The Heather Moon (13 page)

"I dinna know what 'tis, in truth," Perris said. He grasped William's hand. "And I must go attend to a matter for Madame. Not legal work this time, but important, nonetheless. I am to find a local miller to grind oats into the finest powder. Her Grace the queen spits up her porridge."

"Go to, then," William said, chuckling. Perris grinned and hastened toward the south gate.

William turned back to look up at the carved stone fountain, and recalled a day five years ago when its spouts and basins had overflowed with red wine and rose petals, a display ordered by King James in honor of his new French bride, Marie of Guise. The stone spouts were empty now, the basins green with lichen, the water levels low and murky. Wine might never flow there again, William thought grimly. His hand went to the folded parchment tucked inside his leather doublet, written in Marie of Guise's own elegant italic script.

He had been surprised by the summons. The queen dowager's display of friendship touched him deeply, and he would strive to do whatever she wanted of him. He owed that much to her. He owed it to Jeanie's memory too. As one of Marie's ladies-in-waiting, Jeanie had loved her royal mistress and friend dearly.

Standing beside the fountain, he recalled sweet late evenings nearly two years past, when he and Jeanie Hamilton had met near this fountain. Those clandestine and passionate meetings had led them both along a tangled and tragic path.

She had been lovely and young, and the only child of the one man he truly hated. William knew that rumor claimed he had shamed her deliberately. Few knew the real tale, he thought bitterly. Nor would he enlighten the curious.

He turned and strode toward the northwest tower.

* * *

The echo of his pace was rapid and strong as he headed up turnpike steps and down wide, vaulted corridors until he reached the royal presence chamber. The guard outside the door lifted his halberd to allow William passage.

"Rookhope, sir, welcome back." He opened the thick oak door. William thanked him and handed over his long sword, aware that Marie of Guise disapproved of weapons worn in royal audiences. The guard waved him inside.

Sunlight poured through two tall windows, pooling on red brocade window-seat cushions and wall tapestries, and spilling in bright bars over the floor tiles. Music filled the air, emanating from the far end of the huge room, where the royal dais stood empty. Nearby, several men and women gathered in a circle around a man strumming a lute. All were finely dressed in costly fabrics, gowns and doublets gleaming with pearls and jewels. He could smell a blend of musky perfumes from where he stood.

William glanced at his own clothing and brushed at the dust from his ride. His garments were good quality but simple in style, as he preferred: a sleeveless doublet of supple Spanish leather, pierced for coolness and comfort, over a finely woven linen shirt; breeches of black serge, and high leather boots, as were worn by soldiers and reivers, rather than courtiers. He wore his dark hair longer than was stylish, and did not keep a shaped beard, though he sometimes let his whiskers grow out. He did not polish his nails and wore no jewelry.

He knew that most of the women at court favored his appearance. The rest, male and female alike, scoffed at his plain gear as more suited to a Border thief than a sophisticated man of the court. William was both, but he cared as little for the niceties of fashion as he did for the opinions of others.

No one glanced at him as he walked into the spacious chamber. The courtiers surrounded a man seated in their midst who sang a ballad. His voice was vibrant above the soft twang of the lute strings. William paused to listen, leaning a shoulder casually against the oaken paneling.

The bonny laird went to his lady's door

And he's twirled at the pin

"O sleep ye, wake ye, Jean my lass,

Rise up and let me in."

Fair Jean rose up and let him in

For she loved him best of a'

He's ta'en her in his arms twain

And she let her kirtle fa'.

A chill trickled down his spine. His heart slammed, his jaw tightened, and he remained outwardly calm by sheer effort.

The singer was a young man in an elaborate black satin doublet. William recognized the queen dowager's assistant secretary. He listened, and decided not to interrupt. Yet.

"O Jeanie, what ails ye?" her father spoke

"Does a pain cut in yer side?"

"I have nae pain, but a lover's gift,

And my laird willna wed me for pride."

Fair Jean went to the wood that day

And took with her some silk

She leaned her back against an oak

And bathed her bairn in milk.

William had heard enough. He pushed away from the wall and crossed the long room with such purpose that his wooden-soled boots echoed.

The others turned. Nearly all gasped, the women flattening their hands against their stiffened bodices. The secretary struck a dissonant chord and jumped to his feet.

"Sir William!" he cried.

"Greetings, Francis. And to the rest." William inclined his head and walked forward. A path appeared for him as they moved back, gowns rustling, shoes scuffling.

"Lady Margaret, Lady Elspeth. Fleming, Randolph. Lady Alice," he listed grimly as he plunged through the gap. "Seton, Lady Mary. Sir Ralph." He nodded to a tall, handsome man.

William pushed past them as they murmured greetings and backed away. A few had the grace to look embarrassed as he passed. He was glad to see some display of conscience.

He halted, fisting one hand at his waist. "Interesting ballad, Francis," he remarked.

"I—I did not write it, Sir William," Francis stammered. He stood. "I—I had it from a black-letter broadsheet."

"Indeed. Already circulating in broadsheets, is it?"

"Aye, the song has become quite popular. I've heard it sung in Edinburgh, and I hear 'tis sung in England, too."

"I see. And what is it called?"

"'The... The Bonny Laird—'" Francis said. He looked down at his wide-toed leather shoes as if he wanted to sink into oblivion. "'The Bonny Laird o' Rookhope.'"

"Ah." William let the silence linger.

Francis swallowed, his cheeks red. He glanced at the others, who had strolled across the room. "What—what brings you to court after so long, Sir William?"

