CHAPTER SIXTEEN

W ORD REGARDING R OWAN'S incarceration in Edinburgh reached Gwenyth in a cruel way.

She knew her time of confinement was approaching soon, but beneath a great cloak, her condition was scarcely noticeable. She had trusted few people with the truth of her pregnancy, due to the strangeness of her situation. She had never known that such an about-face could occur, that she could be so "loved" by the queen she served that she could only find safety by being imprisoned by another.

After the first anxious, torturous months, she had learned there was nothing to do but practice patience and find activities to keep her occupied. The only word she had at first came from Mary herself—who bade her to remember obedience and ordered her to continue to keep reminding the English queen at every opportunity that the fate of England rested on recognizing Mary as her heir. Mary wrote to her that she was a good and beloved friend. She didn't mention a word about Rowan or her marriage.

The four Marys kept up with letters to her, as well, but they tended to be very chatty, and offered no real information. She wondered if they were afraid their correspondence might be read.

Time passed so slowly, and she received no word at all from Rowan, which disturbed her greatly. But she had to make the time pass, and, despite her own sick fervor and worry, she couldn't allow herself to fall ill.

She had the babe to think about. And when she felt too sorry for herself, she unwaveringly ordered herself not to die in childbirth. She intended to make nothing easy for those who were tormenting her—which, she sadly admitted to herself, meant Mary of Scotland. In her own letters she took great care with her words, going back and forth daily on whether or not to pour out her heart to the queen, to appeal to the woman who was so madly in love with Darnley that she should have been the first one to understand similar feelings in a loyal subject.

But she hesitated, afraid to speak freely to Mary after what Elizabeth told her and after learning more and more about the situation from Maitland. Mary was no longer the woman she had known; Darnley had changed her.

So Gwenyth sought to pass the time well, walking in the courtyard, tending to her mind, her spirit and her health. She knew that Mary of Scotland passed many a government council meeting by sewing or embroidering, but those were arts that, sadly, she had not mastered herself. Instead she kept a journal. Her life as a prisoner wasn't entirely wretched. She was being held in the Beauchamp Tower of the great fortification, and she was free to attend services in the White Tower on Sundays, and free to roam the halls there. The wardens had begun to display arms from throughout the centuries in the Tower, and she could roam at will and study the various forms of defense, and the ways they had changed over the years. There was an excellent library, and she was welcome to make free use of the books.

Elizabeth was not at all a cruel jailer; she even sent for Gwenyth upon occasion, though she did so in secret. As time passed, she grew less and less prone to discuss Mary Stuart and her husband. Gwenyth knew, however, that Elizabeth did not wish her ill.

Then, as Gwenyth walked the Tower grounds with Annie one day, she walked straight into another of the "guests."

She hadn't known Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox and the mother of Lord Darnley; she hadn't even known the woman was back in England until she had heard, through gossip, that the woman was in the Tower, as well, arrested on the queen's order due to her son's marriage, which Elizabeth had not sanctioned.

Margaret Douglas was a woman with her own connection to the throne of England. Her mother had been Margaret Tudor, Queen Mary's grandmother, through Margaret Tudor's second marriage to a Scottish earl. She was still a grandchild of Henry VII, and therefore had her own place in the line of succession.

These days, she was certainly feeling extremely bitter about her "cousin" Elizabeth's ill treatment of her. Slim, agile, still attractive, with a strong face and a stronger stance, she strode toward Gwenyth with long and furious steps.

They had never met, but Gwenyth instantly realized who she must be and would have greeted her politely, but she was given no chance.

Lady Margaret Douglas raised a finger and pointed it at her. "You! They say the queen writes more letters on your behalf than any other. But that cannot be true. I am Henry's mother! I have royal blood in my veins, while you…you are whore to that wretched man who spurned his righteous queen and took up with the likes of James Stewart, the ungrateful bastard child of the king who was my half brother's child. Wretched little witch, you must have the queen enchanted. But trust me, you will rot in hell, just as he rots in Edinburgh Castle now. They will proclaim him a traitor, and he will die a traitor's death!"

