Shannon Drake - The Queen's Lady

She sensed at that moment that this man was destined to haunt her life. He was impossible to miss, standing beside the queen’s half brother and regent, Lord James Stewart. Mary herself was tall, at five feet and eleven inches, taller than most of the men who served her. James himself was not as tall, but even if he had been taller than the queen, the man by his side would have towered above him in the mist that shrouded the land. The light was thin, but what there was of it gilded his wheat-gold hair, turning him into a golden lord, a warrior knight, akin to the Viking raiders of long ago. He was clad in the colors of his clan, blues and greens and, despite the fashionable raiment of the group assembled to greet the returning queen, he was the man to whom eyes turned.

Lochraven, Gwenyth thought. A Highland holding. Even in Scotland, the Highlanders were considered a race unto themselves. Gwenyth knew Scotland better than her queen, and she knew that a Highland lord could be a dangerous man, for she was from the Highlands herself, and very aware of the fierce power of the clan thanes. Rowan Graham was a man to be watched.

Not that the queen had a reason to fear any man in Scotland. Mary had been asked to return home, but there were things Gwenyth knew that the queen did not. Just a year ago, Protestantism had become the official religion in Scotland, and with fanatical men—persuasive men—such as John Knox preaching in Edinburgh, the queen’s devotion to the Catholic faith could place her in danger. The thought made Gwenyth angry; Mary’s intent was to let people worship as they chose. Surely the same courtesy should be extended to the queen.

“Home. Scotland.” Mary murmured the two words as if trying, in her own mind, to make them synonymous.

Gwenyth was startled from her own thoughts and looked at her sovereign and friend worriedly. She herself was delighted to return home. Unlike many of the queen’s ladies, she had been gone but a short time, only a year. Mary had left her home before the age of six. The Queen of Scotland was far more French than Scottish. When they had left France, Mary had stood at the rail of their ship for a long time, tears in her eyes, repeating, “Adieu, France.”

For a moment Gwenyth felt a surge of resentment on behalf of Scotland. She loved her homeland. There was nothing as beautiful as the rocky coast, with its shades of gray, green and mauve in spring and summer turning to a fantasy of white come winter. And she loved her country’s rugged castles, a match for the steep crags of the landscape. But perhaps she wasn’t being fair to Mary. The queen had been away for a long time. It couldn’t help that the French themselves considered Scotland a land where barbarians still roamed, possessed of nothing that could compare with the sophistication of their own country.

Mary was barely nineteen and a widow. No longer Queen of France but ruler of the country that was her birthright, a country she hardly knew.

The queen smiled at those around her. “We have won through,” she said with forced cheer.

“Yes,” agreed Mary Seton. “Despite all those wretched threats from Elizabeth.”

There had been a certain sense of nervousness when they had sailed, since Queen Elizabeth had not responded to their request for safe passage. Many in France and Scotland had feared that the English queen intended to waylay and capture her cousin. There had been a terrifying moment when they had been stopped on their journey by English ships. However, the English crews had merely saluted, and their vessels, other than those in Mary’s immediate party, had been inspected for pirates. Lord Eglington had been detained, but he had been assured of safe conduct after interrogation. At Tynemouth, Mary’s horses and mules had been confiscated, with promises of a safe return once proper documents were obtained.

“This is quite exciting,” Mary Seton said, indicating the tall Scotsman.

The queen looked out at the shore again, staring at the man in question. “He is not for you,” she said simply.

“Perhaps there are more like him,” Mary Livingstone said lightly.

“There are many like him,” Gwenyth said. They all turned to stare at her, and she flushed. “Scotland is known for birthing some of the finest warriors in the world,” she said, upset with herself for sounding so defensive.

“I vow we will have peace,” Queen Mary said, her gaze still on the shore, then she shivered slightly.

It was not the cold, Gwenyth thought, that caused the shiver. She knew that Mary was thinking that France was a far grander country than Scotland, offering far more comfortable accommodations along with its warmer weather. Much of the known world, and certainly the French themselves, considered the country to be the epitome of art and learning and felt that Scotland had been blessed to be tied to such a great power by marriage. In France, Mary had known the finest of everything. Gwenyth feared that the queen would be disappointed by the amenities her homeland offered.

Cheers went up from the shore, as Mary offered a radiant smile. Despite their early arrival after five days at sea, a good-sized crowd had mustered. “Curiosity,” Mary whispered to Gwenyth, a dry note in her voice.

“They’ve come to honor their queen,” Gwenyth protested.

Mary merely smiled and waved; radiant, she stepped from the ship, to be greeted first by her half brother James and then the milling court around him. The people were shouting joyously. Perhaps they had come out of nothing more than curiosity, but they were impressed now, as well they should be. Mary had never forgotten her Scots tongue; she spoke it fluently, with no trace of an accent. Her voice was clear, and she was not only beautiful—tall, stately and slender—but she moved with an unmistakably regal grace.

Gwenyth stood slightly behind the queen and Lord James. The towering blond man, Lord Rowan, slipped past her, bending to whisper in Lord James’s ear. “It’s time to move on. She’s done well. Let’s not take a chance that the mood will turn.”

When he moved to retreat, Gwenyth caught his eyes and she knew her own were indignant. He wasn’t, however, cowed in the least by her fury; instead was amused. His lips twitched, and Gwenyth felt her anger deepen. Mary of Scotland was a caring queen. True, she was young, and she had grown up in France, but since the death of her young husband—not just the King and her marriage partner, but her dear friend since childhood—Mary had demonstrated a firm grasp of statesmanship. That this man should doubt her in any way was nothing less than infuriating. And, Gwenyth decided, traitorous.

Soon they were all mounted, ready to ride to Holyrood Palace, where they would dine while the queen’s rooms were prepared. Gwenyth sighed softly. This homecoming would be a good thing. The people would continue to rally around Mary. Meanwhile, Gwenyth herself was content simply to revel in the familiarity of the truest home she had ever known. Though the day was a bit foggy, even what some might call dismal, the gray and mauve skies were as much a part of Scotland’s wild beauty as the rugged landscape itself.

“At the least,” one of the young Marys said, “it seems that Mary will be adored and honored here. Even if it isn’t France,” she added sadly.

Gwenyth was dismayed to feel a strange chill as they rode through Leith. There was nothing to cause her such discomfort, she assured herself. People were cheering the queen’s passage with great enthusiasm. She had no reason for uneasiness.

“Why the frown?”

She turned, startled, to see that Rowan Graham had moved up and was riding at her side—and regarding her with amusement.

“I am not frowning,” she said.

“Really? And to think I had imagined you might have the intelligence to worry about the future despite the fanfare.”