Burning Ambition

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  The following day she sought him out and confronted him.

  ‘Why were you hiding in the Duke’s apartment?’

  He laughed malevolently.

  ‘I was about to kill him myself but you saved me the trouble,’ he sneered.

  ‘But why? Why would you want to kill him?’

  ‘Let us just say he was taking English gold. He was about to betray many people. He had to be stopped.’

  Was such a thing possible? She had become all too familiar with the treachery and double-dealing among the nobility. Perhaps it was true.

  The Earl’s face took on a more sinister aspect. ‘So you have thought about my earlier proposition? After all, we wouldn’t want anyone to find out what really happened all those years ago, would we?’

  ‘You’re not going to blackmail me,’ Marie told Jamieson. ‘If you try to drag me down, I’ll take you with me. Believe me.’

  The Earl studied her face for a few moments.

  ‘Yes, I do believe you. You are indeed a woman after my own heart. But do not imagine for a moment that someone in your lowly position at Court could possibly do me any harm. Whether you like it or not, the Dauphin must die, and you must help me or suffer the consequences. It matters not to me if he dies before the wedding or after it. You will find I am a patient man.’

  And with a flamboyant bow, he turned and left the room.

  XVI

  THE wedding day dawned bright and clear. The royal family and Mary’s maids d’honneur had spent the night at the palace of the Archbishop of Paris. Marie had had to sleep in Mary’s bedchamber and read to her well into the night to calm her.

  In the morning, all the maids helped to dress the young Queen. As she stood before them in all her grandeur, they had to wipe tears from their eyes, so moved were they by the beauty of what they saw, a beauty touched by a certain fragility—the long swan-like neck, the small, well-turned head, the amber eyes.

  Once ready, they proceeded from the palace to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. To aid their progress, a walkway had been set up between the palace and the cathedral. The King of France himself led Mary by the right hand while her kinsman, the Duke of Lorraine, held her left. The Dauphin was led in by the King of Navarre and was followed by his younger brother, Charles.

  The congregation made a magnificent sight in all their finery and sparkling jewels, but none was more splendid than the fifteen-year-old bride. Her garments were studded with so many priceless gems, however, that Mary’s tall, slim frame could scarcely carry the weight of them. Her wedding dress of white damask was dazzling, the mantle and train a subtle mingling of blue and grey velvet decorated with pearls. To weigh her down even further, she wore a golden crown of diamonds, pearls, sapphires and rubies. In the centre was suspended a large luminous gem like a flame, worth in itself over five hundred thousand crowns.

  Amidst all this rejoicing, Marie was still reeling from the Earl of Edinburgh’s revelations. He wanted her to help him kill the Dauphin. The poor sickly Dauphin … it was too dreadful even to think about. But she had suffered agonies over committing one murder, and had no intention of going through all that again. She’d rather die herself, and had made that perfectly plain to Guthrie Jamieson. He had just shrugged and said,

  ‘We shall see.’

  The events of the last few days had changed her view of Guthrie Jamieson completely. Yet she was still fascinated by him. He could be most elegant and courtly in his behaviour, yet there was a sexual coarseness about him at times. She sensed it, saw it in his eyes. When he looked at her with those hard, suggestive eyes, she experienced an answering sensuality. At the same time, she hated herself for it. A part of her nature responded to the wickedness of him. She hated him too. She hated the arrogant swagger of him. What would he do if she refused to help him? She now knew he was capable of anything.

  Yet the Earl of Edinburgh was not her only concern. Marie feared that somebody from Scotland might be at the wedding who remembered her, and who also had suspicions about the real reasons for her flight from Glasgow. And they, unlike the Earl of Edinburgh, would have no reason for keeping quiet.

  The first group to arrive outside the cathedral was the Swiss guards resplendent in their liveries. They arrived to the sound of tambourines and fifes. Then came the Duke of Guise; then there was the Bishop of Paris. Then a procession appeared headed by a series of musicians, all clad in yellow and red, with trumpets, sackbuts, flageolets, violins and other musical instruments filling the air with their cacophony of rejoicing. Following the musicians came a hundred gentlemen-in-waiting of the King. After them strutted the princes of the blood so gorgeously dressed that the onlookers gasped in wonder. Next came the abbés and bishops bearing rich crosses and jewelled mitres, and after them, the princes of the church, even more magnificently dressed. They included the cardinals of Bourbon and Lorraine.

