Allison led Celia into the dim palace and along a narrow corridor. John vanished behind them. The halls were deserted and cold.
“Certain people have been missing you very much,” Allison said as they climbed up a winding staircase.
Celia laughed. “I can’t imagine who.”
Allison shot her a sly smile over her shoulder. “Can you not? Why, Lord Knowlton has been asking after you every day.”
“Has he?” Celia asked in surprise. She certainly did remember their conversations, his admiring glances—the way John had been strangely jealous of him. Her stomach gave a nervous twinge.
Allison laughed. “Aye, he has. I’m sure he will be very happy to see you tonight. And I vow he won’t be the only one...”
* * *
John took a long drink from his goblet of strong ale, closing his eyes as its rough heat slid down his throat. But there was no forgetfulness in the drink tonight. There was nothing but Celia.
He leaned his arms on the stone parapet of the palace tower and stared up into the night sky. The stars were blanketed with thick clouds, and snow had started to fall again, cold and damp. It was late—long past the hour when everyone had stumbled off to find a bed. John had no hope of sleep, so he prowled the battlements.
He thought of Celia, of how she had smiled and laughed with one of the courtiers left at Holyrood over supper. Smiled—when she would not smile at him at all now. It had twisted at something deep inside of him, something he had thought long dead, and it had made him angry. Angry and full of a dark longing.
“You do not deserve her smiles,” he muttered to himself. He deserved nothing from her. And yet he wanted so much. Dared to hope for so much.
John took another drink of the ale and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. All his life he had been alone, had needed nothing and no one. His parents had died when he was so young he could scarce remember them, and he had made his own way since. His work for the Crown had filled a purpose within him, the yearning to do something great for something more important than himself.
Yet always that hollowness had been there, that hole in his heart. Until he’d seen Celia for the very first time, so beautiful with her shining black hair and her smile—the smile she’d turned on him. For the first time that emptiness had vanished.
Until he’d lost her.
“Never again,” he vowed.
Suddenly a door flew open somewhere below his tower and amber-coloured torchlight spilled out into the night, along with the sound of laughter. John leaned over the wall to see Allison and one of her swains, along with a few others, dash along a pathway as the snow drifted over them.
And behind them was a slender figure wrapped in a black cloak. She paused to glance over her shoulder and her hood fell away, revealing Celia’s pale profile. She glanced up and saw him watching her.
For the merest flash of an instant the loud voices faded, the night grew still, and there was only Celia and him. Her lips parted, and John could vow he felt the touch of her mouth on his.
But someone touched her arm and she turned away, the delicate moment shattered. John saw it was the young courtier she’d sat with at supper. Celia smiled at him and let him lead her away.
“God’s teeth,” John growled, and drained the last of his ale. He would find no rest tonight.
Chapter Thirteen
“The Queen is approaching!”
Celia looked up from the book in her hands as the page’s shout echoed down the corridor. Across from her, Lady Allison put down her embroidery with a smile.
“At last,” Allison said. “Now we’ll have some excitement.”
They hurried out of the small sitting room and joined the flood of people rushing towards the doors. Celia heard the blast of trumpets from somewhere up in the ramparts, announcing that Queen Mary was returned at last to Holyrood. The days of waiting were at an end.
Outside in the forecourt snow was falling in earnest—fat, wet white flakes that piled into cold banks along the walls. Even though it was only afternoon, the sky was a dark grey, throwing everything into shadows.
The servants and courtiers lined the steps, watching as the gates swung open. Celia smoothed her hair, tightly pinned under her black cap, and twitched her fur-trimmed surcoat into place over her gown. She felt nervous as she watched those gates slowly move inward. She hated being uncertain about anything, unsure of her control. She knew Queen Elizabeth’s Court, but Scotland was very different from London.
As she folded her hands at her waist she thought she felt the sudden heavy heat of someone watching her, the tingle of it at the back of her neck. And she knew, with a terrible certainty, exactly who it was.
