Twenty-One
As suddenly as it came, the vision disappeared. Once again Jeanne was in the brightly lit burial chamber. The woman with the Maxwell features was still there, gazing at her with compassion. Jeanne marveled at the lady’s likeness. Looking at Mairi of Shiels was like staring at her own reflection in Saint Mary’s Loch on a day without wind.
“Was that destiny I saw?” she whispered to the ghostly figure.
The woman remained silent.
“Speak,” Jeanne cried in desperation. “Tell me what you want of me.”
Mairi stared at her with haunted eyes. Jeanne’s forehead wrinkled in concentration. What was the woman trying to tell her? “Help me, my lady,” she begged. “Give me a sign.”
A gust of cold wind blew back the folds of Jeanne’s cloak and set the candle flames flickering. Suddenly, inspiration seized her. She reached out to clutch the woman’s shoulders, but her hands touched only air. Mairi was gone as were the torches and glowing candles. Only the stone remained, bathed in the strange netherworld light that came from within.
Jeanne’s single candle seemed to burn more brightly as she climbed the twisting stairway back to the sanctuary. She was filled with hope and brave new resolve. If what she believed was true, the battle had not yet been fought. It could still be stopped. Only then would it be safe to return the stone to Moot Hill and the throne of Scotland. She knew that her country’s fate was sealed if Jamie Stewart fell in battle. His heir was a mere bairn and the queen was English. Fortunately, the king was a superstitious man, known for his fear of spirits and witchcraft. Jeanne, Grania’s pupil, knew exactly how to prey on those fears.
***
Traveling alone, dressed in a man’s breeks and jack, Jeanne guided her mount to the pony path leading to the gentle green gold hills of West Lothian and Linlithgow Castle. The road north was empty. All men of fighting age were camped in the Cheviot Hills, awaiting Jamie’s arrival. He remained at the palace until the final hour. Indeed, it was what she hoped for. Tonight, at Saint Michael’s Kirk, he would be at vespers in the royal stall. There, she would go to him.
Leaving her horse in the capable hands of the castle linkboy, Jeanne crossed the wide lawn leading to the twin turrets guarding the entrance. Wind from the loch pulled at her jack and twisted loose tendrils of her hair into knots. Clutching the bundle that carried her change of clothing under one arm, Jeanne walked past the guards into the receiving hall. It was completely deserted. She was relieved but not surprised. Most of the nobles had already left for England, and the queen’s attendants were preparing for the evening meal.
Jeanne climbed the wide stairs to the second landing, where the Maxwell apartments were kept in readiness for an unexpected arrival. She opened the door and bolted it behind her. The room was cold as ice. After lighting the fire, she walked to the window and looked out, rubbing her arms against the chill. The view faced south toward the loch. Leaning against the frigid panes of glass, she gave herself up to the still, heart-wrenching beauty of her homeland and the memories it evoked.
To the west, as far as the human eye could see, wheat and millet swirled like golden waves in a churning tide. To the east, where the land was left uncleared, black oak and maple forests shadowed marshland rich with quail, wild duck, and curlew. To the south, the silver blue waters of Loch Lothian shone clear as glass beneath a summer sun. Years ago, armed with fishing poles and bait, a black-haired boy and his small companion had commandeered a boat nestled in the brush. Jeanne’s mouth watered. She could still taste the crisp skin and the soft buttery flesh of their catch. Nothing before or since had tasted more like heaven than the speckled brown trout she had helped John pull from the watery depths.
Jeanne looked around the well-appointed bedchamber and her heart sank. The optimism of the day before had long since disappeared. If only her husband were here safe beside her. The room was warmer now. It was nearly dark. Vespers would begin in less than an hour.
Jeanne shook out her cloak and gown and laid them on the bed. She had chosen black to blend with the darkness in the kirk. Quickly, she unplaited and brushed her hair, allowing it to hang loose for the first time since her marriage. With nimble fingers she unbuttoned the jack, folded it away, and stepped out of the breeks. The dress was overlarge and flowed loosely around her body, concealing the child she carried. Looking into the glass, Jeanne smiled grimly. She had chosen well. With her long black hair, cloak, and gown, she truly looked like a harbinger of death.
