The woman looked at Darnley. Suddenly she realized who he was: the King. She reached out and stroked his cheek.
“So fine a skin,” she said in a low voice. “I will give you to no other but me.” She led him into a small bedroom, after instructing someone else to take Riccio. There was nothing in the room but a gigantic bed.
“Come.” She pulled him after her, drawing him up into the bed as if by suction. She lay down and held out her arms to him.
She seemed eager to touch him, kiss him. If her desire was feigned, it was impossible to detect. It seemed more real than anything his mother had offered him in childhood or Mary had offered him in marriage.
And it was true … all women were the same in the dark.… She felt the same as his wife.…
Afterward, she did not pull away or talk of politics or duties. Instead, she fondled him. To what purpose? He could not understand it. Then she whispered, “I think our pleasure could be increased ninefold if it were widened to be threefold.”
“Do you mean—?”
“Wait and see,” she said, rising expertly. She rang a bell, and a servant appeared at the door. She whispered something and the door closed.
“Now,” she said, handing him a huge goblet of wine. “Refresh yourself.”
Soon the door creaked open. Riccio looked in.
“Is this not an unusual dish?” the woman whispered. “Do with him what you will.”
“Ah, Riccio, my friend,” murmured Darnley. “Pray join me.” His voice was slurred with the wine.
Hesitantly, Riccio approached the bed.
“We are eager for you,” Darnley said.
Riccio looked sick. Obediently he climbed up into the bed.
The woman began deftly removing his clothes. When she got to the breeches, she nodded to Darnley.
Darnley unlaced the front of them carefully, drawing each thong out of its eyelet in a long, slow motion. The V-shaped opening grew wider. Underneath lay an undergarment of silk. Darnley slid off the breeches. The silken drawers yet remained.
Under there … under there … he thought, lies that which my Queen prefers to mine. He whisked them off and then stared: the member was completely hidden under a bush of wiry hair that called to mind the brooms of peasant women. Nothing was stirring there.
“I just finished,” said Riccio apologetically.
“That is no matter,” the madam said. “That part of you we require is virgin yet. At least, so far this evening.” She motioned for him to roll over. He looked frightened.
“It is nothing to be feared,” she assured him, caressing his buttocks as he obeyed and turned on his stomach. She spread the sides of his muscular buttocks. “Nay, do not tense up. Then it will be painful.”
She turned to Darnley. “Is it not alluring? So rounded, so perfectly sculpted … it will feel different, of course. But just as beer tastes different from wine. They both afford a buzz in the head, and many a man drinks both and feels the better for it.… There, now … I can tell the thought excites you.”
She gave a knowing glance at his privates, where his member was stirring again, like a man who has been knocked about the head and then, after some grovelling, regains his feet.
Yes, it excited him, but not for the reasons she thought. It excited him to think of violating the man who had stolen his wife, of forcing him to do acts that were obscene to him, of humiliating him.…
“Yes. It does,” he murmured.
“But there’s more to it than that you should take your pleasure directly of him,” she said. “I too have desires, and if I lie a certain way they can be fulfilled. Everyone wants a change, and you and I have already tried one thing. So I think I will require of Master Davie—that is your name, is it not?—that he perform the most difficult role. He must thrust even while being thrust into. From you, sweet prince, I shall only require a supple and loving tongue. But first I must see you settled one upon another.”
Smiling, she arranged Darnley over Riccio, and then, upon a signal, pushed Darnley down.
Darnley felt the hatred and fear from Riccio, but that made the pleasure all the more intense. He wanted to abuse him, to tear his insides, to shame him. When he heard Riccio stifle a cry of pain, he felt victory. The little Italian went rigid.
“I told you, relax,” said the woman.
“Ahhh—” Riccio’s voice was edged with pain.
Darnley felt Riccio will himself to relax, but it made little difference. They were not made to fit together.
All the better, thought Darnley.
