It was at that point that Angus Ferguson saw his opportunity, and sought an audience with the dowager queen Marie. Riding north to Stirling in early March, he had the guarantee of a private audience with Marie from Patrick Hepburn, the third Earl of Bothwell, who had interceded with the dowager for him. He was to meet his contact, who would take him to the queen at an inn near Stirling called the Swan. When he entered the inn the innkeeper came forward to greet his guest.
“Welcome, my lord. A room? A meal? A mug of fine ale?”
“I’m to meet someone,” Angus Ferguson said, his dark green eyes scanning the room. “Someone from the castle,” he explained further, hoping the innkeeper would understand and be able to direct him.
“Ah, ye’ll be wanting Mistress Melly, my lord,” the innkeeper replied.
“Who is she?” the laird asked the innkeeper.
“One of French Mary’s personal servants,” the innkeeper said. He pointed to a hooded figure seated in a dark corner. “She’s there, my lord.”
The laird nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and made his way across the room to where the woman sat. “I am the laird of Duin,” he told her. “I believe you have been sent to bring me to my appointment, mistress.”
The woman stood. She was small and sturdy. He couldn’t tell whether she was young or old, but two sharp eyes surveyed him. “Well,” she said in dour tones, “ye dinna look like a worthless rogue. Come along, then. We’ve a way to go.”
“On foot?” He was surprised.
“Aye. Leave yer beastie here, my lord.” She pulled her hood up and her cape tightly about her. Then she hurried across the room and out the door, the laird in her wake.
Mistress Melly led Angus Ferguson down one street, and then another. She turned here, and turned again. He wondered whether he would ever find his way back to the Swan. Above the town the great castle on its massive rock loomed. It was obvious they were not going up to it. Finally they stopped before a house. The woman knocked and they were admitted. “Here he is,” Mistress Melly said to the young page who had opened the door.
“If ye’ll follow me, my lord,” the lad said, leading him down a hallway and to a closed door. Knocking, he opened the door to usher the laird inside.
Marie de Guise was standing, awaiting him. The laird of Duin bowed gracefully, and she was surprised. He was not at all like any border lord she had met previously, even her dearest Patrick Hepburn. They were mostly rough-hewn men in plain practical garments. This man was not only extraordinarily handsome, he was very fashionably garbed, his clothing styled in the latest French fashion. He towered over her, being at least three inches over six feet in height. He was clean shaven, his short hair black as a moonless night, his eyes the changing green of a shadowed forest glade. His carriage attested to his youth, but his face with its high cheekbones, long straight nose, and generous mouth was ageless.
He now took up her hand, kissing it with just the proper amount of respect. “I am honored to greet Scotland’s dowager queen Marie, of the great house of Guise.” He addressed her in perfect French.
Both Marie de Guise and her companion, a young French priest who served in her household, were surprised. “Your speech, monsieur, is excellent. How is it you speak my mother tongue so well?” she inquired of him.
“My own mother was French, madam, from Brittany, and I had the good fortune to study in France briefly with my friend Jamie Hepburn. I have several languages at my command.”
She nodded. Aye, she thought to herself, he was totally unlike any border lord she had ever met, being fashionable, mannerly, and educated. “How may I be of service to you, my lord of Duin?” she asked him, switching to Scots English. She sat down in a high-backed chair now, the priest by her side, the page having silently disappeared.
“Nay, madam, ’tis I who would be of service to ye. It is not often that I admit to it, though it is widely suspected by my neighbors, but I am a wealthy man. Despite my youth I am aware that wealth is useless unless ye can use it to yer own advantage. Ye will, of course, be sending Queen Mary to France shortly.”
Marie de Guise grew pale. “That is not common knowledge,” she said. “Where have you heard such a tale?”
“It is what I would do were I in your position, madam,” Angus Ferguson said, ignoring her question and smiling at her. “The little queen must be protected at all costs, and the English will not stop until they have her. If she is gone from Scotland to France, they must cease their efforts to obtain her, and hopefully their destruction of the borders. Forgive me for being blunt, madam, but I suspect yer purse is not as full as you might want it to be. I realize yer brothers in France will see to the little queen’s best interests, but I imagine they will be relieved not to have to bear the expense of their niece’s household and personal needs. King Henri as well, and while gifts from these gentlemen would be graciously accepted, wouldn’t ye prefer not to have to rely on those gentlemen entirely?
“I am prepared to open my purse to the end that my queen might be maintained in the manner a queen should be maintained. My bankers in Paris, the House of Kira, will see that all of the queen’s expenses are paid promptly, quarterly, until the day she weds the dauphin. This would, of course, include her wedding finery and trousseau. I ask only that my part in this endeavor remain secret. The Fergusons of Duin are private people,” the laird said. “I do not wish to bring any attention to myself or to my clan.”
Marie de Guise was at first speechless at the laird’s offer. Then, quickly recovering, she inquired of him shrewdly, “What is it you do wish then, my lord? Your offer is more than generous, but you speak to me like a Breton fisherman bargaining with a goodwife on the quay, Angus Ferguson. What will you have of me in return?”
A brief flash of humor lit his handsome face, but it was quickly gone. “I want Duin created an earldom,” he answered her candidly.
“You ask a great deal of Her Highness,” the priest sputtered, outraged for his lady.
Marie de Guise, however, laughed, for she completely understood what the young man standing before her was requesting. “Nay,PèreMichel, the laird requests virtually nothing of me. He does not wants lands, for he has them. Nor does he seek high office, for he prefers his anonymity. Gold he has in abundance, else he should not offer what he has. What he wishes is a title he may pass on to his heirs and the descendants following them. ’Tis nothing more than a piece of paper and a seal.”
She looked at Angus Ferguson. “This will cost you dearly, my lord. Maintaining a queen, even a little one, and her entire household does not come cheaply. Remember that my daughter will reign over two great countries. She must be kept in a manner befitting her high station,” Marie de Guise said quietly.
“And she will,” the laird promised. “She will be sustained royally. Let the French king and the powerful among the Scots lords accept credit for all of this. If you will allow me this great honor, madam, I will gladly accept it. All I ask in return is that Duin be created as an earldom in perpetuity.” He paused. “And perhaps yer permission to build a castle, a small castle, of course.”
The dowager queen’s eyes twinkled. “Why is it that I suspect, my lord, that the castle, the little castle, already exists?”
He shrugged in very Gallic fashion and smiled. “’Tis naught but a rather large house,” he explained, “though some might say otherwise, which is why I ask yer permission to have a castle. I cannot therefore be said to be in violation of the law. We Fergusons of Duin do not like drawing attention to ourselves.”
“Yet will not your becoming the Earl of Duin raise questions among some?” the dowager queen asked him.
