Heart of Gold

by May McGoldrick

  He opened his eyes and returned her steady gaze.

  “I lay back down to wait for the end. At any rate, I would die fighting, I decided, and readied a short sword that lay in the mud by my hand.

  “And then I saw him. He was wandering in a daze among the dead, his broad sword dragging beside him. He appeared half blinded by the blood that was still running like a river from the great gash across his forehead. He was a Highlander, a man nearly my size. He was searching among the dead. I called to him, and he came to me.

  “‘Where is the king?’ he asked. ‘Dead,’ I told him. I saw his eyes flash with anger, with a silent, unutterable rage. Then he looked off down the hill before looking back at me. ‘Go,’ I said. ‘Save yourself. It is finished here.’ He just kept looking at me, but I knew he was thinking of the king.

  “Then I saw his eyes clear a bit, and he took hold of my arm. Ambrose Macpherson lifted me up and threw me over his shoulder like I was no more than a bairn. He carried me, Mary. For all that night and for two days more, he carried me. Back into Scotland.”

  Mary Boleyn stared at Gavin as the raven-haired warrior drank down the remainder of the wine.

  “He saved your life,” she whispered.

  “It was more than that. Much more.” He looked up toward the narrow sliver of light that was squeezing its way through a small opening in the plank ceiling. “He gave me hope, a chance for a future. He showed me what courage is. The strength that comes with compassion. He taught me that brotherhood goes far beyond the ties of kinship.

  “And what took place on that bloody journey was only part of what Ambrose Macpherson has done for me. The greater part lay thereafter. I had lost my only family, my two elder brothers, the ones I loved and looked up to. I was a defeated warrior, and as my body healed, my mind’s desires dwelled on hate and loathing. Hate for others like the treasonous Highlanders and the bloody English. Loathing for myself.

  “But Ambrose changed all of that. He stayed by me as my legs began to work again. As I began to heal, he showed me that we must live out our lives, whatever our fate.” Gavin turned to Mary and smiled. “I know you wouldn’t think it, since I haven’t stopped talking since I met you, but I am an extremely reserved man. I shy away from people. If left to myself, I would just crawl under a rock and remain there. When I was a child, my father contemplated sending me to a cloister to become a monk.”

  Mary smiled, the tears still glistening on her cheeks.

  “I just can’t see that,” she replied quietly, watching him drifting off into a world long gone. She looked down at her hands. “Thank you, Gavin.”

  “For what? For boring you to death?”

  “Nay, for making me see.” Her eyes returned to his face. “So many times we only recognize the gallantry that occurs in the heat of battle. So often we are completely blind to the valor that takes place under our noses.”

  “You mean your brother?” he asked.

  She nodded slowly.

  “He is a fine man, Mary. Many might judge him hastily, based solely on his appearance. But I know they would be wrong. He might not be strong on the surface, but he has the spirit of ten warriors.” Gavin remembered how Phillipe had so fearlessly faced Ambrose, time and time again. “But the most important thing for you to know is that he loves you. That is apparent in everything that he does.”

  Gavin looked carefully into the pale woman’s expression before continuing. “You probably know that Ambrose had planned for you to be left behind at the monastery outside Marseilles until you became well enough to travel.” He saw her nod. “Well, you should have seen your brother. He raised hell. He was prepared to fight the baron if he didn’t agree to take you with us. He has spirit, Mary. Phillipe stands up for what he believes in. That’s real courage, if you ask me.”

  Mary leaned her head against the wooden hull. This was only a trifle compared to the things Elizabeth had done for her in her life. Gavin knew only the tiniest fraction of it. And Mary was beginning to see it all so clearly now. As if she were awakening from a deep and dreamless slumber, her eyes began to focus. Suddenly she could remember so many things. Recollect so clearly. Holy Mother, she prayed, forgive me for being so blind.

