The Queen's Lady

by Shannon Drake

  “Well?” he said. “Will you vow to be my wife?”

  “With all my heart!”

  He stood and drew her forward to stand before the altar, and the minister began to speak, though she barely heard his words.

  At one point there was a sound from the rear of the chapel. Gwenyth turned to see that it came from Queen Elizabeth and Robert Dudley. Dudley appeared to have been dragged there. Elizabeth had set her hand upon his arm in a possessive manner. Oddly enough, the English queen had a very benign expression on her face and smiled at Gwenyth.

  In the midst of her euphoria, Gwenyth knew that, once again, the Queen of England was playing her cards with room for a bluff. Undoubtedly Rowan had her permission for this hasty and secretive marriage to which she would not stand as official witness, though she would be a witness all the same, so that, when she chose, she could defend them…

  Or back away.

  Suddenly Gwenyth heard Rowan speak, words strong and sure as he promised to love her, honor her…she wasn’t sure what else was said, for she still felt as if she were living in a dream.

  The chapel was bare. There wasn’t a flower to brighten the occasion. There were no players, no music. Yet she couldn’t have been anywhere on earth more magical than the whitewashed chapel with its simple ornamentation. She could scarcely believe the woman she had been hating for treating her so lightly was standing there, the most powerful person in the country, granting their union.

  Most of all, she couldn’t believe that Rowan was by her side, and that he loved her. That he was taking her as his wife.

  The room was spinning, but she fought it.

  When it was her turn to say her vows, her voice quivered. She could not stop it. Her feelings were sure and true, but there was such a tremor in her voice….

  It was certainly the most beautiful ceremony that had ever been, a beauty accomplished by the perfection of Rowan’s vows alone.

  And then Reverend Ormsby pronounced them man and wife.

  “Do kiss your bride, Lord Rowan,” he said.

  And he kissed her. A kiss like so many others…

  A kiss so different.

  Remarkably, unbelievably, miraculously…she was his wife.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IT WAS A TIME WHEN ALL the world seemed right, so right that there were moments when Gwenyth could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. She was living beneath a foreign queen and in a foreign land, but she had never been happier.

  Christmas came and went. A miraculously happy time.

  And still, they resided in London.

  Easter came. Another joyous occasion, although Gwenyth was well aware it would be much different if she were in Edinburgh, at Mary’s Court. Here, too, there was pageantry, but of a far more muted kind than would be found at Mary’s behest.

  On Good Friday, they atoned. On Easter Sunday, they celebrated.

  And a new season began.

  But Gwenyth knew they had not been given the distant blessing of a woman such as Elizabeth without giving something in return, and she wondered what price they would have to pay—and when. But most of the time she put such fears out of her mind, and living was nothing but sheer joy, days and nights completely at their leisure, royal outings to be taken if they so chose, and endless time alone. Sometimes it was the magnitude of her happiness that actually frightened Gwenyth, knowing, as she did, the fate of Catherine Grey, who’d had her marriage declared null and void by her monarch, and who still resided in the Tower, while her husband was kept in other quarters, her two babes well-tended but illegitimate. But whether Elizabeth was a legal witness to their marriage or not, she had approved it. Gwenyth could only pray that Mary was eager to placate Elizabeth, and that there would be no difficulty when they returned to Scotland and presented their queen with the fact of their marriage. She was convinced of Mary’s kindness, as she reiterated to Elizabeth, never forgetting her duty in the English capital.

  She loved Rowan with all her heart; she was his wife. And there were moments when she knew she had achieved a happiness that few ever knew on earth, and she held that fact closely to her heart whenever she grew afraid.

  There were many letters from Scotland, those Gwenyth received from Mary encouraging her in her ways, for Elizabeth had written to Mary to say that her “kind sister of Scottish soil” was doing much to endear her to the woman she had yet to meet. But Rowan, on the other hand, often received letters from Laird James Stewart, Earl of Moray, and James Stewart was not so pleased.

  For Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, had made his way to Scotland.

  At first he had been one among many courtiers to amuse Mary, being a bit over her height and a man trained to be a perfect companion. He could hunt, play games, meander through a garden and was adept at one of Mary’s favorite pursuits: dancing.

  Then the man fell ill.

  And when he fell ill, Queen Mary of Scotland fell in love.

  They had been in London many happy months, living in Rowan’s townhouse after receiving the queen’s blessing to leave Hampton Court Palace, when Rowan received word that he was to return to Scotland.

  Gwenyth was in the company of Queen Elizabeth, involved in a game of croquet that included the Spanish ambassador, when she learned that their idyll was over.

  Maitland, Queen Mary’s kindly envoy, approached and went through all the necessary greetings, complimenting Queen Elizabeth and her party. And then he said, “Lady Gwenyth, I have just left your husband. He is preparing for his journey.”

  “His journey?”

  It seemed that her heart sank in her chest. Maitland had said his journey, not their journey.

  “Laird Rowan is called immediately before our good queen’s presence. You, m’lady, are to remain here.”

  She longed to shout, to disavow his words.

  Elizabeth struck her ball with her mallet. “It will be best now if you are here,” she said firmly.

