Heart of Gold (26 page)

He still remembered the feel of her beneath him, the taste of her on his lips. Damn that Gavin. If he hadn’t come down to the galley’s cabin after them, they would had made love. Right there among the rolling trunks, in the midst of the storm. She had been ready then. They had come so close, but to no avail.

And then, at the monastery, he’d wanted her. But she’d asked him to wait, and Ambrose found it difficult to deny her anything.

So he found himself still waiting. And waiting.

“I remember swimming at that bow in the river,” Elizabeth said excitedly, pointing to an eddy in the bend just ahead. “It felt so wonderful, the water so clear and clean.”

Ambrose followed her gaze. “Did you swim with any clothes on?” His voice was huskier than usual.

Her head turned sharply toward him. She saw the clouds of passion lurking in his eyes. She smiled devilishly.

“No clothes. Nothing on. I was quite naked.” She took a quick step to the side and gave herself some distance. “It was sunset. I rose out of water and walked to the stony beach. There was nothing to dry my body with, so I let the summer breeze lick my skin dry.”

She took another step back and stood facing him, somewhat amazed and amused by his reactions to her words. She looked at the clenched jaw, the way his eyes roamed her body as if she wore nothing now.

“Even then, I wished you there with me,” she whispered.

“I want you, Elizabeth.”

“We can’t. Not yet.” She eyed him steadily. “You promised, Baron.”

Turning back toward the railing, she could feel his eyes still burning into her. Without looking at him, she reached up and slowly undid the top tie of her shirt, spreading the material with her fingers to let the soft breeze caress her skin.

“It’s quite warm today. Don’t you think so?” She threw a coy glance at him.

“I’ll kill you, Elizabeth Boleyn. I’ll kill you with my own two hands.”

Below, Mary sat on the bunk, mesmerized by the tale, her back against the curved hull of the barge. The trencher of food lay untouched on her lap.

Gavin paused to take a sip from the bowl of wine that sat between them. His face was grim with the remembrance of so much destruction.

“Go on. Please go on,” Mary prodded impatiently.

“I lay there, looking up at the sky. Well, at what passed for a sky that day. ‘Tis true. It was more like night than day. The rain was pouring from a sky, thick and gray. Nay! It wasn’t even gray—it was black with fog and with smoke from the German guns the damned English had brought up. They had been firing since morning—round after round. Boom! Boom! Boom! After a while, you don’t know if the pounding of the explosions are coming from your head or from the next hill. It’s a god-awful thing, Mary—that cannon fire.”

The young woman tried to imagine the fear Gavin must have felt.

“As I told you, it had been raining for two days, and the hills were slippery—they were thick with muck and with blood. Scottish blood, Mary. The treachery of that filthy Englishman Surrey and his vile henchman Danvers, Satan’s own brother—that was what defeated us. They’d agreed to a truce until the rain stopped. And then the bastards circled around, put their bloody guns in place, and lay waiting for us.

“It was a terrible thing, Mary, that battle. Flodden field. We, the men of the Borders, fought like wild men. We were faithful to the king and to our oaths to serve him. Each man of us fought like he possessed the heart of the Bruce and the soul of the Wallace. But some, I’m ashamed to say, hung back when they were called upon. Many of the Highland clans—not the Macphersons, mind you, but many others—the motherless animals showed how long they can remember a slight. Those sheep in men’s clothing watched as the Lowlanders and the men loyal to the king were mowed down like corn before a gale. It was a shameful thing.

“But a Scotsman fears nothing when his blood is up, and when the king took up the lance himself, we followed him down that muddy hill into the ranks of the English.

“For three hours, we fought with the valor of the auld heroes down there—knee deep in bodies and in blood. But when King Jaime went down, fighting like the true warrior he was, our hearts were broken.

“They drove us across the hill. I saw my two brothers die like the gallants they were, and somewhere—not far from the king—some swine bashed my head from behind as I fought with another. I went down with the dying and the dead, and lay there unconscious for I don’t know how long.

“I awoke, hearing a moaning sound and the noise of battle beyond. I tried to sit up and realized it was I who was moaning. All I could see was the dead and filthy sky. All I could feel was the rain pelting my face and the crack in the back of my head where my brains were trying to seep out. I pushed myself up and felt the ground spinning about me.