She didn’t want to look behind her, didn’t want to see him. She had been avoiding him ever since they’d met on the battlements, tried to focus on what she had to do here so she could go back to England. But all her efforts couldn’t keep him out of her dreams at night.
She dared a glance over her shoulder and saw him standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched her closely. He wore his Court clothes again, fine velvets in emerald green and black, with emerald buttons and gold embroidery. A pearl drop dangled from his ear, and his light brown hair was brushed back from his face in sleek waves. He almost seemed a stranger after the man she’d become accustomed to on the road. That intimacy and tenderness she had dared imagine with him.
A lady’s hand, soft and white, slid over his arm, and John turned away from Celia. She saw it was Lady Allison who touched him, and John bent his head down to her as she whispered in his ear.
Celia spun away from the sight and focused her attention on the riders making their way closer up the drive. She could still hear John’s laugh, low and rough, flirtatiously amused, and her fingers twisted tighter together.
No more, she thought fiercely. She couldn’t be distracted by John Brandon any longer.
The lead rider bore Queen Mary’s standard, and behind him rode a flock of courtiers. When Queen Elizabeth rode out on a hunt she and her people were a blur of bright colours, feathers and jewels, but Queen Mary was still in mourning for her late husband, the French King. He had been dead since 1561, but still everyone wore greys and dark purples, which made them seem part of the wintry sky.
Yet the sombre colours could not conceal the expensive fabrics, the stylish French fashions. In the surroundings of rough Scotland they exuded sophistication and elegance.
Queen Mary rode in their midst on a white palfrey. She wore black and white, glossy satin and soft velvet, a plumed hat set at a rakish angle on her high-piled auburn hair. Celia could tell she was the Queen because she seemed to tower over everyone around her, the tallest woman Celia had ever seen.
The only one in the party even taller was the man who rode beside her, Lord Darnley. He and Mary laughed together as they rode, their horses drawn close.
When everyone came to a halt at the foot of the steps, Darnley leaped from his saddle and lifted the Queen to her feet, spinning her about with a laugh. Mary laughed in return, and didn’t move away when he held onto her waist a moment too long.
Very interesting, Celia thought as she watched them. Had Queen Mary made her decision already, so very easily? Were Don Carlos, Lord Leicester and some unknown French candidate gone from the competition?
What would Queen Elizabeth think of that?
Queen Mary lifted her hem and hurried lightly up the steps, a smile lingering on her lips. Darnley and the others followed her, but she stopped to speak to the major-domo who waited for her.
To Celia’s surprise, the Queen’s golden-brown eyes turned to her, and Mary’s smile widened.
“Ah, at last! My dearest cousin’s emissary has arrived.” She swept over to take Celia’s hand in hers and Celia dipped a startled curtsy.
“Y-Your Grace,” she murmured.
“We heard of your terrible accident,” the Queen went on, still holding Celia’s hand. She spoke English perfectly, but the words
were touched with a French accent. Her smile turned concerned. “Have you completely recovered, Madame Sutton?”
Celia could see why Queen Mary was so renowned for her great charm, why it was said every man she met was wildly in love with her. She had the gift of focusing every bit of her attention onto whomever she spoke to, as if they were all she cared about.
“I am quite well now, Your Grace, and eager to be of service to you if I can,” Celia said.
“And I am so happy you are here! You must tell me every, everything about my cousin Elizabeth and her Court. I do long to meet her myself, but for now I shall be content with your excellent report!” Her warm-sherry eyes swept over the crowd. “And which man is your rescuer? I am eager to meet him as well.”
John stepped forward from the group and swept her a low, gallant bow. “Your Grace, I am Sir John Brandon.”
Mary laughed—a soft, musical sound. “Ah, yes, we have heard all about you, monsieur. My ladies will certainly be eager to meet you.”
As she allowed John to kiss her gloved hand she gestured with her other hand to the women who clustered behind her. “These are my dearest Marys, who have been with me since we were children. Mary Seton, Mary Livingston, Mary Beaton and Mary Fleming. And this is Lady Helen McKerrigan, who will look after you, Madame Sutton, so you can come to know my Court as well as my cousin’s.”
