Burning Ambition

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  But even so, she told herself, there was nothing she could do about any of it now.

  Then, to make things worse, Effie Dalgliesh wrote from Orkney. It was a long, rambling letter in which Effie upbraided Marie for her lack of correspondence.

  ‘You could be dead for all I knew. Or I could be long dead for all you cared. As it is I haven’t been well for some time and only now, knowing (from every other source but you!) that at long last you are returning to Scotland, I feel able to make the effort to join you and hope and pray that you will remember your filial duties and take care of me in my feeble old age…’

  In her late forties, Marie thought derisively, her mother was surely not as yet in her ‘feeble old age’. Above all, on no account could Effie be allowed to join Mary’s Court. No doubt the young Queen would be generous enough to allow her to do exactly that, but remembering Effie’s empty-headed foolishness and her dangerously loose tongue, Marie knew she could never trust her.

  When all the preparations had been completed, the Queen sent for the Earl of Bothwell, to act as Admiral of the fleet which would take her back to Scotland. The Earl of Edinburgh was to have the honour of commanding one of the leading galleys, which would be on the lookout for English men-o-war, but would also carry the Queen’s horses to Scotland. These magnificent beasts, powerfully-built white stallions, were to be the centrepiece of Mary’s magnificent procession through the streets of Edinburgh. It was only natural that the Queen should entrust this precious cargo into the safe keeping of Guthrie Jamieson, one of her most trusted courtiers.

  On hearing that he had been chosen for this task, Jamieson could hardly believe his luck. Randolph had been insisting for some time that he find a way of delivering the Queen of Scots into the hands of the English, promising a reward beyond even Jamieson’s wildest dreams if he was successful. Now, he had the perfect opportunity, and he quickly despatched letters to Randolph informing him of the exact route the Queen’s fleet would take. Soon after, he received word that an English fleet would be ready and waiting to ambush the French galleys. All Jamieson had to do was to make sure the Queen sailed straight into the trap.

  A few days later the journey began. A brilliant cavalcade accompanied Queen Mary, daughter of the house of Guise, and her companions to the coast. In gilded carriages bearing the arms of Guise and Lorraine, rode the brothers, the Duke and the Cardinal, who were to see Mary safely on board her ship. They sat, hair and pointed beards well groomed, gold earrings glittering, white satin robes vivid with large red crosses. Mary’s equally splendid carriage followed theirs. Then came the rest of the company including the Earl of Edinburgh, Marie and the four Marys.

  Mary was wearing a traditional French gown of cloth of silver, with a headdress shaped like a scallop shell and decorated with pearls. A wide necklace, like a collar studded with pearls, framed her lovely oval face.

  Marie was filled with apprehension but struggling, for the Queen’s sake, to appear composed. The Queen herself looked pale and acutely distressed. Nothing augured well—even the weather was hazy and dull despite the fact that it was high summer.

  Finally, as the great galleys of France pulled away from the shore, the tragic figure of the Queen could be seen weeping at the poop of the leading ship. She wasn’t afraid of the six hundred mile journey to her kingdom, even though she knew that she would be in danger of being captured by the English, whose ships patrolled these seas. Up until that morning, she had displayed admirable courage in keeping to her decision to risk everything by going to Scotland. Now, the reality of leaving her beloved France struck her. She realised that she was bidding goodbye to all she had known, and loved, and held dear, for what seemed her whole life. As the galleys surged into the unknown, Mary clung to the part of the ship which was still nearest to the French shore and sobbed.

  ‘Adieu France, adieu. Will I ever see you again?’

  XXI

  MEANWHILE, the Earl of Edinburgh stood at the prow of the galley that was conveying the Queen’s splendid white horses to Scotland. But his thoughts did not dwell on the Queen’s arrival in her native country. Instead he saw this journey as the culmination of one of his greatest ambitions—the union of the Crowns of England and Scotland. And, of course, if all went well, such an outcome would also make him a very wealthy man indeed. His musings were rudely interrupted by the ship’s Captain, Lefevre—a stocky, piratical figure who always wore a wicked-looking cutlass at his side.

