Heart of Gold

by May McGoldrick

  Gazing at the evil smirk on his face, Elizabeth struggled to hide the shudder that wracked her body. She had been a trusting fool, and Garnesche’s words struck terror into her heart. Here, in the midst of the bustling town, the house contained no soldiers—no one to protect her. And after all, she had not expected treachery of this magnitude.

  “What do you want from me?” she demanded harshly.

  “Not much.” He took a step closer. “Only your silence.”

  She backed around the standing easel that held the canvas, cutting a wide radius to keep as much distance between them as she could.

  “But that won’t be enough, will it?”

  “Nay, it won’t. But there’s no silence like that of the dead, you know.”

  “You are a greater fool than I thought.” Placing one hand behind her, Elizabeth surreptitiously picked up a small palette knife from the cluttered table. She knew it was dull, but she held it tightly, hiding it in the folds of her skirt. “You think you can just kill me and then walk off.”

  “That is exactly what I intend to do.” He continued to move closer to her.

  “Then you might as well drive that dagger into your own heart right now, because you are as good as dead. Ambrose will kill you. He’ll avenge my death with a fury, the likes of which the world has never seen. And your name will go down in infamy, for he will carve on your heart the names of Mary and the Lord Constable and all the others that you’ve slain in cold blood.”

  The fear that flickered across the back of his eyes was momentary, but Elizabeth saw it. The giant’s hesitation was short-lived, however. A twisted smile crept back across his depraved features.

  “Ah, you frighten me so.” Moving toward her, he threw aside the easel and the canvas. Now nothing stood between them. “But right now, this exquisite moment is what I came to Scotland for.”

  Elizabeth looked about her in terror. She had nowhere to go. She backed away until she hit the wall.

  “As we rode north, I envisioned this to be a quick death. A sharp twist of the neck or perhaps a quick slash at your pretty throat.” He moved closer. “But being here with you now brings back certain...longings.”

  Elizabeth watched in amazement as the man quickly unfastened the belt about his doublet. Still holding his dagger, he dropped his sheathed sword to the floor.

  “I’ve looked forward to this moment for quite a long time, Elizabeth. I know now that it is really the reason I came to this godforsaken country myself, instead of sending one of my men. It was meant to be this way. I didn’t come to Troyes myself. That was why you didn’t die there as I’d planned. Aye, I’ve dwelled on this many times before. Seeing, in my mind’s eye, the moment when I will force you down. Listen to your screams. Feel your strong, tight legs fighting my entry. The moment when I drive my shaft deep inside you.”

  “It was never the murder that I witnessed that brought you after me. It was this sickness of yours. This insane lust for one you could never have.”

  Garnesche laughed. “You are so perceptive, m’lady.” She moved quickly to the side as his hands reached for her. She backed up again as he steadily approached. “But it’s not insanity. It’s a dream. Call it a vision.”

  Elizabeth picked up the three-legged stool with one hand and flung it at his head. He ducked, avoiding it easily.

  “I have seen it many times. I can see it now. Again and again driving my body into you, until your cries become moans, and I pour my seed into you. And then you lie in my arms and beg me for more.”

  “I will die first.”

  “You are nearly correct in that, Elizabeth. For as you beg, I will give you more. And that will be your death wish. Trapped in my arms, my shaft deep within you, I will wrap my fingers around your neck. Your tender, ivory neck. And shortly, when I hear you screaming for release, I will squeeze your windpipe. Tighter and tighter, squeezing and plunging until you won’t know whether to scream for release or for breath. But you will get neither.”

  His hand shot out like lightning, and he grabbed hold of her wrist. Bringing her resisting body toward him, he smirked once again.

  “You are sick.” With her other hand, Elizabeth stabbed him hard in the wrist. The dull knife broke off at the hilt, the blade clattering to the floor, but the blow was enough to cause the knight to release her, bellowing in pain as he did. Elizabeth ran to the window. It was high above the street, but it was a chance.

  Garnesche followed slowly after her, his eyes ablaze with madness.

