Burning Ambition

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  She looked away, her face pale and strained.

  ‘But I don’t care about that,’ he continued. ‘We’ve been friends for a long time, have we not?’

  ‘Were we ever really friends, Guthrie?’ she asked. ‘I certainly never loved you.’

  ‘Ah, love—what is that?’

  She was shocked.

  ‘What a question to ask. Have you never known love?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I have had many women but you are the first that suited me so well.’

  ‘Oh!’ Frustration welled up again. ‘Well, you don’t suit me any more.’

  ‘How can you say that when our couplings were so wonderful?’

  ‘Couplings? We are not animals, sir. Nor shall we allow ourselves to behave like them. There is more to love than physical excitement.’

  ‘Is there?’

  She began to suspect he was teasing her. It made anger flare up and fire her cheeks.

  ‘You know perfectly well there is.’

  ‘My lady of the fiery passions,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not paying attention to what I’m saying.’

  ‘To the devil with talking. Let’s go to bed. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.’

  ‘No!’ she gasped, and turned away. ‘I refuse to have anything more to do with you.’

  ‘Come here.’ He made a rough grab for her. ‘If you won’t walk with me to your bedchamber, then I’ll carry you there.’

  She began to run frantically calling back at him,

  ‘For pity’s sake, stop this. I don’t want you. Why won’t you believe me?’

  He caught her and threw her on to the bed, tearing off her clothes. As she sobbed, he passionately kissed every inch of her body. Eventually she began to respond, mindlessly but with equal passion.

  ‘That’s why I don’t believe you,’ he said afterwards, as they lay on the bed.

  ‘Get out,’ she whispered, looking away from him.

  ‘As my lady pleases …’ he laughed. The bed creaked and bounced as he left it, and he sang as he dressed. His loud and bawdy song infuriated and offended her.

  ‘I hate you,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, so you keep telling me. I wonder why I don’t believe you.’

  The door banged shut as he left. Marie sank into the mattress, physically and emotionally drained, the bawdy song still reverberating in her head. And to think he could be so elegant and courteous in the presence of the Queen. Devious, two-faced swine! She drifted helplessly into an exhausted fitful sleep, punctuated by a terrible nightmare, in which she was frenziedly stabbing the Duke of Glasgow. The son, not the father. She sat up, sweat coursing down her face. Yet she was shivering.

  Suddenly, she knew what she had to do. There was only one way she could free herself from the malign influence of Guthrie Jamieson. She had to marry the Duke of Glasgow. Without hesitating, she dressed hurriedly and rushed to tell the Queen of her decision.

  ‘Of course,’ she was suddenly subdued, ‘he may not want to marry me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Mary assured her. ‘He has been paying court to you and has professed his love for you. There will be a proposal or I shall want to know the reason why.’

  They both laughed and Mary added,

  ‘I am so pleased to see you happy at last, my dear Marie.’

  But Marie was already beginning to dread telling Guthrie Jamieson. What would he say? And what would he do? He could ruin everything for her.

  It was difficult to find a few minutes alone with him however. He was always deep in conversation with one person or another. Finally she cornered him.

  ‘I must speak with you,’ she said.

  ‘You cannot wait to bed me again?’ the Earl said. ‘Your appetite for love never ceases to astonish and delight me.’

  ‘It is about love I wish to speak. I’m going to marry Gavin McNaughton,’ she said with cruel bluntness.

  ‘McNaughton?’ the Earl sneered. ‘You cannot be serious!’

  ‘And why not? He has professed his love for me.’

  ‘I will tell you why not.’ Jamieson’s face darkened with anger. ‘You are only doing it to assuage your guilt. The very idea is ridiculous.’

  ‘Why is it ridiculous? He is charming, handsome, with every material advantage to offer me.’

  The Earl could not help smiling to himself. The poor fool, he thought, clearly knew nothing of the Duke’s debts. Jamieson knew from his English contacts that McNaughton was being bled dry by the moneylenders who had paid off his ransom. But Jamieson kept this knowledge to himself, preferring to try a more subtle approach. …

  ‘Marie, you are so transparent. You have been carrying a burden of guilt for years. Now you foolishly imagine that by giving yourself, tying yourself for life to this man, you will lose that burden.’