She did not take the main hall to the kirk. Linlithgow was over two hundred years old and, like most ancient castles, had its share of hidden tunnels and passageways. Jeanne knew the one leading past the wall to Saint Michael’s Kirk could be reached from the rooms near her own.
Taking a deep breath, she slipped out of the room and looked around. Again, she saw no one. Without a sound, she tiptoed to the door leading to the next room and leaned her ear against the wood. It was unlikely that the room was occupied, but Jeanne took no chances. She heard nothing. Pushing open the door, she stepped inside. Like her own, the room was dark and very cold. It was also unoccupied. Congratulating herself on the smooth flow of events, she walked to a painted frieze on the east wall. It was a depiction of the death of Wallace at Smithfield after the Battle of Falkirk. Normally Jeanne would take a moment to reflect on the silent agony of his face at the moment of death, but today she did not. Today she had no time to waste on past heroes. She pressed the center of Wallace’s targe, and the hidden door cracked open.
Jeanne pushed it gently. It swung open, wide enough for her to step inside. She closed it behind her and waited until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. No one had traveled through this passageway for some time. In her youth, the occupants of this room made use of it often, and flaming torches lit the way. Now there was only darkness. She had not thought to bring a candle, and time grew short.
Bracing her hands against each wall, examining each new step with an exploring foot, Jeanne made her way through the sloping tunnel. Gradually, her feet moved more quickly. There were no steps and no unusual turns, just straight empty darkness. At last it was finished. The dark was not so absolute now. She had come out into the night, its blackness tempered by starlight and a full, silvery moon. The outline of Saint Michael’s steeple loomed ahead.
Jeanne pulled up her hood to hide her face and hurried across the road into the rear door of the kirk. The royal stall was far to the front, near the altar. She must pass the posturing clergy and those few nobles who remained in Linlithgow to accompany their king. Not one of the worshippers kneeling on the granite floor of the kirk that night noticed the slim, dark figure slip behind the velvet curtains into the sanctuary where the king worshipped alone.
His eyes were closed. In the flickering candlelight, Jamie Stewart appeared much younger and very troubled. Jeanne was moved to pity. This man, this king so suited to rule, had made an irreversible error. He was intelligent enough to realize the enormity of his blunder. If he were a lesser man, if he had held another position, amends could be made, feelings pacified, the hurt assuaged. For James IV of Scotland, the rules were different. Jeanne knew it. She had always known it, but try she must.
Dropping to her knees, she crawled to the high altar and shook her hair over her face, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her. It was a sin to disturb the king at Mass. Resting on the damask altar cloth was a silver bell. She grasped the handle and rocked it gently. The clear, high sound echoed like music throughout the chamber. Slowly, Jeanne stood, staying clear of the wedge of light thrown by the fire. The hood of her cloak hid her face, and her shadow loomed menacingly, larger than life on the stone wall.
Startled, Jamie looked up. Ever the warrior, his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. “This is a private service, mistress,” he announced. “Declare yourself and then depart.”
She pitched her voice low. Fear gave it an unusual huskiness. “I am but a loyal subject, Your Grace. I come to warn you of your fate on the morrow.”
He was on his feet now, his brow furrowed. “Tomorrow I meet the English at Flodden Moor.”
“You will not be victorious,” warned Jeanne. “You will die in battle and the flower of Scotland with you. Your son is but a child and your wife English. Think again, Jamie Stewart. Would you condemn your country to such a fate?”
“’Tis too late. I cannot withdraw now,” insisted the king stubbornly.
“Holy God!” she whispered fiercely. “Would you have us English satellites subject to the will of an English king?”
Jamie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who are you who speaks blasphemy to the king?” he demanded. “By what right do you come here during prayers and speak to me of treason?” He drew his sword and advanced toward her.
Jeanne shrank back, pulling the hood farther in front of her face. “Halt,” she cried, holding her hand out before her. “Would you profane the House of God?”