  Behind them came the Dauphin, Francis, and finally Mary with two young girls bearing her immensely long train. The young Queen was followed by Catherine di’ Medici, then princesses and ladies including Marie and the four Marys, all dressed in spectacular grandeur.

  Once the ceremony was over, there was a banquet and a ball. Later in the afternoon, the entire Court proceeded to the palace of parliament, the Dauphin and his gentlemen on horseback, their horses adorned with crimson velvet trappings.

  Mary was on a golden litter. Her red-gold hair vied in brightness with that of Marie. Except that Marie’s was more fiery. In other circumstances, they would have been taken for sisters with their similar colouring and the fact that both were unusually tall for females. The young Queen could not only stand shoulder to shoulder with Marie, she could also stand shoulder to shoulder with her Guise uncles.

  Mary confided to Marie afterwards that although she had enjoyed the proceedings she felt utterly exhausted, and the young bridegroom was also wearied. The King Dauphin, as he was now to be called, had always been delicate and since Mary, now the Queen Dauphiness, had reached her adolescence, she too had ceased to be robust.

  And so, after the wedding celebrations, they were very glad to leave for the Chateau of Villers-Cotterets where they could be alone.

  Then, in November, Mary Tudor, Queen of England, died. As far as the Guises were concerned, Mary should now be Queen of England. The King of France declared that Elizabeth, who now claimed the crown, was a bastard but Mary, on the other hand, was in direct line of descent from Henry VII and therefore the rightful heir. The Duke of Guise wanted to raise an army and invade England to wrest the crown from Elizabeth, but the King would not go so far as to declare war over such an issue. However, he did have Mary proclaimed Dauphiness of France, Queen of England, Scotland and the Isles.

  Yet all these intrigues hardly touched Mary, Queen of Scots. As far as she was concerned, England and Elizabeth were far away. They had nothing to do with her. She was happy with her Dauphin, and content in her beloved France.

  But her new-found contentment was shattered when tragedy struck, one day in July. Crowds had gathered in the rue Saint-Antoine, near the Bastille, to watch the royal jousting tournament. The King and the Dauphin had been practising every day at the tilt. Henry was well known for his love of combat, and on this occasion, looking magnificent in black and white, the colours of Diane du Poitiers, he mounted his horse to the resounding cheers of the onlookers. As was his usual habit, the King broke three lances with three princes.

  All was going perfectly, the King and the princes having acquitted themselves gallantly, when, as the afternoon light was declining and the tournament was drawing to a close, the King suddenly decided that he wished to break one more lance. This time he challenged the Comte de Montgomery.

  Montgomery was a colonel of the archers of the guard and famous for his courage. He quickly saw that the King looked fatigued. He was also aware of Queen Catherine di’ Medici’s unease, and he begged to be excused from the encounter. Finally, Henry commanded him to obey as his sovereign. Queen Catherine tried to persuade her h
usband not to take part in the joust, telling him she had a premonition that something evil was about to happen. The King did not share the Queen’s interest in the occult, nor did he give much credence to her talk of signs and premonitions, and this occasion was no exception. In the end there was no way out for Montgomery—he could not disobey the King’s order and so the joust began.

  Montgomery heaved himself into the large jousting saddle, leather creaking and groaning. As his horse pranced and skittered sideways, men at arms held its head still. Settling himself deep in the saddle, legs pushed forward, heels tensed, he lifted a heavy mailed fist and pulled his visor down over his face. His page handed up his shield and lance. Then he looked down the long tourney field to see the King’s impressive black and white draped horse rearing and pawing the air.

  The marshal dropped his brightly coloured flag, Montgomery kicked his heels savagely backwards into the horse’s flanks, and his mount sprang forward.

