Heaven and the Heather (2 page)

His father and brother had come to the Canon Gait, neutral ground just north of Edinburgh eleven miles from Leith and had died there.

“Peace,” Niall silently hissed. “Our enemy gave them peace eternal.”

Niall looked away from the ship as another wave of mist roiled in between his hiding place in a shadowy, narrow close and the great galleon. His eye caught sight of a post and a notice nailed to it.

He read quietly to himself: “By order of the Privy Council of Scotland and the Isles…”

His throat tightened. Privy Council. Lord John Campbell was the bloody Privy Council, so he declared with his castle, men, and vast influence. Campbell would shoulder with this newly arrived royalty. Rumor was that he had already gone to France to express grief to the new queen over the death of her mother. It was rumored that he alone had influenced Mary to return to Scotland, that as tithe for his kindness, she had gifted him with one of her attendants, personally arranged the betrothal. Some French maiden was the queen’s political pawn who would bring Campbell and the Highlands closer to the royal court.

Niall knew Campbell’s true mettle that Mary was so blinded to. No viler, nastier heart beat in Scotland. No man hated Clan Gregor more than Campbell. The proof was printed on a wrinkled and torn notice before Niall’s eyes.

He stared at the paper. The words, printed in the darkest ink, the boldest letters, slammed him in the face.

Be it known to all good subjects of Her Majesty, Marie Reigne, Queen of Scotland and the Isles, that conscription has been imposed against all who embody allegiance to Clan Gregor, all claiming themselves as MacGregor, and the like. All nobles and good and loyal subjects of Her Majesty are ordered to forthwith pursue Clan Gregor with fire and sword. It is forbidden for all lieges to help Clan Gregor in any way with food, drink, weapons, shelter, care for the sick or transport.

Campbell had not put his name to this piece of rubbish, but the timbre of the words bore his stench. So did the deaths of Niall’s father and brother. Of this he needed undeniable proof. He also needed the help of his new queen. The penetrating question was how he, a hunted outlaw by virtue of this paper, would get an audience with the queen, to warn her of the vermin in Scotland, to tell her the truth of his clan.

He stepped out from the close, hood over his head, concealing his flame-colored hair, as much a mark of Clan Gregor as was his plaid dyed from an azure heather that grew in profusion in the glen.

Mind reeling, Niall stood alone amid the bustling crowd. No one paid him any notice, his face shrouded in shadow and mist, his stature that of an average man. His will that of a hundred.

“I will not die by fire and sword,” he whispered. “Neither will my clan.”

He narrowed his gaze at the galleon through a thinning patch of mist.

“By God we will not.”

Niall took one step forward.

The mist from the Firth of Forth obliterated just about all in front of him. Oddly grateful for the concealing Scottish weather, he wove his way through the gathering crowd. The mist was as much a part of Niall as his damned flame-colored hair and condemned name. He made his way to the bottom of the gangplank to seek an audience with the newly arrived queen, to make his clan and their loyalty to her known.

He would sacrifice his freedom, risk imprisonment or death, to tell her that the edict set forth by the Privy Council, by Campbell no doubt, was a lie. All she had do was hear him out.

“In a bloody dream, perchance,” he told himself. There was no way the queen, fresh from her journey, would deem to listen to him. But he damn well had to try.

“
Misneach is sìth,
” he whispered in the comforting Gaelic over gnashed teeth. Then in the tongue the queen was certain to understand, “Fortitude is peace.” He paused. She was coming from France. “
Le courage est la paix.
”

A sharp breeze thinned the mist for a moment and pushed the hood from Niall’s head. He grabbed it just as he saw her. The woman cautiously stepped down the gangplank, clutching her velvet cloak to her throat, a hood concealing her hair. Niall stopped in the center of the wharf, the crowd flowing around him. Was this stunning beauty the queen? He wished she did not have the hood over her hair. He would know immediately if this breathtaking woman was the queen or not if he saw her hair. It was reputed to have the same fiery hue as his own.

