the risk,” Rowan told him.

  THEY FOUND LODGING at the public house, and there, at the crack of dawn, Rowan garbed himself in his best tartan, dirk at hand in case of need, knives at both calves, sword in the sheath at his waist. His men were dressed with equal grandeur, and they led an extra horse that carried “supplies” bound in a blanket.

  He was sickened to see the air of frivolity about the town when they arrived. People were out on the streets, farmers, milkmaids, good wives, men-at-arms. Out on a hill, a scaffold and stake had been prepared, and Rowan imagined that the faggots around it were half green. The fire would take longer to catch in full, prolonging the accused’s agony.

  His presence was noted by many, his colors too obvious to pass unnoticed. He was glad, for he had meant for his identity to be known.

  He went straight to the kirk, where he found Reverends Miller and Donahue at prayer. He did not see any of the MacIvey clan, and of that he was glad. He was certain they did not mean to arrive until it was time for the fire.

  He startled the ministers as he entered the kirk with all the noise he could muster.

  Both men rose, and Donahue gasped softly. “Rowan, Laird of Lochraven,” he said in surprise.

  Reverend Martin strode toward him. “There will be justice seen here today, m’laird. Whatever past fancy you might have shared, I’m sorry. The lady must die.”

  “Indeed, she must,” Rowan said, his words flat and cold. “I have my own reasons to despise her wickedness.”

  Reverend Donahue heaved a sigh of relief, while Reverend Martin appeared greatly pleased.

  “I wish to see her. I want her to know that I am here to witness her death.”

  The two men looked at one another uneasily.

  “I wish to see her before you take her out in public. I wish to stop her—if there is anything damning, any lie, she might try to utter it at the stake.”

  “Ah,” Donahue said knowingly. “But the time is now.”

  “Then you will take me quickly,” Rowan said.

  “I will escort you to her cell,” Reverend Martin told him. “Come with me, good laird.”

  And so it was that the man easily walked him from the kirk to the stark remnants of the fortification. There was little left for it still to be termed a castle, but there was a roof, and the men within were armed as they sat about at cards and other games. There were twenty of them.

  Quite a lot to guard one slender girl, he thought.

  One of the jailers joined them, carrying something at his side. A black cowl, Rowan thought.

  He was to be the executioner.

  They walked down a flight of steps, and it was then that he saw Gwenyth at last.

  His heart leapt and thundered. Her beautiful hair was in such sad disarray. Her clothing was torn and ragged, muddied, and she was far too thin. But in her dishevelment, she seemed to have a greater dignity than ever before.

  The reverend spoke as they walked. “Thus let it be with all evil. Those who embrace the devil will be burned at the stake until dead. In fire, there is purification, and the root of ungodliness will be ashes cast to the wind.”

  Rowan found himself pushing ahead of the reverend, but the man continued to speak.

  “Take care, reverend,” she said softly. “I stand condemned, and if I speak now before the crowd, I will say that I am guilty of nothing. I will not confess to a lie before the crowd, else my Father in Heaven would abandon me. I go to my death, and on to Heaven, because the good Lord knows I am innocent, and that you are using His name to rid yourselves of a political enemy. It is you, I fear, who will long rot in hell.”

  “Blasphemy!” Rowan shouted. She had been staring at him so defiantly, even as she spoke to the reverend. But his cry had stunned her, he knew.

  Rowan nodded toward the guard who would stand as executioner, and the door to her cell was thrown open. There was no choice in this; he caught her cruelly by the arm and spun her around. His fingers tore into her hair, forcing her eyes to his as he spoke again. “She must not be allowed to speak before any crowd. She knows her soul is bound for hell, and she will try only to drag others down into Satan’s rancid hole along with her,” Rowan said, his voice rough with hatred and conviction. “Trust me, for I know too well the witchery of her enchantment.”

  He held her so that their faces could not be seen by the men watching them, held her so that he could slip the vial from his sleeve, and force it toward her lips. He dropped his voice to a whispered plea. “Drink this. Now,” he commanded.

  She looked at him. Stared at him with such contempt and hatred in her eyes that he had to grit his teeth to maintain control. “For the love of God, drink this now,” he said, and forced the vial to her lips.

  Then, the light in her eyes began to fade as the drug took hold.

  “She’s Satan’s bitch!” he cried. “She seeks to make a mockery of us all.”

  She was almost unconscious; she was sinking against him. He wrapped his hands around her throat.

  “Bastard,” she managed to whisper hoarsely.

  He raised his voice again. “I shall meet you in hell, lady!” he cried.

  Her eyes closed, but he kept his hands around her throat and pretended to choke the life from her.

  “Stop! You’ll kill her,” the reverend said, annoyed.

  Rowan froze. He tried not to let her fall too hard, but he had to drop her to maintain the charade. “She is dead,” he said, as her body slumped to the cold stone floor.

