by King, Susan
William crossed his gloved hands on the pommel of his saddle and felt his horse shift restively beneath him. "I will keep the details private until I have spoken with Madame," he said. "Since you are riding back to Linlithgow now, though, I hope you will deliver a message to her for me."
"What is that?" Perris asked.
"Tell her that I will ride there tomorrow, soon as I see my family. And advise Madame to consider moving the queen to a place of greater safety as soon as possible."
"Why? Is there some danger to Her Grace?" Malise demanded.
"I have heard disturbing rumors," William said cautiously.
"Rumors that King Henry wants to snatch the wee queen?" Malise made a scoffing sound. "There are always such rumblings. He blows hot like a boiling kettle, and says what he likes for all to hear, but does not follow through always. He suggested to his advisors that they take her father, King James, years back, but they were too cowardly to try, any of them."
"Or too wise," William murmured. "Nevertheless, until the truth is discovered, Queen Mary's safety must be of paramount concern. Linlithgow Palace isna as defensible as Edinburgh or Stirling."
"Madame already plans on moving the queen to Stirling Castle," Perris said. "Her coronation will take place there next month."
"Next month is a long while away," William said. "She should be moved before then, I think, either secretly, or under a substantial force of men. Convey that message to Madame. I will bring the particulars to her myself."
"Very well, then," Malise said. "If you think she will listen to you. I do not know why she wants to speak with you. It might very well be a reprimand, which you only deserve."
"I will take my chances," William murmured. "Farewell to you both." He lifted his reins.
"There is one other matter between us," Malise said. William looked at him. "I sent you a lengthy letter a fortnight past, and was displeased with your reply."
"I will say it again, then, if you didna understand, Malise," William said. "I have no interest in marrying either of the Hamilton ladies you suggested for me in your letter."
"You must marry, and soon," Malise said in a fierce tone. "I will not tolerate my granddaughter being raised without a mother. You have no reason to refuse either one of my nieces. One is a widow with good property, the other her unmarried sister. 'Tis kind of my kin to allow the offer to be made to you. We all know the circumstances of your... relationship with my daughter."
William narrowed his eyes and waited for his temper to cool before he spoke. And he wondered, as he often had in the past, how Jeanie could have been the daughter of this man. But in Malise's dark blue eyes, and in his narrow, handsome features, he saw fleeting hints of Jeanie's laughing blue eyes and lovely face. The memory of her made him draw in his breath.
Just before she died, while he had held her hand and prayed silently for her strength to return, he had promised her that he would come to peace with her father. In his heart, he did not know if he could keep that oath. But for the sake of Jean's memory, and for the sake of their daughter, he had to try.
"I thank you for your concern," he said in a cool voice. "But when I wish to take a wife, I will choose her myself."
"You could have made that choice last year," Malise barked. "My daughter died unwed."
"Had you allowed her to contact me, you would have no grievance with me now," William said through clenched teeth.
Malise glanced away, his face set hard and pale. "I didna think she would die," he murmured.
William let out a hard sigh. "We all would have lost her, either way, to a hard birth."
"Will you dishonor my granddaughter now? Katharine has royal blood in her through the Hamilton line. Her uncle is the Regent of Scotland, and second in line to the throne. She requires a home and a mother befitting her blood."
"She has a fine home. And she had a fine mother."
Malise thinned his mouth, flared his nostrils. "I want Katharine raised in a Hamilton household. Rookhope Tower is naught but a den of thieves."
"I was raised in that den of thieves," William said between his teeth. "And flourished there, until you and the earl of Angus's men took me forcibly away from my kin. I wager my daughter will flourish among rascals just as well."
"I did not order your father's death," Malise said. "Angus was the one who gave the order. I came after 'twas done."
"You werena far behind," William said.
"'Twas long ago," Perris said quietly. "There is no need to argue it today, or ever. Tragedy was done that day. Neither of you can change it." His interruption was an attempt to pacify, William knew, offering the respite William needed to calm his spiking temper.
