Authors: Patricia McAllister
“Your Majesty?” she softly inquired, drawing back the curtain and letting a pale shaft of light fall upon the bolsters there. The head with thin gray hair shifted. Merry gently touched the withered cheek, and nodded at Harington. Fumbling with his book a moment, he read aloud, understanding what was needed. His verses had oft amused Elizabeth, and his clear, strong voice kept the shadows at bay, if but for a moment.
Merry eased herself down into the chair beside the bed, and listened as well. When he finished, and the page crackled over, a querulous but surprisingly firm voice issued from the bed.
“When thou dost feel creeping time at thy gate, these fooleries will please thee less. I am past relish for such matters. Thou seest my bodily meat doth not suit me well. I have eaten but one ill-tasted cake since yesterday night.”
Harington’s eyebrow arched, but Merry smiled at the familiar tart tones. “Mayn’t we summon something from the kitchens to break your fast, Your Majesty?”
A thin, spotted hand waved impatiently above the bed. “Conspire as y’will, Madame Lindsay. But let not the bread be stale.”
For a few days there was renewed hope, yet on the fourth Elizabeth’s strength ebbed again, and in desperation her Council and attendants sent for Admiral Lord Nottingham. He was the queen’s closest surviving relation, the oldest of her friends. He coaxed Elizabeth into swallowing some broth, and indeed she reminded Merry of a child with her trusting air in those moments. She felt her own babe stir, and laid a protective hand upon her belly.
Sir Robert Cecil entered then and told Elizabeth she must go to bed, it would please her people greatly if she slept, rested. Always the queen had considered public opinion critical, and yet his request was met with a spark of high dudgeon this time.
Elizabeth turned upon Cecil and sharply reminded him “must” was not a word to be used with princes. “Little man, little man, if your father had lived, you daren’t not have said so much, but thou knowest I must die, and that maketh thee so presumptuous.” The Tudor spirit never truly flagged, Merry saw, though Sir Robert’s jaw was seen to sag a bit.
A short time later, Nottingham coaxed the queen to retire, and when she did not sleep, the Council decided the matter of succession must be firmly established. They assembled round her bed, and though Merry was not privy to the discourse, she later heard they had mentioned the King of France, testing Elizabeth’s wits, but she did not react. They suggested Lady Catherine Grey’s son, Lord Beauchamp. The spark flared again.
“I will have the son of no rascal in my seat,” Elizabeth indignantly rasped, and the wits were declared intact at such juncture. At last King James was mentioned, and accounts varied on her reaction, but it was gathered one of approval by remark or sign.
When the archbishop was sent for, Merry closed her eyes, wishing Ran was there with her. It was hell pacing the antechamber with the other women, most of them sniveling maids or wailing old hens. Merry had little respect for most of them. Many had forsaken the aged Gloriana, weary over the loss of gaiety and trifles so rampant in the early years of the reign. Oft Merry had heard the queen mutter, “There are none left whom I can trust.” The mere fact she stated such in Merry’s presence seemed a compliment, and indeed she preferred Merry and Mistress Southwell to any of the other ladies.
The last time Merry saw the queen it was in the wee hours before Lady-Day, and she had entered one last time with a cup of warm broth. Robert Carey waved her away, and Merry’s gaze fell upon the shriveled figure in the bed as she turned. She felt a shiver of premonition then, and touched the amulet at her throat. Within an hour, the bells tolled.
Merry pushed through the knot of weeping women, hurried into the hall and was met with the open arms of her husband. She flew into his embrace and Ran clutched her tightly, letting the sobs roll through her and steadying her as best he could.
He ran a hand over her hair, soothing her, whispering endearments until she calmed. Finally Merry drew a ragged breath, but not for the reason he expected. Her water had broken. Her fine hose and slippers were soaked. She looked at her husband wide-eyed, and despite the sober moment Ran chuckled.
“Not again, lass.”
Merry giggled. “Aye, milord. Again.”
While Elizabeth’s funeral procession passed through the streets to Westminster, and throngs gathered in witness to the passing of a great sovereign and a marvelous era of discovery and romance, one woman labored in a small Richmond apartment, alone but for an unfamiliar midwife.
Merry grit her teeth with each rising contraction, cursing the plague of being female. Her sons had been relatively quick, easy births, but this one had ebbed and flowed for hours, and she was exhausted. Kat was en route to London, but she knew her sister would not arrive before the blessed event, and her mother was in Ireland. She felt alone and distressed over missing the tributes and honors being paid Elizabeth. She was fretting when a shadow fell over the bed. Merry glanced up, panting still from the last contraction.
“Ran!”
Her husband winked. In a thick Highland brogue he said, “Now we canna be breakin’ wi’ Lindsay tradition, lass.”
Within moments he had banished the unfamiliar midwife and assumed quiet, surprisingly calm control of the situation. Merry was astounded and delighted, but never more so than when he cradled their slick, newborn daughter in his hands, gazed down into unfocused blue eyes and softly declared, “Elizabeth Meredith Lindsay, meet your sire.”
The Wolf of Badanloch grinned.
Author's Note
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed
Snow Raven
, the final book in my Raven series. I felt compelled to write this story after reading about Clan Lindsay history and the legends of Edzell.
You can find my other titles, including the first two Raven books, on Amazon. I also write under the name Brit Darby with author Fela Dawson Scott. If you love Celtic characters and settings, you’ll be enchanted by
Emerald Prince
, a medieval set in the day of the dastardly King John.
With Dragons She Walks
is a historical romantic fantasy peppered with Picts and Vikings aplenty. Please join me for blog and book updates at www.britdarby.com
Best regards,
Patricia McAllister
p.s. I love hearing from readers. If you want advance notice of future releases, please drop me an email at [email protected] and ask to be added to my notification list. Rest assured your contact info stays private.
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