  “You would cheat the fire?” Reverend Martin raged.

  Rowan spun around in equal fury. “You are a fool! You don’t know what manner of words she might have found at the stake. Would you have had this execution turn on you?” He reached down, picking Gwenyth up from the floor. She hung limp in his arms.

  He fought hard not to caress her, shake her, assure himself that she did indeed live, so truly dead did she seem. He pulled his magnificent furred mantle from his shoulders and swept it around her, covering her face. He had to hurry; his timing had to be perfect.

  “No one need know that they have been cheated,” he annou
nced, rising with his burden. “Reverend, lead the way.”

  They returned to the main floor of the ruined fortification and walked out into the sunlight. As they did so, Gavin and Rowan’s men came riding straight toward them.

  “So she is dead, then?” Gavin asked, as if deeply satisfied. But as he spoke, the men circled their horses around Rowan.

  “The people are waiting,” Reverend Martin said, annoyed.

  “Let them wait. I’ll not waste a good mantle in the fire,” Rowan said irritably. “Give me a blanket, Gavin. We cannot let the spectators see her face, lest they realize death has already claimed her.”

  They moved quickly and with practiced agility. Rowan made a show of letting his mantle sweep through the air as he replaced it with a coarse woolen blanket.

  Ignoring the others behind him, Rowan strode quickly to the scaffold. The crowd, aware that the time of execution was here, hurried to the site.

  To Rowan’s unease, the guard given the role of executioner leapt atop the scaffold and helped him secure the body.

  “Light it, quickly, before someone protests that they cannot see her face,” Rowan demanded.

  “Aye,” the fellow agreed, looking around as if suddenly aware that there might be a protest, and that he could bear the brunt of it.

  The fire was quickly lit, the green faggots creating such a black and heavy smoke that those nearest began to cough.

  “Wait!” the reverend shouted furiously. “I did not say the words—”

  “Behold! A witch burns, a punishment justly deserved by those who would embrace Satan!” Rowan called. Even as he spoke, he saw a group of horsemen thunder up the hill. Fergus MacIvey, the young Laird Michael at his side, was in the lead.

  “Rowan of Lochraven!” Fergus shouted, astonished and uneasy. He reined in his horse; the animal did not like the smoke and fire, and reared high. “You will not stop this!”

  Rowan arched a brow. “Stop it? I brought the lady to the flames.” He dared not linger then, so he looked at the man with contempt. “It is done,” he said briefly, then walked back past the crowd. Only Gavin awaited him, holding Styx’s reins. Gavin leapt atop his mount as the rancid odor of burning flesh filled the air.

  Rowan looked back to see Fergus and Michael MacIvey staring at the fire.

  “Ye can’t kill ’em,” Gavin warned him. “Not here, not now.”

  “Aye.”

  He kneed Styx, and he and Gavin rode down the hill and quickly through the town. They rode hard until they reached the village, where Finnan awaited them with the chemist.

  “Bring her to the bedroom,” the chemist, a slender man named Samuel MacHeath, said.

  Despite the fact that they seemed to have found an oasis where the folk were honest and fair-minded, Rowan was careful to keep Gwenyth covered until they had climbed the stairs and closed the door behind them.

  “Does she live? Before God, tell me that she lives,” he said to the man.

  The chemist checked Gwenyth’s pulse, leaned his ear to her chest, and slowly smiled. He rose. “Aye. She’ll sleep some fair time, perhaps as much as three days. But she lives.”

  Finnan, who had come with them, let out a deep sigh of pleasure. “Ah, now, but good old Amie McGee would be a proud woman to have done something so fine as to use her lifeless body to save the likes of a poor, maligned lady.”

  “Amy will never know my gratitude,” Rowan murmured.

  “Say a few prayers fer her soul, good Laird Rowan.”

  “That I will,” he assured the man.

  “We should ride as far from here as possible,” Gavin warned Rowan.

  “Aye.” Rowan turned to the two men who had helped them, pressing gold coins, ironically minted with the queen’s likeness, into their hands.

  “Now, I dinnae say we needed money to do what was godly,” Finnan said.

  “Nay, good man, you did not. But favor me by taking so small a token of what I have, when you have given me back all that matters.”

  Finnan grinned. “Ah, a warrior and a poet.”

  With that, Rowan lifted the precious bundle of his wife close to him. This time she was covered gently with a linen sheet. When he hurried back down the stairs, the horses had been watered, his men had mounted, and they were ready to ride.

  It was an hour later that the MacIveys caught up to them.

  “Graham!” came a roar across the trail.

  Rowan turned Styx. Fergus MacIvey, his sword drawn, was ready to ride against him.

  “You have played some trick on us, and you will not ride away so easily.”

  “Careful,” Gavin warned Rowan.

  But Rowan could no longer take such care. He paused to hand the light burden of his wife to Gavin, then roared out a battle cry of fury.

