Virginia Henley (19 page)

Cat knew she must put an end to such reckless nonsense before it went farther. And the surest way to do that was to stop fighting ... it was far too seductive. They must be friends ... it was far less alluring. She gazed from the window.
A truce, Patrick?

At Crichton, Hepburn stood at his bedchamber window, his big hands resting on the rough stones.
A truce, Hellcat.

He turned from the window and began to undress, half wishing he hadn’t promised to be in Edinburgh tomorrow. In light of what Jock Elliot had reported, he needed to spend more time at home.
If wishes were horses ...

Ordinarily, he’d take in stride a report of reivers descending in the night, since it happened a few times throughout the year. But the fact that his hayricks had been set afire, coupled with the warning George Carey had delivered about Armstrong looking for trouble, alerted his instincts. Tomorrow on his ride to Edinburgh he would protect his back with a half dozen moss-troopers.

Chapter Eleven

H
epburn and Robert Carey rode up to the stables at Holyrood in mid-afternoon. Patrick had sent a scout to the palace earlier in the day and learned that King James had gone hunting. He indulged in his favorite activity whenever the weather permitted. As they turned their horses over to royal grooms, they heard the horns of the returning hunters and the baying of the king’s hounds.

Mounted, James showed at his best; he looked a commanding figure when he was in the saddle. It was when he dismounted and began to shamble about with an uneven gait on spindly legs that he lost all semblance of majesty.

Patrick saw the pair of roe deer James had bagged and knew he would be in a good mood. He intended to keep him that way.

The king spotted Hepburn’s great height and his face lit up with expectation. “Man, ye’ve bin gone near a month!”

“Patience is a virtue, Sire,” Patrick quoted in Latin.

“And had better be rewarded,” James replied bluntly. “Carey, let us hope ye do not come empty-handed.”

Robert successfully masked his apprehension. “I do not, Sire.”

The king looked down at his hunting clothes. “I’m all blood an’ guts. Come up wi’ me while I change.”

The king’s attendants trailed after the trio as they traversed the corridors of Holyrood to the royal apartment. At the door he dismissed them. “I dinna need ye. Lord Stewart will attend me.” Hepburn and Carey followed him into his bedchamber, where he told his body servant he wanted privacy. James stripped off his clothes and Patrick went to his wardrobe, chose the robe that had the least stains on it, and helped him put it on. Patrick knew the thought of bathing would never enter his head, so he poured water from a jug so that James would at least wash his hands. “So, I take it ye were successful?” he asked Robert.

“We met with more success than we hoped,” Patrick replied.

“Ye gave Elizabeth my letter?”

“Better than that, we gave it to the power behind the throne. Cecil will present it in the best possible light once he has prepared her to look favorably upon you.”

“Cecil has agreed tae deal wi’ me?” James asked hopefully.

“Secretly, of course,” Patrick confirmed.

Robert produced the heavily sealed letter. “The Secretary of State asked me to deliver this into your hands, Your Majesty.”

James took the letter greedily, rubbing his thumbs over the red wax seals with lustful anticipation. “I prefer dealin’ wi’ a mon; yer cousin Elizabeth treats me like a lackey,” he told Carey.

Robert cleared his throat. “I should give you privacy to read your correspondence, Your Majesty.”

“Aye,” James agreed, “take a walk round the palace an’ return in an hour.” He looked at Patrick. “Ye can stay put.”

The moment they were alone, the king tore open the letter and read the three pages avidly. “He signed it wi’ a number!”

“Cecil has an intellect that matches yours, Sire, and, like you, he is cautious. The letters you exchange must be in cipher.”

“Aye, so he indicates.” James tapped the letter and reread it.

Patrick focused his mind on the pages. The first was a letter from Cecil to James, the second was instructions the king must employ when writing to Elizabeth, and the third laid out the cipher. A list of names and places had each been assigned a specific number, and at the bottom was a warning that the cipher should be shared with none. Patrick saw that Cecil was 10, James was 30 and Elizabeth was 24. His father had taught him the ancient science of numerology. Numbers had their own special power.

“Can I trust Carey, or is he Elizabeth’s man?”

