Snow Raven (33 page)

She returned the elderly woman’s greeting cautiously. “’Tis a fair day for full winter, aye?”

Beitris nodded, and pointed at a patch of pale green poking through the snow. “Gin the gress should grow in Janiveer, it’ll be the worst for’t a’ the year.”

Merry shivered and buried her hands deeper in the pockets of her cloak. “The weather, you mean?”

The woman did not answer, but her gaze roamed upward. Merry traced it and saw several large black birds huddled on the bare limbs of a nearby ancient oak. She felt a tic of unease and inched away from Mother MacDougall’s presence. As soon as Merry moved, the birds burst into flight, winging overheard, and Merry saw they were three ravens. Her faint gasp was obscured by Mother MacDougall’s wry recitation:

One bodes wedding, two’s a birth, Three’s a grief, four’s a death.

As the last word drifted away on the wind, a fourth bird screamed and flapped from the tree, streaking through the ice-blue sky to join its companions. Merry had not noticed it before, for it was pure white, and blended against the snowy backdrop. It flew so quickly, dipping and swirling like a frosty dream against the winter sun, she could hardly follow it. Yet it appeared to be a raven also. How could this be?

She glanced, startled, at Beitris as the ravens disappeared on the other side of the courtyard wall. The old woman nodded, her eyes gleaming feverishly bright.

“Snow raven,” Beitris muttered, wringing raw hands covered with chilblains. “’Tis a sign, a sign.”

“There is no such creature. ’Twas a young goose, I vow.” Merry spoke quickly, whirled and hurried off before the old woman could argue.

* * *

DESPITE THE PLEASANTRY OF Lady Fiona’s company, Merry was glad to be pressing on. The border was so close now, she fancied she could smell the fresh English air. The guards Ran had sent saw them safely to Goldielands, then returned to Auchmull to assist their lord in his relentless duty for the king. It seemed ironic Ran should serve the very monarch who confiscated his lands in a fit of pique, but he obviously had hopes such service might soften King James in future.

When they reached Newcastle Upon Tyne, word was dispatched to Ambergate while several rooms at an inn were secured for Merry and her companions. It took several days more before the Tanner coach arrived, but Merry was glad for the time to rest. When she heard the coach was there, she hurried out. The coach was new but driven by a very familiar personage.

“Jem!” Never had she felt so glad to see a retainer before. She even hugged the flustered man when he climbed down to see to her trunk.

“Mistress Merry, ’tis gladdened I am to see you right fine,” Jem said.

“Oh, and likewise, Jem. Tell me, have you suffered ill effects from the accident?”

He shook his head. “Few enough. Tough ol’ English noggin, this is.” He tapped his head, grinning sheepishly, and Merry laughed.

“I am relieved to hear it.” Just then, Gil stepped from the inn, and as the two men’s gazes met, she stiffened in preparation for the worst. To her surprise, the grin never left Jem’s lips, but widened perceptibly when he recognized the former highwayman.

“Well met, Master Gilbert,” he said.

Gil chuckled and joined them, slapping the driver heartily on the back. “How are you, Jem? I see you did not fare too poorly despite my best efforts to the contrary.”

Jem’s faded blue eyes twinkled. “I count it among the greatest of adventures, Master Gilbert. The young’uns clamor to hear the tale, o’er and o’er.”

Merry shook her head in amazement. “Why, Gil’s shenanigans might have handily killed us both, Jem.”

“Now, there’s a word straight from your mum’s Irish lips,” Jem said. “Shenanigans.”

“Marry, I fear y’are right. Have Mother and Father reached Ambergate yet?”

The manservant nodded. “Just yesterday, blown in early by a foul nor’wester. But none can tame the seas like those two, miss … er, milady.”

Jem seemed embarrassed about her new status. Merry smiled, realizing how awkward it must look to others. She had wed her kidnapper and in doing so both flouted Wickham and obeyed the queen. She had also secured the status of a countess, albeit a Scottish one.

“Come into the inn, relax and partake of some refreshment,” she invited Jem. “I must rouse my tiring-women anyhow, and ready the babe for travel.”

“Baby, milady?” Jem gawked at her in obvious confusion.

Merry laughed. “Not mine, Jem. It belongs to my maid, Nell.”

“Lud, in all the excitement, I forgot. Lady Trelane had a son on Christmas Day!”

“Dear Kat! How is she?” Many times Merry had thought about, wondered, and worried over her headstrong twin. Though Kat was happily wed to Morgan Trelane, and now the mother of a little lordling as well, Merry still tended to fuss and hover in mother-hen fashion even from afar. She felt a brief, yet deep pang of envy. She knew Morgan and Kat were in love. Now they had a son to prove it, too.

