MARY WAS AN EXCELLENT rider and hunter; she had a fine kennel of sporting dogs, as well as the many smaller lapdogs she so loved. She had an exceptional air of happiness about her as they set off into the forest. She had been desirous that they go alone, though neither James nor Rowan was at ease with that, and Gwenyth understood why. They could not be comfortable, not when men such as Knox were preaching from the pulpit that a man had a right to remove a ruler who was ungodly. In his narrow mind, ungodly meant anything that did not precisely match his teachings, so the queen could well be in danger from religious zealots.

      Mary could not believe that anyone would dare to harm a royal, so she chafed at their restrictions, but at last she agreed that guards could be posted around the section of forest where they would be hunting. And so, with the hounds baying around their horses’ hooves, they began.

      Scotland might not be as lush and rich as the continent, but the forest did have an almost eerie and beckoning beauty. It was barely fall, yet it seemed that under the green canopy, darkness came quickly. At first Mary rode ahead with James. Gwenyth, riding behind with Rowan, could not hear their conversation, though the two of them rode in silence, which seemed a strain to her.

      Laird Rowan did not seem to notice, being caught up in his thoughts. Then, suddenly, he turned to her. “Will you go home soon to visit?” he inquired.

      She stared blankly back at him. Amazingly, she had come here and not even thought about returning to her home on Islington Isle. She didn’t answer with the first thought that came to her mind.

      I am not wanted there.

      “I…have not thought so far ahead.”

      “So far ahead? But you’ve known for some time that you would be returning to Scotland.”

      “I’ve been worried about the queen, I suppose.” She found herself adding in a rush, “You don’t understand. This has been a difficult time for her. She is, despite her rank, an extremely caring and kind woman. She nursed King Francis through terrible times. She was with him when he breathed his last. Suddenly, despite her youth, she was the dowager Queen of France, and there were so many problems to be faced, so many people to be seen…. She was in mourning, but there were emissaries, strangers, coming to offer messages of solace from royalty and nobility, all of whom had to be seen and greeted courteously. All the while, she had to decide on the best course of action for herself and others.”

      He was smiling as he watched her—sardonically, she thought.

      “One would think that you, of all men, would not judge her but would have some understanding of what she felt,” she snapped.

      His smile faded slightly, and he looked ahead. “I was thinking again, Lady Gwenyth, that our good Queen Mary is lucky to have such a staunch friend as you.”

      She felt like a fool. “Thank you,” she murmured stiffly, then talking to cover her confusion. “Those who know her well truly love her—all those who know her, not just me.”

      “Then she is very lucky indeed,” he said softly.

      “Are you coming?” Mary called back to them then.

      As she spoke, something thrashed in the woods ahead of them.

      “Boar,” James said. “Let it be. We haven’t the men to cope if the hunt goes badly.”

      But Mary never heard him; she was off. She was an excellent archer, and Gwenyth knew full well that she could make the kill. But James raced after her, concerned, and Rowan, muttering beneath his breath, followed.

      Gwenyth kneed her mount, ready for the chase, as well, though she didn’t particularly like the hunt. Once she had seen a hart die a slow death; she had watched the glow go out of the beautiful beast’s eyes, and she had never desired to be part of the hunt again, though there were times, such as now, when she had no choice.

      Ahead, the unfamiliar path twisted and veered. Gwenyth found herself alone and realized that the others had apparently taken a different turn. She wasn’t concerned; she did love riding. But as she slowed her horse, wondering where she had gone astray, she heard a thrashing sound.

      Her horse heard it, as well, and began to shy. She talked soothingly, her hands firm on the reins.

      All her experience did her no good. The mare suddenly shot straight up in the air, then flipped over, snorting and screaming, a blood-curdling sound. The next thing Gwenyth knew, she was on the ground, lying several feet from the mare, which struggled to its feet and bolted.

      “Wait! Traitor!” Gwenyth shouted.

      She stumbled to her feet, testing her limbs for breaks. She was sore from head to foot, covered in dirt and forest bracken. At first she was aggravated with both the horse and herself; there had been no way to keep her seat, but she should have been up more quickly, soothing the animal, keeping it near her.

      Then she heard the noise again, and the boar appeared.

      Arrows stuck out from its left shoulder. Blood oozed down the maddened animal’s side. It had been hit and badly wounded, and now it was staggering but still on its feet.

      And it saw her.

      It stared at her, and she stared into its tiny eyes in return. It was immense; she couldn’t begin to imagine its weight.

      Die, she thought. Oh, please, die.

      But it wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. It pawed the ground, staggered, snorted—and began to race toward her.

      She screamed and ran, looking desperately for a clear trail—and a tree she could climb.

      Was it the pounding of the creature’s hooves she heard, or the rapid thunder of her own heart? If she could just keep ahead of it long enough, it would have to die, given that it was losing so much blood. It seemed as if she ran for eons, and still she could hear it coming behind her.

      Then she stumbled on a tree root and went flying into the brush. Despite being certain she was dead, she rolled, desperately trying to jump to her feet and run again.

      The boar was almost upon her.