The Queen's Lady. Shannon Drake
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swung around. “I have barely arrived, we’re all dressed in the grays and blacks of our mourning, and do you know what was on the mind of those great and noble lords who greeted us and rode as our escort here to the palace?”
“What?”
“My remarriage.”
Gwenyth smiled. “My dear queen—”
“Friends, we are friends here tonight.”
“Mary, I’m sorry to say this, for I know your heart and know that you were deeply grieved by the death of your husband, but from the instant the king of France died, nobles and monarchs across our world were discussing your next marriage. You are a queen, and your alliances, both personal and political, can change the face of history. This is a sad truth to face when the soul is in pain, but it is the way of the world.”
“I am a commodity,” Mary said softly.
“You are a queen.”
Again, Mary paced. “You are right, I know. I scarcely had time to bury my husband with the honor that was his due before I, too, realized my future had to be decided. Today, when we stepped ashore, I had to wonder if perhaps I made a grave error. There were offers, you know, offers from Catholic royal houses. There is no right step to take, I fear. Were I to marry into such a house, I would turn Scotland against me. But here, today, I learned the minds of these men. They want me to choose one of their number as consort, a man who honors all that is Scottish, who bleeds pure Scottish blood, who will compensate for what they consider the disadvantage of my upbringing. Oh, Gwen, what is the matter with the people? How can I be anything less than true to what I have been taught all my life, to what I have read, to God as I know Him?”
“No one expects that of you.”
Mary shook her head in denial, and Gwenyth thought that, sadly, she was most likely right.
“They expect everything of me. But I am not an inconstant queen. I will honor and worship God as I see fit. But…” She turned away, lowering her head.
“But?” Gwenyth started to smile. She thought she had seen something in Mary’s face.
“Well…” Mary inhaled deeply. “I loved him, but my late husband…he was never well.”
“There was no romance,” Gwenyth whispered.
Mary spun and rushed back to the bed. “Am I terrible? I have seen someone who…well, I was newly widowed when I saw him. He is a distant cousin, in fact.” She looked at Gwenyth mischievously. “He is most handsome.”
“Who is he?”
“Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley.”
“Ah,” Gwenyth murmured, looking away, thinking that Mary deserved some genuine happiness. She had spent her life doing what was expected of her, performing her duty. To hear that whisper of excitement in her voice was, Gwenyth thought, most gratifying.
Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, was, like Mary, a grandchild of Margaret Tudor, the sister of the late English king, Henry VIII. Gwenyth did not know him so much as know of him. He was living in England currently, a so-called guest of Queen Elizabeth, due to what that monarch considered his Scottish father’s sin in standing against her. His mother was an English peeress, however, so his stay could not properly be considered incarceration.
Gwenyth had met Lord Darnley only briefly, at the same time as the queen, when he had come to bring condolences on the death of King Francis. He was indeed handsome, as Mary had said, and he could be charming. Other nobles, she knew—especially many of the Highlanders—did not like him. He was fond of drinking, gambling and all manner of debauchery. He had Stewart blood, but he had English blood, as well. Then again, so did many of the Scottish nobility.
Gwenyth looked at Mary then with a definite sense of unease, though happily Mary did not take that look to mean personal dissatisfaction with the one man who seemed to appeal to her on a sensual level.
“Don’t look at me like that! Why may I not enjoy the fact that I have seen a man who is both acceptable in the minds of many and appealing? Fear not, I have not lost my senses. I am in mourning, and despite everything, I did love Francis, dearly, though it was…it was perhaps more a deep and tender friendship than a passionate love. I remain in mourning, and I will not be rash in my decisions. I will be careful, and I will be listening to my advisors. No decision can be made for some time. I am still considering negotiations with Don Carlos of Spain and other foreign princes. My greatest strength lies in where I will cast my die. I shall not forget that for me, even more so than most, marriage is a matter political alliance, not love.”
“Mary, I know you will do what is right, but you certainly must allow yourself to dream of what will make you happy, as well,” Gwenyth said.
Mary, so tall and elegant in her robe trimmed with fur, looked at her with wide, beautiful dark eyes. “I am frightened,” she whispered. “Frightened that no matter how hard I try to do the right thing, I cannot make my people happy.”
“Oh, Mary! You must not feel so. It was a wonderful homecoming. And you’re going to be a wonderful queen. You are a wonderful queen.”
“It is so…so different here.”
“These are your people. They love you.”
“They’re so…” Mary paused, then offered a smile. “So Scottish.”
“True, this is not France. But, Mary, it is a wonderful country, filled with wonderful people. Who do outsiders look to when they seek military assistance? They offer rich rewards to entice Scotsmen to fight in their battles, because we are fierce and strong and loyal.”
“But I seek peace.”
“Of course. But peace is often obtained through strength.”
“Not in Scotland.”
“Ah, Mary. That’s not true, not always. Think back. We are a country because of the determination and courage of men such as William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, your own ancestor. Scotsmen are also poets and scientists. They go to schools elsewhere, and they learn about the world. You have only to love the Scots and they will love you.”
Mary let out a soft sigh. “I pray…yes, I pray. And I thank you—my friend. My four Marys are most dear to me, but they do not know this land as you know it. They, like me, have been away too long. Tonight I dearly needed your friendship and understanding, and you have not disappointed me.”
“Mary, anyone who knows you is aware that you have a great heart, that you are both kind and wise. You don’t need me. You need only to believe in yourself and to be willing to understand your own people.”
“I intend to try. For I intend to be a great queen.” Mary hesitated. “Greater, even,” she said softly, “than my cousin who sits on the throne of England.”
A chill snaked along Gwenyth’s spine. Elizabeth was proving to be a very powerful monarch. She was ten years older than Mary and had been queen of England for several years now. And she was Mary’s opponent in the political arena, for when Mary Tudor had died, the French royalty had declared Mary Stewart not just Queen of Scotland and of France, but Queen of England and Ireland, as well, considering Elizabeth to be Henry’s bastard and therefore lacking the right to rule.
Politics could be a very dangerous game. Gwenyth knew Mary did not wish to oust her cousin from the throne, but she was loyal to her religion. It had become quite apparent that not only did the English not wish to have anyone other than their own Queen Bess, they wanted nothing to do with a Catholic monarch, and therein lay the seeds of potential—or perhaps inevitable—conflict.
Throughout the centuries, wars with England had torn Scotland apart. None wished to have more bloodshed to be forced upon them by the English, yet every alliance was like a dagger in the heart of some other nation. The English warily watched Scotland’s friendship with the French, and the Spanish watched them all, so they watched the Spanish in turn. Such concerns would have a crucial impact on