Twelve
EDINBURGH
June 30, 1509
“There he is, Jeannie. I told you he would come.” Moira Sutherland squeezed her companion’s arm in rapturous excitement. “Don’t look now.” She gasped, staring at the lean, black-haired figure maneuvering his way expertly through the crowded great hall. “Sweet Mary. He’s walking toward us.”
Jeanne Maxwell lifted her chin and removed her arm from her friend’s painful grip. “Don’t play the fool, Moira. ’Tis only John Maxwell. He’s my cousin and I’ve known him since I was born.”
“But he’s so very handsome, and you haven’t seen him for years,” Moira protested.
Jeanne sniffed. “He was always a braggart. I doubt if the English court has improved him.”
From behind them an amused voice interrupted. “Turn around, Cousin, and see for yourself.”
Moira gasped and turned quickly, stammering an awkward greeting. Jeanne took a moment to gather her composure. Slowly, she turned to face her boyhood champion, and her eyes widened in disbelief. So the rumors were true. John Maxwell was a man that would make a woman’s gaze linger. He was taller than she remembered with wider shoulders, and his features had lost their bluntness. Now they were sharply defined as if they’d been sculpted by a craftsman with a finely honed blade.
“Welcome home, John,” she said coolly. “We’ve nothing so grand as Whitehall here in Edinburgh, but I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.”
Moira’s face flamed. Jeannie Maxwell, the kindest and most loyal of friends, was behaving like a shrew to the most engaging young man who had ever graced the court of King James IV of Scotland.
John Maxwell grinned. To Moira’s amazement, he didn’t appear in the least offended. “’Tis good to be home, Jeannie,” he said. “I’ve missed your tongue-lashings.”
Jeanne’s eyes moved over him, noting the changes of the past five years. “You’ve cut your hair,” she remarked disapprovingly.
“’Tis the fashion in England.”
“This is Scotland. You would do well to remember that.”
Moira’s misery was complete. She nearly swooned with embarrassment. John was so kind, so courteous, and so amazingly like Jeanne in appearance. Beneath lowered lashes, Moira stared curiously at the two of them. The Maxwell strain was clearly stamped on their faces. The thin, Celtic features, olive skin, and pale gray eyes could not be denied. Neither could the hair framing their faces. It was shining and black as a raven’s wing, unusual for a Scot south of the Highlands. Behind her headpiece, Jeanne’s was long, hanging free to her waist in the manner of unmarried women. John’s was shorn close to his head, an unusual style not yet fashionable at the Scottish court.
Moira’s hands clenched with resolve. It wasn’t right. This handsome young man with the pleasant smile and laughing gray eyes didn’t deserve the stinging thrusts Jeannie leveled at him. Taking a deep breath, Moira threw herself into the middle of the fray. “Tell us about King Henry’s court, m’lord. Is it as frivolous as they say?”
Surprised, John looked down at her, noticing her presence for the first time.
Jeanne stared at her friend. What could have possessed the painfully shy Moira Sutherland to call such attention upon herself?
John recovered first. His smile gentled, and he reached for Moira’s hand. Lifting it to his mouth, he brushed his lips across the back. “I’m terribly sorry for my rudeness, lass. Perhaps Jeanne will introduce us when she remembers her manners.”
“My manners are not the ones in need of attention,” Jeanne snapped, glaring at Moira.
The girl’s lip trembled, and suddenly Jeanne was ashamed of herself. “Never mind, love. John always did bring out the worst in me.” Quickly, she introduced them. “Moira Sutherland, this is my cousin, Lord John Maxwell of Traquair.”
Moira glanced shyly up at his face. “How do you do, sir?”
“Very well, thank you,” John replied. “But I find myself in something of a quandary, Mistress Sutherland.”
“How so, sir?”
“How is it that a termagant like my cousin can be found in the company of such a sweet and gentle lass as yourself?”
Moira’s pansy brown eyes widened, and she blushed adorably. “Jeannie is no such thing, m’lord. I’ve never before seen her behave rudely.”
The light-filled eyes looking down at her flickered thoughtfully. “Is that so?”
“Oh yes,” replied Moira loyally. “She’s the best and kindest of friends. Why—-”
“That will do, Moira,” interrupted Jeanne. “Why don’t you continue your conversation with Lord Maxwell while I seek the punch bowl.”
