QUEEN MARY'S CORONATION PROCESSION
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
Drew grumbled under his breath. He didn't know why he'd come. He usually avoided crowds like the pox. Already he'd been jostled by drunks, elbowed by peddlers, pushed aside by filthy urchins trying to get a better view, and aye, even patted on the arse by a wench looking for a bit of business.
But he was currently staying in Edinburgh, and the whole city seemed to be in a feverish fervor over their new monarch, Queen Mary. He hadn't been able to persuade any golfers to play today, even with the offer of weighting the game in their favor. So he'd decided, since the links were deserted, and since he'd missed the coronation of his own Queen Elizabeth three years ago, perhaps he'd venture down to the Royal Mile to see what the clamor was about.
So far, Queen Mary had been nothing but an inconvenience to him. Her early arrival at Leith Harbor had interrupted one perfectly good golf game, and her homecoming festivities today prevented another. True, he'd been paid handsomely for the forfeit of his match with Ian Horn. But lately, he was driven as much by his love of the sport as by coin.
He frowned, beginning to regret his decision to come. The hubbub was inescapable. The crowd was packed in at Lawnmarket as tightly as herring in a barrel. People were cheering and singing and shouting and laughing in a deafening commotion. And the queen hadn't even arrived yet.
He scanned the crowd with an uneasy scowl, wondering how quickly the Scots would string him up if they found out he was English. Fortunately, he'd played the part long enough to be fairly certain he could convince even the most dubious Lowlander that he'd been born and bred in the Highlands. And the rare Highlander who ventured this far south had never heard of his hometown of Tintclachan—which was no surprise, since Drew had invented the village and placed it in a vague, remote part of the country.
'Twas a necessary deception. Traveling as a Highlander along the eastern coast of Scotland, he could steal from the purses of those who'd stolen his father from him, exacting a fitting but bloodless revenge.
His uncles, of course, would have preferred he join the English army and kill every Scot in sight. Drew had considerable skill with a blade, thanks to his uncles' training. But like his father, he'd never had the heart for violence. Besides, with King Henry dead and Queen Elizabeth on the throne, battles along the Borders were rare. Still, to keep his uncles content, Drew let them believe the coin he earned was won on the English tournament circuit with a sword rather than on the Scots links with a golf club.
He thought his disguise was reasonably convincing. He'd let his hair grow a bit shaggier than was fashionable, and he usually went a day or two without a shave. He owned a pair of sturdy knee-high boots and a long, belted saffron shirt with a short leather doublet'H, beneath which he wore dark tartan trews, even in summer, for he'd never quite accustomed himself to the Highland habit of going bare-arsed. When the weather grew cold, he tossed a Scots plaid over one shoulder.
He'd spoken so long with a brogue that he could hardly remember how to speak proper English. After three years of living the lie, he almost believed it himself.
"And ye have the ballocks to call yourself a Scotsman!" cried the lad beside him unexpectedly.
Drew stiffened.
But the lad was yelling at someone else, a half-drunk redbearded fellow who was carrying on about the new queen in a loud bellow. "I'm more Scots than some Catholic tart who's been livin' in France all her life!"
The lad gasped, then spat, "Ye take that back!"
"I won't!" snorted the redbeard.
The lad gave him a hard push.
The man stumbled back a step, spilling a few drops of his ale, but continued his tirade. "What gives the wench the right to sail into my harbor and tell me how to say my prayers?"
The youth raised a puny fist and spoke through his teeth. "Ye'd better say your prayers."
The redbeard was too drunk to recognize the threat. "I won't be takin' orders from ye, nor from that French trull."
The lad growled a warning.
Drew groaned inwardly. The last thing he needed was to get caught in a brawl. This wasn't his fight. He wasn't Scots. And he didn't care a whit about the queen. He was already having a miserable day. He didn't need to make it worse.
But the lad was half the redbeard's size. A strong wind would blow him over. Drew couldn't just stand by and watch the young pup get his arse kicked. He laid a restraining palm on the lad's shoulder. "Easy, half-pint."
"He's right!" a third man chimed in from Drew's other side, suddenly placing Drew squarely in the middle of the battle. "No Scot should have to kiss the derriere of a French wench."
The lad shrugged off Drew's hand. "Mary was born here, ye lobcocks!" he insisted, his voice breaking with his vehemence. "She knows our history. She speaks our tongue."
"Ye're a daft grig!" the redbeard crowed, raising his cup of ale. "No sensible Scotsman would let a hen rule the roost, eh, lads? Even John Knox says so!"
Drew grimaced as the surrounding men cheered in accord.
He could practically feel the heat rising off of the angry youth beside him as the lad ground out, "John Knox is a bloody blockhead."
Drew had heard the preachings of John Knox, who was an infamous misogynist, and he had to agree with the lad. But he couldn't afford to be trapped in the midst of a rabid pack of battling Scots. He leaned down to murmur a few words of friendly advice to the reckless youth. "Careful, lad. Ye're outnumbered."
The lad whipped his head around, facing Drew directly, and answered him with all the fearless passion of youth. "I'll gladly fight them all in Mary's defense."
Drew recoiled, not from the youth's bold boast, but from a startling revelation, a revelation that the men surrounding him had not yet had.
