Читать книгу: «The Queen's Lady», страница 5

She smiled and thanked him. Then she fled the chamber before the tears she felt welling up in her eyes could spill. This was life, she told herself brusquely. When Mary had been but a child, she had been sent overseas, without her mother, to meet the man she would wed whether she liked him or not. Women were sent from place to place constantly to honor marriage contracts—and often, it was as if they had been sold to horrid beasts.

Her heart froze for a moment. Customarily, despite the fact that her father’s title was hers, her great-uncle Angus had the power to decide her future. She could only thank God that because of her position at court, Mary had to approve any plan for her life.

Mary would never force anything heinous upon her. Would she?

No. Even now, Mary had but sent her on a journey to feel out the chance for a friendship with her cousin, the powerful English queen. She had never forced her will on any of her ladies.

Except now. Then Gwenyth chided herself for the uncharitable, even traitorous, thought.

In her room, the little private chamber she so loved, she found a middle-aged, slightly stout woman awaiting her. She had cherubic cheeks, a warm smile and an ample bosom. “My lady, I’m Annie, Annie MacLeod, actually, though any relationship is certainly quite distant.” She grinned, a rosy and cheerful expression, and said, “I am to accompany you and serve you, if you will grant me the honor.”

Gwenyth smiled. At last, here was someone who seemed to be nothing but cheerful and nice—and glad to be with her.

“I am delighted to have you, Annie.”

“I’ve sent your trunk down to our small caravan. I am ready, my lady, when you are.”

So this was it.

She had dressed for the long day’s ride when she had headed to the kirk, expecting to leave feeling refreshed and blessed by the word of God. Instead…No matter, will it or nil it, she was ready.

“Annie, it is time. We need to be on our way.”

She closed the door to her sanctuary within Holyrood. It was with a heavy heart that she hurried down the stone stairs and out to the courtyard where the packhorses, the small retinue of guards—and Laird Rowan—awaited.

AT LEAST THE LADY GWENYTH was not an elderly or sickly ward, Rowan thought. On his own, he could easily make fifty miles in a day. If he’d had to move with a coach and a great deal of baggage, he would have been slowed almost to a stop. As it was, the Lady Gwenyth had shown herself pleasantly capable of packing lightly. The cheerful woman chosen to accompany her was far greater a burden, actually, albeit through no fault of her own. She was a decent enough horsewoman, comfortable on her placid mount, but as she had not spent endless hours in the saddle before, Rowan was forced to stop regularly so they might stretch their legs, sup and rest.

On his own, he might have made Stirling on that first day. With the women, he thought it best to spend his first night at Linlithgow Palace, which sat almost midway between Edinburgh and Stirling.

At the gates, he was greeted by an armed guard, recognized and welcomed. The castle steward, knowing Gwenyth’s name and position, was both curious and charmed. Though they had arrived late, he and Gwenyth were ushered into the massive great hall, while their four-man escort was shown to berths above the stables, and Annie and his man were brought to the kitchen to eat and then given beds in the servants’ quarters. He and Gwenyth stayed awake talking with the steward, Amos MacAlistair, for the robust fellow was fond of telling how Queen Mary had been born at the palace, though alas her father had died just six days later. Rowan watched Gwenyth as she listened, rapt, smiling, as the old man talked about Mary as an infant. Rowan decided the day had gone well—especially considering the morning. He and Gwenyth had kept a polite distance for the long ride, and he hoped they could keep moving on in similar harmony.

The next evening was equally fine, for they were greeted by the steward of Stirling Castle, and accorded equal consideration and respect. Gwenyth seemed to love Stirling, and, indeed, the castle was impressive and the town beautiful. People whispered about their arrival in the streets; Gwenyth smiled as she saw the townsfolk, calling out greetings. She was, he had to admit, a charming unofficial ambassador for her queen, even here.

It wasn’t until the next afternoon, when they were on their way to the Highlands, that the journey took a foul turn.

They had come to the small village of Loch Grann, though the loch was really no more than a small pool. As they rode along, nearing the village, they could hear shouting.

Gwenyth, who had ridden abreast with Annie most of the way, trotted her mare forward to reach his side. “What is the commotion?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

She kneed her horse and rode ahead of him.

“Will you wait?” he called in aggravation.

