CHAPTER NINETEEN

T HE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED Darnley's death were strange indeed, Gwenyth thought. There were long periods of silence and genuine grief, as well as the inevitable state visits. And the accusations.

The Countess of Lennox had been released, and she was in a state of mourning and rage.

The Count of Lennox was demanding that James Hepburn, Laird Bothwell, be tried.

Laird James Stewart, Earl of Moray, had hastened to London, anxious that Elizabeth know he had nothing to do with the evil deed.

And somehow, in the midst of everything, Mary had come to the realization she had not been a target but that instead her lairds had conspired to see her husband had been killed. He had not been murdered because she was unhappy in her marriage. He had been murdered because her factious barons had wanted him gone from the scene of power.

Despite the aid that James Hepburn, Laird Bothwell, had earlier provided her, Mary saw to it that he was brought to trial soon after her official period of mourning for Darnley was ended with a solemn Mass of Requiem.

Lennox was not able to attend the trial, having been waylaid in England. Ever a gossip and troublemaker, he had been held at bay. Gwenyth learned later that Queen Elizabeth had sent a messenger requesting the trial be delayed. Mary either did not receive the message or did not care that the messenger had come.

Though the judges themselves noted in writing that it was considered common knowledge throughout the city that James Hepburn had been guilty of conspiracy in the grisly deed, there was no one to swear witness against him, so Bothwell went free after trial, boasting as he rode through the streets of Edinburgh.

The queen did not seem to care one way or the other about the outcome of the trial. She continued as she had been, most often displaying a calm face before her people, going about the business of government, and yet in private she sometimes gave way to feelings of loss and depression, and cried. Afterward she was quiet, as if still in a state of shock.

Mary Fleming, who had married Maitland—who had been in disgrace himself, since the queen had believed him to have been involved in Riccio's death, but since found pardon—tried in vain to speak with the queen. Still, it was through Mary Fleming that Gwenyth learned much of what was going on around their tight inner circle.

"The barons are in a fury, a frenzy of activity, and I don't believe the queen realizes the danger in what is happening," she told Gwenyth in private. "The problem is that she is too good, wanting to see only goodness in those around her." She lowered her voice, looking anxiously toward the queen's bedroom, where Mary rested. "She can't see the depths of evil and ambition in men. Lennox has raised a group against Bothwell already. The factions are becoming more roiled and angry." She hesitated, looking at Gwenyth. "You should know this, but I beg of you, don't speak on his behalf as yet. It's said that, while the barons fought fiercely among themselves in council, they all proclaimed the innocence of Laird Rowan. And Mary roused herself at last and said that in her eyes he was pardoned. As there are no official charges against him, I believe he is a free man, no matter who speaks against him. But understand this, Gwenyth. Bothwell was angry when he heard that Rowan was cleared. He may be honored and adored by the country, and even forgiven by the queen, but he remains in danger."

Gwenyth exhaled, wide-eyed with hope as she stared at Mary Fleming. "God knows the hours I have spent praying, but…can he be pardoned for what he did not do?"

"It's an acknowledgment that he did nothing, I believe."

Gwenyth hesitated. "What of the rumors regarding his English marriage?"

Mary shook her head sadly. "Not even my husband knows the truth of it. During his last audience with Elizabeth, she did not tell him the rumors were false, nor did she say that they were true. Gwenyth, you must have patience and faith. The queen has not suggested again that you should marry Donald, and he is a part of Laird Bothwell's retinue. So, you see, she is not a fool at all. She is careful about any shift of power."

Gwenyth hesitated but opted to trust her friend, and told Mary Fleming what had happened when she had been on Bothwell land. Both kept their attention warily on the queen's door.

"So…you claimed against him to preserve his life?" Mary Fleming said. Her cheeks were flushed, though Gwenyth had certainly shared none of the details of the encounter.

"But will he know that?" Gwenyth asked.

"In his heart, certainly!" Mary Fleming said, ever the romantic at heart.

The queen called out for them then. When they rushed to her side, she looked so weary and ill that it was no surprise when she said, "I would leave the city. I must see some of the country…a different place from Edinburgh. There is too much strife here."

M ARY HAD NOT BEEN WELL , but she had insisted on going secretly to Stirling, where her son lived, for it was thought that Stirling was safe. Gwenyth did not mind Stirling; it was a beautiful place, with graceful hills and dales. It was also a place of national pride for all Scots, for it had been at Stirling Bridge that William Wallace had so thoroughly defeated the English. The castle was fine, comfortable and well fortified.