  ‘Bonjour, my Lord of Edinburgh. I trust all is well.’

  ‘Very well indeed, Captain,’ Jamieson replied. ‘And how stands the wind for England?’

  ‘Not so good,’ Lefevre frowned. ‘And I like not the look of the sky ahead. Maybe we will have fog before we reach land.’

  ‘Damnation!’ thought Jamieson. One thing he had not allowed for was the weather. In a thick sea fog it would be only too easy to sail straight past the waiting English without ever being seen. If that happened, all his plans would come to nothing.

  He looked back towards the shore. Already the land had disappeared in the haze which clung to the horizon, so that their fleet seemed entirely alone on an endless sea.

  But Guthrie Jamieson was not one to worry over the future. He took a deep breath of sea air, the salt-laden spray giving him renewed vigour. He turned and took in the sights and sounds around him on the ship, the creak of timbers, the groaning of the many ropes, as taut as sinews, the sharp smell of tar, the bronzed sailors hurrying like rats up and down the rigging as harsh orders were bellowed from the deck. The captain had given strict orders as to how the sails should be set to take best advantage of the unfavourable wind. Jamieson had been pleased to see the eagerness with which his officers leapt to obey their glowering leader. Certainly he seemed a tough, ruthless figure, one who would stand neither argument nor incompetence. An important ally, but a dangerous enemy, Jamieson decided. He would make it his business to befriend the captain.

  Later, down in his cabin, Jamieson felt quite at ease, as he poured himself a glass of wine from his personal, and plentiful, supply. They were on course and making reasonable speed, helped greatly by the efforts of the oarsmen on the lower deck. Echoing through the ship Jamieson could hear the rhythmic beat of the drum, the splash of the oars, and the frequent lash of the whip. It mattered nothing to him that the galley slaves were being cruelly abused so that the fleet need spend as little time as possible in English waters.

  There was a knock at his door. It was the captain.

  ‘Ah, captain, you have come at just the right time. You will join me?’ Jamieson held up his wine glass.

  The captain’s glower lingered for a moment, but the prospect of wine had a powerful effect. His weather-beaten face cracked into a devilish smile as he advanced towards the table.

  ‘Yes, I thank you,’ he said, sitting opposite the Earl and peering greedily into the recently opened wine crate from which Jamieson extracted a bottle.

  ‘You provide well for your comfort, I see,’ said the captain, running a leathery tongue over his lips.

  ‘And you for yours, captain—you have your wife aboard, I see.’

  ‘Wife? Ah, you mean Lolita. She is very beautiful, yes? She is one of the many treasures I have captured on my travels.’ Lefevre leered across at the Earl.

  Jamieson had caught glimpses of the captain’s woman. She had the dark complexion, jet-black hair and fine bones of a gypsy, and her eyes burned with fiery passion. She behaved like a wildcat, but Lefevre had evidently tamed her, for towards him she behaved like a devoted slave.

  For Jamieson, however, she had had nothing but a smouldering hatred, from the instant she set eyes on him. She was a creature of primitive, animal instincts, and some strange intuition seemed to warn her that here was a man not to be trusted. To Jamieson this was a novelty, but she did not figure in his plans, so he quickly dismissed her from his mind.

  The captain tasted his wine. ‘And this wine is most excellent.’ He raised his glass, already half empty, th
en finished the contents in a single gulp.

  ‘What about the weather? Is there any sign of the fog you predicted?’ A trace of anxiety belied Jamieson’s calm demeanour, but the captain did not notice, being more interested in the bottle, which had been returned to its crate.

  ‘Fog? Pah! Yes, it is in the air, but this does not matter. If we are quick, we will be beyond the reach of the English sea-dogs before they can mount an attack on so large a fleet as ours. But if fog comes, no-one can reach us. Then there will be nothing to disturb our comfort, yes?’ The captain laughed and nodded at the crate beside them.

