“
Now!” hissed Sorcha, wheeling
Thisbe around and rapidly spurring her to a gallop.
Rob sat as if paralyzed, then followed his sister,
their mounts plunging through the heather, voices shouting out to
them on the clear summer air. Sorcha’s plum-colored riding hat blew
off, her skirts whipped at her legs, and Thisbe broke into a sweat.
Rob and his horse were right behind, but three riders were in close
pursuit. Daring a backward glance, Sorcha saw that one of them was
Gavin Napier.
Seconds later, Sorcha heard the scream of horses and
the thudding of bodies. Curses rent the air, then Napier’s cry
resounded like summer thunder: “Don’t stop! Ride on!”
Against her will, Sorcha obeyed. But again she looked
over her shoulder, glimpsing a frenzy of activity among the purple
heather. Two of the horses and all three men were down, though one
of the riders appeared to be very still. Sorcha couldn’t be
certain, but she thought the third man and Napier were grappling on
the ground.
Sorcha had no idea how long or how far they rode. At
last they came to a copse and slowed their horses to a walk. “God’s
teeth,” gasped Sorcha, as winded as Thisbe, “I can’t guess what’s
happening. Or perhaps I can,” she added, taking several deep
gulping breaths and turning to Rob, whose face dripped with
perspiration. “All I know is that you must head for Scotland.”
“
I can’t!” Rob slapped angrily at
the stray lock of red hair. “I can’t desert Her Grace! Not
now!”
Sorcha reined up Thisbe, wishing there were a stream
or pond nearby. The sunlight filtered through the beech trees,
dappling the mare’s sweaty flanks. “Don’t be a fool, Rob.” Sorcha
tried to keep the fear from her voice. “It’s not just you I’m
thinking of—it’s all of our family. What will King Jamie do if he
learns you’ve plotted to free his mother?”
Rob’s mouth was set in a stubborn line. “He’s a
heretic usurper. Queen Mary is our true sovereign.”
Sorcha shook her head. Secretly, she gauged that
Jamie would do little more to his Fraser kin than wave his hands in
dismay over Rob’s defection. But bending the truth would sit far
more lightly on Sorcha’s conscience than a dead brother. “That
weakling king of ours is under the Master of Gray’s thumb. And Gray
hates me.” That much was true. She saw the first flicker of
misgiving on Rob’s flushed, perspiring face. “You know that. Nor do
we have the old Gordon alliance to fall back on. Would you
sacrifice our family for an aged and infirm relic like Mary Stuart?
Our sire would not.”
Rob, still panting, wiped his face with his sleeve.
Sorcha’s cruel words about the Queen rankled, yet he had to
acknowledge his sister’s perspicacity.
“
Sweet Jesu.” Rob spoke low, his
hand covering his eyes. “How can I leave Her Grace?”
“
Paugh, Rob, she has made her own
fate, whatever it is to be.” Yet even as she spoke, Sorcha felt a
pang of compassion for the poor Queen, caught in a deadly trap. “We
Frasers have always stood together in time of trouble, you know
that. Will you let Mary Stuart once more play havoc with our
clan?”
Rob gazed up through the trees, squinting against the
morning sun. At last he looked again at Sorcha. “Will you come,
too?”
Sorcha sat very still in the saddle. There was no
question but that she should ride away with Rob. It might be the
only chance she’d have to escape for some time, perhaps forever. A
tingling of fear crept along her spine as Thisbe pawed at the
ground and whinnied softly.
“
No, Rob.” Sorcha saw him start to
contradict her, but she held up a gloved hand. “I must stay to
defend you. And I can do it honestly, since I’ve no idea why you’re
in trouble.” Recognizing that he was about to interrupt her, she
waved the hand at him with vehemence. “There is Ailis, as well. I
can’t leave her to fend for herself. Nothing will happen to
me—whatever has transpired cannot touch me. I haven’t been at
Chartley long enough. And I came with King Jamie’s
blessing.”
Rob let his mount wander for a few yards to crop at
the patches of short grass. The flush had faded from Rob’s face,
which now wore a resigned expression. He nodded over his shoulder.
“And Father Napier? What about him?”
Sorcha straightened her shoulders. “Father Napier can
take care of himself.” She spoke the words with authority, yet the
pang of fear twisted inside her rib cage. “Is he …
involved?”
