Legacy (15 page)

The king’s night-dark eyes appraised him carefully. John met his searching gaze without challenge or fear. Finally, Jamie nodded. “Well spoken, lad. Well spoken, indeed. You shall make a full report to me tomorrow.” He looked down at his queen. “You are very quiet tonight, Margaret. Do you agree that your brother is deserving of such flattering words?”

Margaret Tudor lowered her eyes and flushed painfully. There was nothing of the charming and confident Henry in the shrinking figure of his older sister. John’s heart softened with pity, and when he spoke, it was far more gently than he had replied to his king.

“There is no shame in finding virtue in a beloved brother, m’lady,” he assured her. “I’m sure were Henry here, he would speak as highly of you,”

Margaret straightened and flashed him a look of gratitude. “You are most kind, sir,” she said graciously. “But my lord forgets that I have been queen of Scotland for many years. My brother was little more than a child when I left England. I have no opinion as to what kind of man he has become.”

John’s expression remained as courteous as ever, but in truth, the queen’s answer surprised him. It was every bit as diplomatic and carefully worded as his own. Sweet Jesu! The woman knew something of deception. What kind of life was it to be always mindful of one’s tongue? Five years of watching his back at the English court was enough. John asked nothing more than to settle his affairs, marry Jeanne, and spend the rest of his years living quietly at Traquair, watching his children grow.

A young man whispered into the king’s ear. John recognized him at once and studied him curiously. The passing years had changed George Gordon immensely. The earl of Strathbogie was a tall, lean young man with the feline grace of a cat. His thick, tawny hair and golden eyes reminded John of Mary Gordon. He had seen much of George’s younger sister at Whitehall.

Jamie frowned and spoke aloud. “You are too impatient, George. Give me time. A Stewart marriage cannot be taken lightly.”

“I am a Gordon of Strathbogie, Your Grace,” the young man reminded him.

“Your mother was a Stewart, rest her soul,” pronounced the king. “She would wish this matter to be given the consideration it deserves.”

“Jeanne Maxwell is suitable in every way,” insisted Gordon.

Jamie’s obsidian-bright eyes glittered dangerously, “I’m well aware of that, Cousin. Mistress Maxwell’s suitability is not the cause for my delay. Have your manners gone begging, m’lord?” He nodded at John. “Here is the Lady Jeanne’s kinsman after five years in London.”

Gordon acknowledged John Maxwell with a brief bow and immediately turned his attention back to the king. “If it is not a question of her name, what is it, Your Grace?”

Jamie grinned. “There is another suitor for her hand. I’ve not yet decided which alliance would serve me best.”

George Gordon’s eyes narrowed, and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. “I insist that you name him.”

“I beg your pardon?” Jamie’s teeth were set, and his face was white with rage.

“Lord Gordon,” interrupted the queen. “I don’t believe you’ve asked me to dance this entire night. You must tell me what you think of the improvements my husband has made to the great hall.” Chatting brightly, she maneuvered Gordon across the enormous room into the circle of dancers taking their places.

“Insolent puppy,” growled James. Draining his goblet, he motioned for a servant to take it away. “Have you nothing to say, Maxwell?” he demanded. “The man seeks to wed the wench who holds your heart. If it were I, he would be cut in two on this very floor.”

John grinned. “I am not king of Scotland, Your Grace, and Jeanne is not so obedient as your Margaret. Were I to make such a public declaration, she would spite me by taking the Holy Orders.”

“I can forbid the marriage,” suggested James.

John shook his head. “Not yet. I would rather her hand be freely given. An unwilling wife makes a poor bed partner.”

Jamie laughed. “From what I’ve heard, lad, you should know.”

“I wish you had not heard such a great deal, Your Grace,” John said wryly. “Not everything is always as it seems.”

“No matter, lad,” Jamie clapped him on the back. “Come to me tomorrow and we’ll speak of London. I’ll keep young Gordon at bay until the Lady Jeanne is of a kinder frame of mind.”

John’s eyes warmed with laughter. “My thanks, Jamie,” he drawled softly. “Perhaps someday I can return the favor.”

“You will, lad. Never fear. You will.”

***

Lord Home stepped forward to claim the queen’s hand for the next set, and George Gordon relinquished it gratefully. He could not be comfortable with Jamie’s shrewish wife. Searching the room, his eyes settled on the woman he could be comfortable with.

