At length they came to a cottage made of stone with a thatched roof, nestled in one of the folds between the hills. Bothwell dismounted and tied his horse up outside, then motioned to her to do likewise and follow him. He knocked on the door and a man, past middle age but still sturdy, opened it a crack. He stared for a moment at Bothwell, then called someone from within. Then the door creaked all the way open.
Mary stepped inside the low-ceilinged, one-room dwelling. A peat fire smouldered in the middle of the floor, where an iron pot was suspended over it, with a soup or brew bubbling. Several little dogs with long, silky hair began to bark.
The couple, dressed in frayed wool garments, were gesturing to Bothwell and offering him the only seat they had: a three-legged stool. He started to defer to Mary, but with a look she forbade him to reveal her identity.
“Bless ye, Earl, bless ye,” the woman was saying, opening a leather pouch with coins which Bothwell had handed her.
“A man’s life is worth more,” Bothwell said. “But it is not given to mortal man to repay in kind. This is the best I can do.”
“He was but a lad, not important in your forces,” said the father. “And it was almost a year ago.”
“What is a year?” asked Bothwell. “Do you miss him any less?”
“No,” admitted the mother.
“Did I not promise?” said Bothwell. “I gave my word I would not forget your sacrifice. But your Rob was hard to find. I had to make many inquiries; forgive my delay in reaching you.”
“But to bring this in person … we now wish to give you something as well, if we can,” said the woman.
“You already have.”
“I mean something to remember us by—to remember him. He’d want it—”
The bare little room offered nothing. Then Bothwell’s eye fell on the dogs. “What sort of dogs are those? They seem to be all hair.”
“They’re Skye terriers, very loyal and fierce, they’re one-man dogs. Good hunters, too, you’d be surprised, they don’t look it. We’ll be having pups soon.”
“That is what I would like,” said Bothwell decisively. “Two—one for myself, one for my mother. A male and a female, so we can make more of them!” His voice rose, and Mary realized that he genuinely wanted them, and genuinely knew and loved dogs. Another unsuspected thing about him. “I’ll collect them later, then.”
“Is this your wife, Lady Bothwell?” the man suddenly asked, eying Mary. He was ready to be deferential.
“No.” Bothwell gave an amused smile that was barely visible in the dim light. “She merely rides with me this day.”
“Is the Countess with child? I pray you may have an heir.”
“No. She is not. But I thank you for your prayers.”
The woman thrust an earthenware cup of the broth at Mary, and she took a sip. It was mainly water, with only the faintest trace of kale and beremeal. How did these people survive? She nodded in appreciation, and drank it all. It provided warmth in the stomach, but no nourishment.
After drinking his soup, Bothwell took his leave. “The debt is still mine,” he said, after they thanked him again for the gold.
The moon was just rising as they set out across the moors and hills for Traquair. Behind them there was still a faint glow of sunset, while the moon shone with a fuzzy, shrouded light ahead of them. The mists were creeping higher on the hills.
Suddenly Mary was very tired, and wondered how she could remain alert for the journey back, which would necessarily be much slower in the dark and swirling mists. But at the same time she felt detached from her tired body and wished the ride to go on and never end. She wanted to ride behind Bothwell over the dangerous terrain forever, to stop intermittently and have him continue to surprise her with her own desire to be with him, hear him speak, look at him.
But he rode on ahead of her, not slowing or looking back.
He does not want it to last, she thought. He does not care to linger with me, as I do with him.
Desire so fierce and startling swept through her that she was first stunned, then bewildered. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced, or even prepared for: a strange mixture of yearning for possession, awe, and an actual physical ache that the words hunger and longing were inadequate to describe. At the same time she felt protective of him, as though she already possessed him, had always possessed him, even before she knew him. As though he had been reserved for her, set aside.
If only he would turn around, look at me! she thought. She willed him to. He did not.
* * *
By the time they reached Traquair House it was so late that the moon, muffled in clouds, was almost directly overhead. The mists had enveloped the house, and only the torches and the candlelit windows guided them to the courtyard.
“Ah, I’m tired,” Bothwell sighed, swinging down off his horse and handing the reins to a stableboy. He strode quickly toward the front entrance, not waiting for her.
His tone is so offhanded, so dismissive, she thought. Yet if I commanded him to stop, he would have to obey.
“Wait,” she finally said, coming toward him. “Do not rush away.” Did she keep her voice free from command or complaint? She came up to him and looked at him while trying not to seem to do so. What was his expression? In the poor light she could not tell.
“This ride meant a great deal to me,” she said, moving with him up the front steps. He gave a deprecating little laugh. “I would know more about the Borders,” she insisted. “Will you take me again?”
“If you wish it, I will arrange it. Next time we can take some of my troops, and you can meet my allies. You would like Sore John and Archie Fire-the-Braes—”
No! Not others! she screamed to herself. I am sick of others, of always being in someone’s company. I want to be alone, alone with you.…
“No, I think I would be reticent to ask the questions I need to in front of others.”
“Whatever you wish.” He turned at the door and made for his chambers.
“Will you not sup with us?” she asked.
