Mary was looking forward to a short sleep and then, perhaps, a surreptitious visit to Darnley. They would tease and romp in the royal bed, while Riccio stood guard at the door. She wanted to lie in his arms and watch the birds flying and wheeling in the sky outside, to turn her head and marvel at his perfect profile.
The day had warmed considerably and she had opened her mantle at the neck. As she walked along she sang to herself:
“As Robin Hood in the forest stood
All under the greenwood tree
There was he aware of a brave young man,
As fine as fine might be.
“And when he came bold Robin before,
Robin asked him courteously,
O hast thou any money—”
“Your Majesty!” The voice rang out over the courtyard stones. A tall, red-haired man, dressed for travelling, walked toward her.
“Nicholas Throckmorton!” she exclaimed. The young English ambassador had served in France when she was Queen there. “How delightful to see you again!”
He smiled and kissed her hand. “More beautiful here than even you were in France,” he said. “Your native land agrees with you. The air, the food, the water—all seem to enhance you.”
“But those were magic days in France,” she said. Just looking at him brought them back. Exactly so had they stood and talked in Paris, at Chenonceau, at Chambord.
“Yes. Before the present troubles. It all seems so far away.”
“But … why have you come?” Suddenly it seemed very odd to see him there.
“Queen Elizabeth sent me. With personal instructions and messages.”
“Tell me!”
He looked around. “What—here?” He had envisioned an audience, a meal, pleasant conversation first to stave off the official business.
“Yes!” Before he could answer, she grabbed his hands and squeezed them with surprising strength. She looked as eager as a child going to bed the night before a holiday. “What does she say? Is she pleased? I know this match with Lord Darnley is exactly what she had in mind when she suggested I marry an English subject. She sent him up here, but she could not have foretold how I would have loved him! Oh, I know she rejoices with me. Will she attend the wedding? Will she travel to Scotland?”
Throckmorton cleared his throat to steer himself in this sea of words. “Good Madam … Your Majesty … the Queen forbids the marriage. She orders Lord Darnley and his father, the Earl, to return to England under pain of treason. She has committed the Countess of Lennox to the Tower for promoting the marriage. She absolutely forbids it.”
“Wh—what?”
“The Queen is in a rage.”
Mary shook her head in stunned bewilderment. “She says I must have her approval to wed, but there will never be a man to meet her approval. No foreigners, no Catholics, no English subjects, no lowborn men, no kings … well, then. I see that I shall never please her, and therefore I must please myself. As I shall, and marry the Lord Darnley.”
“He can never return to England if you do.”
“Poor Darnley! First he is forbidden to return to Scotland, and now he will be forbidden to return to England. Strange, when he himself has done no harm to either country.” She stood looking at him, her eyes bright and hard. Behind her stretched the valley of the Forth, and, as it was a clear day, Edinburgh was just visible by the smoke from its chimneys far to the east.
“Unfortunately he is more than just a person who can do right or wrong. He is a symbol of many things,” said Throckmorton.
“I do not love the symbol, but the man!” Mary cried.
“Yes. But you yourself are a symbol, as is my Queen. Be reasonable. It is one of the facts of life with which all monarchs must contend, a parameter like the net in tennis or the conventions of rhyme in poetry.”
“I know myself to be royal; I never forget my royal blood.”
“Then show yourself to be royal in your thinking as well as your blood. Think, think what marriage means, for a queen! You choose not only a husband for yourself but a king for your people. It cannot be undone, being once done.”
“I know that; I keep faith with my promises. You may tell your Queen that she has long beguiled me with fair speeches, and then deceived me in the end as to her intentions with me. Therefore I cannot trust her now. On what grounds does she object? She herself suggested I marry someone of her realm. My Lord Darnley is the only one of suitable rank who is unmarried. The offer of the Earl of Leicester … why, I would not remind her of it, it was such an embarrassment for all concerned.”
“I believe she was in earnest, Your Majesty.”
