Someone pulled a wooden chair over, and Michael lowered Alexandra into it, handing her the pewter cup a servant had produced. Then he busied himself putting the bridle back onto Duke.
By this time Hob stood before the queen, his knees visibly trembling inside his thin trews.
"What is your name, boy?" Mary asked.
"Hob Forster, Your Majesty."
"Your Grace," hissed Michael. "We say 'Your Grace' in Scotland."
"Sorry ma'am, I mean, Your Grace." Hob looked chastened.
"And the girl's name?"
"Alexandra Graham. Daughter of Simon and heiress of Kersdale."
At this last answer, Michael frowned. He knew Simon was Alexandra's father, but she had never said anything about being his heir. Were there no brothers? He glanced at her but she was drinking thirstily.
The queen tilted her head at Hob. "And when did you last eat?"
Hob took a moment to answer this one, his forehead creasing and his eyes rolling skywards as if thinking hard. "Maybe two days ago." He shrugged and rubbed his belly. "Or three."
A muscle twitched in the queen's jaw, and after a moment's contemplation she addressed Michael. "Do these Grahams of Kersdale cause trouble in the Marches, Cranstoun?"
Michael shook his head. "Not that I know of, Your Grace."
Mary pressed her lips together, then she sat tall and put her hands on the arms of her chair. "Alexandra of Kersdale, I find you and 'ob Forster blameless against the accusation of reiving. You are 'ereby pardoned, and may, if you wish, return to your clan. You shall be recompensed with ten gold coins each, and you will dine here momentarily, to regain your strength. But," and here she looked directly at Alexandra, "should you wish, I would have you work for me. I would give you a position in my household as Riding Master."
Alex blinked at the queen, not trusting her ears. "Riding master?" she repeated, sure she must've misunderstood.
"Yes," replied the queen. "You will teach me and my ladies—and my young son when 'e is grown—to ride like that. Train our horses. You shall 'ave an 'ouse in Edinburgh, so you are close at 'and."
"But she is an Englishwoman!" Bothwell's gruff voice interjected, and he pointed at her accusingly, his hand heavily bandaged. "You cannot trust the English, ma'am. She could be a spy for Elizabeth—or be an assassin!"
Michael glanced at Alexandra and saw how her shoulders tightened under the earl's gaze. Something has gone on there. And, knowing Bothwell's reputation, it could well have been against her will. A kernel of anger stirred in his stomach. I must get her away from this blackguard.
He stepped forward. "My Lord Bothwell, is it nae true that this lady was imprisoned in your dungeons for pursuing the thieves who took her horse?" He opened his hands. "So it's hardly likely she's a spy or an assassin. She wasnae anywhere near Jedburgh or the queen."
Bothwell glared at Michael. "Maybe so. But she set fire to the tower at Mangerton, and the Armstrongs are subjects of Her Grace."
"Which is exactly what they did to our bastle house!" interjected Alexandra. "They burned our winter stocks of hay, and now our animals will starve, for 'tis long past harvest."
Mary held up a hand. "It seems there was fault on both sides. But," she addressed herself to Alexandra, "if you are to be part of my 'ousehold, we need some guarantee of your good behaviour."
Alexandra frowned, for once at a loss for words.
"Hah! You can't trust an English reiver. They never change." For a man that had been reported to be on his deathbed, Bothwell's arguments were remarkably vigorous.
The earl's attitude reveals more about him than about Alexandra. But she was still in danger from Bothwell, who seemed to have some sort of grievance against her, and he was not known to give up on a grudge.
Michael needed to stop this argument and get Alexandra away from Bothwell. But maybe there was a way; something he had done before, at the day of truce…
He stepped forward. "Your Grace, if it please you, I will attest to her good behaviour on my honour as deputy warden."
"But why would you do that? She is nothing to you," Bothwell cut in.
Michael bristled at the contempt in the earl's tone. But he was right. Turnbull had been Michael's tenant, so he had a reason to speak for the man. However, as far as all here knew, Alexandra meant nothing to him.