  ‘I intend to devote my life to fulfilling his every need and comfort as any good wife should. But I will do that because of love, not because of guilt.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘I have always been honest with you. I have made it only too plain how I feel about you.’

  ‘Yes, you have indeed, on many pleasant occasions!’

  ‘You have misconstrued my physical weakness for love. I have told you this before but you always refuse to listen.’

  ‘You realise of course that I could soon put paid to this nonsense? Without even lifting a finger.’

  Her face drained of colour.

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Guthrie, I’m sorry. But for all these years you have not betrayed me and you can’t now. Not if you have any feelings for me at all. You realise he would kill me.’

  ‘Yes, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.’

  ‘Please.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘We shall see.’

  Later, when he was alone, Jamieson realised that if he was to have Marie, he would have to destroy Gavin McNaughton first. To that end, he would contact Randolph and have him acquire the deeds to Naughton Castle and all the Duke of Glasgow’s lands from the English moneylenders. They had been holding them as security ever since Gavin had been forced to mortgage everything to pay his own ransom after the battle of Pinkie. No doubt Jamieson would have to pay Randolph more than their real value, but it would be worth it. With the deeds to Naughton in his possession it would be easy to ruin Gavin McNaughton. Marie would hardly want to marry a penniless beggar—and that was exactly what Gavin would be once Guthrie Jamieson had finished with him.

  XXV

  JUST when Marie needed him most, the Duke of Glasgow disappeared. His good friend the Earl of Bothwell had fallen foul of the interminable feuding that was tearing the Scottish nobility apart at this time. As a result, his enemies had engineered his imprisonment in Edinburgh Castle. The resourceful Bothwell, however, had managed to get word of his predicament to Gavin McNaughton. The young Duke was his only hope, and he had immediately rushed to his friend’s aid, without telling anyone what he was doing or where he was going.

  Gavin’s unexplained absence from Court left Marie feeling shamed. She had obviously been no more than a bit of sport to him after all. The Queen soon noticed her pale countenance.

  ‘Dear Marie, you are distressed at not seeing the Duke of Glasgow again.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Marie made an effort to look cheerful. ‘I have a headache, that is all.’

  ‘Then you will have no interest in knowing that he is unable to attend Court because he is mixed up in the troubles of Lord Bothwell.’

  ‘What does that mean? Is he imprisoned?’

  ‘No, but only because he proved more slippery than Lord Bothwell. However, I have a mind to forgive him. He, after all, has committed no crime that I know of. Except, of course, that of being a friend of Bothwell’s.’

  Marie’s relief was to be short-lived, however, as the news spread around the town concerning Lord James Stewart’s persecution of Bothwell’s friends. Lord James, desperate for power, woul
d stop at nothing to destroy anyone who came between him and the Queen. He was furiously jealous of Bothwell—who was a favourite of Mary’s—and he had managed to trump up some spurious charge, so that he could have Bothwell arrested. Not content with this, he had had more than fifty of Bothwell’s closest associates arrested at Hawick. Many had been summarily executed.

  Marie was in an agony of suspense and distress, not knowing if Gavin had been among those who had died. She had to find out, even pleading with Guthrie Jamieson to help her. But no-one knew exactly who had met their fate at the hands of Lord James. Only that there had been many. All Marie could discover was that the Duke was not in residence at Naughton Castle and had not been seen there for some time. Neither was he among the prisoners confined in Edinburgh Castle. But before she could discover the truth, the Queen and the royal party set off for the Highlands, and Marie had no choice but to go with them.

  After many weeks of tiring travel, Mary and the royal party arrived at the palace of Spynie, home of Bothwell’s uncle and Marie’s father, the Bishop of Moray. It was the first time Marie had seen her father for many years, but he hardly even acknowledged her presence. After she had rested, Marie went to find the Bishop, who was working in his study.

  ‘Ah, Marie,’ he said, looking up. ‘Come and sit down. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Father, it is good to see you after all these years. How are you?’