The maid who was walking with the countess quickly set a hand upon the woman's arm, while Annie stepped in front of Gwenyth like a bulldog, as if expecting the other woman to attempt physical violence. One of the castle guards came rushing forward, as well.

The countess had evidently not lost her mind entirely, even if she dared much because of her Tudor blood. She satisfied herself by spitting on the ground at Gwenyth's feet and walking away.

"M'lady!" Annie said, turning to her.

Gwenyth knew she had gone pale. No one had told her that Rowan was being held in Edinburgh. That he had been accused of treason.

"I'm fine," she told Annie, and stared at her maid, "Why didn't you tell me? You had to know. Someone out there had to know!"

Annie's face betrayed her. She had known.

Just as Queen Elizabeth had known.

"You can't be upset, my dear, dear lass," Annie insisted. "Think of the babe…" She trailed off, staring at Gwenyth, who stared back at her, a crooked grin of pain and irony upon her lips.

"The babe?" she said, as if in question. "The babe is coming."

G WENYTH ACTUALLY WELCOMED the pain of childbirth; it kept her from worrying so frantically about the fate of her baby's father.

Treason.

It was a dire accusation. Men and women were executed for such a crime. He might die never knowing his child. In fact, she thought wildly, she didn't even know if he had been told that she was expecting.

Then, when her child was born, when he gave out a lusty wail and Annie announced that she had a beautiful and healthy son, she forgot even the father as she cradled her infant with awe.

He had come with a full head of hair and blue eyes. Ten fingers, ten toes. She counted. He was miraculous. He was so perfect. He was… hers.

And Rowan's.

She forced herself to banish fear from her mind for just a moment and lay in pure wonderment, watching him greet his new life, adoring him when he cried, falling in love with him all over again as he suckled. She wouldn't let Annie take him away until the midwife insisted that she must have some rest, and even then, it was only due to the hefty brandy she was given that she was able to sleep.

When she awoke, she cried out, and Annie saw to it that the babe was brought instantly to her side. Once again she counted his fingers and toes, stared into the grave little eyes that seemed to return her stare, and lay amazed.

It was only later that worry slipped back into her mind with a vengeance.

What if his father was about to lose his head, or hang by the neck? Worse, Scottish traitors sometimes had to face the horrible fate of being drawn and quartered….

When she cried aloud, Annie hushed her with a stern warning. "You'll make the babe sick. You'll not be able to nurse him yourself, if you ruin your milk by growing so upset."

Gwenyth didn't know if such a thing was possible, but she dared not ignore the warning, so she tried to reassure herself by insisting that they could not execute Rowan. They could not possibly believe him a traitor.

But she knew that they could. How many had died near the very place where she had birthed her child? Tyburn tree sat just beyond these walls. Thousands had died there. Thousands who were surely innocent of the charges they had faced.

This was England, but Scotland, her beloved Scotland, could be just as cruel. Laws and lands were only as just as those who ruled them, and Mary—this Mary—was not the even-handed queen she once had been.

Thomas came to see the babe, and as he tenderly held the child, he, like Annie, tried to reassure her.

"The Queen of Scots will not dare harm Laird Rowan. She continually postpones his trial, knowing that far too many nobles will rally to her brother's side if she raises a hand against a man who has been known as nothing but fair, who has never done anything other than fight for Scotland. You'll see, m'lady. The lad's father will be fine."

"Thomas, you have to tell me. What was his crime? Did he take up arms against the queen?"

"No, he did not. He was arrested merely for his association with James. The people are for him. He might have run, might have fought, but he did not. He trusted in his queen. She will not execute him. He has never grasped for power, has refused to kill when there was no battle. Neither the nobles nor the people would stomach his execution, and the queen well knows that."

"You told me none of this," Gwenyth said accusingly.