“All the more embarrassing. I will graciously forget it.”
She turned from him and walked quickly to the royal apartments. Once within, she marched down the gallery with its busts and statues and then through her own apartments—the guard hall with helmeted guards standing at attention, the presence chamber with its throne and cloth of estate, and then finally the bedchamber. Two of the Marys, dozing on their pallets, scarcely blinked as she passed through. Carefully she pushed down on the door handle connecting her bedroom with Darnley’s, and swung the door open.
He was lying on the great bed, partially undressed, resting and covered with a fur. She approached the bed as quietly as possible and stood looking at him a moment. In the corner, Riccio stirred. He, too, had lain down after the early morning and the heavy meal. Mary tiptoed over to Riccio and touched his shoulder. He sat bolt upright.
“Good Riccio,” she whispered, “you have a Catholic chapel in your quarters, have you not?”
He knitted his brow. “Indeed. I fitted it up myself. It is small—just an altar, and the candles, and of course the Sacrament, reserved—”
“Is anyone there? In your quarters?”
“No. I am alone there.” He shook his head as if to clear it.
“And your confessor? Is he nearby?”
“Unless he has gone into the town of Stirling, as he sometimes does when he has no duties.”
“Go to your quarters. Make the chapel ready. Find your confessor—and if not, I will bring mine. Lord Darnley and I will come there in less than an hour to plight our secret troth, binding before the eyes of God. Then nothing can separate us, and I will not be swayed or tempted by their arguments. Go!”
She turned to Darnley, still sleeping in the bed. His light-lashed eyes were closed, and he clutched his pillow lovingly.
Soon he can clutch me in the night instead of a pillow, she thought. And nobody can fault us or cry foul on us.
“Henry,” she said, stroking his forehead.
He opened his eyes, and as always, his immense grey-blue eyes took away her breath.
“Dear Henry, rise up. For I have an adventure for you, a game. We will outwit them, outwit them all.”
“Outwit whom?” He wrestled with the covers and fought himself free of them.
“All of them!” Her voice was fierce. “The Lords of the Congregation, and Knox, and Elizabeth, and—”
“Well, that is everyone, is it not?” He groaned. “Is anyone in favour of our marriage? Besides you and me?”
“The Earl of Morton—”
“Because my mother relinquished certain lands to him. And?”
“Riccio.”
“A servant.”
“I expect the King of France—”
“A child.”
“And Philip of Spain—”
“Who hardly matters here.”
“And the Pope—”
“Even less.”
“Others will come in time to love you. As I do!”
“It seems I threaten or insult everyone’s pride. How odd, as I have all the correct blood, the proper breeding and manners … there can be no objective reason. Therefore they must dislike my person.” He set his lips and looked angry. “Something about me, something about my speech, my bearing—”
“They are fools! Come, my dear lord—rise up and come away with me, where we’ll
confound them all!”
* * *
They stood before the Italian priest, Riccio’s own from his father’s estates near Turin. He had the rounded olive face and the shiny dark eyes Mary imagined everyone in Italy to have. She had her own fantasies of that land: it was a place where everyone was interested in art, everyone was Catholic, there were many flowers, and nights were warm and invited people to come outdoors. Somehow it was fitting that, in her own grasp for pleasure, she should employ an Italian to implement it.
Riccio’s little altar, graced with some artwork from Tuscany, and twined silver candlesticks, had a lace-trimmed linen upon it. Riccio stood solemnly to one side as Mary and Darnley clasped hands and went through the betrothal and contract ceremony as prescribed by Holy Mother Church. The ceremony was binding, and recognized them as having made a vow-before God to wed—a vow from which only formal legal procedures could release them.
“I, Mary, Queen of Scotland, Queen of France, Sovereign Lady of the Isles, do solemnly promise to take you, Henry, Lord Darnley, as my husband according to the rites and dictates of the most holy Catholic Church.” She looked at the tall young man standing beside her, and his face was pale.