“You’ve done that already, lass,” said the king, lifting the wool from her face with the point of his sword. “Come. Step into the light. I wish to see your face.”
Jeanne had lost, and the only emotion she felt was overwhelming weariness. She knelt at his feet. Her hood fell back, revealing her raven-black hair. Defiantly, she looked up, waiting for the look of shocked recognition in his eyes.
“By the blood of Christ,” he gasped. “’Tis Jeanne Maxwell.”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
“Why do you do this?”
Slowly, she stood. “This meeting with the English is ill-fated. Many will die and Scotland will be destroyed.”
Until now, he’d ignored the rumors linking Jeanne’s name with witchcraft. His voice shook. “How do you know this?”
She stared at him, saying nothing, her face so still and pale it could have been sculpted from marble.
With an imperious gesture, Jamie waved away his knights. They moved back, and he lowered his sword. “Where is your lord?” he asked her.
“At Flodden Moor.”
He nodded, satisfied. “I might have known John would not desert me. Does he know you are here?”
“No, Your Grace.”
Something in her direct, clear-eyed gaze disturbed him. Jamie Stewart was king of Scotland. Before the age of sixteen, he’d outwitted men years older than himself, plunged into the very heart of political intrigue, and wrested the throne from his weak, ineffectual father. He could smell fear and deception from across the length of a room. Jeanne Maxwell was not afraid nor was she lying.
He cleared his throat and spoke softly so that only she would hear. “I would ask you a question, Lady Maxwell. You may refuse me. But know this. Whether you answer or no, you will be detained in the castle until after the battle. I have not yet decided what to do with you.”
She smiled, and for a moment Jamie forgot he was a king. Holy God, the lass was lovely. He stepped closer and reached out to touch her cheek.
She turned her head. “What is your question, Your Grace?”
He dropped his hand, ashamed of his weakness. “Will I survive Flodden Moor?”
Jeanne paused for a long moment, wondering whether to spare him. “No,” she replied at last.
He looked at her, the heavy-lidded eyes hard and black as coal. Finally, he nodded. “So be it.” He motioned to a guard.
“Wait.” Jeanne clutched his sleeve. “What I see is only a vision of what might be. It is not yet written in destiny. Change your fate and that of all those who die at Flodden Moor. Recall your men before the English army arrives.”
This time he did touch her, his hand resting on the shining crown of her hair. “You are very lovely, Jeannie,” he murmured, “and very brave. I envy your husband.” The thought of his wife or any other woman braving his wrath to demand a war be stopped was both absurd and amusing. “’Tis too late,” he continued. “Surrey has already arrived with twenty thousand British troops. At this moment the English army prepares for battle. If we retreat, they will follow us into Scotland and cut us down. Our towns will burn, women and children will die. No.” He shook his head. “The time for retreat has passed. We will stand and fight. My men would have it no other way.”
“Then you are doomed,” she whispered.
He grinned, and the years disappeared from his face. “Miracles happen, lass. God knows I deserve one.”
Jeanne did not protest when the noble she recognized as Sir David Lyndsey led her away to a small room inside the castle. It wasn’t as large or elegant as the Maxwell chambers, but at least it was comfortable. A huge mantel covered one entire wall and heavy curtains enclosed the bed. Colorful tapestries kept out the drafts, and a small window set high in the wall provided air and light. She held her hands close to the blazing fire, hungry for the sustaining warmth of the flames. It was a pointless gesture. The ice around her heart had extended to every part of her. For Jeanne Maxwell there was no warmth in all the world.
***
Jamie Stewart’s mood on his way to Northumberland was not pleasant. Against the better judgment of his magnates, namely Bishop William Elphinstone of Aberdeen, he was attempting the impossible, something no Scottish monarch had ever done before. He had turned his back upon a classic tradition and moved his men out of their own natural fortress to take on an enemy, rich, impetuous, powerful, flushed with victory, and tired of peace. In defense, the Scots had a chance. As the aggressor, victory was impossible. All this and more Jamie knew, and his heart was heavy.