“I will eat in my own chambers,” he answered, over his shoulder, as he disappeared down a passageway.
“And so will you,” said Darnley, who had suddenly appeared around the corner. “The rest of us dined hours ago.” He looked her up and down, then shrugged. “I was concerned. I thought you might have met with an accident.”
“With Bothwell?” she quickly said. “He knows the land and the people hereabouts so well there was no danger of that.”
“Oh?” For a moment Darnley’s eyes flickered, but the question died away. “I am happy you are safe, that is all,” he said. “Come, my dear.” He draped his arm over her shoulder and led her up the stairs to their chamber.
The stone balustrade slid under her hand as she leaned against it to keep herself as far away from Darnley as possible. She shrank from his touch. They had not lain together as man and wife since that time after Riccio’s death when she had used that as a means to win him to her side. Then she had been so deep in shock she had felt like a dead person herself, and had not felt anything. But since then it seemed that every nerve in her body had become highly sensitive, and could not tolerate his touch. She had fled from him, had managed so far to be always out of reach. Now she was cornered and could not escape.
She had steeled herself to this, after her confession to Father Mamerot, knowing it must come, coming finally to view it as a test of her ability to sacrifice. She had even presented Darnley with a gift of a magnificent canopied bed, with violet damask curtains, violet-brown velvet hangings with ciphers and flowers sewn with gold and silk, and fitted with sheets of Holland linen, as if that would somehow serve to be mother of desire in herself.
And now—now he was at her side, eager and pressing. And after Bothwell … when all she wanted was to be alone and think of Bothwell …
But as she thought of Bothwell, a strange excitement came upon her, and she shook.
“Are you chilled, my love?” said
Darnley, feeling her shudder. “It was foolish of you to ride on the moors at night! Dangerous, and foolish!”
He kicked the chamber door open, and it reverberated on its hinges and slapped against the panelled wall.
“I am so tired,” she began, as a prelude to what she hoped would be a miraculous reprieve for one more night.
“I know, and I want to soothe you,” he said tenderly, closing the door and taking her in his arms.
There would be no reprieve.
“I fear I must rest, I feel almost faint,” she persisted.
“Here, lie down. Let me wait on you,” he said, leading her to the bed. She climbed into it and lay down, stretched out full length. Above her the embroidered hangings with the armourial bears of Traquair looked down in merciless amusement.
Darnley began to massage her feet, rubbing them as if they were the feet of a saint. He kissed them reverently, and it was all she could do not to jerk them away, or kick him.
Oh, I cannot, I cannot, she thought. I cannot bear it!
Perhaps you should look on it as your punishment for the thoughts of Bothwell. Fitting that it is tonight you must pay the price. Coveting your neighbour’s husband. For he’s married, and it was you yourself who provided the wedding gown for his bride.
“Ah, now I see you smiling,” said Darnley. “Would you forgive me, my love, I must—absent myself for a moment.” He slid off the bed and made for the garderobe to relieve himself. Mary quickly removed her clothes—she did not want him to do it—and put on a thick, woollen-lined night dress that buttoned up around her neck. She took the pins from her hair and loosened it herself. She bent her head forward and shook it, feeling strangely aroused by the thick luxury of her own hair. What if it tumbled down around Bothwell’s face as he lay on his back? What was Lady Bothwell’s hair like, in bed?
“If you could see your face,” Darnley murmured.
She opened her eyes to see him standing across the room from her, awestruck. His slender young body was outlined in the moonlight, his arms motionless at his side.
She looked at him, objectively, remembering when his ivory slenderness had appealed to her. But it had been an aesthetic response, the same feeling one feels looking at an exquisite carving, she suddenly realized. It has nothing to do with—it is nothing like—
As a beautiful object, he appealed to her. But only as an object, perfect in its workmanship.
It is what I must do, it is my duty, and my punishment for all I have done that is wrong … now I must atone, she thought. And I am not even allowed to choose my own atonement. I would far rather fast a month or walk barefoot to Rome. But instead I am commanded to do this.
He clasped her to him with a gasp. “I thought never to feel your arms round me again,” he cried. “O God, I love you past idolatry!”
He climbed up into the bed with her.
“When you presented me with the bed at Holyrood, with its beautiful curtains and hangings, in my favourite violet-brown … I hoped … but I did not dare to believe … that I was forgiven and that you wished to be wife to me again. Then you did not come.…”
“Hush, Henry,” she said, smoothing his hair. He had started to cry. Not this. Not a long talk, with the lovemaking postponed. No, she could not bear it. If it did not happen tonight, she could not promise herself that she could bring herself to the brink again. She must arouse him to the act and leave this mewling behind.
She pulled his face up to hers and began kissing him. His tears stopped. He began to kiss her hungrily, biting her lower lip and taking it into his own mouth.
She felt his slender, almost bony body pressing hers. There was no strength in it, just need. In pity and charity, she unbuttoned her own gown and let him feel her naked flesh against his. He shivered and began to cry. Quickly she ran her hands over his back and kissed his bony shoulders. This crying could not continue.
