"I love you, and in order to have you, I have sacrificed my "
"Your honour!"
"No, my reputation. It is not the same thing. Sometimes you must
sacrifice your reputation to maintain a deeper form of honour."
"Oh, Bothwell!" She threw herself in his arms, anguished over what he
had done to himself.
He bent down to kiss her. She touched his lips hesitantly, so shaken
and confused that she scarcely knew how to respond. She wanted to
protect him, save him. She was touched at his immense sacrifice,
stunned by his sheer audacity. Once she touched him, she wanted never
to stop. Outside the noises were rising; she could hear shouting and
the beginnings of a fight.
"They are coming for us," she whispered.
"No one can break in here," he repeated.
They clung together while they heard more shouting, and footsteps
climbing inside the tower. Then something metal a sword? a shield?
struck the door with a resounding thud.
"Are you in there?" said a thick voice. "Surrender the Queen's
person!"
" Tis only Borthwick," said Bothwell. "He does not mean it." He was
kissing her shoulders, and pressing her body against his as they stood
trembling together in the middle of the chamber.
"Surrender the Queen's person!" Borthwick was yelling again so loudly
that it would surely carry far out into the courtyard where Melville,
Maitland, and Huntly could testify that they had heard it.
"Never!" Bothwell roared back, making sure it would carry just as far
out of the window. "Even now, if you could rescue her, it would be too
late!"
He picked Mary up and carried her across the room to a pallet that lay
against the outer wall, and laid her down gently. He sat back on his
heels and began slowly, carefully, unfastening her gown. He took his
time, as if they were alone together in a secluded glen.
Outside the door, Borthwick kept on banging. Pulling the fur covers
over them, Bothwell held Mary tightly against him.
Mary felt Bothwell's strong body on hers, and they made surprisingly
prolonged, tender love as Borthwick's shouts and hangings reverberated
through the door, punctuating their pleasure.
It was quiet. Borthwick had left, and evidently the courtyard had
emptied out. There was no sound at all but the sea far beneath them,
echoing up into the chamber. They lay naked together under the furs,
their shoulders cold where they were exposed to the air. Bothwell was
sleeping, a heavy, still sleep.
Mary saw the shadows jumping on the walls. The torches had almost
burned out. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But she was oddly
excited.
Now we are truly married, she thought.
And she realized that until now she had never been truly married, for
neither of her husbands had ever had to sacrifice anything for her.
That was marriage's true consummation.
So this is my bridal bed. A pallet with wolf-fur covering, in a windy
tower room in a castle keep. And it is more a bridal bed than the one
in the King's quarters at Stirling, or the one in Paris where O saints!
Where nine years ago today I was married to Francois! She thought
tenderly of that childish bedtime with Frangois, while Bothwell lay
heavily by her side. Childhood is past and now at last I am full
grown.
There was no sleep for her that night. The torches burned out, and
slowly a purplish blue light crept into the room. She lay still and
watched as it grew brighter and brighter, and she knew when the sun
came over the horizon, for it reflected in shimmering light on the
ceiling from the restless sea below.
She could see the room better now. It was perfectly square, and the
walls were of crude, large blocks of roughly dressed stone. This was
the very earliest part of the castle, built hundreds of years ago. The
furniture was simple: a table made of a plank, wooden benches, stools,
and two studded trunks. There was no bed, only this pallet. Swords
and shields hung on the walls.
Turning her head, she watched Bothwell sleeping. He had pillowed his
head on his folded hands, as if he were praying. She could see the
scar on his forehead so clearly; it remained white when the rest of his
face was darkened by the sun and wind. They were bound together now,
their fates one and the same. It was what she had wanted, and had even
commissioned him to do. Why, then, was she so filled with
foreboding?
Silently she rose and made her way over to the window. The stone floor
under her bare feet was cold and clammy. As she approached the window,
she was surprised at the force of the sucking wind; it drew her hair
out the window like a pennant. Down below, the sea was crashing on the
dark, jagged rocks, sending spurts of spray up into the air, where they
hung for a moment like the veil of an infidel dancer before falling
away in the air. A flock of gulls dove and darted, and their cries
were plaintive and raw.
Bothwell touched her, pressed his naked front against her back. He had
risen so silently she had not heard a single sound.
"Good morning, my love," he whispered against her ear. He encircled
her with his arms. "How do you like my stronghold? You gave it to
me."
"I had no idea what it would be used for when I did." He was touching
her neck. She could not decide whether she wished him to or not, just
then. Then she could tell that he was becoming aroused. She turned to
face him.
"You are insatiable, my good Earl," she finally said. "You are worse
than the famous black ram of Yarrow."
