A Love Concealed, page 3
’Twas just as well she learned to ride as a toddler, and followed her father’s hounds almost every week. She held her peace, gritted her teeth and carefully slid a leg over the saddle, settling quietly onto the mare’s back.
Immediately she felt the weight of a rider, Ember tensed the muscles alongside her spine, and a fleeting vision ran through Margaret’s mind of the mare bouncing around the courtyard with her head between her knees and her spine arched like a bow, while Margaret sailed unceremoniously through the air. Not in my best navy riding habit!
The thought of landing in the mud with all the courtiers laughing at her inspired Margaret to action. Quickly, she turned the mare in a small circle that would prevent her from bucking, until her back softened and her muscles relaxed. “Good girl,” she said, risking taking one hand off the reins to pat the mare’s shoulder.
“I will send Laird Fincastle to ride with you,” said Mary from a few yards away as she mounted her favourite grey palfrey. “His horse is a big steady hunter who will be a good influence on Ember.”
Was it Margaret’s imagination, or was there a glint in the queen’s eye as she said that? Surely not.
A moment later, a heavy-boned black horse appeared beside them. “Good morning, Lady Carwood,” said Laird Fincastle, removing a black velvet cap adorned with a ruby brooch and a dashing white feather. A raven curl escaped when he replaced the hat, trailing carelessly across a high cheekbone. “It seems I am to accompany you.”
Margaret was about to tell him that she’d be fine on her own, when she remembered her resolve to get closer to the Highlander. There had been no opportunity last night at the feast that followed their masque—which had received a standing ovation—and the days before that had been full of rehearsals and costume-making. With a dip of her head, she acknowledged his presence. “Thank you, sire.”
“Bastian tells me there is to be another masque at Stirling, for Prince James’ christening,” said Fincastle once the cavalcade was finally ready and they were clattering down Craigmillar Hill, heading north towards Edinburgh. Catching Margaret’s eye, he added, “He wants us to take part.”
Margaret raised her eyebrows, taking a moment before she replied to settle the mare, who was jogging sideways after spotting a goose rooting through a pile of frost-rimed leaves next to a byre on the outskirts of Pepper Mill village. “He mentioned it to me last night. Are you to play The Bruce again?”
“Nay, I believe he is inspired by mythology this time. Satyrs and the like. There is to be a mechanical chariot. Or ship—I am unsure of the details,” he said with a curl of his lip, “and dancing.”
“Perhaps I will ask him to do without me this time. My sense of rhythm would embarrass a drunken swine. I am not much of a dancer,” Margaret admitted.
“And neither am I.” Fincastle gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Shall we sit this one out?”
Margaret grimaced. “I’m not sure we’ll be allowed to.”
The laird glanced behind him to see if anyone was listening, then leaned closer and said in a whisper, “If we make enough of a bodge of the dancing, he will not want us.”
Margaret glanced sideways at him, just in time to catch him winking at her. Despite herself, she laughed at his audacity. “It seems you have it all planned, sire.”
“Anything that saves me from prancing around like a three-legged pony. ’Tis not something that should be inflicted on my worst enemy, let alone the dignitaries who will attend the baptism.”
“I cannot believe you have enemies, sire,” Margaret said without thinking, then berated herself inwardly. He would think she admired him, saying something like that.
But was that not what she wanted him to understand, so she could find out his plans against the queen?
Grey-blue eyes met hers. “You do not wish to know,” he said grimly.
The clouds that chased across his countenance silenced her for a moment. “What is it like, living in the Highlands?” she asked, to distract him from the rather dangerous turn their conversation had taken.
“’Tis not so different from the lowlands,” he replied, his face clearing. He waved an arm to indicate the pastoral landscape around them, where scruffy sheep snuffled through the frost to reach the grass of the Priest Field. On the left, gorse bushes dotted the rougher ground leading to Kamron, with a burn beside them indicating the route they should follow to the ford ahead. “Just that the hills are higher and the lochs are deeper.” He looked at her from under his heavy eyebrows. “Have ye never travelled north?”
