“Pray sit closer to the fire. But what?” Now she was beginning to get used to him, to realize he was not an apparition after all.
“There is trouble here, I fear. Where is Darnley?”
“Hawking somewhere. I know not.”
“You should have him followed at all times. Word has reached me that he has been plotting, sending and receiving secret letters from Europe, yes, even from the Pope! And that he plans to flee the realm. He has a boat in readiness—”
“Good!” she cried. “Let him flee the realm! Let him sail to Mexico, and dwell on top of one of their pyramids! I care not!”
“Perhaps you care not for his person,” said Bothwell, choosing his words carefully, “but he is more than a person. He is a symbol, capable of being exploited by others. He can be ‘Catholic,’ or ‘last male Tudor,’ or ‘heir-apparent’… what you will. After all, those are some of the reasons you sought to marry him. For what he symbolized. Is that not true?” His voice was gentle.
Miserably, she nodded. “It was partly my foolish desire to please Elizabeth, and place myself in the line of the English succession. Elizabeth had said she desired me to marry an English subject rather than a foreign prince. And there was Darnley, with his dose of royal English blood. And he was pretty, and tried so hard to please … and I thought I loved him, he was different then, or he seemed different.…” She felt herself close to tears. She did not mind saying these things; Bothwell had already seen them for himself first hand.
“Poor Queen,” said Bothwell. “You only sought to please.”
“Yes!” cried Mary. “I was taught that if I tried to think of others, tried to please, then I would be rewarded! And when I came here to Scotland, I tried so hard to please! But the more I tried, the more I vexed people—ah!” She threw up her hands and gave a choked laugh. “Remember how we talked, that day on the moors, about having a place where one belongs? Since then I have come to see that I never have, not really. You are fortunate. You have a home in the Borders and a home on your ships. The ships appeal to me.”
“Yes, I know you love sailing; I heard how on your way to France you were the only one who wasn’t seasick, or frightened of the storms. The sea has proved a country to many a countryless man. You should have been a sailor.”
“Where have you sailed?” she asked. “Have you been to the far north? Have you been to the little isles in the west, the Hebrides?”
“Aye, I’ve sailed there. The seas around them are rough, and when you arrive, you feel you have made a true pilgrimage. They are truly otherworldly—of a world we do not, cannot, know. The bitter isolation … what drove the monks there, what kept them there in their little stone cells?”
“Ah! How I long to go! If only you could take me!”
He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “There is no reason why I cannot. Someday.” He paused, then gave her a level stare. “If you survive your husband’s plotting and treasons.”
“I already have.” But she hated to have it named. Treason.
“He is not done yet. I pray you, watch him. Set spies on him. Do not underestimate him.”
Bothwell had not heard Darnley’s threats at Traquair. If he had, he would have been even more alarmed.
“Very well,” she said. “I must trust you, and heed your advice.”
“Never underestimate such a man,” Bothwell insisted.
“And you came all the way here to warn me of that?”
“Yes. Don’t you think it is important? You seem very unconcerned about your own safety. Let me remind you of a soldier’s maxim: never let down your guard, never assume the serpent is incapable of striking.”
Gradually the attraction to him was creeping back. At first, stunned at seeing him, she had not felt it. She had been relieved that it was gone, like a person who finds a treasure with an elaborate set of instructions to go with it, burdening it. This feeling for Bothwell would be at best demanding, at worse bankrupting. Better to have found that it vanished of its own accord before any damage was done.
But it was here again, as strong a presence as the man himself. She felt convinced that he could see it, it was that palpable. At the same time she prayed that he would go away without any further ado.
She stood up. He stood up, following her example. She heard herself saying something about how kind it was for him to have come, how she appreciated it. Would he like any refreshments? My, how late it is, good night, I look forward to Jedburgh.… Was he following her to the door, whence she was leading him? She dared not look back.
