The Raven's Wish (41 page)

Ewan grinned and clapped Hugh on the back. "Hugh is anxious to see the queen again. He wonders if she would consider wedding a wild Highlander. She is only two years older than our chief, and in need of a strong husband, I hear."

Hugh blushed. "I did offer her the services of the Frasers in fighting against the Gordons. But I would not presume to woo her. That bold idea lost the Gordons their standing."

Elspeth watched them doubtfully. "She is a queen, with no time for such as us. Why would she grant an audience?"

Alasdair shrugged. "Hob seemed to think she might. Duncan is one of her lawyers, after all."

"You can only try, girl," Kenneth said.

"Try," Hugh said. "We will go with you."

She smiled wanly. "A fine tail of Frasers at my back. How could I refuse? We will go, then. For Duncan."

"For Duncan Macrae," Hugh said softly. The others repeated the same, and they raised their hands, joining them together.

Elspeth laid her hand over theirs. Tears stung her eyes.

* * *

The great hall at Holyroodhouse, richly decorated and filled with pale autumn sunlight, fascinated Elspeth. She had had a good deal of time, that afternoon, to study the panelled and painted ceilings, and the expanses of whitewashed plaster walls hung with elaborate tapestries; she had smoothed her hand carefully over the polished oak furnishings, and had examined the heraldic carvings on the fireplaces and above the doors.

The Frasers had been left alone in the great hall for much of the afternoon. A clerk had come in once, to tell them that the queen was considering their request for an audience, and had directed a servant to bring them wine.

She glanced through the tall windows on one side of the long room, which overlooked a garden. The windows had painted glass installed above iron bars, as if the palace were some elegant prison. To keep a queen in, she wondered, or to protect her?

Looking at the bars, she thought of Duncan in his dark, bleak cell. Sadness wrenched through her and whorled in her gut. Shuddering, she grabbed the back of a chair, needing support.

The vision flashed through her memory: Duncan, his eyes wrapped in a white cloth, his neck bared, a wooden block behind him.

There had to be something that she could do. She waited in this room on the whim of a queen, while Duncan paced the confines of a black cell. As if her prediction had actually created the situation, she felt responsible for his life. She had said it would be so, and in another day the awful scene would unfold. At his death, she would feel as if she had lifted the axe herself.

Bethoc had told her once that fate could not be changed, and that seers were shown what God had already decided. She shook her head as if in protest. Why had she seen this moment from Duncan's life, if not to affect a change? What good did warning him do, if the outcome could not be altered?

In the past, she had not spoken of her death-visions, believing that the knowledge would only be distressing to others. But withheld warnings might be withheld blessings, lost chances to save those who faced coming tragedy. When she had seen that dreadful vision of Duncan, she had felt a strong urge to warn him—perhaps an attempt to make up for earlier silences.

The time for warning Duncan was past. But she would not surrender to fate yet; she could not be like Bethoc, accepting without question. She had always been willful; now she would use that willfulness to act. She would ask a queen for her husband's life. Failing that, she would find another alternative, and yet another, until the moment the axe was lifted. And if she must, she would hold back that blow with her own strength.

She squeezed her eyes shut, praying that Duncan would be freed. Suddenly the image of the small boy on the mountainside came to her, and she placed her hand protectively over her flat abdomen. She tried, then, to see beyond the child; she willed Duncan to be there too, climbing up the mountain with his son.

Nothing more appeared to her. She rubbed a hand over her eyes, sent up another silent, desperate prayer, and turned at the sound of her cousins' voices raised at the far end of the room. They were looking out one of the windows.

"Look here, girl," Kenneth called. She crossed the length of the room. They were gazing out at the neatly designed garden, a maze of hedges and flower beds and fruit trees. A few people moved about in one corner, ladies in elegant black dresses and two men, cloaked and gowned like officials.

"There," Hugh said. "That one there is Queen Mary Stewart."

"Where?" Elspeth asked, curious. She stood on her toes and leaned forward. Hugh pointed toward a slender young woman, taller than the other ladies, wearing a black gown with shimmering folds, and a little cap and long veil of white lace. The queen laughed and clapped her hands, leaning back, her long lithe body graceful and animated. Her hair glinted red-gold, a little darker than Elspeth's own hair, beneath the cap.