Before Michael could reply, Bothwell continued, his eyes glittering malevolently. "Or do you wish her to be something to you?" He jerked his chin. "You would be better with another, not this frigid English vixen."
His jaw clenching, Michael's hand slid to his sword hilt. That man is a knave.
"Cranstoun!" The queen's voice was sharp, and it snapped his attention from the earl back to her. "The lady is an heiress," she raised a questioning eyebrow, and gave him a knowing look, "about which we 'ave 'ad discussions. Per'aps there is a way to benefit you both. Would you take this woman?"
It took a moment for the queen's meaning to find its way past Michael's anger at the earl. "You mean…?" Marry her?
Chapter 26
ALEX PUSHED HERSELF out of the chair, and addressed herself to nobody in particular. "Do I not get a say in this? Before I even decide to accept the queen's offer, you would betroth me—to a man who already has a wife!" She glared accusingly at the brunette maid. "Mayhap you Scots are as uncouth as they say, but I will not marry a bigamist!"
There was a stunned silence, and then the queen tilted her head at Michael. "You have a wife, Cranstoun?"
Michael's face had gone white, and he turned hurt eyes on Alex. "Why would ye say that? I'm nae married. Never have been."
"But…" Alex eyed the brunette again, realising that she had, as usual, jumped to conclusions, and that she must've been wrong. I need to learn not to make assumptions. Perhaps this maid just dreamed of Michael, as she had. With looks like his, he must have many admirers.
She cast her eyes downwards. "My apologies, sire. Mayhap I misread things."
"So," Mary looked from Alex to Michael and back again. "What say you? Work as my Riding Master, and marry laird Cranstoun?"
Before Alex could find the words to reply, Michael shook his head. "We canna marry, Your Grace. She is English; I am Scots. 'Tis forbidden."
Alex's heart sank. He does not wish to marry me. But even as that realisation made her shoulders slump and her eyes sting, she recognised that her disappointment answered the queen's second question—she would have married Michael, if only he would have her.
She might hardly know him, but she knew the important things—that he was kind, loyal and caring; attributes that any woman would be glad to have in a husband. And attributes that had been missing in all the potential suitors her father had paraded before her.
The queen obviously trusted Michael, and had he not said that he was deputy warden? He kept that a secret from me! She remembered his mirth that first day at the meadow when she'd threatened to report him to the warden. No wonder he had laughed! Her mouth curled at the memory, despite her dismay that he would not have her.
Mary looked from Cranstoun to the English girl. Something goes on there. They were both visibly upset at the idea they could not marry. She had an inkling that this was not the first time they'd met. But there was obviously some bad blood between Bothwell and the girl, so, whatever happened, Alexandra would be better away from Hermitage.
Catching Cranstoun's eye, Mary inclined her head. "You are correct, Cranstoun. Under Scots law, you cannot marry an English woman. But," she held up a finger, "as sovereign, I can grant a licence for you to wed, should you so wish."
The laird's eyes widened, then he turned to the girl. "What say you, Alexandra? Would you marry me, as bond for your good behaviour? And would you ride for the queen?"
Heart in his mouth, Michael waited for Alexandra's reply. Around him, the restless nobles had stilled, all eyes fixed on the drama playing out in the centre of the courtyard.
Hazel eyes flashing, Alexandra squared her shoulders under her grubby chemise. "Your pro
posal sounds more like a business arrangement. A lady would have her betrothal be more…romantic."
Michael looked around him theatrically and shrugged. "'Tis difficult to be romantic with such an audience."
Inwardly, Alex smiled at Michael's dramatics. But she could not let him win her so easily and kept her face stern while she considered whether to push him for more.
Hob Forster had been quiet throughout this playful exchange, his eyes growing wider and frown deeper with each counter argument. At Michael's last comment, he piped up, "But you mayn't marry, Alex! Not wi'out your father's say-so."
Alexandra's good spirits fled, leaving only a hollow feeling where happiness had been brewing. Father! He will never allow it! "He's right," she said, glancing first at the queen and then Michael. "I'm his only child. Any union would need his blessing. And you are a Scot, sire. He will mislike that."
