“
To please Sorcha,” Napier blurted.
Noting the King’s look of surprise, he laughed. “She insisted I
come. She’s fond of Your Majesty, as I’m sure you know.”
Jamie’s lords of the bedchamber and several servants
were at the door in response to his signal. Still regarding Napier
with speculative amusement, the King finally nodded. “I almost
believe you. Aye,” he said, more to himself than to Napier, “in
fact, I think I do.”
The King and Queen, along with Napier, Maitland,
Gray, and several other important personages in the royal
household, sought safety in the palace’s main tower. Some time
after midnight, Bothwell and his men were sighted in the town. The
alarm was spread by the watch, and though the earl and his
followers surrounded the palace, no attempt was made to storm the
gates. Shortly after sunrise, when the townspeople learned what was
happening, they armed themselves and put Bothwell to flight. The
King made a brief, yet surprisingly eloquent speech of thanks,
which the good burghers cheered before heading back home to take up
their daily routine. Having done his duty, Gavin Napier asked the
King’s permission to return at once to the Highlands. Jamie,
however, was reluctant to have him leave.
“
You have shown your loyalty to us,”
King James told Napier over a belated breakfast. “Strange, isn’t
it, that being a Papist, you’d ride at breakneck speed to save your
sovereign from Bothwell. We could use such a man at court, Master
Napier.” Jamie waited anxiously for Napier’s reaction.
It came only after careful consideration. “I’m not
cut out for life at court, sire, though your words honor me. I’m a
plain-spoken man, who has had little success in attempts to
negotiate between Scotland’s Catholic families. I intend to raise
Highland ponies on some property that makes up part of my wife’s
dowry,” Napier said, with a wry smile. “Talking to horses doesn’t
require artful diplomacy.”
“
True,” Jamie agreed, dumping the
contents of a jam pot on his bread, “but it requires something even
more rare—horse sense. See here,” Jamie went on earnestly, as
strawberry jam oozed out of the corners of his mouth, “it’s
impolitic to discuss our claim on the English throne. But it would
be simpleminded to ignore the possibility. If we—I—am to some day
wear the crowns of both Scotland and England, I must persuade
English Catholics I don’t intend to persecute them. If I don’t
demonstrate a tolerant attitude, they’ll press for a Spanish
succession, since my mother”—he paused to make a rueful
face—“willed her right to the English crown to King Philip of
Spain. Not to mention the fact that it’s in my best interests here
at home to play off Protestant against Catholic.” He shrugged,
wiping at a daub of jam on his pale blue satin shirt. “I must play
one faction off against the other, because it’s best for Scotland.
If you won’t join the court, will you serve as special envoy to
England?”
Gavin Napier was nonplussed. His efforts as envoy of
the Catholic Church had failed. How could King Jamie consider
involving him in what would be an even more delicate political and
religious mission? Napier said as much, but Jamie merely shrugged.
“You didn’t fail at bringing unity to Scotland. My, no,” reiterated
the King, wiping out the rest of the jam pot’s contents with his
index finger, “you brought the Highland families together—Grants,
Frasers, MacKintoshes, Camerons—all those old enemies united not
only in self-interest but against George Gordon’s treachery and
injustice. Never mind religion; it often masks far baser motives.
You unerringly fought on the side of what was right. I—we—should
like to have you do the same for us in England.”
Weighing the King’s words carefully, Napier had to
admit that they held an element of truth. Catholic leaders such as
Gordon and Errol, Caithness, and even the will-o’-the-wisp Gray,
had used their faith, rather than lived by it. They were far less
interested in religion than in self-aggrandizement. Yet despite the
turmoil of the past few years, George Gordon’s hold on the
Highlands had been broken. If he had succeeded in ridding himself
of his hereditary rival, Moray, he had also weakened his own
position as a threat to the Crown. It would serve no purpose for
Napier to discount his own contribution.
“
Let me think about your generous
offer,” Napier said at last, shifting his body in the armchair and
tugging at the cuff of one leather boot. “Right now,” he went on
with a grin, “I have other matters uppermost in my
mind.”
Jamie turned a puzzled face on Napier and then let
out his jarring laugh. “Aye, the bairn! By all means, point your
steed northward and ride to my dear Coz’s side! We’ll send a
splendid gift, I promise! Indeed, if all goes well, mayhap I’ll
bring it in person!”
