Nor was she touched by guilt. Sorcha had found more
than love in the chapel at Fotheringhay; she had also discovered
truth. Whatever dire fate the comet that blazed across the winter
sky might portend, Sorcha saw only the promise of hope.
As ever, the household was too taken up with its
mistress’s nerve-racking dilemmas to note anyone else’s troubles.
Sorcha told herself that was just as well; until she could unravel
the skein of deception that Gavin Napier had wound, it would be
much better if they kept the secret to themselves.
Still, Sorcha felt as if she would burst unless she
talked to someone. Ailis, perhaps, with her guarded tongue and
dissuasion to judge others. Not that Ailis would understand how
gloriously happy Sorcha was or the cause for her unbridled joy. Nor
would anyone comprehend why Sorcha wasn’t in despair over losing
her honor. Certainly she had been brought up to guard her virtue,
but Sorcha’s instincts told her that Gavin Napier was the man who
held her life in his hands. As before, when he had seen her naked
at his dwelling in Edinburgh, Sorcha knew no shame. Despite the
impossible barriers between them, she had recognized that they
belonged together. It was as if they already were one, from the
beginning, for all time. The happiness Sorcha derived from the
consummation of their union could not be tarnished by anything on
heaven or earth. She needed very much to share these overwhelming
feelings, to hear the reasons for her bliss being uttered
aloud.
Sorcha, however, retained enough basic common sense
to realize that the atmosphere at Fotheringhay was not conducive to
the euphoric ramblings of a lass in love. Although Queen Mary had
rallied from her digestive indisposition, the chill, damp February
days made her rheumatic joints swell and pulse with pain. If that
suffering weren’t enough, the uncertainty of her fate still dangled
over her like a boulder suspended on a fraying thread.
After two days had passed since the passionate
encounter in the chapel, Sorcha’s state of elation began to erode.
She had learned that Napier had been closeted with the Queen for
most of Monday, and the following day he had gone with Dr.
Bourgoing to search for herbs that might alleviate the Queen’s
rheumatism. On Wednesday, wherever she went in the castle, she
seemed to miss meeting him. Outside the Queen’s rooms, Jane Kennedy
told Sorcha that he had just left for his own quarters; there, Dr.
Bourgoing informed her that Napier had gone to inquire after Sir
Amyas Paulet’s health; at the entrance to Paulet’s suite, an
English servant professed to have no idea where the Scotsman was.
Her once-ecstatic emotional state was gradually being reduced to
rubble. Impatient and anxious, Sorcha stomped back to her own
chamber, where Ailis reported that she’d seen Napier in the
courtyard only ten minutes earlier. He was, of course, gone when
Sorcha descended to the main entrance.
Sorcha spent most of the next day with the Queen.
“England does not agree with you,
ma petite
,” Mary Stuart
declared that afternoon as Sorcha brushed the Queen’s thinning gray
hair. There were still hints of the auburn tresses that had
complemented Mary’s youthful alabaster complexion, but for years
she had tried to conceal some of the ravages of age by wearing
wigs. “It was only a few days ago that you were quite ill,” the
Queen went on, turning with effort to look up over her shoulder at
Sorcha. “I had thought you fully recovered, yet today you are
peaked again.”
“
It’s being cooped up so much,”
Sorcha replied, remembering to say as little as possible about her
violent illness lest she reveal that there had been an attempt to
poison her mistress. “At home, in the Highlands, I spent much time
out of doors, even in winter.”
“
Ah, yes, the Highlands.” A
reminiscent expression crossed Mary Stuart’s face. “Your sire
taught me those strange dances. So many of the people in the North
were loyal to me, yet I found it a desolate, alien
place.”
“
My Lady Mother would agree with
you,” Sorcha said, pausing to pluck a few strands of hair from the
tortoiseshell brush. “She has always preferred the
city.”
“
Edinburgh, you mean?” For an
instant, the Queen’s face showed disdain. “Oh, but of course, your
mother was born and raised there. For me, there could never be a
city such as Paris or a court such as that of France, with the
great chateaus along the Loire and the Cher. If only I could have
been permitted to return there, to live out my last days in peace.
At a convent, perhaps ….” The shadowy lids drooped over Mary’s
eyes, making her seem suddenly ancient and corpselike. “One of my
four Maries,” the Queen went on, looking up again as she made
reference to the quartet of Scottish noblewomen who had served her
devotedly from childhood, “retired to the convent of Saint Pierre
at Rheims some years ago. How I longed to join her
there!”