His hand touched her shoulder, and she turned immediately in a way that meant his arm was around her. She was only six inches from him, facing him. He did not drop his arm, but brought up the other one to encircle her. He held her to him, gently. There was nothing in the touch but solicitation and kindness.
He feels sorry for me, as he did for those people in the cottage.… His touch is like that of a brother, only my brother’s is cold.… He must be happily married, and sees me as—what did he say?—Poor Queen. His looks, his hands, all are brotherly … I know how looks and hands are when there is desire … I’ve seen and felt it enough when I did not want it … Chastelard, Gordon, Arran, now Darnley.…
Never had she wanted something so badly; never had she felt so rejected.
She lifted her face to look at him, and he kissed her.
She had been mistaken. There was desire there, great desire. His kiss was nothing like the one in the dream. It was lingering and sensual. She felt him breathing gently, easily, against her. It felt natural to be held by him, to be kissing him, without thought or hesitation. She loved the feel of his lips; they were smooth and promised intimacy at all levels, of which this was only a beginning.
All she felt was the lips, and the promise of them.…
Bothwell had pulled away. “No!” he said. “No, forgive me!”
She wanted to draw him back, but she could not allow herself to. He looked ashamed and confused. “There is nothing to forgive,” she finally said.
“It will not happen again,” he said, stepping far enough away that she was out of reach. “I can promise you that, if only you will forgive me this one lapse, this one presumption.”
“There is nothing to forgive!” she insisted. “Pray, do not run away. The rain has become worse—” Outside they could hear the rattling of the rain on the roof.
“I must go!” he said, reaching for the door. “Remember what I told you about Lord Darnley!” He was out the door and gone in an instant.
Darnley! His last words were of Darnley!
With a storm of weeping, she threw herself on the bed. The sound of the rain drowned out her sobs, so that no one came to inquire about her.
XXXIV
After Bothwell returned to the Borders, he busied himself attacking his hereditary enemies, the Kerrs. In addition, he took an entire band of Armstrongs of Liddesdale; they were now imprisoned in the huge fortress of Hermitage Castle, and would be tried, and probably executed, when the Queen came to Jedburgh.
After three successful weeks in the field he returned to Crichton Castle, where Lady Bothwell awaited him. He was strangely eager to tell her of his exploits, perhaps because he wished to show her his part of Scotland was as dangerous and exciting as her beloved Highlands, and that her husband was more to be feared in the field than any Gordon.
He found her seated on a giant cushion before the fire in an upstairs chamber, drinking a goblet of wine and engaged in needlework. She scarcely looked up when he came in, which incensed him. She was always so calm, so self-possessed. It was all one to her whether he came or not, whether he had been hurt or not. He wanted to say something, just to see if she would pay attention to him, but stopped himself. He turned on his heel and walked out, just as she looked up at him with her pale, bulging eyes. As she saw him leaving the room, she smiled and went back to her needlework.
Bothwell found himself standing on the upper landing of the staircase, staring down two f
lights of stairs. He descended angrily, intent on returning to the stables, when he caught sight of Bessie Crawford, one of Lady Bothwell’s young serving women, ascending with a tray. She tossed her head and seemed to be talking to herself. She was almost opposite Bothwell before she saw him and stopped talking, embarrassed.
“Pray continue your conversation with yourself,” he said. “I enjoy eavesdropping.”
“Oh! Sire! I—I did not realize you had returned! Why was it not—not announced?” she stammered.
“I have spent the past three weeks sneaking up on people. It is a difficult habit to break.” He lifted the covers of the dishes. Stewed hare. Scones. Cheese. He popped a wedge of cheese in his mouth, then followed it with a scone, waiting for the girl to protest on behalf of her mistress. “It can be gratifying to be a thief,” he said. “Especially if one is truly hungry.”
“I fear the Countess will be disappointed,” said Bessie. “Now I must return to the kitchen to replenish the tray.”
“Aye.” Bothwell turned with her and followed her down the steps. She kept glancing over her shoulder to see where he was, and a smile crept over her face.
