“I have seen those whose faith in the hereafter is so strong that they truly believe their travails on earth mean nothing,” he told her.
She shook her head. “So many die so brutally—over the wording in the book meant to honor our most gentle Savior. But enough reminiscing. To return to my tale, at the Frenchman’s death, Mary was so distraught that she took to her bed for several days. She was very ill.”
Rowan asked quickly, “She is well now?”
“Well enough. Such emotion. Indeed, I’ve known illness, and I’ve known horror. But a queen cannot allow her emotions to rule her so completely. There has been more, you see. This courtier, a fellow name Pierre de Chatelard, apparently went a bit mad. He burst into the queen’s chambers not once, but twice. The first was forgiven. On the second evening, Mary was quite distraught, screaming that her brother James, Earl of Moray, must run the man through with his sword. Moray acted with greater calm than the queen. The fellow was duly arrested, tried and executed.”
Elizabeth was watching him; she was a very shrewd woman, he knew, one who read as much from the reactions of others as she did from their words.
“I can only say that I have ridden at her side, served her, sat in council with her, and I will swear by all that is holy that she is as chaste as a maiden never married, that she never encouraged the man in any way.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I do not think that she is me,” she said.
“Your Grace, no one is you,” he said simply.
“And you are smirking, despite your best resolve not to, Laird Rowan. My point here is that Mary must have a husband.”
“Laird James Stewart is a fine advisor for her.”
“He is her illegitimate half brother. He cannot take the place of a king consort.”
“Like you, she intends to marry with grave care. Surely, Your Grace, you know yourself that men will do foolish things for love—especially love for a queen.”
“Love for a crown,” she said sharply.
“A crown is certainly a lovely treasure set before the eyes—but I think you are not a woman who lacks confidence in her own abilities.”
“Flattery, Laird Rowan.”
He shook his head. “I certainly try not to insult with my speech, but there is danger inherent in the fact that both you and Queen Mary are young and very attractive.”
She laughed suddenly. “You have heard, certainly, how I teased her advisor, Maitland. Poor fellow, I did quite torture him, trying so hard to make him say that one of us was prettier than the other—I even tried to make him say that I was the taller. Alas, I failed in that.”
“Maitland is a good man and a fine ambassador in Queen Mary’s service,” he said.
“You speak carefully, but you don’t lie,” Elizabeth mused. “And you are one of those Scots in a difficult position indeed, with loyalties to both England and your own beloved home. I tell you, Laird Rowan, there is truly nothing I love so much as peace. I seek good government and peace, which together bring prosperity. So know this,” she said, her expression suddenly intense. “I will never accept a Catholic marriage that binds Mary to a foreign house. I will first accept the threat of war with Scotland and France, Sweden or Spain. If she wishes to remain in my good graces, she will take serious care with her plans for marriage.”
“Your Grace,” he said, puzzled, “I had thought that both my Lady Gwenyth and I—and Maitland, in his many discussions with you—had thoroughly convinced you that Mary intends most firmly to take the greatest care with her marriage. She knows that she is queen. She would not risk war among her own noblemen by her marriage, nor war with you, her much-loved cousin. Believe me, she knows the grave seriousness of her every move.”
Elizabeth sat back. “I have no doubt that my cousin is kind, earnest and passionate, and that she intends to do the best she can with the power she wields. Whether she can prove herself worthy of navigating difficult emotional waters is something that frightens me.”
He lowered his head. Word of Elizabeth’s own temper tantrums had certainly spread.
“I am quick to anger, but I do not fall apart,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.
“Queen Mary will not fall apart.”
“Then I pray that we shall remain dearest cousins,” Elizabeth said.
“We all pray it will be so.”
Elizabeth lifted a hand and grinned. “You know, of course, that I did not see you here alone only so that rumor would arise?”
“Perhaps not ‘only,’ but certainly I am here at least in part so that your courtiers may whisper that you have shown me favor, and therefore they will not whisper about you and Dudley.”
“Ah, but do you know that I gave Dudley the title Earl of Leicester that he might be a man of greater importance and riches, a more juicy tidbit for your queen?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Mary is very proud,” he said at last.
“As a queen should be,” Elizabeth said. “We shall see what the future holds.”
She would see, he knew. Elizabeth was known for sitting back to watch and wait whenever she faced a difficult decision. That way, others were at fault when ventures went wrong.
“Whatever lies before us, I am delighted in your company, Rowan.”
“Your Grace, you know I always enjoy an audience with such a powerful—and beautiful—young queen.”
“You will cause much jealousy,” she said, grinning.
“If that is your wish, I will do my best to oblige.”
“Tell me, will the new love of your life be suspicious? Truly, Rowan, the lady impressed me. She will not veer from honoring Mary. And when I suggested that there might have been an affair between the two of you before Catherine’s death, she was quite honestly horrified. You will face that rumor, of course.”
“She is my love and my life,” he said softly. “And no, I don’t believe that she will suspect any evil—of either of us.”