The King’s piercing cackle followed Napier out of the
room and halfway down the corridor. Somehow, the sound seemed
almost musical to Gavin Napier.
The month of February had rolled round again at
Gosford’s End, bringing two important visitors. While some might
judge the arrival of the King of Scotland as the more impressive,
for the Frasers it was Rob who had sparked the most exuberant
celebration. He had come to visit his family before heading for
Rome, where he would study to become a Jesuit. The cloistered life
of a Recollect friar did not suit him as well as the more active
vocation he could exercise as a disciple of Ignatius Loyola.
“
Missionary work appeals to me,” he
explained one rainy evening to the King he had not seen in six
years. “You and I may not agree on religion, but I trust you will
permit me to submit that there are many heathens who have no
knowledge of the Gospel.”
“
Oh, many,” conceded King James
blithely. “A great many, indeed. And if any of them ever learn to
read, they ought to have a Bible that makes sense. I like the Bible
very much, don’t you, Cousin Robert?”
Sorcha stifled a giggle behind her hand. She wasn’t
sure if Jamie was teasing Rob or merely being polite. Certainly the
King had dispensed with formality since arriving at the head of a
large troop of men the previous day. After a year of halfhearted
endeavor to bring George Gordon to justice for the murder of Moray,
King James had finally ridden north with a formidable army. George,
like Bothwell before him, had fled across the Highlands to seek
shelter from their old accomplice, Caithness. Upon reaching
Gosford’s End, Jamie seemed content to give up the chase. It
appeared that Moray’s tragic murder would go down as one of the
great unprovoked and unpunished crimes in history.
Gavin Napier stood up and stretched in front of the
sitting room’s crackling fireplace while his father-in-law poured
more whiskey for everyone except Jeannie Simpson, who was already
practically asleep on Magnus’s shoulder. “Drink up,” Iain Fraser
urged, lifting his cup, “tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s Day and
Sorcha and Gavin’s first wedding anniversary.” He offered his
eldest daughter and her husband that familiar crooked grin and
drank deeply. The others followed suit, toasting the happy couple
with fulsome praise. Father Adam smiled as broadly as the rest,
though he discreetly asked Rosmairi to water down his whiskey
before he took another sip.
The King of Scotland appeared to be the merriest of
them all. He had burst into that faintly jarring cackle, slapping
his thigh, with his head thrown back and a trace of whiskey
trickling into his beard. “Such irony!” he exclaimed, controlling
his mirth and gazing around the family circle to which he was tied
by blood as well as affection. “Here I—we, that is—are pursuing the
leading Catholic lord of the realm for murdering the most eminent
Protestant lord, and sharing hospitality with a passel of Papists
and priests!” Lurching in his chair, he turned to Napier. “Well?
You’ve had eight months to mull over our offer. What say you,
Master Napier?”
A sudden uneasy silence filled the sitting room.
Napier fingered his dark beard and glanced at Sorcha. “My wife and
I would like to see more of England,” he said evenly. “Especially
without watchdogs like Sir Amyas Paulet looking over our
shoulders.”
Jamie all but jumped from his chair. “Excellent! You
will serve us well at Queen Bess’s court! You know, of course,” he
said offhandedly, “that our first order of business these days is
to reorganize the Presbyterian Kirk.” He paused to make sure his
statement had hit home. “However,” he went on in an airy manner,
“we shouldn’t wish to see power concentrated in the ministers’
hands as has so often been the case in the past. Power,” Jamie
emphasized, one gangling hand touching his breast, “lies here.” His
gaze was level with Napier’s; the two men understood each other
perfectly. Henceforth, Scotland would not be ruled by the Kirk, but
by the King, and in so ordaining, Jamie would coincidentally grant
qualified protection to his Catholic subjects. Napier could not
suppress an exultant smile.
“
I can only speak for myself,” he
said to Jamie with a deferential nod, “but I think you are
demonstrating a great deal of wisdom, sire.”
“
Wisdom?” Jamie giggled. “Aye, some
call me ‘the wisest fool in Christendom.’ I like that title. What
think you, Coz?” He turned to Sorcha and gave the silver lace on
her sleeve a little tug.
“
I like it fine, Your Majesty,” she
replied with a bright smile. “You always were canny when it came to
deceiving your elders.”