“No,” she confessed. “The queen went to Aberdeen to deal with the northern rebellion at the Battle of Corrachie four years ago, but ’twas before I became a lady-in-waiting.”
“Aberdeen does not really count as the Highlands. Even where I live in Perthshire, ’tis only the edge of the Highlands. But you can see the white peaks of the Cairngorm mountains in the distance, with deer and golden eagle as common as sheep and cattle are down here,” he said, pointing at a ewe who was pawing determinedly at the thin cap of ice that had formed over a drinking pool where the stream flowed through her field. “And in summer the heather glows purple like the cloak of a queen, the gorse flowers yellow as the gold of a crown, and the sky is so wide you can surely see the whole of creation. ’Tis truly God’s own country.”
“You make it sound magnificent. But is it not true that the people run around naked with only a scrap of fabric tied around them, and that some of them have tails?”
This made him laugh out loud. “’Tis the English who have tails, my lady, or so I’m told. But the gentlefolk of the Highlands are but canny and thrifty. If the ground is wet, they will go barefoot to save their boots. And if they cannot afford a coat they use a length of tight-woven woollen cloth to protect them from the weather or to wrap around them as a blanket for sleeping. ’Tis merely practical, not fantastical.”
Margaret was silent for a moment, concentrating on directing her mare over the slippery stones underfoot as they splashed across the Black Ford. The stream flowed silently under overhanging trees, and in the sheltered spots a sheen of silver fringed the edges of the watercourse. She pulled her cape more tightly around her shoulders.
“And what is it like, where you are from, Lady Carwood?” Fincastle asked.
For a moment, Margaret considered giving him at evasive answer. But then she remembered that she was trying to win his trust, and pursed her lips. “My parents owned Carwood House, near Biggar—a good number of miles south and west of here. But when they died…” she looked down at her hands. “’Tis a long story. A story that ends with my poor sister married to a man I hate, and me in the queen’s service.” She tilted her chin and looked him in the eye. “But I am very happy here. Her Grace treats me well, and I want for nothing.”
Bothwell spurred his horse to catch up with the queen at the head of the cavalcade. “You wanted to speak with me, Your Grace?”
“Oui. Come closer, my lord.” Mary motioned for him to come alongside her white palfrey. On her other side jogged Bastian Pages, her valet, and just behind rode Mary Seton and Mary Beaton, her chief ladies-in-waiting.
Bothwell moved his horse until he rode stirrup to stirrup with the queen. “Is there something I can do for you, ma’am?”
“Oui,” Mary said again. “I have been talking with Bastian here about the christening celebrations at Stirling. He is taking charge of the entertainments on the final day. There is going to be a three-day pageant like those I remember from my youth in France. But nothing like this has ever been seen in Scotland before, and it is a huge undertaking. I wondered if you could help me by organising the hunt?”
“But of course, ma’am.” If Bothwell hadn’t been riding, he’d have rubbed his hands together in glee. The queen had chosen him, of all her nobles, to assist with the baptism festival.
The queen inclined her head. “Merci. You can meet with the head forester when we reach Stirling. We shall hunt on Wednesday morn, the day after the baptism, and I am expecting a large number of guests from England and France. So make sure he has the woods well stocked.”
“Of course, ma’am. And if I may suggest something,” he tilted his head at her, “mayhap we could organise a smaller hunt on the afternoon of Monday, to entertain those who arrive early?”
“D’accord. But use a different park for that. Perhaps Saint Ninians. The forester will know where the best sport is to be had. But I shall not attend—I should stay in the castle to greet the ambassadors. Now, the other thing,” she turned in her saddle and beckoned to Mary Seton, “Lady Seton is organising new outfits for the king and I, my brother, Moray, and my sister the countess of Argyll. I would like for you to have one too. You can choose from green, blue or red cloth.”
Bothwell’s chest swelled with pride. The queen was choosing to clothe him the same as her half-brother and half-sister. Did that mean she was thinking of him as royalty? “Blue, ma’am, if it please you. And I am greatly honoured by your consideration.”