He rode quickly, holding his mount to a pace few men could best. Before dawn, he’d passed through the valley of Whiteadder in the Lammermuir Hills and left Norham Castle and the River Tweed in the distance. The first light of dawn streaked the sky when at last he crossed Till and joined his forces in the Flodden Hills. Reining in his exhausted stallion, the king surveyed his battleground with satisfaction. Protected by three significant mountains, it was unassailable from the southwest, equally impossible from the south, and to the east an advancing army would have to cross the River Till. The only viable approach was from the southeast along the flat ground between the foot of Flodden Hill and the river. This narrow precipice with its marshy ground was much too dangerous for an army to attempt their attack.
Jamie had already decided to stay put on the hill and draw out his enemy. With Huntly covering Branxton Hill and Maxwell on Flodden Edge, the Scots could last until summer without losing a single man. Surrey, the English commander, encamped at Woller Haugh seven miles to the south, would not willingly walk into such a trap. If he failed to show this morning, the ninth of September, the Scots could retreat with honor. This was Jamie’s only hope.
***
John Maxwell looked over his troops from his vantage point on Flodden Edge. Hundreds of peat fires flickered in the predawn darkness. Across the Till he heard the English army readying for battle. The night before, he’d sent a company of men across the border to pillage an English village. This act of destruction, in full view of the English army on English soil, was an attempt to provoke the earl of Surrey into an early battle. It was a masterly move. Had the earl been a less experienced man, the ploy would have worked. As it was, it did nothing more than cement him in his purpose.
Before John’s astonished eyes, the English army now moved out of the range of Scottish cannons, northward into Scotland. For more than an hour he watched until the entire army disappeared behind the hills. A messenger on a lathered horse rode up.
“The king orders you to move your men to Branxton Hill. Burn the camp behind you.”
John frowned. Surrey would hardly be foolish enough to leave the rear of his army open to attack on foreign soil. If Jamie was shortsighted enough to believe such an absurdity, he must be reasoned with. John ignored the order. “Where is the king, lad?” he asked.
“At Branxton Hill.”
John’s heart sank. Only an idiot would move his troops away from the natural fortress of the mountains to engage an army four times the size of his own. Digging his heels into the sides of his mount, John headed for Branxton Hill. Halfway there, he met the king, surrounded by a company of men riding south at a furious pace. They reined in their horses when they saw him.
“The English have doubled back across the Till,” Jamie panted. “’Tis a trap. Secure your positions on the slope. Home and Huntly on the left. Errol, Crawford, and Montrose to the right, and you, Maxwell, shall ride with me in the center. Lennox and Argyll with the Highland division on the extreme right and Bothwell will command the reserve behind the line.”
“Please, Your Grace,” John interrupted. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Speak,” ordered the king.
“Your person is too valuable to lead a charge. If you should be wounded or, God forbid, killed, there is no victory for Scotland. Stay back with Bothwell and the reserves.”
Jamie straightened in his saddle. “I am the king of Scotland. What kind of king sends his men into battle while he cowers behind the lines?”
John hesitated. By the day’s end, they would all be dead. He had nothing to lose by speaking his mind. “What kind of king risks the future of his kingdom? Should we die today, will there be a Scotland for our sons?”
For a long moment Jamie stared into the icy gray eyes of the man before him. There was nothing the king admired more than courage, and it appeared that John Maxwell had more than his share. “Save your temper for the battlefield, Maxwell, and I’ll bestow an earldom on you.”
John’s lips twitched. “I already have one, Your Grace.”
Jamie threw back his head and laughed. “You’re a right one, John Maxwell. Collect your troops and meet me on the slope.”
John acknowledged defeat. The king was beyond reason. “Aye, Your Grace,” he said flatly. Turning his mount, he returned the way he came.
Much of Flodden Edge was obscured by smoke from the campfires, but high on the ledge, he saw the remnants of the British army. Surrey’s move was masterly. By pretending to invade Scotland, he’d doubled back and cut James’s lines of communication, severing any potential retreat to his own country. The men, however, were in poor condition, tired looking, their feet dragging. When they marched into battle, they would not have the advantage of high ground.
