Shannon Drake - The Queen's Lady

A strange searing pain suddenly tore at his heart. Strange, for he had long ago accepted the tragedy of his own situation. He could not forget, would never truly heal. Yet he could not deny the carnal reality of his nature, though he allowed it free rein only when circumstances conspired to provide an acceptable mixture of time, place and partner. This girl in the queen’s retinue was never to be taken lightly, and therefore…

Never to be taken at all.

He should keep his distance, yet he smiled as he recalled the joys of debating with her. She was far too amusing. Far too tempting.

Her eyes met his suddenly, and she didn’t flush or look away. She gazed at him instead with defiance. Understandable, given that he had dared to express his wariness about this homecoming. A homecoming that, he was forced to admit, was going exceptionally well, at least so far. He was surprised to find himself the first to look away, and to cover his feelings, he rode forward, nearer to James Stewart. Nearer to Queen Mary. The people continued to boisterously cheer her, but….

He would be the last to deny that there were fanatics in Scotland, and he was relieved when the queen’s party at last reached Holyrood Palace.

Perhaps appearances could be trusted and the queen was going to be accepted and loved—maybe even revered and adored. He didn’t understand the deep feeling of dread that had settled over him when the day dawned for the young queen to arrive. Lord James, her half brother and, in essence, ruler of Scotland, had seemed pleased enough that his sister had been bound for home. Having accompanied James to France, Rowan had met her briefly already. She had been everything a country could long for in a monarch—elegant, poised and tactful. She was also beautiful, and her unusual height simply added to the impressiveness of her appearance. He simply found it worrying that she had spent virtually her entire life in France.

He himself had nothing against the French. He found their nobles’ more than occasional slurs against the Scots to be amusing—and almost complimentary. Yes, theirs was a remote and rugged landscape. Yes, there were those among the Highland lords who were not only rightfully proud but fierce. They were not a dandified people, were fighters more often than courtiers, but their hearts were strong and true. And he knew that when his people accepted a belief into their hearts, they did it without stinting. Such was the case now, with the Protestant cause.

And the queen was Catholic.

He laid no blame upon her for that; in fact, he admired her loyalty. She had spent her life living with the God of the Catholic Church. She was constant in her beliefs. Throughout the years of his own life, he had seen far too much brutality committed in the name of religion.

Elizabeth now held the throne of England, herself a Protestant monarch. But though the Queen of England was judicious, not one to order executions lightly, she was not afraid of doing what must be done. Against the odds, she had created a realm in which no one needed to die for choosing to worship in his own way.

But here in Scotland, it had been only a year since the fever of Protestantism had taken hold, and Rowan knew his people. What they embraced, they embraced with abandon. He could not help but dread what was to come.

When they at last arrived at Holyrood Palace, he felt some of his forebodings ease away. Holyrood was magnificent. Set outside the city walls of Edinburgh, it was surrounded by magnificent vistas and delightful forests. Holyrood had been established as a tower, but in the days of the queen’s father, it had been extended and improved upon in the style of the Scottish Renaissance. French masons had been brought in to do much of the work. Rowan thought proudly that Holyrood rivaled many a continental palace. Both Holyrood itself and the neighboring abbey had been burnt seventeen years earlier by the English, but in the years since, everything had been lovingly restored.

He saw Queen Mary’s face as they arrived, and was glad to see her obvious pleasure at the sight of her new home as Scotland’s queen. She had been nothing since her arrival but tactful and diplomatic, but he himself had played the game of diplomacy for many a year, and he knew that her delight in seeing the palace was genuine.

Rowan noticed that Gwenyth was anxiously watching the queen, as well, and he diverted his attention from the monarch and directed it toward the maid.

The Lady Gwenyth was an enigma. It was evident in her words and manner that she did not take her position in the queen’s court lightly; she seemed to feel something for Mary that was precious even among kings and queens: real friendship. And yet here she was clearly no fool. She had not been gone long from the country of her birth and, though she loved Scotland dearly, she could not help but be aware, as the queen who had been so long away could not be, of the dangers here, perhaps more aware than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

The steward and servants assembled in the courtyard as Queen Mary and her noble entourage arrived, activity tempered by awe as the household staff awaited a greeting from their queen and mistress. Mary did not fail them. Once again, Rowan had to admire her charisma and character, for she remained every inch a queen while offering courtesy and even affection. Lord James took charge of his half sister, leaving the others of lesser station to discover their quarters for themselves, leading to a state of some confusion. He heard several among the French escort muttering with relief that the palace seemed to offer surprisingly comfortable accommodation, while clearly lamenting the lack of art, music and poetry in this sadly uncultured land.

“Rowan?”

He heard his name familiarly spoken and turned. Laird James Stewart was at his sister’s side, glancing Rowan’s way in question. Rowan nodded, aware that the northwest tower had been chosen for the establishment of the royal apartments, and that his help was being requested.