Following Gwenyth, he passed several charming cottages, a kirk and the unimpressive building that passed as the thane’s manor here, and then reached the village center, where a narrow stream trickled through.

Gwenyth had reined in, horror evident on her face.

He immediately saw why. The shouting was coming from a mob of townspeople, urged on by what appeared to the local thane’s men-at-arms. The object of their derision was a young woman bound to a stake, with faggots and branches piled at her feet. She was stripped down to a white gown of sheer linen; her long dark tresses were in sad tangles; and the look on her face was one of utter defeat and anguish.

“They are going to burn her!” Gwenyth exclaimed in horror.

“She has probably been convicted of witchcraft, or perhaps of heresy,” Rowan informed her.

She looked at him, those immense golden eyes of her alive with indignation. “Do you believe in such ridiculousness?” she demanded.

“I believe that even your precious queen believes in it,” he said softly.

“But…tried here?” she demanded. “Not in Edinburgh? By what law? Whose law?”

“Local, I daresay.”

“Then you must stop them.”

He had to wonder what he would have done had she not been with him. He was frequently appalled by the harshness of the Scottish laws. As a lad, he had seen a young man hanged at St. Giles in Edinburgh, his crime no greater than the theft of a leg of lamb. His father had told him sadly then that such was the law; he could not stop the execution.

He did not believe in superstition, or that certain women had the evil eye, and before God, he certainly did not believe it was possible to make a pact with the Devil. But there were laws….

“Do something!” Gwenyth cried. “Please, Rowan, they are about to light the fires.”

“Hold, and watch at the ready,” he told Gavin, head of their escort.

She had never before called him by his given name, Rowan realized, and in her eyes there was nothing but honest and sincere entreaty. Emotions, he thought; they become the downfall of us all.

He spurred his horse forward, a display of power as he raced through the townspeople to confront the churchmen. “What is this mockery of justice?” he demanded angrily. “What right have you to impose the sentence of execution?”

As he had hoped, the size and evident breeding of his horse and the colors he wore indicated his association with the royal house. Most of the crowd fell back in silence, but one black-clad minister stepped toward him. “I am reverend of the kirk here, my laird. She has been duly tried and found guilty.”

“Duly tried? What manner of court do you have here? Is it authorized by the queen?” Rowan demanded.

“It was a local matter,” the man protested.

He looked around. The crowd had remained silent. The only sound came from the young woman at the stake, who was sobbing softly.

“Release her,” he said quietly.

“But…but she has been tried.”

“By no proper court. In a matter of life and death, according to the dictates of both law and conscience, my good man, you surely know you should seek higher authority.”

The pastor looked more closely at Rowan, noted his colors and the presence of his armed escort, and took a small step back. “You are Rowan Graham, Laird of the Far Isles?” he asked uneasily.

“Aye. Sworn to the Stewarts of Scotland.”

The pastor arched a brow. “The French Stewart?”

“The Queen of Scotland. And I have long ridden at the side of James Stewart, Earl of Mar, the greatest law of our land, our regent following the death of the queen’s mother.”

A woman stepped forward. She was middle-aged and stout, and despite the set look of her jaw, he felt sorry for her. She was worn, looking to be a bitter woman whose life had held little joy.

“Ye do nae understand, great laird. She looked at me. Liza Duff looked at me and gave me her evil stare, and my pig died the next day,” the woman said.

A man found courage and joined her. “My babe took sick with the cough after Liza Duff looked at me.”

“Did no one else look at you?” he queried sharply. “Good people! Life is God’s domain. Do you so easily feel it your right, without seeking the highest authority in the land, to condemn any woman or man to so heinous a death because misfortune has befallen you?”

He reached into his sporran, seeking a few gold coins, which he cast down before the two who had spoken. “Buy more pigs,” he said to the embittered matron. “And you,” he told the man. “Perhaps there is some medicine that you can buy.”

They scrambled for the gold coins, clutching them. The pastor stared at him.

Gwenyth rode forward, staring down at the pastor before turning to Rowan. “She cannot remain here,” she said. “If she is so despised,” she said softly, “they will take your gold, then try her again tomorrow, and we will only have delayed her execution.”

She was right.

He looked down again at the pastor. “I will bring this woman, Liza Duff, to my homestead, where she may serve in my household. Should we find there is truth in your accusations, she will be brought to Edinburgh to stand trial before the proper authority.”