"A sad day for many." Malise smiled in the sour way that was peculiar to him, as if the only kindness or apology he could manage was a bitter turn of his lips. "But another death is between us, more tragic than the loss of a horse thief."
William stared out over the hills, jaw tense, hands tight on the reins, and did not reply. He could not look in the direction of the oak tree where his father had died.
"Agree to wed one of my nieces, and give my granddaughter the home I want for her," Malise said. "And perhaps I can begin to forget and forgive what happened."
"Neither of us will forget. Or forgive," William said.
"Jean made her choice when she went to you. She begged me to love you like a son," Malise said. "I have vowed for her memory's sake, and for my granddaughter, to fulfill that promise, though I would rather see you hanged for your lewd behavior." He narrowed his eyes. "Understand that what I do is for the child. Wed one of my kinswomen, and raise my granddaughter as befits her bloodline. I will see that you benefit from your status as kinsman by marriage to the Hamiltons."
"Oh, I will wed," William said, in as mild a tone as he could muster. He cared little to gain any status that would bring him into Malise's company. "I canna promise to whom, or when. Nor can I promise that you will be pleased by my choice. But you may be assured that Katharine will someday have a mother. And you can be assured that she will always be safe and well in my keeping."
"In your keeping," Malise repeated. "That is the question, is it not? Wed soon, and to a Hamilton woman who can provide my granddaughter with the upbringing she deserves, or I will take my complaint to the Court of Sessions. I have lately hired an advocate in Edinburgh to look into the matter."
William looked at Perris, who nodded grimly. "I know the man," he said. "A capable procurator."
"Hamilton's claim is not valid," William said.
"My advocate thinks otherwise," Malise said.
William looked at Perris, who nodded. "A child of a mother who is still under the guardianship of her parents can be interpreted as belonging to the grandparents rather than the father," he explained. "The civic court can settle this if Malise decides to pursue his complaint. They could decide for Malise. Or for you," he added.
"Jean's child is illegitimate," Malise said. "Katharine rightfully belongs to me. I want her raised in my household."
A chill slipped down William's back. "She is mine," he growled.
"Malise, the child should be with her parent," Perris said. "You know the moral side of the issue."
"The moral side is that Scott should have left my daughter unspoiled," Malise said. He looked at William. "I want Katharine, and the rights to the property her mother left her. Otherwise, you will wed the lass I choose for you, and sign over the guardianship of the property to me. If you do that, you may keep the child." Another of those flat, sour smiles that only darkened his eyes further.
"The land," William said. "'Tis what you want. You think to control it by taking custody of Katharine. As her father, I have the right to protect that property until she is of age."
"That land is too valuable to leave to the care of the son of a rogue," Malise said.
"Usually in such cases," Perris said, "a price is agreed and paid for the privileges pertaining to the land until Katharine comes of age. 'Twould always rem
ain hers in ownership."
"He's asked a price," William said. "Though not in coin."
"What most concerns me is Katharine's welfare. She is left to a pack of shifters and thieves," Malise said.
"I will believe that concern," William said, "when the moon is proven to be of green cheese." He glanced at Perris and nodded a silent farewell, receiving a nod and a wry glance in return, as Perris conveyed his opinion of Malise's position.
"Make no attempt to claim my daughter, Malise," William said. "Or you will regret ever making my acquaintance those years ago on the day you and your comrades hanged my father."
Without looking back, he guided the bay horse forward along the path that led to the tower. Behind him, he heard Perris and Hamilton canter away, their hoofbeats fading within moments.
He spurred the bay forward, his heartbeat heavy and hard, as if suddenly the hounds of hell pursued him. Reason told him that all was well inside Rookhope, but Malise's threats had stirred uneasiness and fear in him. He had to see that Katharine was safe, regardless of what reason said.
He thought, then, of Marie of Guise and her own threatened child, the queen of Scotland. He suspected, when she learned of the English plot against her daughter, she would react as a mother first and a queen next. His sympathy and understanding as a parent himself gave him a stronger motivation than even steadfast loyalty to the little queen of Scotland.
