Advent 1575. Edinburgh.
“What troubles you so, My Lord of Kirkenwood?” King James VI of Scotland spoke with his careful enunciation as he looked up from his studies. His soft brown eyes reflected his mother’s intelligence.
“A missive from my queen, Your Grace.” Donovan tossed the folded parchment on the table where the nine-year-old king could read it or not, as he chose. The boy managed to read every letter that came into or left the Palace of Holyrood whether intended for his eyes or not.
Donovan had learned to either leave his papers lying about or take private communication verbally in another part of the city. Inwardly, he smiled at this child’s resourcefulness. He’d need it to stay alive amidst the volatile and violent politics of Scotland.
“’Tis marked private.” James did not even look up from the text on geometry. He loved mathematics, especially when he could apply it to a study of the stars and their movements. Were he not a crowned and anointed monarch, he’d make a formidable astrologer.
“Elizabeth invites me to attend the nuptial mass for my niece, Deirdre.” Donovan wasn’t certain how he felt about the news.
His hand reached for the locket about his neck without thinking about why he touched it so frequently.
He had to forget both Deirdre and Hal. As far as he and Kirkenwood were concerned, they had both died.
And yet...
Despite the formal language of the letter from Elizabeth, he knew that both his queen and his niece would welcome him warmly. He truly wanted to stand beside his niece on her wedding day.
“Will you go?” James asked, lisping a little. He frowned. A dimple appeared in his cheek. The same dimple Donovan had witnessed in his own mirror every morning while he shaved.
“With your permission, Your Grace.” Donovan bowed slightly. He had one chance to mend the breach with Deirdre, to bring her back into the family.
“You belong to Elizabeth. You do not need our permission to come and go.” Was that a bit of a tremble in the boy’s chin.
“Your Grace, I value the trust and friendship you have granted me. I would never betray you by leaving without your permission and knowledge.” Donovan dropped to one knee beside the boy, putting him at eye level. He presumed to take James’ hand and hold it tightly, lovingly.
Oh, how he wished he could tell the boy that he was not an orphan, had a parent who truly loved him. But to acknowledge the one night he had spent in Mary’s bed would destroy James’ legitimacy and his right to the throne. Might very well destroy his fragile sense of self.
As much as Donovan wanted to gather this boy king into his arms and whisk him back to Kirkenwood, he knew that England needed Scotland as a strong Protestant ally on its northern border. If England invaded and tried to absorb this small impoverished kingdom, all of Europe would declare war against England. If France or Spain, or—heaven forbid—the Holy Roman Emperor tried to restore order in a warring Scotland, then England was threatened by Catholic armies poised on its borders. For now, Scotland needed to remain independent and at peace under James and his regents.
James could keep Scotland strong and independent, as Elizabeth kept England out of war. Mary could not do that for either kingdom.
“You will not leave me, Lord Donovan?” James asked, very much a little boy in need of a friend.
“I’ll stay by your side as long as you need me, Your Grace.”
James nearly fell into Donovan’s arms. His small arms encircled Donovan’s neck and held on fiercely.
A tear touched Donovan’s eye. His family had shattered. All of his children were now self-sufficient, independent, and had little use for him. But James needed him.
For a time he could think of the boy as family, the only family he had left other than ghosts.
After a moment James sat up in his tall chair again. He firmed his chin and dashed moisture from his eyes and his large nose with the back of his hand.
“We must preside over a trial two days hence, My Lord,” James said, returning to his careful enunciation and formal address. “We wish you to sit beside us in guidance.”
And won’t the regent and Privy Council love that!
“What is the nature of this trial, Your Grace?”
“A witch was caught right here in Edinburgh. She was putting curses on the ale at the White Horse Inn.” James bounced a little, excited by the scandal.
A chill ran up Donovan’s spine. He had to put a stop to this.
“We devised the trap that caught her,” James prattled on. “She put something in the ale that made our trusted earls and knights speak out of turn.”
“But, Your Grace, that is the nature of ale when drunk to excess.” Donovan’s mind spun with ploys to free the supposed witch. No legal way existed for her to prove her innocence short of death.
“Ale is a staple of the diet. Strong men do not loose their tongues upon a single drink.”
