The Beauty of the Mist Read online

  The Beauty of the Mist

  by

  May McGoldrick

  To our Parents,

  For sharing with us the beauty of life

  Prologue

  Antwerp, The Netherlands

  March, 1528

  Let the Scots come.

  Like the wings of a wounded raven, the black cloak fluttered madly about the running figure. Maria, Queen of Hungary, paused, pressing her exhausted body into the dark shadows of the shuttered, brick town house. The flaring light of the torch that lit the street glistened off the wet stone of the alley, and the young queen tried to melt even deeper into the blackness. Straining, Maria could hear no sound of pursuers in the cold, night air. Her jade eyes flashing, she peered back past the torch toward the gloomy walls of the Palace, towering above the roofs of the sleeping town.

  Turning away, she could see the one finished spire of the cathedral rising before her. Unfamiliar with the twisting streets and alleyways of this town—or any other—Maria gazed up at the landmark she’d been told to follow.

  The houses and shops crowded her on every side, and as she ran, the cold, damp air stabbed at her lungs. The sky above began to lighten, and she pushed herself onward, her feet flying over the slick stones.

  At the end of the twisting way, she slowed before entering the open plaza around the cathedral. Beyond the stone walls of the huge church, black in the predawn light, lay the harbor. She had to reach it before life in the Palace began to stir, before the tide turned.

  There, by one of the stone quays, a longboat waited. A longboat that would take Maria to her aunt. To the strong seaworthy ship that would carry them both far from the abhorrent marriage.

  She ran across the empty plaza, hugging the walls of the cathedral. She would make it to the harbor now. She could smell the brackish water of the river already.

  Let the Scots come, she thought defiantly. Let them come.

  Chapter 1

  Stirling Castle, Scotland

  March, 1528

  A gilded cage is still a cage.

  John Macpherson, Lord of the Navy, stood with his back to the smoldering fire and watched in restrained silence as the young king with the fiery red hair halted his restless pacing at one of the glazed windows overlooking the open courtyard of Stirling Castle. Following the young man’s gaze, he could see that the sixteen-year-old monarch’s eyes had riveted on a solitary raven flying free in the gray Scottish skies that surrounded the castle walls.

  Across the chamber Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, smoothed his long black beard over his chest as he finished reading over the last of the official letters. Folding the document carefully, the powerful lord paused and looked up at the black-clad young man by the window, before dripping wax onto the parchment.

  John saw the smile flicker over the Lord Chancellor’s face as he lifted the king’s royal seal from his desk, pressing it carefully into the soft wax.

  “With these letters, Sir John here should have no trouble fetching your bride, Kit...I mean, Your Majesty,” Archibald corrected himself, seeing the king turn his glance briefly on him.

  His face hiding the growing rage within, John Macpherson continued to watch the scene unfolding before him. The king had summoned him to court for instructions on a mission of the utmost importance. But after spending just a few short moments with these two men, John knew that the horrible rumors he’d been hearing while away from court were all true. Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, chief of the powerful Douglas clan, Lord Chancellor of Scotland, member of Regency Council, and the ex-husband of Queen Margaret, had King James, his stepson, under lock and key.

  The Chancellor turned to the silent Highlander.

  “Sir John, the Emperor Charles is expecting you at Antwerp before the end of the month. I don’t think I need to tell you that it is quite an honor that he is entrusting his sister, Mary of Hungary, to our care for the voyage.”

  “Aye, m’lord,” John responded, looking at the king as he answered.

  “His Majesty will be spending Easter at Falkland Palace,” Angus continued. “But if you need to contact me, I will be in the south, clearing vermin from the Borders.”

  The King turned his face to John and their eyes met.

  Then John Macpherson saw once again the flash in the lad’s eyes. The same fearless spark that the Highlander had first witnessed years earlier in the fatherless bairn. James had been only an infant when his royal father died fighting the English at Flodden Field. Entrusted to the safekeeping of one brave woman and a handful of loyal supporters, the Crown Prince had been whisked across the Highlands while a few stalwart nobles struggled to arrange for his safe return. And then he had come back to the arms of the Queen Mother. Still not yet two years of age, little Kit had been crowned James V, King of Scotland and the Western Isles.

  That was the day John Macpherson had first seen him. The day of his coronation. A mere bairn sitting on the high throne of a country in chaos. But everyone who had knelt before him, swearing their loyalty before God, had been struck with the clear knowledge that the boy was a Stuart. Silent, serious, and steadfast through the course of the ceremony, Kit had shown them all that he had the blood, the courage, and the intelligence of his forebears. He was the one who would carry on. The new king who would rise to save Scotland from her enemies. The one who would save Scotland from herself.

  John watched the king walk toward him, ignoring the Chancellor’s continuing speech.

  The Lord Chancellor. The man who had married the queen in her widowhood solely for the reason of filling the power void that existed in Scotland after the devastating loss at Flodden Field. Everyone in Scotland knew that the union would bring the Douglas family power, and it did. The marriage gave the Earl of Angus control over the young king, and eventually put him in a position of absolute power—to rule in his name.

