Fifteen
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
1509
Flora Maxwell stared at the two of them standing hand in hand before her. She was not surprised to hear their news. Few could resist John Maxwell’s appeal once he made up his mind. Just now, he appeared lit from within with such happiness that it was difficult to look at his face. She turned to Jeanne. Her obstinate, defiant daughter actually looked pleased. Holding out both hands, Flora smiled. “You’ve made me very happy. I congratulate you both.”
With the generosity typical of his nature, John reached out immediately, clasping Flora’s hand to bring her into the circle of his warmth, but Jeanne hesitated. When her mother would have gathered her into an embrace, she pulled away, searching Flora’s face for signs that the match did not meet with her approval. She found none.
John frowned. He had not missed his betrothed’s withdrawal. She carried more resentment toward her mother than he thought. He only hoped it would not extend to him.
“I suppose Jamie’s approval is a mere formality,” Flora continued, brushing aside her daughter’s rejection.
“Jamie owes me a favor,” John replied with a grin. “I made sure of his approval before I left Edinburgh.”
Jeanne’s eyes widened. “How is that possible? George Gordon said Jamie had not yet made a decision on a match between us.”
“George is presumptuous.” John coolly dismissed his rival. “He should know that the king dislikes committing himself unless ’tis to his own advantage.”
Jeanne smiled mischievously. Forgetting her audience, she slipped her arms around John’s neck. “What hold do you have over our liege, m’lord, that he so willing granted your heart’s desire?” She spoke very near his ear, punctuating each word with a tiny breath of air.
His eyes narrowed, and the skin across his cheekbones, already dark from the sun, reddened. Sliding his arms around her waist, he spoke gruffly. “Perhaps ’tis because Jamie understands what it is for a man to lose his heart’s desire.”
Flora looked away, overcome with need and ashamed of her jealousy. The mood was no longer teasing. Jeanne was too young to remember the love affair between Maggie Drummond and the boy-king Jamie Stewart, but Flora knew that Masses were still purchased for Maggie’s soul and, on winter nights, just before dusk, the king could be seen kneeling at her grave.
“I’ll leave you alone,” she interrupted, moving toward the door. For Jeanne’s sake, she would pretend only pleasure, but it was too much to watch the man she burned for make love to her daughter before her very eyes. At the door, curiosity overcame her. She turned back one last time. Intent only on each other, neither one noticed her departure. With a sad smile, Flora left the room.
***
A bright summer sky and warm winds heavy with the scent of heather heralded Jeanne’s wedding day. She woke early, with the first streaks of dawn, but made no motion to rise. The ceremony would begin at ten. It was good to lie back on her pillows and do nothing. For the first time in six weeks, she had a moment to herself. John had insisted on marrying as soon as possible, and the preparations had taken every waking hour.
Jeanne grudgingly admitted that her mother had been wonderful. Perhaps she had misjudged her after all. Could a woman in love with a man marrying another enter into his wedding preparations with such enthusiasm? Could she debate the benefits of serving ale or spiced wine for the banquet? Would she sigh over the ermine-bordered wedding dress or giggle like a girl when she saw the nearly transparent gown designed specifically for the wedding night. Jeanne flushed. She owed her mother an apology. But not today. Nothing would spoil today.
A knock sounded on the door. She sat up, propping herself on her elbow. Her hair, black and shining, spilled over the mattress and onto the floor. “Enter,” she called out.
Four servants carrying a wooden tub entered the room and placed it near the fire. Four more carrying buckets of hot water followed. Jeanne watched as they poured the steaming liquid into the tub and scattered rose petals across the surface.
Kicking aside the bedclothes, she stood, pulled off her nightshift, and stepped into the heated bath. She would have liked to lie back and let the warmth seep into her bones, but her hair needed washing. Brushing it dry would take most of the morning.
Leaning forward, Jeanne felt a rush of warm liquid through her hair. Water dripped over her forehead and into her eyes and ears. When she had only caught her breath, another pitcher was poured and then another until her entire head and fall of hair was soaked completely through. She breathed in the familiar scent of roses and felt the slick, perfumed soap on her forehead, around her ears, and at the back of her neck. A soft moan escaped her lips as the competent, familiar fingers of the maid rubbed her scalp.
