“
I would like to see Rob,” she said
in an uncertain voice. “We haven’t heard from him since he left for
England.”
“
Correspondence is guarded most
closely,” James said, looking both hopeful and forlorn. “Truly, I
wouldn’t let you go if I didn’t think you’d return soon. We haven’t
yet had an opportunity to discuss religion. Perhaps you could
remain here this afternoon. The Master of Gray is coming, and the
three of us could discourse. He knows a great deal about Catholics
and Protestants, having been both.”
“
On several different occasions,”
murmured Sorcha through the remaining piece of orange. But the last
person she wished to discuss religion—or anything else—with was
Patrick Gray. At least in England she wouldn’t have to face him or
Moray. “Let me think about it,” she finally said, giving Jamie’s
arm a pat. “In fact, I shall go to my rooms and make up my mind
now.”
“
Ah, good lass!” Jamie rocked on his
heels in relief. “I’d be so grateful. You have no idea how hard it
is for me to keep refusing my mother’s requests. No matter how
sorely she tries my patience, I still endeavor to be a dutiful son.
And depend upon it, when you return, a rich and handsome husband
will be yours!”
Again, Sorcha had to mask her expression. She had no
illusions about Jamie’s efforts to find her a suitor. As for his
avowal of filial devotion, Sorcha was unconvinced.
Her opinion was echoed by Dallas. Though she rarely
defended Mary Stuart, Dallas listened to Sorcha speak of the King’s
request with a set face. “He seems to have conveniently laid the
burden of his mother upon our family,” Dallas noted with asperity.
“Surely you will refuse?”
“
Can I?” Sorcha asked, thinking it
would be much easier if Dallas had agreed to the King’s proposal
outright.
Dallas resumed plucking her eyebrows in front of a
handsome mirror embellished with chunky cherubs. “You wouldn’t
refuse outright. You’d think of six good reasons why it was
impossible as well as detrimental to the King.”
“
At least,” remarked Rosmairi, who
had been sketching by the window that overlooked Arthur’s Seat,
“we’d find out if Rob is dead or alive.”
“
Of course he’s alive,” Dallas shot
back, and pinched herself with the tweezers. “Fie, I almost drew
blood!” She turned away from the mirror to face her daughters. “Rob
couldn’t be in any real danger, could he? Surely he and Napier have
been cautious about their mission?” She saw Sorcha turn away at the
mention of Napier’s name. “Oh, by heaven, I didn’t think …
Sorcha, do you truly
want
to go to England?”
Rosmairi threw Sorcha a sharp glance. Only the
previous evening Sorcha had confided her feelings about Gavin
Napier. “I think,” said Sorcha with conviction, “there are many
reasons why I should go. Mostly, I want to leave the court.”
Dallas settled her little chin on her fist. “Yes, and
so you should, all things considered. Though Chartley may present
as many … complications as life does for you here.”
Slipping down from the window seat, Rosmairi
confronted both Sorcha and Dallas. “You head for terrible
temptation. Will you resist or succumb?” Rosmairi’s gray eyes
glittered with challenge.
Sorcha exchanged pained expressions with her mother.
“Fie,” Dallas breathed, getting up and going to a cupboard where
she took out a bottle of wine and three goblets.
“
As if there were none here?” Sorcha
countered.
“
How could you love that priest?”
Rosmairi cried, waving a hand as if to fan herself. In truth, it
was cool for late May, with heavy dark clouds hovering on the
horizon and a damp feel to the spring air.
“
So?” snapped Sorcha. “Aren’t you
pleased that my heart’s desire is as unattainable as your own?”
Sorcha stared boldly at her sister. “You might have better luck
capturing Jamie Stewart than George Gordon.”
Rosmairi tossed her long, red-gold braids. “I might.
Jamie is fond of me. He calls me his ‘Primrose.’ ”
“
Primula vulgaris
,” Sorcha
snorted. “The scientific name, as I recall.”
“
You’re vexed because Jamie finds me
good company,” accused Rosmairi, now standing almost toe-to-toe
with Sorcha. “You thought you had him all to yourself, the first
lassie he’d ever noticed! And now you’re chasing after a priest! At
least I set my sights on eligible gentlemen!”
