Heaven and the Heather

Heaven and the Heather

Elizabeth Holcombe

Copyright © 2002, 2014 Elizabeth Holcombe

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Originally published by Penguin Putnum, Inc.

For Dan and Owen, Always

prologue

I
n 1561 the world was a dismal place for anyone named MacGregor. On August 19 hope arrived on a royal galleon from France bearing Scotland’s new sovereign, Queen Mary Stuart. For one of the MacGregor clan, hope did not wear a crown. It bore a crippled hand and a bleak heart.

chapter 1

Le Pays des Sauvages

19 August 1561, Leith Harbour, Scotland

M
on pere est mort.

“My father is dead. I can never go home.”

Sabine de Sainte Montagne stared at the paper in her twisted right hand. She had done so many times since she had sailed from Calais on the royal galleon bearing Mary, Scotland’s new queen. No matter how many times her gaze swept over the paper, it did not change the harsh truth. She was condemned to be a prisoner in this land.

She had received the letter that bore a crimson wax seal and ribbon as dark as the inside of a wine cask just before stepping upon the gangway at the French port. She did not have opportunity to read it until the galleon was in full sail across the English Channel.

Her father had died of the kingsevil. She knew well of the elegant whores who languished in the halls of Château de Montmerency as frequently as winter snow came to the Alps. Her Alps. They shadowed her beautiful home. For that she mourned, not of her father. According to the letter from his
avocat
, the château and all within it had been left to the family of a woman Sabine had never met, another of her father’s river of lovers, the last lover.

Sabine could not bear to read the letter any longer or to have it in her possession. She crushed it in her mangled fist ignoring the pain that suddenly tore up her arm with the subtle purchase of a lightning strike.

“
Adieu, mon papa,
” she said, tossing the paper over the salt-encrusted gunwale. “May you find solace where the heat touches upon your flesh.”

Her father had been so in name only. His cruelty, his banishing her five years ago to royal servitude had been his parting endearment. Sabine’s curse into the mist that surrounded the galleon was the only endearment she could summon, the kindest words she could say.

He was gone, leaving her nothing but a crippled right hand.

“And a promise to my queen that I shall marry a good man.”

She peered over the wood railing down to the slate black water below her. It was all she saw of this Scotland. The good man was there, beyond the mist, waiting for her by the queen’s command and her promise to Sabine’s father.

Her intended was a man she had only met briefly when he had come to France to express his deepest sorrow to Mary after the death of her mother, Marie de Guise. He was a Scottish noble, not a savage. His appearances gave her reason to believe that, but her heart would not soften to this man, this Lord John Campbell, self-proclaimed master of the mysterious Highland kingdom. He was a tamer of the people who lived there, so he said.

“
Le pays des sauvages
,” she murmured. “The country of the savages…
l’Ecosse
. Scotland. The Highlands.”

She had heard the whispered rumors of Mary’s attendants. She felt she knew well of this Scotland and of its Highland wilds. Men were said to wear clothes which bared their legs. Women were said not to wear shoes. These savage people lived as they wished, sweeping down from their remote hills and mountains with long, terrible swords ready to fight and die for the meager life they lived in the wild. These were things she had heard ever since Mary had proclaimed that she and the whole of her court would go to Scotland.

She strained to catch a glimpse, but the weather was against her. She gripped the gunwale. One hand held fast to the crusty wood better than the other. The mist was as thick as an Alpine blizzard. An impenetrable curtain to her curiosity.

Hope rose in her, because she had a way to escape royal servitude—this land of savages, and the man who by the queen’s command would marry her.

She would make her life her own, even with the mark of her father’s anger upon her crippled right hand. That, one day too, would not exist. Hope was a gift she had given herself. Hope was her companion since the day she was forced from home five years ago.

Sabine reached down under her sapphire velvet cloak which hung heavy and damp from her shoulders. She forced two gnarled fingers around the string of a soft leather
sac
pinned at her hip. She could not hear the crinkle or clink under the leather, but the small vibrations against her fingertips echoed the only bit of security and familiarity she had known.

Scraps of paper rested inside. Worthless to anyone except her. Sabine clenched her eyes shut, her right hand cramp a little. She fingered a small, fist-sized woolen ball. Each day, with its help, ignoring the pain in her hand became a little easier.

She extended her fingers as far as she was able. The tips of her two middle fingers brushed the cool, familiar feel of four gold pieces. Four? She stretched her fingers again, ignoring the pain, held her breath and made a quick mental count.

Un…deux…trois…quatre….

“
Cinq,
” she breathed. “Good.”

These five pieces of gold, a gift from her mother, countless years ago before she died, would save Sabine’s life. These five pieces would give her freedom from all that lay before her like a borderless dark path, dismal and foreboding. She would never marry a man she had barely made acquaintance, much less loved, and for the purpose of keeping of a royal promise to her father. The queen would never see the folly of that promise, ’twould be treason to inform her.

With the gold she could travel far away from the savage land which remained veiled behind a stubborn mist. The queen would not miss her. She had ten other attendants and five ladies-in-waiting. Sabine could return to France, sort things out, then continue with the course of her life, by her will.

