knelt by the thick body of the man who clutched it even in death. She turned his head and brushed aside the graying hair. A low moan, more animal than human, welled up from her chest. Jamie Stewart, that gallant, brave, and impetuous monarch, had led his last charge. There was no hope for Scotland, no hope for those who fought the English at Flodden Moor.
Twenty-One
As suddenly as it came, the vision disappeared. Once again Jeanne was in the brightly lit burial chamber. The woman with the Maxwell features was still there, gazing at her with compassion. Jeanne marveled at the lady’s likeness. Looking at Mairi of Shiels was like staring at her own reflection in Saint Mary’s Loch on a day without wind.
“Was that destiny I saw?” she whispered to the ghostly figure.
The woman remained silent.
“Speak,” Jeanne cried in desperation. “Tell me what you want of me.”
Mairi stared at her with haunted eyes. Jeanne’s forehead wrinkled in concentration. What was the woman trying to tell her? “Help me, my lady,” she begged. “Give me a sign.”
A gust of cold wind blew back the folds of Jeanne’s cloak and set the candle flames flickering. Suddenly, inspiration seized her. She reached out to clutch the woman’s shoulders, but her hands touched only air. Mairi was gone as were the torches and glowing candles. Only the stone remained, bathed in the strange netherworld light that came from within.
Jeanne’s single candle seemed to burn more brightly as she climbed the twisting stairway back to the sanctuary. She was filled with hope and brave new resolve. If what she believed was true, the battle had not yet been fought. It could still be stopped. Only then would it be safe to return the stone to Moot Hill and the throne of Scotland. She knew that her country’s fate was sealed if Jamie Stewart fell in battle. His heir was a mere bairn and the queen was English. Fortunately, the king was a superstitious man, known for his fear of spirits and witchcraft. Jeanne, Grania’s pupil, knew exactly how to prey on those fears.
***
Traveling alone, dressed in a man’s breeks and jack, Jeanne guided her mount to the pony path leading to the gentle green gold hills of West Lothian and Linlithgow Castle. The road north was empty. All men of fighting age were camped in the Cheviot Hills, awaiting Jamie’s arrival. He remained at the palace until the final hour. Indeed, it was what she hoped for. Tonight, at Saint Michael’s Kirk, he would be at vespers in the royal stall. There, she would go to him.
Leaving her horse in the capable hands of the castle linkboy, Jeanne crossed the wide lawn leading to the twin turrets guarding the entrance. Wind from the loch pulled at her jack and twisted loose tendrils of her hair into knots. Clutching the bundle that carried her change of clothing under one arm, Jeanne walked past the guards into the receiving hall. It was completely deserted. She was relieved but not surprised. Most of the nobles had already left for England, and the queen’s attendants were preparing for the evening meal.
Jeanne climbed the wide stairs to the second landing, where the Maxwell apartments were kept in readiness for an unexpected arrival. She opened the door and bolted it behind her. The room was cold as ice. After lighting the fire, she walked to the window and looked out, rubbing her arms against the chill. The view faced south toward the loch. Leaning against the frigid panes of glass, she gave herself up to the still, heart-wrenching beauty of her homeland and the memories it evoked.
To the west, as far as the human eye could see, wheat and millet swirled like golden waves in a churning tide. To the east, where the land was left uncleared, black oak and maple forests shadowed marshland rich with quail, wild duck, and curlew. To the south, the silver blue waters of Loch Lothian shone clear as glass beneath a summer sun. Years ago, armed with fishing poles and bait, a black-haired boy and his small companion had commandeered a boat nestled in the brush. Jeanne’s mouth watered. She could still taste the crisp skin and the soft buttery flesh of their catch. Nothing before or since had tasted more like heaven than the speckled brown trout she had helped John pull from the watery depths.
Jeanne looked around the well-appointed bedchamber and her heart sank. The optimism of the day before had long