Across the passageway they went, then into the kitchen, where only one cook was languidly stirring a pot, and French Paris, one of Bothwell’s serving men, was baiting some mousetraps with scraps.
Bessie put down her tray and asked the cook to refill it, while Bothwell whispered some instructions to Paris. Then he took Bessie’s arm and firmly led her toward the door of the attached kitchen tower. In an instant they were in the small room that served as a pantry, and Bothwell closed the door and leaned against it, his arms crossed. “Paris will see we are not disturbed.”
Bessie was staring at him, her little face white. But she did not back away when he reached for her. Christ! He needed a woman! He ached at the need of it.
He pulled her stiff little body toward him. She was bony, except that she had big breasts. He bent to kiss her, expecting her to turn her head and squeal, making soft little noises of protest, which would soon die away. He knew she was no virgin; Paris had had her, as well as the cook.
Sure enough, she bowed her head for a moment, allowing him to kiss her ear and her neck, before turning back to him. The obligatory demurring now over, she kissed him passionately and allowed him to feel her body. Without his even asking, she undid her bodice, and murmured, “Now you may do what you like,” offering her melon-like breasts to him as if they were on a platter.
He was not much interested in kissing her pallid face or availing himself of the breasts; he wanted to relieve himself in only one way. She lay back on the floor and pulled up her skirts for him, accommodatingly. Now he knew the stories that Paris and the cook had told him were true. Quickly he undid his breeches and climbed on her, ashamed of the perfunctoriness of it, but needing to do it and get it over with. The sooner he was able to mount her, the sooner he would end this burning, throbbing call of his body, which was tormenting him—no thanks to his wife!
“Ah,” she whispered softly as she felt him on her, probing her, then she gave the expected squeal when he entered her. “Oh, my Lord Bothwell, my Lord, my Lord…” Her voice was rising and he managed to put a hand across her mouth to silence her. But he was engulfed in gratifying himself and stopped heeding the noise; he thought he was going to explode if this exquisite teasing and torment of his body did not end. Thrusting and stabbing, he felt as if he were trying to skewer her from the inside, and then the long-sought relief flooded him and he groaned with joy.
But it had happened so quickly he was not even out of breath. And as soon as the waves of sensation subsided, he rolled away from her. It was over.
“That felt good,” he said, lightly, reaching for his breeches. Bessie was still lying there, looking at him forlornly. He reached over and pulled her skirt down, covering her.
“Will you be wanting me again, Sire?” she asked sweetly.
He was taken by surprise. “Why, possibly,” he said.
“I will be honoured to do it again,” she said.
“Why?” he asked, curious.
“You know how to do it so well,” she said matter-of-factly, “even when you are in such a hurry. I would like to see how you do it when you have more time.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I will do my best to satisfy your curiosity.”
XXXV
Bothwell was up betimes. There was thumping and noise from the dungeon in the Hermitage; it was filled with Armstrongs he had captured the day before. He rolled off his camp bed and rubbed the muscles of his back and then felt his sword arm to see if it was stiff or sore. It had better not be; he had a mighty lot of work to do this day.
No, there was no tenderness there. He flexed his arm and made a fist. What a fine day yesterday had been, bringing in the lairds of Mangerton and Whitehaugh, the thieving bastards. Their peel-towers hadn’t saved them. And now they could bloody well rot in there and wait for their trial when the Queen came.
When the Queen came. Oh, yes, he’d have more outlaws for her. It was going to be another fine day today. He knew it.
He crossed the damp stone floor in his bare feet and, stripping off his shirt, plunged his hands into the stone basin of water in the corner. He washed his face and then splashed his shoulders, shivering as the frigid water hit his flesh.
It builds character, he snorted to himself.
A trickle of dampness made little sounds as it ran down the walls. Even the inner walls had a sheen of moss here in the Hermitage.
