by King, Susan
He turned and strode toward the northwest tower.
* * *
The echo of his pace was rapid and strong as he headed up turnpike steps and down wide, vaulted corridors until he reached the royal presence chamber. The guard outside the door lifted his halberd to allow William passage.
"Rookhope, sir, welcome back." He opened the thick oak door. William thanked him and handed over his long sword, aware that Marie of Guise disapproved of weapons worn in royal audiences. The guard waved him inside.
Sunlight poured through two tall windows, pooling on red brocade window-seat cushions and wall tapestries, and spilling in bright bars over the floor tiles. Music filled the air, emanating from the far end of the huge room, where the royal dais stood empty. Nearby, several men and women gathered in a circle around a man strumming a lute. All were finely dressed in costly fabrics, gowns and doublets gleaming with pearls and jewels. He could smell a blend of musky perfumes from where he stood.
William glanced at his own clothing and brushed at the dust from his ride. His garments were good quality but simple in style, as he preferred: a sleeveless doublet of supple Spanish leather, pierced for coolness and comfort, over a finely woven linen shirt; breeches of black serge, and high leather boots, as were worn by soldiers and reivers, rather than courtiers. He wore his dark hair longer than was stylish, and did not keep a shaped beard, though he sometimes let his whiskers grow out. He did not polish his nails and wore no jewelry.
He knew that most of the women at court favored his appearance. The rest, male and female alike, scoffed at his plain gear as more suited to a Border thief than a sophisticated man of the court. William was both, but he cared as little for the niceties of fashion as he did for the opinions of others.
No one glanced at him as he walked into the spacious chamber. The courtiers surrounded a man seated in their midst who sang a ballad. His voice was vibrant above the soft twang of the lute strings. William paused to listen, leaning a shoulder casually against the oaken paneling.
The bonny laird went to his lady's door
And he's twirled at the pin
"O sleep ye, wake ye, Jean my lass,
Rise up and let me in."
Fair Jean rose up and let him in
For she loved him best of a'
He's ta'en her in his arms twain
And she let her kirtle fa'.
A chill trickled down his spine. His heart slammed, his jaw tightened, and he remained outwardly calm by sheer effort.
The singer was a young man in an elaborate black satin doublet. William recognized the queen dowager's assistant secretary. He listened, and decided not to interrupt. Yet.
"O Jeanie, what ails ye?" her father spoke
"Does a pain cut in yer side?"
"I have nae pain, but a lover's gift,
And my laird willna wed me for pride."
Fair Jean went to the wood that day
And took with her some silk
She leaned her back against an oak
And bathed her bairn in milk.
William had heard enough. He pushed away from the wall and crossed the long room with such purpose that his wooden-soled boots echoed.
The others turned. Nearly all gasped, the women flattening their hands against their stiffened bodices. The secretary struck a dissonant chord and jumped to his feet.
"Sir William!" he cried.
"Greetings, Francis. And to the rest." William inclined his head and walked forward. A path appeared for him as they moved back, gowns rustling, shoes scuffling.
"Lady Margaret, Lady Elspeth. Fleming, Randolph. Lady Alice," he listed grimly as he plunged through the gap. "Seton, Lady Mary. Sir Ralph." He nodded to a tall, handsome man.
William pushed past them as they murmured greetings and backed away. A few had the grace to look embarrassed as he passed. He was glad to see some display of conscience.
He halted, fisting one hand at his waist. "Interesting ballad, Francis," he remarked.
"I—I did not write it, Sir William," Francis stammered. He stood. "I—I had it from a black-letter broadsheet."
"Indeed. Already circulating in broadsheets, is it?"
"Aye, the song has become quite popular. I've heard it sung in Edinburgh, and I hear 'tis sung in England, too."
"I see. And what is it called?"
"'The... The Bonny Laird—'" Francis said. He looked down at his wide-toed leather shoes as if he wanted to sink into oblivion. "'The Bonny Laird o' Rookhope.'"