He cruelly punished the little man, using him as roughly and meanly as he could. He could feel the pain he was inflicting, even as he worked mechanically to bring pleasure to the woman with his mouth. She gave groans and grindings of pleasure, but Riccio was silent.
Darnley continued to work Riccio long after the woman had pulled away in satisfaction. Evidently Riccio had managed to perform his duty there, for she lay limp, with a half-smile on her face. But his stubby little fingers were grasping the pillow and his jaw was clenched as Darnley went farther and farther inside his body.
“For Jesus’ sake, stop,” he finally begged.
“Nay, I have had scant pleasure yet,” Darnley insisted, thrusting harder.
Riccio cried out.
Then Darnley felt a spasm coming over him, but it was different from anything else he had ever experienced. It was one quarter pure hatred, one quarter curiosity, one quarter revenge and only one quarter physical. He cried out in triumph, a high, shrill shriek. Then he collapsed on Riccio.
Only as he separated from him did he see the bright blood on himself.
So that was what was so slippery, he thought. It was not the oil of passion … but of course, that would be impossible.
Riccio was crying.
“You didn’t like it?” the woman was saying, sounding surprised. “Some men actually prefer it. I am sorry … but there is salve that will help ease the pain.…”
Riccio flung himself off the bed, gathered up his clothes. The red on his buttocks made a comical sight.
“You are evil,” he said to Darnley. “You will regret this day.”
“Oh, is it day?” sneered Darnley. “I thought it was night.”
The woman lifted the curtain at the window and peeked out. “Daybreak. The changing between day and night.”
Riccio left.
XXVI
Mary started to ask Beaton to bring her her hooded fur mantle, but stopped. The notes of the song Riccio was playing were so sweet she wanted to finish hearing the piece. And she had no desire to hurry to the merchant’s house where she would be dining.
She stood at the window of the small supper room in her suite at Holyrood and looked out at the lights up and down the Canongate. The layer of ice on the stones made them reflect like a mirror.
I must be careful with my footing, she thought.
The pregnancy, now in its fifth month, was beginning to affect her sense of balance.
The song ended. The time had come.
“Thank you, dear Riccio,” she said, turning to him.
He smiled. “I have two others, which I will play next time,” he said.
“Beaton, my mantle,” she said wearily.
The girl fetched it from the wardrobe and brought it to her mistress.
“You must send to France for the cloth for your wedding gown,” Mary scolded her. “Already you give the tailors little enough time. Remember, choose what you like; it is my gift.”
Mary Beaton smiled, but it was a stiff little smile. Was she still smarting from the failure of her romance with that meddling English ambassador, Randolph? The romance had come to an abrupt end when Mary had had to expel him from the country for his encouragement of Lord James’s rebellion. Since then, she had been courted by one of her own countrymen.
“Alexander Ogilvy is a lucky man,” the Queen assured Beaton. Indeed, Mary thought, he is straightforward and honest and will never betray her.
R
iccio scrambled from his seat and walked with Mary the length of her apartments and then down the broad stairs. When they were out of earshot of Beaton, he whispered, “Ogilvy does not feel lucky.” He paused, but could not wait for her to ask why. “He loves another—Lady Jean Gordon. But a more powerful lord has claimed her. To be young and in love and powerless is a sad state.”
“Who has claimed her?” Mary asked, as she swept down the stairs, her velvet gown trailing obediently on the steps behind her.
“Lord Bothwell. They’re to wed next month.” Riccio rolled his eyes and delighted in being able to astound the Queen. “There’s no love there—just property. That’s the pity of it.”
“Bothwell! Does he—does he marry her against her will?”
“Indeed. But her family has sold her.”
For an odd instant she wondered what it would feel like to be taken, married against your will. Would you resist or submit?
Bothwell! Imagine having to give yourself to him.… He would be rough and demanding. He would crush you. He would use you like a horse.
But he would never smell of strange odours and come to you demanding abominable gestures, created from sick fancies.