“If he ever was Elizabeth’s, he is her man no longer. She kept him on his knees for hours. She was so jealous of the woman he had chosen to marry that she forbade her the Court. Robert Carey knew the queen would not be amenable to receiving your letter, so wisely suggested we seek out Cecil. It was a shrewd move, Sire.” Hepburn readily gave the credit to his friend Robert.

“Elizabeth is a vindictive old bitch!”

“If you make the new Lady Carey welcome at your Court, Robert will be indebted to you forever.”

“Waesucks, he defied Elizabeth and wed the lass?”

“He is aware that the sun is setting on her reign, Sire.”

“Now we come tae it. Sit down, Patrick, an’ tell me.”

Hepburn did not yet know the exact date of Elizabeth’s death, but even if he did, he would rather not divulge it immediately. He preferred to draw it out to his advantage. “Her flesh is frail, yet her spirit burns brightly with fire and fury.”

“How much longer?” James demanded.

“Less than a year, Sire.”

“Ye’re canny as a fox, Patrick. Admit it; ye’ve had a vision.”

“I’ve had many. I even envisioned you signing a document that pledged me
any
English heiress of my choice, plus an earldom.”

“Christ Almighty, must ye hold my feet tae the fire?”

“It seems I must, Sire.”

James unlocked his desk, shuffled some papers about, then withdrew a document and thrust it at Hepburn.

Patrick scanned it to make sure there were no slipping-out phrases, then raised his eyes. “It needs your signature, Sire.”

“Aye, Lord Stewart, and I need a date.”

Patrick felt confident about the month of March. “It will be in the spring, Sire. Early spring.”

The king dipped his quill into the inkwell and held it poised above the document.

Patrick had the month, but needed a day. He searched the recesses of his brain. The number 24 was all that came to mind. It was the number that Cecil had assigned to Elizabeth. He reminded himself that there were no coincidences. Numbers had their own mysterious power. The cipher number given to her had sealed Elizabeth’s fate. It was the Queen of England’s destiny.

“For your ears alone.”

The king eagerly nodded his agreement.

“Elizabeth will die on March twenty-fourth, Sire.”

James put his signature on the paper with a flourish. “Patrick, lad, ye have just made me the happiest mon in Scotland!”

Hepburn slipped the signed pledge into his doublet.
I pray God and the devil that you have just done the same for me, James.

When Robert Carey returned, the king thanked him profusely for his services and told him that in due time there would be another letter for him to take to England. He congratulated Robert on his marriage. “Ye must bring Lady Carey tae Court. The queen is plannin’ one o’ her fancy functions next week an’ I know Annie will welcome an English lady. Where are ye stayin’?”

“My bride and I are at the Castle Rock Inn, Your Majesty.”

“An inn? Nay, that will never do. Patrick, go an’ have a word wi’ the Earl of Mar. Johnny has apartments here at Holyrood an’ has a town house in the Canongate he seldom uses.”

“Thank you, Sire.” Carey was taken aback at the generosity.

“Don’t thank me; thank Johnny Erskine.” The king chuckled.

“Sire, the Earl of Winton’s granddaughter is visiting him from England. I’m sure he would like to bring her to Court.”

“Haven’t seen Geordie in years. See Annie about invitations.”

When the pair was safely away from the king’s apartments, Robert, vastly relieved, thanked Patrick. “Lord, the audience went so much better than I ever anticipated. Do you think the Earl of Mar will have no objection to our using his town house?”

“John Erskine was James’s playmate when they were children. They’ve been close as brothers all their lives. His mother was a Stewart too—we’re all loosely related.”

“Liz will be thrilled to death about all this!”

At Seton, Catherine was surprised that her grandfather took breakfast with her, but he explained that he wanted to give her a tour of Winton Castle. “D’ye think ye could call me Geordie? Granddad makes me feel decrepit.”

“It would be an honor to call you Geordie.”

“Is that all ye can eat, lass?”

“She doesn’t like porridge, and unlike ye, she cannot shovel down lashings of kidneys an’ eggs.” Maggie eyed his plate. “Nor leftover haggis. She likes fresh-baked bread and heather honey.”