Queen Mary laughed once more before she went on, “But she will not look after you, Sir John. She has a terribly jealous husband, and I will have no fighting among my people.”
John gave the Queen an audacious wink. “Thank you for the warning, Your Grace.”
“As if you listen to warnings, monsieur. I have seen your sort many times before.” Queen Mary laughed again, and held out her hand to Darnley, who slid his arm beneath her fingers. “And now I am cold and must rest. I shall talk with you both more at the banquet tonight.”
The Queen swept inside, followed by her courtiers. John gave Celia a long glance, but to her relief he too returned to the palace. Lord Knowlton walked past and gave her a bow and a warm smile. Celia remembered what Allison had said about him, that he admired her, and she felt her cheeks warm at the thought.
“Mistress Sutton?” a soft voice said.
Celia turned to see the lady the Queen had introduced as Lady Helen McKerrigan, she with the jealous husband. She was a petite, pretty redhead, dressed in lilac-coloured velvet and a jewel-embroidered white cap—the sort of sophisticated beauty Celia usually mistrusted.
But Helen’s smile was friendly and open. “I am Lady Helen McKerrigan. We’ve all heard the tale of your near-drowning, I fear! I am very glad to see you have recovered.”
Celia almost groaned aloud. She was supposed to be quiet and unobtrusive, to observe everyone around her. How could she do that if she was an object of gossip? “I fear I was merely being clumsy. It was no dramatic tale, Lady Helen.”
“Nay?” Helen’s auburn brow arched. “Not even your rescue by the oh, so handsome Sir John Brandon? All the ladies here are half in love with him already.”
“Are you?” Celia said, sharper than she intended.
Helen laughed. “Not me. Did you not hear of my jealous husband?” She took Celia’s arm and led her back indoors. “Now, let me show you to your new chamber. Queen Mary has ordered you to be moved to a larger one all to yourself. And I want to hear all about your great adventures...”
* * *
Queen Mary’s great hall was not as large as the one at Whitehall but it was quite as grand, with a coffered ceiling and a parquet floor scattered with sweet-smelling rushes. Elaborately worked tapestries hung on the walls, and silver and gold plates gleamed on the sideboards, a glowing cave of treasure. Small dogs in jewelled collars dashed about and yapped underfoot.
Celia followed Lady Helen through the open doors into the midst of the gathered crowd as everyone found their places at the long tables lining the sides of the narrow room. English and French words mingled in the air, the Scots’ accents even heavier next to the musical Parisian cadences. It was easy to tell Queen Mary’s French coterie from her native courtiers as well. The Scots were more colourfully dressed, louder, flashier.
Celia had heard that Mary tried to recreate her life in France here as much as she could, with music and dancing, theatricals, intimate card games. But her Scots nobles were too impatient for that, too rough, too set in their own ways after her long absence.
Celia could see evidence of that dichotomy all around her. Did the Queen think her powerful charm could bring them all together, hold her kingdom firm in her grasp?
Perhaps it could at that, Celia thought as she stood with Lady Helen and watched Queen Mary sweep into the hall. She had never seen a woman quite like her before. It was not merely Mary’s height and beauty, her elegant clothes and royal bearing. It was something in her smile, in the great confidence that seemed a bone-deep part of her.
Mary had practically been born a queen, taking her throne mere weeks after her birth. Unlike Queen Elizabeth, who had a powerful charisma of her own, she had never had to fight for her place in the world. That certainty showed in her every gesture, her every easy smile. She owned the world around her and it showed.
Celia wondered with a pang what that would feel like. Not to rule a kingdom, but to be sure of one’s place, not to have to fight and scrape for every inch. Not to be constantly on guard. Really to belong.
She curtsied as the Queen swept past and studied Mary’s tall figure from under her lashes. She had her hand on Darnley’s arm again, their heads bent close together as they talked, and Celia saw that even Darnley seemed to be not the same with her. The sulky cruelty was gone from his handsome face, and it made him even better looking. Younger, lighter.
Mary’s face glowed as she smiled at him.