“I, Henry, Lord Darnley, do solemnly promise to take you, Mary, Queen of Scotland, Queen of France, and Sovereign Lady of the Isles, as my wife according to the rites and dictates of the most holy Catholic Church. And thereto I plight you my troth.” He took off a ring from his smallest finger, and slid it on Mary’s fourth finger.
“Kiss her,” said the priest, and Darnley did.
“Ah, for a feast!” said Riccio. “If things were as they should be—”
“We have just finished a large dinner,” said Mary. “Everyone sleeps. We will steal away in private, and that is better than any ceremonial feast.” She took Darnley’s hand. “Let us hope no one sees us crossing the upper courtyard. And Riccio—we release you from any duties tonight!” She laughed and lifted his cap.
Together she and Darnley rushed across the courtyard. It was growing dark now, and lights were showing in the windows.
“How now!” cried Robert Stewart, as he saw them.
Usually Mary liked her brother, but tonight the playful, empty-headed man was unwelcome.
“Well met, brother!” she said quickly. “I trust you had good Maying!”
“Aye, aye!” He reeled around, so quickly did Mary and Darnley pass. He was clearly tippling.
“Quick, inside!” Mary pulled Darnley into the guardroom, then through the presence room and finally into his bedchamber. She slid the bolt into the door. Then she slumped against it.
Darnley was standing in the middle of the chamber, where she had all but flung him.
How thin his legs are! she suddenly, oddly, thought. He has been truly ill.
“Dear husband,” she said, savouring the word. “For so I may now truly call you.” She walked over to him, so pale and unsteady.
“Wife.” He took her in his arms, but he seemed carved in wood.
“What, are you fearful? You ought rather to rejoice. We have taken our lives and our loves in our own hands. Nothing can separate us now.” She embraced him.
“We are bound forever?”
“Yes. That is what the ceremony did.” Mary led him to the bed. “It made us one.”
She made him lie down, and he stretched out on the great bed. “We have no servitors tonight,” she said. “No one to undress us, no silly ceremonies of being observed in bed and toasted.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “We are alone. It is only us. We have been given the most precious gift of all: privacy. No one will intrude on us.”
She pulled off his doublet, easing each arm out of it. “I will be your valet,” she whispered.
Darnley soon lay naked, sprawled out across the great royal bed. Mary could not help staring at him. She had never seen a naked man before, not a full-grown man. How was it possible their bodies could be, truly, so different?
She removed her own clothes, slowly. Off came the headdress, then the entire gown, then the stiffening material that held out her gown at an alluring angle. At last she was in her petticoat and undergarments of satin with lace trim.
Darnley took her in his arms. “Is all this truly mine?” he whispered.
“Aye, my lord, my love…”
“Your husband, your friend,” he murmured, framing her face in his hands. “Pray I may be worthy.”
He kissed her and drew her down into his warmed nest of covers. She felt the ever-present vigil against danger melt away.
The bed formed a little world for them: the covers a tent, the feather mattress a safe encampment. Darnley took her in his arms, and the last of her clothing was slowly removed. His fingers were unaccustomed to the fastenings, but his very difficulty and bafflement inflamed her desire. When the final shred of covering was gone, she felt she could exist no longer as a separate being from him.
“Oh, Henry,” she murmured, feeling his body all along hers in its full length. “You make me more than I am.”
“That is impossible. You can never be more—oh, oh—” he cried out.
She felt that nothing could ever bind her to him enough, that she wanted to merge totally with him, yet remain separate only so that she could continue to give to him, minister to him.
They came together in the only way possible to assuage that feeling, to both tame and release it. They were both virgins, and yet the act was completely natural to them.
“Oh, Henry,” she cried, holding his sweat-soaked head against her breast. “Oh, my husband!”
She was wife at last.