  “I will rest my full weight on your dying body, and you will sink into darkness, looking into my face, feeling me inside of you. You will die seeing my face! Aye, only mine!”

  Elizabeth pulled open the leaded glass window so hard that it smashed against the wall of the room, shards of glass shattering around her. The violence of the crash stopped him for an instant, long enough for her to pick up a small strip of lead with a jagged piece of glass protruding from it. Garnesche paused and looked at the makeshift weapon.

  “Ambrose will hunt you down,” she whispered. “He’ll make you die a slow and excruciating death.”

  “No one will ever know it was me.” He glanced around at the rushes and the kegs of oil. “For when I’m done with you, your body will burn as your long lost Lord Constable did. To this day no one knows what happened to the arrogant fool. That night in the Field of Cloth of Gold, he simply disappeared. And when this house goes up in flames, you’ll disappear, as well.”

  Garnesche’s back was to the door, but he heard it bang open as quickly as Elizabeth saw it. Whirling, the English knight thrust the dagger at Ambrose’s chest with a single motion, and the weapon found its mark, sinking deeply into the Highlander’s chest just below the shoulder.

  Elizabeth screamed as Ambrose staggered back against the heavy oak jamb, the point of his sword dragging across the floor.

  Peter Garnesche leaped triumphantly to the place where he’d dropped his belt, and whipped his long sword from its sheath. As the Englishman advanced across the room, Ambrose straightened himself, the hilt of the dagger still protruding from his chest.

  “Come on, you filthy cur,” the Highlander challenged. “It is time this world was rid of you.”

  The Englishman paused, and the two giants eyed each other.

  “The only regret I have about killing you, Macpherson,” Garnesche sneered, “is that you won’t have the pleasure of watching me take your woman.”

  “Then save your regrets, Garnesche, for you aren’t man enough to accomplish either.”

  With a roar, the Englishman swung his great sword and the sparks exploded as steel crashed upon steel. One arm hanging limp at his side, Ambrose shoved his foe backward, sending him reeling across the floor.

  Following as quickly as he could, the Highlander spun hard, his long blade arcing through the charged air. Again a shower of sparks rained down as Ambrose’s brand hammered at Garnesche’s weapon.

  The Englishman stumbled under the blow, but as he went down, Garnesche kicked out with his boot, sweeping the Highlander’s feet from beneath him. With a sickening thud, Ambrose’s wounded shoulder hit the floor, and in a moment the Englishman was looming over him.

  Malevolence vied with triumph on the face of the brute, and he drew back his sword to finish the fallen Scot.

  “What a pleasure this is—” he began.

  Elizabeth leaped onto Garnesche’s back, grabbing his hair and yanking it back as she slashed with all her might at his exposed neck. But the Englishman’s head snapped forward, and her jagged shard of glass found only the side of his face, ripping open a gash on his swarthy cheekbone.

  Reaching back, the giant tore the woman from his back, throwing her like a rag across the room.

  But Elizabeth had given Ambrose enough time, and the warrior lurched to his feet.

  Garnesche turned his bloodied face back to the Highlander and, with a shout, raised his weapon to strike. But Ambrose spun once again, his blade slicing toward the madman’s ribs, and t
his time his sword found its mark, cutting the very breath from the Englishman’s roar.

  Before Garnesche’s body had ceased to twitch, Elizabeth was at Ambrose’s side. Sitting the warrior gently against the wall, she knelt beside him, easing the dagger from his shoulder and pressing her palm tightly against the wound.

  “Are you hurt?” Ambrose whispered, clutching her hand, searching her face for any mark of injury.

  “Nothing happened to me, my love. But you...you are bleeding.”

  He brought her fingers to his lips while reaching in and wiping the tears that rolled freely down her face.

  “A wee cut, lass. That’s all it is. I’ve survived much worse than this. ” Ambrose smiled weakly.

  “I am sorry, Ambrose. I am so sorry.”

  “Hush, lass,” he whispered.