To Sorcha, it sounded much like exchanging one prison
for another. Still, within the sanctified walls of the convent,
there would be no Puritan gaolers or prying eyes to hound Mary
Stuart’s every word and step. From the perspective of the Queen’s
age and experience, a cloistered life might have great appeal. But
for Sorcha, not yet twenty and wildly in love, the notion seemed as
hopelessly bleak as the dreary winter day. The late afternoon was
overcast, a cruel wind cut through the drafty walls of the castle,
and if this first week of February brought any small signs of
spring to Northamptonshire, they were well camouflaged by the
stark, fiat, colorless landscape that surrounded Fotheringhay.
When Sorcha returned to her chamber, a half dozen
rushlights flickered next to the window seat where Ailis was
reading, her face almost touching the pages of the book. When
Sorcha entered the room, Ailis peered at her over the leather-bound
volume. “I hear from one of the laundresses that Father Napier is
ill.” Ailis’s features remained carefully composed. “It would seem
that Fotheringhay Castle is not a healthy place for those who dwell
here.”
Sorcha twisted at the silver chain that hung from her
waist. “I should ask about his welfare,” she said, though there was
a question in both her voice and her eyes.
“
He was solicitous when you were
sick.” Ailis spoke without inflection, squinting once more into the
pages of her book.
Pausing just long enough to make it appear she wasn’t
bolting from the chamber, Sorcha went back out into the chilly,
ill-lighted corridor. At least she now knew why Gavin Napier hadn’t
sought her out in the past day or so. The fears that had been
slowly building up inside the secret places of her heart were
brought out into the open and summarily dismissed. Gavin Napier had
not been overwhelmed with remorse, he had not found Sorcha
undesirable, he felt no shame for their frank, ardent declarations
of mind and body. Sorcha all but flew down the corridor, stopping
to take a deep breath before she rapped on Napier’s door.
Again, it was Dr. Bourgoing who answered her
importunate knock. “A debilitating illness,” he explained, the kind
eyes not quite meeting hers. “Ague, or some other weakness, I
should say. He is abed, mistress, and sleeps most deeply.”
Sorcha fixed an appraising gaze on the doctor’s face.
Bourgoing was not only kind but trustworthy and honest. Yet Sorcha
sensed he was being evasive, if not actually lying to her. It would
be disrespectful to accuse him of perfidy, however well-intended.
Was it possible that Gavin Napier was far more seriously ill than
the doctor had acknowledged? A tingle of alarm crawled up Sorcha’s
spine.
“
Is he in danger?” The words were
spoken rapidly, but in a hushed, breathless voice.
Bourgoing’s high forehead furrowed. “No, no. But he
is very weak.” He smiled at Sorcha in reassurance. “Tomorrow I
shall bring you fresh news, perhaps of a more sanguine nature.”
To Sorcha, tomorrow seemed very far away.
Frantically, she searched her mind for a pretext to see Napier
immediately. At the end of the silver chain she wore around her
waist was a ball encircled with pearls. Sorcha snatched at it,
cupping the bauble in her palm. “See here, good Doctor, I have a
shred of the Virgin’s mantle, brought to me by my father from
Jerusalem.” Inwardly, Sorcha blanched at the blatant tie; she
possessed no such relic, nor had her father ever ventured as far as
the Holy Land. But Dr. Bourgoing wouldn’t know that. Gazing up into
the physician’s kindly face, Sorcha opened her green eyes wide and
tried to strike a pose that she hoped would be simultaneously pious
and appealing. “If I could but hold the blessed fabric against
Father Napier’s forehead, I’m sure he would recover more
quickly.”
The furrows deepened on Dr. Bourgoing’s forehead. He
looked from Sorcha to the silver globe resting in her hand. She had
always struck him as an unconventional sort of maid, not given to
girlish simpering or the exertion of feminine wiles. A bit untamed,
no doubt due to her Highland heritage, but an open, intelligent
young woman whose sense of duty had brought her to serve at Queen
Mary’s pitiful parody of a royal court.
Bourgoing shrugged and smiled. “ ’Twould do no
harm.” He raised a cautionary finger. “But only for a moment. You
must not wake him.”
Sorcha nodded. “Of course. The Blessed Mother hears
short petitions as well as lengthy ones.” She gave Dr. Bourgoing a
demure smile.