He stood, rapt, a few dozen steps away from her. She turned and caught his stare with the most beautiful amber eyes on a face straight from his wildest…

“…dreams,” he gasped.

A dark shadow suddenly raced past him in a fury of hoof beats almost knocking him off of his feet into a stall laden with fragile-looking baskets of chickens and various other poultry. He caught himself from faltering into the pile of clucking madness. He stared ahead, a dozen paces away, as darkness settled close to the beauty, halting its mount so near her.

“Campbell,” Niall hissed.

The crowd quickly closed in around him. They, too, knew the queen had arrived in Leith that day. Only Niall seemed to know the devil himself had come to greet her on a black steed.

He glanced at the stall of chickens. An audience with the queen. He would have to distract those about her, and, in the same instant, come to her rescue.

T
he man Sabine was ordered to marry by the queen’s command had come to greet her. She reached beneath her cloak and tapped her
sac
to comfort her turbulent mind.

She told herself not to be foolish. Lord Campbell had come to see his queen. Seeing Sabine had to be secondary. This thought brought her little succor.

Sabine followed Mary off the gangplank onto the muddy wharf. Fifteen people preceded her, the ladies-in-waiting and the ten
femmes-de-chambre
. She was last in the procession. The instinct to turn and flee to the galleon and hide deep within its salty hold surged many times in her. She had to will her leaden feet forward, taking each step with determination.

Urgent whispers rippled through the line of velvet cloaked ladies and attendants.

“Has no one but Lord Campbell and this gaggle of commonfolk come to greet Her Majesty?” Sabine heard Mary Fleming whisper.

At the foot of the gangplank Sabine allowed the others to walk away from her. She strained to see along the wharf, through the gathered crowd and the mist. The savages were out there waiting. She could feel them as well as she felt the tremor of her own fear of the many unknowns before her.

Sabine stepped forward into ankle deep mud. She grabbed her cloak and gown and lifted them up as best she could while retaining courtly dignity. The others had walked far ahead of her, so her embarrassment was her own. She pulled her feet out of the filthy quagmire with a rude sucking sound. Her slippers were a complete loss.

“
Merde,
” she said under her breath.

“I have but a cursory understanding of the French, but I’ll wager you’re not at all happy with my country so far.”

Sabine froze. She stared up the long, bony body of a man immaculately clad in dark stockings, pantaloons, and doublet. Equally as dark were his neatly-trimmed beard and peppery curls of hair under a jaunty velvet cap topped with an ostrich plume. His face was flushed as if he had been on a recent and hard ride.

“
Oui
,” she uttered, “I understand you,
monsieur
.”

“Good,” the man said as he stared up and down her.

Sabine, in turn, stared at his pointy face, at the wide eyes, the raised brow, the sneer of surprised disgust on thin lips. His reaction was more common than she cared count.

She hastily glanced away from her betrothed to the queen. The ladies and the
femmes-de-chambre
, too distant to conceal her, hovered protectively about their sovereign.

“Pardon, monsieur,”
she said, stepping away from the man in dark velvet and brocade.

“Her Majesty arrived a wee bit early,” he said. “We were expecting her in a fortnight.”

Sabine tipped her chin up, craving the huddle about the queen. A crowd of spectators had gathered around them—a ring of pink faces and the gray wool clothing. The queen appeared not vexed by the situation. She looked positively radiant from the hushed adoration of the crowd about her.

As if sensing her worry, he said, “We have met, you know, on several brief occasions in the French court. Yet, allow me to introduce myself again, as I fear you may have forgotten me. I am Lord John Campbell at your service”—he paused and tossed a glance at the crowd—“and Her Majesty’s, of course.” He looked long at her. “I have ridden from Edinburgh on another errand only to find that Scotland has been made more lovely…” He stole a glance at he her right hand, paused, then said, “…now that you’ve arrived.”

“Your thoughts should only be for your queen,” she snapped. Were all Scottish men were as rude as he?