He wasn’t sure he needed to have added the last; his gold and status seemed to have turned the tide in their direction.

“That sounds a fair and solid proposition. She will no longer be here to torment the tenants of this village,” the churchman said.

“See her brought down,” Rowan said. “Now.”

“And,” Gwenyth added quietly, “see that she is given a decent dress for traveling, and I believe we will need a horse.”

Rowan stared at her, surprised but also amused.

The pastor began to protest. “We’re to pay to see that a witch lives?”

“Laird Rowan has just cast before you a sum more than ample to purchase a horse and a few pieces of clothing,” Gwenyth said pleasantly. “Even after purchasing many pigs and the services of a decent physician.”

There was silence. Then the men nearest the pyre set about releasing the young woman from the stake.

As the ropes holding her upright were released, she started to fall. Gwenyth was instantly off her horse, racing forward. While the men might have handled her roughly, had they deigned to help her at all, Gwenyth showed an admirable strength mixed with gentleness, allowing the young woman to lean against her as she moved back to the horses. She looked up at Rowan. “She can’t ride alone. And we need to be on our way, I believe.”

Before someone changes his mind.

He could see the last in her eyes, though she did not speak the words aloud.

“A horse,” he said firmly. “For when she regains her strength. And clothing.”

A horse was brought, a bundle given to Gwenyth, and then the pastor and his flock all stepped back. Again Gwenyth looked at him, and Rowan could read her eyes. The girl would indeed need to regain her strength before she could ride on her own. They would lead the animal meant for her use until she could handle a horse on her own.

If she even knew how to ride.

If not…they would take the horse anyway.

He dismounted, took the young woman—who was looking at him with dazed and worshipful eyes—and set her upon his horse. He would have assisted Gwenyth to mount—as their guard of armed men continued to wait at a discreet distance at his command—but she was too quick, and was back on her mare before he could offer his help. “In future, take care what justice you decide to mete out on your own, pastor,” he warned very quietly. “I will be back this way.”

With that, he rode to Gwenyth’s side, the “witch” sitting before him like a limp rag doll.

They proceeded at a walk, lest any haste cause a change of heart and incur pursuit—something that he could see Gwenyth understood from the glance he cast her way—until they were well past the eyes of the villagers.

“Now let us put some distance between us,” he ordered once they had passed the limits of the village and, as they hadn’t yet reached the rocky tors of the true Highlands, they were able to make good time. Strange winds and early cold were bedeviling Scotland that year, but the wicked ice and snow had not yet fallen, and that too, helped them as they rode.

Finally he reined in near a copse of trees close by a small brook, lifting a hand to the others. The small party halted.

“Ooh, me aching bones,” Annie protested.

Gavin dismounted, helping the ungainly woman from her perch.

“They’ll nae be a pursuit, Laird Rowan,” Gavin said, shaking his head, his disapproval for the village obvious.

“I agree, Gavin,” Rowan told his man. “But it’s always best to get a distance from the scene of any trouble.”

After dismounting, he was careful to lift the girl down slowly. Annie, clucking in concern, went to help her, as did Gwenyth.

“Some wine, please?” Gwenyth said, looking to the men.

“Aye, my lady, immediately,” Dirk, one of the other guards, assured her.

Rowan set the woman on the soft pine-needle-covered floor of the copse, her back resting against a sturdy tree. She stared at Gwenyth, and Rowan thought his charge indeed looked like some angel of mercy come to earth, for in the dim light, with rays of sun arrowing through the canopy of branches and leaves, her hair was shimmering as if it were spun gold, and her eyes were alight with compassion. She had a leather skin of wine, and brought it to the young woman’s lips.

“Sip slowly,” Gwenyth said softly.

Liza did so, staring at her all the while. And when Gwenyth took the skin from her, lest she choke or become ill from too much too soon, she said, “God will bless you, for I am innocent, I swear it. Old Meg was not angry about her pig. She believed I cast a spell to seduce her wretched lout of a husband. I am innocent, before God, I am. And I owe you my life and my deepest loyalty forever,” she vowed brokenly.

“Well, let’s get you strong again…and into some decent clothing. You may use those trees over there for privacy,” Gwenyth said.

“I’ll be helpin’ the lass,” Annie assured her, and the two of them walked deeper into the copse.