Just looking at Jeanne Maxwell revived him. He could forget he was here, in the filthy city of Edinburgh with its twisted wynds and overflowing gutters reeking of offal. The clear, calm beauty of Jeanne’s face was like a rain-scented wind blowing across the ramparts of Strathbogie.

She leaned against a piling beneath the ferocious boar’s head, the remains of a trophy that Jamie had killed and carried single-handedly back to Edinburgh. The blood-encrusted head and curved teeth contrasted hideously with the pale loveliness of Jeanne’s ermine-trimmed figure. Her gown was white. The pristine color suited her. The deep square neck and long full sleeves set off the slenderness of her arms and throat. A kirtle of twisted pearls gathered the flowing skirt around her slim, boyish hips. The only color about her was the rich darkness of her hair and the pale pink of her cheeks and lips.

His hands clenched. He wanted this woman more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He wanted her serenity, her quick understanding, her unusual Celtic beauty. The touch of her long, cool fingers, the sweep of her lashes, the untapped mystery behind her diamond gray eyes, set a fever in his veins that neither time nor distance could assuage. Jeanne Maxwell belonged to him. God help the man who stood in his way.

He crossed the room to her side.

Jeanne smiled. George was very handsome. In the light of the flickering torches his hair gleamed like burnished gold. “You look serious, m’lord.”

George grimaced and shook his head. “’Tis the queen. In her eyes, Jamie can do no wrong.”

Jeanne’s eyes widened. “’Tis most unwise to tell the queen you find fault with her husband. Despite their differences, she adores him.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I tire of this delay, Jeannie. Why won’t he consent to our marriage?”

Jeanne bit her lip. “Has he refused?”

“Almost.” His laugh was bitter. “There is another suitor for your hand.”

“Jamie cannot force me.”

“If the marriage furthers his cause with the pope, you will have little choice.”

“I shall seek sanctuary with the Sisters of Llewellyn Mar.”

George took her hands in his own and smiled down at her. “I am truly touched,” he said gently. “But that is a sacrifice I cannot accept.”

“Why not?”

“You have no calling, Jeannie.”

“How do you know?”

His eyes moved from her face to linger deliberately on the swell of her breasts above the white gown. “Your body was made for a man’s enjoyment,” he said bluntly.

She flushed and pulled away. “You insult me.”

“Nay, lass. But to become a bride of Christ without a true calling is a mortal sin. I will not have that on my conscience.”

Her smile confused him. It was small and sad and held nothing of warmth or amusement. When she spoke, her words chilled his heart. “It is my conscience we are speaking of, m’lord, not yours.”

Something flickered in the depths of her eyes, something dark and forbidden that he didn’t understand. Unwillingly, his sister’s warning flashed through his mind. Jane Hepburn had not approved of Jeanne. Witchcraft ran in the Maxwell line. George had refused to countenance such absurdity. Jeanne was the purest, most devout woman he knew. He saw her at Mass every morning. Still, her eyes were the illusive, netherworld gray of the hill people, and her friendship with the
calliach
, Grania Douglas, was spoken of at court in hushed whispers.

Pushing his misgivings aside, he took her arm. “There is no need to speak of this now. Come, let us find a place in front before the singing begins.”

Jeanne allowed him to guide her into the crowd clustered at the end of the hall. A hush blanketed the room as the melodic notes of the troubadour echoed against the wood-beamed ceiling and filtered down, filling the appreciative ears of the guests. Closing her eyes, Jeanne allowed the powerful notes of the border lament to seep into her consciousness, filling her mind with the tragic story of unrequited love.

The performer was particularly skilled. When Jeanne opened her eyes, she was not surprised to see more than one woman surreptitiously wiping her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. She looked around for George and saw that he was listening to the woman beside him. It was Jane Hepburn. Jeanne frowned. She did not care for George’s sister.

She backed away, bumping into a figure behind her. She turned with an apology on her lips and blushed. John Maxwell looked down at her. From the expression on his face, she knew his eyes hadn’t missed a single detail of her appearance, including the telltale track of tears winding their way down her cheeks. Before she could move away, he reached out and wiped them away with a gentle finger. “’Tis only a ballad, lass,” he murmured. “The bards will sing a happier tale of Lady Jeanne Maxwell of Traquair.”

“Traquair is your home now,” she reminded him. “You are the new laird since Father died.”

The gray eyes gleamed like liquid silver in the torchlight. “Traquair needs a mistress,” he said softly.

