Barely visible against the dark, moonless sky she saw the ancient
private chapel of the castle. It sat there, isolated and
self-contained, looking almost like a child's playhouse. She had never
been inside.
I was always too busy, she thought, or not alone. And when I was
small, my mother would not let me go there.
She made her way over to it.
I must ask for the key, so that I may explore it in the light, she
thought.
She touched the heavy entry door and took hold of the iron ring, and
pushed. To her surprise the door groaned and then opened. It had not
been locked.
She looked in. It was completely dark inside, and yet it was a
friendly, sheltering darkness. But she returned to the Great Hall,
only a short distance away, and snatched a candlestick from one of the
tables, then returned to the chapel. Cautiously pushing her way
inside, she held the candle aloft.
The chapel was even smaller inside than it appeared from the outside,
as it was divided into two parts, with an arch separating the two
sections. An altar stood in the inmost section, near a small window.
In the outer section, chairs and tables were stored, candle stands,
blankets, boxes.
They were using this ancient chapel, sacred to Scotland's history, as a
storage bin! The Reformers .. . Lord Erskine, the earnest Protestant,
who commanded Stirling, had done this. Or given permission for it to
be done.
For an instant despair flooded her.
This is what your country has come to, she thought. The ancient
chapel, turned into a musty place to hold furniture. What sort of men
do this? They recognize nothing as holy; they either destroy or
desecrate everything in their paths.
Forgive us, our noble ancestors, she prayed silently. Forgive us, your
unworthy descendants, that we do not hold things dear. We have turned
into savages.
So engrossed was she in trying to communicate with the long-dead Scots
that she did not hear the door creak until it was already halfway open.
Her heart stopped, half in fear, half in anger that someone should
intrude now, of all times.
She swung around and held the candle aloft. The door continued
opening, and Bothwell stepped in.
Her first wild, disordered thought was, He does not belong here! Not
here, with my Catholic history! Then her heart leapt up and silenced
her mind.
FORTY
As he actually stepped inside the chapel, he had wondered if he should
proceed. Obviously the Queen wanted to be alone. And God knew she had
earned it, after the interminable strain of that ceremony and the
suspense about Darnley and what he might do to ruin it.
The entire day had gone surprisingly well, Bothwell thought. And the
Queen had not shown herself to be anything but perfectly in command of
everything about her, regardless of how she felt inside. For that,
Bothwell truly admired her. Yes, she had earned the right to be alone
for a few moments something rare and precious for royalty.
But after what Lord James had told him, it was imperative that she
know. Royalty could never afford to be ignorant, and remain in
control. She must be told.
And so he had followed her, watching as she stood for long moments at
the ramparts, reluctant to intrude. But when she entered the chapel,
then he knew he must.
Now she whirled around, glaring at him.
"Forgive me," he said. "I saw you enter. I was seeking an opportunity
to speak with you alone." He closed the door softly.
He could not tell from her expression whether she was angry or not. But
he must proceed. "Lord James told me this evening that there was
another, uninvited guest at Stirling," he said.
"Yes, I noticed that you were deep in conversation. Whom has he
seen?"
"Archibald Douglas."
"O God!" She gave a cry of distress and jerked her hand. The candle
in it went out. "That cutthroat cousin of Morion's! Is the whole band
of them like that? Why is he here?"
"It seems that he has in mind or expectation that you will recall his
noble cousin from his banishment."
"Never!"
"He wishes to plead for him. It seems he has already spoken with the
Earl of Bedford, and also with Lord James."
"And?"
"They both believe you should recall him, but for different reasons."
He moved closer to her in the dark, to speak more quietly. "Queen
Elizabeth wishes the rebels to return home. She has told Bedford as
much already. Perhaps she is tired of feeding all seventy-odd of them.
Bedford had instructions to discuss all this with you before departing.
Lord James wishes him back because he thinks he may be of some .. .
help in dealing with Darnley."
"And why would that be?"
"Darnley is afraid of him. If Morton returned to Scotland, with your
permission, it would signal better than anything else what low esteem
Darnley is held in here; it would frighten him into behaving himself.
Such a man as ... your husband can only be controlled by greed or
fear."
"And you think until now greed has prevailed? That perhaps all his
actions have been motivated by greed including marrying the Queen?"
"Madam, I did not say that." He moved closer; it was odd to stand in
the darkness and converse with a presence that was only a voice.
"But you meant it! Yes, you think he only married me out of greed!
That he cared not for me, and has shown it ever since the ring went on
my finger and his titles were proclaimed at Market Cross when he was in
the bridal bed!"
