Bond of Passion (2 page)

T
he Earl of Duin was the most powerful and the most feared man in the western borders. His power stemmed from his vast and seemingly unending wealth. The fear was born of the belief that the Fergusons of Duin descended from a race of sorcerers. Angus Ferguson did little to dissuade that conviction. His family was barely known beyond the scope of their lands, which suited the earl quite well. Great wealth had a tendency to attract envy, and envy invited trouble.

At the age of sixteen Angus Ferguson had inherited Duin from his father. His mother had died several years prior. He had two legitimate siblings: a brother, James, and a sister, Mary. Both had sought lives in the Church. James actually had a calling. Angus saw him frequently and was proud to see him slowly working his way up the ladder of the Church hierarchy.

Mary, however, had chosen to enter a cloistered convent. The dark reputation of their family weighed heavily upon her. They had never been able to convince her that the blood of their few ancestors known to have practiced magical arts was practically nonexistent in their veins now. Mary Ferguson felt it necessary for her family’s sake to expiate those supposed sins of long ago. He saw her rarely.

At the age of eighteen Angus Ferguson had seen an opportunity to advance his family, and he had taken it. King James V had been defeated by the English forces in the Battle of Solway Moss four years earlier. It but echoed the time some thirty years prior when James’s own father had been killed fighting the English, and he had come to the throne a boy ruler. His two sons were now dead, and learning that his wife had delivered a daughter instead of the hoped-for male heir, James V fell into a deep depression, saying, “It cam wi’ a lass, and ’twill go wi’ a lass.” Then, turning his face to the wall, he spoke no more and died shortly afterward.

His French queen, Marie de Guise, was furious at what she deemed her husband’s selfishness. A clever and personable woman, she had over the years of her marriage made the right allies from among the contentious Scots nobility, and she had Cardinal David Beaton on her side. She was popular with her subjects, and was able to protect her infant from those who wanted to control the little queen, and betroth her to King Henry VIII’s young son, Prince Edward. The English king hoped that with Mary as his son’s wife, and the baby in his custody, he would be able to annex Scotland to England.

Marie de Guise did not want an English marriage for her daughter. She wanted a French marriage. To that end and after much negotiation the little queen was to be sent to France and betrothed to the French dauphin Francis. This would make Mary queen of both France and Scotland one day. Mary of Scotland’s safety was better guaranteed in France being raised with Francis. The French king, Henri II, agreed.

It was at that point that Angus Ferguson saw his opportunity, and sought an audience with the dowager queen Marie. Riding north to Stirling in early March, he had the guarantee of a private audience with Marie from Patrick Hepburn, the third Earl of Bothwell, who had interceded with the dowager for him. He was to meet his contact, who would take him to the queen at an inn near Stirling called the Swan. When he entered the inn the innkeeper came forward to greet his guest.

“Welcome, my lord. A room? A meal? A mug of fine ale?”

“I’m to meet someone,” Angus Ferguson said, his dark green eyes scanning the room. “Someone from the castle,” he explained further, hoping the innkeeper would understand and be able to direct him.

“Ah, ye’ll be wanting Mistress Melly, my lord,” the innkeeper replied.

“Who is she?” the laird asked the innkeeper.

“One of French Mary’s personal servants,” the innkeeper said. He pointed to a hooded figure seated in a dark corner. “She’s there, my lord.”

The laird nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and made his way across the room to where the woman sat. “I am the laird of Duin,” he told her. “I believe you have been sent to bring me to my appointment, mistress.”

The woman stood. She was small and sturdy. He couldn’t tell whether she was young or old, but two sharp eyes surveyed him. “Well,” she said in dour tones, “ye dinna look like a worthless rogue. Come along, then. We’ve a way to go.”

“On foot?” He was surprised.

“Aye. Leave yer beastie here, my lord.” She pulled her hood up and her cape tightly about her. Then she hurried across the room and out the door, the laird in her wake.

Mistress Melly led Angus Ferguson down one street, and then another. She turned here, and turned again. He wondered whether he would ever find his way back to the Swan. Above the town the great castle on its massive rock loomed. It was obvious they were not going up to it. Finally they stopped before a house. The woman knocked and they were admitted. “Here he is,” Mistress Melly said to the young page who had opened the door.

“If ye’ll follow me, my lord,” the lad said, leading him down a hallway and to a closed door. Knocking, he opened the door to usher the laird inside.

Marie de Guise was standing, awaiting him. The laird of Duin bowed gracefully, and she was surprised. He was not at all like any border lord she had met previously, even her dearest Patrick Hepburn. They were mostly rough-hewn men in plain practical garments. This man was not only extraordinarily handsome, he was very fashionably garbed, his clothing styled in the latest French fashion. He towered over her, being at least three inches over six feet in height. He was clean shaven, his short hair black as a moonless night, his eyes the changing green of a shadowed forest glade. His carriage attested to his youth, but his face with its high cheekbones, long straight nose, and generous mouth was ageless.

He now took up her hand, kissing it with just the proper amount of respect. “I am honored to greet Scotland’s dowager queen Marie, of the great house of Guise.” He addressed her in perfect French.

Both Marie de Guise and her companion, a young French priest who served in her household, were surprised. “Your speech, monsieur, is excellent. How is it you speak my mother tongue so well?” she inquired of him.

“My own mother was French, madam, from Brittany, and I had the good fortune to study in France briefly with my friend Jamie Hepburn. I have several languages at my command.”

She nodded. Aye, she thought to herself, he was totally unlike any border lord she had ever met, being fashionable, mannerly, and educated. “How may I be of service to you, my lord of Duin?” she asked him, switching to Scots English. She sat down in a high-backed chair now, the priest by her side, the page having silently disappeared.

