One of the doctors handed him a little mirror. "It is no longer
necessary to wear the mask," he said.
Darnley inspected his face. The livid purple had subsided, but his
face was still blotched with pink round spots.
"This salve contains white clay. It will help to hide the marks." The
doctor dabbed a bit on Darnley's face.
Darnley smiled. The result was astonishing. He could barely see the
spot.
"And so for Your Majesty's hair, you can wear hats until it has quite
grown in again."
The physicians were pleased with their expertise. The King could now
be seen in public again until his next attack, which was bound to come,
and would prove fatal.
The reception chamber was thronged with courtiers, eager to pay their
respects or get a glimpse of the ailing King to satisfy their own
curiosity and report their findings to their masters in France and
England. The Lord James, Bothwell, Maitland, Huntly, Argyll, Mar, and
Kirkcaldy of Grange all crowded round the double-seated chair of
estate, covered with red and yellow taffeta, where Darnley and Mary sat
together. The Balfour brothers came, as did John Stewart of Traquair.
Philibert du Croc, the French ambassador, and Moretta, the slow-moving
Savoyan who had arrived at last, were alert to every word.
The fires blazed, the musicians played, and there was superficial talk
about the weather and the season. Lent was to start next week, and in
other countries carnival was under way, but here in Scotland it was to
be confined to just one Catholic celebration: the wedding of two of the
Queen's household, the Frenchman Bastian Pages and his Scottish
sweetheart, Margaret Carwood. After the ceremony on Sunday, a wedding
masque at Ho-lyrood would require costumes and games and disguises.
Knox, after all, was in England and could not interfere.
Mary, as always, watched Bothwell as he moved easily in and out of the
crowd, his broad shoulders creating their own space. She could pick
his voice out from the babble of all the others.
God knows how 1 am punished for making my god of you and for having no
other thought but of you.
How stupid it had sounded when Darnley said it to her; how different it
was to feel it herself.
Was this idolatry?
Thou shall have no other gods before me, for I the Lord thy God am a
jealous God.
The thought of God taking vengeance and destroying her idol, Bothwell,
as He had the Baals of Israel, terrified her. Suddenly he looked very
vulnerable standing there, in spite of the strength of his body.
It is wrong to love him so, she thought. But how can I stop?
She glanced over at Darnley, who was laughing in a high-pitched, feeble
voice. He seemed to sense her attention, and slid his glance toward
her. Hesitantly he reached for her hand.
"Pray stay with me tonight. It would comfort me to know you are under
the same roof." He squeezed her hand, but there was no strength in the
grip-Mary made ready to sleep. She had found the little bedroom it was
only about twelve by sixteen feet strangely appealing. It reminded her
of the room she had had at St.-Pierre, when she had visited her aunt
Renee, the night the letter had come from Lord James and the others,
bidding her to return.
She stood looking out the window at the enclosed yard of the
quadrangle. A light snow had fallen, covering the ground in white.
Across the way, about a hundred feet, was the imposing house of the
Duke of Chatelherault, with many candles burning in the night.
The Hamiltons keep late hours, she thought. She blew out her own
candle and settled herself under the covers. Purposely, she had
dismissed her ladies. Tonight she would have no attendants, no
witnesses. She and her lawful husband, King Henry, Lord Darnley, were
alone under the same roof, except for his servants sleeping in the
antechamber. If she later claimed he had visited her in her bed that
night, there would be no one to contradict her. No one could prove it
untrue.
She sighed. She was safe. She had delivered herself from the shame of
bearing a bastard.
And as for delivery from the yoke of marriage to Darnley.. . she did
not need the machinations of the courtiers and the help of Parliament
after all. Darnley would not live long; the marks of death were on him
for all to see, in spite of all the physicians had done. It was so
horribly apparent that he was doomed, and it made the hearty
well-wishing and compliments given him that day seem brutal and
obscene. Everyone knew that syphilis disappeared for a time before its
final attack.
Directly below her, she heard the noise of the cooks closing up the
kitchen for the night, heard their tired voices trail off. Then the
house was quiet.
She slept, then heard someone moving on the spiral stair outside her
room. Not Darnley! Surely he would not really come? She sat upright,
cold waves of fear running through her. She held her breath.
But no they were ascending, not descending. Someone was going up to
Damley's quarters. Someone had to see him in the middle of the night.
The physicians?
Yes. That must be it. The physicians.
She let out a breath of relief and lay back down. Now she heard the
footsteps above her, heard a slight bump, but could hear no voices.
They were speaking in whispers, lest the attendants be disturbed. She
closed her eyes. Her only responsibility was to obtain the best
physicians for her husband, not to monitor the treatment or the
conversations. She could safely leave it in their hands.