“Ladies of the court, if you will…” he suggested.

With a nod to one of the housekeepers, he led Mary’s ladies toward their apartments. There was a great deal of tittering and whispering in French as he walked ahead. He shook his head, amazed that they weren’t knowledgeable enough to realize that many Scottish nobles were well-versed in the language. He was well aware that they were discussing his attire and his derriere, and speculating as to what might lie beneath the wool of his kilt.

He chafed a bit at their company, his interest lying far more in the manner with which Mary conducted herself with both staff and statesmen. He was unsure whether even James was aware of these first hours as the queen was duly greeted and settled in Holyrood.

As he showed the ladies the magnificence of the palace, and pointed out where the queen’s quarters, as well as their own, would be, the Marys flirted with him. They were lovely and charming, cheerful and full of life—and yet, he knew, as chaste as their young mistress now was in her widowhood. One day these ladies would marry well, with the approval of their families, but for now they simply longed to have fun, as was natural at their age. He did his best to be gallant to them in turn.

There was, however, one among their group who did not laugh and certainly did not flirt. She simply followed and listened in silence. The Lady Gwenyth.

He knew she was watching him, and he had to secretly smile at that knowledge, even though he knew she was wary, that she did not trust him. He was quite certain she did not give a damn what might lie beneath his kilt. She disliked him intensely—or thought she did.

“Are you happy with your situation?” he asked her at last, having shown the women the way to their chambers. “Will you be able to discover your way?” The hallways were long, the layout complicated, though certainly nothing when compared with some of the grander palaces of France. Still, they were arriving in a new home and might feel some confusion.

“I believe we can manage just fine on our own,” she assured him.

He had noticed that she seemed to hold herself slightly apart from the other women, which was, perhaps, natural. She hadn’t left Scotland as a child, as so many sons and daughters of Scotland had, the bonds with France having been long established. Many noble sons of Scotland attended school in France. Trade between the two countries flourished.

She stared at him now through narrowed eyes, her expression deeply distrustful. And yet so beautiful, as well, he could not help but think. She was well-spoken, certainly well-read and, despite her words, he believed that she shared his concerns for the queen’s safety. At the same time, despite her intelligence and dagger-sharp wit, there was an air of naiveté about her.

He stepped away from her now, nodding curtly in acknowledgment of what amounted to a dismissal. Striding the length of the hall, anxious to return to James and the new queen, he found himself pausing to look out a window.

From his vantage point, he could see the great stone edifice of Edinburgh Castle. The sky was as gray as the castle’s stone, the recent weather having been wet and cold, and mist, a common enough occurrence, had settled around the stark battlements. There was a tinge of mauve in the gray, lovely to one who knew this as home. Foreboding, perhaps, for those accustomed to blue skies. He shifted his gaze to the Royal Mile, a fine thoroughfare offering shops that sold goods from around the world. Holyrood was a fine palace, Edinburgh a fine city. Surely the queen would find much to love here and in her people, people who had cheered for her arrival.

Perhaps he was being too defensive, worrying for naught. And yet…He knew that many members of Queen Mary’s French escort mocked this land. It was cold, they said. Hard, like the unyielding, rugged rock of Edinburgh Castle. French shops were finer, French palaces far more beautiful—even if French laborers had worked on Holyrood.

Rowan forced himself to look on his city as others might see it. In the gray, foreboding day, the castle rose like a bleak and terrible fortress. The people themselves were as rough and hard.

Rock versus marble. Wool versus silk.

He gritted his teeth. They simply needed time. Time would bring the changes the young queen and her entourage needed.

The ties Scotland had shared with France were long-lived and strong. And yet….

No alliance was founded purely on friendship. Both the Scots and the French had fought the English, and that shared enmity had made them allies, even friends. But friendship was so often only on the surface, easily broken when more selfish needs intruded. And therein lay the dilemma.

What really simmered beneath the deeper waters of that alliance now that the French-raised queen had come home?

“I AM EXHAUSTED,” MARY sighed, throwing herself onto the bed in her chamber. She stared up at the ceiling and laughed softly, sounding for a moment like any young woman. “Actually, this is quite lovely,” she said, surveying the room. She rolled to stare at Gwenyth, who was standing nearby. “It is, isn’t it?” she whispered, and Gwenyth knew she was missing France.

“It is magnificent,” Gwenyth assured her.

Mary leaned back on the bed again. “Crowns,” she murmured. “They do weigh heavily.”

“My queen—” Gwenyth began.

Mary rose to a sitting position, shaking her head. “For now, I beg of you, please drop the formality. We are alone, and I must trust in you. You’ve not been gone so long from here, and you’re not after any reward, nor testing me, weighing me. Use my given name, as if we were nothing more than a pair of friends. For you truly are my friend, and that is what I need now.”