  Hooves thundered, and as the King charged towards him, Montgomery instinctively levelled his lance, tucking his chin down and bracing his shoulder. The impact rocked him back in the saddle as his lance snapped and jagged splinters of wood flew upwards, ripping into the King’s right eye and throat. The King’s horse came to a standstill with the inert figure of its rider slumped in the saddle. He was hastily lifted down, and carried into the palace of Tournelles as a shocked silence descended onto the field.

  Nine days later, the King was dead.

  The Dauphin was now King Francis II at the age of fifteen and a half. Mary Stewart was Queen at the age of sixteen. Later the whisper went round the Court that now there would be three kings of France—Francis, who would wear the crown, while the Duke of Guise and his brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine, would be the true rulers.

  XVII

  IN the Great Hall of Naughton Castle, the Duke of Glasgow was entertaining his friends, Joseph McKeever and Magnus Hepburn, with tales of the recent adventures of the notorious James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell. As the son and heir of the ‘Fair Earl’, Bothwell had inherited the offices of Sheriff of Berwick, Haddington and Edinburgh, of Baillie of Lauderdale, with the castles of Hailes and Crichton, and of Lord High Admiral of Scotland. Now the Queen Dowager had made him Lord Lieutenant of the Borders.

  The friends were gathered at Naughton awaiting Bothwell’s imminent arrival from France, a messenger having reported that his ship had docked a few days previously.

  McKeever said, ‘I suspect his adventures in France will have been amorous ones.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ McNaughton said. ‘What about his beloved Janet?’

  ‘I heard,’ McKeever persisted, ‘that he had moved on from that little affair some time ago.’

  The footsteps of servants echoed along the bare boards of the hall. More logs were thrown on the fire, candles were lit, and the goblets refilled.

  ‘I don’t know about any other ladies, but he’s certainly gained the Dowager’s trust,’ Magnus remarked. ‘Now that she has given him Hermitage Castle, she’s made him the most powerful man in the country.’

  ‘Let’s face it.’ McNaughton stretched his tall form back in his chair and enjoyed another deep swig of wine. ‘The reason she trusts him is obvious—he’s just about the only one of the Protestant nobility who is not in the pay of the English. And that’s despite the fact that he’s desperate for money. No wonder the English loathe and detest him.’

  Magnus Hepburn shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘I confess I don’t understand him. Not about refusing English gold,’ he added hastily, ‘but the fact that as a Protestant he is willing to risk his life for a Catholic queen.’

  ‘Oh, Magnus, who can tell what motivates people?’ McNaughton said thoughtfully. ‘Look at Guthrie Jamieson. He is one of the Dowager’s most trusted envoys—and he is not only a Protestant, but I’ve often heard it said that he favours an English alliance.’

  ‘You think the Earl of Edinburgh is in the pay of the English?’

  McNaughton shook his head.

  ‘I am certain he is not. After all, he fought with me against them at Pinkie, did he not? But I know there are many who suspect him.’

  McKeever shook his head.

  ‘I for one cannot believe it. Guthrie is such a gallant gentleman.’

  McNaughton nodded in agreement. He had never forgotten how Jamieson had saved his life, even if he hadn’t been able to prevent his being captured. But Hepburn just laughed, and said,

  ‘You are too trusting. The Earl is an intelligent, charming and courageous man, no doubt, but he’s as devious and cunning as a fox as well.’

  McNaughton pointedly changed the subject. ‘Bothwell is one of the few men left in the country who still has faith in chivalry. I fear it is a peculiarity that will cause his downfall. Nevertheless I admire him for it.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ McKeever said. ‘You admire him for the same reason as the rest of us. He’s more daring and courageous than any of us, including Jamieson.’

  ‘Anyway, enough of politics, my friends,’ Hepburn interrupted. ‘I for one will be most interested to hear what Bothwell thought of the Dowager’s daughter. Can she really be as beautiful as everyone says?’

  ‘And surrounded by beauties as well,’ McNaughton winked. ‘Of the four Marys, I’ve heard Fleming is the most voluptuous. But I like the sound of Livingstone—‘The Lusty’, as she’s known.’

  ‘Do you remember my half-sister, Marie?’ Hepburn asked. ‘She was often at Spynie when she was a girl. I just wondered if your visits had ever coincided.’

