TWENTY-SIX
Mary started to ask Beaton to bring her her hooded fur mantle, but
stopped. The notes of the song Riccio was playing were so sweet she
wanted to finish hearing the piece. And she had no desire to hurry to
the merchant's house where she would be dining.
She stood at the window of the small supper room in her suite at
Holyrood and looked out at the lights up and down the Canongate. The
layer of ice on the stones made them reflect like a mirror. I must be
careful with my footing, she thought.
The pregnancy, now in its fifth month, was beginning to affect her
sense of balance.
The song ended. The time had come.
"Thank you, dear Riccio," she said, turning to him.
He smiled. "I have two others, which I will play next time," he
said.
"Beaton, my mantle," she said wearily.
The girl fetched it from the wardrobe and brought it to her mistress.
"You must send to France for the cloth for your wedding gown," Mary
scolded her. "Already you give the tailors little enough time.
Remember, choose what you like; it is my gift."
Mary Beaton smiled, but it was a stiff little smile. Was she still
smarting from the failure of her romance with that meddling English
ambassador, Randolph? The romance had come to an abrupt end when Mary
had had to expel him from the country for his encouragement of Lord
James's rebellion. Since then, she had been courted by one of her own
countrymen.
"Alexander Ogilvy is a lucky man," the Queen assured Beaton. Indeed,
Mary thought, he is straightforward and honest and will never betray
her.
Riccio scrambled from his seat and walked with Mary the length of her
apartments and then down the broad stairs. When they were out of
earshot of Beaton, he whispered, "Ogilvy does not feel lucky." He
paused, but could not wait for her to ask why. "He loves another Lady
Jean Gordon. But a more powerful lord has claimed her. To be young
and in love and powerless is a sad state."
"Who has claimed her?" Mary asked, as she swept down the stairs, her
velvet gown trailing obediently on the steps behind her.
"Lord Bothwell. They're to wed next month." Riccio rolled his eyes
and delighted in being able to astound the Queen. "There's no love
there just property. That's the pity of it."
"Bothwell! Does he does he marry her against her will?"
"Indeed. But her family has sold her."
For an odd instant she wondered what it would feel like to be taken,
married against your will. Would you resist or submit?
Bothwell! Imagine having to give yourself to him.. .. He would be
rough and demanding. He would crush you. He would use you like a
horse.
But he would never smell of strange odours and come to you demanding
abominable gestures, created from sick fancies.
The memory of Darnley's behaviour was painful to her. He had lately
turned the marriage bed into a field of scurrility and seaminess. He
"My dearest." Darnley was standing at the foot of the stairs, attired
in the finest velvet breeches and jewelled cape. His face was as
beautiful as ever and his smile was like a curve of ivory. But she
shuddered as he took her hand. He glanced at Riccio to dismiss him,
but the Italian had turned away already.
"And what has my fair Queen wrought today?" he asked lightly.
"Many dispatches needed to be read," she said. Earlier it would have
been a hint or a command, but she no longer wished him to involve
himself in those matters.
"And?"
There is something ugly brewing, she thought. "There is a great deal
of correspondence passing between Edinburgh and London," she said
cautiously. "As if there were pressing business of some sort. Cecil
writes to the
Scottish rebels at Newcastle almost daily, and also to Knox. And I "
She stopped. She had no desire to tell Darnley of her suspicions. He
might blab.
"Yes, my love?" He leaned over to her and kissed her.
The odour of wine was on him. So he had been drinking already. Yet it
was not apparent in his demeanour.
"Why do you drink so much?" she asked sadly.
"I don't know what you are talking about," he said, turning away.
They made their way in silence up the Canongate and then through
Netherbowport into Edinburgh proper. The merchant, Donald Muir, was an
importer of wines from Bordeaux and La Rochelle in exchange for wool
and the skins of goats, sheep, and rabbits. He was not wealthy, but
was well-to-do and an important councilman of the city. Mary enjoyed
the merchants and their gatherings as a welcome escape from the
stifling atmosphere of palace functions, and always accepted their
invitations.
"Welcome, welcome!" Muir was gesturing enthusiastically from his door
as he saw the torches accompanying the royal couple.
Inside his house it was snug and exuded an air of having all things in
hand. The table was laid with pewter and glass, and an array of spices
ginger, pepper, cloves allowed the diners to adjust the taste of any
dish to suit themselves. The company was carefully selected: another
merchant, who dealt in Baltic trade, particularly hemp and iron; a
theological student from St. Andrews; a physician from the University
at Aberdeen who had made an investigative study of the plague; a lawyer
who specialized in wills and inheritance; an English bookseller with a
shop in Edinburgh; and a quiet young man who claimed to be a scholastic
mathematician. All these men, and their wives, proved to be lively
talkers, and Mary loved hearing them. Their work was as exotic to her
as a trip up the rivers in South America.
