Heart of Gold

by May McGoldrick

  She didn’t return to the tent.

  “Where is—”

  Nay. Father, I—

  “Where?”

  A rough hand gripped her arm. So tight. He was hurting her.

  She saw him. He wasn’t her father. What do you want from me? Mary tried to scream. Her mouth opened, but she could hear no scream. There was no sound.

  Where is Gavin? she thought with a panic. Where is Elizabeth?

  She tried to look about, but everywhere colors streamed out of the blackness, crashing into her, and then swirling around her. Brittle glass rainbows exploded into glittering shards of whites and yellows and scarlet before melting into luminous pools around her feet.

  Mary heard a man’s voice. More than one was talking, but the noise of the fair crowded out all discernible meaning. And then one word penetrated her brain.

  Poison.

  “Where is...Tell us!”

  Poisoned. She listened hard. She’d been poisoned by the wine.

  Mary waited for bright, black space of unconsciousness to envelop her. Nothing. She waited for the heaviness that would dull her senses, but still nothing.

  They were no longer talking to her. She tried to focus, to understand what they said among themselves. Elizabeth. These men were looking for Elizabeth.

  I know you bastards, she thought bitterly. Killers. The same ones who came to the tent four years ago. They were English, too. Yes, she remembered. They were after Elizabeth. But you can’t kill her, she screamed inwardly. Not my sweet Elizabeth.

  And then there was silence. And sunlight.

  Mary pried her eyes open. Once again she could see. There was no one around her. Peering through the bright mist, she could make out the shapes of people in the distance. No sounds, no one blocking her. No men around her. She felt the place on her arm where she thought the man’s hand had been, but there was no pain. Only the numbness that was growing more profound with every breath. She gazed to the right, where Gavin had gone. She wracked her brain, trying to remember how long ago he’d left. Was it hours? Was it a moment? She stared at the dirt before her.

  Weakly, Mary turned her glance once again up the pathway. She squinted at the shape coming toward her.

  Elizabeth was walking toward her. The younger sister stared hopelessly at the approaching figure. At her wave, her smile.

  From the corner of her eye, a movement drew her attention. Mary turned in time to see the buckle flash again in the sunshine. As the man walked past her, she could see the dagger hidden beneath his cloak. His hand was on the weapon, holding it to the side, away from her sister’s view. But Mary could see it.

  Elizabeth waved at Mary excitedly. Her sister was out among people once again. Even from a distance, she could tell there was color in her face. “Thank you, Virgin Mother. And thank you, Gavin,” she murmured. Mary was getting better. She would improve. She had to. Elizabeth knew that there was so much that mattered now. So much for Mary to live for.

  Elizabeth turned for an instant to look for Ambrose. He was not far behind, his big hand clapped on Gavin’s shoulder as they walked. She gazed at his face as he listened to the black-haired giant’s words. She turned back toward Mary, but the heavy cloak of a tall warrior blocked her way.

  “Nice to find you at last, Elizabeth Boleyn.” The clothing was French, but the voice undeniably English. His hand grabbed at the shoulder of her doublet.

  Elizabeth knocked his grip loose and jumped back, only to see the dagger coming right at her heart. She knew immediately that she had not jumped far enough.

  As the dagger flashed in the sun, Mary stepped between them, shielding her sister from the blow.

  The blade of the dagger slid through the thin young woman, and the killer’s thrust deposited her in Elizabeth’s arms.

  As the two sisters fell to the ground, Elizabeth, stunned by the attack, held Mary instinctively.

  The momentary calm that ensued was abruptly broken by the sound of shouts, and then the outbreak of total chaos around them.

  “Mary!” Elizabeth cried, pulling her sister’s cloak away from the wound. The cut in her dress was jagged and wide, and the dark stain of her blood was spreading rapidly through the material.

  “Mary! Oh, God!” She pressed at the wound, trying to stop the flow. But as she did, she felt Mary’s warm lifeblood draining out the wound at the back, covering her hand. “Mary!”

  The young woman was gazing up into her face. She was conscious, and Elizabeth could see only peace in her face.

