A Love Concealed, page 5
Convulsions finally over, John lay back on the pillows with his eyes closed, breathing heavily and ignoring his caller. ’Twas probably the doctor, come to prod and powder him some more.
The cool draft from the hall beyond brought with it a rustle of satin, which alerted John that his visitor was not, in fact, the doctor. He opened one heavy eyelid to see a comely woman silhouetted against the light from the open door.
“The queen sent me,” said Margaret, settling herself primly on the oak chair beside his bed. “She says I must look after you since you got sick from rescuing me from the loch.” She paused, seeming to realise how ungrateful that sounded. “Ah—and I want to offer you my heartfelt thanks for your service, sire. I cannot swim—”
“So I realised,” interrupted John, his voice almost a whisper due to the roughness in his throat.
She looked down at her hands. “—I never learned. Not after…”
John’s interest was piqued. “Not after…?” he prompted.
Her lips twisted, then she sat taller and glanced at him from under her eyebrows. “’Twas not the done thing, in the Borders. I never learned,” she re-iterated.
If he hadn’t been so weary, he’d have sighed. What is she not telling me? On the way to Holyrood she’d started to tell him a story about her family, but they’d been interrupted by Bastian before he could get her to open up. He would hear that story, he determined, sometime soon. But Margaret was obviously touchy on the subject, so he would need to choose his moment. “When the weather is better I could teach you to swim,” he offered, laying a hand on her arm. “If you would like. But ’tis too cold right now.”
She stiffened. “I—I thank you. But no, sire. I’m too scared of the water.”
And nearly drowning won’t have helped. He shrugged, but the movement set off a tickle in his throat and he spent the next minute coughing into his hand. “If you change your mind,” he wheezed, hoping she wouldn’t notice that his eyes were watering, “the offer stands.”
Reaching into a pocket in her dress, Margaret pulled out a leather-bound book. “I thought I could read to you. Since you’re ill. You can lie back and rest your lungs.” She opened the volume and smoothed its vellum pages. “Boece’s History of Scotland.” Giving him a sideways look, she added, “I thought we could read about your ancestor.”
John caught her eye, wondering if she was teasing him. “The Bruce?”
“Yes, The Bruce. We can see if Bastian’s masque was based on truth.”
An hour later, they had established that Bastian had taken some artistic liberties with his masque about King Robert I of Scotland, but that the essence of the story he’d told was true. Robert the Bruce was an ambitious and bold warrior who’d defeated a stronger English army to secure the future of his people as an independent nation. He’d also ensured that his lineage would be their rulers; Queen Mary being the latest of his descendants to hold the throne.
“Her Grace must be a cousin of yours, sire?” Margaret closed the book and raised an eyebrow. Even though she was here only because the queen had ordered, the afternoon had passed quickly and the Highlander’s company had not been as irksome as she’d feared, despite his frequent bouts of coughing.
“Aye, distantly. Ninth cousins thirteen times removed or somesuch,” he said, rolling his eyes so hard it made her laugh. “My old nan,” he paused to catch his breath, chest heaving, “would have been able to tell you chapter and verse, God rest her soul.”
“Could we use Bruce’s story again in the masque for the baptism? What was it Bastian said? ‘Represent the strength of the God-given monarch against the forces of the world’?”
“I think not, my lady.” He waved a hand at his long legs under the bedcovers. “Our modern Bruce is somewhat indisposed.” As if to illustrate the point, a fit of coughing doubled him up for at least a minute.
Margaret summoned Duncan from his seat at the fireside and requested another hot drink for the invalid.
Once the servant was dispatched, she addressed the laird once more. “We have the Queen’s honour guard at our disposal. Perhaps we could use them for the masque, and we ourselves could direct proceedings, rather than acting.” She tilted her head. “That might be prudent since we will be delayed in our arrival, and it will be difficult to rehearse.”
“Aye. But neither will the soldiers have much time to rehearse.”