"She is just a girl," Elspeth said.

"And a beauty," Hugh said. Callum and Kenneth chuckled, and Hugh turned to frown at them. "And she is our queen."

"And you would do anything for her, lad," Ewan teased.

"I would," Hugh said. "I will always be a queen's man."

"She is lovely, Hugh," Elspeth said. "And I pray that we will be allowed to meet with her."

Hugh nodded and looked out. "They are going inside now. Perhaps she will summon us soon."

Another half hour passed. Then a door opened at the far end of the room. The Frasers jumped at the light sound.

The same clerk entered the room and stood several paces away. "Her Grace will see you," he said, as Hugh translated the words. "Come this way."

They followed him through corridors, up a turnpike stair, and down another corridor. Finally they were led into a small room, brightly lit by tall glassed windows, its panelled walls hung with tapestries. Two men stood near the doorway, one with a long red beard, both dressed in black robes and bonnets, both middle-aged and of fearsome expression and appearance. They stared at the plaided Highlanders with barely disguised disdain. In a corner, two ladies sat, with black gowns and delicate lace caps, staring silently as the Frasers crossed the room.

A wooden dais supported a high, elaborately made chair. Tall and graceful, her black skirts spread wide, the queen rested her long-fingered hands in her lap. Sunlight spilled gently over her, glinting gold over her reddish hair, highlighting her perfect, translucent skin. Stiff white lace at her throat, and framing her high forehead, gave her complexion a warm glow. Her eyes, keenly intelligent, were a clear, sparkling brown.

She inclined her head, and the Frasers knelt. When her cousins stood, Elspeth straightened with them, blushing. She felt embarrassed by her wrapped plaid and linen shirt, by her deerskin boots and single thick braid. She had never longed for silks and laces before, but now, in the presence of this elegant, beautiful creature, she felt clumsy and plain. The other strangers in the room, the ladies and the men, seemed to fade; Elspeth saw only the young queen.

Mary Stewart looked at her and smiled. Then she turned to Hugh and greeted him in Scots. Her voice was light and sweet, and the warm tone that told Elspeth that the queen remembered Hugh Fraser with some affection. A rosy tint stained Hugh's cheeks as they spoke.

Hugh knelt again and spoke for several moments. Mary Stewart listened, then nodded and glanced at Elspeth. She asked a question. Hugh shook his head and spoke again, and Elspeth heard Duncan's name. The queen nodded, and turned to Elspeth, motioning her forward. Ewan, Kenneth and Callum flanked her as she advanced to the dais to kneel there.

Hugh spoke again, his soft voice strong and decisive. Mary Stewart answered him at length. Then Hugh turned to Elspeth.

"The queen wants you to know that she understands how deeply frightened you must be for your husband. She says that she does not know the details of the case, and would not gainsay the Privy Council until she learns more. She knows Duncan Macrae, and was surprised to hear of his conviction on such charges. Pledges are not usually treated in such a manner until all else has been tried. She promises to inquire into it, and would prefer to talk to her half-brother James Stewart. One of these two gentlemen here," he nodded toward the black-robed men standing on the other side of the room, "is a member of the Privy Council. He is not happy to see us here. The queen has given us some protection by agreeing to see us. But an inquiry is all she can do for now."

Elspeth turned to the queen and nodded. "Tell the queen that I wish to offer myself as a pledge in my husband's place."

Hugh stared at her, and shook his head. "Tell her," Elspeth insisted. "I will be the pledge."

He sighed and spoke in Scots. Queen Mary looked sharply at Elspeth, and spoke again.

"Her Grace the Queen apologizes for her lack of Gaelic, and wants to know if you speak French or Latin," Hugh said.

"I have some Latin, for my uncle taught all the Glenran cousins to read the words of the Church," she said. She turned to the queen and bowed her head. "
Salve Regina.
"

"Good," the queen replied in Latin. "We may speak directly. I cannot sign a remit of execution without good reason, if the Council has condemned your spouse."

