"Everyone likes a change," said Darnley. "And their ale suits my
taste." Indeed it did. Of late he had had to forgo his whisky. Not
only was it difficult to obtain, after the disturbances with the Earl
of Argyll and his estates up north, but whisky upset his stomach and
gave him pounding headaches. He had had to switch to ale and wine.
"What else suits your taste?" asked Archibald, and Darnley froze. Did
he know about the visits to the houses? "I liked the flavour of the
Earl of Argyll's whisky, but that's hard to come by these days."
"Aye." Archibald grunted and took another drink.
Darnley's drink had arrived and he took a big gulp. He had been
waiting hours for this.
Together they drank several mugs. After the first three, Damley began
to get the release he sought. It took three big mugs of ale to equal
the effect of one small vial of whisky, but once it was obtained, it
was the same sensation. He did not even mind Archibald now; indeed, he
felt a certain camaraderie with his kinsman. The candles in the room
seemed to glow as beautifully as horn lanterns, amber and soothing. The
wooden panelling on the walls seemed to be as rich and rare as ebony.
And suddenly a picture of Mary flashed into his mind, Mary with her
hair down, in her nightgown, in his bed .. . with her white feet, like
a marble statue's, peeking out from under the covers.. .. Those feet
.. . sometimes they met over the small of his back when her long legs
encircled him.. ..
"Is the Queen busy tonight?" Archibald was saying.
"No." He did not know if she was busy or not; he only knew that he
felt called to the ale and the women upstairs in the little house a few
doors down, where he could drown his fantasies without questions or
shame, and so he had gone out.
"Then she is not with her secretary?" Archibald looked surprised.
"I know not."
"Ah."
The word hung in the air like a hummingbird.
"What do you mean?" Darnley was forced to ask.
"I mean, it is unusual for her not to be with him with the strange
little man with his strange little tastes."
Darnley burst out laughing. "I have been friends with Riccio for some
time, and there is nothing strange about his tastes." Indeed, the
Italian had good taste, in clothes, food, wine, books .. . most of the
things the Kirk deemed sinful.
"Then why does the Queen indulge herself with him?" Archibald asked,
as if he were genuinely puzzled.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Of course, you would say that. I beg your pardon, then. If it is
with your permission ..." Archibald shrugged.
Was he implying did he dare to imply that he, Darnley, was an
acquiescing husband? That he stood by while the Italian secretary
pleasured his wife? "Such insult is not to be borne!" cried Darnley,
leaping up and grabbing for his sword.
Archibald stood up, too, and the mass of the man seemed to grow and
fill the tavern. "I meant no insult," he said. "I was merely trying,
as your kinsman, to warn you and tell you of danger. It was my loyaky
that made me speak." He looked properly sincere.
Darnley, who was too drunk even to manage to extract his sword, sat
back down. His head was spinning. "You lie. It is not true " he
muttered. Where had Archibald gone? The man had left. Darnley called
for another ale.
He slumped back against the wall, and closed his eyes. He would not go
to the women tonight. No, he would go to his wife. To the Queen. Was
there any reason why she should not give him what he desired? To hell
with the women. And to hell with Riccio!
Darnley allowed himself to picture the imaginary scene that always
aroused him. He wanted Mary to kiss and lick his feet, then lick his
legs, slowly, inching bit by bit toward his groin, and wrap his legs in
her hair. She would do this by touching his feet with her forehead,
and then part her hair in two and envelop his legs, making a tent as
she licked her way up to his privates. The thought of the smooth,
sleek hair, the warm tongue... .
Suddenly he was so excited he could barely stand it. He fumbled in his
purse for money to pay for his ale, and staggered out into the night,
hardly able to walk because of his painful erection.
Mary had just asked Mary Seton to bring her the elder flower-water to
smooth over her shoulders and neck. It was late, and she looked
forward to bed. These days she seemed to need more sleep, and, she had
to admit it, she was pampering herself. The delicate scent of the
elder flowers seemed to induce sleep, and she liked to close her eyes
and imagine herself lying in a summer meadow of flowers.
"Thank you, dear Seton," she said, taking the thin glass bottle. The
liquid in it was a pale tint of pink. She poured a little out in the
palm of her hand and rubbed it slowly over her neck, feeling it easing
her, relaxing her muscles.
"Shall I return later for our rosary?" asked Seton. They had often
recited the rosary together just before bedtime, but since Mary had
married, that had been interrupted. Lately, with Darnley away in the
evenings, they had resumed the habit.
"Yes," said Mary.
Alone in the bedchamber, she took her time in applying the lotion, then
read some of du Bellay's poetry.
Si notre vie est mains qu'une joumee En I'etemel, siVan qui fait le
tour Chasse nos jours sans espoir de re tour .. .
