“I’ll pluck his ears from his head!” cried Darnley. “He is a liar! There is no plot—except the one by members of your Council. Yes, I have heard about the plan to put me in prison and slay me if I resist. The Provost of Glasgow has revealed it to me! But then,” he admitted with a cloying tone, “it was also reported that you refused to sign the request when they presented it to you.”
Someone at Craigmillar had betrayed her! Or was it an eavesdropper, and not one of the five conspirators? She felt cold, and very vulnerable.
“Thus,” he was saying softly, “I would never believe that you, who are after all my own flesh in God’s eyes, would do me any evil.”
His flesh … his rotten flesh … one flesh … but can I say the same of him, that he would never harm me?
Standen returned, carrying a tray of heated wet towels. He began applying them gently to Darnley’s neck and face, wiping away the crusts from his sores. Darnley looked contented, like a cat being stroked.
“I will take to my bed,” he finally told Standen, and the groom pulled him to his feet and then helped him to walk, trembling, into the bedroom. Darnley fell to his knees on the prie-dieu and looked longingly at the crucifix. Then he allowed himself to be ushered into bed. Shaking with the exertion, he managed to crawl beneath the covers. His spindly legs showed for an instant, like a stork’s legs, before being covered.
“I desire nothing more in this life than we might reconcile, and live again as man and wife,” he said, after Standen had left the chamber. “And if that should not be, if I knew it would never come about, I will never rise from this bed; no, never again!”
“It is what I wish, too,” she said, in the most pleasant and persuasive tone at her command. “I came to see you for just this reason. But first you must be purged of your illness; and it is best you return with me to Craigmillar Castle for treatment. It is healthier than low-lying Holyrood, and yet near enough that I can attend on you every day. And the chambers are such that the series of medicinal baths you must undergo can be easily administered.”
“I cannot travel.”
“I brought a litter to convey you.”
“Are you, then, so anxious that I should recover and we be reunited?” He sounded touched. “Do you truly wish this?”
She nodded.
“Ah, then! I shall persuade myself that it is true; for were it otherwise, greater inconvenience might come to us than you are aware of.” He sighed, and drew up his covers.
“We are both tired,” she said, relieved that the encounter was over for the night. She turned to go.
“Stay here! Don’t go!”
“Nay, I must sleep elsewhere, away from the sick-chamber. The Archbishop’s Palace is only a hundred yards away. I shall come back early, I promise—”
His hand darted out with the speed of a striking snake and grabbed her wrist.
“No! You must not leave! You will not return—”
“I promise I shall!” She tried to unwrap his bony fingers.
“Is Bothwell here?”
Her blood stopped. “No, of course not!” She pulled her wrist away.
“Pretend this is the Hermitage, then, and the Archbishop’s Palace is Jedburgh, and I doubt not that you shall return speedily enough in the morning,” he muttered. Then his tone suddenly changed. “Oh, I am so happy to see you I could almost die of gladness!”
* * *
Finally settled alone in her inmost chamber as the guest of the permanently absent Archbishop, she slipped out of bed. Mary Seton, her only attendant—Madame Rallay was too old to make this wintertime journey—had dutifully prayed with her and then withdrawn, leaving her, as she thought, to sleep.
But sleep? No, this was not a night for sleep. Seeing Darnley like that, reduced to a mere manifestation of illness, was shocking. Even in this chamber, the strange mantle of evil that seemed to blanket Glasgow Castle lay heavy in the room. Mary Seton, earnest, pious woman that she was, might not have even sensed the aura. Perhaps one had already to be acquainted with evil to perceive it.
Mary pulled out some sheets of paper, which she had managed to hide with her personal effects, although they were not of the best quality. Quietly she smoothed one out and then placed a candlestick at one corner to light it and hold it down.
She took her pen and began to write. No salutation, no date, no address. She must not identify either herself or the receiver.