"There seemed no reason, my lady," Thomas said. "We didn't want you upset. It could have been dangerous for the babe."

"He needs a proper name," Annie reminded her. "We must all think of a perfect name for a perfect child."

"Rowan, for his father," Gwenyth said.

"Ah, perhaps, just perhaps, it's not my decision…but my laird's father was called Daniel. Perhaps Daniel Rowan," Thomas suggested.

Gwenyth said the name aloud. "Daniel Rowan Graham."

"You must do as you wish," Thomas said.

"Daniel Rowan Graham," Gwenyth repeated. "That is his name. And he must be baptized here, and quickly, as well as quietly."

Both Thomas and Annie were silent for a moment, knowing it was sadly true that the child should be baptized quickly. Infants died easily, and none would have a child depart to the next life without being duly baptized.

Arrangements were quickly made. As they had stood to witness her wedding, Gwenyth knew none but these two must stand as her son's godparents.

"Ah, dear lady, you need finer folk than us to be godparents to this child," Thomas told her. "You need godparents with power and riches—"

"No," she informed him bitterly, for those with power and riches had seemed to turn on her. "I will have you, who love him, stand for him before God."

Thomas and Annie looked at one another, and it was agreed.

D ANIEL WAS BUT A FEW days old, a beautiful, sound, lusty baby, when he was brought to the chapel and duly baptized. The ceremony was performed by Ormsby, the same minister who had spoken her wedding rite, and she was pleased.

At the last minute they were startled by a noise at the back of the chapel. When Gwenyth turned, afraid—and instantly ready to do battle for the life of her infant son—she saw that Elizabeth had come. "Proceed," Gwenyth told Ormsby, unsure what the queen's advent presaged.

In the end, the Queen of England did not partake in the ceremony in any way, but she was there, just as she had been for Gwenyth's marriage to Rowan.

And when the baptism had ended, Elizabeth told Gwenyth that a small supper had been set up in the Beauchamp Tower, and she would speak with her there.

As they sat together over the meal, Elizabeth did not touch the babe, but she admired him. Gwenyth wondered if she looked at the child and perhaps wondered what it would be like to have such a son herself, an heir to the English crown. But there was something in her stance and resolve that told Gwenyth she was determined to manage her world alone in her lifetime. As she watched her cousin's difficulties across the border, no doubt Elizabeth realized anew that she was a female ruler in a man's world. She was tenacious, and she didn't mean to allow anyone to dispute her claims, her decision on a mate. Therefore, there would be no mate.

Beside the cradle, which had belonged originally to the first Daniel Graham and had been brought from the town house, Elizabeth handed Gwenyth a rolled parchment, complete with the royal seal.

"Thank you," Gwenyth murmured, curious at the gift, too well-mannered to open it then.

Elizabeth smiled. "It's a land grant. A tract in Yorkshire. Safe behind well-established English lines, close enough to your native Scotland. It is his—" she said, nodding toward the baby "—and his alone. He is the newly created Lord of Allenshire." She inhaled. "I think it best not to announce his birth now. But, due to the service and pleasant company of both his parents, I am delighted to offer him my protection."

Gwenyth was silent, feeling both gratitude and a chill sweep over her. His father might have perished already. She herself might never be able to return home.

But Daniel had a royal protector.

She went down on one knee, taking Elizabeth's hand. "From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your gift."

"You're welcome. I seldom meet people who are completely honest with me—especially while serving another." She smiled suddenly. "I have a better gift for you, I believe."

"There can be no better gift than Your Majesty's protection," Gwenyth said.

Elizabeth was amused. "But there is. My dear cousin Mary is said to be giving birth soon. She has sent a letter, begging that I give you leave to go to her. I have written to her in reply, suggesting that she release those prisoners she herself holds unjustly." She lowered her voice. "The gift I grant you is time with your child. It is my strong suggestion that you not take him to Scotland with you. You must convince the queen to give her blessing to your marriage first. You don't want this babe proclaimed a bastard."