And she had been there last with Rowan.

She held silent about Rowan, as Mary Fleming had warned her, grateful that it proved to be true that Rowan's name was on the lips of the people, and spoken always with respect.

Mary, however, continued frail and ill, often swooning when disturbing matters were broached to her. She was happy only in the presence of her child, and in that, Gwenyth felt her own heart break. The world was cruel indeed.

Her own child would not know her by now. She missed him as she might a limb, an essential part of her being, like breathing, like the beat of her heart.

But she dared not see him until his rights in the world were guaranteed. And it was not without deep resentment that she served the queen while Mary tended to and played with her own infant.

But Mary was not at all the passionate and confident woman who had first come to Scotland. Those who loved her feared she had suffered a breakdown of sorts, and worried continually. She had acted with such extreme courage and cleverness after the murder of Riccio, had made quick decisions and extricated herself from a life-threatening position.

But now she remained listless, and she was so ill when they started their return journey to Edinburgh that they had to stop along the way at Linlithgow and spend a night at the beautiful palace where she had been born, overlooking the glory of the lake.

They were a small party: the queen, her ladies, and Lairds Huntly, Maitland and Melville, along with a small guard, and they were met at the Bridge of Almond, a mere six miles from Edinburgh, by a huge force of over eight hundred men, armed, mounted and unmistakably dangerous. Bothwell rode straight to the queen's side and warned her that terrible danger awaited her in Edinburgh, so she must accompany him to a place of safety.

There was dissension; Maitland, in particular, was wary of the man and his news, but Mary lifted a hand and declared that she did not mean to be the cause of more dispute. If Laird Bothwell thought there would be greater safety in escorting them all to the castle at Dunbar—which she had given into his keeping just a year earlier—then they would attend him.

In the circumstances, Gwenyth didn't see how the queen could have responded any other way. Bothwell had an army with him. The queen was guarded by only thirty men.

By nightfall they were in Dunbar Castle, the gates were closed, and hundreds of men were ready to fight against anyone who might come to challenge them for possession of the queen. They quickly learned that there had been no danger to the queen in Edinburgh. She had been kidnapped.

She was kept with the Laird Bothwell and away from her friends for days. Even within Dunbar, there were rumors that the queen and Bothwell had planned the abduction together. But when rumors circulated that Mary had agreed to a seduction, as well, Gwenyth knew them to be a lie. Mary had always adhered to a strict standard of morality.

When Gwenyth saw the queen again, she found Mary to be as listless as ever. There was certainly no joy in her voice when she told her ladies, "I have agreed to marry Lord Bothwell."

"But he is married!" Gwenyth said in shock.

Mary didn't rise to anger, only lifted a hand. "See the strength and power he has? He has abducted a queen in the middle of her country. He is arranging a divorce." She looked away, her eyes vacant. "Jean married him because it seemed a good alliance. She will not mind the marriage being set aside. Perhaps an annulment will be arranged. But it will be a Protestant wedding."

At Dunbar, the queen's loyal retinue was aghast, but they were powerless.

Mary Fleming and Gwenyth spoke late into the night, as they were sharing a room. "It is as if she is transfixed," Mary said. "He raped her, and she is not in a strong enough state to protest. She is lost as I have never seen her before. They are saying such terrible things, that she was sleeping with him before Darnley's death. But they're wrong. Remember when she first fell so madly in love with Darnley? Then, she was passionately involved. I do not see her behaving that way at all about Bothwell."

"It's madness. The country will be up in arms."

"Aye," Mary Fleming agreed gravely.

"This…this can't be," Gwenyth murmured,

"But it is."

At last, with Bothwell riding at the queen's side, they returned to Edinburgh. The guns were fired in honor of the queen, but it seemed, even to those who loved her, that Bothwell was in charge.

With unseemly haste, Bothwell's marriage was dissolved.

Twelve days later, Mary and Bothwell were married, in a Protestant ceremony, as sure a sign as there could be to those who knew Mary well that she was changed. The Mary who had first come to Scotland would never have set her God and her faith aside.

Even as they exchanged their vows, the people of Edinburgh began to protest. There were cries in the streets, shouts of "Only wantons marry in the month of May!" and "Marry in May, regret it for aye," Scottish dialect for "forever."

Gwenyth was certain Mary found no happiness in the days that followed. She was gentle and cultured, and Bothwell could be brutal and cruel. The queen had once admired him for his power, but he was a jealous man, and now she often excused herself from the company around her, and Gwenyth knew it was because the man too often drove her to tears.