“The dead lay thick on that hillside. Thousands on thousands. It was a sight that defies telling, Mary. It defies telling.

“And then it struck me. The English guns had stopped. I knew what would come next. They’d be scouring the dead for rings and for gold. The camp followers and the shirkers. They’d be cutting the throats of those still living, and stripping all of their weapons and their armor. I tried to look down the hill through the smoke. I could see them at the bottom. Like vultures. But I couldn’t stand. My legs would not move. I knew I was finished.”

Gavin stopped.

Mary was suddenly aware of the tears silently coursing down her face. The warrior was silent, his eyes closed. She moved the tray from her lap. “Please tell me.”

He opened his eyes and returned her steady gaze.

“I lay back down to wait for the end. At any rate, I would die fighting, I decided, and readied a short sword that lay in the mud by my hand.

“And then I saw him. He was wandering in a daze among the dead, his broad sword dragging beside him. He appeared half blinded by the blood that was still running like a river from the great gash across his forehead. He was a Highlander, a man nearly my size. He was searching among the dead. I called to him, and he came to me.

“‘Where is the king?’ he asked. ‘Dead,’ I told him. I saw his eyes flash with anger, with a silent, unutterable rage. Then he looked off down the hill before looking back at me. ‘Go,’ I said. ‘Save yourself. It is finished here.’ He just kept looking at me, but I knew he was thinking of the king.

“Then I saw his eyes clear a bit, and he took hold of my arm. Ambrose Macpherson lifted me up and threw me over his shoulder like I was no more than a bairn. He carried me, Mary. For all that night and for two days more, he carried me. Back into Scotland.”

Mary Boleyn stared at Gavin as the raven-haired warrior drank down the remainder of the wine.

“He saved your life,” she whispered.

“It was more than that. Much more.” He looked up toward the narrow sliver of light that was squeezing its way through a small opening in the plank ceiling. “He gave me hope, a chance for a future. He showed me what courage is. The strength that comes with compassion. He taught me that brotherhood goes far beyond the ties of kinship.

“And what took place on that bloody journey was only part of what Ambrose Macpherson has done for me. The greater part lay thereafter. I had lost my only family, my two elder brothers, the ones I loved and looked up to. I was a defeated warrior, and as my body healed, my mind’s desires dwelled on hate and loathing. Hate for others like the treasonous Highlanders and the bloody English. Loathing for myself.

“But Ambrose changed all of that. He stayed by me as my legs began to work again. As I began to heal, he showed me that we must live out our lives, whatever our fate.” Gavin turned to Mary and smiled. “I know you wouldn’t think it, since I haven’t stopped talking since I met you, but I am an extremely reserved man. I shy away from people. If left to myself, I would just crawl under a rock and remain there. When I was a child, my father contemplated sending me to a cloister to become a monk.”

Mary smiled, the tears still glistening on her cheeks.

“I just can’t see that,” she replied quietly, watching him drifting off into a world long gone. She looked down at her hands. “Thank you, Gavin.”

“For what? For boring you to death?”

“Nay, for making me see.” Her eyes returned to his face. “So many times we only recognize the gallantry that occurs in the heat of battle. So often we are completely blind to the valor that takes place under our noses.”

“You mean your brother?” he asked.

She nodded slowly.

“He is a fine man, Mary. Many might judge him hastily, based solely on his appearance. But I know they would be wrong. He might not be strong on the surface, but he has the spirit of ten warriors.” Gavin remembered how Phillipe had so fearlessly faced Ambrose, time and time again. “But the most important thing for you to know is that he loves you. That is apparent in everything that he does.”

Gavin looked carefully into the pale woman’s expression before continuing. “You probably know that Ambrose had planned for you to be left behind at the monastery outside Marseilles until you became well enough to travel.” He saw her nod. “Well, you should have seen your brother. He raised hell. He was prepared to fight the baron if he didn’t agree to take you with us. He has spirit, Mary. Phillipe stands up for what he believes in. That’s real courage, if you ask me.”