If here our life be briefer than a day In Time Eternal, if the circling
year Drive on our days, never to reappear .. .
The door swung open, and Darnley stood there, hanging on the
doorframe.
"So you are alone!" he said. His voice was loud and accusing. He
stepped in and banged the door behind him.
"Yes, for a little while. Soon I expect " She closed her book, and
rose to greet him.
"Oh, so you expect a guest? Well, dismiss him!"
"Him?"
"You know who I mean!" Darnley lurched toward her.
Not again! Not drunk again! Mary felt her heart sink, and at the same
time she was enraged. Her elder flower-water ritual, her quiet moment,
the little circle of beauty and refinement she had created, privately,
was now to be smashed. "No, I do not." She backed away.
"Come here! Do not back away from me!" He grabbed her and pressed
himself against her. She could feel his arousal, and it was as much an
assault as Lord James's rebellion. He started tearing at her clothes,
but he was so drunk all he could do was paw at her.
"Down here! On your knees, and serve me!" He grabbed at her head and
tried to push it down toward his feet. She pulled back and slapped
him, hard, across the face.
"Sober yourself, you drunken bully!" she cried. "How dare you come
into my chambers like this?"
"Your chambers, your chambers?" he said, in a wavering, singsong
voice. "What is this 'yours' and 'mine'? Are we not one flesh? Is
not a husband made one with his wife? Come, and be one with me!" He
jumped forward and tried to tackle her, but she easily sidestepped
him.
It was all she could do not to kick him as he lay there on the floor.
She was trembling. She backed up and, walking to the door of her
chamber, called her guards.
"Remove the King," she said with a flat voice. "Take him to his own
chambers. Call his valets to attend to him."
When Damley was gone, dragged away, she was overtaken with a violent
fit of shaking.
When he drank, her husband was a monster. And he was getting worse;
the times were coming closer together now. She would have to keep her
door locked from now on. She walked over to it, still shaking, and
turned the big iron key in its latch.
TWENTY-FIVE
Darnley had tried the inner door to Mary's bedchamber, and it was
bolted. Until then, he had not even entertained Archibald Douglas's
suggestion that there was anything amiss. Indeed, it was to prove
Douglas's sly innuendo wrong that he had mounted the spiral stairs
between their rooms and walked softly across the landing and grasped
ever so gently the door handle. Pulling the door snugly toward its
frame to muffle sound, he had turned the handle and then pushed. No
motion. It was bolted from the inside. It had never been bolted
before.
He put his ear up against the thick wood; there was no keyhole to look
through. He heard the voices plain and clear: hers and his. Mary's
and Riccio's.
Feeling physically ill, he slumped against the door. He was
betrayed.
Or was he? Could it not have an innocent explanation?
But why the locked door, then?
No. There was no explanation other than the one Douglas had hinted to
him.
Riccio. Riccio was Mary's lover.
Darnley would have laughed, had not the insult to himself been so
great. The Italian was old at least fifty! and a head shorter than
Mary. He was ugly, and of low birth.
But that made it all the more personally degrading.
If she had chosen Maitland, smooth and sophisticated and highly
intelligent .. . well, then ... or Bothwell, with all his bed-training
and knowledge of how to please a woman that way ... or even de Foix."
the French ambassador, with his European savoir-faire and his
background of intrigue .. . any one of whom I might say, "He has this
and I have not" .. . But Riccio!
He turned and descended the steps, so stunned he was almost surprised
he could still put one foot in front of the other. He reentered his
bedchamber and flung himself facedown on the great bed. The bed that
Mary used to visit. But she came no more.. ..
Tears blurred his eyes as scenes from their former trysts insisted on
playing in his mind, as vividly as any Dutch painter might depict them.
How she had sought him out .. . the things she had said.. ..
Were they all lies? Was she saying the same things to Riccio at this
very moment, directly above him?
He beat his fists against the feather mattress. The thought of Mary in
the embrace of another man tortured him.
You must face it, he told himself sternly. The truth is the truth. She
amused herself with you, used you to get herself with child so she
could provide an heir with royal blood for the throne, and now she has
no further use for you. She promised you the Crown Matrimonial; now
she says that is impossible, that you must sign papers and attend
Council meetings to earn it. But that is just an excuse. The truth,
the truth .. . the truth is you've served your purpose. Now you are
expendable. The truth is she loves you no more.
At that realization a pain akin to a sword wound went through him. But
it was as nothing compared to its brother-thought: perhaps she never
did, and all your memories and treasured words are but untruths. Even
that which you thought you had, you never had.
Maybe the child is Riccio's.. ..
He wept, squashing his pillow. He wept until he felt limp and almost
dead.