Prologue
My life has been spent in the shadows of powerful men. Some people flourish in shadows, but I have not; shadows are cold, and those concealed in their depths are not clearly seen by those who live in the light.
I wish to be seen.
Chapter One
There was once a time when there were two queens in England. Whether I was fortunate in working for them both depended entirely upon your point of view. My opinion varied from day to day, but I had little choice in my continued service of two mistresses, and therefore tried not to think about it too often.
“The queen will be there ahead of us at the rate we’re moving,” my man shouted as our horses splashed through a wide, shallow river.
“I doubt it.” I looked over my shoulder at the group riding behind me. “They have to take care and choose a place where she’ll be welcome.”
We were lately come from Scotland and our journey was by necessity more leisurely than if a royal warrant had been available to grant us a change of horse at each stopping place. As we made our way south, a pathetic straggle of men ostensibly loyal to a vanquished queen, I took careful note of what was said at the inns and in the halls of the great houses where we lodged.
The other men of the party complained at our slow pace, but I had experienced far worse, and unlike the queen whom I had served until recently, no one on either side of the border was baying for my blood.
It was by this time mid-May, and the worst of the spring rains had passed. The ground was boggy in spots but having made this ride in the torrential rains of autumn years before, my mind registered nothing more than weariness and a mild concern for our horses. I was glad to see a village appear below, with an obvious tavern by the side of the road.
Handing our mounts over to an eager young lad whose hand flashed out for the coin I threw him, we ventured into the room—dark even on a bright day, with the remains of a fire low on the hearth. Several tables were occupied, and we settled at an empty one near a rowdy knot of young men, hoping for gossip. Sometimes we asked outright about the Scottish queen and others only waited for news to be dripped into our waiting ears. And news there was this day, as we quickly learned.
“Defeated at Langside,” said a young man in a dirty brown coat, his elbows resting on the scarred table. “Not even a fight.”
He had been there when we arrived, along with several others, already well into their cups. By their rough garb, they were apprentices or land workers cleaned up for a ride into the village.
“Were they so outnumbered?” I asked, hoping for more.
“Melted away into the hills is what I heard.” He slammed his empty cup on the table. “Left her standing there with her teeth in her mouth.”
We were told that even though her Protestant lords had made it clear she would never be permitted to regain the throne, Mary had nevertheless mustered a force of some six thousand men and faced down her son’s army. When they were defeated, she fled south with a scant handful of supporters and was rumored to be making for England—which, of course, we already knew.
“Good fellows, not wanting to be associated with an adulteress,” Robert Sturgis put in, his voice insinuating. “Or a murderess.”
“Ha!” The man threw his head back, calling to the maid. “More ale here for my friends.”
“The queen will be there ahead of us at the rate we’re moving,” my man shouted as our horses splashed through a wide, shallow river.
“I doubt it.” I looked over my shoulder at the group riding behind me. “They have to take care and choose a place where she’ll be welcome.”
We were lately come from Scotland and our journey was by necessity more leisurely than if a royal warrant had been available to grant us a change of horse at each stopping place. As we made our way south, a pathetic straggle of men ostensibly loyal to a vanquished queen, I took careful note of what was said at the inns and in the halls of the great houses where we lodged.
The other men of the party complained at our slow pace, but I had experienced far worse, and unlike the queen whom I had served until recently, no one on either side of the border was baying for my blood.
It was by this time mid-May, and the worst of the spring rains had passed. The ground was boggy in spots but having made this ride in the torrential rains of autumn years before, my mind registered nothing more than weariness and a mild concern for our horses. I was glad to see a village appear below, with an obvious tavern by the side of the road.
Handing our mounts over to an eager young lad whose hand flashed out for the coin I threw him, we ventured into the room—dark even on a bright day, with the remains of a fire low on the hearth. Several tables were occupied, and we settled at an empty one near a rowdy knot of young men, hoping for gossip. Sometimes we asked outright about the Scottish queen and others only waited for news to be dripped into our waiting ears. And news there was this day, as we quickly learned.
“Defeated at Langside,” said a young man in a dirty brown coat, his elbows resting on the scarred table. “Not even a fight.”
He had been there when we arrived, along with several others, already well into their cups. By their rough garb, they were apprentices or land workers cleaned up for a ride into the village.
“Were they so outnumbered?” I asked, hoping for more.
“Melted away into the hills is what I heard.” He slammed his empty cup on the table. “Left her standing there with her teeth in her mouth.”
We were told that even though her Protestant lords had made it clear she would never be permitted to regain the throne, Mary had nevertheless mustered a force of some six thousand men and faced down her son’s army. When they were defeated, she fled south with a scant handful of supporters and was rumored to be making for England—which, of course, we already knew.
“Good fellows, not wanting to be associated with an adulteress,” Robert Sturgis put in, his voice insinuating. “Or a murderess.”
“Ha!” The man threw his head back, calling to the maid. “More ale here for my friends.”