Darnley was sitting up in bed, his eyes shining unnaturally bright in
the light of the single tall candle by his bedside, as the Balfours
approached.
"We waited until three o'clock," James Balfour whispered. "Even the
candles at Hamilton House are out. The Queen sleeps, and she has no
ladies in her antechamber. We are completely unobserved." He took his
place beside Darnley, and his brother stood on the other side of the
bed.
"I am now determined to proceed with my plan," said Darnley in his
lowest speaking voice. "As of tonight, I know that the Queen will pass
the night here if I beg her. Before, I was not sure. And when I was
undergoing extensive treatment "
"For which we are so thankful you have responded so well," said Robert
unctuously.
"We thank you," said Darnley. "Now as to the plan .. . ?"
"I would suggest that, if Your Highness is indeed resolved to carry it
out, I obtain the requisite amount of gunpowder and store it in the
cellar of your house, Robert." James glanced at his brother. "Then,
when it is all collected, we can transfer it directly to the vaults
beneath the long chamber. We can dig a small tunnel for the purpose
and be assured of complete secrecy."
"The long chamber!" cried Robert. "You wish to destroy the long
chamber?"
"Sssh. You will be recompensed by His Majesty," James hissed. "We do
not 'wish' to destroy the chamber; we would, in fact, prefer to destroy
the old house, where we are now. But two things prevent it. The
kitchens occupy the ground floor, and the cooks and servants there
might detect our activity just beneath them. And the ground slopes
steeply here, so that the vaults are much higher beneath the old house
than beneath the long reception hall. It would take twice or even
three times the amount of gunpowder, for the powder must be tightly
packed to achieve any force when it explodes. So you see, don't you,
why we must sacrifice the long chamber? I know you are fond of it, but
"
"How much powder will it take?" Darnley's eyes glittered.
"Several thousand pounds, even for the long chamber," said James. "But
I have means of obtaining it quickly."
"Without suspicion?" asked Robert sarcastically.
James smiled. "What do you take me for? Of course, without
suspicion."
"Do it all tomorrow, then, and do your digging," said Darnley.
"Tomorrow is Thursday. On Friday night I shall beg the Queen to be so
kind as to stay here again with her ailing, melancholy husband. Then,
at about this time no, about five o'clock the powder can be lit. I
will order my horses to be saddled and waiting for me at that hour.
Then, as the powder train takes a long time to burn, tell me just as it
is lighted."
"The Queen seems most kind to you, Sire," said Robert.
"Seems, Robert, seems. But things are not always as they seem. There
is no doubt that both Scotland and all the court and her subjects would
be better off without her. For Scotland cannot have a Papist for its
ruler, since it has chosen to be under the Reformed faith. If she
lives, she will surely raise the Prince to be a Papist as well. The
baptism was proof of that. And my refusing to attend was my statement
about it. As for the court, have not most of the nobles already
rebelled against her at one time or another? All except Bothwell. And
even her subjects, though they know it not, deserve more than a
sovereign who rides about looking pretty but has not the will to
administer justice, and is so concerned with her rights to the English
throne that she values the one she occupies but scantily. Does not
Scotland deserve a ruler who reveres its native throne, rather than
belittling it?" He paused. The recital of reasons had taken away his
breath. He hoped they were convincing.
"Still," Robert demurred, "to assassinate a ruler is a grievous sin."
"You assassinated a cardinal," Darnley reminded him. "And now let me
summon Anthony Standen, my attendant, whom I trust absolutely. He must
aid us in these plans."
The Balfours murmured their grave misgivings about including anyone
else. But Damley insisted on rousing Anthony and informing him of the
plot. Because he was still sleep-befuddled, he did not at first
question the idea or its execution.
"He has strong shoulders, and can help you dig and carry the powder,"
Darnley insisted.
"Begging your pardon, have you considered leaving clues to point to
someone else?" Standen asked, waking up at last. "For, its being your
own house, the finger of suspicion will surely point at you."
The lad was clever. "Hmmm we might throw the blame on Lord James or on
Bothwell with a few carefully arranged articles. An empty barrel. Or
perhaps someone could impersonate them passing through the streets. I
must think on it. Thank you, lad." James nodded gravely.
After they had slipped silently away in their velvet slippers, Darnley
blew out his candle and lay back down. But his heart was pounding as
if he had just run a race.
It was to happen.
He was so excited he was almost shaking.
For an instant he thought of doing just what he had convinced his dupes
he meant to do: blow up the Queen and escape himself.
But no. If he made a miraculous, timely escape, everyone would know he
had done it, and then he would be hounded and executed anyway. Better
to die this way, by his own hand and in his own time. With her.
He had broken out in a sweat. He imagined the force of the explosion,
of being thrown from his bed, of vanishing in an incandescent flash.