IT WAS A TIME WHEN ALL the world seemed right, so right that there were moments when Gwenyth could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. She was living beneath a foreign queen and in a foreign land, but she had never been happier.
Christmas came and went. A miraculously happy time.
And still, they resided in London.
Easter came. Another joyous occasion, although Gwenyth was well aware it would be much different if she were in Edinburgh, at Mary’s Court. Here, too, there was pageantry, but of a far more muted kind than would be found at Mary’s behest.
On Good Friday, they atoned. On Easter Sunday, they celebrated.
And a new season began.
But Gwenyth knew they had not been given the distant blessing of a woman such as Elizabeth without giving something in return, and she wondered what price they would have to pay—and when. But most of the time she put such fears out of her mind, and living was nothing but sheer joy, days and nights completely at their leisure, royal outings to be taken if they so chose, and endless time alone. Sometimes it was the magnitude of her happiness that actually frightened Gwenyth, knowing, as she did, the fate of Catherine Grey, who’d had her marriage declared null and void by her monarch, and who still resided in the Tower, while her husband was kept in other quarters, her two babes well-tended but illegitimate. But whether Elizabeth was a legal witness to their marriage or not, she had approved it. Gwenyth could only pray that Mary was eager to placate Elizabeth, and that there would be no difficulty when they returned to Scotland and presented their queen with the fact of their marriage. She was convinced of Mary’s kindness, as she reiterated to Elizabeth, never forgetting her duty in the English capital.
She loved Rowan with all her heart; she was his wife. And there were moments when she knew she had achieved a happiness that few ever knew on earth, and she held that fact closely to her heart whenever she grew afraid.
There were many letters from Scotland, those Gwenyth received from Mary encouraging her in her ways, for Elizabeth had written to Mary to say that her “kind sister of Scottish soil” was doing much to endear her to the woman she had yet to meet. But Rowan, on the other hand, often received letters from Laird James Stewart, Earl of Moray, and James Stewart was not so pleased.
For Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, had made his way to Scotland.
At first he had been one among many courtiers to amuse Mary, being a bit over her height and a man trained to be a perfect companion. He could hunt, play games, meander through a garden and was adept at one of Mary’s favorite pursuits: dancing.
Then the man fell ill.
And when he fell ill, Queen Mary of Scotland fell in love.
They had been in London many happy months, living in Rowan’s townhouse after receiving the queen’s blessing to leave Hampton Court Palace, when Rowan received word that he was to return to Scotland.
Gwenyth was in the company of Queen Elizabeth, involved in a game of croquet that included the Spanish ambassador, when she learned that their idyll was over.
Maitland, Queen Mary’s kindly envoy, approached and went through all the necessary greetings, complimenting Queen Elizabeth and her party. And then he said, “Lady Gwenyth, I have just left your husband. He is preparing for his journey.”
“His journey?”
It seemed that her heart sank in her chest. Maitland had said his journey, not their journey.
“Laird Rowan is called immediately before our good queen’s presence. You, m’lady, are to remain here.”
She longed to shout, to disavow his words.
Elizabeth struck her ball with her mallet. “It will be best now if you are here,” she said firmly.
There was an edge to Elizabeth’s voice. Something had happened that Elizabeth did not like, and Gwenyth could only surmise that it had to do with Henry Stewart.
Elizabeth stared at her then. “You will send a letter, of course, to your dear Mary. You will make her understand that I am totally opposed to this marriage.”
Gwenyth was angry, but she concealed her emotions. Obviously Queen Elizabeth and Maitland had information that she did not.
Had Mary of Scotland decided that she would indeed marry Darnley?
Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so surprised, but she knew Mary well. She had thought that Mary would never take a mere subject as her husband. Mary had a firm belief in her rights as queen. She had spoken about marrying for the benefit of the state and not for herself.
“Has…Queen Mary announced that she will wed Henry Stewart?” Gwenyth asked.
Again Queen Elizabeth whacked her ball.
Hard.
Elizabeth was angry indeed.
But the English queen was complex. Why had she allowed Henry Stewart to return to Scotland if she had not meant for him to be a suitor for her “dearest cousin”? Had she been testing Mary’s loyalty to her? Hoping to dangle temptation before her eyes, then deny it?
Elizabeth turned to her. “She seeks the approval of the princes of the Christian world. Since Lord Darnley has a tendency to listen to the great Protestant speakers and then attend Mass, the royalty of many countries will agree that it is a suitable marriage.” She hit her ball so hard that it left the lawn entirely. “I, however, do not approve it.”
“I should ride with my Lord Rowan and see Queen Mary,” Gwenyth said.
“Rowan is going to attempt to mend the rift between Queen Mary and her brother, James Stewart. You are to stay here.”
“But—”
“I have not ordered that it be so. The direct command has come from Mary, who is certain that you can somehow change my heart on this matter.”
“I don’t believe that I can do so!” Gwenyth said.
Elizabeth shrugged, looking away. She was a complete enigma. “Rowan will be back soon enough,” she said.
THAT NIGHT GWENYTH RETURNED to the townhouse and ran to him, throwing her arms around him, clinging to him.
“My love, it’s just a small parting,” he told her.
Despite his words, she shivered.
A small parting.
She was tempted to tell him that they could defy their own queen, that he could give up his lands in Scotland, that she would willingly do the same.
But she knew that she could not. Rowan loved Scotland, as she did herself. He felt, she knew, that he might be able to bring peace between Lord James and his sister.
“When do you leave?”
“In the morning.”
“We have tonight,” she said simply.
And that was it. They had the night.
One night.
Gwenyth treasured, savored, every minute, every second, they lay together. She knew that in the days to come, she would need to close her eyes, remember every brush of his fingers, every whisper that left his lips, every nuance of his form and feeling.
There were moments of extreme passion, and moments of the utmost tenderness. They did not sleep through the long hours of the night, and in the time that they lay awake, they assured one another that their parting would be brief. But words were only words, and no matter how fervently they were spoken, Gwenyth couldn’t escape her fear.
And yet, she knew, they could love so fiercely only because they were who they were. Were Rowan forced to repudiate his sense of love and duty for his country, she would destroy the very essence that made him the man he was.
She was not so sure about herself. She had served Mary with all her loyalty and trust. But she was afraid that when she returned, she would no longer know the woman to whom she had given so much faith and support.
At the first light of dawn, he pulled her into his arms. He made love to her one last time with a fierce ardor, with agonizing tenderness, gentle, volatile, cradling her in his arms as if welcoming her into his soul. She clung to him in return and dared to close her eyes.
Despite her deepest desire to hold him to the last, sleep overcame her.
When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.