“Nay, madam, ’tis I who would be of service to ye. It is not often that I admit to it, though it is widely suspected by my neighbors, but I am a wealthy man. Despite my youth I am aware that wealth is useless unless ye can use it to yer own advantage. Ye will, of course, be sending Queen Mary to France shortly.”

Marie de Guise grew pale. “That is not common knowledge,” she said. “Where have you heard such a tale?”

“It is what I would do were I in your position, madam,” Angus Ferguson said, ignoring her question and smiling at her. “The little queen must be protected at all costs, and the English will not stop until they have her. If she is gone from Scotland to France, they must cease their efforts to obtain her, and hopefully their destruction of the borders. Forgive me for being blunt, madam, but I suspect yer purse is not as full as you might want it to be. I realize yer brothers in France will see to the little queen’s best interests, but I imagine they will be relieved not to have to bear the expense of their niece’s household and personal needs. King Henri as well, and while gifts from these gentlemen would be graciously accepted, wouldn’t ye prefer not to have to rely on those gentlemen entirely?

“I am prepared to open my purse to the end that my queen might be maintained in the manner a queen should be maintained. My bankers in Paris, the House of Kira, will see that all of the queen’s expenses are paid promptly, quarterly, until the day she weds the dauphin. This would, of course, include her wedding finery and trousseau. I ask only that my part in this endeavor remain secret. The Fergusons of Duin are private people,” the laird said. “I do not wish to bring any attention to myself or to my clan.”

Marie de Guise was at first speechless at the laird’s offer. Then, quickly recovering, she inquired of him shrewdly, “What is it you do wish then, my lord? Your offer is more than generous, but you speak to me like a Breton fisherman bargaining with a goodwife on the quay, Angus Ferguson. What will you have of me in return?”

A brief flash of humor lit his handsome face, but it was quickly gone. “I want Duin created an earldom,” he answered her candidly.

“You ask a great deal of Her Highness,” the priest sputtered, outraged for his lady.

Marie de Guise, however, laughed, for she completely understood what the young man standing before her was requesting. “Nay,
Père
Michel, the laird requests virtually nothing of me. He does not wants lands, for he has them. Nor does he seek high office, for he prefers his anonymity. Gold he has in abundance, else he should not offer what he has. What he wishes is a title he may pass on to his heirs and the descendants following them. ’Tis nothing more than a piece of paper and a seal.”

She looked at Angus Ferguson. “This will cost you dearly, my lord. Maintaining a queen, even a little one, and her entire household does not come cheaply. Remember that my daughter will reign over two great countries. She must be kept in a manner befitting her high station,” Marie de Guise said quietly.

“And she will,” the laird promised. “She will be sustained royally. Let the French king and the powerful among the Scots lords accept credit for all of this. If you will allow me this great honor, madam, I will gladly accept it. All I ask in return is that Duin be created as an earldom in perpetuity.” He paused. “And perhaps yer permission to build a castle, a small castle, of course.”

The dowager queen’s eyes twinkled. “Why is it that I suspect, my lord, that the castle, the little castle, already exists?”

He shrugged in very Gallic fashion and smiled. “’Tis naught but a rather large house,” he explained, “though some might say otherwise, which is why I ask yer permission to have a castle. I cannot therefore be said to be in violation of the law. We Fergusons of Duin do not like drawing attention to ourselves.”

“Yet will not your becoming the Earl of Duin raise questions among some?” the dowager queen asked him.

“Not if it is believed that ye wished to balance the power in the west away from certain other families, and raised the Fergusons up with that in mind,” he answered her cleverly. “There are some who have taken yer favor and misused it, yet ye are still kind.”

They both knew he spoke of Patrick Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, who had gained this interview for Angus Ferguson. Though it was known that the
fair
earl, as he was called, loved James V’s widowed queen, he was not always loyal to her or to Scotland. Still, he was a very fascinating man, and Marie de Guise had a weakness for him. She had never, however, allowed that weakness to rule her judgment or common sense.

Her mind turned back to the matter at hand. “You are very clever, my lord of Duin,” she told Angus Ferguson. “Aye, it will please many if they think I am attempting to dull the Hepburn influence in the west. And your offer to maintain my daughter, the queen, until she is wed is incredibly generous. It is more than worth an earldom. But remember that she is only five years old. It will be at least ten years before my Mary and Francis wed. Scotland’s purse is not a heavy one. Your offer is a gift from God, and his blessed Mother for whom my daughter is named, is it not,
Père
Michel?” Marie de Guise’s practical French nature was rearing itself now. “Who can verify your wealth for me, my lord? I mean no offense, but this is a serious matter we have discussed.”

“The House of Kira, madam. They have people here in Stirling and in Edinburgh, Perth, and Aberdeen,” the laird said.

“Send someone to inquire discreetly,” Marie de Guise directed the priest. Then she turned again to Angus Ferguson. “I will accept your offer, my lord. If your worth is proven and I am assured by the Kiras of your ability to do what you say you will do, then the parchments declaring your new earldom will be sent to Duin, and word of it cried throughout the borders. When that is done you will direct your bankers in what they must do, according to our agreement. Will that suit you, my lord?”

“The parchments must have the queen’s own seal as well as yers upon them,” the laird said to her. “And the proclamation posted on the Mercat Cross in Edinburgh.”

“Rest assured that they will, and it will be official,” she promised him. Then Marie de Guise stood and held out her hand to him again.

Stepping forward, he took the hand and kissed it, understanding that he was now dismissed. “I will pray for the queen’s safe journey,” he told Marie de Guise. Then he backed from the room, closing the door behind him.