“Bon. Lady Seton will make arrangements with you when we reach Holyrood.”
Bastian rode off somewhere to make more arrangements about the baptismal masque, and the Maries were gossiping about some court tattle, which left Bothwell to accompany the queen. He rode beside her with his head high and his spirits buoyant. Did the commoners who lined the streets think he was the king? He smiled at the thought.
One day he might be.
He had a plan, and it was working. Perhaps at Stirling the next link in the chain would fall into place.
Meeting Margaret’s gaze, John kept his face expressionless, showing no sign of what he was really thinking. Outwardly, he drew his mouth into a sympathetic line. Inwardly, he grinned in triumph, as if he had turned a corner and spied the centre of a tricky maze.
For Margaret’s words had given him some insight into her prickly character, and helped to explain her independent spirit. “We have the whole journey,” he lifted a hand off the reins to indicate their route ahead, “so there is more than ample time for a long story. And,” he shrugged, “you would be doing me a service. ’Tis a cold morning and a long ride to the palace. A good tale would while away the time.”
“I know not that it is good, sire. ’Tis a sad and sorry story of betrayal and loss.”
He looked sideways at her. “Nevertheless, it will take my mind off the pease porridge I ate for breakfast that churns around in my stomach like a chemise on washday, and the lump in Dirk’s saddle,” he rolled his eyes, “that rubs a bigger blister on my behind with every mile that we travel.”
This last comment made her laugh out loud. “My lord, you are wasted in the Highlands. You should surely be writing your own masques when you can turn a phrase so eloquently.”
John was about to reply when there was a shout of, “Bonjour!” accompanied by the clatter of trotting hooves.
Seconds later, Bastian Pages drew his spritely grey alongside. “Laird Fincastle,” the Frenchman inclined his head at John, “and my Lady Carwood. May I take a moment of your time this fine morning?”
Clenching his teeth to stop his face from showing his feelings, John suppressed a sigh, for with this interruption he would not get to hear Margaret’s story, and next time they spoke her usual waspish nature would likely have returned and she would refuse to open up.
Margaret, however, greeted the queen’s Master of Ceremonies quite cordially. “Of course, sire,” she said with a gracious sweep of her gloved hand. “Do join us. Although,” she looked around her at the bare trees and the grey air and gave a mock shiver, “I think we need to get you eyeglasses. For I would not call this frigid morning ‘fine’. We are at least four months away from any weather I am likely to reckon as good.”
Bastian gave a wry smile. “You are right, my lady. I am just happy today. The queen has agreed that Christina and I can marry in February—on the ninth.”
The ninth. Just over two months away, and week before John’s deadline. He didn’t have long to fulfil the terms of the inheritance, and ice swirled in his stomach. I will need to do it soon.
“Of course you will both come?” Bastian’s sharp eyes glanced from Margaret to John. “There will be a feast. And dancing.”
At the mention of dancing, John caught Margaret’s eye and surreptitiously raised an eyebrow. “Well, if there is to be dancing,” he said to Bastian, “I think you will find that my gavotte will give great entertainment to your guests.” He winked at Margaret, then inclined his head. “Thank ye for the invitation.”
Margaret’s cheeks dimpled with a suppressed smile as she formed her reply. “Monsieur Pages, I would be honoured to celebrate with you and Christina. ’Tis good news that you have a date for your wedding! And no surprise that you are happy.”
Up ahead, the cavalcade had slowed to pass through the turnpike gate at Gibbet-Toll on the outskirts of Edinburgh.
At one side of the road, the baillie’s children gawked at the fine lords and ladies passing by, their faces glowing red, probably from a scrub in the trough to honour the queen.
On the other side stood the dolorous gatekeeper himself, puffing solemnly on a pipe and eyeing everyone that passed as if measuring them for the scaffold. Next to him stood his wife, dressed in her best green gown over a kirtle made from country russet, cheeks flushed and fingers twining nervously in the ribbons of her bodice.