  “You are not dying on me, Mary!” The tears rolled uncontrollably down Elizabeth’s face, mixing with her sister’s innocent blood. “You can’t die, Mary! You saved my life. You can’t leave me.”

  Elizabeth watched her sister’s small, trembling hands reach up to her face. “Death had to face me before he got to you. Hold me, my love. Just hold me.”

  Weeping, Elizabeth gathered her sister in her arms and they rocked. Just as they always had.

  “I am ready, Elizabeth.” Mary’s voice was weak. “It’s time.”

  “Don’t!” Elizabeth sobbed as they held one another. “Please, don’t go.”

  “All will be well,” Mary whispered. “I am ready. But Jaime...”

  “Quiet, Mary,” Elizabeth cried. “We need to get you back to the—”

  “There is no time for that, Elizabeth,” Mary murmured. “My sweet. Protect Jaime. Keep her away from Father. Keep her from Henry. Please, promise me.”

  A spasm of pain shook the young woman’s frail body.

  “I promise. By the Holy Virgin, I promise. Don’t go. You just can’t. Please.”

  “My love...”

  Mary’s eyes lifted to the sky beyond her sister’s grief-stricken face, and Elizabeth saw them widen, as if in surprise, before another look transformed her face. A look of joy, lighting her from within.

  And then she was gone.

  Chapter 26

  The shock of Mary’s death stayed with them all.

  The barge moved quickly down the Seine toward Paris, while the French countryside, still wet from the passing downpour, shimmered in the late afternoon sun.

  Ambrose walked on the deck, solemn and silent. Leaving Elizabeth alone in the cabin below, sorting through Mary’s belongings, had been difficult for him to do. But she had been clear in her request. She wanted to be left alone for a while. And he respected that. Elizabeth needed time to grieve the sister she’d lost. It had been difficult, but he’d come on deck. If she needed him, he would not be far.

  They had buried Mary under a threatening sky among the wildflowers in the small plot beside the Church of St. Madeleine. The funeral mass inside had been a somber affair, and the grim, stony image of some saint—Ambrose wondered if it was St. Madeleine herself—had overseen the ritual with an immutable countenance of gloom. But for all, it had been a moving ceremony, and the clear and vibrant tones of the Offices of the Dead and the Te Deum still echoed in Ambrose’s memory.

  But as Elizabeth had tossed dirt into her sister’s grave, Ambrose had been filled once again with anger about the unresolved crime. True, the man who had pierced Mary’s heart with a dagger lay dead, cut down quickly by Gavin’s sword. But there had been more to it. Things that Ambrose could not yet understand. Low as he knew many to be, English knights were not famed for drawing swords on an ill and defenseless woman. Ambrose could only guess what connection may have existed between the two. But even that made no sense. Had the dead warrior been Mary’s lover, it was still unclear to Ambrose why the Englishman would travel so far to murder the young woman in so public a display of barbarity. Indeed, why murder her at all?

  Ambrose was truly at a loss. The killing could also be somehow related to Mary’s short-lived position as King Henry’s mistress. But Ambrose knew that there was no talk of Mary bearing a child by Henry—not so much as a whisper of rumor had ever circulated. But if unseen powers were plotting to keep her away from the English court, why should they murder her when they knew she was
en route to Scotland?

  Ambrose was very aware of other rumors, though. Reports were spreading far and wide of the new infatuation of the restless English king. Everyone knew that Henry had recently been eyeing Thomas Boleyn’s youngest daughter, Anne Boleyn. But even if this was true, the Highlander could comprehend no reason to kill the older sister.

  Ambrose stared out at the road that ran alongside the river. That road, too, led to Paris. The baron had an idea that Elizabeth knew the answer to some of his questions. But the time was not right for him to ask. Not yet.

  This morning, standing by the grave of the younger sister, all he had been able to think about was Elizabeth and her well-being. Mary, as pampered as she’d been all her short existence, had been the center of the older sister’s life. Now Elizabeth’s desolation was etched across her face.