More water was poured and still more until every strand of hair, pulled between two fingers, vibrated like the strings of a lyre. A maid dragged the ornamental screen from across the room, shielding her mistress from the eyes of the servants. When it was securely in place, Jeanne stood and rubbed the soap over her entire body, concentrating on her ankles and the backs of her knees. After rinsing herself with more bathwater, she picked up a towel from the floor and wrapped it around her. As if on cue, the maid appeared from behind the screen to wrap another towel around her hair.
Jeanne stepped out of the tub and slipped her arms into the sable-lined robe held out before her. Tying the sash, she sat on a low stool facing the glass while the same maid worked at her hair with a comb. It was pleasant sitting here, feeling the gentle tug of the comb, lapping up the warmth of the fire like a cat who has had more than her share of stable mice and cream. When every tangle had been combed free, her hair was brushed dry until it hung straight and thick to her knees. The entire process had taken over two hours.
She noted the time and shivered with delicious anticipation. After today she would no longer be a maid. Her hair would never again hang unbound to her knees. Thoughts of the night to come consumed her. Despite the stories she had heard, sharing the marriage bed with John Maxwell did not frighten her. In fact, she welcomed it.
Jeanne was not completely ignorant of sexual matters. She had grown up in the country, and the habits of animals were familiar to her. She had also come of age during the reign of Jamie Stewart. It was impossible to visit the royal court without acquiring a rudimentary knowledge of sex. However, the act itself had never been explained to her satisfaction, and when she stopped to consider it, it seemed physically impossible. She was anxious to see for herself how it was done. Instinct and of course the rumors told her that John would be an excellent teacher.
A soft murmur interrupted her thoughts. The maid was holding out her shift. Jeanne stood and untied the robe. It fell to her feet, and the cloth was pulled gently over her head. The material was of the finest linen, thin and so tightly woven it felt like air when she moved. Then her dress was eased over her shoulders, the tight busk adjusted across her breasts, and the soft folds were gathered around her waist with a diamond-studded girdle. A train, with a foot wide border of snowy white ermine, flowed out behind her.
Pulling the sleeves off her shoulders, Jeanne turned to the glass, and her eyes widened. Staring back at her was a woman, tall and willowy slim, with hair that glowed like black fire where the sun touched it. Her chin was up, and her cheekbones were very pronounced beneath eyes that flashed as clear as the diamonds at her throat. For the first time Jeanne realized that she was beautiful. She smiled triumphantly. John Maxwell would not be disappointed in his bride.
A hint of color was applied to her lips and perfume touched to her throat and wrists. Slipping her feet into soft-soled shoes, she turned toward the door. It opened unexpectedly, and her mother stepped into the room. Jeanne stiffened.
“Please wait outside,” Flora ordered the servants.
They were quick to obey.
Her eyes were misty as she looked at her daughter. “You are the loveliest bride Traquair has ever seen.”
Jeanne relaxed.
“I came to tell you—” Flora stopped. The tears rose in her throat. “Never mind,” she said, “’tis time.”
“Mother.” Jeanne placed her hand on Flora’s arm. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for everything.”
Tears welled up in Flora Maxwell’s eyes, streaking through the rouge and rice powder so artfully applied to her face. Breathing a prayer of thanks, she gathered her daughter into her arms. The soft kiss pressing against her cheek more than made up for her pain. Finally, she pulled away. “Come,” she said, “the archbishop waits.”
Moving aside, she watched Jeanne walk down the stairs. Four servants carrying the heavy train accompanied her to the landing. From there, she went on alone, down the stairs and across the wide courtyard to the chapel.
John stood at the altar, his face very serious and terribly handsome in its gravity. Jeanne’s heart nearly failed her. The distance she must walk to reach his side seemed insurmountable. Her step faltered. She couldn’t do it. Then, as if he knew her troubled thoughts, John’s eyes met hers. Across the long, carpeted aisle, she felt him reach out. Smiling tentatively, she moved forward again, her eyes riveted to the lifeline he held out to her. Just as she reached his side, he winked and grinned broadly. A bubble of mirth welled up in her chest. Dear God, she prayed silently, keep me from disgracing myself in the presence of an archbishop.