“
No.” Rob looked away, gray eyes
cast down toward the ground. “I still don’t understand what’s
happened. It all seemed so … certain.”
“
Most things in life are not.”
Sorcha gave her brother a wry smile. “I learned that much from
Johnny Grant. Now ride away, Rob, or I’ll take the crop to your
horse myself.”
Reluctantly, Rob guided his mount close to Thisbe. He
leaned from the saddle to give Sorcha a tight, loving hug. “God
help us.” He chuckled. “I don’t know whether I fear Queen
Elizabeth’s wrath more than I do our Lady Mother’s if she learns
about all this.”
“
I told you, I’m safer here than
you’re going to be there.” Sorcha smiled as Rob adjusted his riding
habit and patted his horse’s neck. “Godspeed, Rob. You go with my
prayers.”
Her brother turned again in the saddle, blew her a
kiss, tried to keep the distress from his eyes, and urged his horse
into a trot. Sorcha watched him until he was swallowed up by the
leafed-out trees, with only the echoing sound of hooves serving as
counterpoint to the summer wind’s stately song.
“
Oh, Thisbe,” murmured Sorcha, “I
would to God we’d all stayed in the Highlands.” With some
annoyance, she brushed at a tear which had trickled onto her
cheek.
The sun was at her right, halfway in its path to
midday. Chartley must lie to the west. Sorcha had just guided
Thisbe in what seemed to be the right direction, when Gavin Napier
came plunging through the copse on foot.
“
God’s teeth!” exclaimed Sorcha,
“you frightened me!” With trembling hands, she urged Thisbe to
stand still and dismounted without waiting for Napier’s assistance.
“By the Virgin, I wish someone would tell me what’s happening this
fine summer morn!”
Napier brushed impatiently at a dead branch that
clung to one sleeve. There was a bruise on his cheek, and his right
knuckles were badly skinned. Yet despite his disheveled appearance,
he appeared exhilarated. Sorcha had seen the expression on stable
boys after a particularly exuberant fistfight. She had also seen it
on the faces of her father and brothers, depending upon which one
had emerged victorious from some sporting event.
“
Rob is gone?” Napier was actually
smiling through the dark beard. He saw Sorcha nod, and his wide
shoulders relaxed. “Praise God.” The smile faded. “And you? Why
didn’t you join him?”
Sorcha was tempted to tell Napier the truth.
Because I want to stay with you. Because I want to make sure
nothing horrible happens to you. Because I love you, Gavin Napier,
priest or not
. Instead, she merely brushed the long black hair
away from her forehead and lifted one slim shoulder. “I couldn’t
leave Ailis. And Rob can travel faster without encumbrance. Where’s
your horse?”
Napier made a face. “He went lame. I shouldn’t have
rammed him into the other mounts. But I could think of no other way
to prevent the guardsmen from following you and Rob. One of the men
was knocked unconscious. I managed to help the other follow suit.”
Gingerly, Napier touched his skinned knuckles.
Sorcha winced at the bloody, broken skin. “Where is
the Queen?”
Napier shook his head. “I’m not sure. God help her. I
fear the worst will befall her now.”
“
Can you tell me why?” persisted
Sorcha, letting Thisbe wander at will in the little
clearing.
Napier paused, apparently reluctant to enlighten
Sorcha. At last, he eased himself onto the ground, leaning against
a sturdy tree trunk. “It was a wily trap, set and sprung by Queen
Elizabeth’s secretary, Master Walsingham.” Napier sneered slightly
at Walsingham’s name. “It would seem there were two plots, but both
involved messages sent by Queen Mary in the beer kegs that were
delivered to Chartley’s brewer. Alas, the brewer was employed by
Walsingham. And the correspondence, which was in part exchanged
with a fervent young Catholic noble named Anthony Babington,
involved the assassination of Elizabeth and setting Mary in her
place.” Napier stopped speaking and shook his head ruefully. “Most
dangerous. And foolish.”
Sorcha fingered her lower lip in puzzlement. “Queen
Mary consented to the murder of Elizabeth?”
Napier lifted his palms upwards. “So it would seem.
But after all these years, she would pay any price for freedom.
With a crown thrown into the bargain, mayhap she can’t be judged
too harshly. At least by us. After all, to Catholics, she is the
rightful queen of England as well as of Scotland.”
