It was dark and musty within. Only the plainest furniture was in the
ground-floor room: a rough table, three stools, two old-fashioned
candles in huge, wrought-iron holders.
"The bed is upstairs," said Lady Douglas.
Mary pulled herself slowly up the spiral staircase by holding on to a
rope. Sure enough, an ascetic single bed was shoved into one corner.
The light was poor, and there were not even any rushes on the floor.
Behind her, Lady Douglas held up a candle.
"Is this the way you honour guests?" Mary asked, but her voice was
soft. Where were her hangings, her ebony sofa? Stolen, most like.
This little tower room was more roughly furnished than the one in
Dunbar Castle where Bothwell had taken her. And then it had been
different, altogether different, for he was there, and where he was,
she was cared for.
Lady Douglas looked away, embarrassed. Another person suddenly joined
them in the room, emerging from the stairwell. It was a young man of
about Mary's own age, with enormous blue eyes framed with spiky black
lashes.
"They say you may send for two of your own lady attendants," he said.
"And a physician or secretary."
"This is Geordie, my youngest son," said Lady Douglas.
One of them. Another enemy. But he was handsome, with his wavy dark
hair and ruddy complexion. How different all the members of this
family looked.
Mary felt great relief. "Then tell them I would like Mary Seton and"
not Mary Livingston Sempill, she had family duties "and Jane Kennedy,
and Claud Nau, my secretary."
"With gladness, Your Majesty," he said in a lilting voice. Was he
mocking her? She was too tired and heartsick to care.
She sank down on the little bed and put her feet up. Everything seemed
to spin, with the centre beam of the ceiling the still point of a great
turning wheel. Outside, the water was lapping against the stones of
the tower and she could smell its dank odour. The ground-floor room
would be mouldy and damp. A fit place for a prisoner. Like being at
sea.
At sea ... at sea with Bothwell .. . She fell into a deep sleep.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Bothwell sat in his room at Dunbar, his head in his hands. It was the
middle of the night. He should have been fast asleep on this, the
night on which he was more tired than he had ever been in his life. But
he was so tortured he could not allow himself to lie down.
He had failed. He had lost the battle without a blow ever having been
struck. It was the one possibility he had never considered. He had
been ready to die, but not to limp away like this. And Mary what must
she think? Oh, she was quick-witted and brave, and would not be
intimidated. But now she was among enemies, with no one likely to be
susceptible to her special pleading or even a bribe. Would they honour
their word? He knew them well, and he knew the answer to that.
There would be no possibility of a bribe, because the Lords were now in
control of everything. Mary would have to have their permission even
to take possession of her own belongings. Only if the people rose up
and demanded her release .. . But no, the people were dead against her,
whipped up by Knox and his like. Knox was demanding her death, saying
that even that was not severe enough, that she should be eaten by dogs,
like Jezebel. The gentle, sweet Knox, showing everyone the deep love
of God.
What had happened to Huntly and Hamilton? Why had they not arrived?
I can rally the forces if I move quickly, he thought. There are still
many who are loyal to the Queen. Then we can storm Edinburgh and take
her back.
Edinburgh. They are in possession of everything there, except the
castle. Balfour still holds it for us.
I need my personal belongings from my apartments there; my titles and
deeds and the patent creating me Duke of Orkney and Lord of Shetland;
the marriage contract, all my plate and jewels.. ..
He poured himself out a goblet of wine, and bolted it. Instead of
making him feel better, it muddied his thoughts. For an instant fear
went through him, but then it disappeared. He sent for Geordie
Dalgleish, and instructed him to go to Edinburgh Castle and retrieve
the papers and personal effects from his old quarters.
Morton was allowing his beard to be trimmed. He had let it grow rather
bushy, and his mistress was complaining about it. She liked to twine
her fingers in it, but said it was like a thorny hedge now. Women!
They were so opinionated about such things, so quick to criticize. But
if it made her happy and more willing to indulge him in bed, it was a
fair enough trade.
The barber, snipping away under his chin, was attempting to question
him without being obvious. " Tis a fair day, my lord, is it not? June
so hot this year, and your having to fight under this sun. The battle
oh, I'm told it wasn't a battle at all, just a staring-down. And the
Queen they were most unkind to her on the road back to Edinburgh. I am
told she had to go past Kirk O'Field. Most distressing. She was
distressed, I know."
"Do you?" asked Morton. "Did you see her?"
"No. I was not there," he admitted.
"Ah," said Morton, pretending he did not recognize the man's
question.
The barber tilted up Morton's chin and began to shave it delicately
where the hairs always got caught in his collar. It would feel good to
be rid of them. Morton relaxed.
"Is the Queen .. . ?"
"Safe. And resting," Morton assured him cryptically.
Little curls of red hair lay all around them on the floor. The man
produced a broom and pan and swept it up. "Lest witches get hold of
it!" he attempted to joke.
