by King, Susan
Tamsin stopped. "Do you know William Scott, the laird of Rookhope? Has he come by here?"
The guard looked surprised. "Aye," he said. "He came into the hall earlier with Madame the Queen Dowager and Her Grace, but left with Sir Perris Maxwell. Why would ye be looking for Sir William?" He grinned and leaned forward. "A wee tryst, hey? Well, he has that repute. If I see him, shall I say that a bonny gypsy is seeking him?"
"Tell him," she said, "that his bonny wife is seeking him." She flashed the guard a brilliant smile, and saw astonishment flicker in his face. She shook her hair back over her shoulders and glided past him like a queen, head high.
Tamsin, Baptiste, and John Faw hurried along a narrow gallery, its windows open to the music and laughter in the courtyard. The sun had set long since, and the shadows had grown deep. Baptiste took her arm again.
"Wife?" he asked. "Wife to this William Scott? The rya?"
"Yes," she said in Romany. "He is here in the palace. I must find him and tell him about these disguised men."
"But you said you broke the jug with him!"
"I did. He did not like that much. Nor did I," she added. "We have decided to stay wed."
Baptiste stopped. "But I thought you came back to wed me." The keen disappointment in his voice caused Tamsin to stop too. John, who walked more slowly, caught up to them.
"I am sorry, Baptiste," she said. "If I were free, I might be happy to wed you." Her grandfather gaped at her.
"I truly wanted to be your husband," Baptiste said.
"Be my friend," she said earnestly. "I would like that."
He sighed. "A beautiful woman is like a beautiful horse. Many men are eager to own her, but only one can."
"No one owns me, Baptiste," she said. "This marriage is my wish."
"Beautiful, and strong-willed too." He sighed again. "I suppose I must be your friend." He looked long-suffering.
She smiled, pleased by his support, and pleased too that he considered her beautiful. That feeling, first sparked in her by William, was still new and wonderful.
"Where are we going?" John Faw asked, glancing around.
"William asked me to meet him in that tower over there." She pointed through the window. "We must cross the courtyard."
"This way," Baptiste said. "There are halls that connect. I was up here earlier, walking with a pretty gadjo lady."
"Baptiste!" Tamsin said, half laughing.
He grinned. "Did I say I would be a faithful husband? I am far too pleasing to the ladies."
"Then you will have no trouble replacing me," she said.
"True," he said simply, and took her arm to tug her along.
They passed through another wing of the palace, hastening down an open gallery and around a stair into the north wing, running through large, deserted, connected chambers. Each room was decorated with painted ceilings, floor tiles, tapestries, and fine furniture. Their rapid footsteps echoed, and Tamsin glanced around in awe.
"Fine things they have. We should not be here," John muttered. "They will accuse us of being light-fingered."
"All will be well," Tamsin assured him. "But where have those men gone? We did not see the direction they took!"
"If they want to steal the little one, they will go this way," Baptiste said. "The royal chambers are at the end here. My lady friend told me that," he said.
They entered a large, empty chamber, its two tall windows spilling evening light. Torches glowed in sconces, revealing sumptuous decor, and a dais and throne. At the other end, a small alcove housed a locked door. Around a corner were stairs, and a narrow corridor ending in a niche, with a tall window and a cushioned seat in its recess.
"This is where I am to meet William!" Tamsin said. John and Baptiste went down the stairs to look, and Baptiste came back a few moments later.
"We just saw the disguised men through a window in the stair," he said. "They are out in the courtyard, where our people are gathering up their goods to leave this place. Stay here and wait for your man, and tell him the danger." He paused. "Tchalai—he is a lucky man, your rya." He grinned, then turned and ran down the turning stairs after her grandfather.
Tamsin smiled, thankful to have found an unexpected friend in a man she had misjudged. She went into the window recess and sat on one of the cushioned seats to wait for William.
The tall window was cut so high that she could not see over its sill, but beside her seat was a tiny window. She peered out over the peaceful loch behind the palace, watching as swans glided over the water, and birds skimmed overhead, and the last of the light faded from the sky.
Chapter 29
"Above all, we must have a care of the little lass your Queen."