"Is there a ballad to the ram? There should be. There is a Border
ballad for everything, it seems...." He delicately kissed her eyelids,
shutting them. Then he knelt down and buried his face against her
thighs, pressing himself up against the slender columns, revelling in
the touch of them. Softly he kissed the seam between them, then the
insides of them, and finally, when he could feel the muscles begin to
quiver, he brought her back to the pallet.
"May I change my clothes?" asked Mary, later. "Or am I to remain
without even my toiletries and underclothing?"
Bothwell rolled over and propped his head on his elbow. He grinned.
"Of course you may have your belongings brought up. I apologize. I
also apologize for these quarters. I know they are somewhat ... er ...
lacking. But I also knew what we most wanted was privacy. The newer
portions of the castle are quite comfortable, but unfortunately open to
all."
"Do you mean to keep the councillors prisoner here as well?"
"No, they are free to go as soon as they have heard you consent to
marry me, and can act as witnesses. That is part of our agreement."
Suddenly she had a chilling thought. They might acquiesce to the
marriage just so she could be made to share BothwelPs odium. And then
be driven from the throne. And there is yet some notable enterprise
against you. The Archbishop had written that a month ago.
"But you are still married," she pointed out.
"Huntly has agreed to allow his sister to be divorced."
So that was why Huntly had looked so sullen. "And what of ... of ...
Jean?"
"She will cooperate."
"Does she not care?"
"I know not," he admitted.
How could he know so little of his wife's feelings? "I see."
"Mary." He reached out his hand and touched her cheek gently. His
intent greenish eyes looked directly into hers. "I have not been a
good man to everyone in my life; some of it is not my fault, but I
shoulder the blame for it all. Perhaps my marriage could have been
better, had my bride wished to marry me. She did not; her brother sold
her as he is selling her now. The man she wished to marry was promised
to someone else. It was hard for her. But she made it hard for me, as
well. Arranged marriages take a toll. Sometimes I think the hardest
way to earn money is to marry it."
He looked so earnest. "But what of the Danish woman, or whatever she
was?" she heard herself asking, hating herself for it.
"What of her? She was boring. I could not bear to think of spending a
lifetime listening to her bad poetry." He laughed. "She was a
Norwegian admiral's daughter, and I met her in Copenhagen. She was
dark, which is unusual for a Norwegian, and so she fancied herself to
have a hot Latin temperament. She even had a Spanish costume which she
affected to wear and thought herself most fetching, when in truth it
was silly."
"Nonetheless you lived with her."
"Her father, who had seven daughters, was most anxious to marry them
off, and promised a dowry of forty thousand silver talers." He sighed.
"I told you, it is the most difficult way to earn money. I know."
"So you took the money and then left her."
"No. There was no money, as it turned out. Now who was the deceiver,
and who the deceived?"
"Pray send for my clothes," she suddenly said. "And I wish something
to eat." She pulled the fur cover up around her shoulders.
"As you command," he said, rising and going to the door. He hoisted
the great bar that bolted it off its brackets, and pulled the door
open. She was surprised to see that the door itself was at least five
inches thick. He stuck his head out and muttered something; evidently
there was a guard on the landing.
Bothwell only had time to put on his breeches and pull his shirt on
over his rumpled hair before three servitors entered the room, carrying
trays of food and her bundles of clothes. They were finely dressed,
their liveries new and embroidered with the Hepburn crest. Obsequiously
they bowed and put their burdens down. Bothwell bolted the door after
them. Then he began to hum as he uncovered the dishes and arranged
them on the table. He was even smoothing out a white linen cloth.
"I did not know what you would like," he said. "But I have here
herring and oysters and grouse and pigeon." He whisked the covers off
more platters and bowls. "And here are oatcakes and Ayrshire cheese,
and rowan and apple jelly, and "
"Stop!" she said, laughing at his eager face. He would make a good
father, becoming like a child himself at times. "Being kidnapped has
made me hungry, but not that hungry." She pulled up a bench and took
one of the wooden platters and began to select food.
"I would have thought it was something else that had made you hungry,"
he said, looking at her with a guarded tenderness.
"All that hunger has been quenched," she said, spearing a piece of
smoked fish with a wooden skewer and tasting it. "But perhaps it is
the sea air that has made me so hungry."
"Perhaps. When I am at sea, I do find myself oddly hungry." He picked
up the largest chunk of meat on the serving platter.
"Tell me about your voyages," she said.
"I learned to sail as a child," he said, chewing. "I think I was not
more than eight or nine when I took my first little voyage. It was in
the North Sea, off the coast of Spynie. I was living with my uncle,
the Bishop the one you met and my cousins there, his bastards, were at
home on the sea like a rider on a horse. I loved to sail out, to chart
a course and see how near I could come to it. I sailed to the Orkneys
when I was twelve." He smiled at the memory of it.