“Not a single drink. But what about five or ten or more? Surely these men merely sought an excuse for their own drunkenness.”
“Nay. We questioned them closely. The men are innocent. ’Tis the woman who is guilty. ’Tis always a woman who is guilty. Like my lady mother.” James closed his mouth resolutely.
Donovan knew he’d not persuade the boy now. Perhaps on the morrow.
But James never changed his mind. Not even when proved wrong.
Donovan had best forget about a trip to London for Deirdre’s wedding. He’d best forget about leaving Edinburgh at all for a long, long time. James needed his guidance more than any of the other children. Scotland and England needed Donovan beside the young king, moderating the poison whispered in his ear by his superstitious, fanatical, and power hungry Privy Council.
His sense of family, the close gathering of all of his children shattered. A gaping hole opened in his heart.
o0o
Yuletide 1575. Greenwich Palace, London.
On the morning of my wedding, I cried. From first waking before dawn, through the long ritual of bathing and dressing until I stood outside the royal chapel, tears flowed without stop.
“Whst, child. No need to be afraid. Sir Michael is a gentle man. He’ll not hurt you,” Lady Sidney said as she bathed my eyes with rosewater.
Too choked with tears, I could not reply that I did not fear the man the queen had selected for my husband.
“Hush, now,” Lady Hastings added her own soothing. “You’ll stain the fine gown the queen has given you. Such a fine green brocade, all decked in tiny garnets. You look like a sprig of holly. Fitting for the Yuletide celebrations.”
“And the petticoat your uncle sent, all embroidered in gold and green. Truly a wondrous wedding ensemble,” Lady Sidney echoed her sister.
At this new reminder that Uncle Donovan had not totally exiled me from his family, I let loose another spate of tears. He’d also sent an expensive set of plate. But the petticoat, a lavish luxury and an intimate gift, said more than all the money he had spent.
Elizabeth’s ladies cooed and clucked over me until I managed to control myself enough to walk to the chapel.
Elizabeth met me there. She pressed a stiffly embroidered handkerchief into my hands—white on white with just a touch of green needle lace around the edges.
“’Tis not a disaster, this marriage,” she said, spine as stiff as the starched ruff around her neck. “’Twill work out for the best all around.” With a little huff she flounced into the chapel ahead of me.
I could only follow. Momentarily, my tears dried. In the face of Elizabeth’s near contempt, I found the courage to face my groom.
Throughout the long Mass, punctuated with Elizabeth’s favorite polyphonic music sung by her privately endowed choir, I concentrated on Sir Michael’s handsome face and the adventures we would face together in Her Majesty’s service. We were friends. Comrades-in-arms. We laughed together.
For a short space of time I pushed aside Uncle Donovan’s absence. Betsy’s and Griffin’s silence—not so much as a single note of congratulation or condemnation—my youth, the abruptness of this wedding, Michael’s near miraculous cure. All the reasons for my tears became insignificant.
Except one.
Michael was not Hal.
o0o
Hal held his breath beneath a yew tree. A wolfhound lounged on the ground beside him, oblivious to the weather. One of the regular patrols passed them by without a second glance. Even the scent of a very wet dog did not alert the man huddling beneath his cloak.
Beyond the yew tree stood Greenwich Palace, Elizabeth’s favorite domicile during the Yuletide season. Candlelight sparkled inside the many glass windows. Raindrops on the outside refracted the light into tiny rainbows. Sprightly music drifted through the air. The scent of roasting meat, candied fruits, and mulled wine made Hal’s mouth water.
Inside all was warm and joyous.
Outside the weather was cold and wet. Damp seeped through Hal’s leather doublet and trews. He’d forsaken boots for rags and strips of leather. He’d rather hole up in a lair with a fire and a scroll of ancient text, than be here, but he had a mission. If ever he was to stop Betsy from becoming the true Pendragon of Britain, he had to do it tonight.
When the guard rounded the corner of the palace, Hal moved in the opposite direction. He’d watched the palace for days and found a postern door used by servants and couriers. Once he had even crept inside to find the rooms he needed. Now he must deliver his package, tonight, while all inside reveled and the guards had taken extra tots of beer to warm their bellies against the drizzle.