  Mary considered for a moment what life with her must be for Elizabeth. She was very sick, perhaps more so now than ever before. This time was different. Mary knew that there could be no getting better this time. The physician at the monastery at Marseilles had confirmed her fears. She was dying. She knew it, though no one else did. She couldn’t let Elizabeth know. Not yet.

  She never slept. For two weeks now, every night as she had lain awake in her bed thinking, seeing her past relived before her eyes, she had felt the sickness taking over her brain. And then during the days, she’d listened, watched Elizabeth sitting so supportively, so lovingly beside her. Her sister, the one who accepted her as she was, in spite of her flaws, her ailments, her complaining tongue. Elizabeth had remained at her side for years—constant, true. Elizabeth had always been there. Been there for her. But what had Mary ever done, ever given her in return? Nothing.

  Even sending Gavin—that had been Elizabeth’s doing. Mary knew she was far beyond hope. Her time for first love was far behind her now, and the past weeks had brought that message home clearly to her. But she was not devastated by the realization. And when Elizabeth had sent Gavin down to her, she had found a companionship such as she had never known before. A camaraderie that she had never even thought of seeking.

  But they had found that special relationship. They were friends. Other than Elizabeth, Mary had never even had a friend. But here they were. A man and a woman. Two people so different from one another. Two people who had gravitated toward each other’s company. That had been Elizabeth’s doing. Once again her sister had done that for her.

  Mary’s thoughts went back to the morning, when her sister had been beside her. She had not made any attempt to mask her complexion today. Even though Elizabeth still was dressed as a man, she had the undeniable freshness of a woman. And Mary knew the cause. Even from where she lay below decks, Mary could see the love that her sister carried for the Highlander. Elizabeth might not be ready to admit it to herself, but she was in love. In love with Ambrose Macpherson.

  And Mary also knew her sister would never do anything about that. As long as Mary herself lived, she knew her sister would sacrifice every chance of love and of happiness to take care of her. She knew nothing would stop Elizabeth from continuing to provide her with the care and the companionship as she had always had.

  Well, now it was Mary’s job to cut the ties. She had to think of something. Elizabeth deserved some happiness of her own.

  But first Mary wanted to see Jaime.

  “I’m not going, Mary!”

  “You are going,” the younger woman ordered. “How many times do you think you’ll have the opportunity to meet with the King of France?”

  “But I have been presented at court before. You know that, and—”

  “But never as an artist.” Mary’s voice shook with emotion. “Never as the painter all Europe is talking about. You have joined the top tier, Elizabeth. Your talent, your gift is finally being recognized. You deserve this attention. It is the moment artists work for their entire lives with only the slimmest hope of achieving. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Elizabeth let her head drop into her hands. “Nay. I don’t know!” The news that King Francis wanted to meet Phillipe de Anjou at the Constable of Champagne’s hunting lodge in the forest to the east of Troyes had caught her off guard. “I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what to do.”

  Ambrose’s soldier had hailed the barge from the riverside that morning. Word had gotten to the king of the Florentine painter’s commission with the Scottish royal family, and Francis wanted to greet this native son as he journeyed on to the north.

  “Please! For me, you should go,” Mary cajoled as Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at her. “This is an opportunity for me to live just a bit of it
once more, through your eyes, through your experience. When you get back, you can tell me of the people who were there, the way everyone dressed, the latest talk of court. Please, Elizabeth. Go!”

  Elizabeth stood and moved to the side of Mary’s bed. The younger sister opened her arms and Elizabeth fell into the embrace. The two hugged fiercely as they rocked gently in each other’s arms.

  Mary was changing. Elizabeth could see it, feel it in her heart. It had been three weeks. Three weeks on the barges, traveling the rivers. With each passing day, Elizabeth had seen her sister strengthen in her affection toward those around her...while her body visibly withered. So many times Elizabeth had questioned her own judgment in making this journey. But it was too late.