  “I never told you before. I should have. I thought it was over. But it wasn’t. He came after me. In Calais at the Field of Cloth of Gold, in Troyes at the market, and now here.”

  “Garnesche.”

  “He killed the Lord Constable, and I witnessed it. I was running from my father’s tent, and I happened on Garnesche and the Lord Constable talking treason. I saw him murder the Lord Constable in cold blood. And he knew I saw it. So he came after me. I am so sorry, my love. All this would never have happened if I—”

  “Nay, Elizabeth.” Ambrose tried to smooth back her hair. “You can tell me all about it later. But remember this—nothing that happened here was your fault. Garnesche was a madman. And he is now dead.”

  Ambrose smiled. “And I am proud of you. You have the courage of a Highlander. The way you fought. You saved my life.”

  She kissed his lips. “Nay, you saved mine. I was foolish earlier when I asked you to go. I never want to be anywhere without you again. Never.”

  “That’s a promise.” His deep blue eyes locked in with hers. “I love you, Elizabeth Macpherson. And I, too, am sorry for what you went through.”

  “Don’t, Ambrose,” Elizabeth replied, caressing his face. “I just thank the Blessed Mother you came back when you did.”

  “Jaime and I were just coming up the hill into town when your sister came riding out under a white flag, at the head of a troop of English soldiers.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “Aye. She was looking for us.”

  Elizabeth stared at him.

  “She told me that your life was in danger. That Garnesche had you at the point of his blade in here. She pleaded with me to hurry. And then she rode away like the devil was after her.”

  Elizabeth listened carefully to his every word. Moments. A few moments more would have meant certain death for her. Anne. Her sister had gone after Ambrose. After she had betrayed her. A change of heart? she wondered.

  “Did she say anything else?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

  “Aye, as a matter of fact, she did. She said, ‘Tell her I’ve forgiven her. And tell her I hope that someday she might forgive me, as well.’”

  Chapter 32

  Benmore Castle, The Scottish Highlands

  June, 1525

  The Highlanders charged with wild cries across the cobbles of the castle courtyard, their swords raised.

  At the far end, the warrior queen and her official guard stood their ground, their fearless expressions unchanged in the face of the reckless charge.

  “Your Majesty,” Malcolm MacLeod said, turning to the little girl standing beside him fully armed with her own wooden sword. “Would you allow me the honor of dispensing with this horde of ruffians and rogues?”

  “Aye, Lord Malcolm,” Jaime assented sternly. “But they are my cousins, don’t forget. So spare their lives when you can.”

  As the whooping brigands swarmed around them, the sixteen-year-old Malcolm lifted the littlest one onto his shoulder and fought off the other two with exaggerated displays of swordsmanship.

  Finally, after her guard had wrestled the assailants into submission and was lying on top of them, Queen Jaime sauntered over and placed the point of her sword on the chest of her eldest cousin, Alexander.

  “Yield, villain!”

  “Never!”

  Malcolm tightened his hold on the eight-year-old, giving the warrior an opportunity to surrender with honor.

  “I yield,” Alexander gasped. “But next time, we get the giant.”

  “Perhaps, blackguard. But first promise to give up your plans to send my baby brother to the dungeons, and we will allow you to live.” Her voice was commanding.

  The young boy nodded grudgingly. “Aye, we’ll leave him alone.”

  “Forever?”

  “Until the bairn can carry a sword. But that’s it. That’s our final offer.”

  Jaime’s eyes traveled to Malcolm questioningly. He gave a covert wink.

  “We accept your offer, Lord Alexander,” she announced. “And you may keep your holdings in the king’s name.”

  Ambrose moved behind Elizabeth and gathered her and the baby into his arms. He smiled, watching the tiny infant sucking gently on a closed fist.

  Following Elizabeth’s gaze, the proud father looked out on battling armies untangling themselves in the yard below.

  “Another victory for the queen?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Elizabeth whispered, smiling. “With the aid of her heroic knight.”

  Ambrose placed a kiss tenderly on the silky skin of her neck. She snuggled closer to him.