The dog trotted obediently at his side. Hal missed Helwriaeth more than ever at this moment. The dog at his heels had not the intelligence, nor the psychic bond of a true familiar. Still he would serve his purpose admirably. The family kept only the best dogs in their kennels. All the others were culled or sold to the nobility of Europe and England as fully trained hunters. Much of the family fortune came from the excellence of the kennels.
At every shrub in the geometrically symmetrical gardens, the dog lifted his leg. Hal paused and rolled his eyes upward at the delay. Good thing the moon was dark or he’d probably feel the urge to mark territory atop the beast’s scent.
Eventually they came to the door. Locked, of course. The latch presented no barrier to Hal’s mind. He and the dog slipped inside a cloakroom. Warmth blasted his face and hands and knees. Sleepiness made his eyes heavy.
More than the sudden change in temperature lay hidden in the warm air. Dee had set wards. He smelled her distinctive brand of magic in the magical deterrent. An ordinary thief or intruder would suddenly feel too tired to complete his nefarious deed.
The dog dropped his nose to the corners, sniffing. His ears and tail drooped. Must be strong wards if they affected the dog as well as men. Perhaps she had set them against werewolves.
He swallowed a sudden lump of sadness that threatened to choke him.
Hal pushed on. The cloakroom led to a small receiving salon. That room led to a larger room. That one in turn offered three choices: a staircase going up, or two bedchambers.
He tightened his hold on the dog’s leash and headed up. The dog resisted. Raised in a kennel, he had never climbed stairs before. They presented an unfamiliar barrier to him. He did not like the worn wooden surface that smelled of too many strange people. His claws clicked loudly on the polished wood. Hal dragged him by brute force to another series of dressing rooms and bedchambers.
He paused at the top of the stairs listening. ’Twasn’t yet midnight. All of the revelers should be in the other wing, dancing and singing and drinking.
The dog rushed eagerly to the next door, nose to the crack of light beneath it. He let loose a slight whine.
Then Hal heard the attraction. Another dog snuffled the same door from the next room. Beyond the dog, he heard the deep rumble of a male voice speaking softly followed by a distinctly feminine sigh. That sigh held a world weariness and sadness.
Only one woman in the world could say so much with a sigh.
Dee.
Who was the man who spoke to her in such an intimate tone?
Sir Michael Maelstrom. It could only be him. She’d not allow any other so close to her.
Jealous fury boiled through Hal. He yanked the door open. Two wolfhounds blocked his way as they sniffed ears and tails and made small growls of greeting.
“Hal?” Dee jumped away from Sir Michael, holding her right sleeve, untied from the bodice.
Sir Michael gathered her close with his left arm while he searched for his discarded sword with his right.
“Deirdre.” Hal tried hard to fill his voice with contempt. Suppressing his anger at the sight of them in the early stages of dishabille made his hands and knees tremble.
“What brings you here?” Dee took one step toward him, her hand held out to him. Her left hand now sported a heavy ring—the family ring Sir Michael usually wore.
Sir Michael restrained her from venturing farther from the protection of his arm.
Hal cursed under his breath. He should have known.
“I’ve brought you a wedding present.” Hal shoved the male wolfhound into the room. Coffa still worried at the creature’s ears.
“But...”
“No buts about it. Betsy isn’t fit to be the Pendragon. You need to breed Coffa to keep the line of familiars viable. ’Tis the dogs that choose the Pendragon. Not the queen, or Betsy, or even my father.” He almost choked on the last word. He hadn’t seen his father, even from a distance, since that horrible night on the moors when they faced each other with certain knowledge of Hal’s terrible curse.
“Will you return to claim one of the pups?” Dee knelt beside the dogs, one arm draped around the neck of each. The beasts licked her face and nuzzled her hands for caresses.
Her sleeve lay forgotten on the floor. Mute reminder of the intimacy of the embrace Hal had interrupted.
“Nay. I’ll never have another familiar. Helwriaeth wouldn’t like it.”
“Helwriaeth is dead, Hal.”