All at once, the crowd began cheering wildly, and the debate was forgotten as everyone turned toward the road. The procession had arrived at last. People clapped and shouted and waved their arms. Some chanted—whether in welcome or mockery, Drew couldn't tell.
Nor did he much care. He was far more interested in his new discovery. HeeHe stepped back a pace and let his gaze course down the back of the youth beside him. 'Twas hard to tell with the ill-fitting shirt and the oversized hat, but Drew would have wagered his putting cleek that the brazen half-pint standing beside him, making bold threats and swearing like a sailor, was a lass.
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.
Josselin gulped. As she stood there, breathless, the queen gave her a thorough inspection, perusing her from her tangled blond hair to her dusty leather boots. After what seemed an eternity, Mary finally passed the Bible and Psalter to her captain, then waved her fingers in a beckoning motion.
Josselin instinctively started to step forward, but the Highlander dug his fingers hard into her shoulders, holding her back.
Mary's gesture hadn't been meant for her, but for one of the royal officials. The distinguished-looking man approached the queen, who bent to whisper something in his ear, nodding toward Josselin.
While Josselin watched with bated breath, Mary gave her a slight dismissive nod, then urged her mount onward down the road, and the procession resumed.
Meanwhile, the official straightened his belt and strode directly toward Josselin. The crowd parted to make way for him.
He was French, tall and thin, perhaps a dozen years older than Josselin, and he looked mildly displeased. He had perceptive brown eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and a long nose that he probably found useful for looking down on people.
With a curt nod, he introduced himself. "I am the queen's secretary, Philipe de la Fontaine. The queen has commanded that you make yourself known to me. You and I are to have a rendezvous today at The White Hart. You know the place?"
Josselin tried to speak, but her voice refused to come out. Faith, she'd received a command from the queen herself!
The Highlander answered. "I know the inn."
"Very well," the secretary said. He gave Josselin a belittling frown. "I expect to see you there this afternoon, Madame..?"
"Josselin," she managed to croak.
"Zhos-a-lahn," he repeated, using the French pronunciation. Then he gave her a brief, contemptuous inspection. "See if you can stay alive long enough to make the appointment."
The secretary hastened off to catch the royal entourage, and gradually the crowd resumed their chattering. But Josselin's pulse was still racing when the Highlander gently pried the dagger from her white knuckles.
"Ye aren't from around here, are ye, lass?" he murmured.
"Nae," she answered in a daze. "I'm from Selkirk. Holy saints, did ye see that? Did ye see how she—"
"Who brought ye to Edinburgh?"
She stared in wonder after the procession. "I came alone."
"Alone?"
"My da said I could," she said dreamily. The queen was well down the road now, but Josselin kept watching. "As long as I don't talk to strangers. Or go to taverns. Or lose my temper." She smiled. "Ach! Wait till I tell Da that the queen herself—"
"A piece of advice, lass," he confided. "Hie home to Selkirk straight away." He scooped up her hat, dusted it off, and pressed it into her hands. "Ye could be halfway there by afternoon."
She snapped out of her stupor and frowned up at the man with the dark hair and the clear blue eyes, who really was quite handsome...for a Highlander. "Home? Why would I want to go home?"
He looked at her as if she were barmy. "Ye aren't thinkin' o' keepin' the appointment?"
"O' course I am. The queen herself commanded it." The sound of that sent a shiver of excitement through her. "The queen." She couldn't wait to tell her guardians.
He arched a stern brow. "Look, lass, before ye get your trews in a twist, I don't expect ye're bein' invited to supper."
Supper! That idea hadn't even occurred to her. Was it possible? She tucked the corner of her lip under her teeth, imagining it. Then she recalled, "She smiled at me."
"Royals always smile whilst they're sharpenin' their swords."
She lowered her brows. The damned Highlander was ruining her good mood. "Ach! What would ye know?"
"I know ye brought the procession to a halt." He shook his head. "I don't imagine the queen's too pleased about that."
She bit the inside of her cheek. He had a point. Josselin had made an impression on the queen. But what if 'twas the wrong impression?
"I did draw a blade," she admitted.
"Aye."
"And I was brawlin' in the street."
She looked at him uncertainly.
"I've heard in the French courts," he said, eyeing her garments, "they even have strict laws about dress."
She looked down at the overlong hem of her linen shirt, clutching a fistful of it. "Do ye think I offended her?"
He gave her a maddening shrug.
Her shoulders sank. "I didn't mean to offend her."
Then she narrowed her gaze at the Highlander.
"This is all your fault!" she decided, swatting his chest with her hat. "If ye hadn't stolen my hat, none o' this would have happened."
His lips curled into a smirk that was half-smile, half-frown. "Oh aye, lass. Instead ye'd be wheezin' at me through a knife-hole in your chest."
She scowled at him, jamming the hat back over her head. "Ye've obviously never seen me fight with a blade."
"I've seen enough to know ye've got a hot temper that likely ruins your aim." He handed her dagger back to her, hilt first.
She snatched it from him in irritation and slid it back into its sheath. Her Da Angus had told her the same thing a hundred times. She didn't need to hear it from a bloody Highlander, no matter how handsome he was.
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