"You already have."
"I mean something to remember us by to remember him. He'd want it "
The bare little room offered nothing. Then Bothwell's eye fell on the
dogs. "What sort of dogs are those? They seem to be all hair."
"They're Skye terriers, very loyal and fierce, they're one-man dogs.
Good hunters, too, you'd be surprised, they don't look it. We'll be
having pups soon."
"That is what I would like," said Bothwell decisively. "Two one for
myself, one for my mother. A male and a female, so we can make more of
them!" His voice rose, and Mary realized that he genuinely wanted
them, and genuinely knew and loved dogs. Another unsuspected thing
about him. "I'll collect them later, then."
"Is this your wife, Lady Bothwell?" the man suddenly asked, eying
Mary. He was ready to be deferential.
"No." Bothwell gave an amused smile that was barely visible in the dim
light. "She merely rides with me this day."
"Is the Countess with child? I pray you may have an heir."
"No. She is not. But I thank you for your prayers."
The woman thrust an earthenware cup of the broth at Mary, and she took
a sip. It was mainly water, with only the faintest trace of kale and
beremeal. How did these people survive? She nodded in appreciation,
and drank it all. It provided warmth in the stomach, but no
nourishment.
After drinking his soup, Bothwell took his leave. "The debt is still
mine," he said, after they thanked him again for the gold.
The moon was just rising as they set out across the moors and hills for
Traquair. Behind them there was still a faint glow of sunset, while
the moon shone with a fuzzy, shrouded light ahead of them. The mists
were creeping higher on the hills.
Suddenly Mary was very tired, and wondered how she could remain alert
for the journey back, which would necessarily be much slower in the
dark and swirling mists. But at the same time she felt detached from
her tired body and wished the ride to go on and never end. She wanted
to ride behind Bothwell over the dangerous terrain forever, to stop
intermittently and have him continue to surprise her with her own
desire to be with him, hear him speak, look at him.
But he rode on ahead of her, not slowing or looking back.
He does not want it to last, she thought. He does not care to linger
with me, as I do with him.
Desire so fierce and startling swept through her that she was first
stunned, then bewildered. It was unlike anything she had ever
experienced, or even prepared for: a strange mixture of yearning for
possession, awe, and an actual physical ache that the words hunger and
longing were inadequate to describe. At the same time she felt
protective of him, as though she already possessed him, had always
possessed him, even before she knew him. As though he had been
reserved for her, set aside.
If only he would turn around, look at me! she thought. She willed him
to. He did not.
By the time they reached Traquair House it was so late that the moon,
muffled in clouds, was almost directly overhead. The mists had
enveloped the house, and only the torches and the candlelit windows
guided them to the courtyard.
"Ah, I'm tired," Bothwell sighed, swinging down off his horse and
handing the reins to a stable boy He strode quickly toward the front
entrance, not waiting for her.
His tone is so offhanded, so dismissive, she thought. Yet if I
commanded him to stop, he would have to obey.
"Wait," she finally said, coming toward him. "Do not rush away." Did
she keep her voice free from command or complaint? She came up to him
and looked at him while trying not to seem to do so. What was his
expression? In the poor light she could not tell.
"This ride meant a great deal to me," she said, moving with him up the
front steps. He gave a deprecating little laugh. "I would know more
about the Borders," she insisted. "Will you take me again?"
"If you wish it, I will arrange it. Next time we can take some of my
troops, and you can meet my allies. You would like Sore John and
Archie Fire-the-Braes "
No! Not others! she screamed to herself. I am sick of others, of
always being in someone's company. I want to be alone, alone with
you.. ..
"No, I think I would be reticent to ask the questions I need to in
front of others."
"Whatever you wish." He turned at the door and made for his
chambers.
"Will you not sup with us?" she asked.
"I will eat in my own chambers," he answered, over his shoulder, as he
disappeared down a passageway.
"And so will you," said Darnley, who had suddenly appeared around the
corner. "The rest of us dined hours ago." He looked her up and down,
then shrugged. "I was concerned. I thought you might have met with an
accident."
"With Bothwell?" she quickly said. "He knows the land and the people
hereabouts so well there was no danger of that."
"Oh?" For a moment Darnley's eyes flickered, but the question died
away. "I am happy you are safe, that is all," he said. "Come, my
dear." He draped his arm over her shoulder and led her up the stairs
to their chamber.
The stone balustrade slid under her hand as she leaned against it to
keep herself as far away from Darnley as possible. She shrank from his
touch. They had not lain together as man and wife since that time
after Riccio's death when she had used that as a means to win him to
her side. Then she had been so deep in shock she had felt like a dead
person herself, and had not felt anything. But since then it seemed
that every nerve in her body had become highly sensitive, and could not
tolerate his touch. She had fled from him, had managed so far to be
always out of reach. Now she was cornered and could not escape.