By the time John rallied his troops and marched them to Branxton Hill, the English were filing over by the Pallinsburn Causeway. The blood drummed in his temples. This opportunity was too good to miss. He looked around. Where was Jamie? He saw him farther up on the slope. Urging his stallion to higher ground, John reined in beside the king. He spoke without using the formal address. “We can pick them off with our guns one at a time. Give the order, Your Grace.”
Jamie shook his head. “No. I want no piecemeal methods. They shall be lined up before me in the hollow of my hand before we shoot. Let them come on to their slaughter.”
John watched in horror as the English army swung right and then westward beneath them, to disappear out of sight. Another surge of Englishmen, led by Sir Edmund Howard, advanced over the Pallinsburn to join their brethren. Still Jamie did nothing.
The armies, although invisible to each other, were very close together. A shot was fired, and the Scots’ master gunner fell to the ground. The enemy came from below, a surging wave of disciplined manhood shooting with the executed precision only battle-trained troops in the best of conditions occasionally acquire. They stayed well out of range of Scottish gunfire.
On the brow of the hill, Jamie’s men were shot to pieces. In his rage and panic, he did the only thing possible given his nature and the position in which he found himself. He ordered a descent from the hill to engage the enemy directly, with himself at the head of the attack.
The simmering anger inside John’s head burst into white-hot fury as he watched the king commit his suicidal charge. With short, clipped syllables, he ordered ten of his finest soldiers to his side. Drawing his sword, he raised his targe, gripped his reins, and charged down the hill with grim determination. There was no going back now. No quarter would be given. They must follow their valiant, foolhardy ruler and die.
An unforeseen dip in the ground put them at a disadvantage, forcing them to come up in front of the enemy. The Scots had spears and swords, but the English were armed with deadly billhooks. The king’s standard went down. Reaching to within a spear’s length of Surrey, John Maxwell was stabbed through the chest by a savage sweep of a billhook. He killed five Englishmen before his spear broke in his hands. By nightfall the massacre was complete, and the English general claimed his victory.
***
Jeanne sat up on the bed and listened. The voices outside her chamber door sounded loud and angry. She was sure one of them belonged to a woman. Kicking the blankets aside, she climbed out of bed and looked up at the window. The light was dim and the air misty. It was early morning, the day following the battle.
The door opened and a woman stepped inside. Jeanne’s eyes widened. It was Jane Hepburn, countess of Bothwell. She had not seen George Gordon’s fiery-tempered sister for years. They had never been friendly, and from the look on Jane’s face, it was clear that her sentiments remained unchanged.
“’Tis over,” she said. “Jamie is dead. All is lost.”
Jeanne nodded.
“I’ve come to ask you a favor.” Jane bit her lip. “My husband and my brother are at Flodden. We’ve had no word, and I cannot leave the queen. She is distraught with grief.”
“What can I do?”
“Ride to Flodden. The English won’t harm a woman. Find out what has become of our men. Send back word with a courier. There is no need to return.”
“I am a prisoner,” Jeanne reminded her.
Jane’s mouth twisted with pain. “You are no longer of any significance,” she said wearily. “We are all prisoners. Go now and Godspeed.”
For Jeanne, lost in her own thoughts, the miles passed swiftly. She stopped only to water her horse and gnaw at the meat and bread she’d remembered to stuff inside her pack. She approached Flodden slowly, up the right bank of the Till, and looked across the river. To the southwest was Monylaws Hill, to the north Branxton, and to the south and southeast, Flodden Hill and Flodden Edge. The green-gold beauty of the borderlands on the cusp of autumn made the sight that greeted her eyes even more heinous than it already was.
Day-old bodies, their limbs severed, their wounds covered with maggots and black with old blood, littered the field. Beggars swarmed over the battleground, claiming their spoils, rifling through pockets, prying jewels from targes and sword hilts, pulling boots and weapons from men who had breathed their last breath. Moans of the wounded echoed among the hills. The stench was nauseating. Jeanne pressed the folds of her cloak against her nose. Her stomach hovered on the brink of rebellion.