Sorcha’s eyes narrowed. “Jamie would rather sleep
with Patrick Gray than he would with you! In fact, he’d probably
rather sleep with his spaniel, Morton!”
Juggling goblets and a wine bottle, Dallas tried to
interject herself between the two quarreling girls. “Children!
Hush! You’re giving me a headache! Have some wine. And sweets.
We’ve at least half a stone of marchpane on the sideboard.”
“
I hate marchpane,” Rosmairi
asserted. “Father is the only one in the family who likes
it.”
“
It
is
a great favorite of
his,” Dallas allowed, all but forcing a goblet into each of her
daughter’s hands. “Now please calm down. Neither of you has any
right to chastise the other, since you both seem exceedingly dim
when it comes to falling in love.”
Sorcha let her mother fill the wine goblet with a
deep burgundy. “I fail to see where intellect plays any part in
love. It seems to me it just happens.”
Dallas poured wine for Rosmairi, and then for
herself. “Alas, there’s truth in what you say. But the trick to
which we can put our brains is to blot out love when it’s
impossible.”
“
And how is that managed?” Rosmairi
demanded, taking a sip from her goblet with an unusually reckless
air.
Dallas looked blank. “It isn’t easy. Perhaps,” she
said slowly, both hands wrapped around the stem of her goblet,
“it’s the art of forgetting. With love that cannot be, memory—or
the lack of it—is the greatest ally.” Her pleading brown eyes
turned to Sorcha. “That’s why I don’t want you to go to Chartley.
When you are with Gavin Napier, there will be no way you can
forget. I’ve seen that man, Sorcha, and I know he will break your
heart.”
I
n the end Dallas gave in.
She had no wish to force her daughter into remaining at court and
facing either the Master or Moray. To further console herself,
Dallas reasoned that Napier’s priestly vows would protect Sorcha
from any harm to her virtue. Dallas, however, remained uneasy,
though she realized that Sorcha had to learn about life on her
own.
King Jamie was elated with Sorcha’s decision. A
passport had been produced almost at once. So it was, that in the
last week of June, Sorcha, Ailis, several retainers, and Gillis
Mowbray left Edinburgh.
Gillis was small and dark, with a rabbitlike face
that was pretty only when she smiled. Fortunately, she did so
often, though usually in a tremulous, nervous manner. Sorcha tried
to put Gillis at ease during the journey, but failed. For every
note of optimism Sorcha struck, Gillis could conjure up two omens
of doom. On the fifth and final day out, Sorcha attempted to enlist
Ailis’s aid to lighten the pall of pessimism that hung over the
little party. But the dour Ailis was almost as gloomy as Gillis,
and Sorcha mentally referred to them as the Un-Lissome Lasses.
Sorcha was sorely in need of humor by the first day
of July as they rode into Staffordshire under sunny skies. Her
relief at leaving the court behind had sustained her through the
first two days. Yet, as she drew closer to Chartley, Sorcha became
apprehensive. Rob, no doubt, would be delighted to see her. But
Gavin Napier, whom she had thought never to meet again, was a
different matter. Sorcha desperately tried to armor herself against
her chaotic emotions.
They reached Chartley late in the afternoon, a hot
and tired group, expressing pleasure at the great house that stood
on a hill overlooking a fertile green plain. The surrounding
countryside was lush with the promise of summer. For the first time
since crossing the border, Sorcha paused to appreciate the gentle,
orderly beauty of England. All her life, that country had been the
Enemy, the source of so many Scottish woes. She had imagined it as
formidably foreign, even dangerous. But after they left the
turbulent Borders where men had quarreled and pillaged and murdered
for centuries, the land had taken on a less menacing aura. Now, at
the entrance to Chartley, Sorcha took in the prosperous, beautiful
earth that had nurtured Scotland’s ancient foe.
“
Somehow I thought we’d be
surrounded by dark woods and jagged hills,” Sorcha said, leaning in
the saddle toward Ailis. “Chartley doesn’t look at all like a
prison.”
“
Maybe not,” replied Ailis, “but the
number of guards indicates otherwise.” She gestured toward several
soldiers who stood stiffly at the gates. They wore Tudor-green, and
for the first time, Sorcha saw the badge of Queen
Elizabeth.
