As for Flamina, Mary looked at her with tenderness. She hoped she
would be happy with the Chameleon, as he had been called by his
political enemies.
May he never change his feelings for her, as he seems to change his
alliances, Mary thought. Let him find in his bride the one thing he
can be loyal to.
"Now that Darnley is gone, we are free of him. Come to my inmost
chamber tonight," Mary whispered to Bothwell as she brushed past him
during the dancing afterwards. She felt giddy with the sudden
freedom.
Bothwell frowned and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
"Too dangerous," he murmured later, when he could insert it into a
brief gap between two innocuous sentences spoken in front of the
beaming Maitland. Lady Jean stood beside her husband, looking at him
with her wide, perceptive eyes. She was fingering her wedding ring.
Pointedly?
"We wish you all the joy possible," she said in her low, drowsy voice.
"Marriage is full of the unexpected, but it wears brighter and brighter
as time goes on, like a gold ring." She displayed her ring with
obvious pride.
"Let us dance," said Bothwell. "I learned this one in France."
"Ah, France. You must take me sometime...." Mary could not hear the
rest of the sentence, as Bothwell led his wife away into the midst of
the dancers, but she could see the Countess smiling and touching
BothwelPs shoulder, and could see him smile at her.
A pain pierced through her. How could it hurt so much, when she knew
he loved her? And how could it be that she could not see him alone
tonight?
She felt suffocated by the music, the torches, the celebrants, and
wanted to run from the chamber and sit and wait for Bothwell to come to
her later.
But instead she had to smile and dance and drink goblets of sweet wine,
and kiss Mary Fleming and tease her about the wedding night.
"Your Stewart blood will see you through. Passion runs in your veins,"
she assured her.
Was it a blessing or a curse, this passionate blood?
"At last I can turn it loose," said Flamina. "And with the Church's
blessing!"
Bothwell later sent word to her, and while his wife was out hunting the
next morning they made quick, impassioned love in his quarters.
Afterwards he told her that it was time they, too, departed. His wife
was questioning their long stay and was impatient to return to her own
favourite castle of Crichton, which she was in the process of
furnishing.
"And she seems anxious to write our wills," said Bothwell, "and settle
our inheritance."
"But you don't sleep with her!" cried Mary. "So how can an
inheritance for her heirs be of concern to her?"
"Well, there are brothers, family "
"You don't sleep with her!"
"Mary, be reasonable "
"No! You promised! You mustn't "
"I never promised that! I promised to love you always "
"And sleep with your wife?" she shrieked.
"Quiet!" commanded Bothwell. "Do you want the entire castle to hear
you? How can I not sleep with her? Do you think she would continue
unsuspecting if I did not?"
"So, she craves your lovemaking and cannot be deprived of it! The
proper Lady Jean Gordon "
"Stop it! You sound like an ordinary, tiresome, demanding mistress,
not like a Queen. I will not stand for it! I've had my fill of such
women whiny, jealous, clingy...." He attempted to kiss her.
The thought of him naked with his wife was so repugnant to her she
turned away.
"Do not be ordinary," he said. "It is a Queen I want."
"Must you go?"
"Yes. I must."
"When?"
"After a week or so, when the weather turns. You know January
fourteenth, St. Hilary's Day, is by custom the coldest day of the
year. The Ice Saint, they call Hilary. So I'll wait for his day to
pass. Then I shall go."
But by the fourteenth of January, Mary had more anguish than just
Both-well's departure. The word had come from Glasgow, where Darnley
had returned to his father, that Darnley was very ill with syphilis.
And she herself felt ill, but of a different cause: she was pregnant.
She must tell Bothwell before he departed! By making discreet
inquiries as to his whereabouts, she ascertained that he was in the
stables, overseeing the packing of his horses. He was to journey forty
miles in the cold weather,
and equipment was important. He would not think of setting out without
horse blankets, tools, candles, and extra food, and he did not trust
the stable hands to secure them properly.
Making an excuse that she wanted to see how her favourite white
palfrey, Ladysmith, was faring after a bout with a mysterious swollen
knee, Mary slipped out to the stables. She, with her love of horses,
often went there, and so did not arouse any curiosity from the stable
hands
Bothwell was inspecting his horse's hooves, his brow furrowed. He
looked up and saw her, and an expression of displeasure came over his
face. It changed quickly to anger.
"Do you want to expose us to unnecessary suspicion? We said our
farewells. Now go!" He glanced at the stable hands busy in the
stalls. So far they had not looked up. "Yes, Your Majesty, I will see
if there is any word from Moretta. The last message I received in
Edinburgh was that he has only just left Paris." He raised his voice
slightly as he said this. "Pity he had to miss the ceremony itself."