Her prayer was answered. The Mass seemed incredibly short. In almost no time at all, they exchanged their vows in low, solemn voices. The air inside the chapel was very still. The sun rising into the sky hovered for a moment outside the small, etched windows. At the very moment John slipped his ring on Jeanne’s finger, a shaft of light penetrated the glass and found the diamonds in the pendant at her throat and waist. A collective gasp swept through the congregation as it split into a thousand colors, surrounding the couple in a gleaming arc of netherworld light.
Murmurs circulated through the crowd. “Surely, ’tis a sign,” they whispered. “The union is blessed by God, the Holy Virgin, and all the saints.”
Flora Maxwell closed her eyes as John bent his head and briefly kissed her daughter’s mouth. With a firm shake of her head, she opened them again and looked back at the altar. Jeanne was married and, from the looks of it, happily so. There would be children at Traquair again. Flora imagined herself bending over the cradle of a black-haired baby, a baby the image of John. The bairn would be doubly dear because it would be Jeanne’s child as well. She smiled and disregarded the idea of going away. Jeanne would need her, and the feel of a sweetly scented bairn against her breast after so many years was a temptation too great to withstand. Fate had decreed that she would never marry John Maxwell, but she could still love his child.
The wedding couple sat in the banquet hall on a raised dais. It was almost evening. Serving the food had taken a long time. For hours to come, wine would flow and the merrymaking continue until none the length of Scotland would forget this day. There were dancing girls from France and trained bears restrained by leather leashes. Musicians played and troubadours sang ballads honoring the beauty of the bride, the courage of the groom, and the loyalty of the entire House of Maxwell. There was braised fowl and roasted mutton and enough fiery usquebaugh to keep every man drunk for days to come. Men and women alike, their faces flushed, mouths smeared with grease, and lips stained with wine, dropped to the floor in exhausted stupors. Beside their alcohol-dazed bodies, dogs growled and fought for bones dropped on the rush-strewn floor.
The food was superb. The cooks of Traquair had outdone themselves. By decree, the first of every course was served to the king. Jamie waved his knife and lifted his trencher in approval. As each new dish passed inspection, the crowd roared and the music played on.
Jeanne stared at the uneaten food on her plate. The torches had been lit hours ago, and on the cloth-covered tables, candlewicks drowned in wells of melted wax. A curious numbness invaded her body. Despite her intentions and her curiosity, she was suddenly afraid. Soon the door of the laird’s bedchamber would close and she would be alone with her husband. For the first time in her life, she would share a man’s bed. That the man was dearly loved and had been her friend and childhood companion for every conscious moment of her life mattered not at all. Her hands were icy cold, and the food tasted like ashes in her mouth. Even the music and the dancers seemed very far away. Jeanne closed her eyes, alone in her own private terror.
John lifted the heavy goblet emblazoned with the Maxwell creed, Reviresco, “I deliver,” to his lips. He was truly enjoying himself. The entertainment was marvelous and the food better than anything he had tasted in England. He turned to compliment Jeanne, and his eyes narrowed. Her skin was paler than the ermine-bordered sleeves of her gown, and her eyes were closed. He could see the fluttering of her pulse in the delicate skin at her temple. His lips turned up in a tender smile. Poor lass. She was terrified.
John Maxwell was not an arrogant man, and he had never before bedded a virgin, but he was confident of his ability to arouse his young wife’s deeply passionate nature. After all, she loved him. He was sure of that. And although his experience would never rival either Jamie Stewart’s or Henry Tudor’s, the women who had shared his bed seemed anxious to return, sometimes embarrassingly so.
Jeanne’s hand rested on the table. He placed his own over it. Startled by the contact, she opened her eyes and looked at him. What she saw in his expression caused her to tremble. Wetting her lips, she whispered, “How long?”
“An hour.”