  There was an edge to Elizabeth’s voice. Something had happened that Elizabeth did not like, and Gwenyth could only surmise that it had to do with Henry Stewart.

  Elizabeth stared at her then. “You will send a letter, of course, to your dear Mary. You will make her understand that I am totally opposed to this marriage.”

  Gwenyth was angry, but she concealed her emotions. Obviously Queen Elizabeth and Maitland had information that she did not.

  Had Mary of Scotland decided that she would indeed marry Darnley?

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so surprised, but she knew Mary well. She had thought that Mary would never take a mere subject as her husband. Mary had a firm belief in her rights as queen. She had spoken about marrying for the benefit of the state and not for herself.

  “Has…Queen Mary announced that she will wed Henry Stewart?” Gwenyth asked.

  Again Queen Elizabeth whacked her ball.

  Hard.

  Elizabeth was angry indeed.

  But the English queen was complex. Why had she allowed Henry Stewart to return to Scotland if she had not meant for him to be a suitor for her “dearest cousin”? Had she been testing Mary’s loyalty to her? Hoping to dangle temptation before her eyes, then deny it?

  Elizabeth turned to her. “She seeks the approval of the princes of the Christian world. Since Lord Darnley has a tendency to listen to the great Protestant speakers and then attend Mass, the royalty of many countries will agree that it is a suitable marriage.” She hit her ball so hard that it left the lawn entirely. “I, however, do not approve it.”

  “I should ride with my Lord Rowan and see Queen Mary,” Gwenyth said.

  “Rowan is going to attempt to mend the rift between Queen Mary and her brother, James Stewart. You are to stay here.”

  “But—”

  “I have not ordered that it be so. The direct command has come from Mary, who is certain that you can somehow change my heart on this matter.”

  “I don’t believe that I can do so!” Gwenyth said.

  Elizabeth shrugged, lookin
g away. She was a complete enigma. “Rowan will be back soon enough,” she said.

  THAT NIGHT GWENYTH RETURNED to the townhouse and ran to him, throwing her arms around him, clinging to him.

  “My love, it’s just a small parting,” he told her.

  Despite his words, she shivered.

  A small parting.

  She was tempted to tell him that they could defy their own queen, that he could give up his lands in Scotland, that she would willingly do the same.

  But she knew that she could not. Rowan loved Scotland, as she did herself. He felt, she knew, that he might be able to bring peace between Lord James and his sister.

  “When do you leave?”

  “In the morning.”

  “We have tonight,” she said simply.

  And that was it. They had the night.

  One night.

  Gwenyth treasured, savored, every minute, every second, they lay together. She knew that in the days to come, she would need to close her eyes, remember every brush of his fingers, every whisper that left his lips, every nuance of his form and feeling.

  There were moments of extreme passion, and moments of the utmost tenderness. They did not sleep through the long hours of the night, and in the time that they lay awake, they assured one another that their parting would be brief. But words were only words, and no matter how fervently they were spoken, Gwenyth couldn’t escape her fear.

  And yet, she knew, they could love so fiercely only because they were who they were. Were Rowan forced to repudiate his sense of love and duty for his country, she would destroy the very essence that made him the man he was.

  She was not so sure about herself. She had served Mary with all her loyalty and trust. But she was afraid that when she returned, she would no longer know the woman to whom she had given so much faith and support.

  At the first light of dawn, he pulled her into his arms. He made love to her one last time with a fierce ardor, with agonizing tenderness, gentle, volatile, cradling her in his arms as if welcoming her into his soul. She clung to him in return and dared to close her eyes.

  Despite her deepest desire to hold him to the last, sleep overcame her.

  When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

  PART III

  Passion and Defeat

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JAMES STEWART WAS IN a rage.

  He was not at Court; he had used every excuse not to make appearances when commanded to do so.

  “I despair,” he told Rowan. “My sister arrived here with the best of heart, soul and intentions. She cared for the country. She charmed the people, earned their respect. Now…it is as if she has forgotten all her training regarding politics and government. She has simply gone mad.”

  Rowan held silent, a heavy dread upon his heart. It was more than sad to see Mary and her half brother so torn apart. It was deadly.

  He didn’t need to reply. James continued without pause, gesturing as he spoke. “The fellow was raised in England and is all but a servant of Elizabeth. His mother thinks she has a right to the crown of England, and if she marries her pretty lad of a son to Mary of Scotland, the entire family will become all the more puffed up.”

  “Elizabeth has stated unequivocally that she will not bless such a union,” Rowan told James.

  James shook his head. “Go to Mary, see for yourself. She has quite lost her mind. Her wedding is planned.”

  “And you don’t intend to be there?” Rowan asked.

  “Nay, I do not!” James said forcefully. “She would hand the country over to the boy’s parents, the Earl and Countess of Lennox, and I tell you, the lairds here will not accept it.”

  “But they may, in time,” Rowan told him. “If an heir to the kingdom is produced from the marriage, the people will rally to Mary, whether they are fond of her choice of husband or not.”

  “She has already styled him as king, though the parliament or privy council must approve,” James stated irritably.

  “There has to be peace between you two,” Rowan said. “There must be—or there will be further civil strife.”