The mathematician ... he spent hours doing figures, but not for
practical reasons like finding a sum!
The physician ... he had written a treatise pointing a finger at
garbage, flies, and rats as a cause of the mysterious plague, after
careful observation during one severe outbreak.
I would sooner peer into an erupting volcano, she thought. This
serious, quiet-voiced man must be very brave.
"But what has garbage to do with it?" Darnley was suddenly heard to
say. "There's garbage everywhere piles and piles of manure, shit, piss
" He pronounced each word loudly and let it carry down to the end of
the table. The company fell silent before his rising voice. "Yet
there's not plague everywhere!" He nodded to the servit or to refill
his wineglass and bolted it down immediately, then stuck it out again
for more wine. "Good honest filth has never yet made man ill!"
"Your Majesty," the physician said carefully, "as I stated in my
thesis, A Short Description of the Pest, the plague must have broken
out initially. Then all these things exacerbate it. It does not
originate in filth, but is incubated in it."
"Bah! Like all scholars, you raise more questions than you answer! But
can you hawk, eh?" He laughed loudly. "That's the measure of a man,
not studying manure!"
The host attempted to lead the conversation elsewhere. "I understand
that the Low Countries are growing increasingly restive under the hand
of Spain. They are unable to stomach the Inquisition."
"Who could?" the theology student suddenly said. "It is an
abomination, an affront to God! And I hope our good Calvinist brothers
persuade William the Silent to be silent no longer, but to "
"I said, can you hawk?" yelled Darnley. "You, knave, answer me!" He
stood up and glared at the physician. "See, he insults me!" he
screamed. "He refuses to answer!"
"Henry, no!" cried Mary, rising clumsily. She put out her hand to
touch his shoulder, but Darnley swatted it away.
"We'll fight, then!" Darnley grabbed at the place where his sword
usually was, then reeled around. He was completely drunk. He crashed
against the table and then careened against a cupboard.
"Stop this!" Mary commanded. She was shamed beyond embarrassment. He
looked possessed.
"So you betray me! It is as they said, then!" He turned once, twice,
as if trying to right himself. "Farewell!" He rushed toward the door,
wrenched it open, and stumbled down the steps. They heard him lose his
footing and fall, then emit a string of curses.
"Our King," said the theology student bitterly.
Mary felt deep shame. The host attempted to quiet the people and have
them take their places once more at the table, but Mary turned away.
Taking her mantle, she motioned away the attendants who would accompany
her.
"Nay. I would go alone."
"Your Majesty, it is not safe "
"Leave me! It is safe enough. Thank you, good Sir Muir. Your
kindness will not be forgotten." She went quickly down the steps and
began walking back down the High Street, toward Holyrood.
Why am I hurrying back there? she asked herself. To be with Darnley?
He's not there he'll be off to whatever dark places he seeks at night.
I care not.
The night was cold and calming. She had been sweating and shaking, but
now the rush of frigid air was a relief. She passed John Knox's house
and saw the candles burning in his study, and all at once she felt a
rush of envy for him and for the life he had. He had children, a
loving wife, loyal friends, and a clear calling. He must rise up in
the morning eager to begin, and lie down at night feeling satisfied.
All because he had a clear call, and answered it.
She slowed her steps as she approached Holyrood. There was no need of
hurry. There was nothing in there for her, as there was in Knox's
little house for him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Bothwell stood preening himself before the mirror. He did not like the
little hat he was going to wear for his wedding, but the gold doublet
of ribbed silk with puffed sleeves and short cape of tawny velvet were
of fine workmanship and would doubtless impress his bride. The narrow
lace ruff, buttoned tight around his tanned throat with little gold
studs, felt uncomfortable. But it was too late now to have it
reworked. After he was married
Married. He was going to be married. And it was a fine bargain he had
worked out, pleasing to all. The Queen had written in the marriage
contract that it met "with her advice and express counsel." From the
Queen's point of view, it united two loyalists from two different
regions, the Highlands and the Borders; from his point of view, it
shored up his shaky finances; and from Lady Jean Gordon's, it brought
her family out from under the shadow of her father's rebellion four
years past. Now, in the wake of his loyalty during the Chaseabout
Raid, her brother George was restored to the earldom of Huntly and she
was considered an eligible woman.
Not that she was exactly to his taste. Her age was suitable she was
just twenty. Her looks were passable, even attractive, if one liked
sandy hair and broad features. But her manner! It was so grave, so
preeminently sensible, so boring. Worst of all, she was highly
intelligent. If she had merely had the first three characteristics
without the fourth, he would have had carte blanche to do as he
pleased. As it was, she might prove an irksome watchdog. He would
have to disabuse her of the notion that he could be hampered.