“Then you must seek a wife.”

He smiled, and the lean planes of his face gentled into the boyishness she remembered. “I already have, Jeannie. All I need is her approval.”

Shock drained the color from her cheeks. Was the man daft? Did he really think to convince Jamie that he was a more suitable mate for Donald Maxwell’s daughter than George Gordon? Another thought occurred to her. Perhaps he meant something else entirely. Perhaps he’d found someone else. The room was suddenly cold. Her stomach burned. John and another woman. Only once before, in her twenty years, had she felt so miserable and alone.

John ignored the guards flanking the ornately carved door and knocked loudly.

“Enter,” a booming voice called out.

He turned the handle and stepped inside. The king was seated in a wide-backed chair by the fire, a jeweled goblet in his hand. “Welcome, John,” he said and gestured toward a stool directly opposite his chair. “I’ve been waiting nearly an hour, lad.” He waved his arm to encompass the small paneled room. “As you can see, we are alone. Now tell me of my dear brother-in-law’s plans.”

“I apologize for the delay, Your Grace,” replied John. He seated himself on the stool and stretched out his long legs. “I’m afraid my news isn’t good.”

Jamie nodded. “I thought not. Tell me everything you know.”

“His Holiness seeks to twist Louis of France in a powerful noose,” said John. “Henry encourages this hatred of his enemy by sending Rome huge sums of gold. There will be a time when you must choose, Your Grace.”

“Bah!” The king threw the remains of his wine, goblet and all, into the blazing fire. “I’ll not take arms against Louis. He is my ally. We’ve a treaty between us.”

“Even if it means war with England?”

“Julius is a sorry excuse for a clergyman,” Jamie muttered. “The last thing Christendom needs is a warrior pope. He should concern himself with the Vatican. If he wants to lead an army, why not send a crusade to the Holy Land? God’s blood! There isn’t a man in Scotland who wouldn’t vie for the privilege of taking up such a cause.”

John could think of nothing less appealing, but he knew better than to disagree with Jamie when he started on the subject of a holy crusade. “Julius II is a selfish man, Your Grace,” he said instead. “There will be a Holy League, but it will not be against the infidels. It will be directed against our ancient ally, the most Christian king of France.”

Jamie drummed his fingers on a small side table. “Louis will not stand for such nonsense,” he said. “He will appeal for a general council against the pope.”

A taut white line appeared around John’s lips. “It would be most unwise for Louis to set himself against the pope.”

The king gave him a sharp look from beneath his heavy eyebrows. “I do not believe you are at all concerned for Louis, my friend.”

John grinned. “You are always astute, Your Grace.”

Jamie leaned forward. “You have been five years at the English court. Where will you stand, John Maxwell, if Scotland allies herself with France?”

An angry wind moaned against the parapets and stirred the tapestries lining the paneled walls. In the fireplace, a log cracked and split, sending a shower of sparks onto the hearth. No one looking at the handsome, chiseled features of the laird of Traquair would have guessed at the enormity of the decision weighting his mind. There was the power and might of the English king allied with Ferdinand of Aragon, the emperor Maximilian, and all of Christendom against a weakened Louis VII and the tragically loyal, recklessly brave Jamie IV of Scotland.

A flash of lightning illuminated the room, throwing the king’s features into bold relief. John was shocked. For the first time, the fleshy, handsome face of the man who had wrested a kingdom from his father at the age of fifteen reflected uncertainty. In that instant, John made his decision. With everything to lose and nothing to gain, he knelt at the feet of Scotland’s king and bowed his head in deference.

“I am a Scot, my liege,” he said. “Command me as you will.”

With a deep, rumbling sigh, Jamie offered his hand. John kissed the royal ring with its raised pelican crest, symbolizing the Stewart dynasty.

“Stand, m’lord.” The king’s voice was gruff with emotion. “I’m not foolish enough to believe your words come easily. For that I thank you.”

Tall and lean in the leaping light of the fire, John looked down at his king and nodded. Jamie was charming and fickle, not unlike the others of his line who had ruled this kingdom to the north of England. He was also inspirational, rash, daring, and willful, the kind of leader men took into their hearts, worshipped, fought with, and willingly died for. John was no different. Against his better judgment, his sword was forever pledged to the House of Stewart.

***

“Where are you going at this hour? ’Tis after four.” Flora Maxwell’s smooth brow wrinkled in dismay as she stared at the back of her daughter’s head.

