The Scottish Rose

by Jill Jones

  The Scottish Rose

  Jill Jones

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1997 by Jill Jones

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition October 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-490-5

  More from Jill Jones

  Emily’s Secret

  My Lady Caroline

  The Scottish Rose

  A Scent of Magic

  Circle of the Lily

  The Island

  Bloodline

  Remember Your Lies

  Every Move You Make

  Beneath the Raven’s Moon

  Shadow Haven

  For my husband, Jerry,

  with love always.

  Thanks for being the wind beneath my wings.

  This is a work of fiction. Only the characters of Mary Queen of Scots and the historical entourage that surrounded her; Oliver Cromwell and his military officers; the Seventh Earl Marischal, his Countess, Elizabeth, and his brother, John Keith; George Ogilvy of Barras, his wife, Elizabeth Douglas, and her step-sister Ann Lindsay; the reverend Mr. James Grainger, minister of Kinneff Kirk, and his wife Christian Fletcher; and King Charles II are historical. All other characters are purely fictional, and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Although the plot of this novel is based on the historical facts of the eras involved, all action other than that which is recorded in the annals of history is entirely fictional.

  Acknowledgments

  My deep gratitude to Mrs. Lesley Masson, BA ALA, Area Librarian, Stonehaven Library, Stonehaven, Scotland, for providing me with esoteric details on the history of both Stonehaven and Dunnottar Castle.

  I also wish to thank Mr. David Taylor, proprietor of the Hook & Eye Lounge Bar in Stonehaven, for the excursion to the Kinneff Old Church, a journey not easily made by “outlanders,” and for the wonderful Scottish hospitality.

  Thanks to Mr. Alistair Scott of London for facilitating many aspects of the journey to Scotland, and for his kind hospitality.

  I am also indebted to the librarians at the Black Mountain Library, North Carolina, for their support in obtaining the research materials I needed for this complex story, and to Mr. MacGregor Grey, former scribe of the American Clan Gregor Society, Dr. S. Samuel Shermis, Professor Emeritus of Purdue University, Mr. Hal Kaplan and Mrs. Norine Victor for providing special insights and information to help me authenticate this tale. Many thanks to Dr. Olson Huff, retired Medical Director of the Ruth and Billy Graham Children’s Health Center, Memorial Mission Hospital, Asheville, North Carolina, for information about the latest procedures being used to restore hearing to the deaf.

  And finally I wish to thank my indefatigable traveling companion, fellow Dunnottar explorer, and friend, Bonnie Sagan.

  Prologue

  September 1561

  Edinburgh Castle

  They were liars to a man, and she knew it.

  Their faces were respectful masks, but their eyes betrayed them. Hate lived there. And malice. Greed and jealousy.

  Her uncle, Charles de Guise, had warned her it wouldn’t be easy ruling these nobles, about which he’d declared there was little that could be described as noble. One, he surmised, perhaps two, might be trusted. Her half-brother, Lord James Stewart Bothwell. But Charles had claimed that the rest of the Scottish lords gathered before her now to pledge their fealty were as snakes in the heather. He claimed that their recent fierce alliance with Protestantism was but a cover for their continuing intrigues that threatened the sovereignty of Scotland, and he had expressed doubt that she could reign successfully as a Catholic queen in a country so divided, especially over religion.

  Even thusly forewarned, Mary, the young Queen of Scots, recently returned from her childhood in France, was determined to win them to her by showing tolerance, restraint, and respect for their ways.

  Straightening to her full height, she held her head in a regal pose as the Earl of Arran placed the crown upon her auburn locks.

  “As thy most humble servant,” said the Earl, “I welcome you home, Your Highness, and pledge my loyalty unto you.”

  Liar.

  But Mary only nodded to him graciously, hoping the crown would not fall from her head in an accident that might be interpreted by these superstitious countrymen as portentous.

  Next, the Earl of Lennox stepped forward and presented her with the golden sceptre. Kneeling, he bowed his head. “Your Highness.”

  At least he didn’t speak his lie, the young queen credited him. “I thank you, Lennox, and pledge to serve you and yours truly and steadfastly.”

  Lord James came next, his smile warmer, more personal. He had pledged to protect her and stand by her as she took over the rule of this rough kingdom of Scotland, and Mary wanted to trust him. However, she was uneasy that he never let her forget that they shared the same father, King James V, and his pleasant manner did not successfully conceal his bitter resentment at his bastardy.

  James laid the heavy Sword of State across her lap. “With these revered emblems of the kingdom of Scotland were you crowned Queen of Scots as an infant. In your long absence, my Queen, they were used in your place, representing the monarchy in Parliament.” Mary did not miss his emphasis on the word “long” and suspected he wished it could have been longer still. She bit the corner of her mouth to repress the ironic smile that threatened the solemnity of the occasion.

  One by one, the lords filed past her, bowing, kissing her hand, pledging their loyalty, extending their best wishes.

  Lying.

