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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.
Mary seemed amused. And her smile deepened when she saw Gwenyth. “Ah, my fierce little hummingbird,” she said laughing. “Ready to battle the entire Church of Scotland in my defense.”
Gwenyth stopped in the doorway, frowning. How had word gotten back so quickly?
Mary rose, setting her embroidery aside, and walked forward to hug Gwenyth. “I will miss you so dearly,” she said, drawing away but still holding Gwenyth’s hands.
“I needn’t go,” Gwenyth said.
“Yes, you must,” Mary said. She flashed a glance at James. “Perhaps it is particularly important that you leave now.”
“I but defended Your Grace,” Gwenyth said.
“You are ever loyal, and I am grateful. I, too, am furious with the zealots who are so blind that they cannot see beyond their own narrow interests. But were I to forcibly silence them, I might well create an uprising, so I will just let them speak and hope to create a climate in which they are forced to silence themselves. Now, are you ready for your journey? Are you anxious to see your home?”
No, Gwenyth thought, she was not. She had neither father nor mother left to her, only a strict, dour uncle to whom duty meant everything in the world. Her home was a crude rock fortress virtually surrounded by the sea. The people there fished, eeled and tended a few rugged sheep for their livelihood, or eked out a living from the harsh, rocky earth. Usually they were happy. They had families, loved ones. In her uncle’s eyes, however, she deserved no such frivolity; she had duty to occupy her. Angus MacLeod was surely loved by the fierce John Knox.
“I am anxious about you, Your Grace,” she said.
Mary’s smile deepened. “I am blessed, truly. You must go.”
Gwenyth admitted to herself that she was not going to win the argument. Rowan had known it. Now she was going to have to hurry to be ready by his deadline. And she would not allow herself to be late, to give him any opportunity to wear that look of irritated, forced patience because of her.
“Then…adieu.”
“You’ll return quickly,” Mary assured her. “It seems long, but it will not really be so.”
Gwenyth nodded. They hugged, and then she was startled when Laird James came over to say a warm farewell to her. He was not a man prone to easy displays of affection, she knew, and she was pleased when he awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Go with God, Lady Gwenyth. You will be missed.”
She smiled and thanked him. Then she fled the chamber before the tears she felt welling up in her eyes could spill. This was life, she told herself brusquely. When Mary had been but a child, she had been sent overseas, without her mother, to meet the man she would wed whether she liked him or not. Women were sent from place to place constantly to honor marriage contracts—and often, it was as if they had been sold to horrid beasts.
Her heart froze for a moment. Customarily, despite the fact that her father’s title was hers, her great-uncle Angus had the power to decide her future. She could only thank God that because of her position at court, Mary had to approve any plan for her life.
Mary would never force anything heinous upon her. Would she?
No. Even now, Mary had but sent her on a journey to feel out the chance for a friendship with her cousin, the powerful English queen. She had never forced her will on any of her ladies.
Except now. Then Gwenyth chided herself for the uncharitable, even traitorous, thought.
In her room, the little private chamber she so loved, she found a middle-aged, slightly stout woman awaiting her. She had cherubic cheeks, a warm smile and an ample bosom. “My lady, I’m Annie, Annie MacLeod, actually, though any relationship is certainly quite distant.” She grinned, a rosy and cheerful expression, and said, “I am to accompany you and serve you, if you will grant me the honor.”
Gwenyth smiled. At last, here was someone who seemed to be nothing but cheerful and nice—and glad to be with her.
“I am delighted to have you, Annie.”
“I’ve sent your trunk down to our small caravan. I am ready, my lady, when you are.”
So this was it.
She had dressed for the long day’s ride when she had headed to the kirk, expecting to leave feeling refreshed and blessed by the word of God. Instead…No matter, will it or nil it, she was ready.
“Annie, it is time. We need to be on our way.”
She closed the door to her sanctuary within Holyrood. It was with a heavy heart that she hurried down the stone stairs and out to the courtyard where the packhorses, the small retinue of guards—and Laird Rowan—awaited.