Tapping a finger on the arm of her chair, the queen was silent for a moment. Then a smile wreathed her face. "I 'ave it!" She pointed at both of them. "An 'andfasting. A contract that will bind you, Alexandra of Kersdale, to Michael of Stobs, and 'e to you. Terms that should allay my Lord Bothwell's concerns for my security. But the betrothal will give time for us to speak with your father, and set things right before you marry. He may mislike it less if the queen suggests it. What say you?"
Chapter 27
PICKING AT THE cuff of his jerkin, Michael tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach. When this day started, his only concern had been to get the queen safely to Hermitage and back again to Jedburgh. Who would have thought it would have turned out like this?
The queen caught his eye. "You are ready, Cranstoun?" she murmured.
"Aye."
"And you are sure?"
He paused for a moment, then nodded. "Aye." There had been something about Alexandra from the moment he had first seen her—when he had thought she was a lad. Something about her that made him care about what she thought and what she did, and made him want to keep her safe. Which was what he was doing now—keeping her safe from Bothwell and anyone who would accuse her because she was not a Scot.
"You know that you could 'ave married one of my ladies, 'ad you wished?" Mary said, casting her eyes at the other side of the room, where Flam stood in a huddle with some of the other courtiers. "One with a fine dowry and a title to share. You still could."
This question requires a careful answer or I could cause offence. "I wouldnae ha' presumed myself worthy of any of the ladies who attend you, Your Grace." He glanced at the door to the upper chambers. "This Alexandra of Kersdale will suit better. And," he brushed at his sleeve again, "'tis a hand-fasting. An agreement to marry. If she does not wish to stay wi' me, or her father will not allow, we can break the agreement."
The queen nodded slowly, the pearls of her headdress glowing palely in the flickering lights from the candles illuminating the hall. But whatever she would have said next was lost, as the tower door opened, and a vision in cramoisie and white entered.
Alexandra. But Alexandra as he'd never seen her before—with her hair cleaned and curling softly around her shoulders, jewels around her neck and her fine figure accentuated by the cut of the borrowed gown she wore. She looked like a goddess descended to the mortal world from the heights of Mount Venus; far too beautiful for surroundings like this or a man like him.
All Michael's worries faded away. How came I to deserve an angel like this?
This last hour of Alex's life must surely qualify as one of the strangest she had ever lived through. From a rank prison cell, to dancing with her horse in front of the queen of Scots, to being offered employment in the royal household—the kind of position she had only dreamed of—to a proposal from the man who had filled her dreams for the last weeks. Mayhap I am still dreaming? She pinched herself. No.
And now, standing at the entrance to the great hall, her life was about to change irrevocably. Clean, fragrant and dressed like a lady, thanks to the ministrations of Jean Gordon and Libby Preston, she would leave this place betrothed to a man she hardly knew and live in a country she had heretofore only visited to reive or train her horse.
But one glance at Michael and any misgivings she might have had disappeared like snow off a dyke. Catching her eye, his smile lit the room, and took the breath from her lungs.
In a few steps she was by his side, facing the queen of Scots.
With a few words, Mary outlined their purpose and asked them to join hands to signify the joining of their lives.
After a few heartbeats, they were gazing into each others' eyes, their hands wrapped together with a golden cord.
With only an imperceptible tremor in his voice, Michael gave his vow. "Alexandra Graham of Kersdale, to thee I plight my troth, to give my hand in marriage until death us do part."
No mention of love. But perhaps that was not a surprise, given that they hardly knew each other and nobody present knew they'd even met before today. Love could grow, she knew, given the right ingredients. And this gloriously handsome, kind and strong man had all the right attributes to light a fire in her belly. If she could do the same for him, it would surely lead to love? Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but sometime soon.
She lifted her chin. "Michael Cranstoun of Stobs, to thee I plight my troth…"
Chapter 28
LEAVING HERMITAGE WITH Alexandra by his side, Michael's heart was lighter than it had been before. They still had obstacles to overcome, and a relationship to build, but they had forever to do that—if only her father would say yes.
