The little village, spread out on the banks of the River Clyde, looked
innocent and inviting as they approached it. In the centre of the town
were a castle, a cathedral, and an adjoining Archbishop's Palace, empty
since Archbishop Beaton had taken up permanent residence in Paris when
Knox and his followers had prevailed seven years ago. It was to this
pretty little cluster of buildings that the Queen made her way just as
the setting sun was turning the waters of the Clyde crimson.
FORTY-SEVEN
Darnley was fidgeting with his pen. He had been seized suddenly with
the desire to write poetry, as he was lying in bed ruminating on Mary's
cruelty in contrast to his own pure and intense longing. He had roused
himself from his sweat-soaked, foul sheets, and left his bed to sit
shakily at his little table. Anthony Standen, his servant, had been
instantly at his side, ready to coax him back into bed, but instead had
been ordered to bring him pen and ink. He complied; Anthony had
learned to obey always, immediately and unquestioningly. It was one of
the things Darnley liked best about him.
Now Darnley, clad in his nightshirt with furs draped round his
shoulders, slumped over the table and eyed his verse.
"Sweet what rhymes? tweet? "In pursuit of their sweet, they tweet ..
."? No. Meat? To adore her is my meat'? Heat? Ah .. ."
He stared off into space and let the words sort themselves out in his
mind, arrange themselves into the proper rows, like soldiers. How
wonderful it was to have this poetic faculty.
"Ah .. . here it comes." He sat straight up and let the words pour
down his arm.
Though I think in pain, In passing to and fro, I labour all in vain;
For so have many more That have not served so In pursuit of their
sweet. The nearer the fire I go, The greater is my heat.
Perfect! And already the next verse leapt fully formed out of his
mind.
The turtledove for her mate More sorrow may not endure Than I do for
her sake Even her which has in cure My heart.. ..
The pain. The pain was so wrenching he could not have borne it, except
that he knew it would be ending soon. That gave him great comfort; to
know that he had the power to bring about his own delivery and surcease
of his pain. And that he and Mary would be together forever. In the
chronicles of history their names would always be mentioned in one
breath.
I will make us immortal, he thought. What higher gift can a lover
offer?
"Sire, Sir James Balfour is here," Standen announced.
Now the last verse would have to wait. He hoped he would not forget
it. The last line was to be "Farewell, I say no more'. But now to the
means.
Darnley adjusted the taffeta mask in front of his face and clapped a
hat on to hide the patches where his hair had fallen out.
"Enter," he said, holding his head up proudly on his thin neck. He
drew his robes about him.
Balfour came in and tried to keep his repulsion from being visible. He
was a middle-aged man whose skin had a peculiar paper like quality and
was stretched tight over all the planes of his face, looking almost
shiny. He kept his hair shorter than did most men; his eyes were so
light they gave an immediate impression of being just hard, milky
marbles with no colour at all.
"I am honoured to be summoned, Your Majesty. In what way may I be of
service?" he said, kneeling.
Darnley had helped him receive his appointment as secretary of the
Council the previous autumn, despite his reputation as "the worst
scoundrel in Scotland," earned the hard way over formidable
competition: the murder of Cardinal Beaton; the plundering of
ecclesiastical property; betrayals and blasphemy. Balfour had been
willing to serve him until someone else might pay a higher price. So
far no one had.
"If just suppose I wished someone to die in an explosion .. . would it
be technically possible? I know cannon explode, and the flimsy castle
erected for that express purpose on the green at Stirling was blown up,
but if one wished to rig a chamber ..." Darnley's voice was quivering.
What if it were not possible? He would be so disappointed! He caught
his breath and waited.
"That is an inexact science, Your Majesty. Powder varies in its
strength, and often becomes damp in our climate and fails to light at
all. You would do better to arrange it in Italy!" He laughed, a dry,
humourless laugh, as hard as the planes in his face.
"Unfortunately that is not an alternative." How dare this man laugh at
him? He was as bad as all the rest. "If it must be brought about in
Scotland, how would one go about it?"
Balfour breathed through his mouth to avoid the foul smell of Darnley's
breath; it smelled like a peat bog with a rotting corpse in its midst.
"In order to achieve an explosion, the powder must be tightly packed
and contained. For a small explosion, a barrel would suffice. But to
demolish a stone chamber ... ah, that would require mining underneath."
He saw Darnley's mouth clamp in anger. "Or using a house that has a
low crypt or vault already beneath it."
"Do you know of such a house?"
"Why yes." Balfour grinned. "My brother Robert has exactly such a
dwelling the old Provost's house at Kirk O'Field. But it is a rather
costly dwelling, and he, of course, would have to be recompensed." He
crossed his arms. "It would be an expensive killing. Why not just use
a dagger? Much more economical. Quieter. Cleaner."
