Chapter 4

Josselin was so caught up in the excitement of Mary’s arrival that she forgot all about her quarrel with the drunken redbeard. She stood on her toes to try to get a better view as a loud fanfare sounded to announce the procession through Lawnmarket.

This was what she’d come for—to see the Queen, to lay eyes on the ambitious lass who, though not much older than Josselin, had already forged for herself a powerful legacy.

As Alasdair had explained to her, Mary, the descendant of both King Henry VII of England and King James II of Scotland, had not only been wife to the Dauphin of France, but would also now be Queen of Scotland, and might well inherit the English crown from Elizabeth.

Josselin admired Mary’s spirit and ambition, for she knew what ’twas like to be a woman, fighting for a significant place in the world of men. This new queen was going to change things. She was sure of it. And Josselin wanted to be a part of that change.

As she peered over the shoulders of the people in front of her, she spied the first wave of the procession. Dozens of yellow-robed Scotsmen disguised as Moors—their limbs blackened and their heads covered with black hats and masks—cleared the way through the flowers the townsfolk had strewn in the wide street. Behind them came the Edinburgh officials, who carried aloft a purple canopy embroidered in gold with French lilies and Scottish unicorns.

French soldiers and Scottish lairds made up the bulk of the impressive entourage. Behind them, four lasses of Josselin’s age rode shoulder to shoulder, and she knew they must be the Four Maries. Seeing their lavish velvet gowns and rich jewels made Josselin curse her guardian all over again for forcing her to disguise herself in his drooping trews and baggy shirt.

Then, beneath the canopy, riding upon a white palfrey, came Queen Mary herself, more magnificent and beautiful than Josselin had imagined. Though Mary had recently lost both her mother and her husband, today she’d discarded her white mourning shroud in favor of a more festive gown of purple velvet with gold embroidery. Jewels twinkled from her neck, waist, and wrists, but they couldn’t outshine the charming sparkle in Mary’s eyes. As Josselin looked on in awe, the queen nodded regally to the crowd, her face lit up by a serene smile.

A huge, brightly painted triumphal arch had been erected across the road at Lawnmarket, and from the gallery above, a choir of children began to sing. Riding forward, Mary waved to them in greeting.

As she passed beneath the arch, a mechanical globe painted like a cloud slowly opened to reveal a child dressed as an angel. Josselin watched in amazement as the angel was lowered on a rope to hand the queen the keys of the gates.

Then the child began to recite an eloquent welcome to Mary in verse. But as the words became clear, the Catholic queen’s smile faltered. Buried in the prose was a thinly veiled reference to the Reformation.

Some in the crowd gasped, and some, including the men Josselin had been arguing with, sent up bellows of approval.

Josselin’s blood simmered. Who dared insult the new queen with such obvious blasphemy? She rounded on the redbearded oaf who’d earlier called Mary a tart and shoved him.

Someone gripped her elbow. “Not now, lass,” a man murmured into her ear.

It didn’t occur to her that he’d called her “lass” at that moment. Her hackles were up, and she was itching for a fight. She wrenched her arm free and shot him a scathing glare over her shoulder.

Then she cast her gaze back to the spectacle before her. The child angel was handing the queen two purple velvet tomes now, a Bible and a Psalter, and Josselin knew without a doubt that they were Reformer books.

“A fittin’ gift,” the redbeard muttered to his friend, “for the Whore o’ Babylon.”

“Aye,” another added. “’Twill show her she’d best leave the Pope in France.”

“Shut your mouths, ye jackanapes!” Josselin fired back, her blood now seething.

Once more, the man behind her seized her arm, this time more forcefully, hissing in a strong Highland accent, “’Tisn’t worth it, lass.”

Again, she twisted away.

John Knox must be behind this travesty, she decided. ’Twas rumored the Reformer meant to meet with the queen personally very soon in order to challenge her faith. That might be, but by God, Josselin didn’t intend to let anyone humiliate Mary today.

“Refuse the books, Your Majesty!” she shouted in encouragement over the crowd. “Go on! Toss them away!”

The Highlander made a choking sound. “Cease, lass. Are ye daft? Don’t draw attention—”

The redbeard yelled up at the child suspended from the arch. “’Tis no use tryin’ to court Mary, wee angel! She’s already wed to Rome!”

The men nearby howled with laughter.

Josselin had had enough. ’Twas bad enough that the new queen had to hold her own against the bloody English without having to deal with detractors among her own countrymen. With a roar, she unsheathed her dagger and faced the redbearded dastard. “Defend your slander with a blade!”

Behind her, the Highlander swore in exasperation.

But the redbeard took one look at her dagger, threw down his cup of ale, and went for his weapon.

“Aye, that’s it,” Josselin goaded, beckoning him with the fingers of her free hand. “Come on!”

The Highlander stepped suddenly between them to address the drunk. “Ach, man, ye don’t want to be doin’ that.”

“Out o’ my way!” the redbeard bellowed.

“Aye,” Josselin agreed. “Out o’ the way, Highlander, unless ye want to get skewered.”

The Highlander turned to her then, filling her vision and sternly commanding her gaze, and for one stunned instant, she couldn’t breathe. She hadn’t paid much heed to him before, but now she saw he had the face of a dark angel—strong yet sweet. His eyes were the clearest blue she’d ever seen, like the sky on a warm spring day.

His heavy brows lowered as he said pointedly, “Ye can settle this…later.”

The redbeard shoved him aside. “Stay out of it, man. ’Tis between the lad and me.”

Rattled, Josselin nonetheless managed to raise her knife and face her opponent, eager to resume the duel. “No one insults my queen, ye traitor. Ye’ll answer to me for your offense.”

“Oh, I’ll answer ye,” the redbeard assured her. “I’ll carve a cross into your flesh to remind ye o’ your misbegotten faith.”

“Ye won’t get the chance,” she promised.

“Put your blades away, both o’ ye,” she heard the Highlander mutter. Nobody paid him heed.

They faced off, and the crowd gave them room.

“Sheathe. Now,” the Highlander insisted.

She ignored him, waving her dagger at the redbeard like a taunt. But before she could get off a good swipe, the Highlander stepped toward her.

“Fine,” he said.

She half-wheeled in his direction, thinking he meant to attack her as well. Instead, he snatched the hat from her head. She gasped as her curls spilled over her shoulders like honey from a crushed comb.

The redbeard’s eyes widened, and he retreated, dropping his knife.

Josselin tossed her head, angry that her secret was out. But she wasn’t about to call off the fight. Her heart was pounding now, and she was primed for battle.

“What, ye sheep-swiver?” she sneered at the redbeard. “Are ye afraid to fight a woman?” She twirled the dagger once in her fingers. “Pick it up, coward! Pick up your knife.”

The crowd had suddenly grown quiet.

“What’s wrong with ye?” she challenged. “Is there not a single champion among ye poltroons?” No one moved. “And ye call yourselves men!” she scoffed. “Who stole your tongues and cut off your cods?”

No one answered. There was nothing but tense misgiving and wide eyes in the faces around her.

She frowned in sudden confusion. Then she realized the entire street had grown silent. ’Twas more than a silence of surprise. ’Twas a silence of warning.

The back of her neck began to tingle with apprehension. Slowly, cautiously, she lowered her dagger and turned toward the procession.

Staring at Josselin from atop her noble white steed, a curious, inscrutable half-smile playing upon her royal lips, was Queen Mary herself.