Being gone from the place where I had left my heart, it may easily be judged what my countenance was, considering what the body is without the heart.…
It had been so hard to leave him and ride away to do this repugnant and difficult task. It was because of their love, and their sin, that she was forced into it.…
But would I undo it? she asked herself. Would I erase every embrace, make every kiss not to have happened? No. I did not start to live until then, and to obliterate my joy would be to die.
Bothwell … She imagined him holding her, now, bending his head down to kiss her breasts, she laying her cheek against the sleek hair growing so closely on his head.… Her body ached to hold him, receive him.
She was trembling. The candle flame moved in the cold draft from the walls.
She must communicate what had happened today.
Four miles from Glasgow a gentleman of the Earl of Lennox came and made his commendations and excuses unto me.…
She wrote of her arrival in Glasgow, of the lairds who had greeted her and, more ominously, of the ones who had stayed away.
She recounted Darnley’s answers to the rumours of his own plot, his counteraccusations of her plot to have him imprisoned and then killed, and his entire conversation regarding her estrangement from him and his desire to be forgiven and reconciled. The candle burned down and splashed wax on the paper. She replaced it with a fresh one.
The King asked me many questions, about whether I had taken French Paris, and Gilbert Curie as my secretary. I wonder who has told him so much—even of the coming marriage of Bastian, my French master of the household?
He became angry when I spoke to him of Walker and said that he would pluck his ears from his head, and that he lies; for I asked him earlier what cause he had to complain of some of the Lords and to threaten them. He denied it, and said he would rather lose his life than do me the least displeasure. As for the other, he would at least sell his life dear enough.
Perhaps Bothwell would understand this. It was good that it be recorded.
He has told me all on the bishop’s behalf and Sutherland’s, touching the matter that you had warned me about. Now to make him trust me I must pretend toward him; and therefore when he desired me to promise that when he should be well we should make but one bed I told him, feigning to believe his fair promise, that if he did not change his mind, I was contented. But to keep it secret, for the Lords feared that if we came together, he might take revenge on them.
“I am glad that you talked to me of the Lords,” he said. “I hope that you wish to live a happy life with me from now on. For if it is not so, it could be that greater inconvenience should come to us both than you expect.”
Those were his words. What had they meant? Perhaps Bothwell would know.
He would not let me go, but would have me watch with him. I made as though I thought all to be true and that I would think upon it, and have excused myself from sitting up with him this night, for he said that he does not sleep well. You have never heard him speak better or more humbly; and if I had not proof that his heart is changeable like wax, and that mine is already hard as a diamond, I would take pity on him. But fear not, I shall not fail of my purpose nor be untrue to you.
Darnley was touching, Darnley was a picture of contrition—but Darnley was a liar and a murderer.
I shall not be deceived in him, she thought, no matter how pitiable he is.
She felt as though there were some other presence in the chamber. She turned her head and looked into the shadows, but there was nothing. Just a feeling.
&n
bsp; But I am now a liar, too, she thought. He has contaminated me and begun to make me like himself. One flesh … he called me his own flesh.
I do here a work that I hate much. You would laugh to see me lie so well, or at least to dissemble so well, mixing truth with untruths.
He said that there be some persons who commit secret faults and fear not to have them spoken of loudly, and that there is talk of both great and small. And even touching the Lady Reres, he said, “God grant that she serve to your honour,” and that none should have occasion to think that my own power was not in myself.
Were these words meaningful, or just Darnley-babble? No one knew about her meetings with Bothwell—did they? Darnley was testing her. But if he thought this could drive her to confess, he did not know her.
I have told him that he must be purged and that it could not be done here. I told him that I myself would convey him to Craigmillar, so the physicians and I might cure him without being far from my son.
My son. I must be careful not to call him “our son” or “the Prince” lest the letter fall into enemy hands.
Excuse it if I write badly; I am ill at ease, and yet happy to write to you when others are asleep, seeing that I cannot do what I most desire, that is to lie between your arms, my dear life, whom I beseech God to preserve from all ill.
