"I dub thee Sir Henry."
He stood back up, his spurs clicking on his slender ankles.
"I create you Lord of Ardmanach, a baron and a peer of Parliament."
He inclined his head slightly.
"And last, for now, I do name you to be Earl of Ross."
The inaudible gasp from the nobles present was louder than any audible
one. Earl of Ross was a royal title, to be borne only by a Scottish
prince.
He knelt on the footstool once more.
"I shall be true and leal to my Sovereign Lady, Queen of Scotland,
maintain and defend Her Highness's body, realm, lieges, and laws, to
the utmost of my power. So help me God, the holy Evangel, and mine own
hand."
She bid him rise, then motioned to a servit or who brought out a belt
and a sword upon a velvet pillow.
"The belt of your title," she said, fastening it about him.
"Now, my Lord of Ross, I request you do my office, wearing the spurs of
knighthood, and invest the candidates for knighthood in the Order."
Passing out of the chapel into the May sunshine, she saw Throckmorton
standing anxiously to one side, near the passage to the Great Hall,
where the ceremonial tables were already laid.
"Your face is long," she said, coming to him.
"The Earl of Ross is a royal title," said Throckmorton.
"The Lord Darnley has royal blood, has he not?" she replied.
"More to the point, in spite of the noble declarations of loyalty he
has made, to accept a Scottish title and nomination to the Scottish
Parliament is to repudiate his allegiance to his own country, England,
and his own sovereign, Elizabeth. In swearing fealty to you, he has
betrayed his own Queen."
"How so? I have not called upon him to repudiate her."
"A man can have only one sovereign, Your Majesty. And he who changes
his master so easily today can change again tomorrow. Beware."
Throckmorton sounded sad whether at her ignorance or at her implied
duplicity she could not tell. It stung her.
"Your mistress changes her behaviour to suit her clothes; each day she
professes something different, promises something different, takes back
what she says!" replied Mary.
"But her courtiers and knights never waver in their loyalty to her. She
has not known the sting of false servants and councilmen," said
Throckmorton. "And this Darnley, having once turned his coat, is like
to turn it again. I "
"I have not yet created him Duke of Albany, the highest title of all. I
await the word of Queen Elizabeth before proceeding further. I wish to
show her respect and give her the opportunity to bless this marriage
after all," Mary said. "You see how reasonable I am and do remain. For
the moment. Good day." She lifted her head and, catching up her green
velvet mantle, turned to go into the hall for the feast.
Mary sat on a stool, holding an ivory-backed mirror in her hand. In
its dull reflection even aided with light from the open window of her
privy chamber she could not see her own features sharply. She looked
closely at her eyes, searching their depths. But all she saw was the
searching within them.
Was she different? She felt different, and wondered if it was visible.
Poets spoke of love showing in the eyes, changing the features. But
then, she strove to remain unchanged in outward appearance.
She looked at her ears, hanging with heavy earrings: a gift from
Darnley. They had sapphires and diamonds and an elaborate metaphorical
message about families and heirs and hopes and destiny.
"But we have no need of symbolism," he had said, bending his fair head
down and kissing her breasts. "Symbolism is a poor cousin for what is
at hand."
Then he had .. .
Remembering it, Mary felt herself blushing, just as Flamina pushed open
the door and advanced toward her with a letter.
"It is from France," she said, handing it to her mistress.
It was heavy, and Mary recognized the seal of the Cardinal upon it.
Thank Heaven! It was he, her uncle the Cardinal, whose advice and
opinion she most sought in these perilous waters. She had waited weeks
for his reply.
"Thank you," she said, taking the letter and breaking open its thick,
brittle orange wax seal.
"Dearest niece and sister in Christ"
Yes, yes.
"We are apprised of the situation with the Lord Darnley, a prince of
royal blood and one whom we had the opportunity to observe at leisure
during his sojourns in France at various times. We are well aware of
his lineage, his niceness of person, and his general commendations."
She closed her eyes and clasped the letter to her bosom. Oh, thank
you, dear Lord.
At length she commenced reading again.
"My child, if it were not for my deep love of you and my concern as
your uncle and shepherd in Christ, I would not speak. But I must.
Without giving particulars (for there were a hundred of them, observed
over time when he abided here without the restraining hand of a
parent), I must tell you that in my opinion he is un gent il hutaudeau,
a highborn quarrelsome coxcomb, a weakling who is propped up and held
aloof only by the valour of his ancestors and the resultant titles in
recognition. But these were bestowed by long-ago sovereigns upon
long-dead ancestors. It is for the living to reevaluate, and alas, the
living scion of the House of Damley is not worthy of you. Pray, spare
yourself "
She uttered a groan and crumpled the paper.
Uncle. Et tu?