“Fit and feisty as ever, Sir Christopher says, but he would not even consider the notion of her traveling so far after the birth. Lord Trelane agreed to keep his family home.”

“Aye, though I wager Morgan must needs sit on her for the effort,” Merry said with a rueful headshake. She drew Jem into the inn, and while Gil saw the manservant happily settled with a mug of nut-brown ale, she returned to her room and finished packing for the last leg of the journey. Little Ashet was fast asleep from her last feeding, and did not stir as Nell placed her in the sling-like cloth carrier she wore to keep her hands free. Siany was gazing dreamily out the window, an affectation she had adopted of late which did not speak well of her serving potential.

Merry caught the girl’s attention with a brisk remark, and hoped she mistook the flash of resentment in Siany’s eyes as she turned. During the rest of the journey, Merry saw Siany had indeed returned to the sullen, grudging air she wore at Auchmull like a dark cloak. Merry regretted giving in to Gil’s wheedling. She had enough to worry about with the upcoming audience before the queen. Whatever she might expect of Bess, outrage was sure to be among the lesser evils.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

MERRY APPEARED IMMUNE TO the stares and whispers marking her progress through St. James’s Palace on her uncle’s arm. By onlookers’ accounts, she remained cool and unruffled, head held high and blazing hair coiffed in the latest fashion, little curls across her forehead and the remainder captured in a net of seed pearls and glittering braid. Her gown was a rich golden brocade, sleeves slashed and inset with alternating panes of watered green silk and crimson velvet, the full train embroidered with a fetching rose and thistle design. Lady Lindsay obviously refused to be humbled by her circumstances or the reputation of her daunting Scots lord, and the majority of the courtiers parted in her wave like dumbstruck sheep.

Inside, however, Merry quivered with uncertainty and no little trepidation, wondering how she would be received by Her Majesty after all that had transpired. Uncle Kit had encouraged her bold and direct appearance at Court, pointing out that while Elizabeth Tudor had a vile temper, she also had a deep respect for those who did not fear her. Merry had been kidnapped through no fault of her own, though her mother had certainly scolded her enough about the foolish manner in which she had set out across Wales with no proper escort. Surely even Her Grace could not blame Merry for the events that transpired, and in the end she had wed Ran as ordered, preserving her family’s reputation and, to a lesser extent, her own.

The glittering throng of courtiers and whispering ladies seemed a sea, restlessly ebbing and flowing around her, and Merry’s courage faltered. Something had changed. Not in the others, but her. Why did their laughing eyes and furious whispering seem suddenly immature? Not very long ago, she had huddled there with the other maids-of-honor, giggling and scrutinizing every passing knave or lady. Now she was the one subjected to passing critiques, and it was not so pleasant. She was glad she had followed her uncle’s advice and dipped into her dower portion for a new court wardrobe. Whatever they might speculate about her morals, it could not be denied the Countess of Crawford had presented herself in the very latest fashion. Had Essex been here, she was certain the knave would have cocked an eyebrow, but nodded in admiration.

Sensing her hesitation, Sir Christopher squeezed her arm reassuringly. “I will be right here to support you, m’dear.”

Merry cast him a grateful smile. Despite his age, and the glint of silver in his once-flaming hair, Uncle Kit still commanded great presence and respect. He was garbed in a forest-green velvet doublet and breeches, the latter slashed and inset with gold silk. He wore a jerkin of buff leather, a multilayered ruff with tasseled ties, and several heavy gold chains and a medallion bearing the Tanner crest. Over the years, he had maintained his good graces with the queen and hence occupied a coveted position among the ranks of the courtiers.

The days preceding Twelfth Night were progressively more festive and lavish, each feast grander than the previous one, the entertainment more ribald and the costumes more shocking. It was yet a week to go, but already the court dazzled the eye with sight and sound. The tawdry elegance of the participants contrasted the stark formality of the banqueting hall itself; regal silk banners bearing the Tudor green and gold clashed with the frivolous Twelfth Night decorations and favors scattered about the tables, or clutched in ladies’ hands. At one end of the hall, musicians played a somber rendition of “Angelus ad Virginem,” while a madrigal in the contrasting corner sang a slightly bawdy version of “Fair Phyllis I Saw”.