Slowly, she crossed the river and slid from her horse. Once again she saw the blood and the flies. She heard the cries of dying men pleading for water, saw the bodies of Lennox and Argyll and Jane Hepburn’s husband, Lord Bothwell. Fighting helplessly against a force she could not control, Jeanne moved on toward Pipers’ Hill, stepping over maimed clansmen, staring anxiously at dark-haired men until again she saw the jeweled sword hilt and the beloved gray-streaked head of Scotland’s hope twisted at an unnatural angle. She had seen it all before, but this time the pain was too great. The lump in her chest made it difficult to breathe. Where was John?
At the bottom of Branxton Hill, she found him. He was alive. Kneeling down in the thick mud, Jeanne pulled his head into her lap.
His eyes opened, and he smiled. “You’re very pale, my love,” he said. “Have you eaten?”
Jeanne sobbed and bit down on her bottom lip. He was nearly dead and still he worried about her health. The tears rolled down her cheeks. “Yes, John. I’ve eaten.”
“’Tis not wise for you to go without food. You must think of the bairn.”
Unable to speak, Jeanne leaned over to kiss his forehead. Her tears wet his skin.
He lifted his hand to touch her face, but the effort was too great. “You’re crying, Jeannie. Don’t cry, love. Maxwells never cry.” A bubble of blood formed at his lips, and his eyes closed.
Jeanne didn’t know how long she sat there holding his lifeless body in her arms. Night fell. She must have slept because all at once it was morning. Sunlight blinded her, and at first she didn’t see the circle of men on horseback surrounding her.
“’Tis Jeanne Maxwell,” a familiar voice spoke. “What are you doing here?”
Mutely, she looked up at the man who would have been her husband.
“Come, lass,” George Gordon said. “Speak. The last I heard you were imprisoned at Linlithgow.”
Jeanne eased the blood-encrusted head from her lap and stood up. “Jane sent me. She wished for news of you and her husband.”
The brown stallion pawed the ground. “Bothwell is dead,” replied George Gordon shortly.
“Aye.” Jeanne’s pain-filled eyes were on his face. “Others share his fate.”
His eyes flickered over her and dismissed the man at her feet. “Scotland has suffered a greater loss than your husband or Jane’s. Where is your mount?”
“I left her at Pipers’ Hill yesterday.”
George Gordon, the earl of Huntly, reached down to lift her to his saddle. “We shall find her, and then I’ll escort you home.”
The men around him murmured angrily. “She is evil, Huntly, a weaver of spells, a witch,” one of them said. “The king would be alive today if she had not cursed the battle.”
George sighed. He had been educated in Italy and spent three years as ambassador to France. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that his fellow Scots were not all enlightened men. “The king would be alive today if he’d listened with his head,” he explained patiently. “Surely you don’t need a witch to tell you that an army of five thousand has little chance of victory against one four times as large?”
Another man spoke. “What of Bannockburn? The odds were greater against Robert the Bruce.”
George’s thin lips twisted contemptuously. “Jamie Stewart was not the Bruce.”
Sir David Lyndsey opened his mouth to speak, but Huntly’s raised hand silenced him. “The flower of Scotland died yesterday, m’lords. Our minds should be occupied with more pressing matters. After I escort Lady Maxwell to her home, I shall ride for Strathbogie and do what I can to save my lands. I suggest you do the same.”
The men looked at one another, nodded, and turned their horses northward. Sir David was not convinced, but now he was alone. At last, he too turned his mount and rode away.
“You might at least have thanked me,” said George wryly as he watched the last survivors of Jamie’s army disappear over the hill.
“For what?” asked Jeanne dully.
“For saving your life. They wanted to hang you.”
“It no longer matters what happens to me.”
After a moment of startled silence, George swore long and fluently. “You little fool,” he said at last. “What of your son, the heir to Traquair, and the child you carry within you?”