Why does no one see him as I do? she cried out in private anguish.
A letter was delivered from the Duke of Chatelherault, complaining of
the dishonour the Earl of Ross had done him in threatening to knock him
about the pate for an imagined slight.
"Such a challenge is hardly to be ignored, except when one bears in
mind the issuer of it," he had written. "Then it is best reported to a
higher authority."
The Duke and Darnley's father were old political foes, thought Mary,
and of course the Duke would oppose any elevation of the Lennox
Stuarts. But had Darnley actually threatened to "knock his pate as
soon as he be well enough," as the Duke claimed?
And why did he not tell me of this? Mary asked herself.
Throckmorton had enjoyed the fire in the dining room at the inn in
Stirling, and dreaded going up to his solitary room. The singing was
still hearty in the common room; in fact the verses were just becoming
scurrilous, albeit in Scots it was difficult to follow. But if he
drank any more, his head would ring in the morrow. Reluctantly he paid
his reckoning and made his way up the steep steps to his cold but
well-appointed room. Sighing for his inclination was to go straightway
to bed he forced himself to put his candle down and sit before his work
desk. He must write to Cecil and Elizabeth.
"The Lord Darnley," he wrote, his pen reluctantly forming each word oh,
how he wanted to sleep! "received the honours specified, after my last
audience a few days earlier, the creation of the Duke of Albany only
excepted the conferring of which honour the Queen did promise to defer
till she might hear how Your Majesty would accept the proceedings and
answer to my legation."
He filled his cheeks with air and slowly blew it out.
"Nevertheless, I do find this Queen so captivated by love or cunning,
or rather, to say truly, by boasting and folly, that she is not able to
keep promise with herself, and therefore not able to keep promise with
Your Majesty in these matters."
Now to the crux of it.
"This Queen is so far passed in this matter with my Lord Damley that it
is irrevocable, and no place left to dissolve the same, unless by
violence."
TWENTY-ONE
Mary smoothed down her doublet and turned her foot this way and that,
studying the way her leg looked in the wine-coloured trunk-hose.
"Do you think this looks like a man's leg?" she asked Damley, standing
beside her in her chamber. "Or is it too slender?"
Darnley stuck out his own for comparison, and it was nearly as slim as
hers.
"Certainly not. Tis a most masculine and fine leg," he replied. "Come,
you dally overlong. I think you are afraid to do as your father did,
for all your suggestion of it."
"When my father went abroad in disguise, it was as Goodman Ballengeich,
not Goodwoman Ballengeich. This is a more extreme change." She
fingered the knot of hair underneath her velvet cap. She was afraid it
would come tumbling down if the fastenings came loose: the cap was too
small to contain it.
"You make a fine man," he said. "You are too tall to pass for any
woman but yourself. Now Queen Elizabeth, though lower in stature, must
needs disguise herself as a woman every day. She is by nature a man,
so her gowns and jewels are called upon to disguise the fact and let
her rule as a queen for she can hardly be a king."
Mary nudged him, then spun round and kissed him. "You are wicked. But
is this true?"
"There is talk amongst her launder-women that her courses are not as
normal women's," he said. "In truth, they do not talk but as they are
paid to talk," he admitted.
"Paid people will swear to anything," she said. "It is when people
must pay themselves for what they say that one can believe them."
Darnley made a gesture of impatience. "Come, my Queen. You make a
perfect man. The night grows older, even as we do." He took her hand.
"Let us go!"
Together they descended the little winding staircase connecting Mary's
bedroom with Darnley's at Holyrood Palace; then they traversed his
suite of rooms to emerge into the wide forecourt of the palace.
Past the flaming torches in the forecourt they ran, hand in hand, and
over the drawbridge and past the great gates separating the Palace from
the Canongate leading up to the Edinburgh city wall.
It was a fine July evening, and light still lingered in the sky even at
ten o'clock. The Canongate would be full of people strolling up and
down, and attending to late business, so they went around by the Horse
Wynd, the nearest side street to the palace gates, walked for a bit on
the Cowgate, the great street parallel to Canongate, and then cut back
through by way of Blackfriars Wynd. This way no one could know they
had come from Holyrood Palace. The wynds were silent and dark and
afforded private passage.
"I love Edinburgh," Darnley whispered as they stopped to catch their
breath. "It is so secret, so tantalizing. All these side streets,
branching off the main one, the tall buildings, the deserted closes so
different from London. A man may come and go here, unlike Stirling. I
am glad we left Stirling."
Together they emerged from Blackfriars Wynd and began walking up the
Canongate. So many people were abroad it seemed like a holiday fair.
"Good evening," said one man, touching his cap.
"Good evening," Darnley replied, touching his. Mary imitated him.