  ‘Tolerably well, thank you. And I am glad to see that the Queen regards you with such favour. It is a blessing she knows so little of your past.’

  Marie was silent, and looked into the fire, a tear welling up in her eye.

  ‘I cannot pretend I have forgotten that night, Marie. Nor can I pretend that time has healed the wounds. I have often wondered if I did the right thing. But seeing you again has brought it all back to me, and I think it would be best if we see as little of each other as possible while you are here.’

  Marie was shocked. ‘Since that night, I have had to live with what I did. I came to tell you that I now have a chance to put right the wrong. It will not please you to hear this, but Gavin McNaughton has proposed marriage to me, and I have accepted him.’

  ‘What?’ the Bishop gasped. ‘This cannot be. You must not!’

  He slumped back into his chair, and quite suddenly Marie saw what her father had become—a bitter old man, scared of what might happen to him and intent on self-preservation at all costs. The youthful vigour had gone, and his face looked waxen as parchment.

  ‘You know that Gavin came to see me when he was released by the English,’ he continued quietly. ‘He never believed that old Murdo killed his father. He knows there was more to it. And if he finds out? What then?’

  ‘He will never find out from me,’ Marie replied.

  ‘Perhaps not, but he is no fool. And it would be wrong for you to marry him.’

  ‘I have made up my mind, father. It is the only way I can ever put things right.’

  ‘Then I can only pray that for both our sakes he never finds out the truth.’

  While still at Spynie, Marie received a letter from her mother. She was surprised to learn that Effie was now in Edinburgh, awaiting the return of her daughter. Marie told her father about this and he left her in no doubt that he intended to take no responsibility whatsoever for Effie’s welfare or upkeep. He had not spoken to her for years, and another much younger concubine than Effie was now comfortably settled in the house beside the woods that had once been her mother’s home.

  Marie worried about what was to become of Effie. She had not seen her mother for many years. But in her late forties, she would surely have lost much of her attractiveness. Could she find another lover to support her? Marie prayed that at least her mother had saved enough money from the times when she had been comfortably placed. Marie had mixed feelings about seeing her again. But Effie was, after all, her mother, and in a way she would be glad to see her, and to help her if she could. If only she could trust her. The Bishop certainly had not trusted her, otherwise he would not have packed her off to far-away Orkney.

  He had always been a cruel, selfish and ambitious man who did not truly care for anyone or anything except himself and his own worldly pleasures. His only reason for helping her all those years ago had been to save himself, she thought bitterly. But the Bishop’s callous disregard for Effie only brought out in Marie a stubborn resolve to do whatever she could to see that her mother survived.

  And so, when the Court moved back to Edinburgh, Marie set out to find Effie. She began her search in the heart of the town—the two main streets, the High Street and the Cowgate, which stretched down the steep spine of rock that joined the castle to the Abbey of Holyrood. On these busy thoroughfares, the horses’ hooves clanged noisily on the square boulder stones that paved the road, and wayfarers walked down the middle of the street avoiding the horses as best they could. On either side, at right angles to the two main streets pitching steeply down off the ridge, ran the wynds. No attempt was made to keep them clean. Low arches spanned crooked, shadowy passages blocked by middens, tar barrels, stacks of heather, broom or peat.

  Marie did not venture down into any of these dangerous places and felt certain her mother would never have dreamt of doing so either. Instead, she enquired in respectable places in the High Street and was very soon directed to where a ‘merry lady’ from Orkney was lodging.

  ‘Marie, my dear lassie!’ Her mother greeted her with bouncing enthusiasm. They embraced and Marie said with a laugh and a shake of her head,

  ‘Mother, you have not changed one whit—either in looks or character.’ The heart-shaped face had admittedly become a little loose. Her rosebud mouth and wide, childish eyes, however, were just as Marie remembered them. Even her shapely figure had not been spoiled by the passing years.

  ‘Change? Change? Why should I change?’ Effie cried out.

  ‘Well, you’re a few years older than when we last met, and I’m sure life must have been much quieter on Orkney.’