Tears welled up in her eyes, spilled down her cheeks, and dripped off the end of her nose. “You don’t understand,” she said.
“Of course I understand. Do you actually believe no one else has suffered? There isn’t a family in Scotland who won’t mourn a loved one this day.” His fingers bit painfully into her shoulder. “Come, Jeanne. Our fight is just beginning. I expected more of you than this.”
“Why?”
“Not so very long ago, we were betrothed,” he reminded her. “’Tis a grave disappointment for a man to learn he was so lacking in judgment as to love a woman who wished for death in times of trouble.”
Jeanne turned to look at him, her eyes wide and troubled. “You’re a good man, George. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
He shrugged. “I survived my pain and so will you.”
“It isn’t the same.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Of course not,” she said angrily. “John was my husband, the father of my children. You have a wife. How can you compare what we had to the love you share with her?”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “Of course, you are right,” he said at last.
She knew he didn’t believe anything of the sort, but the argument was over and she was grateful. It made her uncomfortable to be reminded of the disgraceful way she’d treated George. There had been no help for it, but it embarrassed her nonetheless.
He left her at the gates of Traquair. The journey home took longer than usual because they stopped several times to eat. George remembered her condition and watched carefully for her skin to pale and the blue color to appear around her lips. The first time it happened, only minutes after they’d found her mare, he’d given her food from his pack. After that, whenever a croft or farm loomed in the distance, he insisted they refurbish their supplies.
Jeanne was grateful for his solicitude. The weight of the child and the effort of keeping her emotions under control had taken their toll. She was exhausted. Without George, she would never have managed the journey.
***
For days after her return, Jeanne searched once again for the stone. She found nothing. Each time, she’d ventured further into the darkness of the same tunnel, only to be disappointed again and again. She was sure she remembered the way. The passage was the same, as was the staircase with its irregular stone steps, but the light was gone and the room with it. It was as if it had never existed outside of her own mind. Finally she gave up, and with her decision, all emotion seemed to leave her. She walked and talked and slept and ate with a curious detachment that terrified everyone around her.
A fortnight later they came for her, a company of men mounted on horses and dressed in full mail. Bonnets hid their faces, and she didn’t recognize their voices. With trembling lips, Flora announced their arrival, and Jeanne went out to meet them.
“Lady Jeanne Maxwell.” A man in gray armor seated on a dancing brown stallion spoke. “You are under arrest.”
“On what charge?”
“Witchcraft.”
The word hung, suspended on the air between them.
“I am no witch,” Jeanne said at last.
“Do you deny that Grania Douglas was your teacher?”
Jeanne lifted her chin. “Grania was my friend. She was no witch.”
“Do you deny that she claimed to have the sight?”
“Every woman in the Highlands claims it,” said Jeanne contemptuously.
“Do you have it, Lady Maxwell?”
Instant denial sprang to her lips, but the words were never spoken. Images of Flodden Moor filled her mind. Her hesitation sealed her fate.
“Seize her,” the man ordered.
Two men dismounted and held her arms. Jeanne did not struggle. “Where will I be tried?” she asked their leader.
The man looked at her for a long time. The hard-bitten brown of his eyes glittered through the slit in his bonnet. The stallion fidgeted and pawed at the ground. With a harsh command and a swift jerk of the reins, the man brought him under control.
“You’ve already been tried,” he said shortly.
“By what law?”
“Mine.”
“Why do you do this?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. She saw his eyes move over the walls and gables of Traquair House. “Prepare the scaffold,” he ordered.
Within moments a rope was twisted and thrown over the oak tree she and John had climbed as children. There was no platform, no keening of the pipes, no jeering crowds. The face of her accuser was unknown. Jeanne looked upon the proceedings as a curious observer with the same cloudy detachment that had governed her actions for the last several weeks. Even when she was lifted to the saddle of the brown stallion and the rope was placed around her neck and tightened, she did not protest.
The brown-eyed man shouted the command and flung her from his saddle. The rope was pulled taut. Searing pain closed around her throat, her neck snapped, and there was no more pain, only darkness. Jeanne Maxwell was dead.