“
Not all of them,” interjected
Dallas with a wince, as Jamie sloshed whiskey onto a petit point
cushion. “I’m told you made a promise to present our new grandchild
with a gift. It occurred to me that Scotland is much indebted to
our Gavin—and will be again, it seems. Might a humble, doting
grandmother make a request?”
Jamie was trying to keep a straight face. “For what?
Denmark?” Seeing Lord Fraser roll his eyes toward the ceiling,
while Magnus choked on his drink and Rob stared at the Persian
carpet, Jamie slapped his thigh again and howled with laughter.
“Well, Madam?” he gasped between cackles, “is Denmark too large
even for your acquisitive nature?”
Dallas was the only undismayed—and unamused—person in
the room. “Too large? What about Jutland, then?”
Jamie was wiping his eyes with his sleeve and shaking
his head. Dallas, wearing a blandly innocent expression, which was
belied only by the quick wink she gave Sorcha, primly folded her
hands in her lap to present a fetching portrait of maternal
concern. “Of course,” she said in a deceptively demure voice, “if
Your Majesty intended a more modest gesture ….”
King James had finally regained control of himself.
He blew his nose loudly and scooted to the edge of the petit point
cushion. “Somewhat more modest, aye. Where’s my sword?” he asked,
turning to Armand, who was standing behind the settee where
Rosmairi and Rob were seated.
“
I believe, Your Majesty, you are
wearing it,” replied Armand, the blue eyes twinkling.
“
Ah! So I am!” Jamie reached around
to pull the weapon from its bejeweled scabbard. Peering at the
hilt, he frowned. “I fear I’ve lost a ruby. By heaven, war exacts a
terrible price!” He shrugged, then motioned to Gavin Napier. “Step
forward, good Master Napier. Your perspicacious mother-in-law is
right. We do owe you a debt. And we can’t send you to Queen
Elizabeth’s court in our service as plain Master Napier.” James had
grown quite serious. “To that end, and in gratitude, we now endow
you with lands and privileges east of Inversnaid, between Loch
Lomond and Loch Katrine. Kneel, sir, I pray you.”
Startled by the King’s unexpected words, it took
Gavin Napier a moment to react. Then, with a glance at his
wide-eyed wife, he knelt before Jamie, who touched the broad
shoulders with his sword and pronounced the rite of ennoblement:
“We hereby proclaim you, Gavin Napier, as First Laird of Lomond,
your lands and titles to be passed down in perpetuity to your
lawful heirs. So be it, in the name of the King and God
Almighty.”
Jamie raised his sword and bestowed a smug smile on
the rest of the company, then looked sideways at Armand. “Are you
not about to spend your inheritance on the building of a fine place
near Loch Ness?”
Armand, whose inheritance had finally been secured by
a diligent Donald McVurrich, happily replied that such was indeed
the case. Jamie lifted his palms face up. “Then the future is
bright for all of my Fraser cousins! How pleased we are with this
evening’s piece of work!”
“
As are we,” murmured Sorcha, who
came to slip between her husband and the King. “While I’m
overwhelmed by your generosity, my own request would have been of a
different nature.” She juggled a handful of almonds she’d scooped
from a silver bowl and regarded James conspiratorially. “I should
have asked if you’ve considered sending that worrisome rascal
Bothwell and the Master of Gray into exile.”
Jamie’s munificent expression went blank.
“Ah ….” The sovereign dug in his ear with great zeal.
“Actually, that’s a brilliant suggestion, one I’ve—we’ve—toyed with
for some time, of course. At least,” he amended quickly, “regarding
Bothwell.” Jamie lowered his voice so that only Sorcha and Napier
could hear. “But Patrick Gray is another matter. He may be bad—but
he’s so beautiful.” Emitting a little sigh of rapture, James
offered Sorcha his most winning smile. “But fear not, the Master
has been mastered. He knows that if he wants to keep our favor, he
must behave. That,” Jamie added solemnly, “I promise you.”
Sorcha accepted the King’s words in good faith; she
stepped forward to hug her royal cousin tight. Jamie giggled with
pleasure and demanded more whiskey. As Iain Fraser again made the
rounds with the decanter, a now wide-awake Jeannie proffered her
cup, while the King proposed yet another toast. “This time we drink
to Scotland! Good family, I give you our kingdom—and the kingdom to
come!”