Shannon Drake - The Queen's Lady

“I fear you set a task before me that I may not be adequate to achieve,” Gwenyth said.

“I ask of you what I can ask of no other person. Gwenyth, it will not be for so long. A few weeks in the Highlands, a few weeks journeying south, perhaps a month in London, and then you will return. You are perfect for what must be done. I am not expecting an official reply from Elizabeth. I am seeking merely to lay groundwork for the future, for all that the ministers and ambassadors hope to accomplish.”

“What if I fail you?”

“You will not,” Mary said, and that was that.

They were due to leave after services on Sunday.

Mary had already informed Laird Rowan of her intent, something that, Gwenyth was certain, sorely aggravated him, as well. Surely he could not welcome the task of being responsible for her safety. Her determination to attend two services, both the Catholic Mass and her own Protestant rite, was intended at least in part to irritate him, as it would no doubt make their departure later than he had intended.

However, her plans went immediately astray.

She had wisely known she mustn’t attend the great kirk in Edinburgh where the fiery John Knox was the preacher, so she rode out with several other Protestant members of Mary’s court to the smaller, very plain chapel that lay just a few miles to the southwest of the city.

The minister’s name was David Donahue; he was a man of about fifty, and appeared to be soft spoken and gentle. But as he began his sermon, Gwenyth knew that she was in trouble. He was what the Marys laughingly called a pounder.

From the moment he began his vindictive tirade against the taint of Papists in the land, he was pounding his lectern. And he stared straight at Gwenyth as he did so. Then he pointed at her.

“Those who worship false idols are blasphemers! They live in blasphemy, and they are like a curse upon this land. They are akin to the witches who call upon dark evil and rancor and death.”

Shocked at first, Gwenyth sat still. But as his words reverberated, she stood.

She pointed at him in return, seething with fury. Her mind seemed to be moving at a maddened pace; she wanted to choose her words carefully, but that proved impossible, for she was inwardly burning, as if she were about to combust.

“Those who believe that God is their friend, and their friend alone, who dare to think He whispers what is right and wrong in their ears alone, they are the taint upon this land. None of us knows for a fact what His divine purpose may be. Those who condemn others and see no fault in themselves, they are dangerous and evil. When a land is blessed with a monarch who sees clearly that no one will know God until called before Him, who wants to allow her people to see goodness as they will, then the inhabitants of that land should bow down and be grateful. Sometimes, I fear, it may well be a pity that she is so kind and wise that no blood will be spilled.”

After she finished speaking, she stared at him for a moment longer, then swung around and stumbled over her neighbors in her haste to exit the pew.

The whole congregation reacted with shocked silence. She felt it keenly as she walked with as much dignity as she could muster down the aisle.

Just as she was about to exit the church, she froze, for fierce pounding was coming from the podium once again.

“Satan’s witch!” the reverend bellowed.

She turned. “I’m very sorry you think so, reverend, for you have impressed me as being a servant of Satan yourself,” she said with far more calm than she felt.

“This will stop now!”

Gwenyth was stunned when she saw Laird Rowan Graham rise from a pew toward the front of the church. He stared at the reverend, then at her. “There will no casting of vindictive accusations by any party within this house of God. Reverend Donahue, speak to our souls, but do not let the pulpit become your venue for personal attack or political arousal. Lady Gwenyth—”

“He attacked the queen!” she raged.

“And he will no longer do so,” Rowan declared. He turned back to the reverend. “Our queen shows nothing but tolerance for other beliefs and encourages the Scottish Kirk. She has asked only to be left to cleave to the religion she has known since a child. She will never tell others what they must feel or believe in their hearts. Let us respect her mind and steadfastness, and worry about our own souls.”

Gwenyth could only imagine how all the parishioners would be talking that evening. At the moment, however, they were all simply sitting, shocked and perhaps a bit excited, as they awaited the next lines of the scandalous scene unfolding before them.

But the show was over, Gwenyth thought with relief, as she virtually stumbled out into the day. Amazingly, the sun was shining.

She hurried along the broken stepping stones that led from the church and wound between the long rows of graves, both ancient and new. At the low wall that enclosed the church-yard, she paused, grasping the stone for support, gasping for breath.

The next thing she knew, brisk footsteps were heading her way. She looked up and saw without surprise that Rowan had followed her from the church.

“What the hell were you doing in there?” he demanded heatedly.

“What was I doing?” she repeated incredulously. “Reverend Donahue was attacking your queen.”

“And many ministers throughout the land will be doing so for some time to come. She is a Catholic. When Scots embrace something, they do so with a reckless abandon, and such is their feeling now for the church that bears their country’s name. You are but adding flame to a fire that already burns far too high. You attend Mass with the queen, then come to this church.”

“I have chosen the Protestant faith,” she said indignantly. “I attend Mary when she goes to Mass because I am sworn to accompany her wherever she goes.”