Elizabeth laughed. “If only you were a good English subject.”
“None of us can help our birth, Your Grace.”
“Ever the statesman. Go now, before the hour grows any later. I will enjoy forcing you both to remain with my court for some time.”
He bowed deeply and left her, but he found one of the guards of the wardrobe, an elevated house valet, waiting outside the door to escort him to his chambers, where his possessions awaited him. When the queen wished, events occurred quickly.
Rowan wasn’t pleased that they were moving into Hampton Court Palace; he would have preferred being in his own house on the river. The days that had passed while they had awaited the queen’s pleasure had been ideal. But he knew Elizabeth. Even had he protested in any way, he still would have done what she wanted, and she would have found new ways to torment him, besides.
She considered him as much a friend as she could consider any man, he knew. And she had sincerely liked Gwenyth. She could be vain, but she also enjoyed having attractive women around her—just as long as none shone so brightly as she. But more than that, he knew that the queen dealt with so much flattery and cajolery that she was enjoying Gwenyth’s honesty.
She was also amused by their affair. Very amused, it seemed, for when she had commanded them to leave his townhouse on the river, she had been playing at her own games, as well. He was somewhat familiar with the vast halls of Hampton Court, and he was quite familiar with the room he had been assigned. It had a false door built into the wall next to the mantel, one that led to the room next door.
To Gwenyth’s room.
Perhaps Good Queen Bess had a more romantic heart than her familiars suspected, despite her own stern determination on how she intended to live.
Nor were they the only guests. The queen’s court—with all her noble office holders, ladies, accountants, council, officials, servants and servants’ servants—numbered nearly fifteen hundred souls, many of them housed here at the palace. Rowan knew that several hundred dined in the great hall at night. The Court was larger than many a vil
lage among his holdings. But that was of no consequence now, he thought, his mind returning to the possibilities the night offered.
Gwenyth did not know that the rooms connected.
Thomas and Annie had brought their travel cases and dutifully moved them in while he and Gwenyth had still been at dinner with the queen. He knew that their servants were now housed elsewhere in the vast tangle of chambers and rooms, leaving him free to open the door to Gwenyth’s room and explore.
In the dim fire glow, he could see that her brushes and hair accessories were laid out on a dressing table, and that the wardrobe—the door ever so slightly ajar—held her clothes, everything neatly arranged for her use.
Gwenyth herself was asleep. He could imagine her ritual, the removal of all the paraphernalia she wore, which was exchanged for her more comfortable nightclothes, the time spent at the dressing table, brushing out her hair. Now she lay in the bed—that glorious hair strewn around her on the pillow, catching the firelight—looking like an angel.
As he slipped in beside her, she awoke and started to scream, so he quickly clamped his hand over her mouth.
“Good God, would you have me executed for an assault in the night?” he whispered to her.
Her eyes, wide in the firelight, met his and softened. He felt her lips curve into a smile beneath his palm as she slipped arms around him. “Never,” she whispered as he removed his hand.
She asked him no questions about his private time with Elizabeth, only found his mouth with her own, then used her tongue to create an instantly simmering fire upon his lips, within his mouth.
In seconds, they were wildly entwined.
She was the love of his life, and surely that could only be a good thing. No evil lay between them, only the future, which promised to stretch out before them brilliantly, as brilliantly as the fires that raged between them.
Her arms were so fierce, her lips so passionate. And the way she moved….
It did not matter if they lay together in the woods of Scotland, a townhouse upon the Thames or in the quarters thoughtfully meted out to noble lovers at Court.
He held her tightly, when passion was spent. Held her as if…
As if he feared to lose her.
There was no reason for the fear, he told himself, but still he lay awake long into the night, pondering the strange haunting doubts in his own mind.
It was only at dawn that he left her, and he did so with the deepest regret.
They would be together again by night, he chastised himself as he forced himself to leave. She slept on, her hair a golden sunray on the pillows, face exquisite.
And still he was afraid, with no way to explain his fear.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TENNIS WAS ALWAYS FUN, Gwenyth thought, and the grounds at Hampton Court were beautiful.
Robert Dudley was an exceedingly handsome man, tall and well versed in courtly manner. She wondered, however, if he was not stretching even his excessive charm and luck, for he strove to be close to Elizabeth at every turn.
Gwenyth noticed, too, that the queen seemed to enjoy tormenting those who thought they could sway her. She would laugh and be kind to Dudley one minute, then turn to Rowan the next. She enjoyed creating a certain jealousy among her courtiers. That, Gwenyth realized, and making certain that none would think himself too favored, too grand.
Elizabeth would indeed hold on to her own power.
When Dudley missed a ball that should have been an easy volley, Elizabeth accused him of attempting to let her win. Gwenyth, however, had no intention of allowing anyone to win easily. Losing by pretending to lack even the simplest skills did not seem like a way to flatter the English queen, nor like something that would be appreciated.
She was, in addition, Mary of Scotland’s representative here. She owed it to her queen to represent both her rule and her country well, so she played for all she was worth, forcing Dudley to throw himself into the game.