  “I can’t see how I could—”

  “Elizabeth—” Mary pulled back to look into her sister’s eyes—“I heard you and Erne whispering about my health last night.” At seeing her older sister’s protest, Mary hushed her gently. “Please understand, my love. For once, I am living my life the way I should have lived it all along. I am happy.” She paused. “I know I am dying, and I know that all of you can see it, as well. But it’s strange, Elizabeth, because I really don’t mind the thought of it.” She held her sister’s soft face in her hands. “And I want no sorrow or tears from anyone. I’ve had a full life, and I was given a chance to...well, to correct it by coming on this journey.”

  Mary gathered Elizabeth in her arms once again. “But, God forbid, most of all I want no deathwatch around me. I want to live to the last day—to the last breath. And I’ll be here, I promise you. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back. Go on this trip, Elizabeth. It will be good for me. Please.”

  Elizabeth lay her head against her sister’s shoulder.

  “And perhaps,” Mary whispered smilingly in her sister’s ear—she knew she needed to press her advantage now—“It would be good for you and Ambrose to be away from the rest of us for a few days. You two deserve some time alone. Just the two of you.”

  Elizabeth, color spreading like fire through her face, drew back momentarily from the sick woman’s embrace and stared at her. She hadn’t expected this.

  “Do you think I don’t see the way you feel about him? Come, now, my love. It’s branded on your face anytime he comes anywhere near. Even anytime his name comes up. It is right there in your eyes.”

  Elizabeth looked away. Truly, she hardly knew how to hide—or deny—her feelings for him. Feelings that were growing more and more obvious with each passing day. How could she stop the way her blood pounded in her veins when he’d look at her in a certain way? Or the way her skin burned when he chanced to brush against her? Indeed, she knew she could hardly ignore the way her throat knotted when she’d seen him crouching so attentively beside Jaime while the little child showed the baron how her kitten’s claws worked. It was difficult for Elizabeth to explain, even to herself, why tears had welled up in her eyes watching the Highlander unpin the broach on his tartan to show the little girl his family’s coat of arms—a cat with outstretched claws sitting atop a decorated shield.

  Elizabeth’s heart and mind struggled as the desire to follow the path of love, if for only just this time, pulled hard against the sense of responsibility she felt for her sister.

  “Such foolishness, Mary,” she scolded, hugging her sister to her once again. But even to herself, the words of denial sounded feeble, at best.

  The two women pulled apart and turned as the door of the cabin open lightly on its hinges. D’Or, the yellow kitten Jaime had named for its golden fur, was the first thing they saw as it leaped into the middle of the room. Then, behind her, the shadow of the little girl followed the animal in.

  “D'Or wanted to visit,” Jaime whispered shyly from the entryway.

  Mary opened her arms as the young girl ran in and threw herself into the mother’s embrace. Elizabeth choked back her tears. She loved them so much. Both of them. So many years she had hoped, she had prayed for this to happen. At last. Thank you, Virgin Mother. At last.

  Elizabeth stood up from the bunk and started for the door. They needed as much time as they could have together, to make up for those years.

  “Elizabeth!”

  She turned at the sound of her sister’s voice.

  “Take that satchel with you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Something for you,” Mary whispered, her face aglow. “Something for your little trip. And Elizabeth...” She waited until her sister’s attention was fixed on her. “You are going. Today.”

  “I don’t think leaving you—”

  Mary interrupted her, nestling her chin in Jaime’s hair. Her eyes glowed with affection as she gazed into Elizabeth’s face. “Believe it or not, we can do without you for a couple of days.” The younger sister smiled happily and turned playfully to her daughter as she spoke. “Besides, Gavin has already told me he won’t be going with you. He’ll be staying with us. So you see, you don’t have anything to worry about. We’ll see you in Troyes. Gavin said we’ll dock there and enjoy the market fair while we wait for you. I’ve always wanted to see the market fair at Troyes.”

  Elizabeth hesitated another moment, but her sister’s gaze was direct.

  “I need this, my love,” Mary said quietly. “We both need to live every moment we have left. Give us both this time.”