Jeanne was almost out the door. Her hands clenched on the folds of her skirt, but she did not turn to face her mother. “I go with Sim to carry peat to Grania’s cottage,” she said. “The nights are cold for an old woman.”

“Send Sim alone,” begged Flora. “The moors are no place for a woman and a lad not yet grown.”

Jeanne turned impatiently, her lovely face set as if carved in marble. “We’ve been through this before. I will not be ruled by you, Mother. Not in this. Not in anything.”

Flora’s face paled, but she stood, determined to have it out between them. “Why do you hate me so? You are my only daughter, my only living child. What have I done to earn your contempt?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jeanne’s smile did not reach her eyes. “You are imagining what isn’t there.”

“Am I?” Flora’s eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath and said out loud the words she’d carried in her heart for such an endless length of days and nights. “Is it I alone who imagines what isn’t there, Jeannie?”

Jeanne lifted her chin and studied her mother’s face, carefully noting the trembling Cupid’s bow mouth and the pink blush on her unlined cheeks. Flora Maxwell looked much younger than her thirty-five years. John was twenty-seven. It would be a match made in heaven. Bile rose in Jeanne’s throat. “Don’t play games, Mother,” she lashed out. “Say what you mean.”

Flora traced the embroidered edge of a high-backed chair with slender fingers. “John Maxwell has returned from England,” she began.

Jeanne remained silent.

“Before he left, he asked for your hand in marriage. I told him the match had my approval if you agreed. You were very young and five years is a long time.” Flora lowered her lashes over brimming tears and bit her lip. “There was a time when I believed you were not indifferent to his attentions.”

Jeanne could contain herself no longer. “That was before you made your preference quite clear.”

Bewildered, Flora stared at her daughter. “I beg your pardon?”

“I saw you.” Jeanne’s eyes were the dark, stormy gray of the North Sea. “My brother’s body was still warm when John carried you into the bedchamber you shared with Father. Did you believe I was too young to know what went on inside that room,
Mother?
” She spit out the last word in a scathing blast of contempt.

White with shock, Flora listened to the blasphemous words. “No,” she whispered. “No, you don’t understand. It wasn’t that way at all.” She held out her hand imploringly. “John was your father’s friend, nothing more. John wanted
you
, Jeannie. He loved you from the beginning when you were children together. I’ve always known that. How could you think either of us would betray your father in such a way?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why?” The single word was a cry of agony.

“He didn’t come home when Father died,” said Jeanne. “He waited until you were free.”

“Donald died two years ago,” Flora reminded her. “Why would he wait so long to claim me?”

“Any sooner would seem improper to the church and the king.”

Flora’s lip curled. “Since when has Jamie Stewart been concerned with propriety?”

Jeanne frowned. If what her mother said was true, she had much to think about. The wounds she’d nursed for five years wouldn’t heal with a single explanation. Besides, even if John and her mother had not been lovers, his reputation at the English court was enough to make him an unsuitable choice for a husband. “It grows late and Sim waits below with the horses,” she said shortly, turning the door handle. “I shall stay the night with Grania.”

“There are those who believe she is a witch, Jeannie,” Flora warned. “Be ruled by me in this. Do not go to her this night.”

“Do you believe such an absurdity?” Jeanne asked, her expression contemptuous.

Flora shook her head. “Of course not. But it matters not what I believe. There are those with far greater influence than I who swear she deals in magic.”

“I need to think,” Jeanne explained. “Grania’s cottage is good for thinking.”

“And Traquair isn’t?” her mother challenged.

Jeanne stopped, and when she spoke, her voice was very low. “You forget, Mother. This is no longer our home. It belongs to John. We are allowed to remain only because of the affection he bears our family. It would be unwise to become too fond of Traquair House.” With a whisper of velvet skirts against the stone floor, she was gone.

***

Three hours later, a servant ushered John Maxwell into a small, dimly lit sitting room at the back of the house. There, he found the mistress of Traquair lying on a leather settle, one arm thrown across her face in a gesture of despair. Leaning against the door jamb, he crossed his arms. “Is this any way to greet the head of your family, m’lady?” he teased.

Flora dropped her arm and sat up immediately. “John,” she cried and started to rise. He stopped her by striding across the room to sweep her up into a choking embrace. They stood close together for a timeless moment, the dark head bent protectively over the light one. Finally, laughing breathlessly, Flora pulled away. “Stand back and let me look at you,” she ordered.