At one point she crashed into him as they both went after the ball, and he eyed her speculatively—and appreciatively, she thought, stepping hurriedly away.
Here was a man who had flirted so outrageously with the queen that she had been touched by scandal. Then, whether in jest or with serious thought, the English queen had suggested him as a marriage partner for the Scottish queen. And now was he attempting a flirtation with her, as well?
She decided that she was not particularly fond of court life. And though she certainly could never tell Elizabeth so, she thought that Mary’s court was by far the more virtuous.
“Take care,” Dudley warned her, catching her arm and offering her a broad smile. “Elizabeth does not like to lose.”
“Neither do I,” she told him meaningfully.
“She is the queen,” he said.
“But I serve another—who is also a queen,” she told him.
“My future bride?” he taunted.
“I sincerely doubt it,” she told him.
“Let’s finish playing!” the queen called sharply, and they went back to the game.
At last, and thanks to Dudley’s fawning determination, the game was lost.
It was true that Elizabeth was in high spirits, but when she shared her exuberance and joy, it was with her partner, Laird Rowan, and not Robert Dudley.
Gwenyth, longing for nothing more than to be quit of royal company at that point, managed to excuse herself, feigning a sore ankle, and made her way back through the long and confusing corridors of the palace and at last to her room, Annie was there, humming as she tended to her mistress’s clothing.
“Are ye all right?” Annie asked, noticing the feigned limp Gwenyth had thought it wise to maintain, lest she be seen.
“I’m quite fine, merely aggravated. Such games they play here.”
“You love tennis,” Annie said.
“Never mind.”
“Ah, you lost.”
“I don’t care that I lost,” Gwenyth protested, then hesitated. “On the one hand, this English queen seems so intelligent and judicious, even kind. But she places far too much importance on games that can have no significance for her. I just wish that we were home.”
“I thought that you were fascinated by London.”
“I was. Annie, what are the chances that you could arrange for a bath for me now?”
The older woman went off in search of a tub and hot water to fill it, and soon she was helping Gwenyth from her clothing, clucking over the condition of her corset, the whale-bone bent and misshapen, and bemoaning the emptiness of Gwenyth’s purse while they were in England.
Gwenyth didn’t care, merely submerged herself in the water, leaned back, closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, hoping that Annie would let her be.
When her maid finally left, Gwenyth opened her eyes and let her thoughts wander, wondering why she felt so irritated by the day’s events. And then she knew.
She didn’t trust Elizabeth.
There was no doubt that the woman was a clever and effective queen. But equally, there was no doubt that she would readily use whatever lesser human beings were at her disposal to further her own ends.
ROWAN DIDN’T LIKE ROBERT Dudley.
He never had, and he never would.
Dudley’s father had lost his head for involving himself in royal intrigue, but that didn’t seem to stop Dudley from daring a great deal. He was a tall, well-built man, and he seemed to think extremely highly of his own charms, something Elizabeth had certainly allowed.
Watching Dudley with Gwenyth across the court had not endeared the man to him in any way. He knew Dudley’s mind. He was the queen’s favorite, but there was no one who could swear that the queen had ever been genuinely intimate with the man, who considered himself free to indulge in petty affairs, while still maintaining his absolute devotion to his queen. Even if Elizabeth now teased him with the thought of a marriage to Mary of Scotland, Dudley would consider the queen’s lady a succulent temptation and his by right. Too many men with a certain degree of
rank and power felt they were allowed such indiscretions. But small though her lands and property might be, Gwenyth was a Scottish noble in her own right and not a prize for Dudley or others of his ilk to claim.
And Rowan was not beyond jealousy.
Despite her completely cordial and proper manner, he knew Gwenyth well and had seen that she was clearly seething when she left the tennis court. But he could not follow her at first, for Elizabeth demanded that he accompany her to the hall, and while they walked, she casually told him that she had given leave for Lord and Lady Lennox—previously stripped of their Scottish lands—to return to Scotland and reclaim their holdings. Watching her, Rowan was curious—and wary—for they were the parents of Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley.
“Are you putting the son forward as a possible king consort for Mary?” he asked. He knew Darnley and liked him less than Dudley. At least Dudley made no pretense that he was anything other than a lascivious and ambitious man.
Darnley was but a boy, glorious and golden to look upon. He could hunt, dance and play the lute. He was also selfish and overly indulged. Rowan couldn’t imagine him ever having to fight in battle, being able to rouse people to his cause or make a stand.
“No. I am allowing Lord and Lady Lennox to return to Scotland because it has been too long that they have been punished for old infractions.” She shook her head. “I don’t think that such a marriage would please me at all. Henry Stewart is a cousin of mine, as well. He has claims to both the English throne and the Scottish. I would not like to see the pair together. It is one thing for my nearest kin to seek the throne upon my demise, quite another to think they might want to grasp it while I live and breathe. I thought that you should know,” she told him.
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