"Ah." William let the silence linger.
Francis swallowed, his cheeks red. He glanced at the others, who had strolled across the room. "What—what brings you to court after so long, Sir William?"
"Madame sent for me. Kindly tell her that I have arrived, and that I await her pleasure." He extracted the folded note, displayed its seal and ribbon, and tucked it away again.
"She sent for you?" Francis blinked in surprise.
"Aye." William stared evenly at him.
"Sir William, I—I am most sorry. I would not have sung the ballad had I known Madame sent for you. I am your friend, sir."
"Then I wonder you sing the song at all."
"'Tis often requested during musical suppers. Many enjoy it, for the melody and for the tale, which is well-known now."
William glared. "I dinna care what is said about me, Francis. But Jeanie Hamilton is dead, and canna defend herself against chatter and gossip. If you wish to act the friend, then respect her memory."
Francis nodded, coloring deeply. "Ce-certainly." He stepped away. "I will announce you. But Madame has many interviews scheduled this afternoon."
"I will wait," William said. Francis sped past the dais, which was fitted with two empty throne chairs beneath an overhead canopy. On the end wall hung an embroidered tapestry. Behind the cloth, a door led to a small audience room and a short corridor that provided access to the queen's private apartments. Francis hurried through the doorway.
William turned. The circuit of his gaze took in the presence chamber, without acknowledging those who stared at him and murmured among themselves. He walked to one tall window and leaned a hand on the side of the niche, turning his back on the room. He had nothing to say to the others. Nor did they, he suspected, have much pleasant to say to him.
He looked out over the serene surface of the loch that spread behind the palace. As he watched a pair of swans glide there, he felt, rather than saw, the curious and accusing gazes that fastened on his leather-clad back.
* * *
"Sir William." Her voice was just as he remembered, low-pitched and gentle, with a marked French accent. "Come in."
"Madame." William bowed his head and stepped farther into the royal bedchamber. He glanced past the carved bed curtained in violet damask, and past fine pieces of furniture, toward one long window. A tall woman stood silhouetted by the northern light, her hands folded in front of her.
She had grown thin, he thought immediately. But the last time he had seen Marie of Guise, she had been great with child. Since then, she had given birth and had been widowed, and now bore part of the responsibility for her late husband's country on her square, capable shoulders.
"Thank you for responding so quickly to my message, Sir William." She was tall, nearly six feet, her carriage naturally elegant as she glided forward. Light glinted over the pearls edging her black cap and black damask gown, and revealed the dusky shadows beneath her eyes.
William bowed over her extended fingers, barely touching her hand, and straightened. She was nearly of a height with him, and he met her gaze boldly, as he always had done, though she was a queen and he was but a Border laird.
"You look well," she said. "I have missed you, William."
He bowed his head again. "And I, you, Madame."
She smiled. "How does your family? And your daughter?"
"All fine, Madame. And Her Grace?"
"Quite well. Come and see." She turned, and he followed.
In a shadowed corner
, a young woman in a dark gown sat in a chair, her arms full of a bundled, quiet infant swathed in pale, trailing silks. A small hand lay tucked against her chest while she crooned softly to the babe. The nurse lifted a fold of silk, and William gazed down at Scotland's queen.
Her face was lovely, peaceful, eyelids closed, full lower lip moving slightly as she dreamed. Pale golden-red curls covered her head, and her skin was delicate and translucent.
"I have scant knowledge of infants, other than the one who dominates my own household," he murmured. "But I know enough to judge a confection of a creature in this small queen."
"Merci," Marie of Guise murmured, and continued in French. "She has been fitful. The first teeth cause her discomfort."
"Ah." He went on in French without effort. "Katharine has had the same trouble. My mother gives her a remedy for pain."
"Oui? What remedy does she use?"
"I do not know, Madame. I will have her send the recipe if you like. It does provide us some peace." He smiled.
