her chamber door sounded loud and angry. She was sure one of them belonged to a woman. Kicking the blankets aside, she climbed out of bed and looked up at the window. The light was dim and the air misty. It was early morning, the day following the battle.
The door opened and a woman stepped inside. Jeanne’s eyes widened. It was Jane Hepburn, countess of Bothwell. She had not seen George Gordon’s fiery-tempered sister for years. They had never been friendly, and from the look on Jane’s face, it was clear that her sentiments remained unchanged.
“’Tis over,” she said. “Jamie is dead. All is lost.”
Jeanne nodded.
“I’ve come to ask you a favor.” Jane bit her lip. “My husband and my brother are at Flodden. We’ve had no word, and I cannot leave the queen. She is distraught with grief.”
“What can I do?”
“Ride to Flodden. The English won’t harm a woman. Find out what has become of our men. Send back word with a courier. There is no need to return.”
“I am a prisoner,” Jeanne reminded her.
Jane’s mouth twisted with pain. “You are no longer of any significance,” she said wearily. “We are all prisoners. Go now and Godspeed.”
For Jeanne, lost in her own thoughts, the miles passed swiftly. She stopped only to water her horse and gnaw at the meat and bread she’d remembered to stuff inside her pack. She approached Flodden slowly, up the right bank of the Till, and looked across the river. To the southwest was Monylaws Hill, to the north Branxton, and to the south and southeast, Flodden Hill and Flodden Edge. The green-gold beauty of the borderlands on the cusp of autumn made the sight that greeted her eyes even more heinous than it already was.
Day-old bodies, their limbs severed, their wounds covered with maggots and black with old blood, littered the field. Beggars swarmed over the battleground, claiming their spoils, rifling through pockets, prying jewels from targes and sword hilts, pulling boots and weapons from men who had breathed their last breath. Moans of the wounded echoed among the hills. The stench was nauseating. Jeanne pressed the folds of her cloak against her nose. Her stomach hovered on the brink of rebellion.
Slowly, she crossed the river and slid from her horse. Once again she saw the blood and the flies. She heard the cries of dying men pleading for water, saw the bodies of Lennox and Argyll and Jane Hepburn’s husband, Lord Bothwell. Fighting helplessly against a force she could not control, Jeanne moved on toward Pipers’ Hill, stepping over maimed clansmen, staring anxiously at dark-haired men until again she saw the jeweled sword hilt and the beloved gray-streaked head of Scotland’s hope twisted at an unnatural angle. She had seen it all before, but this time the pain was too great. The lump in her chest made it difficult to breathe. Where was John?
At the bottom of Branxton Hill, she found him. He was alive. Kneeling down in the thick mud, Jeanne pulled his head into her lap.
His eyes opened, and he smiled. “You’re very pale, my love,” he said. “Have you eaten?”
Jeanne sobbed and bit down on her bottom lip. He was nearly dead and still he worried about her health. The tears rolled down her cheeks. “Yes, John. I’ve eaten.”
“’Tis not wise for you to go without food. You must think of the bairn.”
Unable to speak, Jeanne leaned over to kiss his forehead. Her tears wet his skin.
He lifted his hand to touch her face, but the effort was too great. “You’re crying, Jeannie. Don’t cry, love. Maxwells never cry.” A bubble of blood formed at his lips, and his eyes closed.
Jeanne didn’t know how long she sat there holding his lifeless body in her arms. Night fell. She must have slept because all at once it was morning. Sunlight blinded her, and at first she didn’t see the circle of men on horseback surrounding her.
“’Tis Jeanne Maxwell,” a familiar voice spoke. “What are you doing here?”
Mutely, she looked up at the man who would have been her husband.
“Come, lass,” George Gordon said. “Speak. The last I heard you were imprisoned at Linlithgow.”
Jeanne eased the blood-encrusted head from her lap and stood up. “Jane sent me. She wished for news of you and her husband.”
The brown stallion pawed the ground. “Bothwell is dead,” replied George Gordon shortly.
“Aye.” Jeanne’s pain-filled eyes were on his face. “Others share his fate.”
His eyes flickered over her and dismissed the man at her feet. “Scotland has