  Chapter 21

  Frenchmen are as blind as Florentines, Ambrose thought, still somewhat stunned and hardly amused as he and Elizabeth rode along. If the armies of these two powers meet on the battlefield, he surmised, they’d better do so on a very sunny day...or they’ll march right by one another.

  The sojourn to the encampment of King Francis had involved an unexpected change in plans. Originally they were to travel to a hunting lodge in the forest to the east of the town, but that was not to be. Disembarking from the ferry on the east side of the river at Bar-sur-Seine, Ambrose and Elizabeth had been met by an emissary of the king, and they’d been escorted to the well-traveled highway that led eastward toward the Marne River and, eventually, to Geneva and Italy.

  There, in a pavilion of cloth of gold that shimmered in the bright morning sun, the two travelers found King Francis trying on hats made by the craftsmen of Troyes, while twenty thousand armed men eagerly awaited his royal word to get on with their invasion of Italy.

  And, to Ambrose’s utter amazement, no one even guessed that Elizabeth was anyone—anything—but Phillipe de Anjou.

  The painters that the king had brought with him to record his anticipated triumphs over the Emperor Charles’s forces were uncommunicative, but grudgingly compliant when Elizabeth reluctantly agreed to the king’s request to do a portrait of him as he sat in armor at a camp table, the maps of conquest spread before him, chatting with Ambrose about his route. Working quickly—a skill the artist had honed through her extensive experience painting on rapidly drying plaster—Elizabeth created a treasure that won the praises of even the most reserved critic with its elegant structure, masterly brushwork, and astonishing display of color.

  The entire visit was extraordinary, in Ambrose’s view, but dining with the king would have been an ordeal for both painter and baron. Ambrose knew that, once ensconced in the dinner conversation with the French king, he would have been expected to elaborate in great detail on the results of his visit with the Pope in Rome, and with Don Giovanni in Florence. And, Ambrose knew all too well, any involvement with Francis meant certain entanglement in more political intrigue. So the Highlander had been delighted when Elizabeth, professing sudden illness, had requested to be excused of His Majesty’s gracious presence. Receiving a small bag of gold as a reward for his “wonderful work, and the honor he was bringing on France,” Phillipe de Anjou had bowed his way out of the pavilion of the king, and the Highlander had joined in the escape.

  They had not needed an escort back. Ambrose had assured all parties of that. So they rode in the golden light of the late afternoon sun, winding their way along the edge of the great f
orest east of Troyes.

  Elizabeth grabbed her hat and yanked it off her head. She shook her hair loose in the light, early summer breeze. Her horse cantered easily behind the massive charger and its silent rider.

  Before they had left the camp of the king, the Highlander had changed back into his Scottish gear, and Elizabeth gazed on him admiringly. His broadsword hung across his back, and his tartan’s colors shone brightly in the evening light.

  Ambrose Macpherson would cut a dashing figure in any company, she thought proudly. And every word he spoke, often so charged with his own wit, had been heeded very carefully by King Francis and his advisers.

  Elizabeth wondered whether anyone had caught her gazing at him during their visit at the camp.

  The painter tore her eyes away from him and looked around at the serene countryside. So beautiful, she thought. She glanced back at the baron and then out again at the rolling fields of flax. All the years she had lived in France, all those years growing up, she had never seen nor traveled in this land east of the Seine.

  “You know these parts well,” she called out, watching his back. He had hardly said a word since leaving the French king’s camp. “Thank you for taking me back a different way. I don’t know when I would have had an opportunity to see these parts again.”

  Elizabeth waited for him to turn around, to slow his horse, to acknowledge her words—but he never did.

  She kicked her heels into the side of her horse, urging him on. Reining in at the side of the nobleman, she looked carefully at his grave expression. “What have I done now?”

  Ambrose paused, then turned and returned her gaze. “Guilty conscience?”

  “Nay,” she said matter-of-factly, rising to the challenge in his tone. “This is just my advance movement prior to an attack on your cranky disposition.”