The Queen's Lady

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.”

“Hold, and watch at the ready,” he told Gavin, head of their escort.

She had never before called him by his given name, Rowan realized, and in her eyes there was nothing but honest and sincere entreaty. Emotions, he thought; they become the downfall of us all.

He spurred his horse forward, a display of power as he raced through the townspeople to confront the churchmen. “What is this mockery of justice?” he demanded angrily. “What right have you to impose the sentence of execution?”

As he had hoped, the size and evident breeding of his horse and the colors he wore indicated his association with the royal house. Most of the crowd fell back in silence, but one black-clad minister stepped toward him. “I am reverend of the kirk here, my laird. She has been duly tried and found guilty.”

“Duly tried? What manner of court do you have here? Is it authorized by the queen?” Rowan demanded.

“It was a local matter,” the man protested.

He looked around. The crowd had remained silent. The only sound came from the young woman at the stake, who was sobbing softly.

“Release her,” he said quietly.

“But…but she has been tried.”

“By no proper court. In a matter of life and death, according to the dictates of both law and conscience, my good man, you surely know you should seek higher authority.”

The pastor looked more closely at Rowan, noted his colors and the presence of his armed escort, and took a small step back. “You are Rowan Graham, Laird of the Far Isles?” he asked uneasily.

“Aye. Sworn to the Stewarts of Scotland.”

The pastor arched a brow. “The French Stewart?”

“The Queen of Scotland. And I have long ridden at the side of James Stewart, Earl of Mar, the greatest law of our land, our regent following the death of the queen’s mother.”

A woman stepped forward. She was middle-aged and stout, and despite the set look of her jaw, he felt sorry for her. She was worn, looking to be a bitter woman whose life had held little joy.

“Ye do nae understand, great laird. She looked at me. Liza Duff looked at me and gave me her evil stare, and my pig died the next day,” the woman said.

A man found courage and joined her. “My babe took sick with the cough after Liza Duff looked at me.”

“Did no one else look at you?” he queried sharply. “Good people! Life is God’s domain. Do you so easily feel it your right, without seeking the highest authority in the land, to condemn any woman or man to so heinous a death because misfortune has befallen you?”

He reached into his sporran, seeking a few gold coins, which he cast down before the two who had spoken. “Buy more pigs,” he said to the embittered matron. “And you,” he told the man. “Perhaps there is some medicine that you can buy.”

They scrambled for the gold coins, clutching them. The pastor stared at him.

Gwenyth rode forward, staring down at the pastor before turning to Rowan. “She cannot remain here,” she said. “If she is so despised,” she said softly, “they will take your gold, then try her again tomorrow, and we will only have delayed her execution.”

She was right.

He looked down again at the pastor. “I will bring this woman, Liza Duff, to my homestead, where she may serve in my household. Should we find there is truth in your accusations, she will be brought to Edinburgh to stand trial before the proper authority.”

He wasn’t sure he needed to have added the last; his gold and status seemed to have turned the tide in their direction.

“That sounds a fair and solid proposition. She will no longer be here to torment the tenants of this village,” the churchman said.

“See her brought down,” Rowan said. “Now.”

“And,” Gwenyth added quietly, “see that she is given a decent dress for traveling, and I believe we will need a horse.”

Rowan stared at her, surprised but also amused.

The pastor began to protest. “We’re to pay to see that a witch lives?”

“Laird Rowan has just cast before you a sum more than ample to purchase a horse and a few pieces of clothing,” Gwenyth said pleasantly. “Even after purchasing many pigs and the services of a decent physician.”

There was silence. Then the men nearest the pyre set about releasing the young woman from the stake.

As the ropes holding her upright were released, she started to fall. Gwenyth was instantly off her horse, racing forward. While the men might have handled her roughly, had they deigned to help her at all, Gwenyth showed an admirable strength mixed with gentleness, allowing the young woman to lean against her as she moved back to the horses. She looked up at Rowan. “She can’t ride alone. And we need to be on our way, I believe.”

Before someone changes his mind.

He could see the last in her eyes, though she did not speak the words aloud.

“A horse,” he said firmly. “For when she regains her strength. And clothing.”

A horse was brought, a bundle given to Gwenyth, and then the pastor and his flock all stepped back. Again Gwenyth looked at him, and Rowan could read her eyes. The girl would indeed need to regain her strength before she could ride on her own. They would lead the animal meant for her use until she could handle a horse on her own.