“And for my betrothed,” he said, taking her right hand and raising it to his lips. He looked at it, paused, and gave the back of her hand a quick, dry kiss, much like the peck of a hen in dust.

Sabine could only glance away with a bitter swallow as she took possession of her right hand and tucked it beneath her cloak.

“Ah,” he said, looking up the cobbled street, a ghost of relief on his face, “the carriage has arrived. I shall welcome Her Majesty. Never fear, I shall return to assist you in good time.”

Sabine watched him walk away. Good. She could never fear as long as that
fripon
was a good distance from her. Escape from him and this nasty country would come none too soon for her.

A cry rose up in the crowd.

She whirled around and was suddenly filled with more fear than the day she sailed from Calais.

“
Mon Dieu!
” she cried.

A chicken flailed toward her, parting the crowd then terrifyingly sought sudden refuge under her skirts. She flapped the many layers of velvet and brocade at the excited bird as it raced about her legs. Tiny claws ripped into her silken stockings scratching her tender flesh.

She dropped her skirts. Birds calmed in the dark. She prayed this was true. Then she looked up.

A horrible man,
non
a monster, rushed toward her. His dark cloak flapped open. A cross-hatched patterned wool skirt beat against powerful reddened knees above calves wrapped in strips of frayed wool. Piecemeal leather shoes pounded the mud. Hair, the color of a fiery sunset after a storm, blew back from his face. Then he threw his body at her feet and disappeared halfway under her gown.

Sabine tried to leap away from the creatures beneath her gown, but the crowd had pressed around her, staring. She could not help but act a consummate fool and scream when savage hands grabbed her legs, taking advantage.

Her body turned rigid as her attacker rose before her.

All she could do was gasp.

Penetrating, bright, fierce eyes, the blue of an Alpine river, stole her breath. Damp, wavy, auburn locks framed a heart-stopping face of perfect furrows and ridges. His lips turned upward into a grin. Sabine forced herself to breathe. This was a true savage of Scotland.

“Got ye,” he said, sounding more Scots than Lady Fleming herself.

Sabine heard herself breathe from far away, “
Oui.
”

She feared her struggle with the
sauvage
before her had just begun.

N
iall dropped the chicken. It weaved away into the crowd. His plan had worked. He had not saved the queen, but he was nearer to her, very near to this intended of Campbell’s, this royal pawn.

While staring deep into the deep dark eyes that studied his own eyes with as much intensity, he silently celebrated this wee victory. This woman, a beauty among beauties, was Campbell’s prize from the queen. That much he had heard and seen, ’twas no longer rumor. Yet, from the conversation Niall had overheard, from the way this French lass had looked and stood apart from Campbell, she was none too fond of the impending nuptials. Had he found a kindred spirit, tenuous at best, but they seemed to share the same sentiments toward Campbell, if his eyes and ears did not deceive him. He feared, though, he would only have a moment to state his demands to her, so a moment would have to suffice.

The woman tipped her chin up a little, revealing the long line of her neck to the stiff collar of silk and lace concealing her throat. Her dark gaze, as sparkling as the spring waters of Loch Katrine, captured and disarmed him.

She had the presence to be queen. Her noble, regal bearing, as she condescended to him with one gaze.

Niall swallowed again. He was so close to her. His left hand rested inside her cloak, his fingers brushing a soft leather purse. He clenched his fist about it without thinking, a reflex. Dear God, how lovely she was standing there making small, nervous breaths over perfect lips. She stared hard into his eyes as if she was afraid of him, as if she expected him to do something.

“Scotland
sauvage
,” she said with a toss of her head. Her hood slipped down. Hair darker than pitch spilled out. It glistened in the mist. The tendrils dangled against the porcelain skin of as lovely a face as he had ever seen. ’Twas a shame she was a French snot.

Niall’s mind turned over rapidly. He must seek an audience with Her Majesty through this woman. He did have a repute for charming the lassies of his glen. This comely lass should be no problem. If she would only lower her chin a wee bit.