She nodded, and together they stood. A hush fell over the banquet hall. He slid his arm around her waist, and a great cheer rose from the crowd.
“Our bridegroom grows impatient,” Jamie called out from the dance floor.
John acknowledged his words with a grin. “Go now,” he whispered to Jeanne. “Perhaps I can hold them off for a while.”
She knew exactly what he meant. Gathering her train, she stepped down from the dais and tried to slip unobtrusively out the door. But the crowd would have none of it.
“Run,” cried Flora into her ear. “They will not be denied their sport.”
Jeanne ran down the hall to the stairs with her mother and Moira Sutherland close behind. The crowd followed. Jeanne reached the first landing without mishap. Down the hall she fled, flushed and breathless, pushing open the door to the room she would share with John. Moira threw herself down on the bed while Flora slammed and bolted the latch behind them. Howls of laughter and ribald jokes penetrated the thick wood. For several moments the women waited while their drunken pursuers serenaded them. Finally, they heard the sound they waited for: boots descending the stairs. Then all was silent.
“They’re gone,” Flora announced, moving away from the door. “Hurry. We’ve no time to lose.” She looked at the nightgown lying on the bed and then at Jeanne’s face. Quickly, she moved forward, reaching for her hands. “There, there, darling,” she said. “Everything will be all right.” She turned to the younger woman. “Fetch my daughter a draught of wine, Moira. Her hands are cold.”
Moira moved to do her bidding. “Whiskey would be better,” she said, handing Flora the goblet. “You aren’t frightened, are you, Jeannie? Sweet Mary, I’d give much to be in your shoes tonight.”
“Hush.” Flora silenced her. “You know nothing of it.” She pulled her daughter into her arms. “John loves you,” she whispered. “He will be gentle. By this time tomorrow, you will have found a pleasure greater than any you’ve imagined. ’Tis what we are made for, Jeannie, to love a man and bear his children. What else is there for a woman?”
The wine brought the color back to Jeanne’s cheeks. She stood and smiled tremulously at her mother. “Help me out of this, please,” she said, lifting her arms.
Flora drew Jeanne’s gown and undershift over her dark head and hung it in the clothespress. Then she held out her arms. “Hand me the nightdress, Moira.”
With an envious glance and a final stroke of the luxurious fabric, the girl complied. The garment had been fashioned in France and made of black silk with three tiny ties, one at the breast, another at the waist, and, the last, several inches above the knee. Flora slipped it over her daughter’s head. Moira took one look at Jeanne’s slender, elegant body so daringly revealed in the exquisite garment and gasped.
Jeanne glanced at herself in the mirror and blushed. “It is rather indecent, isn’t it?”
“Never mind,” said her mother wryly. “There will be little left of it in the morning.” She poured water into the basin and motioned for Jeanne to bathe her face and hands. Moira was busy slipping the warming pan between the sheets. Everything was ready, the scented candles, the bed made ready with turned-back covers and plump pillows, the wine on a small side table. Suddenly, her eyes swam with tears. It was exactly right. With one helpless, apologetic glance at her daughter, Flora left the room.
Moira smiled in sympathetic understanding. “Your mother is very fond of you. ’Tis difficult for a mother to lose her only child.”
“I go nowhere,” replied Jeanne shortly. “John and I will continue to live at Traquair. My mother will live with us.”
“Then why—?”
Jeanne shrugged. “Perhaps she is tired. The last weeks have been difficult for her.”
Moira nodded. “She’s worked hard on the wedding.”
Jeanne did not contradict her.
A heavy knock and muffled laughter sounded at the door. “Open the door, lass,” the king’s voice called out. “Your bridegroom awaits.”
“He comes,” Moira whispered.
Jeanne’s hand closed tightly over the back of a chair. “Let him in.”
Moira opened the door and several pairs of arms pushed John inside. His shirt was torn, and he breathed as if he had run a great distance. He stared at the scantily clad figure of his wife, and his eyes widened.
With reflexes born of years on the border, he reached out instantly to slam and bolt the door against the brawny arms pushing against it. Ignoring Moira, he crossed the room to tower over Jeanne. She was tall for a woman, but he was half a head taller still. Lifting a lock of black hair, he twisted it around his finger.