If she even knew how to ride.

If not…they would take the horse anyway.

He dismounted, took the young woman—who was looking at him with dazed and worshipful eyes—and set her upon his horse. He would have assisted Gwenyth to mount—as their guard of armed men continued to wait at a discreet distance at his command—but she was too quick, and was back on her mare before he could offer his help. “In future, take care what justice you decide to mete out on your own, pastor,” he warned very quietly. “I will be back this way.”

With that, he rode to Gwenyth’s side, the “witch” sitting before him like a limp rag doll.

They proceeded at a walk, lest any haste cause a change of heart and incur pursuit—something that he could see Gwenyth understood from the glance he cast her way—until they were well past the eyes of the villagers.

“Now let us put some distance between us,” he ordered once they had passed the limits of the village and, as they hadn’t yet reached the rocky tors of the true Highlands, they were able to make good time. Strange winds and early cold were bedeviling Scotland that year, but the wicked ice and snow had not yet fallen, and that too, helped them as they rode.

Finally he reined in near a copse of trees close by a small brook, lifting a hand to the others. The small party halted.

“Ooh, me aching bones,” Annie protested.

Gavin dismounted, helping the ungainly woman from her perch.

“They’ll nae be a pursuit, Laird Rowan,” Gavin said, shaking his head, his disapproval for the village obvious.

“I agree, Gavin,” Rowan told his man. “But it’s always best to get a distance from the scene of any trouble.”

After dismounting, he was careful to lift the girl down slowly. Annie, clucking in concern, went to help her, as did Gwenyth.

“Some wine, please?” Gwenyth said, looking to the men.

“Aye, my lady, immediately,” Dirk, one of the other guards, assured her.

Rowan set the woman on the soft pine-needle-covered floor of the copse, her back resting against a sturdy tree. She stared at Gwenyth, and Rowan thought his charge indeed looked like some angel of mercy come to earth, for in the dim light, with rays of sun arrowing through the canopy of branches and leaves, her hair was shimmering as if it were spun gold, and her eyes were alight with compassion. She had a leather skin of wine, and brought it to the young woman’s lips.

“Sip slowly,” Gwenyth said softly.

Liza did so, staring at her all the while. And when Gwenyth took the skin from her, lest she choke or become ill from too much too soon, she said, “God will bless you, for I am innocent, I swear it. Old Meg was not angry about her pig. She believed I cast a spell to seduce her wretched lout of a husband. I am innocent, before God, I am. And I owe you my life and my deepest loyalty forever,” she vowed brokenly.

“Well, let’s get you strong again…and into some decent clothing. You may use those trees over there for privacy,” Gwenyth said.

“I’ll be helpin’ the lass,” Annie assured her, and the two of them walked deeper into the copse.

Gwenyth knew Rowan was staring at her, and she flushed. “I believe she is innocent,” she murmured. “I find it ridiculous to believe that God has granted some people the powers to simply look upon another and cause evil.”

He sighed. “Ah, lass. You’d be surprised what evil can exist merely in the mind.”

“That woman is no witch.” She paused, then said softly, “Thank you.”

Would I have stopped such an obvious injustice had you not been with me? he wondered.

“I did as you wished today,” he told her, “because I don’t believe the trial was justly conducted or that the pastor had the right to condemn her to death. Such a grave penalty is held for the higher courts to dispense. But, my lady, I am sorry to say that people have often been put to death for the crime of witchcraft. Whether you believe in it or not, it is punishable by execution, for it goes hand in hand with heresy. And I will remind you again that the very queen you so adore believes in witchcraft, as does Lord James. As a rule, I believe the Stewart clan holds a belief in curses and hexes.”

She smiled. “Laird Rowan, you are, I know, a well-read and learned man. I know, as you do, that there are some who believe themselves able to create dolls, prick them and draw blood from others. Those who think they can brew up herbs and make magical potions. But you surely know, as well as I, that most of those accused of such evil craft are nothing more than healers who know the potency of certain herbs and flowers. Evil has too often been done to those who would do their best to help others, all because of what men believe, rather than what is known.”

“Be that as it may, if you brew a potion, you risk being accused of witchcraft, which means a pact with the devil. And heresy,” he said wearily.

“It is such foolishness—”

“It is the law.”

She nodded and said flatly, “Thank you. Our discussion has been most enlightening.”

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