“She would understand if you did not.”

“It would show a lack of support for her choice.”

“You would show that you honor hers but have made your own.”

“You’re telling me every man, woman and child in this country is a Protestant?” she said. “So suddenly? It is but a year since the edict went through. What are we, then, sheep? Does no one think for him or herself? This morning we honored the Church of Rome. Tonight we honor that of Scotland. Tomorrow, good God, will we begin worshiping the goat gods of the ancient past? You, Laird Rowan, did nothing to speak up in defense of the queen.”

He folded his arms over his chest, staring down at her and shaking his head. “Do you think I have the power to force people to change their minds? Should I have demanded to meet an elderly white-haired preacher in the churchyard for a duel?”

“You should have spoken up.”

“And added fuel to his fire? Don’t you see? He wants a fight. If you ignore those who would degrade Queen Mary, you give them nothing with which to support their savage anger.”

“He pointed at me,” she said through clenched teeth.

“You should have listened quietly and pretended to find his words unworthy of response.”

“I can’t do that,” she said flatly.

“Then it is good that we are leaving.”

“Are you such a coward, then?” she asked, still seething as she looked up to meet his eyes.

She saw them narrow with a fury he nevertheless controlled. “I am not young, and I am not reckless. I know the mood of the people. I know that trying to silence a minister at his pulpit will only make him cry the louder, and his cries will then enter into the souls of his congregation, for they will believe his words. Your outburst will be seen only as proof of what he said. There are others inside who would have spoken later, quietly and with thought. They—and I—would have said the queen is proving herself to be a font of kindness, justice and the deepest concern for her people. Our measured words would have echoed far more resoundingly and effectively than your angry retort.”

She looked away. “He called me a witch. How dare he?”

Rowan sighed deeply. “If we can all rise above what is said by those who seek to disrupt the country with their own fanaticism, all will end as it should. The queen will not be swayed from her stance, I am certain. And, yes, there are other Catholics in the country—that is what angers men like the reverend. They fear there will be a revolt, an uprising.” He hesitated. “Pray God, Mary does not continue her quest for a marriage with Don Carlos of Spain.”

Gwenyth stared at him, deeply troubled. She had thought Mary’s contemplation of marriage to the Spanish heir was not known—even by James Stewart. She shook her head. “She has stated that she believes a union with a Protestant in her own country would be best.”

“Let us pray, then, that such all alliance comes to pass. It will be best, however, if she establishes her own rule first. Now, there is your horse,” he said, pointing. “Let us return to Holyrood, then depart for the Highlands.”

He caught her hand and led her to her mare, Chloe—who had indeed headed back to the stables after the ill-fated hunt. She might have chosen another mount after what had happened, but Gwenyth was resolute that she and Chloe would become a team. She could hardly blame the horse for its fear; the boar had certainly given her cause for terror, as well.

She didn’t need assistance to reach the saddle, but as he was determined to give it, she decided not to opt for another argument.

“You did not defend me or the queen,” she accused him again, as he mounted and rode up beside her.

“I defended you both,” he told her curtly. “I am responsible for you.”

“You do not have to be responsible for me. I am quite capable of being responsible for myself.”

She was surprised when he offered her an amused smile. “Really? In that case, I think perhaps you are a witch.”

“Don’t say that!”

He laughed. “It was intended as a compliment—of sorts. You have the ability to sway and enchant—and certainly to create a whirlwind.”

He kneed his horse, moving ahead of her. She seethed, wishing she could drag the reverend out by his hair and tell him that he was small-minded and evil. She was equally angry at Rowan, and dismayed that she must now be in his company for days. Weeks.

Months.

“I think I should speak with Queen Mary once more before we depart,” she said as they reached Holyrood.

“Oh?”

“We shall surely kill one another in the time that stretches before us. I must ask her again to release me from your company.”

“Do your best,” he told her. “It certainly slows me down to have you in tow.”

It was true, and she knew it. It didn’t matter. Something about the offhand way he spoke made her long to rip his hair out.

“You could speak to her, too,” she reminded him.

“I tried.”

“You didn’t try hard enough.”

“Lady Gwenyth, I have been on this earth several years longer than you. I know how to go to battle, with a sword—and with words. I have learned when it is best to retreat, so that battle may be waged again. I’ve studied the history of this country that I love so dearly. I am not reckless, and I know when to fight. I have lost my argument with the queen. You are free to take up arms again. I, however, wish to be gone within the hour,” he told her.

Gwenyth tried. She found Mary in the small receiving chamber, where James was reporting to her about the sermon Knox had given that day. The man hadn’t accepted her or her ideals, but he had admitted from his pulpit that she was keenly intelligent and clever—misguided, and therefore still a thorn in the country’s side, but a ruler they must ever try to sway to the True Belief.