"Lies! I never "
Ruthven smiled, the smile of a victor. "I can promise you pleasure,"
he said. "And afterwards, freedom."
"The promise of a confederate Lord means nothing. For I surrendered to
you all on a promise of being obeyed and served, and instead you have
imprisoned me."
"Never trust a group of people. But this is different an agreement
between you and me. A private pact." His voice was smooth near her
ear.
She stood, steeped in shame. This is my nadir, she thought. It is
more degrading than even signing an abdication would be. It is more
humiliating than the ride through Edinburgh, with the people spitting
at me. Those moments are a public tragedy, but they are grand as well.
This is little, squalid, nasty, and what did he say? private.
He took her silence for consideration of his offer. "I said I want
you. You fire my blood. I want to taste such heights of pleasure that
I will not die ordinary."
"If it were in my power," she finally said, "you would certainly not
die ordinary."
"Then you grant me my wish?" he gasped. "I cannot express my joy at
your answer!" He tried to grab her hand and kiss it.
"Alas, although I would see to it that your death was not that of an
ordinary criminal, but of a felon and traitor, I have no power to carry
it out. I can only imagine it, and see you in my mind being gutted and
quartered."
He leapt away in fury at his misunderstanding. "Then, if you're fool
enough to reject my offer, to turn my love to hate, you can rot here!
And you will!" He took her head and turned it in his hands, hands that
were strong and un hesitant "Look out there across the lake. The
waters are deep and cold. Before long there will be an unfortunate
accident when you try to escape, as you are known to have a habit of
doing. Or else you will be taken away to a fortress deep in the
Highlands and held there the rest of your life. A living death, I
believe it's called by the poetically minded."
"Did they choose you because they wished to subject me to lewd
propositions? It would be beneath the integrity of any of the others,
who are hardly notable for their integrity."
He took her arm and twisted it, turning her around. "It is time for
you to return to your tower. You have between here and there to change
your mind. After that it will be too late." He marched her toward the
outer castle wall. "Do not imagine that Bothwell can ever come for you
again, or that your child will ever be in the succession. If that is
why you have said no to my offer, I suggest you think again."
"That is not why," she said. "Were there no Bothwell, and no child, my
answer would be the same. You flatter yourself to think otherwise."
"If you think there will be other offers, or better ones, you flatter
yourself, my lady."
"Thank God there will be no others!" she said. "For the insult is so
great I could not endure it twice."
Once back in her little room, she did not dare tell Seton or anyone
else of what had just passed between her and Ruthven. It would make
the shame even greater if anyone knew. The mute crucifix stared down
at her as she silently ate her meal, a meal that was tasteless to her.
All food was tasteless to her now.
After dinner she tried to sew. They had brought some of her needlework
from Holyrood, along with the threads and frames. But her eyes were
tired, and she had trouble focusing. Everything in the pattern
reminded her of the humiliating incident. The lion's mane in the panel
she was embroidering was the colour of Ruthven's hair, and the green of
the background was like the green of the ducks' feathers.
It took all her effort to pull the needle up through the thick canvas
that had the pattern drawn on it. This lethargy, this weakness, made
her feel very old.
It was while she was drawing out a particularly long brown thread that
she felt a sharp twinge in her lower abdomen. It came and went
swiftly. But a few minutes later another came, and this one rippled
across her belly, taking its time before it, too, disappeared. Before
Mary Seton had finished the last verse of the song she had begun at the
first stab of pain, a third one had come. This time she recognized it
as a horrible, familiar visitor. It was a labour pain.
"No!" she cried, standing up and dropping her sewing. She touched her
belly as if expecting to discover something.
Mary Seton stopped playing and looked up.
"I fear " Mary sat back down. "No, perhaps it is not. Has the fish we
had for supper disturbed your stomach?"
Seton shook her head.
Just then Mary felt the pain again. "It is the child!" she cried.
"Send for the doctor!" Seeing the look on Seton's face, she said,
"There must be one here, for the Douglases! I care not who he is, as
long as he is knowledgeable about childbirth! Oh!" She got up and
staggered up the stairs to her bedroom.
Throwing herself down on the narrow bed, she waited, holding her
breath, willing the pains to stop. Suddenly all her debilitating
languor had disappeared and she knew there was still one thing she
wanted, and cared about, passionately: Bothwell's child. She must not
lose it!
The castle physician, veteran of many births at Lochleven, came
quickly. He made her undress and felt her stomach for tenderness.
"Oh, please, save my child!" she begged, crying. They were the first
tears she had shed on the island.
He rummaged in a box he had brought, muttering to himself. "A mixture
of strong wine and thorn apple and English nightshade may work. But it
is dangerous, because it is hard to give the proper dose. Too low, and
it will not help; too high, and you will be poisoned."