Gwenyth gritted her teeth, lowering her head. The world seemed to spin. She suddenly knew what it was like to be more than willing to die for another. She would fight until her last breath for her child—even if that meant leaving him in England while she went north, there to fight for herself and her husband.

"You have given me such tremendous gifts," Gwenyth said to Elizabeth. "I am beyond grateful, and I cannot possibly repay them."

"Your gift to me in return, Lady Gwenyth, will be for you to maintain your honesty and ethics. Royal personages, flattered day and night, appreciate words of truth. Now, there is someone who will come to see the child later this week, a rather sad and embittered fellow himself."

"Who?"

"James Stewart, Earl of Moray, who has come to my country seeking sanctuary. I cannot, will not, give him arms or a blessing to fight the rightful Scottish sovereign, Mary, even if his cause is mine and in my heart I believe it to be right."

The world seemed to sway in truth. James Stewart was here. His cause abandoned as he fled. She knew that he dared not return to Scotland now. And Rowan had been accused of supporting his rebellion!

"Thank you," she managed.

Elizabeth studied her. "I wish I could say that all will be well, but I'm afraid that I have lived through far too much to lie. I can tell you that I believe you will always do what's right, and that, surely, God will bless you."

Would God do so?

Put not thy faith in princes….

She had to be strong. She had to believe.

James came at the end of the week. He was exceptionally joyful, given the fact that he was by nature dour and undemonstrative.

He had always been a good friend to Rowan, though, and to the queen. It was sad that they should have had such a terrible falling out.

"When did you last see my Laird Rowan?" she asked him anxiously.

James told her when they had last met, in the Borders. "I think that, in time, his faith will prove justified," James assured her. "The Lennoxes fear his power, but then…Lady Lennox is here, is she not?" he asked with wry humor. Then he studied the child again. "Well, he is a mite, no more. Very fine head of hair. His father's hair, so it seems." He looked at her. "And the blood of a king flows in his veins, as well."

"Something that doesn't please me, I'm afraid," Gwenyth told him.

"Oh?"

"It seems to me that the children of kings are ever fearful of what the other children of kings may want."

James looked at her. "I would never have sought to hurt my sister. I only hoped to stop the tyrannical sway of the idiot she wed and keep his family from sheer lunacy, and the power-hungry barons from destroying my country in their thirst for control."

Gwenyth was silent as she wondered whether Mary knew and believed that her brother would never have harmed her, and she shivered.

She was surprised when James set a fatherly arm around her shoulders. "Mary will not execute Rowan," he said, apparently having discerned her thoughts. "You know how she feels about violence."

"Aye."

"Take comfort in that," James advised. "You've been summoned back to her side. Indeed, you have seen the way Mary writes. She has begged for your return. Though she does not know it, she needs you to bring some sense into her life."

"She must be so angry with Rowan to have imprisoned him."

"Go to her first as her friend, only then can you speak to her on Rowan's behalf."

"I'll try to remember all that you have said, and all that I have learned, being so often in your company."

James smiled, pleased. "You will leave soon. Godspeed."

She thanked him, assuring him that, somehow, he and Mary would find peace, too, though in truth, she wondered. Feared.

There was simply so little peace to be found when considering the lives of those of royal blood.

G WENYTH STAYED A MONTH more, quietly, in the Tower.

She was torn the entire time. She could not leave her babe when he was so young, yet she dared not tarry longer, even though every report that came from Scotland assured her that the queen was meeting with Rowan. She was resolute on putting off a trial, urging him to declare his absolute loyalty to her crown and her king.

Hearing some of the reports, Gwenyth secretly damned him.

Swear whatever she wants, she urged him silently. Save yourself.

But she knew Rowan, and he would opt for care, consideration and the truth. He would never swear an oath that he did not mean. And it wasn't that he didn't wholeheartedly serve his queen. He would simply refuse to pledge himself to Darnley or damn James Stewart, and that would be that.