“Hope,” she breathed, “
mon amie.
”

Above her on the masts, the great sails lowered, shouts from the galley’s crew shattered the silence.

“Le port! L’Ecosse!”

She opened her eyes and stared forward. But where? As much as she strained, she could not see a thing! Her fears of coming to this land would be easier to face if they indeed had a face. Mist was all she had seen after they had rounded the east coast of England ruled by Mary’s cousin, the flame-haired Queen Elizabeth, and protected by her fleet of overbearing ships.

Her heart tightened at the pictures that remained in her mind. Her beloved Alps and the way the seasons made them magical. She puzzled why home, which held so much cruelty, still called to her heart. Scotland was a fearful unknown, the devil she did not know. France, her home for better and worse, was the devil she had known all her score of years.

“L’île des sauvages,”
Sabine whispered. “Why would Mary wish to return here?”

“That question is not yours to ask, impudent fool.”

She whirled around to face one of the queen’s five ladies-in-waiting, all Marys. This was the uppity one, Lady Mary Fleming. Her earth-colored hair was concealed beneath a dark velvet cowl. Her face, prunish at best, held perpetual disapproval.

Offering a brief curtsy, Sabine eyed the proud Scotswoman, the only one of the royal court, other than the queen, whose blood ran from this land hidden by the misty pall. Sabine prayed the loathing in her eyes was similarly shrouded.

“
Madame,
” Sabine said, with a nod. A sudden puff of wind stirred about her, teasing several thick, corkscrew strands of black hair about her face. She lifted her chin higher. ’Twas not just the Scots who held the repute for fierce pride.

Lady Fleming narrowed her pale eyes. Her gaze dropped to Sabine’s right hand and paused. “Get ye to the others,” she said, forcing her gaze up. “A common
femme de chambre
with spirit is as worthless to Her Majesty as a blind footman.”

“I emulate Her Majesty’s independence of spirit to glorify her,” Sabine said proudly. She meant this with all of her heart. Mary was indeed independent, going against her French councilors and returning home as Scotland’s sovereign.

“Insolence will be your undoing,
la petit chien
!” Lady Fleming grabbed Sabine by the arm. “To the bowels of this ship with the others of your station. Now!”

“
Sauvage
,” she whispered, shrugging away her grasp. “You’ve come home.”

Lady Fleming raised a hand to strike her. It would not be the first time. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘you’re fortunate to have come home’, m’lady.” Sabine stared hard at her. The breeze heightened. It buffeted the hood from her head, and sent the tumble of black curls spiraling about her face.

The Scot slowly lowered her hand.

“Ever since your father sent you to Her Majesty’s gracious service, you’ve been but a bane to my very existence.”

“I did not ask for her charity.”

“Five years have not tempered your selfish yearnings. Your concern should be for the needs of your queen. Now, to your position.”

Lady Fleming stole one more glance at Sabine’s hand before padding across the deck toward a huddled grouping of the
femmes de chambre
, ten in all, clucking at them, waving her arms. The queen was on her way. Sabine took a deep breath and walked carefully across the deck slick with sea spray. She stopped and curtsied low. She loved her queen, but she loved France more. To leave royal service would be treason, yet she could not perish the thought. Not as long as a loveless marriage and a life in Scotland were her only choices. Perchance, her queen would understand. Perchance. The coin weighed against Sabine’s thigh. Hope. Royals were not the only ones who possessed it.

Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots, passed before her entourage. Sabine caught a glimpse of golden brocade against dark velvet, strands of pearls and jewels, and hair that rivaled the fiery foliage of autumn in the French Alps.

The galleon lurched. A sudden stinging oily scent mingling with the mist made Sabine’s eyes water. Distant shouts rang up over the gunwale.

Sabine stood upright.

“L’Ecosse,” she whispered in frightened awe.

She turned around and looked over the gunwale. Through the mist the grey wharf teemed with grey, dour people. The stench of tar and garbage rose up to greet her. Sabine cupped her left hand over her nose and mouth. The crowd on the dock stared up at the royal galleon. Their pale faces shone out from beneath moldy hoods and mist-dampened cowls.

Sabine swallowed hard.

This place was just as dismal as she had feared.

She clutched her hood, drew it up over her head. She willed one foot forward toward the gangplank, into the mist.

Scotland.
Mon Dieu!
She walked slowly, her gaze searching the wharf for any of these savages that came down from their mountains with swords in their hands and death on their lips.

Her
sac
banged against her thigh. Soon she would seek a way to bargain herself out of this wilderness.

“I
will get justice for my clan. I will seek revenge for the murder of my father and brother.”

Niall MacGregor, chief of his besieged clan, saw the shadow of a large ship looming over the wharf. The vessel was magnificent, worthy of royalty. Hope surged in him for the first time in forever. This was the queen returning to Scotland, and with her there was hope for his clan.

He fervently wished his father, the once great chief of his clan, could be here instead of dead beside Niall’s older brother, Colin. Yet they lay in graves a fortnight old on the side of Beinn Tulaichean, which guarded Niall’s home and his clan in the Highlands. He had left his home for one purpose, revenge against and auld and persistent enemy.