Heaven and the Heather - By Elizabeth Holcombe Page 0,2
the pictures that remained in her mind. Her beloved Alps and the way the seasons made them magical. She puzzled why home, which held so much cruelty, still called to her heart. Scotland was a fearful unknown, the devil she did not know. France, her home for better and worse, was the devil she had known all her score of years.
“L’île des sauvages,” Sabine whispered. “Why would Mary wish to return here?”
“That question is not yours to ask, impudent fool.”
She whirled around to face one of the queen’s five ladies-in-waiting, all Marys. This was the uppity one, Lady Mary Fleming. Her earth-colored hair was concealed beneath a dark velvet cowl. Her face, prunish at best, held perpetual disapproval.
Offering a brief curtsy, Sabine eyed the proud Scotswoman, the only one of the royal court, other than the queen, whose blood ran from this land hidden by the misty pall. Sabine prayed the loathing in her eyes was similarly shrouded.
“Madame,” Sabine said with a nod. A sudden puff of wind stirred about her, teasing several thick, corkscrew strands of black hair about her face. She lifted her chin higher. ’Twas not just the Scots who held the repute for fierce pride.
Lady Fleming narrowed her pale eyes. Her gaze dropped to Sabine’s right hand and paused. “Get ye to the others,” she said, forcing her gaze up. “A common femme de chambre with spirit is as worthless to Her Majesty as a blind footman.”
“I emulate Her Majesty’s independence of spirit, to glorify her,” Sabine said proudly. She meant this with all of her heart. Mary was indeed independent, going against her French councilors and returning home as sovereign. Home. Were royals the only ones destined to find home?
“Insolence will be your undoing, la petite chienne!” Lady Fleming grabbed Sabine by the arm. “To the bowels of this ship with the others of your station. Now!”
“Sauvage,” she whispered, shrugging away her grasp. “You’ve come home.”
Lady Fleming raised a hand to strike her. It would not be the first time. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘you’re fortunate to have come home,’ m’lady.” Sabine stared hard at her. The breeze heightened. It buffeted the hood from her head and sent the tumble of black curls spiraling about her face.
The Scot slowly lowered her hand.
“Ever since your father sent you to Her Majesty’s gracious service, you’ve been but a bane to my very existence.”
“I did not ask for her charity.”
“Five years have not tempered your selfish yearnings. Your concern should be for the needs of your queen. Now, to your position.”
Lady Fleming stole one more glance at Sabine’s hand before padding across the deck toward a huddled grouping of the femmes de chambre, ten in all, clucking at them, waving her arms. The queen was on her way. Sabine took a deep breath and walked carefully across the deck slick with sea spray. She stopped and curtsied low. She loved her queen, but she loved France more. To leave royal service would be treason, yet she could not perish the thought. Not as long as a loveless marriage and a life in Scotland were her only choices. Perchance, her queen would understand. Perchance. The coin weighed against Sabine’s thigh. Hope. Royals were not the only ones who possessed it.
Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots, passed before her entourage. Sabine caught a glimpse of golden brocade, strands of pearls and jewels, and hair that rivaled the fiery foliage of autumn in the French Alps.
The galleon lurched. A sudden stinging oily scent mingling with the mist made Sabine’s eyes water. Distant shouts rang up over the gunwale.
Sabine stood upright.
“L’Écosse,” she whispered in frightened awe.
She turned around and looked over the gunwale. Through the mist the gray wharf teemed with gray, dour people. The stench of tar and garbage rose up to greet her. Sabine cupped her left hand over her nose and mouth. The crowd on the dock stared up at the royal galleon. Their pale faces shone out from beneath moldy hoods and mist-dampened cowls.
Sabine swallowed hard.
This place was just as dismal as she had feared.
She clutched her hood and drew it up over her head. She willed one foot forward toward the gangplank, into the mist.
Scotland. Mon Dieu! She walked slowly, her gaze searching the wharf for any of these savages that came down from their mountains with swords in their hands and death on their lips.
Her sac banged against her thigh. Soon she would seek a way out of this wilderness.