By the end of the month, it was apparent that there would be bloodshed in the land before long.

And in all that time, Gwenyth had not seen Rowan, nor heard from him, or even of him.

Just weeks into the marriage, Bothwell, Mary and their retinues moved to the castle at Borthwick, but they had barely settled there before the castle was surrounded by insurgents. Bothwell left the castle by night to gather supporters, leaving Mary behind to defend it, though he knew that the castle could not withstand a siege.

Gwenyth helped Mary dress as a man, and she did the same, darkening her face with soot, wearing the clothes of a worker. By night, they departed.

As they neared Castle Black, where they hoped to take refuge, they paused, hearing a cry in the night. It was a messenger sent from the Wauchope family, neighbors and supporters of Bothwell.

When the horseman reached them, Mary was ready to fall.

"Is it the queen?" the man asked anxiously, and he dismounted quickly, looking at Gwenyth.

"Aye. You must take her, and quickly. She is about to faint," Gwenyth advised him.

"What of you, m'lady?"

"I will be fine walking, if you will but set me upon the right road."

Gwenyth watched as the fellow gallantly set the queen atop his horse, then mounted behind her. He looked back anxiously at Gwenyth, then along the road on which they had been traveling.

"Go quickly," Gwenyth ordered him.

"I will come back for you."

"I thank you, and God bless you," she told him.

He was quickly gone, and Gwenyth was grateful the queen was in good hands, but she found herself sorely afraid, alone along the trail. She walked with speed, suddenly aware of every whisper of wind, of the sighing of the trees and the snap of every branch.

Night, she told herself, nothing but the noises of the night. There might be boars in the forest and other fearsome creatures, but there were no creations as frightening as ambitious men.

There was a sudden loud crack to her left. It was no forest sound, and she started to run.

And then it seemed that the woods came alive. There were men everywhere.

"The queen!" someone shouted.

"We have found her!" came another shout.

"Don't be daft, it isn't the queen. She hasn't the height."

She ran, but it didn't matter that her heart pounded, or that her legs burned. They were everywhere, and she could only pray that Mary had made it safely through the forest before their arrival.

At last, no matter how she zigged and zagged, seeking to disappear through the trees, she was caught, slammed to the earth and held there by a man's foot planted upon her chest.

Her cap had fallen, and now her hair spilled free on the ground. She could do nothing other than stare up at her captor in defiance. To her horror, she knew the man. It had been a very long time since she had seen him, but she hadn't forgotten him.

Nor had he forgotten her.

"Why, 'tis the Lady of Islington, Gwenyth MacLeod," he said.

The man above her was broadly built, his face heavily bearded. It was none other than Fergus MacIvey, he who had tormented her so long ago, on the day she had ridden out from Castle Grey.

Rowan had come to her rescue then.

He would not come now.

I T WAS WHAT R OWAN FEARED , always, deepest in his heart.

Civil war.

Queen Mary had been rescued and brought to Castle Black. There, she had met with her husband and, with him, had made her way back to Dunbar, where Bothwell had left her, riding out again to gather more supporters.

In the end, Mary had been betrayed.

Laird Balfour had urged her to return to Edinburgh, where she would find greater protection. When she left the defense of Dunbar, she had several hundred supporters, as did the rebels. Rowan was certain that Mary had not been afraid; she would have believed in the love of her people, and expected to be reunited with Bothwell on the field of battle.

The armies faced each other eight miles outside Edinburgh, and many of the lairds Mary had so trusted abandoned her cause. Mary, with Bothwell, was at the head of her own defenses, with her new husband. Balfour, too, stood with them.

Lairds Morton and Home led the rebel cavalry; the lairds of Atholl, Mar, Glencairn, Lindsay and Ruthven led the opposing troops.

Rowan was not on the battlefield; he had already returned to Castle Grey, where he had taken stock of his own men-at-arms, preparing for whatever course of action he decided to take. He was anxious to reach the capital, anxious to find Gwenyth now that it seemed he had officially been pardoned, but he had learned through bitter experience that he had to take care. Especially now. The country had gone insane following Bothwell's abduction of Mary, and then his marriage to her. Rowan wrote to London, to Thomas and Annie, and to Elizabeth. He asked the Queen of England to provide safe escort for the two faithful servants to bring Daniel to Lochraven.

In the end, no major battle occurred. Mary's supporters simply began to shrink away, so she, ever convinced of the underlying decency of her subjects, stopped the bloodshed by demanding that Bothwell be given safe conduct. She herself offered to return to Edinburgh, there to face all inquiries.