  When the farcical ceremony was complete, Mary surveyed her “nobility.” How different were these men from the polished court to which she was accustomed in France. These aristocrats looked more like outlaws. Dressed in the drab woolen attire common to the Scots and draped with what appeared to be rustic blankets, they presented none of the glitter, the sophistication, she’d enjoyed in the life she’d left behind.

  Still, they were all she had, and she must make them her friends.

  “My lords,” she said, clearing her throat, “We are honored by your presence and your oaths of fealty, which we accept with humble gratitude. With your permission, we offer an oath of our own at this time.” She could see from their expressions they were surprised at her deviation from the traditional formalities, but she wished to prove her mettle to them from the outset.

  She would rule, not follow.

  “Bring the Scottish Rose,” she commanded a servant, who quickly bore forth a magnificent bejeweled cup on a silver platter. Made of hammered gold polished to a high sheen, the chalice was crafted to perfectly match the shape of a rose just beginning to open. Each petal was embellished with a large cabochon ruby set into a silver cross fleur bordered by tiny precious stones, the vibrant red of the rubies suggesting a rose of the same hue. Where the cup tapered to the stem, five sepals were enameled in green, with tiny but perfect pearls outlining them like dewdrops. The slender stem was sheathed in a second layer of gold formed to include thorns and leaves that authentically represented those of its botanical ideal.

  She heard the intake of breath from the others, but it was not in admiration of the ro
se, as she had expected. Rather, it was a shocked reaction, followed here and there by a muttered “papist.” She was shaken, but she ignored their rudeness and took the sacred vessel in her long fingers, holding it high for all to see.

  “This was a gift to us from our Holy Father in Rome.”

  “I’ll stand na more for this,” said Lord Ruthven, heading for the door, his face almost purple with fury.

  Mary regarded him steadily, although her heart was beating wildly. “Hear us out, Lord Ruthven, for ‘tis not what you think.” She had heard the rumors that the lords feared she would reinstate the old religion in the realm when in fact her intent was exactly the opposite.

  Her quiet tone quelled his indignation, at least for the moment, and he turned to listen. “Upon the bestowal of this gift, His Holiness urged us to return Scotland to the Church. But we think this neither right nor reasonable. Therefore, we pledge instead with this cup that no man nor woman under my reign shall be persecuted because of their faith. All shall be free to follow the religion which best serves them.” She paused, then added with emphasis, “Catholics as well as Protestants.”

  With that, Ruthven stormed out. At least he has made known his disposition openly, Mary thought, but she was discouraged at the hostile reception of what she had hoped to be an act of reconciliation. She went on, forcing a composure she didn’t feel. “We hereby join this chalice to these regal Honours of Scotland, as a symbol of tolerance and religious freedom, of peace and unity in this kingdom.”

  At this, the room erupted in a mayhem, with shouts and oaths expressing the anger and outrage of her subjects who only moments before had sworn their loyalty. Appalled, she heard her name in context with whores and blasphemers, and she feared for a moment the chalice might be seized and destroyed.

  “God’s blood, Mary.” James hurried to her, his face drained of all color. “What madness hath possessed you? Know you not the dangers of exhibiting such a papist symbol, much less of making it part of Scotland’s royal regalia?”

  Too late, Mary realized her mistake. Her uncle was right. These men did not want peace or unity. They had no tolerance, nor did they wish there to be religious freedom. A sharp pain slashed through the side of her abdomen.

  Fighting tears, she bade the guard to rap on the floor with his pike, at which the lords lowered their voices to a muted growl. “Hear this, my lords,” ordered the Queen. “We see our offer is not to your liking, therefore, we withdraw the chalice until such time as honest peace reigns in this land.” She motioned to the servant to remove the cup. When it was out of sight, she continued.

  “Even so, we shall tolerate your new religion, but we command you to respect our own. If any shall endeavor to bring harm to our person or members of our household or interrupt our worship in private Mass, the offense shall be punishable by death. Now begone.” She waved them off as nausea threatened her in a most unqueenly manner.

  Only James remained of the dozen who had just knelt at her feet. “My Queen, you hath much to learn about the Scots.”

  “And they hath much to learn of me,” she replied acidly.

  “You mustn’t press too hard too soon,” he advised, then added smoothly, “Let me guide you in these matters. They will come around.”

  His tone was soothing, encouraging, but Mary knew that he, too, was lying.

  Chapter One

  Aberdeen, Scotland

  Current day

  Robert Gordon, Esquire, ran beefy hands through his graying hair and considered the dilemma he faced. Before him on the desk lay two letters and a small ancient book. One of the letters was written by his client, or rather former client, now that Lady Agatha Keith was deceased, directing him what to do with the other articles.

  He fingered the other letter, taking care not to tear the paper that was fragile with age. The book he scarcely dared to touch at all lest it fall apart in his hands.

  Robert Gordon had seen much in his days as a solicitor. He was old, and tired, and had no patience for this sort of hoax. If it was a hoax.

  And what else could it be?

  A final joke by an old lady he’d often considered to be mentally unbalanced?