“I’m flattered, lass,” he said silkily, “but were you really going to show yourself in such a garment to all the king’s men?”
“I’ll wager that I’m more decently clad than half the women in Henry’s court.”
“You would lose,” replied John promptly.
“Are you criticizing my gown, m’lord?” she asked icily.
He bent his head to her lips. They were so close they shared the same air. “Not at all,” he murmured. “I like it so long as I am the only man to see it. What I object to is your displaying your charms in such a public manner.”
Jeanne could not believe her ears. “You dare to criticize me?”
“I am your husband.”
She lifted her chin. “I see. Apparently your idea of marriage is different from my own.”
“Don’t be absurd.” This was not the way John had envisioned his wedding night. Why couldn’t she have waited for him in the customary manner, in bed? He was sorry he’d mentioned the cursed gown.
Moira cleared her throat and edged toward the door. “I’ll be leaving now,” she announced. There was no answer from either man or woman in the tension-thick room. Sliding the bolt, she escaped into the hall. It was empty. She breathed a sigh of relief and made her way back to the banquet hall.
Back in the laird’s bedchamber, the two faced one another like antagonists readying for battle. John relented first. Sighing, he turned away and walked to the small table near the bed and poured himself a goblet of wine. Swallowing a long draught, he replaced the goblet and turned back to his bride. Her face was wet with tears. In two strides he crossed the room and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry, love,” he murmured, kissing her nose, cheeks, and chin. “Don’t cry. I can’t bear to see you cry.”
She wept against his shirt. “I wore it for you. I wanted the wait to be worthwhile.”
Silently, he cursed himself. “I know, darling. I know.”
“You shouted at me.” Jeanne, worn out by weeks of strain and anticipation, was sobbing in earnest.
John lifted his head in bewilderment “I did?”
She nodded “Yes.”
Wisely, he remained silent.
“Do you think I wanted to wear this ridiculous gown?” she railed at him. “I was terrified to face you.” Lifting her head, she stared at him with reddened eyes. “Have you any idea what the first time is like for a woman? Can you even imagine it?”
Fascinated at the thought of Jeanne imagining anything of the sort, he shook his head.
“Of course not,” she said scornfully. “I realize this isn’t an unfamiliar experience for you, but please remember it is for me.”
The injustice of her words stung him. “What in the name of heaven do you mean by that?”
“Do you deny that you’ve bedded other women?”
“That is hardly a subject for our wedding night,” he replied angrily.
“Why not?”
Mustering the last remnants of his self-control, John counted to ten. Lifting Jeanne’s chin in his hand, he forced her eyes to meet his. “I cannot change my past, Jeannie,” he said softly, “nor will I defend it. There is nothing of shame in what I’ve done. I am a man, not an unschooled boy. ’Tis an unimportant matter but one that I believe you will be grateful for in time. I will not lie and say there have been no women before you, but I can promise that from the day you agreed to be my wife there has been no one else, nor will there be.”
Her eyes, swimming in their sea of tears, fixed themselves hopefully on his face. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she clutched his shirt in a desperate grip. “Truly, John?” she asked.
He was helpless against the tiny catch in her voice. With a groan, he set his mouth against hers. It was a long, drugging kiss, and when he lifted his head, his breathing was heavy. Swinging her into his arms, he carried her to the bed and laid her gently on the sheets. Turning away, he shrugged out of his clothes and doused the candles. In the dark, he made his way to the bed and slid in beside his wife. Heart hammering, he reached out for her.
Innocently, she nestled against him, molding her body to his. Willing himself to proceed slowly, he waited for several moments, and then brushed back her hair and touched his lips to the curve of her throat. There was no response. He lifted his head and stared down at her face. In the darkness he could barely make out her features. She was sound asleep.
With a sigh of resignation, John gritted his teeth. His body throbbed with need. Gently, he extricated himself from the tangle of Jeanne’s arms and moved to the other side of the bed. He was quite sure the night would be the longest he’d ever known.