wouldn’t vie for the privilege of taking up such a cause.”
John could think of nothing less appealing, but he knew better than to disagree with Jamie when he started on the subject of a holy crusade. “Julius II is a selfish man, Your Grace,” he said instead. “There will be a Holy League, but it will not be against the infidels. It will be directed against our ancient ally, the most Christian king of France.”
Jamie drummed his fingers on a small side table. “Louis will not stand for such nonsense,” he said. “He will appeal for a general council against the pope.”
A taut white line appeared around John’s lips. “It would be most unwise for Louis to set himself against the pope.”
The king gave him a sharp look from beneath his heavy eyebrows. “I do not believe you are at all concerned for Louis, my friend.”
John grinned. “You are always astute, Your Grace.”
Jamie leaned forward. “You have been five years at the English court. Where will you stand, John Maxwell, if Scotland allies herself with France?”
An angry wind moaned against the parapets and stirred the tapestries lining the paneled walls. In the fireplace, a log cracked and split, sending a shower of sparks onto the hearth. No one looking at the handsome, chiseled features of the laird of Traquair would have guessed at the enormity of the decision weighting his mind. There was the power and might of the English king allied with Ferdinand of Aragon, the emperor Maximilian, and all of Christendom against a weakened Louis VII and the tragically loyal, recklessly brave Jamie IV of Scotland.
A flash of lightning illuminated the room, throwing the king’s features into bold relief. John was shocked. For the first time, the fleshy, handsome face of the man who had wrested a kingdom from his father at the age of fifteen reflected uncertainty. In that instant, John made his decision. With everything to lose and nothing to gain, he knelt at the feet of Scotland’s king and bowed his head in deference.
“I am a Scot, my liege,” he said. “Command me as you will.”
With a deep, rumbling sigh, Jamie offered his hand. John kissed the royal ring with its raised pelican crest, symbolizing the Stewart dynasty.
“Stand, m’lord.” The king’s voice was gruff with emotion. “I’m not foolish enough to believe your words come easily. For that I thank you.”
Tall and lean in the leaping light of the fire, John looked down at his king and nodded. Jamie was charming and fickle, not unlike the others of his line who had ruled this kingdom to the north of England. He was also inspirational, rash, daring, and willful, the kind of leader men took into their hearts, worshipped, fought with, and willingly died for. John was no different. Against his better judgment, his sword was forever pledged to the House of Stewart.
***
“Where are you going at this hour? ’Tis after four.” Flora Maxwell’s smooth brow wrinkled in dismay as she stared at the back of her daughter’s head.
Jeanne was almost out the door. Her hands clenched on the folds of her skirt, but she did not turn to face her mother. “I go with Sim to carry peat to Grania’s cottage,” she said. “The nights are cold for an old woman.”
“Send Sim alone,” begged Flora. “The moors are no place for a woman and a lad not yet grown.”
Jeanne turned impatiently, her lovely face set as if carved in marble. “We’ve been through this before. I will not be ruled by you, Mother. Not in this. Not in anything.”
Flora’s face paled, but she stood, determined to have it out between them. “Why do you hate me so? You are my only daughter, my only living child. What have I done to earn your contempt?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jeanne’s smile did not reach her eyes. “You are imagining what isn’t there.”
“Am I?” Flora’s eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath and said out loud the words she’d carried in her heart for such an endless length of days and nights. “Is it I alone who imagines what isn’t there, Jeannie?”
Jeanne lifted her chin and studied her mother’s face, carefully noting the trembling Cupid’s bow mouth and the pink blush on her unlined cheeks. Flora Maxwell looked much younger than her thirty-five years. John was twenty-seven. It would be a match made in heaven. Bile rose in Jeanne’s throat. “Don’t play games, Mother,” she lashed out. “Say what you mean.”
Flora traced the embroidered edge of a high-backed chair