—Giovanni Ferrerio, about Mary, Queen of Scots, 1548
"There you are," William said, a little while later. Tamsin turned with a sense of relief at his voice. He came down the corridor, and she moved toward him.
He reached out to take her hand, and then handed her a little cake and a small silver cup with cool wine. "I am glad you found this place," he said while she ate. "I didna see you earlier, and I began to worry. I have been in the queen dowager's apartments. She tells me that she is glad for the entertainment, but didna invite the gypsies herself. One of the guards said the wanderers claim to have been invited and paid."
"Arthur Musgrave paid coin to Baptiste Lallo to bring the gypsies here. But we can trust Baptiste," she added. "I was wrong about him—he is a good man. I am sure he can be trusted."
"Ah," he said. "That makes sense. Your grandfather would surely try to choose a husband whom you could love."
"I couldna love any man as I love you," she murmured, tipping her face up. He leaned down and gave her a tender kiss. "Though I like him. He thinks I am beautiful." She gave him a teasing smile. "William, he knows the men who want to steal the little queen," she said urgently.
"Tell me," he murmured, and drew her toward a corner of the little hall. He leaned a shoulder against the wall beside her, while she explained in a half whisper what she knew about the men Baptiste had seen.
"My grandfather and Baptiste have gone off to find them," she finished. "The men should be easy to recognize in the crowds. They are wearing headcloths and cloaks, like women, though they think themselves very fine."
He smiled. "Excellent," he murmured. "I have just been in the queen dowager's apartments. She will want to know this, but I canna go back to tell her now. These men must be found and stopped."
"We'll go to the courtyard. We can summon the guards to search the palace." She stepped forward.
"Not we," he murmured, putting out an arm, hand flat against stone, to block her passage. He looked down at her. "I want you safely out of this."
"Dinna think to leave me here to wait alone while you run after those men." She tilted her chin stubbornly. "I'll come with you."
"Nay. I have another mission for you," he said. "The queen dowager thought to summon one of the gypsy women to read her palm." He lowered his face toward hers as he spoke, and her resistance began to melt. She tipped her head upward. "I told her I knew the best one for the task. I told her," he said, "about you."
She blinked at him in surprise. "You did?"
"Aye." He trailed his mouth over her cheek, and his voice thrummed deep through her. "She has been concerned that I find a wife. I explained how I came to fall in love with you. She is delighted, and eager to meet you. I promised that I would bring you in to her soon."
"Take me there, then," she said breathlessly.
"My love," he whispered, "there are many places I would like to take you." Her heart pounded at his sensuous hint, but he drew back. "But that will have to wait. I'm going down to the courtyard to find John Faw and Lallo. Go ahead to Madame's bedchamber yourself. 'Tis just down the hall. She is expecting you. The nursemaid and the queen are with her."
"Go to the queen myself?" she asked in surprise.
"Aye." He kissed her then, rich but all too brief. "'Twill be fine. Look at her palm
. And wait for me there, if you will."
"Trysting with gypsy lasses, now, Scott?" a man said.
Tamsin gasped, heart leaping. William turned, standing back, his hand going to the dirk at his belt.
Two men stood at the end of the corridor, both elegantly dressed in velvets and brocades, one younger, with a neat dark red beard and short hair, the other an older, silver-haired man. The older man, who had spoken, frowned as he waited for an answer. Tamsin slid away, but William caught at her left hand.
"What is it, Malise?" William snapped. Tamsin, hearing the name, knew they faced Malise Hamilton.
"I was on my way to speak with Madame," the older man said. "And I saw you with the gypsy lass. Still intent on ruining women? Not that I much care if you disgrace a tawny wench." He looked disdainfully at Tamsin.
"Malise Hamilton," William said. "And Perris Maxwell. This is Tamsin Armstrong, the daughter of the laird of Merton Rigg. You will want to congratulate us. She is my wife." He emphasized the last word.
Perris looked surprised and pleased, but Malise went pale, eyes narrowing. "A gypsy?" Malise asked. "You've given Katharine a gypsy for a mother?"
