Tarnished Rose of the Court

by Amanda McCabe

  She had to learn to be stronger than her treacherous body. Her heart.

  Celia turned onto the narrow corridor that led to her small chamber. It was dark, the only light one torch that glowed in its sconce at the far end. A cold draught raced along the stone floors and she hurried her steps. She wanted to be safely in her chamber, alone.

  A soft sound brought her to a halt. She stood poised on tiptoe, every sense alert. She had dismissed John and Marcus’s warnings about enemies, since she was too insignificant in this game of queens to be in any danger, but she suddenly felt on edge. This was a strange night, and Holyrood was a strange place. Surely anything could happen.

  She grasped her skirts in one hand, ready to draw them up and pull out her dagger. Carefully, she backed towards the wall and glanced around her, holding her breath.

  She let out a sigh when she saw the source of that sound. Marcus and Allison stood entwined in the embrasure of a doorway, kissing. Her hands were pushing his doublet off his shoulders as his delved into her bodice. Their bright hair, golden and red, gleamed in the torchlight.

  Celia bit her lip to keep from laughing. Perhaps there had been a potion in the wine tonight—one that turned anyone who drank of it lustful.

  Marcus reached behind Allison to open the door, and they fell together into the chamber. Celia was alone again. And she wasted no time in finding her own room and locking the door behind her. She had had enough of the enchantments of the night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Celia half-listened to Mary Fleming, one of Queen Mary’s Marys, as she sang a French ballad and softly played the lute. She was accompanied by giggles and whispered conversations, the rustle of silken skirts and the brush of needle and thread against cloth. It was such a feminine scene: Queen Mary’s ladies all gathered around her in her chamber during a long, cold afternoon. A scene fragrant with French perfumes and powders, the rose oil in the burners set in the corners, the sweetness from platters of honey cakes.

  But Celia’s thoughts lingered far away, on a very masculine object. What did he do today? Was he angry she had left him so dissatisfied last night? She hadn’t been able to read the swirl of emotions in his eyes.

  She stabbed her needle hard into the cloth she held. She did not care what he did, what he thought. Not now, in the harsh light of day.

  She really did not. She did not. Only she knew she did—far too much.

  “Ouch!” She gasped as her needle caught the tip of her finger. As she raised it to her lips to soothe the sting she saw Lady Allison watching her. Allison gave her a little smile and looked back to her own work.

  Celia saw that she had sewn the edges of the sleeve she worked on together and would now have to unpick them. She glanced over at Queen Mary, who sat by the window with her embroidery frame, her little dogs gathered around her footstool. Unlike Celia, the Queen obviously enjoyed her needlework and was very skilled at it. She moved the gold thread slowly in and out, humming along with the song, a smile playing over her lips.

  Celia had been surprised to receive a summons from the Queen that morning to join her ladies in the Queen’s apartments. She had been sure it would take longer to work her way into Mary’s company, her trust. But the Scottish Queen seemed to have none of Queen Elizabeth’s caution. She was all open, friendly smiles, greeting Celia as she arrived, asking her questions about England and her English cousin, making sure she met all the ladies.

  But there had as yet been no talk at all about Mary’s marital intentions.

  Celia lowered the mangled sleeve to her lap and examined the chamber around her. It was not the grand, opulent space she would have expected, this chamber high up in one of the towers. It was reached only by a narrow spiral staircase, and had a low ceiling of compartmented panels, covered with the entwined initials of Mary’s parents, King James and Marie of Guise. Despite the large windows, looking out on the nearby abbey, and the large fireplace filled with bright flames, the room felt small and dark.

  Celia glanced through one open doorway to the outer chamber, where the Queen’s guards waited, and then through another, half-closed door into a tiny, octagonal supper room. Behind her was the Queen’s bed, a massive, carved edifice hung with red curtains. It all felt very intimate and small.

  Surely not what Mary had been used to in France.

  “They say the Queen’s chief adviser Lord Maitland is in love with her,” Allison suddenly whispered to Celia.