  He had visited Lady Agatha the day before she died. Well over a hundred years old, the dowager had sat hunched on a daybed by the fireplace in the family’s ancestral mansion, her skin sagging, seemingly unattached to the brittle bones of her arms. But her eyes were bright and her conversation intelligent. There had been no sign of the senility that she had exhibited on his prior visits. She spoke as firmly as her ancient vocal chords would allow.

  “I have made up my mind about something very important, Robbie,” she’d quavered, handing him a large brown envelope with trembling fingers. “I want you to find this woman and give her what is in this envelope. I think she lives in America. She is my sister’s great-granddaughter, and my only living kin, as far as I can tell.”

  Gordon had glanced at the envelope. It was addressed to “Taylor Kincaid. America.”

  He laughed softly. “Lady Agatha, surely you have a better address than this? I mean, America is a big country.”

  “Find her,” the crone croaked. “It shouldna be that difficult. Her grandmother, my niece and namesake, ran away to New York in the late twenties. Near t’ broke my sister’s heart. But the girl wrote, giving an address, and she stayed in touch with her family in Scotland after she married.”

  Now she handed him a second envelope. “I have written it all down for you, all that I know. I have spent no small amount of money trying to locate her children, as my niece died just after the war. She had two children, a son and a daughter. The son, I have learned, was killed in Korea. The daughter married, and she had a daughter, this person named Taylor Kincaid.” She paused for a moment. “Taylor,” she repeated. “Odd name for a girl. She was born in Queens, according to the birth certificate, but that’s as far as I got, and now I’ve run out of time. It’s up to you, Robbie.” She peered at him, her eyes as old as time. “I shouldna have waited so long.”

  The lawyer sat very still for a moment, astounded at the old woman’s lucid recitation of the family’s story. No one could convince him at the moment that Agatha Keith was not in full command of her wits. “What do you mean, you’ve run out of time, Lady Agatha?” he asked gently at last, although he supposed that for a woman of her age, every day was a miracle.

  “I’ll be dying shortly,” she’d replied matter-of-factly. “It’s long overdue, you know. I wish I had remembered this chore sooner. Could have done it years ago,” she clucked. “Must’ve lost my mind there for a while. There’s money in that envelope as well, Robbie,” she added, pointing a bony finger at it. “Should be enough to cover your expenses and fees, even as high as they are.”

  Gordon started to protest, then thought it not worth the effort. “I’ll do the best I can, madam,” he replied patiently to the old woman whom he had served as lawyer for over forty years. Then another thought occurred to him. “Your will makes no mention of this Taylor Kincaid,” he said. “Do your wishes remain the same as in the will we executed, what was it, five or so years ago?”

  “Not another penny!” screeched the dame abruptly. “I’ll not spend another penny on legal fees. Here!” She thrust a third envelope into his hands. “I have written a new will. Not much to it, you’ll see. If you find my kinswoman, this Taylor Kincaid, what’s left of my family’s poor estate goes to her now. If you do not find her, or she doesna want it, then dispose of it as we decided before.” She heaved a sigh. “Go now, Robbie. I’m tired.”

  The next day, Lady Agatha Keith was dead.

  And although he was disinclined to do so, for to do nothing would be far easier and more lucrative, Robert Gordon, Esquire, had endeavored to honor the last wishes of his long-time client. He owed her that much, he supposed, although he faced lean times himself in his waning years, and she had made provisions for him in her previous will. Still, she had enclosed a substantial sum to pay him to make a final attempt
at finding her mystery relative, and he was a man with too much professional integrity not to make at least a minimal effort at doing so.

  Using the details she had scribbled down for him, he had managed to locate the private investigator she had hired to find her descendant in the United States. The PI was able to supply the attorney with a history of his investigation, which ended when he located the birthplace of one Taylor Marie Kincaid, in Queens, New York, in 1963. After that, he’d stopped looking, because Lady Agatha had told him she would not spend another penny on it, that she’d paid him too much already.

  With a sympathetic smile from the far side of the ocean, Gordon had offered the man another thousand dollars to finish the job, with a bonus of five hundred more if he did it within the week.

  The man had phoned today. Taylor Kincaid, he related, lived in Manhattan, and she was, he disclosed with unconcealed enthusiasm, something of a television star.

  And in the five o’clock pickup, Robert Gordon had sent off two overnight packages to the United States: one to the investigator, carrying fifteen hundred dollars, the other to Taylor Kincaid, conveying a letter informing her of her inheritance.

  After that, all he could do was wait.

  And wonder.

  What if the Taylor Kincaid located by the investigator was not Lady Agatha’s great-great-niece? What would he do then with the two other incredible artifacts with which Lady Agatha had entrusted him?

  For if they were authentic, they were also very valuable. Priceless even. And if there were no heirs, to whom would they belong?

  The items had come as a complete surprise to Gordon. He’d never seen nor heard of them before. They were not mentioned in any of her earlier wills. That’s why he believed they were a hoax, or at the least, a fantasy created during one of the old lady’s spells of delusion.