Finally, the day came when she felt she had to leave her son in the care of Thomas, Annie and the nurse.

"Ye're beautiful," Annie said. "With the figure of a lass again, so quickly. Ach, at times, ye don't look old enough to be the mother of this fine child." There were tears in the older woman's eyes, a sign of her genuine sadness that she wouldn't be going to Scotland with her mistress, but Gwenyth had told her that she trusted no one other than his godparents to look after Daniel.

Gwenyth cried, holding Daniel, then kissing Thomas and Annie goodbye.

She had been given an English escort; they would see her to the Borders, where she would be met by a company of Scottish soldiers, who would lead her safely on to Edinburgh.

When she left the Tower itself, alone and by barge, she looked back.

Lady Margaret Douglas was on the lawn. Still imprisoned. She must have known that Mary had demanded Gwenyth's return and not her own. A chill fell over Gwenyth as the woman cried out, "Witch! Go on, harlot! She lets you leave, and not me, for you are a traitor to Queen Mary. Don't think they do not beg for my release. Mary has written endless letters on my behalf. She pleads with Elizabeth to release me. I am held unjustly. But you…you bring your spells and enchantments before the queen and now the king, my son! I know it's you—you who have caused the strife. They turn on my son because of witches like you. God will have his way. You will die, harlot witch, and the fires of hell will destroy you!"

The woman was insane, Gwenyth thought, driven mad because she'd plotted and planned to get her son married to the Queen of Scotland, but she was paying a price.

No, she wasn't insane, and that was what was most frightening. She was simply furious. She was being a mother, protecting her child.

She had no right to treat Gwenyth so cruelly, but that didn't matter. At some point, somehow, Gwenyth would have to find a way to forgive the woman, even befriend her, for she was Mary of Scotland's mother-in-law, and Gwenyth was the queen's lady.

Gwenyth found herself praying that Elizabeth kept Margaret imprisoned in the Tower for a very long time.

R OWAN'S IMPRISONMENT was not without comfort, but for a man of action, it was exceedingly frustrating, for he was held to his room in the castle. There he spent endless days pacing, finding ways to release his pent-up energy, doing what he could to work his muscles. He was well taken care of, and he did not believe that Mary wished him ill. In her mind, he had conspired with James, and James had thoroughly drawn her wrath. She had lifted him up, given him titles and land, and he had shown her the worst possible ingratitude. Mary's greatest fault lay in her frankness; she was not a person for whom intrigue came easily. Rowan had learned he was not yet facing a trial because evidence of his treason was still being studied.

In early spring, Mary came to visit him, and she was not the same woman he had faced only months earlier.

He had heard that she was pregnant. In December, the rumors had begun, though it had been whispered that the queen was merely ill. Then news came that she was expecting, and that, he knew, was a moment of sheer joy for all of Scotland. Should Mary have died without issue, there might well have been anarchy. James was illegitimate, as were many other possible contenders for the crown. Darnley would be a candidate, but one so hated it would be almost impossible for him to rule, despite his Lennox associations.

She did not, however, appear to be an ecstatic mother-to-be when she came to the castle to speak with him, her "traitorous" subject. She came with a number of attendants, including her wizened new favorite, the musician and now her secretary, Riccio.

Rowan stiffened, knowing that not only James but many of her nobles—even those loyal to her and her marriage—loathed the man. Only recently had the queen come to depend so desperately on him, and Rowan knew in his heart it was another mistake on her part.

Her husband, however, was not with her.

Rowan rose hastily, paying her the honor due her. "Leave us," she told the others. The warder hesitated, as if Rowan had been a bloodthirsty murderer rather than a loyal subject who had submitted to this degradation rather than create any possible conflict. He would have been resentful, had the queen not said impatiently, "Leave me. Good God, the man is my nephew. He will not harm me."

Everyone disappeared down the corridor, and the warder, still wary, closed the door at last.

