The Heather Moon by Susan King

mother and sister, he would obey the queen dowager's summons. He hoped she meant to offer him clemency, even forgiveness, for the tragedy of Jean's death, which had affected them both.
    Regardless of what she wanted of him, he meant to take the opportunity of a private audience to tell her of the plot that he had uncovered. He knew he would have to follow her wishes regarding the scheme, once she knew of it.
    He would need two or three days to ride to Linlithgow, seek an interview with the queen dowager, and ride back, he thought. The journey could be made in a day if he pressed his horse's pace. When he returned to Rookhope, he would set out to find the gypsy girl.
    He would ask his cousins Jock and Sandie Scott, who often came to Rookhope, to accompany him to search for a gypsy camp. They might even know the whereabouts of one. William preferred a moonlight ride, as did most Bordermen, who were accustomed to riding through the night on reiving errands and sleeping well into the day. A few nights from now, he thought, would be a perfect time for such an outing.
    As he approached the high stone wall that surrounded Rookhope Tower, he heard a shout from a man who stood watch on the rooftop. Likely one of his cousins, he thought, raising a hand to wave. He bypassed the small, easily defended side entrance, which was still closed, and followed the outskirts of the wall toward the open main entrance.
    He rode along a wide, grassy shelf between the stone wall and the steep slope that fronted the tower. For a century and more, that difficult access had discouraged hostile visitors. The tower crested a forbidding wooded slope, at the base of which lay a narrow, turbulent burn.
    Opposite the tower, separated by the narrow chasm, a rounded hill soared into the evening sky. One widespread oak tree topped its bare upper curve.
    Nearing the portcullis, William glanced across the gap at the bleak hill. The oak tree stood alone, branches silhouetted against the sky like hundreds of gnarled hands and fingers. A small mound, a single grave, was sheltered at its foot.
    The hill had grown barren over the years, sustaining only sparse grass, tufts of heather, and the dominant, twisted old tree. Many believed that the hill and the oak were haunted, and no one went there, William knew—but for his mother, his sister, and himself.
    William glanced there, and gave a grim nod of respect for the memory of Allan Scott, buried beneath the oak. As he came toward the portcullis, he saw that the iron grille, and the massive wooden doors behind it, stood open.
    As he rode through the gate, his sister Helen crossed the width of the bailey yard, carrying a small, bundled child in her arms. William looked down as she approached.
    He scarcely saw his sister, his gaze hungry to see the small face beside hers, now turning up toward him: wide blue eyes beneath dark curls, cheeks chafed pink, a round little mouth.
    He dismounted, aware of an upsurge of the sweet, easy joy that he felt only for his daughter, and he opened his hands to lift her high.

 
     
     
    Chapter 7

     
    Sum speikis of lords, sum speikis of lairds
    And sic lyke men of hie degrie
    Of a gentleman I sing a sang....
    —"Johnie Armstrang"
    Hooves rang in hollow rhythm on the cobbled street as William approached the south gate of Linlithgow Palace. He greeted the royal guards with a brusque nod and reined in his dark bay, which sidestepped and tossed its black mane, echoing his master's haste.
    "'Tis the laird o' Rookhope!" one of the guards called. Within moments, the portcullis creaked upward and a guardsman waved William into the entrance tunnel. He dismounted and handed the bay's reins to a page, then strode toward the square court at the heart of the palace.
    Summer sunshine warmed the rosy stone of the inner facade, with its tiers of glazed windows. Through an open shutter in the northwest tower, where the royal apartments were located, the irritated cry of an infant floated down to the