Earlier, he had hesitated over whether to pursue the gypsy lass or to ride home first. He was deeply glad that he had gone back to Rookhope. After he had seen Katharine and his mother and sister, he would obey the queen dowager's summons. He hoped she meant to offer him clemency, even forgiveness, for the tragedy of Jean's death, which had affected them both.
Regardless of what she wanted of him, he meant to take the opportunity of a private audience to tell her of the plot that he had uncovered. He knew he would have to follow her wishes regarding the scheme, once she knew of it.
He would need two or three days to ride to Linlithgow, seek an interview with the queen dowager, and ride back, he thought. The journey could be made in a day if he pressed his horse's pace. When he returned to Rookhope, he would set out to find the gypsy girl.
He would ask his cousins Jock and Sandie Scott, who often came to Rookhope, to accompany him to search for a gypsy camp. They might even know the whereabouts of one. William preferred a moonlight ride, as did most Bordermen, who were accustomed to riding through the night on reiving errands and sleeping well into the day. A few nights from now, he thought, would be a perfect time for such an outing.
As he approached the high stone wall that surrounded Rookhope Tower, he heard a shout from a man who stood watch on the rooftop. Likely one of his cousins, he thought, raising a hand to wave. He bypassed the small, easily defended side entrance, which was still closed, and followed the outskirts of the wall toward the open main entrance.
He rode along a wide, grassy shelf between the stone wall and the steep slope that fronted the tower. For a century and more, that difficult access had discouraged hostile visitors. The tower crested a forbidding wooded slope, at the base of which lay a narrow, turbulent burn.
Opposite the tower, separated by the narrow chasm, a rounded hill soared into the evening sky. One widespread oak tree topped its bare upper curve.
Nearing the portcullis, William glanced across the gap at the bleak hill. The oak tree stood alone, branches silhouetted against the sky like hundreds of gnarled hands and fingers. A small mound, a single grave, was sheltered at its foot.
The hill had grown barren over the years, sustaining only sparse grass, tufts of heather, and the dominant, twisted old tree. Many believed that the hill and the oak were haunted, and no one went there, William knew—but for his mother, his sister, and himself.
William glanced there, and gave a grim nod of respect for the memory of Allan Scott, buried beneath the oak. As he came toward the portcullis, he saw that the iron grille, and the massive wooden doors behind it, stood open.
As he rode through the gate, his sister Helen crossed the width of the bailey yard, carrying a small, bundled child in her arms. William looked down as she approached.
He scarcely saw his sister, his gaze hungry to see the small face beside hers, now turning up toward him: wide blue eyes beneath dark curls, cheeks chafed pink, a round little mouth.
He dismounted, aware of an upsurge of the sweet, easy joy that he felt only for his daughter, and he opened his hands to lift her high.
Chapter 7
Sum speikis of lords, sum speikis of lairds
And sic lyke men of hie degrie
Of a gentleman I sing a sang....
—"Johnie Armstrang"
Hooves rang in hollow rhythm on the cobbled street as William approached the south gate of Linlithgow Palace. He greeted the royal guards with a brusque nod and reined in his dark bay, which sidestepped and tossed its black mane, echoing his master's haste.
"'Tis the laird o' Rookhope!" one of the guards called. Within moments, the portcullis creaked upward and a guardsman waved William into the entrance tunnel. He dismounted and handed the bay's reins to a page, then strode toward the square court at the heart of the palace.
Summer sunshine warmed the rosy stone of the inner facade, with its tiers of glazed windows. Through an open shutter in the northwest tower, where the royal apartments were located, the irritated cry of an infant floated down to the courtyard.
"Ah, the queen of Scotland herself, fussing for her supper," a man remarked. William heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see Perris Maxwell, now looking less the reiver and more the well-dressed gentleman in a black velvet doublet, short breeches, and black hose on his muscular legs. Perris grinned and extended his hand to William, who smiled, glad of the chance to speak openly with his friend, without Malise Hamilton's dampening presence.