"I don't want it to be quiet or clean. I want it to be spectacular!"
he cried.
"I see. Of course, the advantage to an explosion is that many people
can be killed simultaneously, so perhaps if you look at it that way it
is not so expensive. And it obliterates all clues. And it certainly
makes a statement. Everyone will know it was intended and no
accident."
"Exactly," breathed Darnley.
Balfour winced at the odour.
"Can you arrange this?" asked Darnley.
"Indeed. But, even at the risk of displeasing Your Majesty, I must
know whom you intend to kill."
"Why?"
Balfour said curtly, "Because even I have principles. I will not kill
just anyone. There are some my conscience will not permit."
"Oh?" The man was a liar. He had no conscience; he was only afraid he
himself might be the intended victim. "Come closer, then. I will
speak it only into your ear."
Holding his breath, Balfour put his head near Darnley's.
"The Queen," Darnley whispered.
Balfour started, and Damley saw it.
"Speak now," said Darnley. "Can you see your way clear to it, or
no?"
Balfour slid his eyes sideways and grinned. "Aye. I can undertake the
task." And what might it be worth to others to try to prevent it? he
wondered. Perhaps I shall become a very rich man!
"Good," said Darnley. "You make me very happy."
FORTY-EIGHT
Mary and her party reached the courtyard, dismounted, and made ready to
enter the castle itself. Huntly, Livingston, and their retainers had
found quarters in town, and the Hamiltons likewise. Attendants with
flaming torches led their horses away. Suddenly in the twilight Mary
caught sight of Sir James Balfour leaving by way of a smaller door to
one side of the castle. He was forced to pass through a far corner of
the courtyard to the stables, and though he kept his cloak pulled
partly across his face, his distinctive colourless eyes betrayed his
identity to Mary.
Why was he here? The erstwhile henchman of Knox, the Cardinal's
murderer, was now supposed to be in Bothwell's pocket. So Bothwell had
told her. Bothwell had not mentioned his being in Glasgow. Obviously
Bothwell had not known.
Mary nodded to him and he perfunctorily acknowledged her. The very
furtiveness of the gesture disturbed her.
Bothwell warned me, she thought. He said there was danger, of what
sort he was not sure. But certainly there are things here we do not
know.... I am deep in my enemies' territory. Here my husband and his
father are kings indeed.
She made her way slowly up the stairs inside the castle, holding her
skirts. What awaited? Darnley's nursing would require several rooms,
all connected, to administer all the necessary medicine and
treatments.
Smoking torches lit the dark, narrow, tunnel like passageway, throwing
uneven shadows on the bald stone, unrelieved by any tapestries. It was
like a corridor in a nightmare, murky, cold, beckoning. She almost
expected the sconces to move, like ghostly hands.
Why were there no guards here? Mary quietly turned the handle of the
first door she came to. Inside was only a pallet and a table with
stoppered jars, opaque bottles, and open bowls of dried herbs. The
odour of marjoram and angelica permeated the chamber.
The next room revealed a bed of royal dimensions, hung with blue velvet
embroidered valances, topped with a tasseled canopy, and even a
priedieu before a crucifix. But this room, like the one before, was
empty. Nonetheless Mary entered it and passed through it to the next,
where she heard the low murmur of voices and even the sound of a
lute.
Darnley was bent over the lute, singing to himself. She recognized him
only by his voice, for the creature she saw was almost bald and covered
with livid purple sores, and his hands were skeletal. A death's-head
plucked the strings of the lute, and sang,
"O ye highlands and ye lowlands, O where have you been? They have
slain the Earl o' Moray, And laid him on the green."
Darnley tilted his head back and closed his eyes, making him look truly
like a skull.
"He was a brave gallant And he rode at the ring And the bonny Earl o'
Moray He might have been a king."
"A bastard will never be king," she said loudly.
Darnley snapped open his eyes and stared at her. "So you've come," he
stated, but it was an accusation, not a welcome. Now it was too late
for him to hide his face behind the taffeta mask. No matter let her
see him as he was!
"As you see." She tried not to stare at him, but the transformation
was so startling she had to struggle not to. His flesh had melted from
his always-delicate bones, so that he looked like one of those
grotesque, sticklike figures swinging from gibbets, only his skin was
not black and rotted, it was translucent and rotted, dotted with scabs
and patches of purple. The bald head made him look preternaturally
old.
"Bourgoing has helped me," he said, laying aside the lute. "You should
have seen me earlier!" His eyes narrowed. "Come, dear wife, and kiss
me!"
She forced herself to smile and made her way closer to him. He looked
even worse close up. Some of the sores were still oozing. She found
an unblemished place near his left eye, and lightly touched her lips to
it.
"Thank you," he murmured. "Already I feel the healing begin."
His breath stank, with a distinctive odour unlike anything she had ever
smelled before. It festered; there was no other word for it.