“
And this Babington? Was he in
league with Walsingham, too?” Sorcha had dropped to the ground
beside Napier, heedless of a patch of damp earth near her
hem.
“
Nay, he was genuine in his wish to
rescue Mary and dispatch Elizabeth to her eternal reward. A silly
young man, caught up in chivalrous deeds and misguided
theology.”
“
But Rob—how did he come to find
out?” Sorcha was so engrossed in Napier’s story that she failed to
notice her skirts rested on the priest’s booted leg.
“
It took some time for him to win
Her Grace’s trust, but within the past few days he had been asked
to help with her infamous letters. The plotting has been afoot for
some months, and I suspect Queen Mary convinced Rob it was close to
fruition. I daresay she thought this morning that the horsemen had
come to save her, not arrest her.” Napier’s brow furrowed as he
absently plucked at a tuft of grass. “Mayhap Rob thought so, too.
It would appeal to his youthful ideals and religious zeal—as it did
to Babington and like young gentlemen in London. By God, our bonnie
lady has been the undoing of many a man, from one end of her life
to the other!”
The full implication of what Napier had revealed
began to creep over Sorcha like a huge, smothering hand. “Jesu! If
Rob is caught, he may die for his folly! Will they follow him?”
Napier looked down at the folds of plum-colored
fabric that covered his knee and part of his calf. He frowned, then
turned to Sorcha. “I doubt that he’ll be pursued. He came late into
the conspiracy and, with luck, has gotten far enough away to elude
the English.”
Sorcha slumped against the tree, one hand raking
through her hair. “How did you learn of this?” she asked, almost
afraid of the answer.
Napier shifted his legs, shaking free from Sorcha’s
skirts. She felt rather than saw his gesture and was suddenly
embarrassed. The priest, however, seemed to pay no heed. “It was
all wrong, this flurry of letter writing, though I knew not what it
concerned. Here was our Queen, with a gaoler more strict than any
she had ever endured—and yet her spirits had soared, her optimism
flowed more freely by the day. Finally, when Rob confided that he
was helping with some very special correspondence, I knew there
must be a new scheme afoot, even though he refused to tell me. He
had been sworn to secrecy, of course. But for three days, I kept
close watch, eventually discovering that letters were being
smuggled out of Chartley in those damnable beer kegs. I managed to
slip away the other evening to visit the brewer.” Napier paused,
fingering his bearded chin. “I misliked the man; I didn’t trust
him. Call it instinct, but I knew that Rob—and the Queen—were in
mortal danger. I also knew his only chance of escape was during the
hunt, and that I couldn’t speak to him before then, nor could I
convince him if I did. So,” he added with a shrug, “I had to leave
it up to you.”
“
Jesu,” Sorcha murmured again,
grateful for Napier’s omniscience, thankful for her own powers of
persuasion. She turned wide green eyes on Napier, one hand
outstretched. “What can I say? I owe you my brother’s
life.”
Napier gazed from her face to the slender hand that
almost touched his chest. “You can say your prayers, for him, and
for the Queen. Doubtless this means the end for Mary Stuart.” He
was frowning again, his voice gruff.
Sorcha’s hand fell into her lap, limp as a wilted
rose. “And what of us?” she demanded in a tone that was
surprisingly angry. “Are we to suffer for a crime we didn’t
commit?”
Abruptly, Napier got to his feet. “You could have
gone with Rob. Why didn’t you?” He loomed over her, appearing
almost as tall as the beech trees themselves. “You don’t belong
here, after all.”
“
Nor do you,” Sorcha shot back. “You
can’t perform your priestly duties, and in any event, the Queen has
been stripped of her household. Isn’t your first duty still in
Scotland, mending the rifts between the Catholic families?” None
too gracefully, Sorcha also stood up. She almost tripped over an
exposed root but Napier didn’t offer a hand to steady
her.
“
Someone with a cool head should
remain with the Queen’s people.” Napier sounded defensive as he
once again touched the tender knuckles. “Who else, since Secretary
Nau is implicated up to his eyes in this ghastly
affair.”
“
Oh, rot!” Sorcha cried, throwing up
her hands. “Those people have been together for years and years!
See here,” she said earnestly, waving a forefinger at Napier, “we
could still ride away to safety. I worried about Ailis at first,
but she’s really quite self-sufficient. And unquestionably innocent
of this matter. Why shouldn’t we go, while there’s still
time?”