The Queen's Lady. Shannon Drake

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      AT LEAST THE LADY GWENYTH was not an elderly or sickly ward, Rowan thought. On his own, he could easily make fifty miles in a day. If he’d had to move with a coach and a great deal of baggage, he would have been slowed almost to a stop. As it was, the Lady Gwenyth had shown herself pleasantly capable of packing lightly. The cheerful woman chosen to accompany her was far greater a burden, actually, albeit through no fault of her own. She was a decent enough horsewoman, comfortable on her placid mount, but as she had not spent endless hours in the saddle before, Rowan was forced to stop regularly so they might stretch their legs, sup and rest.

      On his own, he might have made Stirling on that first day. With the women, he thought it best to spend his first night at Linlithgow Palace, which sat almost midway between Edinburgh and Stirling.

      At the gates, he was greeted by an armed guard, recognized and welcomed. The castle steward, knowing Gwenyth’s name and position, was both curious and charmed. Though they had arrived late, he and Gwenyth were ushered into the massive great hall, while their four-man escort was shown to berths above the stables, and Annie and his man were brought to the kitchen to eat and then given beds in the servants’ quarters. He and Gwenyth stayed awake talking with the steward, Amos MacAlistair, for the robust fellow was fond of telling how Queen Mary had been born at the palace, though alas her father had died just six days later. Rowan watched Gwenyth as she listened, rapt, smiling, as the old man talked about Mary as an infant. Rowan decided the day had gone well—especially considering the morning. He and Gwenyth had kept a polite distance for the long ride, and he hoped they could keep moving on in similar harmony.

      The next evening was equally fine, for they were greeted by the steward of Stirling Castle, and accorded equal consideration and respect. Gwenyth seemed to love Stirling, and, indeed, the castle was impressive and the town beautiful. People whispered about their arrival in the streets; Gwenyth smiled as she saw the townsfolk, calling out greetings. She was, he had to admit, a charming unofficial ambassador for her queen, even here.

      It wasn’t until the next afternoon, when they were on their way to the Highlands, that the journey took a foul turn.

      They had come to the small village of Loch Grann, though the loch was really no more than a small pool. As they rode along, nearing the village, they could hear shouting.

      Gwenyth, who had ridden abreast with Annie most of the way, trotted her mare forward to reach his side. “What is the commotion?” she asked.

      He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

      She kneed her horse and rode ahead of him.

      “Will you wait?” he called in aggravation.

      Following Gwenyth, he passed several charming cottages, a kirk and the unimpressive building that passed as the thane’s manor here, and then reached the village center, where a narrow stream trickled through.

      Gwenyth had reined in, horror evident on her face.

      He immediately saw why. The shouting was coming from a mob of townspeople, urged on by what appeared to the local thane’s men-at-arms. The object of their derision was a young woman bound to a stake, with faggots and branches piled at her feet. She was stripped down to a white gown of sheer linen; her long dark tresses were in sad tangles; and the look on her face was one of utter defeat and anguish.

      “They are going to burn her!” Gwenyth exclaimed in horror.

      “She has probably been convicted of witchcraft, or perhaps of heresy,” Rowan informed her.

      She looked at him, those immense golden eyes of her alive with indignation. “Do you believe in such ridiculousness?” she demanded.

      “I believe that even your precious queen believes in it,” he said softly.

      “But…tried here?” she demanded. “Not in Edinburgh? By what law? Whose law?”

      “Local, I daresay.”

      “Then you must stop them.”

      He had to wonder what he would have done had she not been with him. He was frequently appalled by the harshness of the Scottish laws. As a lad, he had seen a young man hanged at St. Giles in Edinburgh, his crime no greater than the theft of a leg of lamb. His father had told him sadly then that such was the law; he could not stop the execution.

      He did not believe in superstition, or that certain women had the evil eye, and before God, he certainly did not believe it was possible to make a pact with the Devil. But there were laws….

      “Do something!” Gwenyth cried. “Please, Rowan, they are about to light the fires.”

      “Hold, and watch at the ready,” he told Gavin, head of their escort.

      She had never before called him by his given name, Rowan realized, and in her eyes there was nothing but honest and sincere entreaty. Emotions, he thought; they become the downfall of us all.

      He spurred his horse forward, a display of power as he raced through the townspeople to confront the churchmen. “What is this mockery of justice?” he demanded angrily. “What right have you to impose the sentence of execution?”

      As he had hoped, the size and evident breeding of his horse and the colors he wore indicated his association with the royal house. Most of the crowd fell back in silence, but one black-clad minister stepped toward him. “I am reverend of the kirk here, my laird. She has been duly tried and found guilty.”

      “Duly tried? What manner of court do you have here? Is it authorized by the queen?” Rowan demanded.

      “It was a local matter,” the man protested.

      He looked around. The crowd had remained silent. The only sound came from the young woman at the stake, who was sobbing softly.

      “Release her,” he said quietly.

      “But…but she has been tried.”

      “By no proper court. In a matter of life and death, according to the dictates of both law and conscience, my good man, you surely know you should seek higher authority.”

      The pastor looked more closely at Rowan, noted his colors and the presence of his armed escort, and took a small step back. “You are Rowan Graham, Laird of the Far Isles?” he asked uneasily.

      “Aye. Sworn to the Stewarts of Scotland.”

      The pastor arched a brow. “The French Stewart?”

      “The Queen of Scotland. And I have long ridden at the side of James Stewart, Earl of Mar, the greatest law of our land, our regent following the death of the queen’s mother.”

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