Y
e were clever wi’ Moray’s man,” Matthew Stewart told Annabella afterward. “I wonder if my brother knows how clever ye are.”
“I suspect Angus knows far more about me than ye do, Matthew,” she told him. “After initial caution there was nae reason nae to admit Donal Stewart and his party into the castle. If I hae allowed ye to continue, ye would hae aroused his suspicions.”
“Suspicions? Why would anyone be suspicious of Duin? We hae always lived in peace, disturbing none,” Matthew replied.
“Did ye nae realize that someone learned that the queen sheltered here briefly? They reported this fact to Moray in an effort to curry favor wi’ him. It is obvious that the land is nae secure. Moray must hold his position by might as well as right. Any threat must be investigated.”
“Ye lied to him,” Matthew said.
Annabella laughed. “Only a little bit, and nae so much as to be caught by a stranger. Would ye hae had me tell him the full truth?’Tis true that I prevaricated a wee bit, but Donal Stewart did nae know it. I answered his questions wi’out demurring, and in such a manner as to prove our innocence in any crime that might be charged against Duin. His report to my lord Moray will calm any fears the regent might hae toward us.”
“Perhaps such pure innocence will but arouse Moray’s suspicions further,” Matthew said. “Duin canna be put in danger. Ye hae bairns to consider, and my Aggie is full wi’ our bairn.”
“Duin is nae in danger,” Annabella reassured him. “Angus will be back soon.”
The Earl of Moray had more important matters to concern him than Duin. He listened to his bastard son’s report of his visit and asked, “Did ye believe them?”
“Aye,” Donal Stewart said. “Duin is a very isolated holding. I am nae surprised they did nae know what was happening. And too their earl is of nae importance. Had ye ever heard of him before this rumor was brought to ye, my lord?”
“Aye, actually I did. He was one of Bothwell’s groomsmen when he wed Jean Gordon, but I had nae heard of him until then. His wife, however, is another matter. It was she who defended my sister’s body from harm when that wretch Riccio was disposed of, by flinging herself in front of the queen. That is the kind of loyalty a ruler hopes for but seldom receives,” the Earl of Moray said.
“Only one small matter caused me pause,” Donal Stewart said. “The Earl of Duin was not in his castle, but according to his wife in France settling a family matter. His mam was a Frenchwoman, it seems. The young countess did not demur when I asked her about it, my lord. Even though the history of the Fergusons of Duin is that of a clan avoiding controversy at almost all costs, Scotland is at war wi’ itself now. Was the settling of an estate so important that a man would leave his holding, his wife and bairns, to travel to France in such a time? Not being a man wi’ lands, I cannot say, but I think I might have erred on the side of caution and not traveled right now.”
“So the question becomes, why did the Earl of Duin travel to France?” Moray said.
“It could be for just the purpose told me,” Donal Stewart replied.
“Or it could be something else entirely,” the Earl of Moray said thoughtfully. “It could be for the purpose of treason, of bringing aid of one kind or another to my sister. I must learn the truth of this matter, Donal. Ye hae done well wi’ this matter so far. I will leave it in yer capable hands to discover exactly what is going on. Ye hae my permission to do whatever ye must.”
“And if the earl is caught in treason, my lord?” Donal Stewart asked.
“See that he does not return to Duin. I hae no time for trials and public executions wi’ the Queen’s Men besieging me at every turn,” the Earl of Moray said.
Donal Stewart bowed to his father and departed his presence. He knew the network of spies available to him in France. He would contact them and begin his investigation as quickly as possible. It was likely to come to nothing, but one never knew what one would find.
The Earl of Duin had reached Brittany after a rough voyage that had taken him into the Irish Sea, past the Isle of Man, into St. George’s Channel down the west coast of England, around Land’s End, and across the English Channel to France. He landed at Saint-Pol and, hiring a horse, rode to the estate where his mother had grown up. It was near Saint-Brieuc.
The small château in which she had spent her early years was in a state of sad repair, but he was able to live in it during his stay, cared for by two ancient servants with nowhere else to go. He would remember before he left to pension them off so they would not end their days in abject poverty. He presented his credentials to the village magistrate the day after his arrival. They were accepted, and he was free then to sell the property. To his surprise he found there were two bidders for the Mont de Devereaux lands.