She had steeled herself to this, after her confession to Father
Mamerot, knowing it must come, coming finally to view it as a test of
her ability to sacrifice. She had even presented Darnley with a gift
of a magnificent canopied bed, with violet damask curtains,
violet-brown velvet hangings with ciphers and flowers sewn with gold
and silk, and fitted with sheets of
Holland linen, as if that would somehow serve to be mother of desire in
herself.
And now now he was at her side, eager and pressing. And after
Both-well .. . when all she wanted was to be alone and think of
Bothwell .. .
But as she thought of Bothwell, a strange excitement came upon her, and
she shook.
"Are you chilled, my love?" said Darnley, feeling her shudder. "It
was foolish of you to ride on the moors at night! Dangerous, and
foolish!"
He kicked the chamber door open, and it reverberated on its hinges and
slapped against the panelled wall.
"I am so tired," she began, as a prelude to what she hoped would be a
miraculous reprieve for one more night.
"I know, and I want to soothe you," he said tenderly, closing the door
and taking her in his arms.
There would be no reprieve.
"I fear I must rest, I feel almost faint," she persisted.
"Here, lie down. Let me wait on you," he said, leading her to the bed.
She climbed into it and lay down, stretched out full length. Above her
the embroidered hangings with the armourial bears of Traquair looked
down in merciless amusement.
Damley began to massage her feet, rubbing them as if they were the feet
of a saint. He kissed them reverently, and it was all she could do not
to jerk them away, or kick him.
Oh, I cannot, I cannot, she thought. I cannot bear it!
Perhaps you should look on it as your punishment for the thoughts of
Bothwell. Fitting that it is tonight you must pay the price. Coveting
your neighbour's husband. For he's married, and it was you yourself
who provided the wedding gown for his bride.
"Ah, now I see you smiling," said Darnley. "Would you forgive me, my
love, I must absent myself for a moment." He slid off the bed and made
for the garderobe to relieve himself. Mary quickly removed her clothes
she did not want him to do it and put on a thick, woollen-lined night
dress that buttoned up around her neck. She took the pins from her
hair and loosened it herself. She bent her head forward and shook it,
feeling strangely aroused by the thick luxury of her own hair. What if
it tumbled down around Bothwell's face as he lay on his back? What was
Lady BothwelFs hair like, in bed?
"If you could see your face," Darnley murmured.
She opened her eyes to see him standing across the room from her,
awestruck. His slender young body was outlined in the moonlight, his
arms motionless at his side.
She looked at him, objectively, remembering when his ivory slenderness
had appealed to her. But it had been an aesthetic response, the same
feeling one feels looking at an exquisite carving, she suddenly
realized. It has nothing to do with it is nothing like
As a beautiful object, he appealed to her. But only as an object,
perfect in its workmanship.
It is what I must do, it is my duty, and my punishment for all I have
done that is wrong .. . now I must atone, she thought. And I am not
even allowed to choose my own atonement. I would far rather fast a
month or walk barefoot to Rome. But instead I am commanded to do
this.
He clasped her to him with a gasp. "I thought never to feel your arms
round me again," he cried. "O God, I love you past idolatry!"
He climbed up into the bed with her.
"When you presented me with the bed at Holyrood, with its beautiful
curtains and hangings, in my favourite violet-brown ... I hoped .. .
but I did not dare to believe .. . that I was forgiven and that you
wished to be wife to me again. Then you did not come...."
"Hush, Henry," she said, smoothing his hair. He had started to cry.
Not this. Not a long talk, with the lovemaking postponed. No, she
could not bear it. If it did not happen tonight, she could not promise
herself that she could bring herself to the brink again. She must
arouse him to the act and leave this mewling behind.
She pulled his face up to hers and began kissing him. His tears
stopped. He began to kiss her hungrily, biting her lower lip and
taking it into his own mouth.
She felt his slender, almost bony body pressing hers. There was no
strength in it, just need. In pity and charity, she unbuttoned her own
gown and let him feel her naked flesh against his. He shivered and
began to cry. Quickly she ran her hands over his back and kissed his
bony shoulders. This crying could not continue.
"Mary wife you may have heard that I have gone where I should not in
Edinburgh, sought out women I was wrong I shall not sin again "
"Hush," she repeated. As if she cared whether he sinned with whores or
not!
But I am supposed to care, she cried to herself. I should care that my
husband does wrong.. ..
But her inner voice was almost drowned out by the insistent noises of
Darnley's desires. He was lying on her, trembling and indecisive as to
whether to worship her or ravish her. She kissed him with every
verisimilitude of passion to try to push him to the physical act. She
could stand it now.