  ‘Nonsense! You have no idea what island life can be like. My dear lassie, their social gatherings are wild, really wild, and the men—big, rough fellows who can be very merry indeed. Oh no, if the truth be told, I was getting too much attention from one laird in particular.’ She giggled like a girl. ‘A very wild fellow indeed. He wishes to wed me as well as bed me but he has a large family of equally wild children. One child has been more than enough for me, I told him. No, no, I said, I could not cope with such a responsibility.’

  Marie began to feel the usual anger and frustration that her mother had such a talent for arousing in her.

  ‘So that is what you meant by needing to be looked after in your feeble old age.’

  Effie gave a flap of her dainty hands and enjoyed another giggle.

  ‘Oh that? Laud’s sake, it will come soon enough, no doubt. But I do not mean to succumb to it for many a long year yet.’

  Marie flopped down on to the nearest chair. ‘What am I to do with you?’

  ‘You could have me comfortably installed in Holyrood. I have heard that there are many handsome and wealthy men at Court.’

  ‘It is not in my power.’

  ‘Surely you have influence with the Queen. After all these years of faithful service? I’m sure she will be delighted to grant you any favour.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, mother. Sit down and compose yourself, please do. We must talk seriously. I must try to make you understand the dangers of your being here.’

  ‘Dangers? How can there be any dangers to me? I have done nothing.’

  ‘Danger to me, mother. You talk too much.’

  ‘Talk too much?’ Effie looked both wounded and puzzled. Then suddenly a light dawned.

  ‘You mean the murder? Och, that was years ago. I’d forgotten all about it.’

  ‘Just banish it from your mind again. That’s all I ask.’

  Her mother put a finger to her pretty painted lips.

  ‘I’ll never breathe a word to a soul. No
t a living soul. As God’s my witness, no word of the dreadful crime you committed will ever—’

  ‘Yes, all right, mother. That’s enough. I believe you.’

  Yet still Marie could not rid herself of a desperate sense of foreboding.

  XXVI

  BOTHWELL watched the rain fall outside the bars of his cell. It had not stopped for days—dousing the daylight and making each gloomy hour darker than the last. It seemed so long since he had returned from France, his days full of vigour and hope, his nights a riot of joyous carousing with his friends on the streets of Edinburgh. And now he found himself incarcerated in the grim dungeons of Edinburgh Castle, only a few hundred yards from the scenes of his former, carefree life.

  Desperate to regain that freedom, he had managed to send the Queen a message, and a reply was successfully smuggled back, but it gave him little comfort, saying that she was unable, for the time being, to give him any help. The message left him with the distinct impression that he was on his own.

  Bothwell realised that he would have to rely on his true friends, like the Duke of Glasgow. By devious means, he managed to contact Gavin McNaughton with details of a plan, informing him that he intended to escape—by breaking one of the bars of his cell, and climbing down the face of the castle rock.

  The message ended with the words ‘Have a horse waiting for me, and, God willing, before the night is over we will enjoy many a tankard of ale together.’

  Knowing his friend, Gavin believed that if anyone could succeed in such a daring and dangerous feat, Bothwell could.

  At considerable risk, the Duke did as he was asked, and at the appointed time he was waiting in the darkness at the foot of the castle rock. As he strained his eyes towards the sheer rock face, he struggled to see by the faint light of the moon any sign of movement. But the moon kept slipping behind clouds, leaving only blackness.

  This same blackness engulfed Bothwell as he managed to force his body through the gap in the bars. Once out, he clung to the window ledge, his feet scrabbling along the rock face below. Even though he couldn’t see, he could sense, with terrifying clarity, the height at which he was so precariously perched. He loosened one hand from the window and searched for a lower hold. Finding a rough protuberance at the same time as his feet, strong as a gorilla’s, clamped on to a sharp ridge, he slid his other hand down, his nails digging and breaking against the icy rock. Now that he had left the comparative safety of the ledge, he was conscious of his total vulnerability, the slightest gust of the wind could now toss him into eternity. His saturnine features hardened in defiance. He would not be destroyed by either wind or rock. He had always thrived on danger and he grimly accepted the challenge now before him.