The village magistrate offered to advise him, and Angus accepted.
“The lands are fair enough, and arable,” he noted, “and as they match Monsieur Claude’s lands, I understand his wanting to purchase them. But who is this second bidder? Is he also a local man?”
“
Non
,” the magistrate said. “I do not know who he is, monsieur, but his offer is twice Monsieur Claude’s offer. I should take it, for it is likely you will not receive another offer so fine. What does it matter who he is? I have seen the color of his gold.”
But the laird of Duin was suspicious, and asked to meet with both of his prospective purchasers.
Monsieur Claude was a wealthy merchant. He wanted the Mont de Devereaux lands for his second son and his family. Monsieur Reynaud, however, admitted to seeking to purchase the land for his master.
“What is your master’s name?” the earl asked.
“Why should his name matter to you, my lord? Is the offer not enough? If it is not I am certain I can arrange for my master to increase it to your satisfaction,” Monsieur Reynaud replied sharply.
“I will not sell the lands belonging to my mother’s family to a stranger, no matter the amount,” Angus Ferguson said in a hard voice. “That you are not willing to divulge his name leads me to consider that he seeks the land for a dishonest purpose.”
“Very well, my lord, if you insist upon knowing, the name of the family seeking these lands is de Guise.”
Hearing it, Angus Ferguson grew angry. “
Non!
” he said in a hard voice.
“My lord!” Monsieur Reynaud cried. “You have but to name your price.”
“Do you take me for a greedy fool?” the earl said. “Or perhaps just a fool, that I would sell these lands to the maternal family of Mary Stuart? You do not wish to buy the land. You wish to buy me.
Non!
Never!”
“Monsieur, you have but to carry a single message to your queen.” The agent of the de Guises looked extremely distressed.
“Mary Stuart is in England,” Angus responded. “I am in Scotland. While I am not pleased by the manner in which it was done, Queen Mary has been removed from her position, and her son crowned in her stead. The Fergusons are loyal to the head that wears the crown, monsieur, and the bairn James now wears it. Should the queen be returned one day to her rightful place, then I will be unquestioningly loyal to her. Until then I choose to stay free of the entanglements of politics.
Non!
I most certainly will not carry any messages for the de Guises.”
“She is not so far away that you could not cross the border to deliver my master’s message,” Monsieur Reynaud said. “Or if that were not possible, we could arrange to send a messenger for our correspondence. It is difficult to reach her now, and her family is concerned by this lack of communication. We suspect the English of blocking it.”
Angus Ferguson snorted. “She should not have gone into England. She should have come to France, monsieur, but she did not. Now she is caught in a trap of her own making. A disturbed Scotland fighting a civil war is more to England’s liking than Mary Stuart firmly upon her throne.” He turned to the astounded merchant, who had been listening to every word uttered between the earl and the de Guise family agent. “You may have the Mont de Devereaux lands, Monsieur Claude. Your offer is accepted. When the village magistrate is notified by my bankers in Paris that your monies have been deposited, then he will turn over the deed of ownership to you.”
“Monsieur, I protest!” Monsieur Reynaud said.
“The lands are mine, monsieur, and I have the right to sell to whomever I chose,” the earl said. “Now get you gone back to your masters. Tell them that the Fergusons of Duin are honorable men and cannot be bought. The matter is closed.”
“Thank you, monsieur, thank you!” Monsieur Claude said, shaking the earl’s hand and bowing profusely over and over again.
“Your offer was fair,” the earl replied. “I wish your son and his family many years of happiness as the owners of Mont de Devereaux. I intend pensioning off the two elderly servants still residing in the house, but they seem capable of serving if they choose. You might value their knowledge of the château.”
“Of course! Of course!” Monsieur Claude responded, his plump face wreathed in smiles. Then he hurried off with a final flurry of
merci
s.