A long discussion ensued between one of the guards
and Gillis Mowbray’s serving man. The Scottish retainers could not
be admitted to Chartley, even for rest and refreshment. Woefully,
Gillis paid them off as they were directed to the nearest inn. In
the morning, they would return to Scotland.
As the gates finally swung open, the three women were
met by a somberly dressed man of middle years, with a trim mustache
and beard setting off a tight, prim mouth. He bowed stiffly, the
black feather on his bonnet dipping low. “I am Sir Amyas Paulet,”
he intoned in a surprisingly deep voice. “I am told you have come
to wait upon the Scottish king’s mother.” His gaze was imprecise,
as if not focusing on the young women would make them cease to
exist.
“
If,” replied Sorcha, perspiring
freely under her deep blue riding habit, “you speak of Queen Mary
of Scotland, you’re correct, sir.”
Paulet’s colorless eyes flicked over Sorcha with
distaste. “We have no queen in residence here, only a vexatious
Papist woman who plots against the English throne.”
At one side, Gillis twittered anxiously, and on the
other, Ailis’s mouth formed into a tight line that almost matched
Paulet’s. Sorcha considered the grim reality of their situation—too
much cheekiness might provoke Paulet to refuse them admission to
Chartley. Fleetingly, she wondered where Rob and Father Napier
were. If Paulet had been notified of her arrival, they probably
knew, too.
“
We are here to attend Mary Stuart,”
Sorcha said in what she hoped was an amiable voice. “I am Sorcha
Fraser, daughter of Iain Fraser of Beauly. This is Gillis Mowbray,
whose sister, Barbara, has been in service here. And,” she added,
motioning at the grim-faced Ailis, “this is my attendant, Ailis
Frizell.”
“
An attendant for an attendant?”
Paulet’s face puckered with disapproval. “I was not told of a third
person.”
“
An oversight,” Sorcha commented
blithely. “Ailis is extremely capable and can do the work of a half
dozen other women.” It was true enough, and Sorcha hoped her appeal
to Paulet’s reputed penchant for economy would sway him. Ailis,
however, was glaring indignantly at Sorcha from under her thick
brows. In the months that she had served Sorcha, Ailis had acted
more as secretary and companion than as maid or servant.
“
I don’t endorse having any of you
join the household, if I may speak bluntly.” Paulet tried hard not
to squint into the late afternoon sun, which made his face seem
more pinched and priggish than ever. “But I have received orders,
and in this instance, I’ll relent.” He gestured to the guards to
let the women pass. “You will, of course, be searched.”
Sorcha turned in the saddle so quickly that her
riding hat almost fell off. “Surely you jest, sir! We aren’t
English citizens, but answer only to the Scottish crown!”
Paulet stood rigidly in place. “Please proceed
inside.”
For the moment, that seemed like a reasonable
suggestion. Sorcha was relieved to be out of the warm sun. As
servants led their horses away, she walked briskly into the
entrance hall, noting the fine workmanship and handsome
appointments. The young Earl of Essex’s country home, she’d been
told, and decided that he must have inherited great wealth.
“
Is My Lord of Essex in residence?”
Sorcha inquired with an air of dignity.
“
He is in the Low Countries, in the
service of Her Majesty the Queen.” Paulet scarcely moved his head
but motioned to a trio of drab matrons who seemed to have
materialized from nowhere. Though one was tall and gaunt, another
short and birdlike, and the third of middle height and stocky,
there was a sameness about them that made Sorcha think of crows
sitting in a row on a stile. “These gentlewomen will take you to
your chambers,” Paulet announced before making a stiff bow and
withdrawing from the entrance hall.
With dogged step, the tall woman led them to a
stairway that wound up to the next story. An airy, intimate gallery
connected the two wings. The newcomers’ rooms were at the far end
of the west wing. Once inside, the three matrons stood by the door,
with arms folded across their bosoms.
Sorcha took off her riding hat and unpinned her hair
before she spoke to the women. “We’ll have lamb, with some of those
excellent fresh vegetables we saw growing nearby. Spring potatoes,
with parsley, and bread. You generally drink beer, I’m told. We’ll
have some of that. And trifle for dessert.” She turned her back as
if to dismiss the matrons.
“
Supper isn’t served for another
three hours,” the stocky woman replied in a nasal, English accent.
“Tonight, it’s sparrow pie. Now we must conduct our
search.”