She pursed her lips. “So we make it easy for them. Utilise what they know already. Drills, sword fights, marching,” she waved a hand airily, “soldierly things.”
“Mayhap I should organise that part?” he answered with a lift of an eyebrow, voice rasping like a lock that needed oil.
She snorted. He has a way of making me laugh, she thought. But he looked tired. It seemed this had been too much for him. “Mayhap. But for now I think you need quiet. Your cough is getting worse.”
“But the masque—”
“We can arrange that on the morrow. Or the day after. ’Tis eleven days till the Prince’s investiture. It can wait.”
Duncan reappeared, holding two steaming goblets in front of him as he opened the door using his shoulder and a leather-booted foot. “I brung one for you too, ma’am,” he said, laying the drinks on the maplewood cabinet beside Fincastle’s bed. “And a twist o’ the medicine the doctor prescribed for Laird Fincastle.”
“Thank you,” she said, then sprinkled the salix powder into the Highlander’s drink and handed it to him.
Her own infusion, when she supped it, was more tasty than she’d expected. “Honey and lemon,” she sniffed at the steam rising off the top of the liquid, “and a hint of something spicy perhaps?” she asked the manservant.
“Aye, ma’am, Cook adds some ginger as well.”
She smiled. “’Tis tasty. Now,” she addressed the laird, “sit forward a moment till I fix the bolster behind your back.”
Pillows adjusted, Fincastle lay back, his eyelids drooping.
Carefully, she took the goblet from his hand and placed it on the cabinet alongside her own.
The laird’s strong features softened and his breathing eased as he drifted off to sleep, making his handsome face look almost boyish.
Who would think he was a rogue, plotting against the queen? Suppressing a sigh, Margaret adjusted the woollen blanket covering his bed, and tucked it up under his armpits. ’Tis always the ones you’d least expect.
“Thank ye, my dear.” Whispered so softly she almost missed it, Fincastle smiled and laid a hand on hers, his eyes still closed.
Even as she froze at his touch, something about the warmth of his skin or the intimacy of being in his bedchamber, made Margaret’s cheeks flush and her heart thump. He probably mistook me for his wife. His dead wife, she told herself, breathing slowly in an effort to control her pulse.
A minute later, when she was sure her complexion was back to normal and the laird was properly asleep, Margaret slipped her hand from under his and stood up.
On the other side of the room, Duncan eyed her speculatively, smoothing his moustache between finger and thumb.
Giving him her most withering look, Margaret stuck her nose in the air and left the room quickly, before her cheeks would colour again and give the manservant even more to gossip about in the servants’ quarters.
Feet pattering on the stone floor, she hurried up the turnpike stair to her room, shoulders drooping more with every step.
The next few days would be challenging. She must nurse a man she ought to despise, yet found strangely compelling. It would test all her resolve. But her loyalty to the queen would sustain her, she was sure. Clenching her fist, she dug her fingernails into the palm. It must.
Hooves clattered on the stony ground and echoed on the outer walls of Linlithgow Palace as the queen and her retinue left their overnight stop, bound for Stirling. It was a grey morning, but Bothwell’s mood was light as he slotted into his place at Mary’s right-hand side.
It was becoming expected, now, his riding with the queen. Especially in the absence of her husband.
Thanks to his unswerving loyalty to both her and her mother before her, she seemed to trust him, and had even started asking him for advice rather than listening to her secretary, Maitland. It was a situation he relished, and one that he intended to take full advantage of.
At the side of the road, some of the local women had gathered to watch the spectacle, dressed in homespun wool and rough linen, faces awestruck at the sight of the nobility in their feathers and finery. Some of the women waved handkerchiefs and cheered as the cavalcade passed.
Bothwell was not a fanciful man, but riding alongside the monarch at the head of the members of court, he could imagine what it must feel like to be king. Puffing out his chest, he pulled a handful of farthings from his pocket, and tossed them magnanimously at some young boys in tattered shirts who were running alongside the procession.
Let them think he was the king. If his plans came to fruition, he would be, someday soon. Then his face clouded.