* * *
In the middle of the night, before it grew light, she awoke. Darnley was sleeping beside her, breathing lightly. It was so odd to wake up and find another person beside her … would she grow used to it?
No, never, she thought. It will always remain a miracle to me. And he … She looked over at him, trying to see him in the dark. He murmured and moved. She touched his shoulder and whispered that she must return to her room before the Marys awoke.
She slid slowly out from under the bedcovers and felt her feet touch the cold stone floor. She rearranged the furs and sheets and made her way toward the connecting door. Carefully she opened the door and crept into her room. The Marys were still asleep, although she knew they had noticed she had not returned earlier. Still, she often stayed up very late, conferring with Riccio or even playing cards until two. They were accustomed to that.
It must be three or four now. She tiptoed over to her bed and climbed into it. She was naked, and her clothes were still in Darnley’s room. How would she hide this from them? They always helped her dress, bringing her warmed undergarments to her and folding her nightgown to put it away.
The nightgowns were in the elmwood chest on the far side of the room. Could she find her way over there in the dark and extract one silently? Cautiously she crept out of bed, feeling her way toward it. She felt the silk carpet under her feet and knew when she was halfway there. There was a heavy chair to be avoided.
At last she reached the chest and lifted its lid, bidding it be silent. It obeyed. She pulled out the top gown, knowing it by feel to be the rose-coloured wool one lined with satin. She had had it since before François’s death, although she had not worn it often since, as it seemed too bright and luxurious for her in her widowhood.
I’m no longer a widow, she thought suddenly, but a bride. I’m no longer a virgin, but a wife.
She climbed back into bed and slid beneath the covers, feeling altogether a different creature from the one who had last slept there. Her body was hot and dirty and stuck to the fine silk lining of the gown.
She had never felt vaguely unclean before, except after a hard day of riding, and even that was a different sort of grime and odour, although there was a similarity.
Ding-ding-ding-ding. The little clock struck the hour. So early. So late.
But I am safely back, and no one knows. It is my secret, mine and Darnley’s
.
* * *
The sun streamed in the windows and the clock was sriking ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding when she awoke. Her eyelids were sticky and her body was stiff, and there was an aching rawness between her legs.
The Marys were dressed and bustling around the room. One of them—Flamina—was winding the clock, another was cleaning her jewellery with a soft cloth and paste of gum araganet and alabaster. The Great Harry lay like a child’s trinket awaiting its turn.
Mary asked for a bath, and the warmed, perfumed water was brought up straightway and poured into the large tin bathing tub placed near the fireplace. Behind the screen she allowed her robe to be removed, and then quickly stepped into the tub. She had a horror that prints from Darnley’s hands would be visible on her body, that his lip-prints would show on her skin. Would the warm water bring them out? She slid down farther.
“Your Majesty, shall I add the oil of sandalwood we got from the gypsies to the water?” called Flamina over the screen.
Would it blot out that strange odour she had carried with her from Darnley’s bed to her own and thence into the tub?
“Yes, please.”
Flamina stepped around the screen and took the flask of oil and poured it in a long thin stream into the water. It spread out in little droplets on the surface and floated like miniature opals there. She sniffed the stopper. “Exquisite. It reminds me of something eastern. Myrrh. Or Balm of Gilead, whatever that may be. I have always imagined it to be languid and rich, like this.”
“Thank you.” Mary splashed the scented water over her shoulders.
“You kept late hours last night.”
“Yes. I—I could not sleep. And I needed to speak with Riccio about the arrangements for the—the ceremony for the revival of the Order of the Thistle, which I mean to hold soon.”
“The Order of the Thistle?”
“Yes. It is—it is—the ancient chivalric order of Scotland, like unto the Order of the Garter in England and the Order of St. Michael in France. It has not met since my father’s death, and only a few knights are left.” Nervously she splashed more water over her shoulders.
“But you cannot revive it, as you are a woman,” said Fleming. “Women cannot be knights and wear the golden spurs.”
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 38