Hob Forster had been dispatched to Kersdale with a letter from the queen asking Simon Graham to join them in Jedburgh as soon as was convenient, and a passport giving him safe passage to do so.
Given Michael's last experience of Simon—being accused of spying, then escaping from his barn—he didn't expect a warm reception from the English laird. But the queen of Scots was charming and gracious, and Michael felt sure she would be able to smooth the way for their marriage.
"Alexandra," he glanced across to where she rode beside him, "there's a tailor in Jed if ye want to get another dress made for the wedding." He pointed at the simpler clothes she'd borrowed to ride in. "And other day clothes if ye wish. I have money I can gie ye."
Pursing her lips, she grinned impishly. "And I have ten gold coins from the queen. I can buy my own dress, sire. But thank you for the consideration."
"As ye wish."
Turning off the westward path from Hermitage, and leading their band of lords and ladies onto the old drove road that led northwards beside the Braidley Burn, a hare skittered off the track ahead of them. Grey skies hung low overhead; the tops of hills like Cauldcleuch Head buried in low cloud. Michael pulled his cloak over his head against the persistent mizzle, his nostrils filling with the bitter scent of bracken as Spirit's hooves thudded hollowly on the peaty ground.
Pondering their upcoming nuptials, a dreadful thought occurred to him. "I never asked before. Ye are a Catholic? Or do I need to find one of those followers of Knox for a Protestant service?"
She laughed out loud at that. "That would be a fine mess, if I were a reformist. But no, we Grahams still follow the old religion."
I have so much to learn about this woman. He smiled back at her. But there will be time, provided we can persuade Iron Simon. "And after we are wed, would ye want some days in Jed for a honeymoon? Or shall we just retire straight back to Stobs?" He gave her a lopsided grin. "There's a big, comfortable, feather mattress and a warm fire in my chamber."
Her brow wrinkled. "Stobs? But I'll be staying in Edinburgh, so that I can ride for the queen."
"But—my lands are at Stobs. My tenants. My work…" At her stony look he tailed off.
"I only agreed to marry because of the queen's offer of work. All the suitors father could suggest wanted me to be a brood mare, producing youngsters and keeping house. But I want more from life," she added passionately. "If I cannot work for the queen, then we cannot marry."
Mic
hael shook his head. "Stobs is too far to ride to Edinburgh and back in a day, and still hae time for work." He pointed at Duke. "And your horse would soon wear out, travelling all those miles."
"I will have to live somewhere else then. Somewhere nearer."
With a sigh, Michael raised his shoulders. "And I canna afford to rent us somewhere nearer. The estate makes little enough as it is."
She glared at him. "I thought you were a laird."
"Aye. But the English razed our lands and father died in battle while I was still a boy. Stobs was ruined when I took it over. It's only these last few years it's begun to turn a profit."
"Well, I can't stay in Stobs if I'm to work for the queen." Her eyes dropped to the gold hand-fasting cord, which she'd tied around her wrist like a bracelet.
"But ye'll have to stay in Stobs when ye're married to me."
She swallowed hard, then turned to look at him, her eyes glistening. "Then I can't marry you. I need to be my own woman. I want to work for the queen."
Mary frowned. Something is wrong with those two. At the beginning of the ride Cranstoun and the girl had laughed and joked together, but something had changed, and for the last mile they had ridden in stony silence, leading the group along Braidley Burn to the turnoff at Crib Burn, and now up the steep narrow cleft beside the stream as it led to Swire Knowe.
As the one to suggest the hand-fasting, Mary felt a responsibility for the couple, for she had been a matchmaker of sorts. Seeing them estranged like this was too reminiscent of her own early days with Darnley—and that was not a good example to follow. Mayhap I can smooth over whatever ails them. Pushing her horse past her ladies, she made to catch up with Michael and Alexandra.
But Mary had not reckoned on the slippery ground. On this steeper section of the hill, the path narrowed, and as she urged him forward, her white palfrey lost his footing. With a scrabble and a grunt, his hindquarters lurched and he began to topple sideways.
A Love Divided: A Scottish Historical Romance (The Reivers Book 1) Page 11