"Bothwell!" She clutched his sleeve. "I cannot commit this to
writing!" She leaned over and whispered in his ear, "I fear I am with
child. So I must go to Darnley in Glasgow."
"No! He is diseased! You must not, must not "
"I will not give myself to him, but what the world will see is that we
have come together. What happens in our private moments cannot be
proved or disproved."
"It is dangerous there!"
A nearby stable hand turned his head and gave them a sly smile.
"I told you, I shall not give myself to him," she whispered.
"Glasgow itself is dangerous. It is filled with the Lennox Stewarts,
and Lennox himself is lurking."
"Lennox is ill."
"He pretends to be ill. I cannot let you go there alone. I have there
are rumours that both father and son are planning some monstrous action
against you. Lennox signalled his intentions by absenting himself from
the baptism. I have heard "
"I have no choice!" Could he not see that?
"Rid yourself of it! Janet Beaton has remedies "
"Your old mistress? That reputed witch? The remedy might prove worse
than the condition itself!" Her voice was rising again.
"Keep your voice down!" he hissed. "I hear you well enough! Very
well, then. But these remedies work."
"I'll not dabble in witchcraft."
" Tis not witchcraft, but simple country medicine." He looked around
quickly.
She did not answer.
"You must not go Glasgow! Mary, I beg you "
"Unless you have some true information of which I am ignorant which I
now command you to tell me then I must."
He shrugged and shook his head. "Only rumours. But, Mary, there were
similar rumours flying about before Riccio was murdered. Even Cecil
heard them in London. Damley wants the crown. He was promised it by
the Riccio conspirators for his part in the plot. Now he knows you
seek ways to be free of him. He must do something quickly, while he is
still legally bound to you."
"I distrust him. But I will be on my guard." She reached out toward
him, but stopped herself. She must not touch him. "I cannot believe
that he would actually harm my person."
"I pray you are right."
"Farewell. I shall write you from Glasgow, reporting all his words, so
that if anything happens, there will be proof and he shall never come
by the crown."
"I shall await your letters. And God be with you."
FORTY-FIVE
A few days later Bothwell jounced along the rutted, icy path between
Crichton Castle where he had left his wife directing workmen to carve
new oak panelling for the hall and Whittingham, a Douglas stronghold
fifteen miles away. January was a miserable time to travel even a
short distance, but Mary's situation made it imperative. Immediately
after her visit and "reconciliation" with Darnley, Mary must be
rendered a widow. It was as simple as that.
It was true, what he had told her. There were rumours about that
Darnley and his father planned some sort of coup against Mary that
would result in their seizing the crown in the little Prince's name, of
course. But when it was planned, what exactly was to take place, and
who were the conspirators, he did not know.
If only my spies were as well paid as Cecil's, he lamented as he pulled
his wrap more tightly around his neck. Then I would know everything.
But then it matters not what the weak, mewling fool has planned, if I
act first.
He had a sinking feeling. Good clean outdoor fighting, that he
relished. But this plotting, this underhanded, inherently cowardly way
of dealing with enemies, sat ill on him.
My entanglement with the Queen has led me into this, he thought. It
has transformed me into a masquer, as false as everyone else at court.
I hate it. And now with this child, I cannot just end it.
The great stone tower of Whittingham poked out from above the dull
brown branches of the sleeping forest at the foot of the Lammermuir
Hills. Bothwell trotted into the courtyard and was relieved of his
horse by a shivering attendant. Awaiting him inside were the Earl of
Morton, Maitland, and Archibald Douglas, Morton's all-purpose henchman:
cutthroat, forger, and bully.
"Ah!" They turned to greet him, offer him a goblet of heated ale.
"Promptness is a virtue," said Archibald Douglas. "Now the meeting may
begin."
Unlike a court ceremony, this was to have no niceties, no exchange of
pleasantries, although Bothwell could not resist saying, "Well, Mr.
Secretary Maitland, I see even a honeymoon does not keep you away from
your necessary duties like planning assassinations."
"Close your mouth!" Morton stepped forward. "We will confer
outside."
Bothwell tapped the moist grey stones. "Even the walls have ears, eh?"
He drank some more of the heated ale. He would have wished for a few
more moments before the fire, so his numbed fingers and toes could at
least begin to tingle.
"Your lack of originality disappoints me," said Maitland.
"As does your lack of lust for your new bride. But duty calls."
Bothwell finished the ale and put the cup down. He pulled his hat
lower on his ears.
Outside, the chill seemed to hover just above the ground.