  Celia glanced up, startled. “In love with the Queen? That’s not surprising—every man seems to be.”

  Allison laughed. “Mayhap not every man. But Maitland is also in love with Mary Fleming, despite the fact that he is at least twenty years older than her. They say the Queen is planning a lavish wedding for them.”

  “Is she?” Celia murmured.

  “Don’t you remember, Mistress Sutton? The Queen’s Marys vowed never to wed until she did. If one of them is soon to marry...”

  Celia looked sharply to the Queen, who was laughing at her dogs’ gambols. “Who?”

  “Who do you think?” Allison whispered with a giggle.

  Suddenly Mary clapped her hands, drawing everyone’s attention to her. “It is such a dull, grey day,” she said merrily, in her musical French accent. “I think we need to liven things up a bit.”

  Mary Fleming clapped her hands in answer. “Your Grace! Do you mean...?”

  “I do,” the Queen said happily. “It has been much too long, n’est-ce pas?”

  All the Queen’s French ladies laughed. Celia watched them uncertainly.

  “Mistress Sutton, Lady Allison—perhaps you would join us?” Queen Mary called. “I’m sure you would enjoy it very much.”

  * * *

  Celia could not help but wonder how she found herself in such predicaments when she tried to live so cautiously.

  On the other hand, perhaps she had had enough of caution. Sometimes freedom was so much more enjoyable. She had never felt quite like this before.

  Celia caught a glimpse of herself reflected in an icy puddle on the street as she followed Queen Mary and a few of her ladies through the shadowy lanes. She hardly recognised herself. She wore a pair of velvet breeches and tall boots, with a man’s velvet and wool doublet and a short cloak, all in green embroidered with gold. Her hair was pinned up tightly and covered with a plumed cap she had tugged low on her brow. With her slender figure she could pass for a young man, if no one looked too closely.

  She looked like her brother, as she remembered him when he was alive. Slim and dark-haired.

  But she did not want to think of her brother and what had happened to him in the end, of his stupidity. Not today, when she actually felt the hum of excitement in her blood, the warmth of dangerous life. The only other time she had felt that of late had been in bed with John.

  Or in the corridor, with her legs around his waist...

  She pushed away the heated memory of the night before, losing herself in John’s kiss, and hurried after the Queen. Queen Mary was also dressed in men’s clothes, rich crimson and black, and with her tall figure she was far more convincing as a male than Celia. She held the arm of Mary Fleming, who wore her own gown and cloak, and the two of them laughed together as if they were in a conspiracy.

  And so they were. So they all were now.

  Celia glanced at Lady Helen McKerrigan, who walked beside her. Helen also wore men’s garments, but she moved in them more easily than Celia. She looked as if she had done this before. With the Queen—or perhaps as a game with her handsome, broodingly dark husband?

  Celia wondered what John would think of her in these clothes. Would his eyes darken, as they always did when he was aroused? Would he reach for her, his hard fingers sliding into her breeches, his blue eyes burning with emotion...

  Stop it! she told herself sternly. She needed to cease this at once. Such thoughts were too dangerous.

  “Does Queen Mary do this often?” she whispered to Helen.

  Helen smiled. “Not as often a
s she would like, I think. But sometimes, when life at Holyrood becomes too serious for her. It’s never easy living between her Scots courtiers and her French friends.”

  Celia nodded. She had certainly seen the great tension between the two factions, the way Queen Mary trod carefully between the two. “And no one recognises her?”

  Helen laughed. “No one says anything to her, at least. She wanders where she will on these days. I think she hopes to hear unguarded gossip in the streets and taverns.”

  “And does she hear such things?”

  A clutch of Puritan clergymen in their stark black garments appeared on the front steps of a chapel as Queen Mary passed by, laughing merrily. Their grey faces were pinched with disapproval, and one made a gesture after her.

  “Sometimes she hears more than she would care to,” Helen murmured. “The Queen was gone from Scotland for a very long time. Some don’t care for a French Catholic monarch.”