"My deepest congratulations," Rowan said, nodding toward her swelling belly.

She arched a brow. "In this, at least, my marriage is a success."

He held his tongue; whatever she had just said, Mary did not wish to hear anyone preaching to her about her choice of husband. "I'm sure, Your Grace, that you will always do as you see fit. And Scotland will be grateful for an heir."

"The heir has not yet breathed his first," she pointed out.

"There is no reason for you to fear. You are young and have the strength of…of a queen," he said softly.

"I am sorry to do this to you," she told him.

"I believe that you are."

"But you have betrayed me."

"Never."

"You will not call James the traitor that he is."

"I never lifted arms against you."

"No," she said, and there was a petulant tone in her voice when she went on. "You were busy seducing one of my ladies."

"I love her, Your Grace."

"That is ridiculous."

"I beg your pardon?"

She waved a hand in the air, brushing him aside as she sat and turned away. He remained standing. "Only a fool believes in love."

She looked at him suddenly, her huge, dark eyes wide and haunted. "I have married Henry, married him before God. I have lifted him up. And he is a fool. A very pretty fool, but a fool nonetheless."

"He is your child's father."

"A pity," she said bitterly.

He kept silent, knowing there was nothing he could say that would not be a mistake.

"I have made this bed…" she murmured.

He knelt down before her, taking her hands, searching her face. "Mary, you are my queen. Scotland's queen. You entered into a marriage you deeply desired. You…chose to lift Darnley up as your…more than your consort."

She offered him a wry smile. "A Scottish parliament will never grant him the title of king in his own right. I see that now, and I see why. He cares nothing for government. He is vain and selfish. He wants only to hunt and gamble and drink…and spend his nights whoring, I imagine. What have I done?" she whispered.

"Mary, you have been a good queen. You must remain a good queen. You are the sovereign. If any at your side demand that you go against your own better judgment, deny them. Be the Queen Mary your subjects love, and don't let any man take that from you."

She nodded, offering him a slight smile. "I can't let you go, you know."

"I have never offered you harm. I have never offered you anything but my loyalty."

"I believe you."

"Then…?"

"I can't let you go. I brought charges against you. Now they must be disproved."

"How do you suggest that I disprove your charges?"

"Publicly deny James. Call him the traitor that he is."

He lowered his head. "Mary, you have just said that—"

"That I married a weak-willed, spineless, debauched husband?"

He arched a brow to her, as always keeping silent rather than agreeing with such remarks.

She shook her head. "James played me falsely, acting as if the nobles would entertain such an alliance, then standing firmly against it. Elizabeth is quite right in the games she plays. She knows there is no man she can marry who her subjects will accept without going to war. It is truly not fair that queens must suffer this idiocy while kings do not. But the point is that James did not know enough about Henry to loathe him, he was simply furious with the shift of power."

"Perhaps he was insulted that his advice meant nothing once you met Darnley."

She shook her head sadly. "What has come between us…it is bitter. Because Henry's mother was such good friends with Mary Tudor, because of my Catholicism…he thought that he could raise the Protestants against me. I have done nothing!"

"Mary, I beg you, reconsider your stance on Laird James. You two have been too close for you to let this divide go on forever."

She looked at him very seriously. "I should prize you deeply, but…you stand so hard on his behalf."

"But I don't stand against you."

She rose suddenly, walking across the room. "You do know that I was absolutely furious with Lord Bothwell. Then he escaped imprisonment here, and now he has wheedled his way back into my good graces."

He smiled. "Are you suggesting that I escape?"

"Would a queen suggest such a thing? Never!" she proclaimed. But then she leaned down by him where he remained upon one knee and planted a kiss on his cheek. "I needed to see you," she said. "I know that I can trust you, that you will not repeat my words. Good day, Laird of Lochraven."

She went out the door, and he did not hear the locks snick in her wake. Still, he waited, waited until the moon rose high over the castle walls.

The door was not locked.

