Legacy (23 page)

With her foot, she slid a pillow between the door and the wall to anchor it open and then stepped into the tunnel. It was very dark. Using the tinder box, she lit her candle and waited for her eyes to adjust to the meager light.

The passageway was narrow. A fully grown man with the shoulders to lift a broadsword would not squeeze through. Holding the candle above her head, Jeanne slowly made her way down the steep stairs. The air grew steadily colder as she traveled deeper into the ground. A dank smell of mold and airless caverns surrounded her. The hem of her skirt dragged heavily in the dampness. She wrinkled her nose, allowing herself only enough air to continue downward.

Moments later, or was it hours, she faltered, her foot stumbling on a jagged, irregular step. Dropping to her knees, she moved the candle over the stone. The pounding of her heart sounded thunderous in the silent darkness. It was the step from her dream. Out of the corner of her eye, Jeanne saw something flicker. She looked up, startled to see a pale glow in the distance. Clutching her cloak, she stood and moved forward toward the light. The space narrowed and darkened. The light disappeared. Frantic to find it again, she continued quickly down the twisting stairway. Suddenly the tunnel widened, and there were no more stairs, only a wall of granite with a narrow opening on one side. Turning sideways, Jeanne managed to squeeze through.

The room was massive and bright as day, lit by torches mounted on the walls. Tombs, embedded in the granite, were lined up side by side. The air smelled of herbs and candle wax. A small altar with a figure of the Holy Virgin and hundreds of flickering candles was set above a large irregular stone.

Jeanne’s eyes widened as realization washed over her. This was the ancient burial vault of the Maxwells, sealed off more than two hundred years ago after the Black Death had swept throughout Scotland. The hair rose on the back of her neck. There was no logical way to explain the torches and candlelight after so many years had passed. Instinctively, she knew she was not alone in this granite kingdom of the dead.

She turned toward the Stone of Destiny. What she saw did not surprise her. She had seen it all before in her nightmares. A woman shrouded in a dark cloak, her face hidden, knelt and pressed her lips to the stone. Suddenly rays of light, warm and brilliant, illuminated the rock. She turned toward Jeanne and beckoned her forward. Together they knelt. Together they placed their hands on the stone.

The pulsing began in Jeanne’s fingers, spreading to her temples and throat and chest. She could no longer separate it from the pounding of her heart. An explosion of light rocked the room and then a sensation of heat and she was alone, standing in the midst of a bloodstained battlefield.

Severed bodies, both human and animal, their extremities blackened with old blood and swarming flies, lay piled on top of one another. Groans of delirious men calling for water and pleading for a merciful death assaulted her ears. All around her she recognized the thick, heavy accents of the Highlands and the Isles, the more refined tones of Edinburgh, the border brogues. The flower of Scotland lay dying at her feet. Dear God, where was John?

Stepping over the dead and wounded, her eyes wet with tears and horror, she searched the field, stopping only to look carefully into a darkly tanned face, turning over the bodies of lean, black-haired figures, closing eyes that were brown or hazel blue, green, and gray, but never John’s. She saw Lennox and Argyll and Jamie’s favorite, Lord Bothwell, lying in the dust, their lives forfeit to the king they loved.

Biting her lip, Jeanne continued on toward Pipers’ Hill when her eye was caught by a winking jewel, brilliant in the afternoon sun. It was a rich, clear purple, the color of kings, and it adorned the hilt of a sword. Heart hammering, she knelt by the thick body of the man who clutched it even in death. She turned his head and brushed aside the graying hair. A low moan, more animal than human, welled up from her chest. Jamie Stewart, that gallant, brave, and impetuous monarch, had led his last charge. There was no hope for Scotland, no hope for those who fought the English at Flodden Moor.

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.