"God rest their souls." Bothwell hoped he sounded pious enough. Then
he nodded to Ainslie.
Eight stoneware bottles of Highland whisky from the Gordon estates were
brought out. "Now let us partake of the finest whisky in Scotland,"
said Bothwell. He nodded toward his brother-in-law Huntly, who turned
pink with pride.
The caps were ripped off and the bottles passed around. The smoky
brown liquid burned in their throats and then made straight for their
heads.
Bothwell did not partake, although he raised his glass and appeared to
sip. Neither had he drunk the wine. He waited.
When all the company had drunk for another half hour and were smiling
at him warmly, he stood up.
Softly he said, "Gentlemen, friends, and companions, I wish to enlist
your help. I know there may be those abroad ignorant fools who do not
understand Scotland, who have never tasted our whisky nor eaten our
bread who will mock us and imply that we are not capable of justice or
self-governance. They will question the proceedings today, casting
aspersions on all our honours. It is to avoid this, to protect us all,
that I ask you to sign this document."
He unfolded it. He had composed it painstakingly in the early dawn,
gambling with it for the highest stakes he had ever attempted.
"Let me read it to you.
"We under-subscribed, understanding that, although the noble and mighty
Lord James, Earl of Bothwell, being not only bruited and calumniated by
placards and otherwise slandered by his evil wishers and private
enemies, as act and party of the heinous murder of the King the Queen's
Majesty's late husband, but also by special letters sent to her
Highness craved and desired by the Earl of Lennox to be tried of the
said murder: he being examined and tried by certain noblemen his peers
and other barons of good reputation is found innocent and guiltless of
the said odious crime, and acquitted.
"Therefore oblige us, and each one of us upon our honour, faith, and
troth in our bodies, that in case any manner of persons shall insist
further to the slander and calumniation of the said Earl of Bothwell as
participant of the said heinous murder, whereof ordinary justice hath
acquitted him, we ourselves, our kin, friends, servants, and all, shall
take part with him to the defence and maintenance of his quarrel,
against anyone presuming anything in word or deed to his dishonour,
reproach, or infamy."
The men nodded. Should he just circulate the paper now and have them
sign it? The light was poor enough, and they were drunk enough, that
they might not even see the second, startling, part. But no. Unless
they knew what they had signed, it was worthless to him. Besides, he
had built his reputation on being open and blunt.
"I thank you," he said. "And there is yet another part of the paper,
touching that which is of course in everyone's minds in these sad days.
The Queen has been bereft of a husband in the flower of her youth, with
only one child to offer for the succession. Foreigners will try, once
again, to gain control of our land through this our misfortune."
There was nothing for it now but to plunge in. "Therefore, if you
will:
"In moreover weighing and considering the time and present and how the
Queen's Majesty our Sovereign is now destitute of husband, in which
solitary state the common weal of this our native country may not
permit her Highness to remain and endure, but at some time her Highness
may be inclined to yield to marriage; therefore, in case the
affectionate and faithful service of the said Earl Bothwell done to her
Majesty from time to time and his other good qualities and behaviour
may move her Majesty to humble herself (as preferring one of her own
born subjects unto all foreign princes) to take to husband the said
Earl Bothwell, every one of us under subscribed permit the said
marriage to be solemnized at such time as it shall please her Majesty
to think it convenient and as soon as the laws will allow it to be
done."
The men were muttering and moving. Bothwell could hear murmurs of
anger and alarm up and down the table. At the same time, the
unmistakable sound of the two hundred soldiers he had posted around the
tavern penetrated into the room. He held his words so that the
soldiers could be plainly heard above all else. The men quieted; they
looked desperate and trapped. Bothwell cleared his throat and
continued in a quiet, calm tone.
"But in case any would presume, directly or indirectly, openly or under
whatsoever colour or pretence, to hold back or disturb the said
marriage, we shall hold the hinderers and disturbers and adversaries
thereof as common enemies and evil wishers and will take part and
fortify the said Earl to the marriage. We shall bestow our lives and
goods against all that oppose. As we shall answer to God and upon our
honour and fidelity, should we not maintain this, we are never to have
an honest reputation or credit in our time, but be accounted faithless
traitors, in witness of which we have subscribed our hands as
follows."
There was a swift shadowing movement as someone slipped away.
"Come back!" Bothwell ordered, in such an imperious tone that the rest
of the company grew even more restive. He had not meant to speak so;
it had just happened.
"Good my lord," Huntly was saying, with a stricken face. He would have
to be well paid off for letting his sister be divorced. "How can you
shame me so in public?"
Chairs were being pushed back, and men were standing up.
