The Queen's Lady. Shannon Drake

      AS THEY CONTINUED ALONG the road to Edinburgh, Rowan was pleased to see that prudence was evident in the populace’s welcome to the queen. People lined the streets, many among them costumed and employed to both welcome and amuse. Fifty men were dressed as Moors, turbaned, wearing ballooned trousers of yellow taffeta, and bowing the procession along as if offering tremendous riches. Four young maidens representing the virtues greeted the queen from atop a hastily erected stage. A child walked up shyly to present Queen Mary with a Bible and Psalter.

      There had been heated arguments before the queen’s arrival, with several of the Protestant lords desirous of presenting an effigy of a burning priest for Mary’s viewing. Many among their own number had furiously decried such an idea. There were some subtle hints as they rode past that this was no longer a Catholic country: burning effigies of biblical sons who had worshiped false idols, and a slight hint in the child’s speech that the queen should embrace the religion of her country. But none of it was heavy-handed, allowing the new queen to ignore what she might not like. And the festive tenor of the day was real; people were ready and willing to welcome back such a beautiful monarch.

      As Rowan carefully watched the activity surrounding the queen, he found his eyes frequently straying to her maid, the Lady Gwenyth, whose eyes were fixed upon the queen and those around her. The young woman was strikingly beautiful. In fact, all the queen’s attendants were attractive—something, he mused, that the queen probably allowed because she herself was so regal and lovely, so she did not fear the glory of those around her. It was something that spoke well of her, Rowan thought.

      But what was it about Lady Gwenyth that drew him so strongly? Certainly she was lovely, but the same could be said of many women. There was something, he realized, about her speech and her eyes that he found most provocative. A fire simmered within her, a fire to match the color of her hair—not really brown, not really blond, streaked with shades of red. And her eyes, a tempestuous mix of green, brown and gold. She wasn’t as tall as the queen, but as even few men equaled Mary’s height, it was not surprising that her maids were all diminutive in comparison. Still, Gwenyth was of a respectable height, perhaps five-foot-six. She gave her loyalty, and did so fiercely. She had shown herself ready and able to argue her point lucidly and with an effective command of language. She had a sharp wit. He smiled, thinking that when she disdained someone, she would do it with a cutting edge. When she hated someone, it would be with fervor. And when she loved, it would be with a passion and depth that could not be questioned or mistrusted.

      A strange searing pain suddenly tore at his heart. Strange, for he had long ago accepted the tragedy of his own situation. He could not forget, would never truly heal. Yet he could not deny the carnal reality of his nature, though he allowed it free rein only when circumstances conspired to provide an acceptable mixture of time, place and partner. This girl in the queen’s retinue was never to be taken lightly, and therefore…

      Never to be taken at all.

      He should keep his distance, yet he smiled as he recalled the joys of debating with her. She was far too amusing. Far too tempting.

      Her eyes met his suddenly, and she didn’t flush or look away. She gazed at him instead with defiance. Understandable, given that he had dared to express his wariness about this homecoming. A homecoming that, he was forced to admit, was going exceptionally well, at least so far. He was surprised to find himself the first to look away, and to cover his feelings, he rode forward, nearer to James Stewart. Nearer to Queen Mary. The people continued to boisterously cheer her, but….

      He would be the last to deny that there were fanatics in Scotland, and he was relieved when the queen’s party at last reached Holyrood Palace.

      Perhaps appearances could be trusted and the queen was going to be accepted and loved—maybe even revered and adored. He didn’t understand the deep feeling of dread that had settled over him when the day dawned for the young queen to arrive. Lord James, her half brother and, in essence, ruler of Scotland, had seemed pleased enough that his sister had been bound for home. Having accompanied James to France, Rowan had met her briefly already. She had been everything a country could long for in a monarch—elegant, poised and tactful. She was also beautiful, and her unusual height simply added to the impressiveness of her appearance. He simply found it worrying that she had spent virtually her entire life in France.

      He himself had nothing against the French. He found their nobles’ more than occasional slurs against the Scots to be amusing—and almost complimentary. Yes, theirs was a remote and rugged landscape. Yes, there were those among the Highland lords who were not only rightfully proud but fierce. They were not a dandified people, were fighters more often than courtiers, but their hearts were strong and true. And he knew that when his people accepted a belief into their hearts, they did it without stinting. Such was the case now, with the Protestant cause.

      And the queen was Catholic.

      He laid no blame upon her for that; in fact, he admired her loyalty. She had spent her life living with the God of the Catholic Church. She was constant in her beliefs. Throughout the years of his own life, he had seen far too much brutality committed in the name of religion.

      Elizabeth now held the throne of England, herself a Protestant monarch. But though the Queen of England was judicious, not one to order executions lightly, she was not afraid of doing what must be done. Against the odds, she had created a realm in which no one needed to die for choosing to worship in his own way.

      But here in Scotland, it had been only a year since the fever of Protestantism had taken hold, and Rowan knew his people. What they embraced, they embraced with abandon. He could not help but dread what was to come.

      When they at last arrived at Holyrood Palace, he felt some of his forebodings ease away. Holyrood was magnificent. Set outside the city walls of Edinburgh, it was surrounded by magnificent vistas and delightful forests. Holyrood had been established as a tower, but in the days of the queen’s father, it had been extended and improved upon in the style of the Scottish Renaissance. French masons had been brought in to do much of the work. Rowan thought proudly that Holyrood rivaled many a continental palace. Both Holyrood itself and the neighboring abbey had been burnt seventeen years earlier by the English, but in the years since, everything had been lovingly restored.

      He saw Queen Mary’s face as they arrived, and was glad to see her obvious pleasure at the sight of her new home as Scotland’s queen. She had been nothing since her arrival but tactful and diplomatic, but he himself had played the game of diplomacy for many a year, and he knew that her delight in seeing the palace was genuine.

      Rowan noticed that Gwenyth was anxiously watching the queen, as well, and he diverted his attention from the monarch and directed it toward the maid.

      The Lady Gwenyth was an enigma. It was evident in her words and manner that she did not take her position in the queen’s court lightly; she seemed to feel something for Mary that was precious even among kings and queens: real friendship. And yet here she was clearly no fool. She had not been gone long from the country of her birth and, though she loved Scotland dearly, she could not help but be aware, as the queen who had been so long away could not be, of the dangers