warrior, his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. “This is a private service, mistress,” he announced. “Declare yourself and then depart.”
She pitched her voice low. Fear gave it an unusual huskiness. “I am but a loyal subject, Your Grace. I come to warn you of your fate on the morrow.”
He was on his feet now, his brow furrowed. “Tomorrow I meet the English at Flodden Moor.”
“You will not be victorious,” warned Jeanne. “You will die in battle and the flower of Scotland with you. Your son is but a child and your wife English. Think again, Jamie Stewart. Would you condemn your country to such a fate?”
“’Tis too late. I cannot withdraw now,” insisted the king stubbornly.
“Holy God!” she whispered fiercely. “Would you have us English satellites subject to the will of an English king?”
Jamie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who are you who speaks blasphemy to the king?” he demanded. “By what right do you come here during prayers and speak to me of treason?” He drew his sword and advanced toward her.
Jeanne shrank back, pulling the hood farther in front of her face. “Halt,” she cried, holding her hand out before her. “Would you profane the House of God?”
“You’ve done that already, lass,” said the king, lifting the wool from her face with the point of his sword. “Come. Step into the light. I wish to see your face.”
Jeanne had lost, and the only emotion she felt was overwhelming weariness. She knelt at his feet. Her hood fell back, revealing her raven-black hair. Defiantly, she looked up, waiting for the look of shocked recognition in his eyes.
“By the blood of Christ,” he gasped. “’Tis Jeanne Maxwell.”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
“Why do you do this?”
Slowly, she stood. “This meeting with the English is ill-fated. Many will die and Scotland will be destroyed.”
Until now, he’d ignored the rumors linking Jeanne’s name with witchcraft. His voice shook. “How do you know this?”
She stared at him, saying nothing, her face so still and pale it could have been sculpted from marble.
With an imperious gesture, Jamie waved away his knights. They moved back, and he lowered his sword. “Where is your lord?” he asked her.
“At Flodden Moor.”
He nodded, satisfied. “I might have known John would not desert me. Does he know you are here?”
“No, Your Grace.”
Something in her direct, clear-eyed gaze disturbed him. Jamie Stewart was king of Scotland. Before the age of sixteen, he’d outwitted men years older than himself, plunged into the very heart of political intrigue, and wrested the throne from his weak, ineffectual father. He could smell fear and deception from across the length of a room. Jeanne Maxwell was not afraid nor was she lying.
He cleared his throat and spoke softly so that only she would hear. “I would ask you a question, Lady Maxwell. You may refuse me. But know this. Whether you answer or no, you will be detained in the castle until after the battle. I have not yet decided what to do with you.”
She smiled, and for a moment Jamie forgot he was a king. Holy God, the lass was lovely. He stepped closer and reached out to touch her cheek.
She turned her head. “What is your question, Your Grace?”
He dropped his hand, ashamed of his weakness. “Will I survive Flodden Moor?”
Jeanne paused for a long moment, wondering whether to spare him. “No,” she replied at last.
He looked at her, the heavy-lidded eyes hard and black as coal. Finally, he nodded. “So be it.” He motioned to a guard.
“Wait.” Jeanne clutched his sleeve. “What I see is only a vision of what might be. It is not yet written in destiny. Change your fate and that of all those who die at Flodden Moor. Recall your men before the English army arrives.”
This time he did touch her, his hand resting on the shining crown of her hair. “You are very lovely, Jeannie,” he murmured, “and very brave. I envy your husband.” The thought of his wife or any other woman braving his wrath to demand a war be stopped was both absurd and amusing. “’Tis too late,” he continued. “Surrey has already arrived with twenty thousand British troops. At this moment the English army prepares for battle. If we retreat, they will follow us into Scotland and cut us down. Our towns will burn, women and children will die. No.” He shook his head. “The time for retreat has passed. We will stand and fight. My men would have it no other way.”
“Then you are doomed,”