  “I will not see my sister hand over our father’s realm,” he said flatly. “You must go to her and take my letters.”

  And so it was that Rowan arrived in Edinburgh in time for Queen Mary’s wedding to Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley.

  There had been changes at the queen’s court, he saw. She had a new secretary, an Italian man named Riccio, and though her dear Marys were still all in attendance, there were several new young Frenchwomen and a few young Scottish women of high birth.

  He was not even invited to see the queen before the wedding, which was to take place the following day in the chapel at Holyrood, though James’s letters were at least taken to her.

  The queen did not wear the traditional white but was dressed in black, with a great black hood, elegant and becoming certainly, but a clear announcement that she came into the marriage as a widow, the dowager queen of France. She exchanged her vows with Henry Stewart, and, as he watched, Rowan was deeply dismayed at the spectacle. He’d thought he had come to know Mary. She was passionate, strong-minded, and possessed of the deep belief that she had been born to be queen, that it was her right to rule. How could that woman have fallen in love with such a shallow manipulator?

  He told himself that he had no right to judge. He even imagined, with a certain amusement, that Mary might well have first fallen head over heels in love with Darnley simply because the man was an inch or so taller than she was. He was golden and lean and, according to all reports, extremely adept at hunting and dancing, two of Queen Mary’s greatest loves.

  But there was something about the man that was unsettling. He was too golden. Too young. He lacked the strong character that the Scottish people would have adored and embraced in a king.

  Soon after the ceremony, the queen abandoned her widow’s elegant black as the feasting and celebration began, and at last Rowan was able to speak with her when he led her out to the dance floor.

  Mary was euphoric. She didn’t begin with questions about matters of state. Rather, she said, “Oh, Laird Rowan, is he not the perfect prince?”

  He didn’t want to lie to Mary. “It’s certainly wonderful to see you so happy, Your Grace.”

  A strange look contorted her features. “She is envious, that is all,” she said.

  “Your Grace?”

  “Elizabeth. It is because she will not choose a husband for herself, and she cannot accept that another monarch might do so and still fulfill her obligations. Tell me, how is Gwenyth doing? Well, I believe. Maitland has told me that my cousin finds her fascinating and honest. I must have Gwenyth with her, continuing to support me, especially if my dear husband and I quickly conceive an heir. Then the line of sucession must be drawn in my direction.”

  He lowered his head, understanding the ambition of royals, yet not understanding why it could not be enough to rule Scotland.

  “She will, in her own loyal way, sway Elizabeth where others might not,” Mary said calmly.

  “You have yet to meet Elizabeth,” he said warily.

  “Yes—because she continually finds a reason why we should not.”

  “Your Grace, there are serious matters that I must discuss with you.”

  “In time. Here is the crux of your return. Will my brother beg my pardon?”

  “Your brother loves you,” he said.

  “My brother loves power,” she said, and stopped dancing to the music she so loved and stepped back, staring at him. “You will return to James. You will convince him that I will not turn from my husband. He will beg my pardon or he will be outlawed.”

  “I will go to him with your words,” he said. “Your Grace, I would like to request that you call my Lady Gwenyth back to your service.”

  Her eyes widened. “Are you mad? She is dearly needed where she is. Of all my ladies, Scots by birth or no, she is best suited to be there as my representative.”

  “I have married her,
Your Grace,” he said softly.

  He was astounded by the fury in the queen’s eyes. “Does everyone seek to defy me now? I care not what trivial games you played together on your journey, you are not married! I will not have it! How dare you bow to Elizabeth and seek her sanction, rather than mine!”

  He was stunned. “Your Grace, you must now know to what lengths passion can drive a man or a woman. I beg you—”

  “You have offended me, Laird Rowan,” she said icily. “And you will not disturb my celebration further by impressing upon me the disloyalty of my subjects. Go to my brother. Perhaps you can learn to repent together!”

  With that, she walked from the dance floor and slipped immediately into the arms of her new boy-husband. Rowan stared after her, still shocked by her anger.

  He watched her as she walked with the golden boy-king into the center of the room, and shook his head. This marriage was not destined to be what the queen dreamed, but there was no one here who would dare tell her so or to whom she would listen in any case. Henry Stewart was tall; she would never see that his height did not give him either wisdom or strength.

  As he rode from Edinburgh, he told himself that Mary’s reign would survive because it had to. She had been only an infant when her father had died, but her mother, Mary of Guise, had been an excellent regent, despite her religion, despite the English, despite the constantly feuding nobles.

  Then, after the death of the Scottish dowager queen, James Stewart had ably and cautiously kept the government in good form.

  But now…

  An heir.

  The Queen of Scotland needed an heir.

  Once that was achieved, so much would be forgiven. And perhaps there would even be an agreement with Elizabeth, who continued to play at marriage negotiations and use them to her own benefit. He didn’t believe, however, that Elizabeth meant to accept any offer that might compromise her rule. Unlike Mary.

  In time, though, Mary would see reason. Surely.

  At the moment, however, he was certainly in disgrace.

  So be it. He did love Scotland, but he had learned that he could live happily as a man, as a husband.