“What ails you, my lord Bothwell?” The queen spoke from the side of her mouth even as she smiled and waved at her subjects.
“’Tis naught,” Bothwell dissembled. But the thought of his plans had brought to mind the Highland limmer who’d muscled his way into their plot against the king. Could he really be trusted? He had not come to Linlithgow with them—Bothwell had examined every face at dinner last evening. Was he even now riding to tell the king, or pulling together a counter-plot?
The earl gripped his reins tighter, making his horse jog nervously, then turned to the queen. “But I wondered if you have seen Laird Fincastle? I need to speak to him about,” he thought quickly, “a ram I wish to purchase.”
“Oh, he has the grippe,” Mary said airily as she steadied her horse to guide him through the West Port. “He is recovering at Holyrood and will join us at Stirling later.”
But her words did not assuage Bothwell. The Highlander could have used illness as a cover for treachery, and could even now be conniving against them. If he was, the earl would kill him, he surely would. Blow him up with his own gunpowder if he had to.
Bothwell smiled. There would be some vindication in that.
It was three days before they were able to discuss the masque again.
In the intervening time, the queen and her retinue had left for Stirling Castle, where the young Prince’s baptism was to take place. After a night in Linlithgow Palace to break the journey, they had arrived safely, and preparations for the christening festivities had entered their ‘final, fervid, stages’, according to a hurried missive Margaret had received from Bastian.
Normally, Margaret would have suspected the Frenchman of exaggeration, knowing his love of drama. But since her mistress was in equal parts determined and paranoid about this important event going off without a hitch, it was possible that, for once, Bastian was actually under-playing how frenetic things were at court.
Placing the letter under a bronze paperweight on her writing-table, Margaret suffered a twinge of guilt. I should be there.
The queen needed her—relied on her, even, now that Mary Beaton and Mary Livingston were married and spending more time with their husbands than at court. With Mary Fleming also busy, engaged as she was to the queen’s secretary, William Maitland, it only left the chaste Mary Seton in support of the monarch.
But what Margaret did here was important too. Nursing the Highlander was what her mistress had ordered, and it allowed her to get closer to the laird. If God was on her side, that would enable her to unmask the plot once Fincastle re-joined the rest of his conspirators in Stirling.
Unfortunately, the laird was not yet well enough to travel. In fact, he’d been worse for the last few days; sweating and feverish, and coughing constantly. His throat was so raw he could hardly speak above a whisper.
With a sigh, Margaret smoothed her skirt, then picked up her book and headed for the stairs. ’Twas time to visit with the Highlander.
Entering Fincastle’s chamber, Margaret blinked. The heavy drapes had been drawn back, allowing weak sunlight to filter into the room which illuminated dust motes in front of the window and cobwebs in the corners. I shall need to send a maid, Margaret thought, then turned her attention to the laird. “Good morning, sire.”
“Good morning, Margaret,” croaked the Highlander, his voice weak, but considerably stronger than it had been yesterday. His complexion looked better too, and he was sitting up in bed, rather than languishing under the covers. She wrinkled her nose. One thing is worse though.
“Duncan, does your master have a clean chemise? Methinks we need to change him out of the sweaty thing he’s been wearing these last days.”
“Aye ma’am.” Rooting around in a cedarwood chest, Duncan produced a pristine linen shirt.
It was only once they had the laird half-way out of his dirty undergarment that Margaret realised the folly of her actions. She’d been so intent on improving the air in Fincastle’s room that she hadn’t thought about the fact that he’d end up half-naked. I should’ve called for a servant to help, she thought, as Duncan pulled the chemise over his master’s head, revealing shoulders so strong they reminded her of an ox, and a muscular chest so impressive that it stopped the breath in her throat.
Dragging her gaze away, she swallowed hard, trying vainly to regain her composure. I will burn in hell for this.