“I’ve a better idea,” cut in John. “Why don’t I call on you tomorrow, Mistress Sutherland? I’ll tell you tales of the English court that will make your head turn. But now I must be private with Jeanne. ’Tis a family matter.” He smiled charmingly, and Moira blushed again, tripping over her skirts as she backed away.
“How could you?” Jeanne spoke through clenched teeth.
John pulled her into a small retiring room off the main hallway and looked around. It was furnished with a table and chair. He waited to release her arm until he’d closed the door tightly behind them. “How could I what?” he asked.
“Moira Sutherland is little more than a child. You deliberately set out to win her regard with no thought for her feelings at all.” Jeanne was furious. “She’s half in love with you already. You, the greatest profligate in Scotland.”
He looked bewildered. “You wrong me, Jeanne. I was merely being polite.”
“Polite!” She pronounced the word scathingly.
He watched in fascinated silence as her breasts rose and fell beneath the square décolletage of her gown.
“Have you no shame, John? You kissed her hand. You wooed her with your smile and promised to see her again. Women far more experienced than Moira have succumbed to your charms.”
His eyes widened in mock horror as he clasped his hands across his heart. “Will her father be posting the banns then?”
It was then that Jeanne Maxwell, a woman known the length and breadth of Scotland for her beauty, her wit, and her cool self-control, lost what was left of the last tenuous threads of her temper. Taking the steps necessary to bring her within inches of his face, she lifted her hand and slapped him, hard.
His eyes narrowed to mere slits in the dark tan of his face. Jeanne was suddenly, desperately afraid. John Maxwell had spent five years at the English court, but he was still a Scots border lord. Such an insult demanded swift retaliation. Her hand flew to her throat, and she swallowed. What could have come over her? Only once, in her entire memory, had she behaved so outrageously. That was the day, five years before, when John had left for England. Her face was pale and her eyes wide as she waited to see what would happen next.
He lifted his hand to the mark already reddening his cheek. Slowly, the fury faded from his eyes. “I was told you had outgrown that temper of yours.”
Relieved, she asked, “Why would anything about me be of interest to you, John Maxwell?”
“You know the answer to that as well as I.”
She could no more stop the blush from rising to her cheeks than she could deny the dawning awareness in his eyes.
He laughed triumphantly. “You can’t hide from it, Jeannie. I knew in London when stories of the ‘ice maiden’ began to surface. I could scarce believe they were speaking of the Jeanne Maxwell I knew.”
She lifted her chin and stared defiantly into eyes the exact color and shape of her own. John Maxwell was only a second cousin, but he looked enough like her to be her twin. “What are you suggesting?” she asked calmly.
The wary look on her face stopped him. Jeanne still didn’t trust him. She wasn’t ready for a declaration. Perhaps she never would be. Pushing aside the cold fear that always accompanied such misgivings, he smiled gently. “I meant no harm, lass. Can’t a man miss his favorite cousin and ask of her now and then?”
“It isn’t at all like you,” she said doubtfully.
He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet the silver purpose of his gaze. “Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.”
“I know you well enough,” she muttered. “What did you wish to tell me?”
Frowning, he dropped his hand and stepped away from her. “I merely wished to pay my respects,” he replied. “How is your mother?”
Jeanne stiffened, and her face assumed a cold, implacable expression. “Very well, thank you.”
John nodded. “I’m glad. She’s had a difficult time of it.”
Two red spots of color stained Jeanne’s cheeks. “I might have known your first consideration would be for my mother.”
There was no mistaking the rage in her voice. Faith, what ailed the woman? He had merely asked about her family. “Flora was always good to me,” he began. “Is it wrong that I ask after her well-being?”
Jeanne’s eyes were the color of ice above a frozen gray tarn. “Not at all,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll be pleased to hear that she is now a widow.”
John’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Why in the name of heaven would I be pleased to hear such a thing? I admired your father. He was a great friend to me.”
Her face was a still, pale oval. “Were you worthy of that friendship?”
He stared at her, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. “What is it, Jeanne?” he asked softly. “What is it about me that you find so distasteful?”
She lowered her eyes but not before he saw the tears she struggled to hide.
His mouth tightened, and a thin white line appeared around his lips. “I have no wish to upset you, but what lies between us must be said. I’ve come home to collect what I left behind, Jeannie. If it takes time to accustom yourself, so be it.” Nodding briefly, he walked to the door.