  McNaughton looked grim. ‘The daughter of the Bishop of Moray?’ He paused for a moment. ‘I never met her, but she was betrothed to my father just before his death.’

  Magnus Hepburn looked embarrassed. ‘Of course. I had forgotten. Forgive me, Gavin, I did not mean to rake up old, bitter memories. …’

  McNaughton sighed,

  ‘That’s all right Magnus. I wish I had known her. By all accounts, she and my father were very happy together. But, as you know I was imprisoned by the damned English at that time, and when I returned, my poor father had been long buried and your kinswoman gone over to France.’

  ‘As tutor and maid d’honneur to the Queen of Scots, no less,’ Hepburn said, unable to conceal a note of bitterness in his voice.

  ‘Is there not much love lost between you?’ McKeever asked.

  Hepburn shrugged.

  ‘I’ve neither seen nor heard from her for years, and— pardon me for speaking my mind Gavin—I could never understand what my father saw in her or her stupid mother, Effie Dalgliesh.’

  ‘Effie Dalgliesh went to live on Orkney and as far as I know, she’s still there,’ McKeever added.

  McNaughton looked surprised.

  ‘I wonder why she didn’t accompany her daughter to France? One would think a chance of being part of the French Court, even as just the mother of a tutor …’

  ‘Marie probably regarded going to France as a God-given opportunity to escape from her mother. If she’d married your father and become Duchess of Glasgow, I’ll wager she wouldn’t have had Effie come here to Naughton very often either. They didn’t get on well as far as I remember,’ Hepburn told him.

  ‘Just think, Gavin,’ McKeever said, ‘she might have been your stepmother and lady of the castle if things had turned out differently.’

  ‘I wonder what she’s like,’ McNaughton said. ‘We must ask Bothwell what he thought of her.’

  But when Lord Bothwell eventually arrived, he had more important news to discuss. He was not the ‘Fair Earl’ his father had been. But he had presence. When he entered a room, he dominated it, as he did now, with his scarlet lined cloak tossed back from his broad chest. He had lean, saturnine features, dark hair and jet black eyes. His enemies described him as ape-like because of his broad shoulders and long muscular arms. His dark eyes could fix one with such a disturbing stare that some people, enemies and friends alike, believed he had magical powers.

  Once h
e had settled himself in front of the roaring fire, Bothwell began to recount his adventures. ‘I had barely left the French Court,’ he told his friends in his deep husky voice, ‘when I received word that King Henry had died.’

  The others were shocked.

  Bothwell described the jousting accident. ‘This means of course,’ he went on, ‘that Mary, Queen of Scots is now Queen of France. Yet she seemed hardly more than a child to me. Beautiful, certainly, but too delicate and virgin-like for my taste.’

  ‘She’s obviously no virgin if she’s married,’ McKeever remarked.

  ‘You haven’t met the Dauphin. I have. A puny, sickly fellow. Rumour has it his privates are deformed and he can’t act like a man to his wife or anyone else.’

  ‘She’ll never have an heir then.’

  ‘She’s about as sickly as he is,’ Bothwell added. ‘But I must give them some credit. There’s nothing wrong with their spirit. For taking part in any sport, at least.’

  ‘And what of the beautiful Diane du Poitiers then?’ McNaughton asked.

  Bothwell gave a mirthless laugh. ‘At the mercy of Catherine di’ Medici, I’d say. That ugly old bitch will have been biding her time. Now she’ll have her revenge.’

  ‘And how will the young Queen fare?’

  ‘I think that Mary could be in grave danger. Catherine di’ Medici favours the new King’s young brother, Charles. God alone knows what she’s capable of!’

  ‘By the way,’ Hepburn suddenly remembered the conversation they’d been having earlier, ‘did you meet my half-sister, Marie Hepburn, the Queen’s tutor?’

  ‘The one with the fiery red hair?’ Bothwell gave one of his deep throaty laughs. ‘I was introduced to her. But I first met her many years ago, don’t you remember? At Spynie when we were both children. She is certainly a great beauty. But as you know my heart is elsewhere.’