"I fear the Countess will be disappointed," said Bessie. "Now I must
return to the kitchen to replenish the tray."
"Aye." Bothwell turned with her and followed her down the steps. She
kept glancing over her shoulder to see where he was, and a smile crept
over her face.
Across the passageway they went, then into the kitchen, where only one
cook was languidly stirring a pot, and French Paris, one of BothwelPs
serving men, was baiting some mousetraps with scraps.
Bessie put down her tray and asked the cook to refill it, while
Bothwell whispered some instructions to Paris. Then he took Bessie's
arm and firmly led her toward the door of the attached kitchen tower.
In an instant they were in the small room that served as a pantry, and
Bothwell closed the door and leaned against it, his arms crossed.
"Paris will see we are not disturbed."
Bessie was staring at him, her little face white. But she did not back
away when he reached for her. Christ! He needed a woman! He ached at
the need of it.
He pulled her stiff little body toward him. She was bony, except that
she had big breasts. He bent to kiss her, expecting her to turn her
head and squeal, making soft little noises of protest, which would soon
die away. He knew she was no virgin; Paris had had her, as well as the
cook.
Sure enough, she bowed her head for a moment, allowing him to kiss her
ear and her neck, before turning back to him. The obligatory demurring
now over, she kissed him passionately and allowed him to feel her body.
Without his even asking, she undid her bodice, and murmured, "Now you
may do what you like," offering her melon-like breasts to him as if
they were on a platter.
He was not much interested in kissing her pallid face or availing
himself of the breasts; he wanted to relieve himself in only one way.
She lay back on the floor and pulled up her skirts for him,
accommodatingly. Now he knew the stories that Paris and the cook had
told him were true. Quickly he undid his breeches and climbed on her,
ashamed of the perfunctoriness of it, but needing to do it and get it
over with. The sooner he was able to mount her, the sooner he would
end this burning, throbbing call of his body, which was tormenting him
no thanks to his wife!
"Ah," she whispered softly as she felt him on her, probing her, then
she gave the expected squeal when he entered her. "Oh, my Lord
Bothwell, my Lord, my Lord ..." Her voice was rising and he managed to
put a hand across her mouth to silence her. But he was engulfed in
gratifying himself and stopped heeding the noise; he thought he was
going to explode if this exquisite teasing and torment of his body did
not end. Thrusting and stabbing, he felt as if he were trying to
skewer her from the inside, and then the long-sought relief flooded him
and he groaned with joy.
But it had happened so quickly he was not even out of breath. And as
soon as the waves of sensation subsided, he rolled away from her. It
was over.
"That felt good," he said, lightly, reaching for his breeches. Bessie
was still lying there, looking at him forlornly. He reached over and
pulled her skirt down, covering her.
"Will you be wanting me again, Sire?" she asked sweetly.
He was taken by surprise. "Why, possibly," he said.
"I will be honoured to do it again," she said.
"Why?" he asked, curious.
"You know how to do it so well," she said matter-of-factly, "even when
you are in such a hurry. I would like to see how you do it when you
have more time."
He threw back his head and laughed. "I will do my best to satisfy your
curiosity."
THIRTY-FIVE
Bothwell was up betimes. There was thumping and noise from the dungeon
in the Hermitage; it was filled with Armstrongs he had captured the day
before. He rolled off his camp bed and rubbed the muscles of his back
and then felt his sword arm to see if it was stiff or sore. It had
better not be; he had a mighty lot of work to do this day.
No, there was no tenderness there. He flexed his arm and made a fist.
What a fine day yesterday had been, bringing in the lairds of Mangerton
and Whitehaugh, the thieving bastards. Their peel-towers hadn't saved
them. And now they could bloody well rot in there and wait for their
trial when the Queen came.
When the Queen came. Oh, yes, he'd have more outlaws for her. It was
going to be another fine day today. He knew it.
He crossed the damp stone floor in his bare feet and, stripping off his
shirt, plunged his hands into the stone basin of water in the corner.
He washed his face and then splashed his shoulders, shivering as the
frigid water hit his flesh.
It builds character, he snorted to himself.
A trickle of dampness made little sounds as it ran down the walls. Even
the inner walls had a sheen of moss here in the Hermitage.
Bothwell reached for his riding clothes his linen shirt, his quilted
outerwear coat of leather sewn with horn for added protection, his
leather boots and breeches pulling them on slowly as if he were not
cold. Then he picked up his dag his horse-pistol his sword, and his
dagger, and was ready to face the Queen's enemies. The Queen .. .
He and his men, a force of about a hundred troops, gathered just
outside the colossal arched front wall of the fortress, which soared up
like the portal of a cathedral, but seemed as dark and sinister as the
gates of Hell. The barking of the scent hounds, lean black beasts, was
fearsome as Cerberus.
"Ah, my men!" cried Bothwell. "We have another fine day of hunting!"
