Erskine's face was full of concern. "My dearest Queen you must rest
assured that all that is over and we can look forward to a glorious
clear future here in Scotland, now that the Prince is here." He looked
over at the baby, sleeping in his little cradle out in the sun.
And when you get possession of him, then what? The plan is not
complete yet, but soon.. .. Mary, stop these thoughts, they are evil
and come straight from hell to torment you.
Erskine's gentle eyes were probing hers.
But kind eyes can hide evil intent. Look at Damky! Who has more
glistening, innocent eyes?
AH this has murdered my trust and confidence in anything beyond myself.
Even God! Why was He so powerless to stop it?
"Your face is troubled," said Erskine. "I beg you to rest your cares
and worries."
Darnley came on the morrow, riding up on his white horse and looking as
splendid as Lancelot. Mary pretended to be pleased to see him, but as
soon as he got her alone, he grabbed her arm.
"Why did you run away?" he cried. "And with Bothwell!"
"I did not 'run away," " she said stoutly. "I only came here to rest
and restore myself. All Bothwell did was to provide the ship as was
his duty! He went straight to the Borders after that."
"Aye, where he has been busy rounding up reivers, so I heard," said
Damley sarcastically.
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing." Darnley crossed his arms and stood like a soldier on
duty.
"I have been thinking about the baptism," said Mary. "Pray, come and
let us talk about it." She took his hand limp and sweating, she
noticed and led him to a sunny spot in the solar. "Henry, would it not
be a wonderful thing if the baptism was an occasion of great ceremony
and importance? The Prince has the highest-ranking godparents. Why,
Queen Elizabeth is sending a gold font that weighs two stone!"
"She hates our son! You know what it's reported she said when first
she heard of his birth? She groaned and said, "The Queen of Scots is
lighter of a fair son, and I am but a barren stock!" Now she seeks to
cover her true feelings beneath this costly gift. Ha!" sneered
Darnley.
"Forget that gossip. Think only of how this is an opportunity to throw
Scotland open to the inspection of the world, after the recent .. .
troubles. We could show everyone how beautiful and civilized our
country is. It would help trade, it would boost our importance in the
political arena."
"What exactly are you thinking of?" His voice was cautious.
"A grand ceremony, like the kind they have in France. With fireworks,
and a week of celebrations .. . jousting, and maybe even a
bullfight!"
He frowned. "But it would be expensive," he finally said. "How would
we pay for it?"
She hated his use of the word we, but forced herself to ignore it. "I
will go to the Exchequer House and review all the finances, and, if
necessary, raise the money by taxes."
"How will the Lords agree to that? Unless the ceremony is
Protestant?"
"I know not. But we shall see."
Damley then moved over to her and took her in his arms. He kissed her,
and she felt as if she would faint from revulsion. His arms tightened
around her, and he tried to lead her into the adjoining chamber where
he assumed her bed was.
"Nay, not now it is noontime, the ladies are about."
"Fie on the ladies! You're the Queen. Turn the key and lock them
out!" he jerked her toward the door.
"No, Henry, I dare not offend "
"To hell with you!" He flung her away. "I am leaving! I see I am not
received in your chambers!"
That night the first of the Bothwell dreams came. She dreamed only
that he was riding with her, as he had that night to Dunbar. It was
dark and rainy; she could almost feel the wet on her cheeks. When she
awoke she rubbed them, surprised that they were not streaked with
raindrops. She was embarrassed, as if he would know that she had
dreamed about him.
But that made her think of him intermittently during the day. She
wondered how he was faring in the Borders. Darnley's remark was what
had put it into her mind, she decided. Bothwell had not stressed the
danger in his task, but it had to involve risks. Perhaps risks were
what propelled him.
What did she know about him, really? She had arrested him after that
fracas and accusation by his enemy, a Hamilton who had turned out to be
insane. On such flimsy evidence she had had Bothwell imprisoned, from
which he had quickly escaped, so that for most of her reign he had not
even been in the country. He was therefore a mystery to her, unlike
the other nobles, whom she had come to know all too well.
He's a nobleman, she thought, but he's different from the rest. I know
that his father divorced his mother when Bothwell was nine, and that
Bothwell was sent away to his great-uncle's in Spynie. The "Bishop"
had a host of bastards and specialized in trysts with married women. So
Bothwell observed all that when he was growing up ... that must be
where he learned about women. But where did he learn his fighting?
And his seamanship? Because by the time he got his inheritance at
twenty-one he was already known as a hero in the Borders and had a
command at sea. I know he fought in support of my mother.. ..
I know so little about him, really! And yet he seems to have become my
true right arm.
