The Queen's Lady. Shannon Drake
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look of both amusement and distance in his eyes. “A Catholic queen has suddenly come home to rule a nation that has wholeheartedly embraced Protestantism in the last year.” He turned back to her. “Surely that is cause for concern?”
“Queen Mary’s half brother, the Lord James, has assured her that she may worship as she chooses,” she said.
“Indeed,” he said, and laughed aloud, which she thought quite rude.
“Would you deny the queen her right to worship God?” she inquired. “If so, perhaps you’d be best off returning to the Highlands, my lord,” she said sweetly.
“Ah, such fierce loyalty.”
“No more than you, too, owe your queen,” she snapped.
“How long have you been gone, Lady Gwenyth?” he asked softly in return.
“A year.”
“Then such pretense on your part is either foolish or you are sadly not as well-read or intelligent as I had imagined. You speak of loyalty, but surely you know loyalty is something to be earned. Perhaps your young queen does indeed deserve such a fierce defense, but she must prove herself to her people, having been gone so long. Have you been gone so long that you have forgotten how it is here? That there are parts of this land where the monarchy and government mean nothing, and devotion is given first and foremost to one’s own clan? When there is no war to fight, we fight among ourselves. I am a loyal man, my lady. Fiercely loyal to Scotland. Young Mary is our queen, and as such, she has not just my loyalty but every shred of strength I can provide, both my sword arm and my life. But if she wishes to gain real control as a monarch, she will have to come to know her people and make them love her. For if they love her…no battle in her name will be too great. History has proven us reckless, far too ready to die for those with the passion to lead us into battle. Time will tell if Mary is one such.”
Gwenyth stared at him, incredulous. It was a heroic speech, but she sensed something of a threat in it, as well. “You, my lord, haven’t the manners of a Highland hound,” she returned, fighting for control.
He didn’t lose his temper, only shrugged. She was further irritated when once again he laughed out loud. “A year in France has made you quite high and mighty, has it not? Have you forgotten that your own father hailed from the Highlands?”
Was that a subtle rebuke? Her father had died on the battlefield with James V, though he’d not left such a great legacy as the king. He’d been Laird MacLeod of Islington Isle, but the tiny spit of land just off the high tors barely afforded a meager living for those who lived upon it. Riches had not sent her to France to serve Queen Mary; respect for her father’s memory was all that had been left her.
“It’s my understanding that my father was stalwart and brave, and courteous at all times,” she informed him.
“Ah, how sharp that dagger,” he murmured.
“What is the matter with you, Laird Rowan? This is a day of great joy. A young queen has returned to claim her birthright. Look around you. People are happy.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “So far.”
“Beware. Your words hold a hint of what might sound traitorous to other ears,” she informed him coolly.
“My point,” he said softly, “is that this Scotland is a far different place than the Scotland she left so long ago—indeed, even from the Scotland you left behind. But if you think I am less than pleased to see Mary here, you are mistaken. It is my entire aim to keep Mary on her throne. I, too, believe a man—or a woman—must worship God from the heart and as seems best, not turning upon details that have so torn apart the Catholic Church and the people of this country. Men of power write policy and interpret words on paper, yet it is the innocents who so often die because of that simple fact. I speak bluntly and boldly—that is my way. I will always be here to guard your Mary—even against herself, if need be. You, my dear, are young, with the idealistic perceptions of youth. May God guard you, as well.”
“I hope He will start by helping me avoid the boors of my own country,” she returned, her chin high.
“With one so charming and dedicated as yourself, dear Lady Gwenyth, how could our Maker not oblige?”
Kneeing her horse, she hurried forward, keeping her place within Mary’s vanguard, but putting some distance between herself and the rough Laird Rowan. She heard his soft laughter follow her and shivered. He had managed to cast a pall over what should have been a day of unalloyed triumph. Why, she wondered, did she let his subtle byplay disturb her so deeply?
She turned her horse back toward him. Riding was one of her finer talents, and she wasn’t averse to displaying her abilities as she swerved her mount, covered the distance she’d put between them, then swerved once again and rode up beside him.
“You know nothing,” she informed him heatedly. “You do not know Mary. She was sent to France as a child and given a husband. And she was a friend, the best friend possible, to him. The poor king was sickly from the beginning, but Mary remained a dear and loyal friend—and wife. In the end, despite the wretched conditions of the sickroom, she never once wavered. She cared for him until his death, then mourned his loss with dignity. And as the world changed around her, she kept that dignity. As diplomats and courtiers from all over the world came with petitions and suggestions for her next marriage, she weighed her options, including what was best for Scotland, with deep concern and a full understanding of the statesmanship demanded by her position. How dare you doubt her?” she demanded.
This time, he didn’t laugh. Instead, his eyes softened. “If she has the power to earn such passionate praise from one such as yourself, my lady, then there must be deep resources indeed beneath her lovely and noble appearance. May you always be so certain in all things,” he said at last, softly.
“Why should not one be certain, sir?” she inquired.
“Because the wind is quick to change.”
“And do you, like the wind, change so easily, Laird Rowan?”
He studied her for a moment, almost fondly, as if he had stumbled upon a curious child. “The wind will blow, and it will bend the great trees in the forest, whether I wish it were so or not,” he said. “When there is a storm brewing, ’tis best to take heed. The bough that does not bend will break.”
“That,” she said, “is the problem with the Scots.”
“You are a Scot,” he reminded her.
“Yes. And I have seen far too often how easily great lords can be bribed to one point of view or another.”
He looked ahead. Whether she liked him or not, the man had a fine profile: strong, clean-shaven chin; high, broad cheekbones; sharp eyes; and a wide brow. Perhaps it was his appearance that allowed him to be so patronizing without fear of reprisal.
“There are things I know, my lady, and things I know about my people. They are superstitious. They believe in evil. They believe in God—and they believe in the devil.”
“Don’t you?”
He looked at her again. “I believe in God, because it comforts me to do so. And if there is good, then truly there must be evil. Does it matter to a greater being—one so great as God—if a man believes in one interpretation of His word or another? I’m afraid He does not whisper His true wisdom into my ears.”
“How amazing. From your behavior, one would assume He did,” she retorted.
He smiled slightly. “I have seen a great deal of tragedy and misery—sad old women condemned to the flames as witches, great men meeting the same fate for their convictions. What do I believe in? Compromise. And compromise, I propose, is what the queen must do.”
“Compromise—or bow down?” she inquired, trying not to allow the heat she felt into her words.
“Compromise,” he assured her.
Then it was