But she was not treated like a queen. The lairds feared her, and Rowan knew why. They were crying out against the murder of Darnley—but many of them had taken part in it and feared to be accused, should the queen gain the ear of the populace. And so Mary wasn't allowed to stay in Edinburgh but was taken to a Douglas holding for incarceration.

Rowan himself had not believed the lairds meant harm to their queen, but as the dire news continued to arrive, his fears grew, and he rode to Edinburgh, where he met with Maitland. He hadn't believed that the man had been involved in the original revolt against the queen, but when Maitland couldn't face him at first when they spoke, Rowan realized the man was indeed guilty.

"No wonder we have been vanquished time and time again throughout history," Rowan told him. "We can't even be loyal to one another."

"Rowan, please, I feel badly enough," Maitland told him. "Do you know the years I have served Queen Mary? Far longer than her stay here. I am sick at how she suffers, but you must understand. Even her French ministers pleaded with her to abandon Bothwell when she had the chance, but she would not do so."

"Let me speak with her."

Maitland hesitated. "The lairds will demand that Bothwell pay for the death of Darnley. The rumormongers were right. The evil deed was his."

"Then let Bothwell pay, not the queen."

"The lairds wish for the queen to abdicate and pass the crown to her son."

"So that they can rule."

Maitland was quiet for a moment. "She turned on you, Laird Rowan. She had you imprisoned. She had your marriage declared null and void."

"She is the queen, and my name was cleared."

"You are probably the only man who is trusted by both sides. Morton, Glencairn and Home are the men responsible for the queen's warrant. They'll give you leave to see her."

Rowan met with the rebel lairds. He knew that he had but one chance to save Mary. He had to convince her to turn her back on Bothwell.

He was amazed when he reached her. She had been rudely captured and ill-used, and her prison could not be a happy one. She had none of her ladies with her, imprisoned as she was in the home of James Stewart's mother, Lady Margaret Douglas.

Lady Margaret resented the fact that her son's illegitimacy had been held against him. She was firmly of the opinion that the throne should have been his, not Mary's.

However, she had offered no real cruelty to Mary, who, when he saw her at last, rose gallantly to the occasion of his visit, though she was pale and gaunt. "Rowan!" she greeted him with her natural affection, then told him with a smile, "You know, I totally absolved you of all sins long before this charade began. Now here I am, begging your forgiveness."

He took her hands, kneeling before her and seeing a slight sheen of tears in her eyes. "I have always served you to the best of my ability."

"I know. I have been deceived so many times." She drew him to his feet, smiling. "I have put my trust far too often in the wrong men."

He took a deep breath. "That is why I'm here."

"Ah, yes, I know why you are here. Everyone trusts you. I have fallen on the harshest of times, while you are lauded throughout the country. I cannot even suggest that you find Bothwell and join with him on my behalf, for he has been detained in the north."

"My queen, you must allow the marriage to be dissolved. There will be no reconciliation with your lairds if you do not."

"I cannot," she said softly.

"You must," he urged.

"I cannot, and I will not," Mary said, and her answer was surprisingly firm. "I am with child, and I will not allow any child of mine to be born illegitimate.

His heart sank. He knew he would not dissuade her.

"So…they allow so little news to reach me here. How does your lady? Have you sent for your own babe as yet?"

"What?"

She smiled. "Never have I seen a woman so fierce in defense of someone she loves. Surely, you have reconciled whatever differences I caused with Gwenyth?"

"I had thought she was still in your service, held with your other ladies."

Mary frowned deeply. "I last saw her as I escaped to Castle Black."

It seemed that every muscle in his body turned to water. "You have not seen her?" he asked in disbelief.

"Or heard aught of her, Rowan. If she was captured…surely none would offer her harm."

He could say nothing on behalf of Scotland at that moment, for he very much feared that Mary's assessment of her people was dangerously wrong.

He bowed, shaking. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must go. I have to find her."

O NCE SHE HAD DREAMED . Now she had only nightmares.

She could not have been captured by a man who despised her more. When the good fighting men around Fergus MacIvey and Michael, brother of the slain Bryce and now Laird, would not allow her to be treated too roughly, Fergus found a new method of revenge.

It started with her fury and her fear.

As men shouted that Mary was a whore and a murderer, she damned them all. "The queen has never been anything but moral and good. You have no right to speak of her so. God will not forgive you this mockery and cruelty."