The queen dowager dismissed the nurse with orders to set the queen in her cradle in the adjoining chamber. The girl carried the sleeping infant through an open door, closing it behind her.
Marie turned, her gown whispering over the floor, and sat in a chair. "Before you leave, you must play a few games of the cards with me. You always give me a challenging game, monsieur."
"Madame, I would gladly play at the cards with you. But you would win all my gold and turn me out with an empty purse."
She tilted her head on her long neck. Her fine brown eyes grew serious. "You and I, we have had our losses," she said after a moment. "But we go on. What choice do we have?"
"Indeed, Madame," he said quietly. He had experienced grievous loss, but Marie of Guise had endured devastation. She had been widowed months ago, and less than two years earlier her two tiny sons had died of illness within days of one another. He could only admire her resolute strength and calm.
"I summoned you here for two reasons," she said in French. "I have had long meetings of late with Malise Hamilton."
Tension grew in him, but he bowed calmly. "I spoke with him myself just yesterday."
"He tells me that he urges you to wed, and soon."
William frowned. "He demands that I provide a suitable mother for his granddaughter. He wants me to wed a woman chosen by him. I have refused."
"He has always regarded you as a son, despite the tragedy you caused. He wants to be forgiving, and is concerned for his granddaughter's welfare."
"Did he tell you that he may take the matter to the civic courts and make a complaint for custody of Katharine?"
"I tried to dissuade him from that. But he wants the best upbringing for the child. If you do not wed soon, he will do what he can to gain la petite from you. He is much devoted to your daughter."
"He is devoted to the land that she inherited upon her mother's death. He seeks to control that property. His advocate will undoubtedly name the land in Malise's complaint against me."
"Do you think Malise so cold a man?"
"I do."
She frowned. "He is aware of your enmity toward him."
"Enmity!" He nearly laughed. "Madame, the man had a hand in the murder of my father, and controlled my life according to his wishes until I was a man."
"He feels the same about his daughter. He thinks your actions, and misdeeds, and lack of morals, caused her death. Rumors say that you sought revenge on Malise through Jean."
He looked away. "I regret her death, Madame," he murmured.
"I know. William, Malise asked me to speak with you about taking a wife. Regardless of your dispute with him, you must believe that he loves his granddaughter."
"As do I. And I will see to her welfare myself." He folded his arms. "Madame, you are a gracious diplomat. I apologize if Malise has pressed you to intervene in this."
"But you do need a wife. Your daughter needs a mother."
"My mother and my sister dote on her. Katharine does not suffer for the lack of her maman. She is cared for in all ways."
She sighed. "And what of you? Such a vigorous man needs a wife, a companion."
"I am flattered by your concern, Madame. Your kind heart melts for the child's sake, I think."
"La pauvre petite. Her mother was my cherished friend."
"I know. Please understand that I am in no hurry to marry." He drew a breath. "Someday, but not... so soon, Madame."
"I will tell Malise not to worry about his granddaughter's welfare. But you must promise me to find a wife to content you." She gazed at him solemnly. "I speak as a friend, William. I have never seen you joyeux. Always you seem to have a sadness in your heart."
He smiled, shrugged. "My daughter's existence eases any sadness I feel. As does your friendship, Madame."
"Give me none of your charm, monsieur, but truth now. Promise me to seek true contentment for yourself."
"I will do my best," he said. "Now, Madame, is that truly why you summoned me here?"
"There is another matter. My husband valued your advice regarding the Borders."
"He did not always follow the advice I gave him."
"But I will. You understand the ways of the Scottish Border, and you can help me now."
"I am honored, Madame. I will try to help."
"Word has come to me that Scottish Border lords have been approached by English, on behalf of King Henry, with offers of gold," she said.
"Madame," he said. "I have recently been approached myself. And so I intended to speak to you about this matter."