"I will take the chance," she said.
He took out two small bottles and sent for some strong wine. Then,
working on the little table in the center of the room, he carefully
measured the plants and stirred them into a goblet of rough red French
wine. Mary watched him swirl the contents around and hold it up
against the candle. While she watched, two more pains came and went.
He diluted the mixture a little and then brought it to her. She drank
it; it was bitter and sharp.
"Now close your eyes," he said. "Try to remain as still and calm as
possible."
She could hear him walking around the room, rearranging things and
making ready. There would be no cradle; if the child was born, it
could not survive. She recognized the soft slap of material being
folded; these must be the linens they used to staunch blood and tend
the wounds incurred in childbirth. There was the clink of copper pans
being dried and set aside; one would hold warm water and the other
would catch the spurts of blood that would come.
Dear God, she prayed, let none of these things be necessary. Let there
be no blood and no birth and no need for bandages and water. I know I
have failed you. I ask forgiveness. But do not fail me, do not
abandon me.. ..
The potion took effect and made her feel drowsy and dizzy. But the
pains continued unabated and ever more frequently. She heard the
doctor saying, "Now we must make ready!" in an agitated, disappointed
tone, and felt the cold rim of the copper basin being slid under her.
"Push!" he was saying, but she disobeyed him and, crying wildly, tried
to hold back the form she felt trying to dislodge itself from within
her. It was moving down, in spite of her strongest attempt to prevent
it. She clenched her muscles as tightly as she could and shrieked with
despair and supplication. But the birth process continued
relentlessly, and the physician received a minute, bloody, slippery
lump into his hands. It was quickly followed by a second one, as Mary
twisted and wept.
"Twins!" he said, in surprise. The tiny things were so early they
were never meant to live. He washed them off gently and saw that they
were male. Then he wrapped them in soft flannel, just as Mary was
calling out for them. Mary Seton was standing by her, holding her hand
and attempting to quiet her.
"You know they were born betimes," he said, trying to make the harsh
words as kind as possible.
"Let me see them!" she was crying.
"It is not advisable " the doctor began, but Seton nodded.
"Let her see them. Nothing can hurt her more than what has already
happened."
Reluctantly he brought over the little cloth where they lay and let her
see them. She stared at them dumbly, then reached out a shaky hand and
touched each one once. She closed her eyes and fell back on the
pillow. The doctor took them away.
"You will bury them, will you not?" asked Seton. "Do not just destroy
them, but give them an honourable burial."
The doctor nodded. "If you wish it." He glanced over at the Queen. "I
fear it may take a long time for her to recover fully. Let her rest.
And call me if there seems to be anything amiss."
The doctor had barely finished his bedside glass of wine before Seton
came for him. "There is a lot of blood," she said. "It started
suddenly, and now it won't stop." He hurried across the castle yard
and back into the round tower. By the time he got there, the bed was
soaked in blood, and more was gushing out. He worked as swiftly as he
could, elevating her feet, packing the place from which the blood was
issuing with clean cloths, and giving her a draught of dried yarrow and
agrimony, again mixed with wine. But it was the middle of the night
before the blood finally seemed to dry up at its source and the
bubbling stream abated. By that time Mary was white and so debilitated
she could barely move. He feared the drugs would overcome her in this
weakened state and she would lapse into unconsciousness and possibly
die.
By dawn she was slipping in and out of awareness, and her eyelids
fluttered shut in spite of all her efforts to keep them open. The
struggle seemed overwhelming and pointless. The babies were gone,
Bothwell was gone .. . yet, strangely enough, she fought slipping over
the edge of darkness, the soft, friendly darkness that beckoned. She
wanted, at last and after all, to live.
SIXTY
Mary lay all the daylight hours, watching the sunlight move from one
window to the next as the sun passed across the sky. Seton brought her
soup and fine white bread and red wine to replace the blood she had
lost. She lay as limp as a silk scarf draped over a chair, and felt as
transparent.
My child no, children will never be, she thought. How odd to think of
children rather than child. Boys. They would have been princes, and
if they had had half of Both well's strength and courage, they would
have shone in the annals of Scotland. Gone. And now .. . there may
never be a child of ours, never ever, she thought, and grief, as sharp
as the labour pains, pierced her.
Bothwell, Bothwell .. . where are you? I used to believe I could send
my thoughts far away, and that you could hear them. But now I do not
even know where you are.
I am completely and utterly alone. I have never been alone before.
There has always been someone, a man, near me to rely on. My uncles in
France. Lord James. Riccio. Then Bothwell. I always consulted them,
let them guide me. I have never been at my own mercy, with only myself
as a source of knowledge.