hands seemed small on the tankard he handed her to fill. When he glanced up in thanks, Josselin took a second look
at his wide brown eyes and glanced quickly away before the lad’s secret could get out.
The youth was one of the Four Maries. She was sure of it. In fact, after careful inspection, she spotted all four of the queen’s
ladies in masculine garb, scattered among the men.
Philipe had told her that the queen liked Josselin’sattire. Had Josselin inspired the women to disguise themselves?
She smiled in wonder. Most of the group of golfers and gamblers had no idea that their ranks had been infiltrated by women,
and none of them knew they stood among royalty.
Then she noticed the tall, handsome, gangly youth in the scuffed black doublet, baggy brown trews, and feathered cap, and
her smile grew even wider.
Chapter 16
D rew couldn’t stop grinning as he strode across the green. ’Twas mad, he knew, but matching wits with the wee blonde with the
reckless temper, flashing eyes, and wicked tongue was almost as exciting as matching strokes with opponents in golf. The beautiful
spitfire gave as good as she got, and ’twas a pleasure to tangle with a woman who was so bright and full of fire.
He’d been right about the rendezvous at Musselburgh. Standing in the midst of the crowd, right on schedule, was Philipe de
la Fontaine. But why was he meeting Jossy at the links? Certainly not for a tryst.
Retrieving his ball and clubs, Drew made his way to the start of the course, where the contestants and spectators were gathering.
Today Drew would face off against the champion of Carnoustie. The purse was sizable, and there were sure to be scores of enthusiasts
gambling on the outcome. Already the green teemed with a motley crowd—noblemen, servants, soldiers, apprentices, merchants,
men young and old, rich and not so rich—all eager to increase their wealth.
’Twasn’t difficult to discern which man was his rival. Dressed in a dapper green doublet with slashed sleeves in the German
style, his shock of white hair tucked under a black cap with a white feather, the man held court at the tee, regaling his
slack-jawed admirers with legendary tales of his triumphs on the links. The man was a born storyteller, reenacting some of
his swings with such enthusiasm that he nearly whacked several bystanders who wandered too close.
Indeed, ’twas one of those near misses that alerted Drew to the scrawny youth who gave a peculiar squeak as he dodged out
of the club’s way.
Drew studied the young man as the fellow moved through the crowd, then stopped to talk to another youth. Something wasn’t
quite right about him. In fact, neither of the lads looked right. Despite being full-grown, they had not a hint of a beard
between them, and their faces were as pink and sweet as peaches. Their behavior was strange, too. Their glances were secretive
and suspicious, as if they were up to mischief.
The truth finally smacked him in the forehead. They weren’t lads. They were lasses disguised as lads.
Marry, ’twas like a contagion!
Was there a shortage of proper gowns in Scotland? Were females infiltrating the men’s ranks to spy on them? Or was this a
backlash to John Knox’s fashionable denigration of women? Maybe ’twas true what Drew’s uncles claimed—that the Scots sent
lasses into battle—because they didn’t realize they were lasses.
Whatever the reason, Drew found it curious that no other men seemed to notice there were females among them.
Drew waited politely until his opponent finished demonstrating his dramatic final putt from yesterday’s game to approach and
offer his hand. “Drew MacAdam.”
“Ronald Metz.”
The man had a firm handshake, a wide smile, and a gleam in his eye that said, I’d be delighted to pummel you.
Drew nodded in greeting, fairly confident he was not going to be pummeled today.
He was right. Metz was good. He was obviously a seasoned golfer. But
at his wide brown eyes and glanced quickly away before the lad’s secret could get out.
The youth was one of the Four Maries. She was sure of it. In fact, after careful inspection, she spotted all four of the queen’s
ladies in masculine garb, scattered among the men.
Philipe had told her that the queen liked Josselin’sattire. Had Josselin inspired the women to disguise themselves?
She smiled in wonder. Most of the group of golfers and gamblers had no idea that their ranks had been infiltrated by women,
and none of them knew they stood among royalty.
Then she noticed the tall, handsome, gangly youth in the scuffed black doublet, baggy brown trews, and feathered cap, and
her smile grew even wider.
Chapter 16
D rew couldn’t stop grinning as he strode across the green. ’Twas mad, he knew, but matching wits with the wee blonde with the
reckless temper, flashing eyes, and wicked tongue was almost as exciting as matching strokes with opponents in golf. The beautiful
spitfire gave as good as she got, and ’twas a pleasure to tangle with a woman who was so bright and full of fire.
He’d been right about the rendezvous at Musselburgh. Standing in the midst of the crowd, right on schedule, was Philipe de
la Fontaine. But why was he meeting Jossy at the links? Certainly not for a tryst.
Retrieving his ball and clubs, Drew made his way to the start of the course, where the contestants and spectators were gathering.
Today Drew would face off against the champion of Carnoustie. The purse was sizable, and there were sure to be scores of enthusiasts
gambling on the outcome. Already the green teemed with a motley crowd—noblemen, servants, soldiers, apprentices, merchants,
men young and old, rich and not so rich—all eager to increase their wealth.
’Twasn’t difficult to discern which man was his rival. Dressed in a dapper green doublet with slashed sleeves in the German
style, his shock of white hair tucked under a black cap with a white feather, the man held court at the tee, regaling his
slack-jawed admirers with legendary tales of his triumphs on the links. The man was a born storyteller, reenacting some of
his swings with such enthusiasm that he nearly whacked several bystanders who wandered too close.
Indeed, ’twas one of those near misses that alerted Drew to the scrawny youth who gave a peculiar squeak as he dodged out
of the club’s way.
Drew studied the young man as the fellow moved through the crowd, then stopped to talk to another youth. Something wasn’t
quite right about him. In fact, neither of the lads looked right. Despite being full-grown, they had not a hint of a beard
between them, and their faces were as pink and sweet as peaches. Their behavior was strange, too. Their glances were secretive
and suspicious, as if they were up to mischief.
The truth finally smacked him in the forehead. They weren’t lads. They were lasses disguised as lads.
Marry, ’twas like a contagion!
Was there a shortage of proper gowns in Scotland? Were females infiltrating the men’s ranks to spy on them? Or was this a
backlash to John Knox’s fashionable denigration of women? Maybe ’twas true what Drew’s uncles claimed—that the Scots sent
lasses into battle—because they didn’t realize they were lasses.
Whatever the reason, Drew found it curious that no other men seemed to notice there were females among them.
Drew waited politely until his opponent finished demonstrating his dramatic final putt from yesterday’s game to approach and
offer his hand. “Drew MacAdam.”
“Ronald Metz.”
The man had a firm handshake, a wide smile, and a gleam in his eye that said, I’d be delighted to pummel you.
Drew nodded in greeting, fairly confident he was not going to be pummeled today.
He was right. Metz was good. He was obviously a seasoned golfer. But
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