Gwenyth knew Rowan was staring at her, and she flushed. “I believe she is innocent,” she murmured. “I find it ridiculous to believe that God has granted some people the powers to simply look upon another and cause evil.”

He sighed. “Ah, lass. You’d be surprised what evil can exist merely in the mind.”

“That woman is no witch.” She paused, then said softly, “Thank you.”

Would I have stopped such an obvious injustice had you not been with me? he wondered.

“I did as you wished today,” he told her, “because I don’t believe the trial was justly conducted or that the pastor had the right to condemn her to death. Such a grave penalty is held for the higher courts to dispense. But, my lady, I am sorry to say that people have often been put to death for the crime of witchcraft. Whether you believe in it or not, it is punishable by execution, for it goes hand in hand with heresy. And I will remind you again that the very queen you so adore believes in witchcraft, as does Lord James. As a rule, I believe the Stewart clan holds a belief in curses and hexes.”

She smiled. “Laird Rowan, you are, I know, a well-read and learned man. I know, as you do, that there are some who believe themselves able to create dolls, prick them and draw blood from others. Those who think they can brew up herbs and make magical potions. But you surely know, as well as I, that most of those accused of such evil craft are nothing more than healers who know the potency of certain herbs and flowers. Evil has too often been done to those who would do their best to help others, all because of what men believe, rather than what is known.”

“Be that as it may, if you brew a potion, you risk being accused of witchcraft, which means a pact with the devil. And heresy,” he said wearily.

“It is such foolishness—”

“It is the law.”

She nodded and said flatly, “Thank you. Our discussion has been most enlightening.”

“To serve you in any way is merely my duty,” he said lightly, bowing to her, a note of sarcasm in his voice. He wasn’t sure why, but her chilly gratitude bothered him.

She was such an enigma, and he found himself fascinated by her. And there was no denying the beauty of her face and person, and her effect upon him because of that.

He was going home, he reminded himself.

His heart suddenly felt as heavy as if he’d been struck by a boulder. Once upon a time, he had been so deeply in love, ready to defy God, king and country.

And now…

He still loved his wife, but bitter circumstance had turned the passion he had once felt into the kind of love a man might feel for a wounded child or a failing elder.

“We need to ride,” he said curtly. “Now.” And he turned away, shouting for Annie to bring Liza Duff along and for his men to mount up once again.

As he lifted Liza upon his horse, he knew Gwenyth was still watching him, and he wondered what feelings now lay hidden behind her strange and haunting eyes.

CHAPTER FIVE

THOUGH IT WAS HER HOME, Gwenyth had always thought of the Highlands as a wild place, peopled by a rugged, raw and nearly lawless people.

Perhaps lawless was not correct. There was law. It was just that the thanes, lairds and family heads were a law unto themselves. Her time in France had taught her a grievance against her own people. Scotland could do so much as a country if the great lairds and barons fought together as one, rather than continually feuding and striving to increase their fortunes and holdings at the expense of their neighbors. Far too often, dating back to the days when William Wallace fought so valiantly to keep Scotland a sovereign power, the barons were more worried about their personal estates and fortunes than they were the future of their country. It was understandable, perhaps, where there was intermarriage. Many a great Scottish laird had acquired lands in England through inheritance or marriage, lands that were sometimes more valuable than their Scottish holdings.

Too often, the lairds sat as if upon a fence, watching which way the winds of victory might blow, rather than gathering to become one daunting force.

In her concern with this problem, Gwenyth had forgotten the beauty of her homeland.

Their journey had become slow indeed, with the addition of Liza Duff. Though she had not been the victim of torture, she was weak and not a strong rider, though the horse the village had provided for her was calm enough. They needed to stop frequently to rest, particularly as they had entered that portion of the Highlands where the hills climbed steeply and roads were treacherous.

Eventually they turned onto a narrow, ill-hewn trail that climbed a glorious hill carpeted in mauve wildflowers, then arrived at a peak and looked down at a majestic valley lying below. There was fertile land in that valley. Gwenyth could see farmers laboring in their fields; it was the season to reap, before the harshness of fall and winter settled heavily upon them. Beyond the rich fields, rising upon an outcrop, was a fortress home. In the late afternoon glow of the setting sun, the masonry gleamed gold and silver. A sparkling brook meandered in front of the moat that surrounded the fortress. It was not as large and formidable a place as Edinburgh Castle, but like that fortress, it used the sheer power of its natural position to create a daunting defense. From their position atop this hill, Gwenyth could see that beyond the moat lay a walled courtyard; within it, trades-men manned stalls stocked with goods of all kinds, and women moved about on various errands. She also saw a plethora of pigs and chickens in pens to one side of the enclosure.