  He raced across the plain of grass. Fergus sped toward him, his sword glinting in the sunlight.

  In the center of the field, they met. Their swords clashed, yet neither man was unhorsed. They parried, blow for blow.

  Then, with a shuddering impact, Rowan managed to unseat Fergus. He leapt down from Styx, kicking the man’s dropped sword to him.

  Fergus grabbed the weapon, leaping to his feet, let out a cry of hatred and surged forward. His emotions had gotten the better of him. Rowan had only to shift his weight and let the man rush him. As Fergus tried to make a direct strike through his heart, Rowan stepped aside and brought his sword down on the man’s neck.

  As Fergus fell, Gavin cried out a warning.

  Rowan turned to see that Michael MacIvey had meant to drive his sword into Rowan’s back while his uncle had kept his attention.

  There was no time to think, no chance to consider whether the man should live or die. Rowan was forced to spin, and as he moved, he caught the man through the stomach, sending him crashing backward.

  Rowan stood above the fallen man.

  Michael’s eyes were open, and a trickle of blood oozed from his lips, and he was dead, an expression of shock frozen upon his face.

  Rowan quickly looked up, anxious to see which of the MacIveys’ forces would come for him next. But they had gone, deserting when it appeared they could not win.

  It was Brendan who came to his side then. “Laird Rowan, it’s over. Let’s take yer lady home.”

  “Aye,” Rowan said. “Home.”

  GWENYTH AWOKE SLOWLY, feeling as if she had been submerged in a deep, black cave. She was aware of little things first.

  A hint of light.

  Something soft beneath her.

  The scent of clean linen.

  But she had died! Surely Heaven could not have the scent and feel of earth!

  She tried to open her eyes more fully. She was no longer in rags but a clean, snowy-white gown.

  Upon a snowy, sweet-smelling bed.

  For a moment the world seemed to be a white mist, and she blinked to clear her vision.

  There were two smiling faces staring intently at her. She blinked again.

  Annie!

  And Liza Duff.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, she has awakened!” Annie cried. Then she leaned forward, her ample bosom nearly crushing Gwenyth as she hugged her, tears streaming down her face.

  “It’s true. Laird Rowan, Laird Rowan!” Liza cried.

  And then he was there, features taut and golden hair blazing, eyes a miraculous blue fire.

  “My lady!”

  “Rowan?” she said incredulously.

  “Aye, my love,” he said, and sat at her side. His fingers brushed hers, and then she was tenderly in his arms, as he held her as if she were as fragile as glass.

  “It can’t be,” she whispered, and he pulled away. She looked at him, stunned, lost, afraid that this was but some dying dream. But the linen was real; the heat of his hold was real.

  “She’s wakened? Thank God, our lady is with us again,” came another voice. Gavin.

  “Saints be praised!”

  Gwenyth looked beyond Rowan and saw that Thomas was there, as well.

 
; Rowan spoke quickly. “We had to substitute a…well, a corpse for you, my love, on the stake, but there was no time to talk to you before. You had to appear dead, so I drugged you. I am so sorry to have hurt you in any way.”

  She blinked, throwing her arms around him again. “But I am condemned by law!” she told him.

  “That is a situation that is being righted even now.”

  “The MacIveys will never let it be,” she said, drawing back again to look at him.

  “The MacIveys are no more,” he said in a low, hard tone.

  “But…”

  He let out a deep sigh. “Mary has abdicated the throne in favor of her son—by force, I imagine, but it is done. She made provision first that our marriage be declared legal in Scotland, and that Daniel is our legal issue. James, acting as regent, has signed his name to the documents, as well.”

  She gasped. Such sweet news, though mixed with such a sad addendum.

  And yet, at that moment, all she could do was thank God she was alive.

  She drew Rowan tightly to her. “Oh, Rowan, I never meant to hurt you in any way. I was afraid…and I’d heard…”

  He pulled away from her, smoothing her hair back, touching her cheek with such tenderness that she was afraid she would faint, and lose out on this sheer joy and wonder.

  “I never entertained the idea of another wife, my love. And I know that you cried out against me only to force me to leave.”

  This happiness was surely more than she could bear.

  And then…

  “My lady,” Gavin said, clearing his throat. “There is someone who wishes to see you—if you are strong enough.”

  She realized, as Gavin walked to the bed, that he wasn’t alone.

  She stared in amazement at the small human being he carried. A boy with brilliant blue eyes and sun-gold hair.

  He looked at her, his eyes wary but curious.

  “Mama?” he said.

  “He walks now, too,” Rowan told her, reaching for the boy and setting him on the bed between them.

  Gwenyth stared at her son, the child who shouldn’t have known her, who couldn’t know her, but who watched her with such curious expectation.

  “Daniel,” she breathed. Then she looked from him to Rowan and suddenly burst into tears.