“John.” Her voice stopped him, but he did not turn around. “I’m promised to George Gordon. We await Jamie’s approval before posting the banns.”
When he spoke again, his voice had an odd, husky quality. “There is more to the king’s approval than a promise between a man and a maid.”
Her hands clenched. “Leave us alone, John Maxwell. Take your comfort with my mother. I’m sure she’ll be pleased enough to see you.”
At that he turned to face her, a puzzled expression on his face. “What’s gotten into you, lass? I told you of my way of thinking in my letters. Once a week, I wrote you. ’Tis a long time for a man to remain constant without a reply.”
Her eyes challenged him. “Were you constant, John? Do you even know the meaning of the word?”
He grinned, a mocking flash of white in his sun-browned face. “Aye, lass. I do.” With that he opened the door and left her standing alone in the retiring room.
Jeanne sank into the only available chair, surprised that her legs hadn’t given way beneath her. John Maxwell was most definitely a man to be reckoned with. Her fingers drummed nervously on the table. Why had he come back now, after all this time? And what was that foolishness about collecting something he’d left behind? A picture, ugly and persistent, formed in her mind. She tried to resist, but the image remained. It had occurred long ago, but the memory was as clear as if it had all happened yesterday.
Her father, Donald Maxwell, had been away when his infant son died of the pox at Traquair House. It was only natural for fifteen-year-old Jeanne to think of her childhood friend in times of trouble. She sent for John. He arrived shortly after the burial. Her mother was incoherent with grief. She couldn’t be blamed for throwing herself into the young man’s arms. John, however, should have known better. Jeanne turned the corner from the landing in time to see him pull her distraught mother into his arms and take her lips in a kiss that only a nun, cloistered from childhood and exceptionally naive, would have called comforting. Frozen into immobility, Jeanne watched as John led her mother, her arms still locked around his neck, into her bedchamber and closed the door.
Given the scene she had witnessed, John’s unexpected marriage proposal on the banks of Saint Mary’s Loch came as a horrifying surprise. What shocked and dismayed her was her own unexpected response to his kiss. The firm warmth of his lips as they moved against hers and the hard muscles under his linen shirt left her breathless and confused. Could a man who kissed a woman that way be in love with another? Would he tell her of the years he’d waited until she’d finally grown up, only to creep into her mother’s chamber at night?
Jeanne had almost convinced herself that he was sincere when word came that he’d left for London. At first, she’d welcomed his weekly letters, greedily taking them to her chambers to read alone, searching between the lines for proof of his regard. It wasn’t until he’d been gone almost two years that Jeanne learned the truth.
She was seventeen and newly arrived at the royal court at Stirling. It wasn’t long before the rumors reached her ears. John Maxwell was a favorite at the English court. Reports had it that his string of mistresses rivaled that of the English king Henry VIII.
And now he was back. It hadn’t taken long for Jeanne to realize that his proposal five years before had been a sham, made for the purpose of hiding his true reason for coming so often to Traquair. That reason had everything to do with her mother. Not only had John Maxwell inherited Traquair and the title upon her father’s death, he had also inherited his wife. It was all so despicably convenient. Jeanne tightened her lips. She would never again fall for the easy charm that came so readily at his command.
Smoothing her thick, knee-length hair, she stood and walked back into the main hall of Edinburgh Castle, biting her lips to restore their color. She must find George immediately. Perhaps he could persuade Jamie Stewart to agree to a wedding date. The sooner she was married and away from the temptation of John Maxwell’s soul-destroying smile, the better. Faith, the man could coax the kelpies from their watery resting places.
***
“’Tis said the people go hungry and Parliament grumbles while Henry spends the royal treasury on outrageous schemes. What say you, John? Is that a fair assessment of the English mind?” James Stewart, king of Scotland, fixed his heavy-lidded eyes on the tall young man beside him. He wanted an answer and he wanted it now.
John hesitated. His face assumed the pleasant, implacable mask of the courtier while his mind sifted through and discarded a dozen different replies. There were spies at Jamie’s court. Any answer he gave would be whispered into Henry’s ear in less than a fortnight. He decided on the truth, although a diplomatic version of it. “Never think that the English will not support their king, Your Grace. Henry is a favorite with the nobles and yeomen alike. He rides, reads, and rules with equal aplomb in all areas.”
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.