“Mary—wife—you may have heard that I have gone where I should not in Edinburgh, sought out women—I was wrong—I shall not sin again—”
“Hush,” she repeated. As if she cared whether he sinned with whores or not!
But I am supposed to care, she cried to herself. I should care that my husband does wrong.…
But her inner voice was almost drowned out by the insistent noises of Darnley’s desires. He was lying on her, trembling and indecisive as to whether to worship her or ravish her. She kissed him with every verisimilitude of passion to try to push him to the physical act. She could stand it now.
He responded like the twenty-one-year-old he was, blood surging. She lay back and allowed him to make love to her, willing herself to think of something else … of the hawks soaring overhead today, of the black pool of water between the boulders where she and Bothwell had stopped today.…
At the thought of him, all her muscles tensed and gave Darnley a jolt. He cried out, interrupted, but she soothed him. He subsided.
Think of the sky, so blue beneath all those chasing clouds … think of the cottage, a hut, really … those people … they looked so much older than they probably were … will they give Bothwell the dogs? The dogs were odd-looking, but they said they were hunters … how can they run with all that long hair…?
Darnley cried out and clutched her. Was it over, then? She kissed his forehead. It was beaded with sweat. Yes, he was done.
Thank God, and all the saints, especially the virgin ones! I got through it! she almost wept to herself.
“Mary, Mary,” he was murmuring. “Ah, my Mary!”
“Sleep now,” she said. “Sleep here beside me.”
Contented, he curled up and fell instantly asleep on her shoulder.
In a few moments she slid out from under him and reached for her gown that was lying on the floor. Drawing it over herself, she made her way over to the window and looked out over the grounds. The clouds had parted and broken up. They lay in opalescent clumps all across the sky.
Not far away, the River Tweed sparkled as it ran past in the full moonlight. If she had been nearer it, she could have heard the murmur and tumble of its shallow waters over the rocks. What was the rhyme that Bothwell had taught her about the Tweed?
Tweed said to Till—
What gars you run so still?
Till said to Tweed—
Though you run with speed
And I run slow,
Where you drown one man, I drown two.
So the Tweed was dangerous, though it might look tame here, near the house. They had dined on salmon and trout from its cold waters on many evenings, and it had seemed a benign river.
The moon shone in the courtyard, touching each of the rounded cobblestones with light. The trees dipped and swayed slightly in the wind, waving their fat August leaves like fans.
The entire house was dark. Even Bothwell’s rooms, which she had made a point of noting.
* * *
The next morning they all gathered on the stone forecourt, where Sir John had set out chairs and tables. The sun was already dappling the leaves and promising fine weather for another day; the pale, drained moon was just setting in the west.
“Pray help yourself,” said Sir John in a jovial tone, as the servitors passed the heated ale in small tankards, and plates with eggs in mustard sauce and cold mutton.
Bothwell took a platter and sat down easily. He threw one arm over the back of his chair and drank some ale, his throat rising and falling as he did so, then he ran his tongue over his lips and set the tankard down.
“You had a long ride yesterday,” said Sir John, as if it were not a question.
“Indeed,” Bothwell replied, chewing his mutton and swallowing it before answering. He smiled, showing white, even teeth. “In distance not so great, but in time, what with the steep and winding paths, many hours. But I saw what I needed to see.” He picked up the tankard again.
As did I, thought Mary.
Her feelings for him had not gone away; indeed they had intensified, as if by magic, in the hours when she had not s
een him. The interlude with Darnley had not affected them.
In France, her tutor had once taught her that to truly fix an image in the mind, to fasten it down completely so that it remained forever captive and vivid, she should carefully name each aspect of the thing to herself, as though she were describing it to a blind person.
“For, ma petite, such is the fickleness of the human mind that it soon lets go of whatever it sees; if you would keep it, you must tack it down with words.” She had tried it and found that it worked on flowers, rooms, faces, ceremonies.
Now, when she wanted to keep Bothwell forever as he was at this moment, sitting near the entrance to an old hunting lodge on this fine August day, in his thirty-first year, she began silently to name his features.
Behind him are the soft, cream-coloured walls, and they have ivy growing part of the way up them, above the rectangular windows. The sun is hitting the walls, but Bothwell is still shaded by the long shadows of the trees guarding the house.
His head is round and rather large for his body. His hair is almost red but not quite; it has enough brown in it to soften it. It is cropped short like a soldier’s, and his ears show. They are beautifully shaped ears, and they hug his head. He has wide earlobes.
His skin is taut and tanned and clean-shaven, and his jawbone shows prominently. His lips are wide and curved, and faintly pink.
His neck is thick and sun-browned like his face, and his shoulders are broad. He is wearing a rust-coloured leather hunting shirt, but even though the sleeves are full I can see the muscles which make his arms so large. His hands are big, with blunt fingers and no rings.
She looked farther down at his muscular legs, well outlined in his riding breeches, and at his sturdy wide feet in their low-heeled boots.
Then she looked back up at his eyes.
There is a scar above his left eye from the fight he had with Cockburn of Ormiston. But he has no other injury and even has long eyelashes. His eyes are a green-brown, the colour of winter moss.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 53