Bastian pushed his horse ahead, leaving John and Margaret to pass through the gate in double file. As they rode by, John took his eyes off the road to nod at the baillie, and in that same moment, one of the more enterprising boys pulled the cap off his head, bowed low and held out a hand, entreating, “Spare a penny, m’lord?”
The child’s sudden movement and the wave of his hat through the air like a flag spooked Margaret’s horse, who skittered sideways and almost knocked the Baillie’s wife over. Her yelp of fright unsettled the chestnut mare further.
One glance at Margaret’s face was enough to convince John to push Dirk closer alongside, using the gelding’s bulk and phlegmatic character to help calm the fractious mare. To distract Margaret, who looked almost as tense as her horse, John asked, “How far is it to Holyrood? Are we nearly there?”
“’Tis a mile or two. We should get there soon.” She clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes at the mare. “If I get there at all. This one feels like she has stepped on an anthill.”
“Aye. Mayhap she needs a good run. That would take the wind out of her sails. Could we take her for a gallop somewhere? Maybe in the queen’s park?” John flicked his eyes to the right, where the bulky lump of Arthur’s Seat dominated the landscape in the royal hunting grounds.
Margaret grimaced. “I cannot. The queen must lead the procession, and her court must follow. She will go no faster than a walk until we reach the palace, so as to give her people time to see their ruler and her lords and ladies.” She lifted her shoulders. “And with this large a company, ’twill be a slow ride. ’Tis the way of it.”
“Ah.” How else can I distract her? John wracked his brains. “And when we leave for Stirling on Monday, will we travel via the village of Queen’s Ferry?” The little village on the coast where the pious Queen Margaret had established a ferry to carry pilgrims travelling to St Andrews in Fife was a pretty spot that John had travelled through on his way south from Perthshire.
“No, that is the longer route. We go via Gogar and Kirkliston, and will stop overnight at Linlithgow.”
Ember had quieted somewhat now, and John gave Dirk a pat on the neck when the gelding pushed his nose towards the mare, as if to tell her that everything was alright. Margaret seemed less apprehensive too. My strategy is working.
By this time the road had widened, and Bastian joined them again. “Laird Fincastle, Lady Carwood,” he addressed them, “the other reason I came to speak to you was to ask if you would help me with the christening entertainments.”
Margaret tilted her head at the Frenchman. “But of course, sire, did we not already agree to take part?”
“Oui, but I need you to do something different. I am preparing the programme for the baptismal feast on the third day. But now the queen has decided that she wants a pageant on the green outside the castle in the afternoon to—eh—distract her guests while the servants prepare for the investiture in the evening. I am so busy designing the stage for the dinner—would you be able to take charge of the afternoon performance? Her Grace wants something that will represent the strength of a God-given monarchy against the forces of the world.” Bastian spoke so enthusiastically his words almost tripped over themselves like leaves chased by an autumn gale. “You can use soldiers from her honour guard if you need additional performers. And at the end of the afternoon the queen has commissioned a firework display which will end your masque.”
John and Margaret exchanged a look. John was first to speak. “Sire, I am truly honoured that you would ask us—but surely there is one amongst the nobles who would be better qualified than Lady Carwood or me?”
“I think not.” Bastian inclined his head at each of them in turn. “You are both experienced players, with a sense of the dramatic. I am sure you will not let me down. Now,” he tightened his hands on the reins, “I must go and speak to the head armourer. Au revoir, mes amis.” Turning his horse’s head, he trotted away, leaving John and Margaret open-mouthed in his wake.
“I fear this is your fault, my lady,” said John. “Did you not say that I should be writing a play? It seems your prophecy will come true.”
Margaret gave him a rueful smile. “I may live to regret that.”
“Aye. You and me both.”
Chapter 4
The closer they got to Holyrood Palace, the more people that lined the streets to cheer—or gawp—at the royal procession. And the more people that crowded on either side of her, the more agitated Margaret’s horse became.