  Publicly, Ambrose had to keep his distance. She’d asked him to. As much as he wanted to, as much as his heart ached to reach out for her, he could not console her in her grief, could not hold or comfort her—that would have been improper.

  He’d watched her face as she struggled to conceal the pain of her loss. It hurt him that Elizabeth could not show her grief in a way that would have been natural for her. His own heart tightened as he watched the young woman actually will herself to be a man. Against all odds, he watched her successfully hammer back the tide of emotions, burying the sorrow within her with only an expression of sadness on her face.

  The Highlander ran his palm along the wet railing of the barge. He was sick of this pretense. He could not go along with it anymore. Not after all that they’d shared on this journey. Not with all that they felt for each other.

  Yes, he would wait. He would even help her, if he could, as she worked through her grief. But then it would be time.

  Ambrose turned his face resolutely toward the bow of the boat and moved forward. They would find another way.

  As the baron strode along, a movement on the forward deck caught his attention. A sad smile crossed his face when he saw it was Jaime, playing on a coil of thick line with her kitten.

  “Good day, lass,” he greeted her gravely. She glanced up at him with a shy smile but quickly turned her eyes away. He could see that she was still thinking of all that had occurred. Ernesta and Joseph Bardi had been keeping a close watch over her, but as far as he knew, no one had really spent any time talking to the child about the loss of her mother.

  “And how is D’Or this afternoon?”

  The little girl just shrugged her shoulders.

  Ambrose studied the quiet child. He wondered if Elizabeth had given much thought to where Jaime’s future would be spent. The court of King Henry appeared out of the question, and hearing what he had about Thomas Boleyn, Ambrose could only assume that Elizabeth would be drawn and quartered before allowing the child to spend so much as a moment under her father’s care.

  “She’s turned out to be a fine sailor, hasn’t she, now?” Ambrose prompted, sitting himself on the deck beside the heavy ropes. The kitten scrambled up from the inside of the low coil and eyed the baron curiously.

  “My mama is in heaven.”

  Ambrose gazed at the little one’s bowed head. Her words were matter-of-fact and carried a lot of conviction. He watched her small hands prying the kitten’s claws free in a half-hearted effort to pick the little animal up.

  “She won’t be coming back to visit, either,” Jaime continued. “Erne said Mama is never coming back. But she also said that Mama loved me very much and that she’ll always be watching over me.”

  “What Ernesta told you is true, Jaime.” Ambrose gathered the animal up in his large hands and placed her on the child’s skirt.

  Jaime gently stroke the fur of the restless cat, quieting D’Or into a comfortable purr. “It’s really quite pretty in heaven, you know. Ladies wear nice, bright dresses, and they laugh a lot.”

  “Did Signora Baldi tell you that, too?” Ambrose asked with a smile.

  “Nay. That I figured out myself.” She paused and cocked an eyebrow at the sky. “I remember the days before she got really sick. Whenever mama wore a pretty dress, she was happy. And in Uncle Phillipe’s paintings, the angels and the saints always wear nice, bright dresses. So I know that’s what heaven is like.”

  “This is all very reasonable, Jaime,” he conceded, reaching over and scratching behind the kitten’s ears.

  She looked up into Ambrose’s face. “Have you been there?”

  “To heaven?”

  She nodded.

  Ambrose shook his head. “Nay, lass.”

  “Nor I.” She looked back down at her kitten. “Maybe someday I’ll go and visit her there.”

  Ambrose gazed steadily at the child. “There is no hurry, Jaime.”

  “Is Uncle Phillipe going to heaven?”

  “Perhaps someday!”

  Jaime grabbed the baron’s hand at once. “Please, tell her not to go!” The tears splashed onto her cheeks immediately. “She can’t go. Not without me.”

  Ambrose lifted the child at once and hugged her tightly to his chest. The way she took an immediate comfort in his embrace, hugging him tightly in return, brought a smile to his face. “Don’t you fear, lass. She is not going anywhere. Your Aunt Elizabeth is not about to go anywhere without you.”

  “Oh!” The child’s tiny hand flew to her mouth. “I—”

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered in confidence. “You didn’t give her secret away.”