  They hurried after Mary as she turned down a narrow lane. The cobbles were cracked and broken under their feet, the humid smell of rotting food and human waste sharper. Celia pulled out a scented handkerchief and walked faster.

  “But we should speak of more pleasant matters!” Helen said, taking Celia’s arm as they walked. “What is happening with you and that handsome Sir John?”

  Celia gave her a startled glance, suddenly filled with uncertainty. Was it all so obvious that now she was an object of gossip? “What do you mean?”

  Helen laughed. “I have seen how he looks at you. It’s quite delicious. How could any woman resist?”

  “Aren’t you married, Lady Helen?” Celia said, remembering Helen’s handsome husband and the way he always watched his wife with such love in his eyes.

  Helen just laughed louder, drawing glances from passers-by. “Very much so, and my husband keeps me very happy indeed. But I can still look, can I not? And I fear I am a terrible romantic. My husband teases me about it. He says I want life to be like a troubadour’s ballad.”

  “Sometimes life is far too much like a ballad,” Celia murmured, remembering the feelings that swept over her whenever she was near John.

  “Is it?”

  “I prefer matters to be more peaceful.”

  “But that is so dull!” Helen protested. “Who wants peace when a man like Sir John looks at you as if he wants to eat you up right then and there?”

  Celia laughed. “Does he?” She had to admit the thought of John looking at her like that, of being devoured by him, was not entirely unpleasant.

  “Yes. Right then and there.” Helen’s hand tightened on Celia’s arm and she drew her closer. “Such intensity from a man can be frightening, I know. I tried to run from my husband at first as well. But surely not to give in to those feelings, not to live fully, is worse?”

  Celia shook her head. “You don’t understand. I gave in once. It did not end well.”

  Helen gave her a long, searching look. “And ending can change. It did for me and my James.”

  “It cannot for me,” Celia said firmly. But her emotions were far more confused.

  Helen looked as if she wanted to say more, but Queen Mary suddenly veered off through an open doorway and they had to follow. There was no time for more conversation.

  Helen’s words lingered with Celia. Better to give in to feelings, to live fully. Once Celia would have completely agreed with her—until her feelings had crushed her. Now...

  Now she didn’t know how she felt. Not really. She wanted John, but did she dare to trust him? Trust the way he was making her feel again?

  Queen Mary had led them into a tavern, a cheap, dark place with scarred tables and a sticky, warped wooden floor. A fire smoked in the grate, and the smell of ale and stewed onions was thick in the air. It was crowded even at that hour, with a rough group who seemed deep in their cups. Any talk here was low-pitched, and stares followed them as they passed.

  Celia rested her gloved hand on the hilt of the short sword at her waist, ready to draw it at the slightest hint of trouble.

  Mary seemed to notice nothing. She strode confidently through the room to an empty table in the corner. She waved them all to sit down around her and called for ale as she drew Celia to the chair right next to hers.

  “My dear Madame Sutton,” Mary whispered, in that confiding voice that drew so many people to her. “You must tell me more about Lord Darnley.”

  Celia looked at the Queen in shock. “I—me, Your Grace? I have never spoken to him.”

  Mary smiled. “But you live at my cousin’s Court. And you were on this long journey here, yes? I know you watch people, see things.”

  Celia took a quick gulp of her ale. She hardly knew what to say. She could scarcely tell this queen, this woman with her wide, glowing amber eyes, the truth. Not until she was sure of what Queen Elizabeth would want.

  “They say he is exceedingly handsome, Your Grace,” she said carefully.

  Mary laughed—a silvery sound that made everyone around them laugh too. “I do see that, Madame Sutton! Very well. But what of his affections? Are they engaged?”

  Celia was saved by a burst of song, too loud to talk over, and Mary turned to clap along to the tune. Celia looked away as well, but she knew it was only a short reprieve. Mary would ask her again, and she would have to know what to say.

  Suddenly a hidden door opened across the room and shadowy figures appeared there. Still laughing at the bawdy song, Celia turned to study the newcomers over the edge of her tankard.