"You are not free to go," said Bothwell. "You must not leave." Outside
the soldiers were noisily marching, as he had ordered them to. "I must
insist you sign the paper first." This was going badly. But what
other way could he have presented it?
He pushed the paper toward Morton and thrust the pen in his hand. The
great thick head bent down over the paper and he scratched his name. He
silently passed it to Sempill next to him.
Bothwell stood at the end of the table, watching intently. Suddenly it
occurred to him that they might tear the paper up. The men waiting
their turn were glaring at him, while the soldiers' boots scraped
loudly on the cobblestones outside.
It seemed to him that he stood at least five hours before the paper,
smudged with signatures, made its way back to him. He glanced at it to
make sure they had not altered it or crossed out any phrases, and had
signed their true names, not "Johnnie Armstrong" or "William Wallace"
or "Judas."
"Thank you, my friends and allies," he said lamely. "You may go now.
Please make your way with care." Some of them were doubtless so filled
with whisky they might fall and break their necks. Yet they had seemed
quickly sober when they had been confronted with the paper.
It had been a mistake. He never should have done it. Now he had made
enemies out of them all. And embarrassed himself for his bullying,
brutish behaviour.
But it was done. He clutched the paper in his hand and made his way
out of the deserted room. By the time he reached the front door of the
tavern, he saw that all the men had already dispersed. The news would
be all over Edinburgh by morning and Scotland by the third morning and
England by the fifth. He would have to act quickly. He dismissed his
soldiers, promising them extra pay for the night's duty.
Extra pay for the soldiers, the cost of the dinner and wines, paying
off Huntly it was an expensive venture. But if all went well, it would
be money well spent.
You must spend money to make money, his greedy old uncle the Bishop had
taught him once upon a time.
The night was still and warm. Its very friendliness caused him to slow
his footsteps as he made his way back to Holyrood. Linger a little
while, the air seemed to be saying. Do not hurry through me, but
breathe me in. Take deep breaths, let me fill you. And he did,
turning slowly around, letting his mantle trail on the stones.
The sky was clear, and the moon so bright he could see even the few
wispy little clouds that floated like an afterthought in the blackness.
Life was sweet, hanging there for the taking, begging to be noticed as
one walked along.
He sighed, and stopped turning. Down in the hollow at the foot of the
long slope was the palace, painted silver-blue by the moonlight.
And there is even a princess in the tower, he thought. Waiting to be
rescued, now that the dragon Darnley is slain. He gave such a roaring
laugh that other passersby turned their heads.
He made his way to the royal apartments, down the now-familiar hallways
and stairs and turnings. She was waiting for him in the inmost room.
As she rose and came toward him, he had an instant of feeling that this
was all just a story after all, the princess in distress even, perhaps,
the Circe who changed her lovers into animals and destroyed them. The
shame of the scene in the tavern flooded him. What had he been driven
to?
Then she was beside him, the light and dark of her face and hair close
to him, the honey of her breath against his skin. She whispered, "Are
you safe?" And in the sound of those three words, husky and aching, he
forgot about the men in the tavern and their hate.
The trial. She meant the trial. "Yes. I am acquitted." He found
himself whispering, too, why he did not know.
She kissed him, slowly. He allowed himself to savour it, linger over
it just a little longer than he usually did. But he had no wish to
proceed further; he was content, now, just to hold her.
Taking his lips away, he said, "The Earl of Lennox never appeared. He
wished me to be detained until such time as he might gather his
evidence. I insisted on the trial proceeding. But as no one could
present any charge against me, nor produce any evidence, in the end I
was pronounced not guilty and acquitted."
Her soft lips were on his neck, but he stepped away and found that he
needed to keep his distance for now.
"It is nearly midnight. Did the trial go on so long?"
"No. The most important business took place afterward." He brought
out the paper and gave it to her.
She took it over to a small table where a candle was burning, and held
it close.
"Take care lest it burn!" he said with alarm. He had not purchased it
with so high a price to his own honour just to see it lost through
carelessness.
She read it, squinting at it in the poor light, bending forward so that
her hair got in the way. Impatiently she brushed it aside. At length
she turned to him.
"Unbelievable," she said. "How did you dare?" He could not tell
whether she was appalled or admiring.
"In truth, I do not know," he admitted. "It had to be done. And now
'tis done, and there's an end to it."
"No. Not an end," she said. "If only it were ended! And your
brother-in-law signed it?"
"Not willingly. And he will tell my wife." Shame flooded him again,
that Jean would have to hear it from her brother. "The men did not
wish to sign. I filled them with whisky and threatened them with my
soldiers. I did not wish it to be that way. I had hoped they would be
more amenable."