He slipped out to the hallway. There was no guard. He strode to the winding stairs that led from the tower where he'd been incarcerated to the winding turret stairs that led straight to the yard. He kept close to the building as he stepped out into the night. A quick look up showed him that there were guards atop the parapets.

A movement in the night warned him that someone was near. He held dead still, waiting. He had no intention of doing murder now.

Someone moved furtively near him. He waited, taking great care, then shot out in the dark when the figure was almost upon him, catching the fellow unawares, his arm around the man's torso and his free hand clamped over the man's mouth.

"Don't betray me. I don't wish to hurt you."

A soft mumbling came in response. Still keeping the greatest care to constrain the man and see his face, he turned him, and a smile sprang to his lips.

It was Gavin.

Rowan released his hold and said in relief, "Gavin."

"My Lord, come. We need to hurry. I do not entirely know what is happening, but the queen's lapdog, that little whelp of a man Riccio, suggested that I come tonight with a hay wagon and a monk's cloak."

Riccio?

The mention of the man's name was not reassuring, but he had heard that the queen trusted him in all things, and so long as the man did the queen's bidding, not that of the nominal king…

"Where is the cloak?"

"Here, on the ground. I dropped it when I thought you were a guard near, intent on slitting my throat."

"I'm sorry. I thought you were a guard."

"Well, here we are, and I suggest that we hurry."

Gavin stooped quickly to retrieve the lost bundle of coarse brown wool. Rowan immediately slipped the cloak over his head and around his shoulders, pulling the hood low.

"This way," Gavin said softly.

Rowan bent his head as if in deep prayer, and clasped his hands together before him. They passed by a number of people busy at their assigned tasks, even so late in the night. A silversmith was rolling up his tarp, a tinker closing the cover over his basket of needles and small wares.

"The wagon is yonder," Gavin said.

They did not walk too fast, nor did they go too slow. As they reached the hay-strewn vehicle, Rowan saw that it was pulled by a single white horse. It was one of his own from the stables at Castle Grey, an older but reliable warhorse, Ajax. He was still capable of picking up speed, once they had cleared the gates.

"Best you hide yourself in the hay, my Laird Rowan."

"I think not. I think we're safer if I sit at your side."

"Oh? And what do you know of being a monk?"

"Not much, my good man. But neither do I care to be skewered if a guard chooses to thrust his weapon into the hay, searching for contraband."

"Ah," Gavin murmured. "Hop up."

And so they both sat atop the driver's plank on the poor wagon, and Rowan took up the reins. They crossed the courtyard and came to the gate, where the guard looked at them curiously. As Rowan had expected he might, he held a long pike.

"Where are ye off to, this hour o'the night?" he demanded.

"The priory atop the hill. I have been summoned by a woman of the queen's own true faith," Rowan replied.

The guard scowled but didn't insist on seeing Rowan's face. Rather, he moved to the back of the wagon and began thrusting his weapon into the hay, just as Rowan had feared.

"True faith indeed," he muttered beneath his breath. "Pass."

Rowan didn't reply, only flicked the reins, and Ajax obediently moved forward.

Rowan forced himself to keep the horse at a slow gait while they made their way from the city and past the most heavily populated area, but as soon as they entered the woods beyond the fields, he again flicked the reins, urging Ajax to go faster.

They had nearly reached the farmhouse that Gavin had told him was their goal when he knew they were being followed. He quickly drove the wagon off the road, into the trees.

"How many?" Gavin asked tensely.

He listened. "Two, no more."

Gavin drew a knife from one of the leather sheaves at his calf and quickly handed it over. "I dared bring no larger weapons," he apologized.

"It doesn't matter. We have to catch these men and bind them. I cannot kill them."

Gavin looked at him as if he had gone mad. "They will come with swords, m'laird. Do we die here tonight?"

"Nay, we take grave care."

He rid himself of the cumbersome cloak and cowl, and glanced around, glad of the darkness. "There," he told Gavin, pointing across the road. Then he turned to quickly catch a branch and shinny up an old oak.