"Half Romany," William said. "Tamsin's father is a Border laird, and was my father's closest friend. And her great-uncle was Johnnie Armstrong of Gilnockie, the notorious Border reiver."
"Quite a lineage," Perris said, and grinned, bowing to Tamsin. She smiled hesitantly, grateful for his genial response.
"Thieves and tawnies!" Hamilton burst out. "How can you think to provide my granddaughter with such a stepmother!" He fisted his hands in outrage. Tamsin drew back, but William held her left hand fast in his.
"Enough, Malise. You and William have just settled your differences in the courts," Perris reminded his companion.
"We will never settle our differences," William said.
"This is a further insult that I will not forget!" Malise said. He turned and stalked away.
Perris sent William a long look. "Ill-timed," he said.
"Anything with him is ill-timed," William answered wearily.
"He will come to accept this later. He is concerned, just now, because Madame is upset about the matter we were discussing earlier." He glanced at Tamsin.
"She knows," William said. "We can speak freely. And she's just told me that there are some counterfeit gypsies about the palace who we want to find, I think."
"Counterfeit gypsies!" Perris frowned. "'Tis a crime in Scotland, just that alone, guising as Egyptians."
"I'm sure they've committed more than that offense," William said. He glanced at Tamsin. "Go on, lass. The queen's chamber is around the corner, and down the hall." He lifted her hand, kissed it, let it go. "Tell her who you are. And tell her that I will send a guard to her as soon as I can. The one who was there earlier went off to hear the gypsies and never sent his replacement. This place has been thrown into chaos with so much entertainment. Just what Musgrave wanted, I suspect," he muttered.
She nodded, and watched him stride away with Perris, heard the echo of their footsteps in the turnpike stair. Sighing, she walked slowly along the stone corridor, lagging her steps. When she found the arched oak door that would lead to the queen dowager's chambers, she hesitated nervously.
"Hey, gypsy girl," a man said. She jumped at the unfamiliar voice and turned. Two men, wearing headcloths and striped cloaks, walked toward her. She stared at them in alarm, suddenly frozen by fear.
"Hey, tawny girl," one of the men said. "What is your business in that chamber?"
She watched them warily. "I—I have been summoned by the queen dowager herself," she said, hoping to frighten them away. "She wants a fortune-telling."
"Good," he said, grinning at his companion. "We want a favor of you. There is some gold in it for you." He flashed a bright coin. She stepped back instinctively, and they followed her deeper into the hall, cornering her.
She opened her mouth to scream for William, but the larger of the two men leaped forward and pinned a hand over her mouth, pulling her against him. "When you are admitted to that chamber," he growled into her ear, "we will go in with you. Tell those inside that we are your gypsy kinsmen."
"Nay," she mumbled against his hand, struggling.
He held her tight. "I mean you no harm, and no harm to anyone else. And I am willing to pay you a gold coin to get us into that chamber with you." His breath was hot and fetid.
"Nay!" she shrieked, the cry muffled. She twisted.
"Refuse me," he said, "and I will kill you now. Obey me, and all will be well for you and your gypsy band." He held her so tightly that her breathing constricted and her heart pounded.
The second man pulled a dagger and laid its tip between the laces of her bodice. She felt cold steel prick her through the cloth. Though she tried desperately to think, panic hazed her mind. All she knew was fear, for herself, and on a larger scope for the little queen and her mother.
With cold certainty, she knew her refusal would only bring her death. They would spill her blood and her life out on the stone, here and now, and force their way into the royal chamber. If she agreed and went into the bedchamber with them, she might be able to stop them from harming the little queen.
She nodded. "Let me go."
The man loosened his hand and allowed her to step away. The other man grabbed her upper arm and pressed the point of the dagger into the middle of her back. "Through the heart, girl, if you try to give us away," he hissed in her ear.
She drew a breath and held out her palm. "Give me the coin," she said, hand trembling. She wanted them to think she cared only for that and for herself, and for no one else.
The larger man chuckled low and handed her the gold.
She tucked it into her bodice and went to the door. The men pinned her close, the dagger pricking her back like a bee sting. She raised her hand, fist shaking, and rapped on the wood.
