“Farewell, sister,” Agnes said in a calm voice. She clambered up onto her mare.
“Farewell, Aggie,” the Countess of Duin said quietly. Then she watched with sadness as her sibling, back straight and stiff, rode from the courtyard and out across the castle drawbridge, where Matthew and his men waited for her. She never looked back.
Annabella began to cry softly.
Jean came to her side and quietly slipped her hand into that of her mistress. “This is Mary Stuart’s doing. Her charm hae torn another man from his family.”
“Better than allowing her to destroy the Fergusons of Duin,” Annabella said in a suddenly hard voice. She was angry at what had happened. Angry at Matthew first and foremost. Then she remembered. “How is old Jeanne taking all of this?” she asked.
“She is furious, thank God! But better than sorrowful. She swore in her Breton tongue,” Jean said with a chuckle. “I haven’t heard her swear like that since our father died. Some of her words I didn’t even understand.” She gave Annabella’s hand a squeeze. “We will survive this. The Fergusons always survive.”
While the two women had seen Agnes off, the earl had dispatched the now freed courier with a promise and a warning. “Come back to Duin,” he told the man, “and these five gold pieces, full weight, are yers. Betray me, and Iwillfind ye.”
The messenger had been returned all his possessions, including a small purse with a silver piece and some coppers. His formerly scrawny horse was now fat and ready to travel. The messenger had been given a warm cloak, for when he had arrived at Duin he had not needed one, and didn’t own one anyway. Both he and the earl knew that there would be no five gold pieces from the Hamiltons. His mission was to reach the Hamiltons before the earl’s brother, and be gone as quickly. “I’ll be back,” he said, and he would. The promised gold pieces would buy him a small cottage on the outskirts of Edinburgh, where he might bring a wife and have a peaceful old age. The Earl of Duin had proved himself a trustworthy man. The courier rode off.
It was December now, and although it was not the custom of the new Reformed kirk to celebrate all the feasts and fasts of the old kirk, the country folk were apt to do it, although to a lesser extent. Inside the castle the hall was decorated with boughs of pine and holly. Two enormous logs that would burn at least until the new year were dragged into the hall and lit with much ceremony. There was a modest amount of feasting and much music and some dancing, although the new kirk disapproved but had not yet forbidden it entirely.
Little Jamie and his twin sister, Annie, were now past three, and their cousin, Robbie, almost two. The children toddled about the hall accompanied by a large watchful deerhound who had appointed himself their guardian. The patient beast had been seen pulling the little ones away when they got too close to the hearth. This Christmastide old Jeanne came to reside in the castle for what promised to be a difficult winter. With her came Jean’s two bairns. Looking about his hall, Angus Ferguson was content. His family was as paramount as was Duin’s safety.
It was in the interest of his family that he decided to go to Stirling to warn the Earl of Moray of the plotted assassination. It was cold, and there was snow on the ground, but the weather was dry and would remain so for the interim, according to the old man in the village who predicted these things. Annabella was not happy about his going, although she knew he would not send anyone else.
“It is my way of proving to Moray our loyalty,” Angus told Annabella. He rode out even before the sun was rising on the fifteenth day of January. But while the weather remained dry at Duin, its earl found himself having to shelter from a snowstorm several days later. He managed through sheer effort of will to reach Stirling at last, only to learn that the Earl of Moray had decamped for Edinburgh. Angus Ferguson turned his horse again, but when he reached Linlithgow he found the town in a terrible uproar. There were men-at-arms rushing about everywhere. The taverns were overflowing. He stopped a soldier wearing the Earl of Moray’s badge.
“I’m the Earl of Duin,” he identified himself. “I’m seeking yer master, as I have news of great import for him.”
“The Earl of Moray is dead, my lord,” the soldier answered him. “Killed by James Hamilton as he rode through the town.”
Angus Ferguson felt his heart sink. It had all been for naught. He had thought he had plenty of time, and he would have, had the sudden snowstorm not delayed him. “When?” he asked the soldier.
“Not more than an hour ago, my lord. My master was passing a house owned by the archbishop of St. Andrews when he was shot from an upper-floor window. The coward hid behind a line of laundry.”
“God hae mercy on his good soul,” the earl said, and caught himself before he crossed himself, lest his Catholicism make him guilty by association with the Catholic cleric. “Are ye certain he is dead?”
“They carried him to a nearby house, my lord, but there was no hope. He died shortly thereafter. The wicked archbishop hae already fled, probably to Dumbarton.”
“What of the assassin?” Angus asked.
“Fled too, but we’ll catch him and hang him, ye can be certain.”
“Who is in charge now?” Angus inquired.
The soldier looked befuddled; then he said, “I dinna know, my lord.”
The earl thanked the man and moved on. He was tired. His horse was tired. He would need to find a place to rest where he might hear all the gossip. Then in the morning he would turn his horse’s steps toward Duin. The Fergusons were not involved in all of this. If he told anyone now that Moray had been assassinated that he had known of the plot to kill him, to kill Lennox, to kill Erskine and others, it would be assumed that he was somehow involved, but had had a change of heart. Nay! He was not going to say a word now to anyone. He would return to his anonymity.
He found a large and prosperous inn, where he might have a bed for the night and several hot meals. His horse was well stabled. Angus sat in the taproom, eating a good supper, drinking his wine, and listening to all the gossip that was being reported. He quickly learned there was nothing more to know than the soldier in the street had reported to him. Moray was dead, but the little king was safe at Stirling. Moray’s funeral would be a state one. Angus Ferguson had no doubt that a battle had already begun to fill the boots of the good regent.
He arrived home at Duin, a great snowstorm on his heels. He called all of his clansmen and -women into his hall after the snow ended several days later to tell them what had transpired. They were shocked and concerned. They wanted to know whether Moray’s death meant that the queen would return to Scotland, be restored to her throne.
“It would take a miracle, for although Mary Stuart believes herself a guest of her cousin Elizabeth Tudor, she is more a prisoner. Since she left us they have drawn her deeper and deeper into England,” the earl explained. “It is unlikely they will be able to extract her from the castle in Staffordshire where she now resides.”
Duin settled down into a quiet winter. There was no news, for the weather made it impossible. The courier sent to the Hamiltons in November returned in March as soon as the melt began. The road was muddy, but patches of green were beginning to take hold on the hillsides, and the days were longer, brighter now as the messenger rode into the courtyard. He carried several messages with him. One was for Annabella from her mother, and she opened it eagerly.
Dearest daughter, her mother began.
While happy to see Agnes, we are distressed by her reasons for coming to Rath. We have told Matthew Ferguson of our disapproval of his behavior in endangering Agnes. Sadly, he seems to think of nothing but restoring Mary Stuart to her throne. Thank God wee Robbie is with ye. I am shamed by the disloyalty my kinfolk are showing. My own brother is involved, to my great sorrow. Thank ye for advising us of the situation surrounding Matthew Ferguson. No matter how much Agnes begs it of ye, do not send our grandson to Rath. The countryside is not safe. I am happy to tell ye that your brother, Robert, will wed Alys Bruce in the coming summer here at Rath. She is a pretty lass, amiable and most sensible, which suits your brother well. It is my hope that James, Anne, and Robert thrive, and that you and Angus are in good health. Your father and I send our love to ye all,
Your mother, Anne