The earl noted that Monsieur Reynaud had vanished after being rebuffed that final time. He was relieved to have the man gone, and furious to think that the family of Mary Stuart believed he could be bribed in such an outrageous manner. Speaking with the magistrate that same day, he arranged for the two old servants to receive a pension, and as an afterthought purchased two tiny cottages for them, as the estate cottages would not be available to them now. He signed the papers that, upon deposit of the purchase price, would turn over Mont de Devereaux to Monsieur Claude. Then he paid the magistrate double his fee to make certain all went as he ordered it.
The magistrate smiled toothily at him. “Monsieur is most generous,” he said. “Everything shall be exactly as you have requested.”
“I had not a doubt,” the earl answered, shaking the man’s hand. “You have been most helpful, and I am grateful.”
Early the next morning Angus Ferguson rode back to Saint-Pol, where he purchased the animal he had been riding. He was not of a mind for another long voyage and had decided to follow the French coast north, checking in each port for a vessel bound for Berwick-upon-Tweed. From Berwick he could ride cross-country to Duin. It would be far quicker than retracing his steps by sea or even just sailing from Saint-Pol to Leith, and then riding southwest to his home.
Finally at Calais he found a small merchant vessel that carried raw wool and coal from the north of England. It had just unloaded its cargo a few days earlier and was ready to return home, its belly now filled with wine casks. It would be making stops at several small ports before finally reaching Berwick. Still, it was quicker than he had hoped. At each port the cargo was quickly unloaded, and they were off again on the next tide. It was the end of August when the Earl of Duin finally disembarked in Berwick. Having sold his horse in Calais, he now sought another, and with the purchase made, he set off for Duin, riding over the hills dividing England and Scotland.
After several days the landscape became more and more familiar, until he knew he was riding his own lands. Soon he was smelling the faint sweet scent of the Irish Sea, and then there was Duin below him. He stopped to enjoy the view of it. Matthew wisely had the drawbridge up. Angus Ferguson had carefully avoided several large armed parties of riders in his travels from Berwick. Scotland had obviously not settled itself yet.
He rode down the hillside at a leisurely pace, giving the men-at-arms on the walls time to recognize their master. He knew they had when the drawbridge was lowered.
Pushing his mount into a canter, he crossed the courtyard, brought his animal to a halt, and dismounted.
“Welcome home, my lord!” the stable lad greeted him as he took hold of the horse so he might lead him to the stables.
“Thank ye, lad,” the earl said. Where was Annabella? Certainly someone had gone to fetch her when they recognized him. He strode into the house to the hall, where he found his family gathered, and with them a tall stranger.
“Angus!” Annabella ran to him. “Agree to whatever is asked of ye,” she whispered into his ear, and then kissed him heartily.
“My lord.” The stranger stepped forward as the earl released his wife. “My name is Donal Stewart. I am in the service of the Earl of Moray, who has sent me to Duin. Ye are suspected of treason against His Most High Majesty, James the Sixth.”
Angus Ferguson’s jaw dropped in surprise. “I hae committed nae treason,” he said. “The Fergusons of Duin are peaceable folk, and loyal to their ruler.”
“Ah, and therein lies the problem. Which ruler do ye acknowledge? The royal whore, Mary Stuart, or King James?”
“He who holds Scotland is my king,” the earl said quietly.
“Ye hae been in France,” Donal Stewart said.
“Aye. I went to sell a bit of property I had inherited from my mother’s family,” Angus answered.
“Where in France exactly were ye?” Donal Stewart asked him.
“In Brittany, near Saint-Brieuc, a village called Mont de Devereaux.”
“To whom did ye sell yer property, my lord?” Moray’s man inquired.
“To a well-to-do local merchant, one Monsieur Claude. He wanted it for his second son and his son’s family,” the earl answered. “Why do ye ask?”
“Ye did not sell yer property to an agent of the de Guise family, my lord?”
How the hell had Moray learned of the de Guises’ attempt to subvert his loyalty? Angus wondered. “When I went to France I was told there was but one buyer for my land, Monsieur Claude. But when I met with him and the village magistrate, there was another man, Monsieur Reynaud, in the employ of the de Guise family. He offered me double what the property was worth. In exchange I would carry a message from them to Mary Stuart. I refused. I am nae a traitor, sir.”
“Yet ye came home through England,” Donal Stewart noted.