  Jamieson forced himself to smile. His mind, however, was working furiously as he tried to think of some way to make sure that not only this ship, but also the Queen’s, reached the appointed rendezvous.

  ‘We cannot take chances with the Queen of Scotland, captain. What you say is right—we must be quick, and make certain that we are not intercepted. Can the ship be made to go any faster?’

  ‘Of course, but there will be a cost. Already we are working the oarsmen below harder than is wise. It may be that one or two will die—these things happen—but if you want more speed than this …’

  ‘Whatever it takes, captain, you must get us safely to Scotland.’

  ‘It shall be done.’

  When the captain had gone, Jamieson sat for a long time, desperately seeking a plan which would ensure that, whatever the outcome of their voyage, it would be to his advantage. His position was not strong, as his treachery was no light undertaking. It had not been easy to persuade his English associates that his plan was foolproof. They had been unwilling to put their reputations at stake by ordering the despatch of an English fleet, at great expense. But Randolph had finally arranged everything, and Jamieson did not intend to let his old friend down.

  At least, not while the Englishman could still be of use to him.

  The following morning, after a large but uninspiring breakfast served in his cabin, the Earl of Edinburgh stepped wearily into the passageway.

  He had managed only a few snatches of sleep, and even these had been punctuated by the incessant thump of the drum down below, where the slaves toiled ceaselessly to keep up with the quickened rhythm, the racing pulse-beat, which Jamieson himself had demanded.

  His tiredness, the throbbing noise in his head, and perhaps the effects of the large quantity of wine that had accompanied his meditations of the previous evening, combined to disorientate him. He staggered onwards, unsure for the moment where he was, wanting only to escape the fetid stench which assailed his nostrils—the foul odour of unwashed bodies and human excrement.

  As he lurched along the passageway, the smell became stronger, and soon he discovered its source.

  A hatch in the floor of the passage stood open, and as he approached, the sound of the drum became louder until he could feel as well as hear it. He looked down through the opening, and the vision he saw was to haunt him for the rest of his days. It became for him a vision of hell.

  At first, the deck below appeared to be packed with gigantic worms, writhing and straining in a surging mass of ordure. Gradually the scene resolved into human limbs pulling relentlessly on long oars, but the noise and smell were too much for Jamieson’s stomach. Retching violently, he staggered towards the light.

  Once on deck, he hurried over to the side of the ship and leaned over the rail, gasping gratefully in the clean air.

  After a time, he started to feel better, and began to take in his surroundings.

  Out on the water, he could see two other ships, one quite close by, which he recognised as the Queen’s galley. The other was almost lost in the morning haze, but it looked like the Admiral’s own ship.

  He moved to the other side of the ship and looked around for the rest of the fleet. The sea was smooth, calm and quite deserted. He looked again, scanning the horizon, but could see nothing at all. In fact, the horizon itself was hard to locate, as both the sea and the sky were grey and flat. Jamieson did not like the look of this. He went in search of the captain.

  He found Lefevre overseeing the plotting of their position on a huge chart. The two others with him were listening intently to his stream of commands. Then they hurried off to carry out his orders.

  ‘Good day, captain.’

  ‘Ah, my Lord, I see that you are awake at last.’

  ‘Where is the rest of the fleet? I see only two ships.’

  ‘The fog, it comes now. Already there are patches. Soon it may be complete. It is necessary that we do not sail too close together, or we may collide. We have just received the Admiral’s orders. We are to maintain our course. Your Queen will go further to the south, away from the English coast. Soon we will be on our own.’

  Jamieson was momentarily dumbfounded. This was terrible. He must think of something.

  ‘Surely, captain, someone must stay close to the Queen’s ship—she cannot be left alone in these hostile waters. Her captain must be ordered to follow us.’

  ‘But this is madness. Once the fog descends, we have no way of seeing, and the sound of our oars will prevent us from hearing. There must be distance between us.’

  ‘No, captain, I insist. The Queen’s ship must be kept in sight for as long as possible. I will not desert my sovereign. Have her captain follow us. Our route will be the shorter.’