Actually it was grey and misting, but that had nothing to do with the
matter. "The Elliots! The Elliots! We'll attack the peel-tower of
Jock o' the Park!"
The men were thunderously silent. Jock o' the Park was one of the most
notorious and ruthless outlaws. And he had never yet been taken, or
beaten.
Bothwell laughed as loud as he could, but the thick, insensate stones
of the citadel soaked it up and it sounded weak.
"So you remember the verse?
"They leave not spindle, spoon nor spit, Bed, bolster, blanket, shirt
nor sheet; Jock o' the Park Rapes chest and ark. For all such work, He
is right meet."
"Come now, won't he be a bonny prize?" Bothwell raised his sword and
waved it over his head.
"Aye! Aye!" The men raised theirs, and then they all clattered over
the rough planks that bridged the moat and galloped down alongside the
burn, splashing through it and onto dry ground. They followed the burn
as it flowed toward another, Liddelwater, where the two waters coming
together formed the Park: home territory of the Elliots.
The countryside was in mottled autumn splendour, with purple streaks of
heather on the steeper hills and russet and orange bracken and reeds
near the trickling water. Patches of velvet-green grass spread out
next to withered wastes of brown gorse on the hills, and glowed
unexpectedly bright beneath fallen leaves and old yellow cattails. The
sky was a pale pearl grey.
They passed thick rectangular peel-towers spread out along the
heather-speckled braes of the burn, revelling in their own powerful
horses and the misty day.
The mighty peel-tower of Jock o' the Park loomed up ahead, arrogantly
sitting on a pasture at the confluence of the waters a spot known to
both the Scots wardens and the English as the very cockpit of the
Borders, where the writ of neither side ran.
Bothwell gave spurs to his horse and raced ahead of the others to
surprise Jock and keep him from escaping. But there were enough people
about to see the lone armed rider approaching and warn their master, so
before Bothwell reined in his horse and shouted at the tower, "I arrest
you in the name of the Queen," Jock was already galloping away across
the burn-bed and toward the hills.
Bothwell spotted him and debated whether to await the arrival of his
own men to give chase. No, by then Jock would be out of sight. Quickly
he turned his mount and lit out across the fields, galloping over the
new-reaped stubble and between the upright sheaves, then into the
thicker entangled broom as he followed Jock into the wilder reaches of
the hills. Jock was climbing upward, leaving the watered valley; he
had a mountain hideout he was making for, then.
I cannot let him out of sight, thought Bothwell, urging his horse
forward.
The distance was closing: three hundred yards, two hundred yards, one
hundred, fifty and then Bothwell could see Jock looking over his
shoulder, could even see the colours of the pl aiding in his
riding-mantle. The man was grinning.
"Halt!" cried Bothwell, reaching into his belt and pulling out his
pistol. He fired it once up into the air, making the mountain fastness
reverberate.
Jock reined in his horse, and kept that menacing, smug grin.
"You'd best keep your distance, Lieutenant, Queen's Man," he said,
disdain dripping from every word.
"I'm my own man," said Bothwell. "And Keeper of Liddesdale. If you
refuse to obey my summons, let us see who is the better man. I command
you not only on my authority as officer for what's an office but a
bestowal and a title, and oft it ill fits the man it is hung upon but
as man to man. Single combat."
All the time he was speaking, he threaded his way closer to Jock until
he was only twenty or thirty feet from him, in the little green
clearing where he had stopped. Then, in one motion, he dismounted and
unsheathed his great two-handed sword.
Jock eyed him curiously for a moment, then likewise dismounted.
Carefully he took out his own sword and approached Bothwell.
"You are from another time," he said softly. "Do you see yourself as
one of King Arthur's knights? Single combat!" He laughed roughly. "Or
is there a sin you wish to expiate? No matter I will help you punish
yourself." He rushed at Bothwell brandishing the great sword. Bothwell
barely had time to duck and recover his own balance.
He spun his sword arm out and his sword whizzed by Jock like a whirling
blade, snagging his plaid. Jock pulled back, then took aim again,
parrying for Bothwell's shoulder. The tip of his blade touched the
padded leather and nicked it, but Bothwell did not flinch. Instead he
lunged forward, startling Jock, pressing the edge of his sword against
Jock's chest. Jock stumbled and then fell backward, dropping his
sword. Bothwell covered him and forced him onto his back, making him
helpless. He laid his own sword with meticulous care across Jock's
neck, where the Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
"Now," Bothwell whispered, as if there were others who might be
listening, "do you surrender?"
Jock, who still looked more surprised then frightened, said, "Yea." But
had he understood what he was saying? Or was it just a trick?
"Will my life be safe?" Jock asked. "Will you guarantee my safety?"
"You must stand trial when the Queen comes to hold her justice court,"
Bothwell said. "But if the hearing clears you, I shall accept it and
stand content. You shall go free."