  “Jaime is going to miss Malcolm when he returns to St. Andrew’s,” Elizabeth noted softly, watching the two cross the yard. The young girl’s head did not even reach the young warrior’s waist, but she held his hand as though he belonged to her.

  “His education at St. Andrew’s is only a first step for him,” Ambrose replied. “The lad has great challenges lying ahead.”

  Elizabeth turned in her husband’s arms and gazed up into his deep blue eyes. “As we all do,” She sighed happily.

  Ambrose leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the black, silky hair of his sleeping son. Then, turning his attention once again to the mother, he met her upraised lips with his own.

  He was the happiest man alive. Gathering her tighter in his arms, he whispered words of love. She answered with fervor.

  The noises of the stirring bairn between them disrupted their moment together, and the two laughed as the infant stretched his tiny fingers upward toward their faces.

  The sun shining on the Macphersons’ carved stone coat of arms drew the young mother’s gaze out the window, and she felt all around her the love and the strength of the family that was now her own. Then, her eyes traveling heavenward, Elizabeth’s heart swelled with a happiness as infinitely vast, as infinitely deep, as the crystalline blue of the cloudless Highland sky.

  Epilogue

  Greenwich Palace, 1533

  Anne Boleyn, Queen of England, snuggled the red-haired infant closer to her and, taking a deep breath, nodded to the physicians and the Lord Chamberlain. The massive door to her quarters swung open, and the king led his Privy Council into the room.

  Wordlessly, Henry strode over to the bed and sat beside the mother and child. His corpulent face folded into a wry smile as he poked a fleshy finger into the folds of the baby’s soft covering.

  The king did not look up into Anne’s face, but she hardly expected him to, considering his disappointment.

  “Well, Annie,” he growled. “I suppose the wind must have been from the south, eh?”

  “She’s a healthy girl, Henry.”

  “Aye. She has my mother’s coloring.”

  “Perhaps next time—”

  Anne’s comment was left unfinished as King Henry rose abruptly from the bed.

  “We’ve a country to provide for,” the king stated shortly. “We’ll look in on you later.”

  As the king reached the door, a thought struck him and he turned back toward the bed, his entourage scattering before him.

  “If you have a name you want considered, Anne, let us know.” Without another word,
the monarch swept out the door.

  Anne watched, her face a mask, as the room cleared. Nodding to the Lord Chamberlain as he turned to go, Anne looked down at the infant in her arms. Gazing at the wisps of red hair, the round little face, and the nearly translucent skin, the mother wondered at the sleeping child, so peaceful and unaware of the world she had just entered.

  Huddling her even closer, the queen glanced up defiantly at the closed door.

  “A south wind, indeed,” she whispered bitterly. Anne’s eyes lowered again to her baby. “Listen to me, little one, and learn this now. They will tell you it’s a man’s world. But take heart, fear nothing. You will carry the name of a great woman. You will carry her spirit.”

  In 1558, Elizabeth I, resplendent in her gown of cloth of gold, ascended the throne of Britain. For the next half century, she was to forge the glorious era of Sidney and Spenser, Jonson and Shakespeare, and in the end give her name to England’s golden age.

  The 'May McGoldrick Family Tree' Book Information

  Our 16th Century books...

  In The Thistle and the Rose, Colin Campbell and Celia Muir are introduced...

  And we also introduce Alec Macpherson, who is the hero of our second book, Angel of Skye...

  Alec has two brothers, Ambrose and John, who are the heroes of Heart of Gold and The Beauty of the Mist, respectively...

  In Angel of Skye, we also introduce a little boy, Malcolm MacLeod, and in Heart of Gold we introduce a little girl, Jaime...

  When Malcolm MacLeod and Jaime grow up, they are the hero and heroine of The Intended...

  In Heart of Gold, we also introduce Gavin Kerr, who becomes the hero of Flame...

  In Flame, we introduce a number of characters who show up in The Dreamer, The Enchantress, and The Firebrand (the Highland Treasure Trilogy), including John Stewart, the earl of Athol and a number of villains...