That night, after she had been asleep several hours, and dreamed
forgettable dreams, he visited her again. She dreamed that he was
holding her, kissing her. In the dream they did not speak. He merely
reached for her, putting his powerful hand on the back of her head,
putting pressure on her skull. He had burrowed his fingers all the way
through her hair, touching her scalp. His broad face had no expression
at all; it was blank. His eyes, green-brown as an October day, did not
blink.
In the dream he was wearing a rough homespun shirt, such as country
people wore. It was the colour of barley bread, with little nubbly
imperfections in it, open at the throat, showing his collarbones.
With his other hand he held her tightly against him. He kissed her,
and he ground his mouth against hers so roughly it erased all immediate
sensation in her lips except pressure. She felt his body pressing
against hers, as if he were a knife and she a whetstone. The pressure
of his fingers on her head and her back was intense and forcing. She
could feel this so acutely that she knew it was real.
Then, as dreams do, abruptly Bothwell faded like a ghost in the morning
light, melting and floating away. Mary awoke to find her gown up above
her waist and her hair twisted around her neck. She was drenched with
sweat from the heavy covers, and fought free of them. Then she lay on
her mattress and let the cool breeze from the window flow over her,
until she began to shiver.
THIRTY-TWO
Mary was at Traquair House, a mellow old estate in the valley of the
Tweed, in the Borders, that had once been a royal hunting lodge. Now
it was the ancestral home of yet another Stewart cousin, John Stewart,
fourth Laird of Traquair, who was the captain of Mary's guard and had
helped in her escape from Holyrood. He had invited the royal party to
come and spend a week hunting in the forests surrounding the house,
which abounded in game, both large and small. There had been, at one
time or another, wildcats, wolves, bears, and boars, as well as stags
and elk in the woods.
She had brought Damley, knowing how he loved hunting and hawking.
Trying to force herself to endure his company, she hoped that this
would be a safe way to do so. He would spend his time outdoors, in the
company of others she had brought Bothwell, Mary Seton, and her French
secretary, Claud Nau. Afterwards he would be too tired to be
demanding. And if he were well, it had to be faced.
To further distract him, Mary had insisted on bringing baby James, in
tow with his fat wet nurse, Lady Reres. That should also occupy Damley
so she hoped.
Seeing Bothwell again somewhat embarrassed her, after the dreams. She
felt ashamed of them, as if he knew about them. He would find them
demeaning. But in person he now seemed different, and she was glad she
could see that the dream-Bothwell was only a creation of her own
mind.
This one was more affable, shorter, and had peeling skin from the
sunburn he had gotten from his long hours of riding.
"I've had great success in the Borders the last month," he had told
her. "Of course, the glorious full moon we had in July helped."
"How so?" she had asked, curious.
"Why, the moon is the goddess of all cattle thieves," he said. "The
Scotts even have as a motto, "There'll be moonlight again." And so
there was. As the moon rose so huge for three successive nights, it
allowed me to bag an entire band that were just in full raid, so to
speak. They await your justice in the autumn. You are coming, are you
not?"
"Yes. I promised." She smiled at him. "I am pleased you could come a
bit north to join us for this type of hunting. Tell me where have you
been riding?"
"Oh, we chased the Kerrs around the countryside. Ran them through the
wastes of Liddesdale and Eskdale, splashed through the waters running
all through the Borders. But now my men can carry on for a bit on
their own. I needed to attend to some other business, so it's just as
well I have a few days off duty." He had smiled, and suddenly she
remembered that Lady Reres was a sister of that old mistress of
Bothwell's what was her name? Janet Beaton, the one who still looked
like a young girl, even at fifty. Witchcraft. They said she was a
witch. Did he have "business" with that family still?
"A fine pack of hounds," Bothwell was saying.
Sir John's master of the hounds was bringing out his hunting dogs,
fallow hounds and buckhounds. They were straining at their leashes.
"Oh, you'll go, my boys, you'll go," said Sir John tenderly, stooping
down to let them crowd round him and lick him. "Hello, Jethro, how's
the paw? Quite better?"
Mary looked up at the sky, where dark clouds raced across, making
fleeting shadows on the ground.
"It will not rain," Bothwell assured her. "That is the way clouds
behave here. They run free, like the outlaws."
"I am grateful that there are fewer outlaws since you took over as
Lieutenant of the Borders," she said.
"Oh, there are just as many of them, and half are waiting for your
judgement. The Elliots still cause great trouble."
Sir John, mounted on his hunting bay, led them out the gates and toward
the hunting forest. Mary rode abreast of Bothwell, her velvet bonnet
with its feather perched on her elaborate mound of hair, her back
straight as a board. She leaned over to continue talking to him as
they trotted along the path.
"Someday you must tell me more about the different Border families. I
wish to know; I have heard, for example, that the Kerrs are left-handed
and that their stairs spiral to the right instead of to the left so
they can use their sword arms unhindered. Is that true?"