AT LEAST THE LADY GWENYTH was not an elderly or sickly ward, Rowan thought. On his own, he could easily make fifty miles in a day. If he’d had to move with a coach and a great deal of baggage, he would have been slowed almost to a stop. As it was, the Lady Gwenyth had shown herself pleasantly capable of packing lightly. The cheerful woman chosen to accompany her was far greater a burden, actually, albeit through no fault of her own. She was a decent enough horsewoman, comfortable on her placid mount, but as she had not spent endless hours in the saddle before, Rowan was forced to stop regularly so they might stretch their legs, sup and rest.
On his own, he might have made Stirling on that first day. With the women, he thought it best to spend his first night at Linlithgow Palace, which sat almost midway between Edinburgh and Stirling.
At the gates, he was greeted by an armed guard, recognized and welcomed. The castle steward, knowing Gwenyth’s name and position, was both curious and charmed. Though they had arrived late, he and Gwenyth were ushered into the massive great hall, while their four-man escort was shown to berths above the stables, and Annie and his man were brought to the kitchen to eat and then given beds in the servants’ quarters. He and Gwenyth stayed awake talking with the steward, Amos MacAlistair, for the robust fellow was fond of telling how Queen Mary had been born at the palace, though alas her father had died just six days later. Rowan watched Gwenyth as she listened, rapt, smiling, as the old man talked about Mary as an infant. Rowan decided the day had gone well—especially considering the morning. He and Gwenyth had kept a polite distance for the long ride, and he hoped they could keep moving on in similar harmony.
The next evening was equally fine, for they were greeted by the steward of Stirling Castle, and accorded equal consideration and respect. Gwenyth seemed to love Stirling, and, indeed, the castle was impressive and the town beautiful. People whispered about their arrival in the streets; Gwenyth smiled as she saw the townsfolk, calling out greetings. She was, he had to admit, a charming unofficial ambassador for her queen, even here.
It wasn’t until the next afternoon, when they were on their way to the Highlands, that the journey took a foul turn.
They had come to the small village of Loch Grann, though the loch was really no more than a small pool. As they rode along, nearing the village, they could hear shouting.
Gwenyth, who had ridden abreast with Annie most of the way, trotted her mare forward to reach his side. “What is the commotion?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
She kneed her horse and rode ahead of him.
“Will you wait?” he called in aggravation.
Following Gwenyth, he passed several charming cottages, a kirk and the unimpressive building that passed as the thane’s manor here, and then reached the village center, where a narrow stream trickled through.
Gwenyth had reined in, horror evident on her face.
He immediately saw why. The shouting was coming from a mob of townspeople, urged on by what appeared to the local thane’s men-at-arms. The object of their derision was a young woman bound to a stake, with faggots and branches piled at her feet. She was stripped down to a white gown of sheer linen; her long dark tresses were in sad tangles; and the look on her face was one of utter defeat and anguish.
“They are going to burn her!” Gwenyth exclaimed in horror.
“She has probably been convicted of witchcraft, or perhaps of heresy,” Rowan informed her.
She looked at him, those immense golden eyes of her alive with indignation. “Do you believe in such ridiculousness?” she demanded.
“I believe that even your precious queen believes in it,” he said softly.
“But…tried here?” she demanded. “Not in Edinburgh? By what law? Whose law?”
“Local, I daresay.”
“Then you must stop them.”
He had to wonder what he would have done had she not been with him. He was frequently appalled by the harshness of the Scottish laws. As a lad, he had seen a young man hanged at St. Giles in Edinburgh, his crime no greater than the theft of a leg of lamb. His father had told him sadly then that such was the law; he could not stop the execution.
He did not believe in superstition, or that certain women had the evil eye, and before God, he certainly did not believe it was possible to make a pact with the Devil. But there were laws….
“Do something!” Gwenyth cried. “Please, Rowan, they are about to light the fires.”