Morton did not smile. There were altogether too many witches about,
and one could not be too careful. Why had the man said that? Was he
working for one?
"The bottom of the Nor' Loch is lined with witches," he said
pointedly.
The man was whisking off the towel he had draped around Morton's
shoulders. "There," he said, fluffing up the shortened, thinned beard.
"How do you like it?"
Morton ran his fingers through it. "It feels light. Just right for
summer." He dug into his purse and gave the man his customary payment.
He was eager for him to be gone along with his questions.
Best not to have too many questions just now. Not until things sorted
themselves out. It had all happened so quickly that they needed time
to think.
Morton returned to his room to select his clothes for this sunny, fine
day. He usually wore black, but today he felt like something in a
bright colour. But no he had purged his wardrobe of all the yellows
and reds and purples when he became a Lord of the Congregation. Today,
though, he wished he had retained just one or two items, for the rare
June day when the spirits were soaring and one wished to feel young and
free.
He did have a secret scarlet nightshirt that he wore when he and
Mistress Cullen met, when her husband the Captain was away.... At the
thought of Mistress Cullen he felt excited. At the same time he
laughed to himself. It had been so much fun to be morally outraged by
Bothwell and the Queen's adultery and to demand that they be punished
for it.
The Captain was becoming a nuisance. He was home too much. Perhaps it
was time the Lords of the Congregation gave him an assignment out of
town. Or perhaps it was even possible that the Captain was a traitor
and therefore not fit to live.
Morton pulled out an embroidered topcoat that had little scarlet
flowers on it, albeit on a dull, earth-coloured background. He pulled
it on, noting with satisfaction that his beard now only grazed the
starched ruff.
There was a sudden knock on the door. "Lord Morton!" an excited voice
called, and Archibald Douglas stepped in. His eyes were glittering.
"There's been a find! A real find, for us.... BothwelPs servant has
been caught by Balfour breaking into Bothwell's rooms in the Castle. He
escaped, but we caught up with him."
"And? Who was it?"
"Geordie Dalgleish, his tailor. He came to get Bothwell's clothes, so
he said. But the night in 'little ease' in the Tolbooth changed his
mind. Or perhaps it was the sight of the Spanish collar ... or the
iron boots ... or maybe it was the Scavenger's Daughter...."
Archibald was growing dreamy-eyed; he was a de lighter in cruelty and
enjoyed the ingenuity of torture instruments, each one attuned to a
different faculty or limb.
"And?" Morton prodded.
Archibald snapped out of his reverie. "He took us to a little house on
the Potterow outside the walls and there gave us this!" Archibald
produced an ornate silver casket, with entwined initial Fs on it. He
set it down reverently.
"Why, what's this?" said Morton, bending to examine the lock-box.
"Something very precious to the Lord Bothwell, evidently. Also stored
in another box were the royal patents creating him Duke, and his
various land grants and inheritances from his father. I think it must
be valuable, else he would not have risked his servant's life to obtain
it."
"He did not know he was risking his life," said Morton. "Remember, he
does not know the Lord Balfour has gone over to us. Undoubtedly he
assumed that Dalgleish could come and go unhindered." Morton turned
the box upside down. He could hear some contents, which sounded like
papers, thump inside. There were no jewels, then, or he would have
heard them clink.
"Smash it open!" said Archibald.
"No," said Morton. "Perhaps it would be wiser to have a little
ceremony in which we broke open the lock in front of witnesses and
recorded the contents. Our own witnesses, of course. Go and tell the
Lords to assemble here as soon as possible."
While he was waiting, Morton took the silver casket and put it on a
marble table on the first floor. He paced the room, looking anxiously
out the window. The crowds of the day before were gone, and Edinburgh
looked normal. Removing the Queen had been the correct thing to do.
Now she could not be touched, either by the mob or by her warrior
rescuer, Bothwell. There she could stay until they had decided what to
do, and until the Lord James returned to help them decide. Bothwell
would have to be executed speedily in order to shut his mouth. Even
though the paper with the names he so stupidly gave the Queen had been
destroyed, he carried in his head enough information about the King's
murderers to undermine the Lords' position of innocent outrage.
Morton paced up and down the room. He loved his town house, loved
everything about it, from the way the sun slanted into the upper rooms
to the inlaid wood pattern of the hall downstairs. He had surely been
blessed.
That afternoon, eleven of the Lords of the Congregation gathered around
his marble table. There was Maitland, of course, and three earls: the
earls of Atholl, of Mar, and of Glencaim. The Lords Home, Sempill
father of Lusty's husband and Sanquhar looked on, along with the Master
of Graham and the Laird of Tullibarden, and Andrew Douglas. The silver
strongbox sat gleaming like a miniature trunk; it was even shaped like
one.