"God has turned his back on ye, whore of Satan," Fergus told her. He had the eyes of a true maniac, and his words were filled with a chilling glee. "God and man both. The whole country knows yer great protector has taken an English wife, and even he—especially he—has turned his back on ye."

Was it true?

Did it matter?

In Rowan's eyes, she had turned away from him.

She tried not to think about Rowan, tried not to long for the time when happiness was all around her, and it had seemed that it could never be ripped away.

At first she was treated well enough, taken to the home of a Sir Edmund Baxter and confined there. She was guilty of crimes against Scotland, she was told, because she had been helping the queen to escape. Fergus and his men left, and that in itself was a relief.

She was there for several weeks when, from the room where she was confined, she heard men talking excitedly in the parlor. The queen was imprisoned; she had given herself up rather than cause bloodshed, but she had not been returned to Edinburgh. Instead, she had been taken to a Douglas holding.

It was after that news arrived when Fergus MacIvey returned.

When he dared to return, she thought.

And he did so with another man, a man she had nearly forgotten.

Reverend David Donahue.

Even when she was brought before Donahue, she didn't fear for her life. It wasn't until he lifted a finger, pointing at her, that she realized the true severity of her position.

"Witch!" he cried. "Aye, I knew from the moment I saw her. She spoke for the Catholic whore then, as she does now."

"She bewitched Bryce MacIvey and killed him," Fergus said. "Then she bewitched the Laird Rowan and now pretends to be his wife."

"You are an idiot!" Gwenyth cried. "How can you believe such idiocy?"

She saw their faces. They believed. Or they hated her, and so they wanted to believe. In the end, it was the same thing.

"Bring her to the kirk. Now," Donahue commanded.

Fergus MacIvey and Laird Michael looked eager to drag her, but she disdained to give them that satisfaction.

"I will walk wherever you will have me go. If it is to the kirk, so much the better. I have nothing to fear from God."

Her words infuriated them further, but they did not lay a hand on her.

When she walked from the house, though, her heart sank. The path was lined with people, men in armor, women, children, farmers, craftworkers. Pitchforks were raised against her, and a rotten tomato was even thrown her way.

"Whore witch of a whore queen!" someone shouted.

She stopped walking. "A good and decent queen ever," she calmly defended Mary.

Another tomato flew her way. She ignored it. If she stopped walking too long, Fergus would set a hand on her, she knew, so with her chin held high, she kept going.

When she came to the kirk, there was another reverend there. He stared at her as she arrived, and she knew that he'd been expecting her.

"I am Reverend Martin, official witch-finder, child, and you will confess your sins," he told her.

She looked around. There were hundreds of people there. They had all been told that the queen had been instrumental in the murder of her husband, Laird Darnley, and that she was a whore who had slept with the man who had committed the murder.

They were all ready to believe that Gwenyth, who had served her, was a witch.

She was shoved rudely inside by Fergus's hand at her back. Four women were waiting for her there. Four strong farm women. She gritted her teeth, holding very still as they seized her. Instinctively, she tried to cling to her clothing. It was no use. In a moment, she heard fabric ripping, and then one of them cried out, "There! 'Tis the mark, the devil's own mark!"

Reverend Martin stood over her, a knife in his hand. She thought that he meant to end her life then and there. She didn't struggle, knowing it would only please them if she did.

"She doesn't cry out, doesn't deny. It is indeed the mark of Satan," he agreed, then wrenched her around, jerking her up by the hair. "Confess!"

She grasped for her clothing, for decency, and stared at him. "Shall I confess to loving a good and moral woman who wanted nothing more than to govern well? Aye, that I confess."

"You have made a pact with the devil," he said sternly.

She looked around and saw the fear and hatred in the faces of those surrounding her. There had been hundreds of men in the village, all of them now fired up by the call for revolution against a woman they believed guilty of murder. She had served that woman, and so she was guilty, no matter what she said.

"I am God's creature," she whispered.

Reverend Martin's hand cracked hard against her face. She tasted blood. "Do you care nothing for your immortal soul?" he demanded.

She was silent.

He shrugged, smiling slowly. "I have at my disposal, for I never travel without the tools of my trade, many ways to save you from the ultimate fires of hell."

She held her head high but continued silent.

Once again his hand shot out. Her ears rang; it felt as if her head had split. When she would have fallen, he caught her.

"What? What?" he said loudly, leaning down as if listening, though she had said nothing. Then he allowed her to slip to the floor, everything around her blackening, but she was conscious long enough to hear his triumphant claim.

"She has confessed! The witch has confessed!"

And she knew, as well, that she heard the laughter of Fergus MacIvey.