"Madam, will you meet with your brother? Will you receive him?" asked
Morton. He smoothed his bushy orange beard.
Why does he not trim it? Mary thought irrelevantly. It is so unruly,
so wiry and repulsive. It looks like a place where mites live.
"Yes. I must, so it seems."
"He will come this afternoon, then," said Morton. Was there a smirk
hidden in the beard? He nodded curtly, commandingly, and Darnley
followed him out of the room.
Do not revert, cried Mary silently. Blessed Mother, do not let him
revert back to them. She started shaking all over.
"Madam, take this soothing drink," said Lady Huntly, pressing a glass
into her hands. "And when you have done, there is this cheer: I have
gotten your messages out. Both men await your next instructions with
troops and horses."
"I pray it is not all in vain. The next part of my task involves many
other people, and can so easily go awry," sighed Mary, sipping the
frothy drink. "It frightens me, it is so delicately balanced. Like my
clock." She indicated the little clock she had had in her chambers
since childhood, the one that had struck the hours when the Cardinal
came to tell her that the date of her marriage to Francois had been
finally fixed. These days it struck erratically, and no clock master
had been able to correct it.
"My brother is the next part of my task ... my staged reconciliation
with him. Oh, but his hand was present last night ... he struck the
fifty-seventh blow. Beware the Bastard, they said...."
She ran her hands over her own arms nervously, but hated touching
herself; she felt ugly and violated from having let Darnley take her,
as if her skin were contaminated. Quickly she turned her head to look
outside. The fickle March weather had turned again, and it was warm
and sunny. Piercingly blue skies arched over the palace grounds, and
the grass under the winter mat was showing emerald green. The windows
were open, and a bee bumped against the leaded panes and then flew
in.
Wherever did he come from? Mary wondered. It is too early for bees.
Could he have been waiting, biding his time, all winter?
Like the Lord James?
How bold of him to return. Who had summoned him? Or was he in such
close contact with the rebels that he himself monitored the murder and
knew when to return?
The bumblebee flew from wall to wall in the chamber, seeking a flower.
He meandered along the tapestry, buzzing.
There are no flowers in March, Mary thought. Bee, you seek betimes.
Therefore you will die. Like all of us who guess wrong.
A sharp rap on the chamber doors, followed by an unfamiliar soldier's
announcement: "The Lord James Stewart, Earl of Moray."
Mary rose and clasped her hands in an imitation of serenity.
Into the chamber came Lord James, his eyes warm, an expression of
tenderness, concern, and apology on his face. He came toward her
humbly, beseechingly, like a little boy testing his parents' mercy for
some childish prank.
She felt herself responding to what she wished were true, rather than
what she knew to be true.
"Oh, James!" she said. "If only you had been here, none of this would
have come to pass!" She held out her arms and embraced him. "It is so
good to have you back!"
Neither of them mentioned the reason he had been away from Scotland.
"A sorry business," he murmured, holding her. "And now, alas, we must
do all we can to heal the rift that has come upon Scotland."
Now he will dictate to me, she thought. He will pronounce the terms of
the traitors.
"You will have to pardon everyone," he said, as if he had just thought
of it. "Those who fled with me and those who rose against Riccio. All
these parties must be reconciled so that we can start all over."
She kept her face buried against his chest so he could not see her
expression.
"We will gather in your chamber later today," he said, and she could
feel the words rumbling from his deep chest, as well as hear them.
"Morton, and Ruthven "
"Not Ruthven!" she cried.
" and Maitland and myself," he continued calmly.
"Is Maitland a traitor as well?" she said, pulling away. "I knew full
well he was envious of Riccio and felt slighted, but I presumed he was
too civilized to dabble in murder."
James smiled his false, remorseful-little-boy smile. "The civilized
feel hate and passion just as other men," he said. "Queen Elizabeth
and her minister Cecil are not above murder and plots why not Maitland?
Besides, why is it 'treason' to kill a foreigner?"
Yes, why not Maitland? Why not John Knox, for that matter? she
thought. "And when may I expect you?" she asked, keeping any hint of
expression from her voice.
"Later this afternoon. First we must gather at Morton's house."
Morton's house lay conveniently near Holyrood, in a close with its own
stable and a private courtyard. It had a large enough solar on the
first floor to accommodate all the conspirators, and as the afternoon
wore on, they filed in and stood talking pleasantly as if this were a
joyous occasion, a betrothal celebration, perhaps. Ruthven shuffled to
a chair and propped his feet up on a stool, but the killing seemed to
have enlivened him; he did not look nearly as sickly as he had the
previous evening. Lord James, attired in fresh clothes he had
miraculously found at the ready at Morton's house, now exuded an air of
calm majesty. Maitland, who had been absent from Edinburgh, seemed
reinvigorated by his timely sojourn in the country. Only Lord Lindsay
of the Byres was as unhealthy looking as ever, his lips cracked and
broken, his eyes with black circles. A number of lesser members of the
party milled about: Lord Sempill, Patrick Bellenden, James Makgill,
Kerr of Eawdonside, and several Douglases.
