The Queen's Lady Read Free Page B

which she thought quite rude.
    â€œWould you deny the queen her right to worship God?” she inquired. “If so, perhaps you’d be best off returning to the Highlands, my lord,” she said sweetly.
    â€œAh, such fierce loyalty.”
    â€œNo more than you, too, owe your queen,” she snapped.
    â€œHow long have you been gone, Lady Gwenyth?” he asked softly in return.
    â€œA year.”
    â€œThen such pretense on your part is either foolish or you are sadly not as well-read or intelligent as I had imagined. You speak of loyalty, but surely you know loyalty is something to be earned. Perhaps your young queen does indeed deserve such a fierce defense, but she must prove herself to her people, having been gone so long. Have you been gone so long that you have forgotten how it is here? That there are parts of this land where the monarchy and government mean nothing, and devotion is given first and foremost to one’s own clan? When there is no war to fight, we fight among ourselves. I am a loyal man, my lady. Fiercely loyal to Scotland. Young Mary is our queen, and as such, she has not just my loyalty but every shred of strength I can provide, both my sword arm and my life. But if she wishes to gain real control as a monarch, she will have to come to know her people and make them love her. For if they love her…no battle in her name will be too great. History has proven us reckless, far too ready to die for those with the passion to lead us into battle. Time will tell if Mary is one such.”
    Gwenyth stared at him, incredulous. It was a heroic speech, but she sensed something of a threat in it, as well. “You, my lord, haven’t the manners of a Highland hound,” she returned, fighting for control.
    He didn’t lose his temper, only shrugged. She was further irritated when once again he laughed out loud. “A year in France has made you quite high and mighty, has it not? Have you forgotten that your own father hailed from the Highlands?”
    Was that a subtle rebuke? Her father had died on the battlefield with James V, though he’d not left such a great legacy as the king. He’d been Laird MacLeod of Islington Isle, but the tiny spit of land just off the high tors barely afforded a meager living for those who lived upon it. Riches had not sent her to France to serve Queen Mary; respect for her father’s memory was all that had been left her.
    â€œIt’s my understanding that my father was stalwart and brave, and courteous at all times,” she informed him.
    â€œAh, how sharp that dagger,” he murmured.
    â€œWhat is the matter with you, Laird Rowan? This is a day of great joy. A young queen has returned to claim her birthright. Look around you. People are happy.”
    â€œIndeed,” he agreed. “So far.”
    â€œBeware. Your words hold a hint of what might sound traitorous to other ears,” she informed him coolly.
    â€œMy point,” he said softly, “is that this Scotland is a far different place than the Scotland she left so long ago—indeed, even from the Scotland you left behind. But if you think I am less than pleased to see Mary here, you are mistaken. It is my entire aim to keep Mary on her throne. I, too, believe a man—or a woman—must worship God from the heart and as seems best, not turning upon details that have so torn apart the Catholic Church and the people of this country. Men of power write policy and interpret words on paper, yet it is the innocents who so often die because of that simple fact. I speak bluntly and boldly—that is my way. I will always be here to guard your Mary—even against herself, if need be. You, my dear, are young, with the idealistic perceptions of youth. May God guard you, as well.”
    â€œI hope He will start by helping me avoid the boors of my own country,” she returned, her chin high.
    â€œWith one so charming and dedicated as yourself, dear