"Madam, I do not judge such things." Bothwell felt her presence so
close to him that he dared not move.
"You think that! I know you do!"
"If he did, then he was a fool! But we know he is a fool!" Bothwell
reached out and put his arms around her. "To have all this, and spurn
it!" he said. "Oh, he's a fool!" With no thought at all for what he
was doing, he suddenly kissed her. Her lips were as soft as a white
lily petal.
He kept kissing her; he felt her stir in his arms. He held her tightly
against him, pressed her entire body against his. Then all at once he
became one ignited candle of desire, ignited and glowing along his
entire length. He felt his body pulsating. There was magic in her,
compelling mastery of desire. He kissed her yet again, and felt their
bodies press together, longing to merge.
She had a husband, only a stone's throw away in the royal apartments.
Even now, his wife awaited.
"No," he heard himself saying. Or had he actually said it? It would
be double adultery, plus violating the Queen's person: treason. All
she had to do was scream for her guards.
But she would not. He knew that. She was brave and headstrong and not
afraid of desire. She bested him in that; for all his adventures, he
had never had to risk anything for them. He had pursued desire only
when it was easy, never when it was compelling or dangerous.
Desire washed over him and drowned his thoughts. They fell to their
knees in the open space behind the altar.
"Block the door," she said. He had expected her to demur about the
altar and the holy place. He rose to his feet and, feeling in the
dark, jerked a heavy chair over against the door.
"No lights no sound," he whispered. "No one would think to enter."
She gave a low, sweet laugh that inflamed his already throbbing body.
"I am alone," she said. "I cannot believe it. I am never alone. This
little chapel ... so old ... it makes me shiver.. .. Scotland was at
the end of the world once .. . sometimes it still feels like it." Her
breath, and voice, were coming in little gasps. "I want you to take
me, take me away, to the far side of the earth all those places you
sail to, the places you've known the Indies "
"Hush! You are mad!" He stopped her mouth by kissing her. Her mouth
opened under his, trembling.
It was as cold as a tomb in the little chapel. Outside the wind had
picked up, and there was a soft, fluttering noise as snowflakes hit the
two little windows. The chapel would be blanketed with snow, covering
them.
He must lay her down. The stones were icy cold and uneven. He fumbled
with his cloak, finding the catch, and removed it to spread it on the
floor.
"Lie here," he whispered. The altar was only a few inches away; he
brushed it with his shoulder as he quickly undid his laces and removed
his lower garments. Naked on his lower body, he could not keep from
kissing her. He let his lips search out the hollows of her neck, her
soft ears, her cheeks. She was almost crying with desire and
response.
He put his hand under her dress. It was too cold for them to remove
most of their garments. He felt her feet, how chilled they were, and
ran his hands slowly up her leg, encased in a knitted stocking. Her
leg was long and firm. Carefully he peeled the stocking down,
caressing her leg. She moaned softly and seemed almost to go limp. He
let his hand brush against the soft secret part of her, but took it
away. This was to be their only time together, as it must be, so he
would not hurry it on and have it end so soon.
He raised himself up and inched across her gown, crushing the velvet
and brocade. He kissed her at the waistband and felt the flesh beneath
it shrink back and then expand. He kissed her ribs, then her breasts,
swollen he knew just under the velvet he was staining with the moisture
from his mouth as he kissed it. Beneath it, even through two layers of
cloth, he could feel her nipples hardening and standing erect. Now his
whole body tightened and he was so excited he felt himself about to
burst.
"Call your guards, punish me," he whispered. "Nay, you are too
merciful, you would never do so...."
In answer she kissed him, first brushing his lips with her tongue,
tracing all the dips and swells of it, then opening her mouth and
tasting him. She reached down and managed to remove her silken
drawers, pulling them off over her shoeless feet, and then sank back
onto her back, with him between her legs. Two layers of clothing, her
gown and petticoat, separated his nakedness from hers. Now she was
running her hands over his bare muscular buttocks, trying to press his
skin directly against hers, as if somehow that would burn the
intervening cloth away.
"I melt ... I cannot bear this." Her voice was choked and far away.
"End my torture."
Slowly and almost solemnly, he pulled himself away from her and,
sitting back on his heels, lifted away the voluminous cloth of her
skirts. The warmth and smell of her naked flesh, her secret parts, was
unmistakable. The time was here; it could be delayed no longer.
He lowered himself toward her, holding her, positioning himself on his
knees. He was trembling. His knees were shaking. The injured arm, in
its bandage, was clumsy. His abdomen, with its fresh and tender scar,
felt ripples of heat throbbing within. He was going to die if he did
not end this.