"Madame sent for me. Kindly tell her that I have arrived, and that I await her pleasure." He extracted the folded note, displayed its seal and ribbon, and tucked it away again.

"She sent for you?" Francis blinked in surprise.

"Aye." William stared evenly at him.

"Sir William, I—I am most sorry. I would not have sung the ballad had I known Madame sent for you. I am your friend, sir."

"Then I wonder you sing the song at all."

"'Tis often requested during musical suppers. Many enjoy it, for the melody and for the tale, which is well-known now."

William glared. "I dinna care what is said about me, Francis. But Jeanie Hamilton is dead, and canna defend herself against chatter and gossip. If you wish to act the friend, then respect her memory."

Francis nodded, coloring deeply. "Ce-certainly." He stepped away. "I will announce you. But Madame has many interviews scheduled this afternoon."

"I will wait," William said. Francis sped past the dais, which was fitted with two empty throne chairs beneath an overhead canopy. On the end wall hung an embroidered tapestry. Behind the cloth, a door led to a small audience room and a short corridor that provided access to the queen's private apartments. Francis hurried through the doorway.

William turned. The circuit of his gaze took in the presence chamber, without acknowledging those who stared at him and murmured among themselves. He walked to one tall window and leaned a hand on the side of the niche, turning his back on the room. He had nothing to say to the others. Nor did they, he suspected, have much pleasant to say to him.

He looked out over the serene surface of the loch that spread behind the palace. As he watched a pair of swans glide there, he felt, rather than saw, the curious and accusing gazes that fastened on his leather-clad back.

* * *

"Sir William." Her voice was just as he remembered, low-pitched and gentle, with a marked French accent. "Come in."

"Madame." William bowed his head and stepped farther into the royal bedchamber. He glanced past the carved bed curtained in violet damask, and past fine pieces of furniture, toward one long window. A tall woman stood silhouetted by the northern light, her hands folded in front of her.

She had grown thin, he thought immediately. But the last time he had seen Marie of Guise, she had been great with child. Since then, she had given birth and had been widowed, and now bore part of the responsibility for her late husband's country on her square, capable shoulders.

"Thank you for responding so quickly to my message, Sir William." She was tall, nearly six feet, her carriage naturally elegant as she glided forward. Light glinted over the pearls edging her black cap and black damask gown, and revealed the dusky shadows beneath her eyes.

William bowed over her extended fingers, barely touching her hand, and straightened. She was nearly of a height with him, and he met her gaze boldly, as he always had done, though she was a queen and he was but a Border laird.

"You look well," she said. "I have missed you, William."

He bowed his head again. "And I, you, Madame."

She smiled. "How does your family? And your daughter?"

"All fine, Madame. And Her Grace?"

"Quite well. Come and see." She turned, and he followed.

In a shadowed corner, a young woman in a dark gown sat in a chair, her arms full of a bundled, quiet infant swathed in pale, trailing silks. A small hand lay tucked against her chest while she crooned softly to the babe. The nurse lifted a fold of silk, and William gazed down at Scotland's queen.

Her face was lovely, peaceful, eyelids closed, full lower lip moving slightly as she dreamed. Pale golden-red curls covered her head, and her skin was delicate and translucent.

"I have scant knowledge of infants, other than the one who dominates my own household," he murmured. "But I know enough to judge a confection of a creature in this small queen."

"Merci,"
Marie of Guise murmured, and continued in French. "She has been fitful. The first teeth cause her discomfort."

"Ah." He went on in French without effort. "Katharine has had the same trouble. My mother gives her a remedy for pain."

"Oui?
What remedy does she use?"

"I do not know, Madame. I will have her send the recipe if you like. It does provide us some peace." He smiled.

The queen dowager dismissed the nurse with orders to set the queen in her cradle in the adjoining chamber. The girl carried the sleeping infant through an open door, closing it behind her.

Marie turned, her gown whispering over the floor, and sat in a chair. "Before you leave, you must play a few games of the cards with me. You always give me a challenging game, monsieur."

"Madame, I would gladly play at the cards with you. But you would win all my gold and turn me out with an empty purse."

She tilted her head on her long neck. Her fine brown eyes grew serious. "You and I, we have had our losses," she said after a moment. "But we go on. What choice do we have?"

"Indeed, Madame," he said quietly. He had experienced grievous loss, but Marie of Guise had endured devastation. She had been widowed months ago, and less than two years earlier her two tiny sons had died of illness within days of one another. He could only admire her resolute strength and calm.

"I summoned you here for two reasons," she said in French. "I have had long meetings of late with Malise Hamilton."

Tension grew in him, but he bowed calmly. "I spoke with him myself just yesterday."

"He tells me that he urges you to wed, and soon."

William frowned. "He demands that I provide a suitable mother for his granddaughter. He wants me to wed a woman chosen by him. I have refused."

"He has always regarded you as a son, despite the tragedy you caused. He wants to be forgiving, and is concerned for his granddaughter's welfare."

"Did he tell you that he may take the matter to the civic courts and make a complaint for custody of Katharine?"

"I tried to dissuade him from that. But he wants the best upbringing for the child. If you do not wed soon, he will do what he can to gain
la petite
from you. He is much devoted to your daughter."

"He is devoted to the land that she inherited upon her mother's death. He seeks to control that property. His advocate will undoubtedly name the land in Malise's complaint against me."

"Do you think Malise so cold a man?"

"I do."

She frowned. "He is aware of your enmity toward him."

"Enmity!" He nearly laughed. "Madame, the man had a hand in the murder of my father, and controlled my life according to his wishes until I was a man."