  ‘Pah! You would have us all killed. But not on my ship, my Lord, do you hear? On this ship it is I who give the orders.’

  Jamieson’s voice softened, and a note of menace entered it.

  ‘As you wish, captain,’ he said, ‘but if any harm should befall her Majesty as a result of your cowardice, whose head do you think it will be that swings from the yard-arm?’

  ‘Do you call me a coward, my Lord?’ Lefevre’s voice also had become quiet, but the lowering of his black brows, and the movement of his right hand to the cutlass at his side, spoke eloquently of the immediate danger Jamieson faced.

  ‘Not at all, captain,’ he smiled. ‘I have every confidence that you will do everything in your power to safeguard the Queen of Scotland. Your French masters would, I am sure, share that confidence.’

  Lefevre was motionless for a moment. Then he seemed to relax. Turning to his men, he barked more instructions. Then he fixed his gaze on the Earl.

  ‘Very good, my Lord, we will do this thing your way. But’—he glowered darkly—‘the responsibility is now yours. It is perhaps fortunate for you that, should we collide with and sink your Queen in the fog, you will not live long enough to pay the price of your folly.’

  Jamieson’s calm had been restored now that he was back in control. His smile at Lefevre was arrogant and mirthless.

  ‘Trust me, captain. I accept full responsibility for the Queen’s safety.’

  The Queen, accompanied by Marie, paced the deck of her ship. From the moment France had disappeared from view the previous day, she had been anxious to be in Scotland as soon as possible. Each pace she took represented for her another step nearer to her destination, although a mounting sense of the difficulties that lay before her made her feel as though she were wading through this sea, instead of skimming swiftly over it.

  She forced her thoughts away from her impending responsibilities—for the moment she was being well taken care of by those she trusted. Looking over one side of the ship she saw one of her escort ships. In the breeze she could see the many brightly-coloured flags and pennants streaming out majestically from its masts.

  ‘Oh, look Marie! Those red and green flags flying from the main mast. That must be the Earl of Bothwell.’

  She led Marie over to the other side, and pointed out Guthrie Jamieson’s ship, identifiable by the blue and white of its flags.

  ‘And there is the Earl of Edinburgh! It is so reassuring to be in such capable hands. We are sure to reach Scotland unharmed with so loyal and brave an escort. Do you not agree that your fears for our safety are unnecessary?’

  Marie sensed that the Queen was trying to sound more at ease tha
n she really was, but could find no words of reassurance. The sight of Jamieson’s ship troubled her. Was she never to be rid of that man? Apart from his and Bothwell’s ships, they appeared to be alone on the sea. A mist was gradually descending on them. She shivered involuntarily.

  The captain of their ship approached deferentially. He stood crisply to attention, before bowing deeply to the Queen.

  ‘Your Majesty, please excuse this interruption. As you can see, there is fog coming upon us. The Admiral is signalling that we are to sail on alone, a little to the south. That way we shall avoid any chance of a collision. But you are not to be alarmed, for in a fog we are invisible, and thus perfectly safe. I guarantee it!’ He smiled, revealing a dazzling set of white teeth against the deep tan of his face and the navy blue of his immaculate doublet. Again he bowed.

  ‘Thank you captain. I am sure that under your protection we need have nothing to fear.’ She looked at Marie, who was lost in thought, and still staring out towards Jamieson’s ship.

  The captain turned as one of his officers approached. They seemed to argue for a moment, then the captain turned to the ladies, with a concerned expression.

  ‘Your Majesty, mademoiselle,’ he bowed to each of them in turn, ‘there is another signal. The Earl of Edinburgh wishes to escort us personally through the fog. He asks that we follow him for as long as it is possible to see. But this is most dangereux, I think.’

  The Queen gazed over at the Earl of Edinburgh’s ship, carving its way purposefully through the hostile grey water.

  ‘Ah, captain, it is indeed heartening to have so many loyal friends about me. Let us stay near to my courageous Earl, as he requests, for as long as is possible.’