“I have hollow legs,” he jested.

“Is that what’s wrong with them?” Maggie teased right back.

A short time later, Geordie’s tour started in the dungeons. “These were once well used an’ not solely fer our English enemies. Clan feuds generatin’ hatred, steeped in blood and ripened by centuries of antagonism linger to this day.”

“Did the Setons feud with the Hepburns?” Catherine asked lightly.

“I reckon so, since they often intermarried,” he jested.

Next, they stopped in the kitchens, where he introduced her to Peg, the head cook. The place buzzed like a beehive, with potboys and scullery maids preparing food for the cattle herders, but they stopped working to stare after the earl’s beautiful granddaughter.

Maggie met up with them again as they left the library and went up to the solar. Though seldom used these days, it held comfortable chairs and pillows set before a stone fireplace.

“Use this fer yer sittin’ room, if ye like.” Geordie then led the way up to his own two-room Master Tower. His inner chamber had a huge four-poster bed and a massive fireplace that took up an entire wall. A large portrait hung above the mantel.

Cat stopped before it and gazed up, entranced. “Who is she?”

“My beloved Audra, Countess of Winton. Yer grandmother.”

“But it could be me!” Catherine was stunned at the likeness. “Mother never once told me about her.”

“Aye, well, Isobel was an unnatural daughter. There was always a deal of antipathy between them, to Audra’s great sorrow.”

As Catherine stared at the elegant,
petite
lady in the painting, with the profusion of black glossy curls, she suddenly realized why Isobel had never loved her. “Every time Mother looks at me, she sees Audra! Maggie, why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Isobel forbade me, my lamb.”

Geordie touched Catherine’s cheek. “Havin’ ye here is like seein’ my Audra again.” His eye held a tear and he left the room.

Catherine turned to Maggie. “Mother hates me because I look exactly like my grandmother.”

“Isobel hated her mother because she was beautiful and did not pass that beauty along to her. It’s yer beauty she cannot abide.”

“How sad,” Catherine said softly. “Yet I don’t feel sad when I look at my grandmother. I feel happy and extremely fortunate!”

“Audra must feel happy too, when she looks down and sees ye.”

Geordie came to the door. “Come on, Catherine, we’re goin’ to the stables so ye can choose a mount. Seton’s too vast fer walkin’; ye need to ride.”

The first thing she encountered when she walked into the stables was a black cat. “Oh, how lovely. Come, puss!” She bent down to stroke the small feline, and it arched its back in pleasure. She picked it up and it gazed at her with huge golden eyes. “Oh, I think she likes me!”

“Then take it,” Geordie said.

“To the castle? You don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind ye havin’ sommat as gives ye pleasure?”

“Why indeed?” Catherine was beginning to adore this man.

Young stable boys, busy cleaning stalls, stopped their labors to stare as Geordie asked, “See anythin’ ye fancy, lass?”

There were no white palfreys like Jasmine but she spotted a glossy black filly that wasn’t too tall. “I like this one.”

“Good choice. She’s a dainty piece, too small fer a mon. Come an’ pick a saddle an’ we’ll put some silver bells on it.”

Cat looked at the row of saddles. “Do you have a sidesaddle?”

Geordie laughed. “Most women ride astride in Scotland, lass. Wheesht, ye’ll soon get the hang of it. Ye’ll be bowlegged as me afore long.” He spotted one of his nephews whom Cat had met last night and waved him over. “Andrew, there’s a pony cart around somewhere. Find it an’ make sure the axles are not rotted.” He turned to Catherine. “D’ye think ye could learn to drive a cart?”

“I can learn to do anything,” she vowed.

“Andy, lad, she’s the spittin’ image of me!”

Andrew winked at Catherine. “Then God help her, Geordie.”

She smiled at Andrew. “Let me see if I have this right. You are Janet’s son. I’m invited to your house for dinner tonight.”

“Yes, I’m Janet’s son, but ye are going to Malcolm’s tonight. He’s the elder nephew and Jessie is Geordie’s elder sister. There would be merry hell to pay if ye ignored the pecking order.”