  And from what John had been hearing, since the Queen Mother requested that the Pope annul her marriage to the man, the Lord Chancellor had been tightening his control of the young king—and guarding him fiercely.

  John knew, as did everyone else, that there was no one strong enough to challenge the Lord Chancellor. Little more than a year ago, several thousand men had tried at Linlithgow, but they’d failed. And as he cut them down in their blood, Angus had claimed that he was only protecting the Crown.

  John straightened as the red-haired king halted before him. The Highlander towered over the young man, but their eyes never left each other’s face.

  “You think me weak, Jack Heart?” the King asked in a low voice.

  Jack Heart. John smiled. He hadn’t heard the nickname for some time. Not since the days when the boy king had been under the protection of the Queen Mother. Then, James had been far less restricted in his liberties, and John had taught the lad to sail amid the whitecaps off Queen’s Ferry. They’d spent a full summer in each other’s company, and it had been then that the young king had learned the name that John had once been called by the sailors of the Macpherson ships. It had become a term of endearment between the two. Though few even recalled the name anymore, even fewer would have dared address the fierce Lord of the Navy in so familiar a manner.

  Except Kit.

  “Then you agree.”

  “Never,” John answered. “You are not weak, lad. Only trapped.”

  “My father would have handled it differently.”

  “Your father was never separated from his people nor imprisoned at your age.” John continued with more assurance. “And as much as I loved him as a king, he had his flaws.”

  “But he was a soldier. My father had courage. As you have courage.” James stared at the commander’s tartan. “If you were in my position, you would never have
accepted this fate.”

  “But, m’lord—”

  “Jack Heart,” the young king cut in, “you were barely a year older than I when you stood your ground in the mud beside my father at Flodden Field. You have courage, John. You have determination. You have heart. I lack these things, I know. These, my friend, and many more.”

  “Only in your own eyes, m’lord. In the hearts of all loyal Scots, you are our king and our future.”

  James gazed up at John, a wistful look flickering across his face. “I don’t want to be a disappointment to my people.”

  “You won’t be, sire.” John answered in earnest, seeing the lad’s distress. The young king almost reached his shoulder now. But he was so young. Too young, perhaps, to battle the evil that perched at his right hand. “You’ll overcome this...difficulty, and your triumph will win the heart of every Scot. You’ll take your throne when the time is right. And then, the accounts of your bravery, the tales of your generosity, the recital of your acts of goodness will far exceed any standard set by your father and their fathers in this land. Always remember this, Kit. Your people see the promise, that is why they want you, and that is why they cherish you.”

  James looked up trustingly. “I will do my best not to disappointment them. I will slip this trap.”

  “Like the fox, himself.” John’s eyes shone with affection.

  “Like my father.” The king spoke softly. A perceptible change came over the young man’s face. “Aye, Jack. Then you’ll bring her to me.”

  “If that’s your wish.” John paused, casting a casual glance at the Chancellor, who was eyeing them suspiciously from across the room. “Of course, we could devise other means—other ways to bring an end to this...undesirable situation.”

  The young king smiled sadly, looking down at his untried hands. “If it were only that simple. But if we were to go that way, then it’d mean that others will need to fight my battle. Others like you, Jack Heart. But if I were free...”

  John waited for him to continue, but Kit changed his course.

  “He has given his word to me and to the Council that he will gradually step aside after this marriage takes place.” The young man gave a quick glance over his shoulder. “It’s the best way. I don’t wish that any more blood of innocent Scots be shed while any other way exists to settle this unholy affair. This is my responsibility, Jack. This is something I can do. I know it might not seem so important to you, but to me it is. This is the first chance for me to show my will, my strength. This means everything to me.”

  “But at your young age...you are willing to marry someone you’ve never known...never seen.”

  “For the good of Scotland, I will. And it will bring me one step closer to my people.” The lad’s eyes lit up at the thought. “There will be time enough later to settle the differences...once I am free. Please, Jack, I need this chance.”

  John nodded in response. How could he deny his king’s fervent plea?

  “Bring her here, Jack.” The young man placed his hand on the Highlander’s arm. “I will wed her. It’s God’s will.”

  The Chancellor stalked briskly across the room briskly, and John took the sealed letter from his hand. Archibald Douglas’ voice was cool and his gaze steady.

  “Keep her safe, Sir John.”

  John nodded curtly to the Chancellor and, exchanging a telling look with the young king, bowed to them both before departing from the chamber.

  Chapter 2

  The German Sea, off the coast of Denmark

  Maria’s hands were chafed raw and bloody.

  Tucking the oars awkwardly under her arms, the young woman pressed her fingers against the stinging, red flesh on the palms of her hands. A small billow shifted the open boat, and one of the oar handles lifted, banging her hard under the chin.

  “You’re certainly no sailor, my girl,” Isabel threw out in an effort at caustic wit, though her aging eyes drooped with a deadening weariness.

  Maria sadly took in the sight of the woman before her. The loss of blood, the cold, and the exhaustion were taking their toll.

  “I think it would be better if you slept, aunt.”

  Isabel stretched her sore legs and then, shaking her fingers, tried to fight off the numbness that gradually was settling into her body.