Merry’s gaze was drawn past the entertainers toward the grand throne at the end of the corridor. Her Majesty was in attendance with her bevy of young suitors, vying and swooping about like gaudy butterflies about a wilting rose. It was a ludicrous sight, for Elizabeth Tudor was no maid, and had ruled now for forty-one years. Her aquiline features were sharply accented, her fair skin withered, her once-fine auburn hair concealed by wigs. Still the young men gushed compliments and sickeningly sweet sonnets, knelt and kissed her pale hands. It was a sight both sad and grimly comical.

Merry’s courage faltered, fearing Her Grace would somehow sense her thoughts, yet even in her waning days she conceded her queen was a majestic woman. Tonight Elizabeth Tudor was clad in taffeta of silver and white trimmed with gold, her dress open in front to display a stomacher of embroidered tawny velvet. Her ruff was higher yet than Merry recalled the previous fashion, and her throat was encircled by pearls and rubies besides. Creamy pearls also dangled like small pears across her forehead, and she cradled a fan in her lap, marvelously crafted of white feathers set in a handle of gold, garnished on one side with fine emeralds, diamonds, and rubies, and carved with a white bear and pearls, a lion rampant with a white muzzled bear at his feet.

Merry recognized the beautiful fan. It was a lavish gift from the Earl of Leicester, Robert Dudley, dead nigh a decade now. Elizabeth’s former favorite had been presumptuous enough to place his own coat of arms upon his queen’s gift, but Merry remembered seeing the gorgeous fan over the years, and whenever the queen picked it up, she assumed a wistful and melancholy air.

Merry did not know whether this boded ill for her or not, so when Kit presented her and she reached the base of the throne, she merely sank into a deep, graceful obeisance with her gaze lowered.

“Meredith Lady Lindsay, Countess of Crawford,” the Clerk of the Seal announced unnecessarily.

“Indeed, Windebank.” Elizabeth nodded a trifle irritably, though whether from the obvious identity of the supplicant or vexation with the same, it was not yet clear. “I see marriage to a hardy Scot suits y’well enough” was her first gruff comment as she thrust out her hand at Merry.

Merry kissed the cool, thin fingers before she rose, her head still inclined slightly. “Aye, Your Grace.”

To her surprise, the queen laughed. Not the tinkling tones of her early reign, but the husky chuckle of a weary woman. “We confess we have missed you, Sweet Cinnamon.”

The affectionate nickname eased Merry's tension somewhat. “As I have missed Court, Your Majesty, and especially your magnificent presence.”

“Pfft,” Elizabeth said, waving a beringed hand dismissingly, but her keen gray eyes gleamed. She glanced then to Kit, looking girlish. “La, m’Fox, I trow ’tis been a pace too long since y’have graced my hall.”

“All of a fortnight, Your Grace,” Kit gallantly replied as he bent over his monarch’s hand in turn and pressed his lips to her ivory skin. Elizabeth’s face bore the mark of time and worry, but her hands remained curiously young by contrast. She never missed a chance to show them off, and tonight her fingers gleamed with a pear-shaped diamond, an irregular smoky pearl, a golden beryl, and an exquisite piece of jade cut in the shape of a delicate rose.

Elizabeth patted Kit’s face as he rose. “Dear Fox,” she sighed, fondness softening her expression, “y’bring me consolation in the darkest hours. ’Tis well you’ve brought the wayward Madame Merry home to roost; Jesu preserve any lessons she has learned.”

Kit laughed at the queen’s tart remark. “Aye, Your Majesty.” He winked aside at Merry, who realized by then she had escaped true wrath. Elizabeth was irritated, but feeling indulgent. She slowly released her pent-up breath, just as the queen gestured to a tufted stool near her feet. A reluctant Mountjoy rose and vacated the spot of honor, and soon Merry was comfortably ensconced in the court’s bosom as if she had never left. Seeing she still maintained Elizabeth’s favor, the others were quick to follow suit, the courtiers vying to bring her choice bits from the feast and the other ladies slipping up here and there to gush over her gown or jewels.

Merry was not fooled by their cloying compliments, but she offered equally insincere smiles or nods in turn, wondering how she had ever endured such pretense for so long. She was not the only one speculating upon the changes in herself.

Elizabeth Tudor watched her newest lady of the Court with interest over the new few days. In but short months, Merry had evolved from a vain, silly chit to a young woman with considerable poise and sincere dignity. This appealed to the aged queen. She had grown weary of her maids-of-honors’ childish tantrums and pouts, and preferred the company of older ladies. Merry was yet young in years, but considerably grown in maturity. As Lady Lindsay, a married woman, she was granted further benefit of sleeping in the queen’s chamber. This privilege was offered on Merry’s second night back at Court.