"We meet with the Queen before supper," said Morton, holding up his
hands for attention. "Just a few of us. She'll sign a pardon for us
... for oil of us, absent and present. And then, when once we have
that paper exonerating us, we shall keep the Queen in custody. Who
shall reign, you may ask? Why, we have a king King Henry!"
"Shall the Queen be kept in captivity all the days of her life?" asked
Lindsay. Spittle flew from his lips, and he dried them with the" back
of his hand. "I know of no such instance in history. Not in the
monarch's own country. Tis true James I was an English prisoner for
many years, but "
"Let her be taken to Stirling, and there fall ill and fail to recover."
The clear, smooth voice of Lord James spoke.
"Impossible! She would have her own physicians, her own cooks,"
objected Ruthven.
"Cooks and physicians can be bribed," James persisted.
"Not French ones!" This time Lindsay spat deliberately.
Lord James rocked on his heels, a smirk on his face. "So I see no one
disagrees with my suggestion, but only with the plausibility of its
success?"
"I am not sure I understand entirely what your suggestion is," Maitland
protested.
Lord James laughed. "Now that your innocence is on record, may I ask
if you would agree, in principle, that the reign of Queen Mary has been
an experiment which has failed? A Catholic Queen who has been unable
to control her Protestant country, and who has proven herself weak and
in need of a man's guidance? But in her folly and lack of discernment,
she has chosen unworthy men like Riccio to lean on, alas."
"Yes. I would agree," Maitland admitted.
"Good. Then I trust that you, like all of us, would welcome better
days."
Mary opened all her coffers, searching for the white face-paint she had
kept from a masque in France. At the time she had packed it up, she
had berated herself for the sentimentality of keeping it. But it had
been the last masque in which Francois had danced. To leave it behind
seemed a betrayal. I will throw it away later, she had promised
herself. When I am ready.
She found it in the bottom of the largest oaken coffer, buried beneath
exercise books from her tutoring days with the French schoolmaster,
outgrown riding habits, and her first communion dress of white satin
and lace.
She pulled it out and found the coloured clay within the pot to be
dried and hard. But she went to her pitcher of washing water and added
a few drops to the material, mixed it, and almost cried with relief and
gratitude when she saw the hard material turn to liquid.
Expertly she dabbed it on her face first in little dots on her nose,
cheeks, chin, and forehead, then she spread it out over her skin.
Instantly her complexion grew ashen. She added a bit to her lips, then
smiled in satisfaction. She looked ill.
The four men stood before her, dressed in their best: brocaded
doublets, shining with gold thread, linen collars edged with lace trim,
rich capes lined with fur. Morton, Ruthven, Maitland, and the Lord
James. They held their hats in their hands, but there was no hint of
subservience in their manner. Their eyes deep brown, cat's-iris
yellow, grey, and hazel met hers boldly. By her side, Darnley stood
stiffly. Pray God he does not falter! she thought. She did not dare
to smile at him or even look at him, lest it advertise their
complicity. The morning in bed was now eight hours old, and his body
memory was likely to prove faulty. Blessed Virgin, help me! she cried
silently.
"Your Majesty, my beloved sister," James began, stepping forward
slightly. He smiled his sweet-little-boy smile. "We are all rebels to
some degree," he said, "in that we have all failed to give complete,
unthinking obedience to our anointed Queen. We confess it." He jerked
his head toward his comrades, who nodded for him to continue. "Just so
we are all rebels in the same manner toward God. But that does not
mean we have joined the ranks of God's enemies, nor of yours. Nor does
it mean that, having seen or believed Your Majesty to be misled or
fallen under the influence of evil councillors, we were wrong to stand
against them. Just so the prophets were constrained to do in ancient
Israel."
He stopped, realizing that the evil influence over whom he had rebelled
was standing just a few feet away.
"Your Majesty" he bowed to Damley "I was wrong to have resisted you and
attempted to block your marriage. Forgive me; I was blind."
Darnley smiled nervously. He noticed Mary's long, graceful fingers
moving, fingering a brooch on her bodice. It was a ruby tortoise. With
a start he remembered it had been given her by Riccio. For safety.
"You rebelled, and caused us to lead an army against you!" he said.
But then he got a warm memory of putting on his gilded half-armour and
riding out in the yellow September sunlight.
"Yes, to our shame!" said James. "But I have paid for it. I have
endured exile in England, and a rating by the Queen there "
"Our sister Elizabeth does not encourage rebels," said Mary.
"Indeed not." James laughed and then they all joined in.
"Tell me, brother, what it is you want," Mary said in a gentle voice.