  “I can’t sleep. I won’t. Not with a novice at the oars. If it is my fate to become bait for some half frozen northern fish, then, by God, I want to be awake.” Isabel sighed. “It won’t be too long now. I can feel it. The noise you’re making trying to row is enough to lead the blackguards straight to us, even in this fog. Can’t you hear them behind us? Do you think they stormed our ship just to let us go?”

  Maria rolled her eyes, trying to ignore both fear and the damp, bone chilling cold. Wrapping her fingers painfully around the wet wooden shafts, she flexed her aching shoulders and started once again to push the small boat through the endless fog.

  “Just think of the time you’ve spent—wasted,” Isabel continued. “In the time to make even one of your elegant tapestries, you might have been learning something useful! Something about the sea—about how to survive...”

  Maria sighed, feeling the strength drain out of her arms with every word her aunt spoke. With every stroke of the oars. Trying to ignore her pain, and the growing sense of hopelessness that was stealing through her, the young woman forced herself to focus on the sound of the oars slapping against the murky black-green water. But nothing proved effective in shutting out Isabel’s continuous stream of conversation.

  Shipwrecked. Stranded. Vulnerable.

  The thoughts swept over the young woman with a numbing coldness, like nothing she’d ever experienced. Maria fought back her tears as she looked over her shoulder at the dying Spaniard stretched in the bow of the boat. How easy it would be to close her eyes and lie back like him, to let nature take its course. The sailor hadn’t moved or even moaned for quite a while. She wondered if he was still alive. He looked at peace. The musket shot that had wounded her Aunt Isabel had found its final resting place deep in the chest of the poor man. Perhaps it would have been better if Maria herself had been the recipient of such a wound. Perhaps, then, she’d be the one at peace, far beyond the cold and the aching muscles and the stinging hands, and the overpowering weariness. She shook her head and tried to rid herself of such morbid thoughts.

  Glancing back at her aunt, Maria thought for a moment to ask Isabel to go past her and check on the sailor. But then she decided that even asking her to hold the oars while she herself moved forward to him was foolishness. The thought of unbalancing the boat with the shifting of weight was unthinkable. It could mean disaster for them all.

  “I think we’ve been going in circles,” Isabel muttered as petulantly as she could manage.

  “You’re probably correct. And you should add lack of navigation abilities to my list of shortcomings,” she whispered, then looked down at the smear of blood spreading from her palms onto the wooden oar handles. Her fingers were stiff and numb, and her muscles were cramping terribly. She silently thanked the Virgin Mother that her hands were sticking to the oar handles. It was the only reason her arms had not fallen off. Yet.

  John Macpherson peered in vain through the dense fog that enshrouded the Great Michael. Turning his eyes upward, he gazed for a moment at the mists that threaded in and out of the rigging, obscuring even the banner that he knew must be hanging limply at the top of the mainmast. In this inconstant March weather, there was no telling when a fog would lift.

  Becalmed not long after sunrise, the ship had quickly been surrounded by the enveloping mist. It had rolled in like some heavy fleece and tucked around them. John had taken one last look at his other three ships, bobbing on the flat sea a half mile or so away.

  As the morning had slowly passed, the sound of muffled cannon fire had signaled a fierce battle being waged far to the south, but John and his crew had heard nothing now for hours. The ship’s master turned his gaze to the south once more.

>   As if reading his thoughts, David Maxwell, the ship’s navigator, stepped up to the railing beside his commander. “If we hadn’t run into this windless fog, Sir John, we might have found ourselves in the middle of a lovely fight.”

  “Aye, David,” John returned with a side look. “Not exactly the kind of action we were planning on this trip.”

  “Then as ungodly as this dismal mess seems, perhaps there’s something providential in it, eh?”

  “Perhaps so, Davy.” The Highlander paused thoughtfully, then turned to acknowledge the short, thickset man who was just joining them. It occurred to John once again that throughout the early going of this journey, he couldn’t turn around without finding Sir Thomas Maule a step away. Colin Campbell, the Earl of Argyll, had cautioned him about this beforehand, but John had not wished to make changes in their traveling plans. After all, Sir Thomas—despite the extreme possessiveness he demonstrated in matters regarding what he considered his own—was a good man, and the Highlander did not want the aging knight excluded from the honor of bringing home Scotland’s next Queen.

  Truthfully, John knew the problem did not lie with Sir Thomas, in any case. The difficulty lay in the fact that Sir Thomas’s bride, who was accompanying them on this journey, was none other than Caroline Douglas, a woman known to all as John Macpherson’s former mistress. But as far as John was concerned, everyone was also well aware of the fact that the rocky affair between them had ended long before the lady accepted the hand of Sir Thomas Maule in marriage. In John’s opinion, Caroline was now only an old acquaintance. Nothing more.

  “Well, navigator,” the stocky man queried, “how far to the south do you think those guns were this morning?”

  “Hard to tell, Sir Thomas,” David responded carefully. “As any sailor can tell you, the fog can do tricky things to the sound. That fighting could have been ten leagues south of us, or two. I wouldn’t want to wager my share on a guess about it.”