The memory of Darnley’s behaviour was painful to her. He had lately turned the marriage bed into a field of scurrility and seaminess. He—
“My dearest.” Darnley was standing at the foot of the stairs, attired in the finest velvet breeches and jewelled cape. His face was as beautiful as ever and his smile was like a curve of ivory. But she shuddered as he took her hand. He glanced at Riccio to dismiss him, but the Italian had turned away already.
“And what has my fair Queen wrought today?” he asked lightly.
“Many dispatches needed to be read,” she said. Earlier it would have been a hint or a command, but she no longer wished him to involve himself in those matters.
“And?”
There is something ugly brewing, she thought. “There is a great deal of correspondence passing between Edinburgh and London,” she said cautiously. “As if there were pressing business of some sort. Cecil writes to the Scottish rebels at Newcastle almost daily, and also to Knox. And I—” She stopped. She had no desire to tell Darnley of her suspicions. He might blab.
“Yes, my love?” He leaned over to her and kissed her.
The odour of wine was on him. So he had been drinking already. Yet it was not apparent in his demeanour.
“Why do you drink so much?” she asked sadly.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said, turning away.
They made their way in silence up the Canongate and then through Netherbowport into Edinburgh proper. The merchant, Donald Muir, was an importer of wines from Bordeaux and La Rochelle in exchange for wool and the skins of goats, sheep, and rabbits. He was not wealthy, but was well-to-do and an important councilman of the city. Mary enjoyed the merchants and their gatherings as a welcome escape from the stifling atmosphere of palace functions, and always accepted their invitations.
“Welcome, welcome!” Muir was gesturing enthusiastically from his door as he saw the torches accompanying the royal couple.
Inside his house it was snug and exuded an air of having all things in hand. The table was laid with pewter and glass, and an array of spices—ginger, pepper, cloves—allowed the diners to adjust the taste of any dish to suit themselves. The company was carefully selected: another merchant, who dealt in Baltic trade, particularly hemp and iron; a theological student from St. Andrews; a physician from the University at Aberdeen who had made an investigative study of the plague; a lawyer who specialized in wills and inheritance; an English bookseller with a shop in Edinburgh; and a quiet young man who claimed to be a scholastic mathematician. All these men, and their wives, proved to be lively talkers, and Mary loved hearing them. Their work was as exotic to her as a trip up the rivers in South America.
The mathematician … he spent hours doing figures, but not for practical reasons like finding a sum!
The physician … he had written a treatise pointing a finger at garbage, flies, and rats as a cause of the mysterious plague, after careful observation during one severe outbreak.
I would sooner peer into an erupting volcano, she thought. This serious, quiet-voiced man must be very brave.
“But what has garbage to do with it?” Darnley was suddenly heard to say. “There’s garbage everywhere—piles and piles of manure, shit, piss—” He pronounced each word loudly and let it carry down to the end of the table. The company fell silent before his rising voice. “Yet there’s not plague everywhere!” He nodded to the servitor to refill his wineglass and bolted it down immediately, then stuck it out again for more wine. “Good honest filth has never yet made man ill!”
“Your Majesty,” the physician said carefully, “as I stated in my thesis, A Short Description of the Pest, the plague must have broken out initially. Then all these things exacerbate it. It does not originate in filth, but is incubated in it.”
“Bah! Like all scholars, you raise more questions than you answer! But can you hawk, eh?” He laughed loudly. “That’s the measure of a man, not studying manure!”
The host attempted to lead the conversation elsewhere. “I understand that the Low Countries are growing increasingly restive under the hand of Spain. They are unable to stomach the Inquisition.”
“Who could?” the theology student suddenly said. “It is an abomination, an affront to God! And I hope our good Calvinist brothers persuade William the Silent to be silent no longer, but to—”
“I said, can you hawk?” yelled Darnley. “You, knave, answer me!” He stood up and glared at the physician. “See, he insults me!” he screamed. “He refuses to answer!”