She glanced at Rowan and saw that he, too, was looking toward the settlement, a strange, taut look on his face. It seemed to mingle pride and pain, and a deep and anguished thoughtfulness.

“Lochraven Castle?” she murmured.

He turned to her. “Nay, Lochraven Castle itself sits upon an isle north of Islington. But this land is part of Lochraven. The fortress here is called Castle Grey,” he said. “It was named by an ancestor many generations ago who knew that the family name meant ‘from the grey home.’”

“It is yours, as well?” she said.

“Aye. It is a gateway to the isles beyond, from which my family draws its title,” he said.

“It’s…glorious,” she said.

She was dismayed when he murmured in return, “It is a sad and bitter home.”

They had paused there for several moments; he was suddenly impatient. “Come, let’s hurry onward.”

Their approach was seen, of course, but the drawbridge did not have to be lowered, for it was already down, as she was certain it was most of the time. For the moment, the country was—as it all too often was not—at peace. The drawbridge allowed those who worked the fields to come and go, and those who lived on the outlying tenant farms to visit the marketplace within the walls, then leave again easily. Castle Grey was like a village unto itself, and it appeared to be thriving.

As they neared the estate, children came running out, strewing flowers and running ahead of a man in Rowan’s own colors—a single rider who waited for them just outside the gates.

“Laird Rowan, Laird Rowan,” the children chanted. One small girl made her way to his giant mount, and Rowan, smiling despite the stern visage he had worn earlier, reached down to raise her up to ride in front of him on the horse.

“M’laird!” the rider cried with pleasure as they reached him. “We’d word ye were on ye’r way.”

“Tristan, my good man. All goes well?”

“A rich harvest, indeed,” the man said. He was perhaps forty or so, a man who sat his saddle well, with broad shoulders, a full-bearded face and long, dark hair, just beginning to gray.

“Tristan, this is the Lady Gwenyth MacLeod. My lady, this is my steward, Tristan. We’ll stay the night, Tristan, perhaps the next. Meanwhile, please see to it that a ferryman is ready to bring my lady, her company and their horses to Islington Isle.”

“Aye, m’laird,” Tristan said, bowing dutifully, then turning with a pleasant grin to Gwenyth and bowing again.

“How does my fair wife?” Rowan asked softly.

Tristan tried manfully to maintain his pleasant expression. “We care for her and love her as ever,” he said quietly.

“And her health?” Rowan inquired, his features taut.

“She is weak,” Tristan said.

“I will ride ahead. Tristan, will you see to the Lady Gwenyth’s comfort and to suitable quarters for her women?”

Then he spurred his horse forward and didn’t so much as glance back at Gwenyth as he rode on ahead.

Tristan and the milling children were left with their party. The steward lifted a hand in acknowledgment of the four guards, evidently all men he’d met before.

“I’ve heard from y’er uncle, m’lady,” Tristan said, filling the silence that had ensued after Rowan left. “Ye’ll be glad to hear that all is well on the isle.”

“Thank you,” she told him.

“Come, ’tis nae Edinburgh here, but I’ll see tha’y’er comfort is assured. Ye’ll enjoy y’er stay, I vow it, m’lady.”

“I am certain,” she said. But despite her words, she was no such thing. Despite the lushness of the fields and the obvious strength of the stone fortress, she felt an air of sadness, as if it had permeated the very rock of the estate, and she dreaded going forward. She dreaded seeing Rowan’s wife.

Tristan provided a running commentary as they rode over the drawbridge and reached the courtyard, pointing out a paddock of sheep and explaining that the rocky tor upon which the castle itself had been built offered no sustenance for domestic animals, but that the lands beyond offered ample grazing opportunities.

“Castle Grey, small and poor as she might be next to the crown palaces of more recent years, has never been taken in battle, be it earthshaking or a mere Highland feud. No man attacks a Scotsman upon these rocks.”

“It’s quite impressive,” she assured him.