  She froze before she could take a sip. John was standing there, staring right back at her with those blazing blue eyes. She carefully lowered the ale back to the table before she could spill any.

  Marcus appeared at John’s shoulder as several men she did not recognise slipped past and out of the tavern. John spoke quietly to Marcus, his gaze never leaving her. She found she was caught by that stare and couldn’t turn away.

  What was he doing here? A meeting at such a tavern surely seemed to bode ill. Was he in some conspiracy she knew nothing about? She had had quite enough of conspiracies of late.

  He came towards her slowly, deliberately, dodging around the crowded tables. He still watched her, his eyes narrowed.

  “Sir John! Lord Marcus!” Queen Mary cried brightly. “Come and join us. We were just teaching our English friends some Parisian songs.”

  “Such a surprise to see you all here,” Marcus said, as smoothly as if finding a queen dressed like a man in a rough tavern happened all the time. “And a charming surprise at that. You’ve brightened a very dull day.”

  “You look as if your days are never dull, Lord Marcus,” Mary Fleming teased. “Do you know any good songs?”

  “I just might know one or two,” he said, sliding onto the seat by Mary Fleming and wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “None as fine as yours, though.”

  John took the chair next to Celia when Lady Helen obligingly slid down. Celia watched him warily as he removed the tankard from her suddenly cold fingers and raised it to his mouth. With a flick of his wrist he turned it and drank from the spot where her lips had been. The smooth muscles of his neck above the open collar of his doublet shifted as he swallowed, and Celia had to look away.

  “Do you know any French songs from your time in Paris?” she said.

  “None I would teach to you.”

  “Oh? Why is that? Because I have such a wretched voice?”

  “Because they are all naughty, Celia, and I don’t think I could take hearing you say those words with your pretty mouth,” he said roughly, and drank deeply again. “You have me too lustful as it is.”

  Celia was surprised he would admit it. She would never give him that power, even though she seemed to burst into desire every time they touched. She caught a glimpse of Lady Helen from the corner of her eye, and Helen grinned at her.

  Celia almost laughed aloud. Maybe it was the clothes she wore, the ale she was drinking, but she felt a sudden surge of some strange power wash through her. She did n
ot feel quite like herself.

  She reached for the ale and took a long gulp. “Words like swive? Or tup? Or maybe...” She whispered a word in his ear she had never said aloud.

  John growled low in his throat. “Celia...”

  She put down the tankard and slowly eased her hand down below the concealment of the table. She felt his thigh beneath her fingertips, his lean muscles bunching and shifting under her teasing touch. She trailed her fingers up slowly, slowly, the wool of his breeches a soft friction on her skin.

  Just as she brushed his codpiece he seized her wrist and held her away. But he didn’t put her hand back on the table, merely held it there, a mere inch from his manhood. She could feel its hardness, his desire, could see that need in his eyes.

  “What game do you play, Celia?” he demanded, his voice low.

  “The Queen commanded me to accompany her today,” Celia said, flexing her fingers. “I could hardly refuse.”

  “I don’t mean appearing here in these clothes,” he answered. His bright blue stare swept over her slowly, taking in every inch of her body in the form-fitting clothes until it felt as if he caressed her. “Though you do look tempting. I want to—”

  “Sir John!” Queen Mary suddenly called. “Lord Marcus tells us you do know some songs. Teach us one now.”

  John gave Celia one more long look—a hard glance that promised their conversation was not nearly over. Then he turned to smile at Mary, pressing his body against Celia’s shoulder.

  “Of course,” he said. “Your wish is my command. What is your pleasure tonight? A comic song? One of adventure? Or one of romance?”

  Mary sighed. “Oh, romance! I do love a love song the very best. What is life without love?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  John followed Celia closely as they made their way back through the streets of Edinburgh to the palace. Night was gathering around them now, shadows seeping down over the steep roofs and flowing over the wet cobblestones. Queen Mary was laughing with her friends, all of them a bit unsteady on their feet after an afternoon of tavern ale and bawdy songs.