“Henry, no!” cried Mary, rising clumsily. She put out her hand to touch his shoulder, but Darnley swatted it away.
“We’ll fight, then!” Darnley grabbed at the place where his sword usually was, then reeled around. He was completely drunk. He crashed against the table and then careened against a cupboard.
“Stop this!” Mary commanded. She was shamed beyond embarrassment. He looked possessed.
“So you betray me! It is as they said, then!” He turned once, twice, as if trying to right himself. “Farewell!” He rushed toward the door, wrenched it open, and stumbled down the steps. They heard him lose his footing and fall, then emit a string of curses.
“Our King,” said the theology student bitterly.
Mary felt deep shame. The host attempted to quiet the people and have them take their places once more at the table, but Mary turned away. Taking her mantle, she motioned away the attendants who would accompany her.
“Nay. I would go alone.”
“Your Majesty, it is not safe—”
“Leave me! It is safe enough. Thank you, good Sir Muir. Your kindness will not be forgotten.” She went quickly down the steps and began walking back down the High Street, toward Holyrood.
Why am I hurrying back there? she asked herself. To be with Darnley? He’s not there—he’ll be off to whatever dark places he seeks at night. I care not.
The night was cold and calming. She had been sweating and shaking, but now the rush of frigid air was a relief. She passed John Knox’s house and saw the candles burning in his study, and all at once she felt a rush of envy for him and for the life he had. He had children, a loving wife, loyal friends, and a clear calling. He must rise up in the morning eager to begin, and lie down at night feeling satisfied. All because he had a clear call, and answered it.
* * *
She slowed her steps as she approached Holyrood. There was no need of hurry. There was nothing in there for her, as there was in Knox’s little house for him.
XXVII
Bothwell stood preening himself before the mirror. He did not like the little hat he was going to wear for his wedding, but the gold doublet of ribbed silk with puffed sleeves and short cape of tawny velvet were of fine workmanship and would doubtless impress his bride. The narrow lace ruf
f, buttoned tight around his tanned throat with little gold studs, felt uncomfortable. But it was too late now to have it reworked. After he was married—
Married. He was going to be married. And it was a fine bargain he had worked out, pleasing to all. The Queen had written in the marriage contract that it met “with her advice and express counsel.” From the Queen’s point of view, it united two loyalists from two different regions, the Highlands and the Borders; from his point of view, it shored up his shaky finances; and from Lady Jean Gordon’s, it brought her family out from under the shadow of her father’s rebellion four years past. Now, in the wake of his loyalty during the Chaseabout Raid, her brother George was restored to the earldom of Huntly and she was considered an eligible woman.
Not that she was exactly to his taste. Her age was suitable—she was just twenty. Her looks were passable, even attractive, if one liked sandy hair and broad features. But her manner! It was so grave, so preeminently sensible, so boring. Worst of all, she was highly intelligent. If she had merely had the first three characteristics without the fourth, he would have had carte blanche to do as he pleased. As it was, she might prove an irksome watchdog. He would have to disabuse her of the notion that he could be hampered.
Now his grooms were come into the chamber, ready to escort him to the Protestant Kirk of the Canongate. The Queen had wanted them to be married in the Chapel Royal by Catholic rites. But he had refused, for all that his bride came from a Catholic family. He would decide where the ceremony would be, and not be the guest of the Queen.
Then she had insisted that she and Darnley—he could not refer to him as “the King,” even in his own mind—would provide a banquet afterward at Holyrood. Again he refused, choosing instead to have it at Kinloch House, the home of a rich burgher. In addition, she gave cloth-of-silver and white taffeta from her own cupboard to the Lady Jean for her wedding dress, and his bride accepted, to his displeasure.
“She wants to wed us, dress us, and feed us,” he had grumbled. “As if we were indigents or infants.”
“Is not the Queen to be nourisher and mother to her people?” Jean had said. “Doubtless she takes pleasure in it. And she may feel she needs to make amends for the execution of my brother John.”
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 45