"Will you speak to the Queen soon?" Lord James was saying. "Of course
the rest of the councillors will urge it as well, but if you add your
voice to ours and Queen Elizabeth's "
"I said I would, didn't I? If you advise it."
"Oh, I do advise it."
"Very well. I'll do it as soon as an opportunity presents itself."
Bothwell felt as though a great pit were opening up under him. Murder
and adultery and treason, all at once, were difficult to get used to in
only a few short hours. He smiled wanly.
"Good." Lord James stood up. There were to be no pleasantries about
the weather, the ceremonies, or the distinguished visitors, then. Just
right to the point: the murder. "I do believe you could persuade the
Queen to do anything these days. Even signing her own death
warrant."
He knew!
"I am only joking," said Lord James, raising his eyebrows. "I must
say, you look a bit ill. Perhaps you should avoid the bullfight. Too
much blood. But do speak to her today, if possible."
The expensive, week-long festivities were to come to a tumultuous close
with an elaborately staged battle to capture a make-believe castle
erected near the King's Knot. It was in the best tradition of France,
for a Castle of Love to be stormed by lovesick knights, and defended by
crueUes dames sans merci. For six weeks John Chisholm, a Scotsman who
had studied this art in France, had laboured to construct it, and
rumour was there was to be a spectacular finale. All were requested to
attend, as it had been hideously expensive to bring into being.
Bothwell who, far from seeking out the Queen to speak with her, had
studiously avoided her had attired himself in his best clothes,
selecting the wine-coloured doublet with topaz stones outlining the
gold-braided design, and puffed satin breeches over his silken hose. A
velvet cap with feather completed the ceremonial costume of the most
powerful lord in the land.
He joined the throngs streaming out of the castle gates to descend to
the grounds where the spectacle would be staged. Just then French
Paris tugged at his cloak.
"A message for you," he said. "I don't know who brought it; it was
thrown into the room all wrapped up, and covered with wax."
Bothwell drew back from the jostling, overdressed crowd to break the
seal and read it.
I pray you, come now to my private chamber.
That was all. He wadded it up and stuffed it into his waistband. Then
he melted away from the chattering crowd.
The Queen's apartments were deserted. He opened the outer door, the
one leading directly to the public rooms; there were no guards in the
anteroom. Then he entered the ceremonial public chambers with their
smooth paved floors, their silent tapestries of classical deeds and
loves and labours, meant to give weight and formality to proceedings.
No one there. The throne, carved and gilded, stood empty underneath
its canopy. He passed through the three outer chambers and entered the
private ones. The Marys, the servers, all were gone. The cushions lay
dozing like rotund cats in the coming gloom. Only one candle stand had
been lit, and the feeble light showed poorly against the bloody red of
the sunset through the western window panes.
The inner chamber which was it? There was a small door near the
tapestry of Hercules' labours this one the cleansing of the Augean
stables and it was slightly ajar.
She was in there, he knew it. Now he must see her. He stretched out
his arm and knocked on the door. Let what would happen, happen. He
felt no fear. He had put that behind him.
FORTY-ONE
Mary heard the soft knock on the door. She had been waiting for it,
sitting rigidly in her chair; now she did not want to rise and greet
him. The knocking came again, more insistent.
She wanted to see him; she could not bear to see him. Until she
actually saw him again, the memory of that night in the chapel would
remain exactly as it was: perfect and glorious and completely free,
free of all examination and soul-searching and apologies and promises,
a godly surprise and gift.
I wish I might never see him again; I wish I had died that night, died
the second I got back to my bed, she thought.
She had hurried across the courtyard in the falling snow, soaking her
shoes. Her feet would have been numb, perhaps had been numb, but she
had not noticed. She had rushed into her own private chamber, not even
speaking to Madame Rallay or Mary Seton, and closed the door. Then she
had lain down, completely happy, and spent the night in reverie.
The next few days, with all their festivities, had passed for her as if
she were in a trance. She saw Darnley passing down the steep path into
town, probably to drink, but it mattered not. She even glimpsed
Archibald Douglas skulking across the courtyard. She entertained Sir
Christopher Hatton and thought, idly, how attractive he was, and
wondered if Elizabeth fancied him. Every day she passed by the chapel
and would incline her head toward it, giving it reverence, thinking it
the holiest site she had ever visited.
She did not see Bothwell, although she kept seeing his wife. Suddenly
Lady Bothwell seemed to be everywhere, as if she had multiplied during
that night. Mary could not help studying her carefully, trying to see
exactly what she wore. When her dress was green, was it because
Bothwell was especially fond of the colour? Did she dress to please
him?