To Sorcha’s relief, the physician didn’t follow her
into the bedchamber. As she closed the door quietly behind her,
Sorcha was forced to adjust her eyes to the gloom. Except for one
stubby candle, the room lay in darkness. The pale winter sun had
already set, but while a fire was laid in the grate, no one had yet
kindled it into flame.
Treading softly, Sorcha made her way to the bed. The
outlines of furniture, hangings, walls, and windows began to take
shape. Sorcha was still several feet away from the big canopied bed
when she realized that it was empty. For one panicked moment,
Sorcha feared that Gavin Napier had died. As a small child, she had
imagined that dying meant people simply disappeared, with all
earthly evidence of their existence being assumed into heaven. The
youthful concept struck her for only a split second, but it was
sufficient to send a violent shudder throughout her entire
body.
“
Brainless ninny,” Sorcha murmured
aloud, hoping that the sound of her own voice would bolster her
courage. With an unsteady step, she went to the bed; the
counterpane was pulled back, but the sheets were cool to the touch.
The suspicions that Dr. Bourgoing’s lack of candor had stirred now
began to run amok. If Napier had been critically ill, he certainly
wouldn’t have risen from bed and climbed out the window. Yet if the
illness was feigned, why had Dr. Bourgoing allowed her to come into
Napier’s bedchamber? Suddenly more frightened for herself than for
Napier, Sorcha whirled around to race toward the door and test the
latch.
Even as she reached out, Sorcha felt a movement as
brisk as a winter wind from somewhere behind her; her hand fell
away from the door at the same moment strong arms went around her
shoulders.
“
Don’t cry out,” commanded Gavin
Napier. “You’ll upset Dr. Bourgoing.”
Sorcha had stiffened at his touch, but relaxed
sufficiently to feel her body lean against Napier’s. She craned her
neck to look up at him. “God’s teeth, what manner of prank is
this?”
Slowly, Napier released her, though one hand lingered
at her breast. She turned to face him, pushing the heavy hair out
of her eyes. “You’re not ill! Indeed, you’re dressed to ride!”
Napier glanced down as if surprised by her
declaration. He seemed to be studying the long, black leather
boots, the heavy serge cloak flung over one shoulder, the roughly
stitched calfskin gloves. “I am,” he admitted, his mouth turned
down at the corners in his dark beard. “I didn’t know you were
here.”
Sorcha looked up into the hunter’s eyes, which were
in deep shadow. It seemed to her that Gavin Napier was already very
far away, as if they had never made passionate love in the deserted
chapel. She felt quite cold and had to step back to lean against a
straight-backed chair for support. “Where are you going?” The words
were thin and hollow.
Napier took a breath that seemed to tax him, opened
his mouth to speak, clamped it shut, and turned to the bureau,
where he picked up a black bonnet trimmed with a single gray
feather. “I’m going away.” He hesitated, still not looking at
Sorcha. “My task is finished here.”
Sorcha’s teeth had begun to chatter as a fearsome
chill overtook her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Or
maybe I do,” she amended unsteadily, “but you must take me with
you.”
“
No.” The word fell between them
like the last mournful note of a dirge.
“
Yes!” Sorcha flew at him, hands
clutching at his arm. “I love you! You love me! You said
so!”
He started to pull away, then stopped and turned to
gaze down into her desperate face. “Of course I love you. But I’m a
priest. It’s impossible, Sorcha.” He shook his head slowly,
firmly.
Her nails dug deeper into his arm. “A pox on your
priesthood, Gavin Napier!” Defiance strengthened her voice. “You
are no more a priest than I am!”
Napier’s jaw dropped just a fraction as he stared
down at Sorcha. “You’re daft. Where do you get such fancies?” His
effort at laughing away her accusations degenerated into a
grunt.
Sorcha’s determination had helped quiet her trembling
limbs. “I’ve met another Napier, Adam by name. He’s your brother.”
She paused, seeing his mouth tighten. “And he’s crippled and could
not come to Scotland or England until recently because of his
health. So now that he’s here, you must leave. Though why at this
precise moment, when you and I have just found love, I’m baffled
thrice over.” She dropped her hand from his arm to gesture toward
the door. “I must surmise that Dr. Bourgoing knows the truth as
well. Has he not interrupted us because he thinks we’re in bed
together?”