Gavin had scarcely found his own position before the horsemen came trotting down the road. Indeed, they were castle guards.

"He'll have headed north, to his Highland fortress!" one said, not even bothering to lower his voice.

"Aye, and that's why there's just two of us sent off in a vain chase southward," the second fellow complained.

They were both armed with swords, but neither was prepared for attack. Rowan motioned to Gavin, and, as one, like spiders in the dark, they fell silently from the trees.

The men were easily taken down from their mounts. They struggled for their swords, but both were breathless and stunned. The fellow Rowan had taken was corpulent, puffing, easily disarmed. While the younger man might have given Gavin a bit of a struggle, he did not have the chance, for Rowan stepped from the puffing fellow to the other, seizing his sword from his belt even as he scrambled for it. He set the point at the man's throat.

"Gavin, strip the good man's horse of its bridle. We have need of the reins."

"The animal will head back to the castle," Gavin pointed out.

"It can't be helped," Rowan said softly.

Gavin did as bidden, then returned with the leather reins to be used to truss the guards.

"They know ye're out, traitor," the younger one dared to say.

"So they do," Rowan responded calmly.

When he went to tie up the heavier, older guard, the man cringed. "Good God, man, just sit still. I have no intention of harming you," Rowan said impatiently. Even so, the man watched him warily.

"Traitor," the first man muttered again.

"Nay, the man is no traitor. We'd be dead if he were," the older one said.

"But—"

"Ye have me gratitude fer me life," the older guard said.

Rowan nodded as he finished securing the man. "It's a busy enough road. Help will be along by daybreak."

"Can ye pull us over by the trees?" the older man asked. "It would be a hard lot if we were to survive the…" He paused. There hadn't really been a fight. "If ye chose not to kill us and we were to be trampled to death upon the first light."

"Aye, that we can do," Rowan assured him.

When they were about to leave and had moved out of earshot of the prisoners, he took a good look at the remaining horse, which they had tethered to a tree, then turned to Gavin. "You don't happen to have Styx stashed away somewhere, do you?" he asked.

Gavin grinned. "Nay, and we must return the wagon at yonder farm. Truly, the queen didn't wish to harm you. Styx was returned to Castle Grey soon after you were taken, but I think you'll find he's closer than that now."

"That is a mercy."

"We must quit Scotland, you know," Gavin said somberly.

"We'll leave the wagon here and take this horse. And we'll go quickly now, even if the majority of the queen's men are headed toward the Highlands."

And so they rode together on the remaining mount until they came to the farmstead, where an anxious man awaited them. Rowan told him where he might find his wagon, and warned him to go quickly, while there was still darkness and before the guards could be discovered.

"You'll find that the horse we've left for you, Ajax, is a fine one. Gavin, we've a gold piece for this fine man, haven't we?"

"Indeed."

"See that my horse is well when I return," Rowan said.

"I'll feed the good fella apples aplenty from me own hand," the farmer promised.

They mounted, both on their fresh horses, and Rowan was deeply pleased to be reunited with Styx, then headed out quickly, not wishing to bring any danger to the farmer.

"To London?" Gavin said.

"Aye."

Rowan had never intended any other course of action; his one driving thought each day, all that had kept him alive, was his eagerness to see Gwenyth again. Even so, when Gavin had spoken, his heart had given an unexpected jolt. Leave Scotland, and not as an ambassador traveling south.

In exile.

"There is no other course of action," Gavin said.

"I know."

Gavin smiled at him. "There is one bright spot, my lord."

"My lady wife."

"And more," Gavin said, still grinning. "Your son."

His jaw dropped; he felt it but could not control it. At last he managed to speak, albeit in a croaked whisper. "What?"

"I have it from Maitland, my lord. It is no rumor, though the birth was kept very quiet. You have a son, now several months old, hale and hearty. Daniel Rowan, your lady christened the lad."