  “Then who did?” she whispered back.

  “She did it herself. Your uncle...your aunt told me herself.”

  Jaime threw her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely. “You know our secret. That makes you family.”

  Ambrose felt his heart melt at the show of affection.

  “Aye, my bonny one. That makes me family.”

  The great fist rapped gently at the cabin door once again. This time he heard the soft footfalls as she moved to open the door. Finally, he thought. Hanging the small lantern on the hook on the wall, he waited patiently, but when he glimpsed her tear-stained face, Ambrose’s heart nearly broke. But before he could even say a word, the door started shutting on him again. Instinctively, he shoved his boot into the doorjamb and shouldered his way in.

  “Please don’t.” She took a step back. “I—I can’t see you now. I can’t see anyone. I simply need to be alone. Please.”

  Ambrose fought his first impulse—to pull her into his arms, to comfort her in her pain. He fought his desire to take hold of her, to promise her that he would take care of her. He fought all of that, for he feared actions such as those would be misinterpreted. He feared words about the future would sound hollow while she struggled to let go of the past. He watched her continue to back away in the murky light of the cabin.

  “You’ve been alone down here long enough, lass.” The baron looked about him for candles. For two days she had remained locked away in this cabin. For two days he’d been trying to get her to open the door. Only Ernesta Bardi had gained access, but the meals she’d brought down remained untouched. “Elizabeth, it’s time you joined the world once again. We need you.”

  She sat heavily on the hard bunk where Mary had spent so much of her last days on the journey. “Nay, you don’t,” she muttered glumly. “And I need more time to pull myself together.”

  Ambrose reached back into the narrow passageway for the lantern and used the flickering flame to light a number of candles, beating the cabin’s gloomy darkness back. “I know of no reason that you should be in any better shape than the others. And, as I told you before, we need you. Jaime, the Baldis. My God, even Gavin Kerr does!”

  “No one needs me!” Elizabeth gathered her knees to her chest. She was cold and empty inside. “And please don’t lie to make me feel better. I know I will work through this myself. I guess it is simply a matter of time. Isn’t that what they say? Time is the great healer, I’ve heard.”

  Ambrose nudged open the small window of the cabin with the heel of hi
s hand and stepped back as the fresh night air rushed in. He filled his lungs with the cool breeze, leaning his broad back against the closed door.

  “Elizabeth, tell me what you smell when you breath in this air.” The Highlander watched as the young woman lifted her chin a fraction. “Tell me.”

  The painter paused for a moment. “I smell the night scents of the river. I smell the clean cold of the water, and the faint odor of fish that mixes with the good smell of earth.”

  “And the scent of grapes.”

  He paused as she nodded vaguely.

  “Those are the smell of living things, Elizabeth. Growing things.” He moved to the bunk and sat beside her. “You are alive. But she is gone. It is time now for you to accept this and let her go. We never know when our time here is finished, but I’ve seen many people in my life who walked around more dead than alive. I won’t be letting you become one of them.”

  She leaned her head against her knees to hide the tears that rolled uncontrollably down her face.

  “You don’t understand.” Elizabeth squeezed her eyelids shut. She wanted to tell him that the dagger that robbed her sister of her one chance to regain the happiness in her life was meant for her own fraudulent heart. Indeed, she struggled to tell him how she had put their lives in danger. All of their lives—including his. Those killers knew of her identity. They had tracked her down and found her. And they would find her again. Who would be the victim next time? She shuddered at the thought.

  Ambrose placed his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to his side. “I might not have known your sister as well as I should have, but I know that she was a woman who was, perhaps for the first time in her life, beginning to appreciate the things that life had brought her, instead of mourning forever the things she had lost. Elizabeth, she could only have learned that from you. Right now I see you hiding yourself away, and I know this is not the Elizabeth that your sister finally learned to appreciate so much.”

  “I’m not hiding.”

  “Aye, you are. And you know you are.” He gently caressed her back. “You are hiding because you don’t want the world to know that you have a right to grieve. You are hiding because you are afraid of admitting who you are.”