Mary leaned her head against the wooden hull. This was only a trifle compared to the things Elizabeth had done for her in her life. Gavin knew only the tiniest fraction of it. And Mary was beginning to see it all so clearly now. As if she were awakening from a deep and dreamless slumber, her eyes began to focus. Suddenly she could remember so many things. Recollect so clearly. Holy Mother, she prayed, forgive me for being so blind.

Mary considered for a moment what life with her must be for Elizabeth. She was very sick, perhaps more so now than ever before. This time was different. Mary knew that there could be no getting better this time. The physician at the monastery at Marseilles had confirmed her fears. She was dying. She knew it, though no one else did. She couldn’t let Elizabeth know. Not yet.

She never slept. For two weeks now, every night as she had lain awake in her bed thinking, seeing her past relived before her eyes, she had felt the sickness taking over her brain. And then during the days, she’d listened, watched Elizabeth sitting so supportively, so lovingly beside her. Her sister, the one who accepted her as she was, in spite of her flaws, her ailments, her complaining tongue. Elizabeth had remained at her side for years—constant, true. Elizabeth had always been there. Been there for her. But what had Mary ever done, ever given her in return? Nothing.

Even sending Gavin—that had been Elizabeth’s doing. Mary knew she was far beyond hope. Her time for first love was far behind her now, and the past weeks had brought that message home clearly to her. But she was not devastated by the realization. And when Elizabeth had sent Gavin down to her, she had found a companionship such as she had never known before. A camaraderie that she had never even thought of seeking.

But they had found that special relationship. They were friends. Other than Elizabeth, Mary had never even had a friend. But here they were. A man and a woman. Two people so different from one another. Two people who had gravitated toward each other’s company. That had been Elizabeth’s doing. Once again her sister had done that for her.

Mary’s thoughts went back to the morning, when her sister had been beside her. She had not made any attempt to mask her complexion today. Even though Elizabeth still was dressed as a man, she had the undeniable freshness of a woman. And Mary knew the cause. Even from where she lay below decks, Mary could see the love that her sister carried for the Highlander. Elizabeth might not be ready to admit it to herself, but she was in love. In love with Ambrose Macpherson.

And Mary also knew her sister would never do anything about that. As long as Mary herself lived, she knew her sister would sacrifice every chance of love and of happiness to take care of her. She knew nothing would stop Elizabeth from continuing to provide her with the care and the companionship as she had always had.

Well, now it was Mary’s job to cut the ties. She had to think of something. Elizabeth deserved some happiness of her own.

But first Mary wanted to see Jaime.

“I’m not going, Mary!”

“You are going,” the younger woman ordered. “How many times do you think you’ll have the opportunity to meet with the King of France?”

“But I have been presented at court before. You know that, and—”

“But never as an artist.” Mary’s voice shook with emotion. “Never as the painter all Europe is talking about. You have joined the top tier, Elizabeth. Your talent, your gift is finally being recognized. You deserve this attention. It is the moment artists work for their entire lives with only the slimmest hope of achieving. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth let her head drop into her hands. “Nay. I don’t know!” The news that King Francis wanted to meet Phillipe de Anjou at the Constable of Champagne’s hunting lodge in the forest to the east of Troyes had caught her off guard. “I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what to do.”

Ambrose’s soldier had hailed the barge from the riverside that morning. Word had gotten to the king of the Florentine painter’s commission with the Scottish royal family, and Francis wanted to greet this native son as he journeyed on to the north.

“Please! For me, you should go,” Mary cajoled as Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at her. “This is an opportunity for me to live just a bit of it once more, through your eyes, through your experience. When you get back, you can tell me of the people who were there, the way everyone dressed, the latest talk of court. Please, Elizabeth. Go!”

Elizabeth stood and moved to the side of Mary’s bed. The younger sister opened her arms and Elizabeth fell into the embrace. The two hugged fiercely as they rocked gently in each other’s arms.

Mary was changing. Elizabeth could see it, feel it in her heart. It had been three weeks. Three weeks on the barges, traveling the rivers. With each passing day, Elizabeth had seen her sister strengthen in her affection toward those around her...while her body visibly withered. So many times Elizabeth had questioned her own judgment in making this journey. But it was too late.