At first she had been relieved that she did not see him. Then,
gradually, she came to believe that he was avoiding her. The time was
drawing near when all the guests would be departing. Embarrassing as
it was, she would have to summon him. For it would be unthinkable for
them to part without a word, although deep inside she would have
preferred that. She could not bear it if he said something to soil
even the memory.
He had other women, had had other women. In the past few days she had
found out more about them, as if to torture and punish herself. It
seemed he had been married twice before, in a manner of speaking: he
had been "handfast" to Janet Beaton, and had lived in common-law
marriage with the Norwegian woman. Neither of these was binding, of
course, but what did they mean to him?
The knock was loud and demanding now. Mary rose and opened the door.
Even so, she was not prepared for the impact of seeing him again, after
dwelling so intensely in her own memories. He stood there, completely
real and impatient to be admitted.
"Come in," she said faintly, stepping aside.
He almost jumped in the door and closed it. "You left me standing
there so long I was sure someone would see me!" he said. He looked
annoyed.
Already this was different from anything she had imagined. The real
Bothwell was disconcerting.
"I took care that no one should be here," she said. "They are all
going to watch the castle-storming."
"If it truly costs a king's ransom, which they say it does, then we
must go to watch it too. We will both be questioned about it, and we
must witness it."
A king's ransom.
"We will. In a moment. Separately, of course." She paused. "What
did you mean, a king's ransom?"
"It is merely an expression."
"One that is very appropriate, I fear."
"Mary I trust I may call you that, here in private please. Do not
begin that."
She turned and indicated to him that he should take a seat on one of
the huge cushions before the fire. He did so, and she sat opposite
him, arranging her skirts so they completely covered the cushion,
clasping her knees with her arms.
"I know not what you mean," she finally said. Nearby the fire crackled
and spat.
"I mean, discussing your husband and what is to be done, and what we
are to do, and so on. Mary, what happened, happened. But I cannot go
on with it. You may laugh or call me coward, but I cannot take a
married woman as a lover."
"So it is not my crown that intimidates you, but my wedding ring?"
"Yes." He smiled. "I am ashamed to admit it, it makes me sound like a
Puritan, but that is one thing my moral code will not permit me. Last
week I outraged my own code, but in passion. If I repeat it, it cannot
be held to be in passion, but in cold decision, so to speak."
"Do you realize that is why I love you?" she said. "For those very
same inconvenient principles? They are what make you who you are, and
the man I love."
"Mary, please, stop this! Can we not go away and forget? I will still
serve you as loyally as ever. But I would prefer not ever to be alone
with you again. It is not safe."
He was looking at her with a level gaze. The wound on his face was
turning into a scar, and soon would be just a memory. He wanted the
night in the chapel to turn into a scar as well, she thought.
"So you will have it that we never meet again, except in necessary
circumstances, under the eye of others," she said softly. "You will
suppress what happened, attempt to forget it, and, in time, succeed."
"Yes." He did not turn his eyes away.
"I do not want to forget it," she said.
"If you choose to dwell on it, I cannot prevent that."
"Oh, Bothwell, I love you! I cannot let you go, send you back down the
steep path from Stirling, and off to the Borders again! I cannot
pretend!"
"You must. If you cannot mask what happened, then you doom us both!"
His voice rose in alarm.
"Do you not care for me?" she heard herself asking, hating herself for
letting the words escape her. It was begging; she was as much a beggar
as the crowds even now gathering around the gate at the foot of the
castle path, begging for alms and scraps from the banquets.
He rose from the cushion, clearly so uncomfortable that he wished to
bolt away from her presence; at least that was what she thought. She
rose with him. To her utter confoundment, he put his arms around her
and held her to him.
"Yes, I care for you. I have cared for you ever since I first saw you,
a little girl in France." He held her tightly, but there was no
passion in it, just affection.
"You saw me in France?" she asked, her voice small and astonished.
"How?"
"I saw you many times, passing by in your carriage. Did I never tell
you I was in France when you were still a child there?"
"No, never. I did not know. What were you doing there?"
"Studying. I was at the Scots' College, the one by the Sorbonne. I
lived in a room just near the Phillippe Auguste wall. And I would see
you passing by in your carriage to the Louvre, or along the rue
Ste.-Antoine to the jousts, and I would stand still and look, and I
thought you the most beautiful, entrancing child I had ever seen. You
made me proud to be a Scot! I would point you out to all my friends,
saying, "She is from Scotland; you can see what beautiful girls we
have." You were so much prettier than the Valois princesses!" His
mouth was quite close to her ear; she could feel his warm breath on her
skin.