They waited. Tamsin drew a breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and thought of William. Her love for him warmed her, strengthened her. Then she thought of his devotion to the baby queen. A shiver ran through her, bringing with it a surprising infusion of courage, and a touch of indignant fury.
She looked back at the men. "Did you know," she drawled, "that you are disguised as gypsy women?"
They gaped at her, and at each other. She looked away, smug and satisfied, knowing that remark would have made her father proud.
At that moment, the door opened, and she blinked at the unexpected face that appeared in the gap. Malise Hamilton saw her and glared. "What do you want?" he asked.
The steel point pricked her again. "Madame—Madame wanted someone to tell her fortune," she stammered. "My—my husband told her that I would do that for her."
"Who are these men?" he asked.
"Gypsy kinsmen," she said. She wondered if he heard the brittle, frantic note in her voice.
"You bring your own guard?" he asked sarcastically. "Or do you hope for a handout of silver? You will not get it here."
Beyond his shoulder, she glimpsed a woman holding a golden-haired infant swathed in creamy silks. Tamsin prayed that Hamilton would refuse them entry and bar the door, even if it meant that she would die in that moment. She felt, suddenly, as if the courage that enabled her to knock on that door also gave her the strength to face death if she must. She only knew that she had to save the royal child.
"We are... er, gypsy men, come here to delight the wee queen with feats of juggling," one of the men said.
A woman's calm voice murmured something, and Malise nodded and opened the door. Tamsin entered, and the men sidled in with her. One of them gave her a surreptitious shove, and she took another step forward.
"Stay by the door until Madame decides if you can entertain her child," Hamilton told the men. "Madame, the gypsy fortuneteller is here," he said in a sneering tone.
"Ah! William's bride!" Marie of Guise turned near the wide hearth and came forward, moving with a gentle susurration of silks over the floor. She extended a hand.
<
br /> Tamsin had never thought to meet a queen, or to knowingly bring harm to anyone. She hesitated, frightened. In an awful twist of fate, she had brought danger into this peaceful royal chamber herself. But when she gazed into the queen dowager's calm and intelligent eyes, she felt assured. Her courage and resolve returned.
She bowed her head, made an awkward curtsy. "Madame," she said softly. "I am honored."
"Vraiment, vous etes belle," Marie of Guise said, smiling. She tilted her head. "You are bonny," she said, with a heavy accent. "Sir William is very happy. I saw it in his eyes when he told me about your marriage."
"Merci, madame," Tamsin said, nodding. The queen dowager looked surprised. "I speak your tongue," Tamsin said in French.
"Tres bien," the dowager queen said. "I prefer to use my own language. Come tell my fortune, then. William said that you have a talent for that."
Tamsin glanced about the room, past the huge bed swathed in violet fabric. The nurse sat on the bed with the infant queen in her lap. The child stared around at all of them, sucking her fingers. Tamsin glanced past her, and saw a window with a cushioned seat, and a table with three fat, burning candles.
"Can we sit there, madame?" she asked in French.
The queen dowager nodded, and led Tamsin to the little niche, seating herself in a rustle of silks. Tamsin drew the candlestick closer and bent forward, standing in the niche while the dowager sat and extended her right hand, palm up. Then she took the woman's hand, balancing it on her left.
"How interesting," Marie of Guise noted, still using French. "Did you know that one of King Henry's wives had six fingers on each hand? Queen Anne Boleyn, the mother of his daughter Elizabeth. She was very beautiful, I hear, though she came to a tragic end."
Tamsin paused, startled. "I did not know about the English queen's hands, Madame," she said. "I am grateful to hear it." She traced the lines in the woman's palm with a gentle fingertip and frowned.
"Madame, I see intelligence, a sharp mind, and much graciousness. You are well loved by your people. You love gambling, taking chances, Madame," she said with a smile. "Ah, so much tragedy," she murmured, frowning over the bars that marred the path of the woman's heart, marking pain and loss. "But that is, we hope, behind you." There would be more grief, she saw, but she chose not to speak of it. "A long life, Madame, and good health."