“Not entirely.” Hal turned on his heel and marched back the way he had come. Alone except for the lingering light of humanity behind his heart where Helwriaeth’s spirit had lodged. ’Twas that spark that allowed him to resist The Master. ’Twas Helwriaeth who kept him from sinking totally into the bestiality of his curse.
o0o
“Hal!” I cried.
Michael held me back. “Let him go, Deirdre. He’s lost to you.”
My husband tried to pull me into his embrace.
“Hal!” I wrenched away. Tears flowed once more. I thought I had no more to shed. The door resisted my attempts to open it. What had Hal done to it?
“Give it up, Deirdre,” Michael said gently. He held my shoulders, quieting my sobs.
Still I played uselessly with the latch. No magic sprang to my fingers or my mind. It all seemed to flow away with my tears.
“He’s so lost and lonely,” I wailed, turning my face into Michael’s chest. I needed his strong body to shield me from my own fears and aloneness.
“Your cousin is cursed, Deirdre. There is nothing you can do about it. But he gave you a magnificent gift, the opportunity to become what he can never be now.” Gently he rubbed my back and neck, crooning as if to a child.
As if to emphasize Michael’s words, Coffa crowded close to me, supporting me with her strong back and intense love.
At last I gained a modicum of control. “I would mourn him as if he had died.” Instinctively, I reached into my pocket for the cross from the broken rosary that was never far from my fingers.
It wasn’t there!
I pulled away from Michael, searching frantically for the talisman from my father.
“Is this what you are looking for?” Michael held up a long chain of gold beads marked with pearls at the decade. A golden-circled cross dangled from the ends. It spun, glinting shades of sunshine and brightness in the candlelight.
“My cross!” I gasped, reaching for the rosary. “You had it restrung.”
“Aye. I know how you treasure it.” He held the present just beyond my reach.
“Michael, please,” I asked, feigning meekness.
“Here. Keep it hidden. The rosary is still illegal.” Suddenly he sobered. “But I know you are not a Papist.”
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” I clutched the precious relic to my bosom. “I can never repay you, Michael. I have no gift for you. I have nothing of my own.”
“The queen gave you a magnificent dowry. Two estates.”
“Small ones with no revenue. I come before you with little more than what I wear and these two dogs.”
“Yes, the dogs. The symbol of your magical heritage.” His fists tightened and his shoulders slumped. In resentment?
We had never discussed that part of my life. He had guessed some of it. I was certain Sir Francis Walsingham had told him more. Did he know the dangers he faced married to one of my family?
“Michael...”
“No. Say nothing more. I know your heart belongs to another. This marriage is merely for the convenience of respectability.” He turned and walked sadly toward the outer door. Coffa followed him. The male followed her.
I felt suddenly cold, more alone than ever. I lifted a hand in entreaty. Only my shift clothed that arm. We’d begun the process of a true marriage.
“Michael. It does not have to be that way.”
He paused and looked over his shoulder at me. Hope flitted across his eyes. He masked it quickly and skillfully.
“Please, do not leave me alone.” With a quick flick of my fingers I opened the ties on the other sleeve. They tangled, knotted. I tore at them, frustrated and frightened.
“Here, allow me. ’Twill be no end of teasing on the morrow should the others notice broken ties.” His gentle fingers unraveled the troublesome knot. He held my gaze while he stripped off the sleeve.
“’Twill be no end of teasing on the morrow no matter how chaste we appear,” I said on a breathy whisper. “I want to be a true wife to you, Michael.”
“And your cousin?”
“We had no chance to be together even before... before Paris. We both always knew we had to wed elsewhere. I would wed a friend, a man I can laugh with. A man with common goals and interests. A man I love enough to cure with magical flowers and the help of drunken faeries. ’Tis more than most maids can hope for.”
“’Tis more than Hal can dream about now.” He hugged me fiercely. “I want to like the man, Deirdre. But I can only fear him and the hold he has over you.”
“No more than I fear what he will do to himself, alone. Without even a dog for company.”
“You and I are bound together now, Deirdre. For better or worse.”
For all the love in his words, his voice sounded flat, as if he spoke to reassure himself more than me.
“Then best we make it for the better.”
He kissed me tenderly. It lacked the joyful intensity of his previous caresses.
I returned his kisses and hoped the power of the faery stars we had drunk during his cure was enough to hold us together.