"Your Grace, I believe my husband is innocent," Elspeth said, her Latin phrasing awkward but understandable. "I offer my life for his. I beg you to tell the Council that I will be the Frasers' pledge for their good behavior under the bond."

"And if the Council transfers his death sentence to you?" the queen asked. "Will Duncan Macrae then ask for your pardon?"

"I believe that the Council will not take my life, your Grace," Elspeth said. "I am with child."

Behind her, she heard her cousins gasp; their Latin was at least as good as hers. Mary Stewart nodded, and her hands, so exquisitely graceful, folded and refolded in her lap.

"I cannot promise to save your husband. But I know that he is a fine man, and I will do what I can," the queen said. "I admire your courage, Elspeth Fraser."

Elspeth looked at Mary Stewart, and a shiver passed through her. An image flashed, an impression only. "Your Grace has great courage," she said. "Far more than I will ever have."

The young queen smiled. Elspeth saw a fleeting sadness in the clear depths of her eyes. "Come back tomorrow," she said.

* * *

The dungeon of Edinburgh Castle was thoroughly encased in rock, but Duncan imagined that he heard the hammers of the carpenters in the town building his scaffold. The beam of light from the tiny opening in the wall showed him that there was still some daylight. Time enough to finish the platform before dark.

He assumed that they would set the thing up in the square in front of St. Giles' Church. He had attended a few executions there, one by the axe, one by hanging, and another which employed the Maiden, a grisly and efficient device that had sent a heavy steel blade swooping down a framework to remove the head of one recalcitrant papist.

He wondered which would befall him, tomorrow morning.

He rubbed his hand absently across the back of his neck, and stopped. Then he slammed his fist into the wall. The pain gave him a momentary outlet for his frustration and misery.

Hob had come with the news that the Council had sent down the warrant for his execution. The time was set for tomorrow at mid-morning. And Hob had said that no word had come back yet from Moray or Maitland. Duncan had penned new messages with paper and quill brought by Hob, and he had given Hob gold coins enough to hire men and fast horses to deliver the letters as quickly as possible.

Hours had passed since Hob had taken those missives out, precious hours that meant life or death for Duncan. He had paced in this black pit, virtually willing the letters to reach their destinations. If either Moray or Maitland heard of his dilemma, they would act on his behalf. He was certain of it.

The proceedings at his trial had not been entirely legal, and he knew that the Council had decided to make a quick and severe example of him, taking advantage of Moray and Maitland's absence to do so. Robert had presented false evidence, letters written to English officials regarding Scottish matters, signed with Duncan's name. Those papers were forgeries. He had never had dealings, legal or otherwise, with the English. Those lies, together with his status as a pledge under a broken bond, had brought about the death sentence for him.

Moray and Maitland would know his innocence; the cases he had handled had come directly from them. The other members of the Privy Council were unfamiliar with the cases that Duncan had been concerned with these past few years, outside of the charges against the Gordons.

He thrust his fingers through his hair and sighed loudly. Overturning the empty water bucket, he sat down. The coins Elspeth had left had enabled him to bribe another guard, when Hob had been off-duty, to bring in extra water. He had drunk his fill and then washed as best he could with the rest. Washing after all this time, even without soap, had been a simple but immensely pleasurable experience. At least he would not go to a public execution as a complete wretch. He had some dignity left.

He frowned again, and considered his last recourse. He had tried to convince Hob to take the rest of the cache of gold that Elspeth had brought, and escape with him to France; so far Hob Kerr, though a loyal cousin, had resisted. But the French were highly sympathetic to the Scots, and Duncan could send for Elspeth later. When Hob returned, they would discuss it again.

For now, he had several matters to occupy his mind. He wanted to know why Robert had set him up for this severe sentence, and he needed to find a quick and plausible solution to his predicament. He did not want to die; every fiber of his being resisted that. There had to be a way out.

But when Hob had told him that the death sentence had been finally scheduled, Duncan had realized that Elspeth's vision, those months ago in a Highland stream, had been accurate.

How could she have known? He had gone over and over it in his mind from every possible angle. Every explanation, even the most ridiculous, had occurred to him. He had come down to two final conclusions: destiny existed, and so did the Sight.