“I wonder who would prevail if Queen Mary ever did meet face to face with Queen Elizabeth?” Celia heard someone whisper beside her.
She glanced over to see Lord Knowlton watching her, a half-smile on his face.
“I am not sure,” she answered slowly. Lord Knowlton also looked different here in the amber torchlight—older, more serious. Harder. “But I think I would very much like to witness it.”
His smile widened. “Queen Mary thinks she could charm even her prickly cousin and they would be amiable neighbours for ever after.”
Celia watched the Queen sit down on her dais, Darnley beside her. “I think that might require a bit more than charm.”
“A miracle, mayhap?”
Mary gestured for everyone to be seated, and Celia let Lord Knowlton lead her to a place at one of the tables, their shining lengths laid with the finest silver plates and gilded baskets of white bread interspersed with elaborate salt cellars and ewers of wine. Pages rushed past, laden with serving trays of fragrant delicacies.
“I am most happy to see you looking so well again, Mistress Sutton,” Lord Knowlton said as he slid a choice morsel of spiced chicken onto her trencher.
“Thank you, Lord Knowlton. I am happy to feel well again.” Celia took a sip of her mulled wine and carefully studied the crowd around her, listening to the chorus of their loud voices and laughter, examining their faces.
None of them was John. She didn’t see him anywhere in the hall, and slowly she let herself relax and enjoy the fare spread lavishly before them, and Lord Knowlton’s conversation. He really was an interesting man, and knew a great deal about music and poetry as well as vast amounts of amusing Court gossip. Which lady had had a romance with which lord, who had come to blows over the Queen’s favours, which Frenchman hated which Scot and vice versa. All fascinating and useful.
Celia even found herself laughing at some of his light flirtations. He did not make her emotions boil up inside her as John did, did not make her feel angry and frightened and full of dark desire. He was merely amusing, kind. She could not imagine why once he had disquieted her.
Perhaps Queen Elizabeth would find someone like him for her to marry.
When the meal finally came to a close Celia was still smiling, chatting easily with Lord Knowlton, and with Lady Helen and her devilishly handsome husband. Servants moved the tables away to make room for dancing as the musicians began tuning their lutes and viols in the gallery above.
“Mistress Sutton, I hope that you will favour me with a pavane,” Lord Knowlton said with a bow.
Celia laughed and shook her head. “I fear I have not danced in a very long time. I do not know the latest steps.”
And suddenly she recalled exactly when she’d had her last dance—with John Brandon, the night before he’d vanished from her life. It had been a slow Italian passamiento, his hands holding her hard and close as their bodies slid together. He had not smiled as he’d looked down at her in the turns, only stared deeply into her eyes as if to memorise her face. Know her thoughts. She had not yet been betrothed to Sutton then, and had dared to dream the romantic dreams of a young, romantic girl.
She pushed the memory away, buried it deeply with all the others. If only they would cease to work their way free! Cease to make her hope again.
“I do not dance now,” she said.
“Then perhaps you will sit with me for a while,” Lord Knowlton said. “I find I am loth to lose your company so soon, Mistress Sutton.”
Celia made herself smile at him. It felt so unnatural on her lips, where before it seemed almost easy again. Damn John Brandon anyway. Hadn’t he already taken enough? Hadn’t she given him enough?
“Only if you will tell me more of those delicious tales you have heard in Edinburgh,” she said. “Tell me of the Queen’s pet poet over there. They say he is quite in love with her.”
As she allowed Lord Knowlton to lead her to one of the benches near the wall she half listened to his voice and tried to summon back the easiness she had felt as they ate together. She nodded and laughed at all the right places, and watched the dancers as they swirled past in the intricate patterns of the dance.
Queen Mary was a graceful dancer, and had an obvious pleasure in the exercise which spread over everyone else. There was much laughter as the men lifted and twirled their partners, skirts flying in a dark, rich pattern. It made Celia wish she could bring herself to dance again. That she could be the girl she had once been, a girl who revelled in music and movement, the feel of a man’s arms around her.
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