Grabbing the dirty shirt from the manservant, she rushed to the door and dropped it in the corridor outside, ready for a laundry maid to collect. “That should make you more comfortable,” she said as she turned back into the room, hardly daring to lift her eyes.
But Duncan had spared her blushes, and already had the Highlander clothed in the fresh shirt. His own face, however, wore that knowing smirk again, even as he fussed over the lacing at the open neck of his master’s chemise.
Ignoring the servant, which was her only option apart from fleeing again, she seated herself at Fincastle’s bedside and folded her hands atop her book. “’Tis good you seem more recovered, sire. Do you feel well enough to talk about our plans for the masque?”
“Aye.” He lifted his chin to call his servant over. “But a drink would make my throat easier. Shall I get Duncan to fetch ye some o’ cook’s lemon and ginger too?”
She inclined her head. “Thank you. Yes.”
A moment later, Duncan was dispatched, and the laird lowered his voice. “I’m sorry if ye were discomfited earlier.”
Margaret waved a hand. “’Twas nothing. I—I’m not used to such things. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to make you more comfortable I’d have thought to call a servant to help.”
“Well, I thank ye for your kindness.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “And I’ve been thinking about the masque, what you said about letting the soldiers be soldiers, and what Bastian said about showing the strength of our God-given monarch against the forces of the world.” He smoothed the woven blanket that covered his bed. “How would it be if we—you, or I—represent the Stuart line—the prince, the queen—and the soldiers attack us, again and again, in different guises, playing the different armies that have attacked the crown over the years. And we win.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Of course.”
Fincastle’s words sparked a memory, and a series of images flashed through Margaret’s mind: a horde attacking, weapons bristling, faces fierce. Somewhere, a fire burned, the acrid smoke tickling her nostrils and stinging her eyes, causing tears to flow down her cheeks. Or was she weeping from fear?
All she remembered of that terrible night—apart from the distressing sight of lawless reivers attacking Carwood House—was how frightened she felt, how worried she’d been for mother and father, and how relieved she’d been when the attackers had finally been repelled…
A hand on her arm startled her from her childhood recollection. “Margaret,” the laird’s voice was soft, “I’m sorry. ’Twas a ridiculous idea.” He touched a finger to his forehead. “My fever affected my imagination.”
“No, no.” She shook her head, trying to dispel the disturbing pictures. “’Tis a good idea. ’Twould be dramatic. And easy for the soldiers. We could have them attack a castle.” A picture of her home, walls scorched by smoke and pockmarked by bullet holes, swam unbidden into her head. She thrust the memory away. “Or a palace. To make it obvious who we are.”
“Or we could wear a crown? Crowns,” he corrected himself.
“That too!” In Margaret’s vision she now wore a cloak and crown, and when she raised the royal sceptre, the reivers fell to the ground as if dead. She smiled grimly. “We can show the might of the throne of Scotland. Her Grace will love this!”
“And it should be easy for the soldiers to rehearse.” The laird seemed relieved that she liked his idea, his eagerness to please making him seem younger, somehow, smoothing the lines from his face and brightening skin made pallid by his sickness.
Perhaps if she could get even closer to him, he would want to please her and she could get him to share the details of the plot against the queen? But she could not countenance getting intimate with him. No matter how handsome he might be. My soul would burn in hell. There had to be another way.
“Yes. But first, let us work on the order of battle, so we can send instructions to Stirling.” Opening the history book she held, she pulled her chair closer to the Highlander’s bed, so that he could see the pages too. It meant that her arm now lay against his bicep. But that cannot be helped, she thought, even as her breathing quickened at his touch. “This book should tell us of Scotland’s enemies.”
“Ah.” Fincastle cleared his throat, glanced at her briefly, then tapped a finger pensively against his blanket.
In the silence that ensued, Duncan reappeared and handed them both a warm drink.
“Sire?” she enquired when the laird had not spoken for at least a minute.
“’Tis just—” he gave her a pained look, “Scotland’s worst enemy has always been the English. And will the English queen not be a guest at the christening? We would not want to offend her.”