He moved away allowing her sight-starved eyes to look their fill. “Oh, John.” Her eyes filled. “You’ve grown into a shockingly handsome man.”

His eyes, so like Jeanne’s, twinkled down at her. “I’m glad you approve. I hope your daughter’s taste is the same. Where is the lass?”

Flora wrung her hands and sat down on the settle. “She left three hours ago to pay Grania Douglas a visit.”

John’s eyes widened. “Sweet Jesu,” he marveled. “Is Grania still alive? She was ancient when we were children.”

“I’m afraid so,” replied Flora. “Jeanne visits her often. I’m afraid the woman may be dangerous.”

John sat down beside her and took her hand. “Grania is a harmless old
calliach
, Flora. How could she possibly harm Jeanne?”

“You’ve been away a long time, John,” explained Flora. “I hardly know Jeannie anymore. ’Tis difficult for us to speak without tension between us. Perhaps she finds Grania’s advice to be more satisfactory than mine.”

He grinned. “Jeanne never appreciated advice, no matter who it came from.”

Flora shook her head. “You don’t understand. There are rumors that Grania deals in witchcraft. She was ordered by the prelate to appear before him once already. The next time she will be brought to trial. Jeanne refuses to stay away from her.”

John lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his thoughtful, gaze. “Jeanne was devoted to you before I left Scotland,” he said gently. “How is it that the two of you have come to such a pass?”

Flora opened her mouth to protest her own innocence when she happened to glance down at the hand that held hers. It was a thin hand, long fingered and finely made, the skin dark against her own. She blushed. How could she tell him of Jeanne’s doubts when they came so near to the truth? Flora knew John Maxwell had never considered her to be anything more than a beloved aunt or older sister. It was Jeanne he loved. It was Jeanne he would wed. During the long, cold nights of winter when he stood his watch or walked the battlements of Dunaverty Castle, where he had been fostered, it was Jeanne’s face he called to mind. Through the five years in England, it was Jeanne who received his letters. Her gray-eyed, black-haired, unconventional daughter had captured his heart when she was scarcely more than a child.

Still, a woman could dream, especially a woman married to a man twice her age. Flora’s dreams were filled with a dark-haired boy with thick straight brows and beautifully chiseled features. A boy with the lean rippling muscles of a warrior. A boy who moved with the grace of a cat and used his voice like a sword, clear and coldly disciplined. A boy who loved her daughter. A boy who would be the father of her grandchildren. A boy who was now a disturbingly handsome man.

Flora bit her lip. She loved John Maxwell, but she loved Jeanne more. If there was to be any happiness in this life for her daughter, it would be with this splendid young man now seated beside her. Whatever it cost, whatever look of horror it brought to his face, he deserved the truth. “Jeanne believes we betrayed her,” she began. “When my son died, she saw you carry me into my bedchamber and believed the worst.”

John’s expression was incredulous. “That can’t be,” he denied flatly.

“’Tis true, John. At fifteen, a woman is no longer a girl. Indeed, I was already a mother. She must have loved you, even then, to believe such a thing and to feed her jealousy for so long.” Flora lowered her eyes. “Our embrace could not be called platonic, even to one so inexperienced as Jeanne.”

“You were hysterical,” he reminded her. “Donald was expected. When I touched you, naturally you assumed I was your husband.”

Flora had assumed nothing of the sort. Wisely, she remained silent.

John stood and paced the room. Suddenly he stopped and ran his hands through his hair. “It makes no sense. I spoke to Jeanne of my intentions before I left for England. She led me to believe my feelings were returned.”

A fierce, stabbing jealousy burned in the pit of Flora’s stomach. It was a long moment before she trusted herself to speak. “There have been rumors about your activities at Henry’s court. Jeanne is very proud, m’lord. You will have to convince her the others meant nothing.”

“Others?” A deep frown settled between John’s brows.

Flora laughed. “Come now, John. Even a saint would not claim to have practiced celibacy for five years.”

His cheeks darkened. “I make no false claims,” he muttered, “but neither am I accustomed to debauchery.”

“Explain that to Jeanne.”

“God’s wounds, madam. No other woman would blame me for satisfying an occasional need.”

“Jeanne is not like other women. If you don’t know that by now, I suggest that you turn tail and run back to Edinburgh. Telling her she should hold you blameless for taking women to your bed will gain you nothing. She would most likely ask how you would feel if she had done the same.”