"Greetings, Perris." William clasped his hand, and then nodded toward the west block of the palace. "Queen Mary Stewart herself, is it? She sounds strong and lusty."
"Aye, as you will see. And well you should know the sound of a bairn. Your own wee daughter is a bonny bairn."
"And she was wailing a lusty fit when I left Rookhope Tower early this morn. I was glad to have a reason to be away."
"Hah, she melts her father's heart like butter in the sun. Must be that toothless smile."
"Aye." William tapped Perris's arm. "What's this? Velvet? And slashed sleeves? You look like a Spaniard."
Perris grimaced. "Lady Margaret Beaton convinced me to order this from her father's tailor. Mourning black, for the king. I confess she fitted me out in things too fancified for my taste. I complained that Will Scott always wore plain gear at court, no matter the fashion, and the ladies loved it well." Perris scratched at his beard. "Lady Margaret insisted 'twas Will Scott, not the gear, the ladies loved so well. That quiet charm you have is apparently sweeter honey to bees than this silly gear."
William smiled, then grew solemn. "Perris, you know that I return here only to please Madame, and for the sake of Her Grace, the wee queen. I wouldna come back to Linlithgow otherwise. And I have no wish to see Malise just now."
"I know. He is not here. Some will be displeased to see you at court, Will, and others might show you pity. There is still much talk of the bonny laird o' Rookhope, and his misdeeds and tragedies."
"I am certain that my visit to Madame the Queen Dowager will provide new fodder for wagging tongues," William drawled.
"Madame herself summoned you here, so 'twill stifle some of those tongues. She doesna hold the scandal against you, Will, though I know you believe she might."
"I know it distressed her greatly, and I am sorry for that. But I willna apologize for what was a private matter between Jeanie Hamilton and myself. I ask no one's forgiveness."
Perris nodded. Among his friends, William thought, Perris was one of the few who had not borne him an ill prejudice based on rumor. "But I think you can be certain of her friendship, after all. Madame still
regards you as one of the few she can truly trust. You earned her friendship when she arrived in Scotland knowing no Scots, and the king scant French. You showed much patience in teaching her our language. I vow she values your hand at playing cards, and that bonny face as well."
"I will always honor Madame. I hope she knows that," William said quietly. They passed an elaborate stone fountain at the center of the courtyard, and both men paused beside it. "But I wonder why Madame sent for me. Her letter only mentioned an urgent matter," he said. "She doesna need me, a Border laird, to comment on issues. She has advisors and judges, priests, and lawyers—like you."
"I dinna know what 'tis, in truth," Perris said. He grasped William's hand. "And I must go attend to a matter for Madame. Not legal work this time, but important, nonetheless. I am to find a local miller to grind oats into the finest powder. Her Grace the queen spits up her porridge."
"Go to, then," William said, chuckling. Perris grinned and hastened toward the south gate.
William turned back to look up at the carved stone fountain, and recalled a day five years ago when its spouts and basins had overflowed with red wine and rose petals, a display ordered by King James in honor of his new French bride, Marie of Guise. The stone spouts were empty now, the basins green with lichen, the water levels low and murky. Wine might never flow there again, William thought grimly. His hand went to the folded parchment tucked inside his leather doublet, written in Marie of Guise's own elegant italic script.
He had been surprised by the summons. The queen dowager's display of friendship touched him deeply, and he would strive to do whatever she wanted of him. He owed that much to her. He owed it to Jeanie's memory too. As one of Marie's ladies-in-waiting, Jeanie had loved her royal mistress and friend dearly.
Standing beside the fountain, he recalled sweet late evenings nearly two years past, when he and Jeanie Hamilton had met near this fountain. Those clandestine and passionate meetings had led them both along a tangled and tragic path.
She had been lovely and young, and the only child of the one man he truly hated. William knew that rumor claimed he had shamed her deliberately. Few knew the real tale, he thought bitterly. Nor would he enlighten the curious.