"Do you know who has accepted these bribes, and why?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. A certain English lord made the offer discreetly."
"The regent and Malise Hamilton believe that King Henry plans to attack Scotland again. Henry may think to purchase support from the Scottish Borderers. He favors bribery, abduction, and intrigue as methods of statesmanship."
"I have accepted this bribe, Madame," William said quietly. "I think you will understand why."
She paused. "Ah. You have decided on your own to act as a spy for me... when I was about to suggest the same to you."
He inclined his head in acceptance. "The English think all Scotsmen are in need of money, so they offered me a good sum. Now that I am in their favor, I intend to discover their plans."
She sighed in relief. "King Henry claims to support my daughter as the rightful queen of Scotland, but I fear that he means to harm her. The regent and my advisors do not believe that King Henry is heartless enough to take an infant from her mother." She fisted a hand in her lap. "But I cannot rest at night for fear over my daughter's welfare." Her voice caught.
William understood, utterly, the queen's need for assurance. "I know little of the scheme just now, Madame, but I will tell you what I suspect. As soon as I learn the rest, I will bring word to you."
She nodded gratefully. "That is all I ask. The regent will see to the consequences for those involved."
He leaned forward and spoke in low, urgent tones, explaining what he knew of the situation. Finally, he bowed his head. "I promise, upon my very life," he said, "that the little queen will be made safe."
Chapter 8
"A poore saffron-cheeke Sun-burnt Gipsie."
—Dekker, Satiromastix, 1601
Tamsin stood beside an oak tree, outside the reach of the firelight, and watched the dancing. Her Romany kin whirled and laughed as the wild, poignant music of a viol, played by her cousin, rose into the treetops that encircled the clearing.
She swayed her hips while she stood in the shadows, and tapped out the rhythm with her right hand against her thigh. She hid her left hand behind her out of habit. In the Romany camp, she never wore her concealing glove, for her grandmother thought it an unnecessary and foolish vanity.
Nor had Nona Faw approved of the immodest doublet and breeches that Tamsin had been wearing when she had arrived in the camp. Tamsin had dipped quickly in a stream before donning a woolen skirt and thick p
laid shawl over a loose linen chemise, her feet and legs bare. In the camp, she looked much like the other Romany women, but for the uncovered hair that showed she was as yet unmarried.
She glanced around and saw her grandfather talking with one or two men near the area where the horses were penned by ropes slung between the trees. Beyond them, the Border hills were silent and stark in the moonlight. She was relieved that neither her father nor William Scott had followed her here. The camp was tucked in a hollow between high, rugged hills, a difficult location to find unless one knew the site, as she did.
Earlier, she had told her grandfather that she and Archie had been out stealing horses in recompense for sheep Musgrave had taken. She explained that she and her father had been held by Musgrave, and that she had heard Musgrave talk of a plot against the Scots that would somehow use the Romany people, forcing Archie to help him.
She implored her grandfather to make no agreement to help Englishmen or Scots, including her father, until the matter had passed. John Faw had listened, promising to think about what she had told him and discuss it with his kinsmen.
Then her grandmother had called her away, asking Tamsin to help prepare a feast, since that night was the eve of a wedding. The festivities, celebrated by John Faw's band with another band of Romany, had begun several days before, as was the custom.
The bride, Tamsin's young cousin, and groom had not yet exchanged vows. Tamsin's grandfather, as one of the leaders of the Romany in Scotland and northern England, would perform the marriage ceremony that night.
Near the bonfire, the bride, barely fourteen, flashed her dark eyes and her red skirt, and danced flirtatiously around her sixteen-year-old groom. He grinned and took her hand.
Tamsin, seeing the joy and the desire on their young faces, felt a twist of regret and yearning for the husband she would never have, for the wedding feast, the dance, the vows that would never happen for her. Her father's efforts to find a husband for her had failed; her grandfather too had tried among the Romany. She was unwanted and unmarriageable, that much was proven.