Bothwell reached for his riding clothes—his linen shirt, his quilted outerwear coat of leather sewn with horn for added protection, his leather boots and breeches—pulling them on slowly as if he were not cold. Then he picked up his dag—his horse-pistol—his sword, and his dagger, and was ready to face the Queen’s enemies. The Queen …
* * *
He and his men, a force of about a hundred troops, gathered just outside the colossal arched front wall of the fortress, which soared up like the portal of a cathedral, but seemed as dark and sinister as the gates of Hell. The barking of the scent hounds, lean black beasts, was fearsome as Cerberus.
“Ah, my men!” cried Bothwell. “We have another fine day of hunting!” Actually it was grey and misting, but that had nothing to do with the matter. “The Elliots! The Elliots! We’ll attack the peel-tower of Jock o’ the Park!”
The men were thunderously silent. Jock o’ the Park was one of the most notorious and ruthless outlaws. And he had never yet been taken, or beaten.
Bothwell laughed as loud as he could, but the thick, insensate stones of the citadel soaked it up and it sounded weak.
“So you remember the verse?
“They leave not spindle, spoon nor spit,
Bed, bolster, blanket, shirt nor sheet;
Jock o’ the Park
Rapes chest and ark.
For all such work,
He is right meet.”
“Come now, won’t he be a bonny prize?” Bothwell raised his sword and waved it over his head.
“Aye! Aye!” The men raised theirs, and then they all clattered over the rough planks that bridged the moat and galloped down alongside the burn, splashing through it and onto dry ground. They followed the burn as it flowed toward another, Liddelwater, where the two waters coming together formed the Park: home territory of the Elliots.
The countryside was in mottled autumn splendour, with purple streaks of heather on the steeper hills and russet and orange bracken and reeds near the trickling water. Patches of velvet-green grass spread out next to withered wastes of brown gorse on the hills, and glowed unexpectedly bright beneath fallen leaves and old yellow cattails. The sky was a pale pearl grey.
They passed thick rectangular peel-towers spread out along the heather-speckled braes of the burn, revelling in their own powerful horses and the misty day.
The mighty peel-tower of Jock o’ the Park loomed up ahead, arrogantly sitting on a pasture at the confluence of t
he waters—a spot known to both the Scots wardens and the English as the very cockpit of the Borders, where the writ of neither side ran.
Bothwell gave spurs to his horse and raced ahead of the others to surprise Jock and keep him from escaping. But there were enough people about to see the lone armed rider approaching and warn their master, so before Bothwell reined in his horse and shouted at the tower, “I arrest you in the name of the Queen,” Jock was already galloping away across the burn-bed and toward the hills.
Bothwell spotted him and debated whether to await the arrival of his own men to give chase. No, by then Jock would be out of sight. Quickly he turned his mount and lit out across the fields, galloping over the new-reaped stubble and between the upright sheaves, then into the thicker entangled broom as he followed Jock into the wilder reaches of the hills. Jock was climbing upward, leaving the watered valley; he had a mountain hideout he was making for, then.
I cannot let him out of sight, thought Bothwell, urging his horse forward.
The distance was closing: three hundred yards, two hundred yards, one hundred, fifty—and then Bothwell could see Jock looking over his shoulder, could even see the colours of the plaiding in his riding-mantle. The man was grinning.
“Halt!” cried Bothwell, reaching into his belt and pulling out his pistol. He fired it once up into the air, making the mountain fastness reverberate.
Jock reined in his horse, and kept that menacing, smug grin.
“You’d best keep your distance, Lieutenant, Queen’s Man,” he said, disdain dripping from every word.
“I’m my own man,” said Bothwell. “And Keeper of Liddesdale. If you refuse to obey my summons, let us see who is the better man. I command you not only on my authority as officer—for what’s an office but a bestowal and a title, and oft it ill fits the man it is hung upon—but as man to man. Single combat.”
All the time he was speaking, he threaded his way closer to Jock until he was only twenty or thirty feet from him, in the little green clearing where he had stopped. Then, in one motion, he dismounted and unsheathed his great two-handed sword.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 55