“Come then, we’ll have y’er horses stabled and see that ye have all ye need to be comfortable. Ye must be famished. We’ll have a meal in the great hall soon.”

They followed the steward through the immense walled courtyard. People stopped at their tasks, watching them, openly curious. They greeted her with smiles, men and women dipping low in acknowledgment of her position at the queen’s court, and she smiled to all in return.

There was something fascinating about the workers, and after a moment she realized what it was. They all seemed happy, content with their lot in life.

“Welcome home, Lady Gwenyth. Welcome home to the Highlands,” a man called to her.

“Deepest thanks,” Gwenyth said in return.

“How lovely this place is,” Annie whispered behind her.

Gwenyth had to agree, and yet she felt oddly guilty in coming here, and she didn’t know why. She was a guest, nothing more. But this was Laird Rowan’s homestead; it was where his beloved and gravely ill wife lived. Perhaps her guilt came from her knowledge that, had he been given the choice, he would not want her here, where he could not help but be reminded of his pain.

She rode closer to Tristan and spoke quietly. “Please forgive me for speaking freely, but I know that the lady here is ill. Please…don’t let our arrival create any difficulty.”

“We are pleased to serve, m’lady.”

“You are kind, but please understand that I don’t wish to distress the lady in any way.”

He looked at her with kind eyes. “My lady is dying,” he said quietly, “and has been doing so for some time. We watch her waste away. There is nothing anyone can do. The finest physicians have come and gone, powerless, so we make her life as easy as possible. We keep her from pain, and we tell her often that she is loved. Ye are nae a burden here, lass. Our burden is one we have borne for some time, and it is not affected by your coming. We are glad to have ye in the castle, and ye are welcome here ever. The Laird Rowan, no matter what the dictates were of God, queen or man, would nae have brought ye here did he not believe ye had a brave and gentle heart. And now…here we are. M’lady, if ye’ll allow me…?”

He dismounted before a massive stone stairway that led up to heavy doors one story above. These were the stables, she realized, and the horses were stabled on the first floor, while living quarters were located above. Had any enemy ever managed to enter the courtyard, the defenders here would have had the advantage when it came to battle. There were no windows to be seen on the face of the building, only slender arrow slits. Comfortable as it might prove to be, Castle Grey was a fortress built not for the niceties of life, but for defense.

She thanked the man for assisting her to the ground, while groomsmen helped Annie and Liza to dismount. Her women, she was told, were to be taken to the kitchen—apparently, it was assumed that Liza was a part of her company now. Before heading off with one of the cooks, Annie assured her that she would explore the lay of the castle, then quickly return to arrange Gwenyth’s travel wardrobe and see to her comforts. Annie looked worn from the ride, Gwenyth saw, and Liza appeared nothing short of exhausted. She made a decision and turned to Tristan. “May my women be fed and shown to their sleeping quarters?” she asked.

“Nay, nay,” Annie began to protest.

“Please, we’ll all rest,” Gwenyth said. “Tristan, please see that a meal is sent to my room. Laird Rowan has just returned, and I know will cherish his time with his wife, while I will be happiest if I know that I have created no conflict for him.”

“As you wish,” he assured her.

Still, there was a massive great hall to be traversed when they entered the castle, after passing through one doorway and then another, with nothing but sky overhead to allow the defenders in a battle to rain down arrows or pour boiling oil upon any attackers who might make it so far. This was an impressive holding, indeed, she thought.

Swords and shields, new and from ancient times, were hung the length of the great hall, adding to the impression of strength and permanence. Tristan led her along a seemingly endless corridor, until they finally arrived at a broad flight of stone steps leading to the floor above.

“The laird’s home is immense,” she said when they reached the top.

“Ah, m’lady, not so grand,” Tristan said cheerfully. “Living quarters above, servants’ quarters below. There is the main building, nae more. Ye’ll learn y’er way easily enough. I’ll have y’er women brought to the small chamber there, at the end of the hall, so they’ll be near. The master’s chambers are to the right, there, and I am ever in the wee room abutting his laird’s, should ye need a thing.”

He opened one of the many doors along the hallway, allowing her to pass before him into the room. Her travel bags had been brought and set against the wardrobe along the rear wall. These might have been guest quarters, but the room was quite grand to her eyes, far larger than her accommodations at Holyrood.