A love letter—this was turning into a love letter. How many love letters had Bothwell received? She knew he kept the most florid ones in a strongbox covered with studs and locked up. She would give him a silver one to hold hers, and make him destroy the others.
The others. She hated thinking of them, and knew there were many more she would never even know about. Janet Beaton, the witch-woman of Branxton, still supernaturally beautiful past the age of fifty; Anna Throndsen, the Norwegian admiral’s daughter, who had followed him back to Scotland and skulked about for years in the country. Had she gone back to Norway now? There was an illegitimate son, William Hepburn, who was Bothwell’s heir. But who was his mother?
And Lady Bothwell, Jean Gordon? She had not loved Bothwell when they married, but now? He had slept with her, had undoubtedly kissed her breasts, and she, too, had rested her cheek against his hair.
O saints! Jealousy transforms all my cherished private memories into a Hell if they be not truly private.
He will have to divorce her. And when the Lords and Parliament free me—for they will find a legal way—then we can marry.
We are bound to two unworthy mates. The devil sunder us and God knit us together for ever the most faithful couple that ever he did knit together.
She looked at the words, horrified, and crossed out “devil” and wrote “the good year.” How had she called on the devil?
She pushed the paper away. Why was she writing these things? She felt possessed.
There is evil here, I can almost feel it, she thought.
She wiped her sweating, but cold, palms on her gown.
Almost by itself her hand took up the pen and continued writing.
I am weary, yet I cannot forbear scribbling as long as there is any paper. Cursed be this pox-marked person who vexes me! He is not much disfigured, but he is in a bad state. I have been almost slain with his breath, even though I sat no nearer him than the foot of his bed.
To be short, I have learned that he is very suspicious, but nonetheless trusts me, and will go anywhere upon my word.
Alas! I never deceived anybody, but you are the cause thereof. You make me dissemble so much that I am afraid with horror, and you make me almost play the part of a traitor.
But Bothwell had never wanted her to go through with this. He had rather she rid herself of the child. To him it was the simple, straightforward solution to a physical problem.
Bothwell. He was primarily a soldier and he himself was sinking in the bog of intrigue, as her white horse had sunk in the mire returning to Jedburgh. He was as much out of his element as she was. They were both in great danger.
Now if to please you, my dear life, I spare neither honour, conscience, nor hazard, nor greatness.…
Then she was making a god of Bothwell, even as Darnley had made one of her. Yes, she was infected with his sin; she had caught the soul-sickness.
I should never be weary in writing to you, yet I will end, after kissing your hands. Burn this letter, for it is dangerous, neither is there anything well said in it, for I think of nothing but upon grief.…
The sky was growing light; the yellow candlelight made the paper look smudged and dirty. She folded it up, and got it ready to give to French Paris, Bothwell’s trusted messenger. She had never felt more alone.
XLIX
The little party made its way slowly across the cold, barren landscape. Lord Livingston, who had been patiently waiting in Glasgow for the last ten days, led the way. Mary and her attendants rode directly behind, and Darnley, stretched out in Mary’s own litter, which was slung between two horses, was conveyed as gently as possible over the rough road. The litter was covered, so no wind could tear at his healing face. But he kept his taffeta mask on as a double protection from curious eyes and unkind weather.
He had improved greatly, although it would be months until the eruptions faded completely—so he was told. He was still weak, and unsure how he would endure the journey. But travelling this way, swaying gently as they descended or climbed the hills, was lulling, and he felt like a baby as he drifted in and out of sleep.
Mary was relieved to be out of the alien and vaguely threatening Lennox territory. Her time in Glasgow had been both tedious and ghastly, for it seemed always to be night there, and her hours followed no normal sequence. She took upon herself the rhythm of Darnley’s sickroom, which remade the world in its own distorted image. Now the great empty sky, the sunrise and sunset, were welcome demarcations of unyielding normalcy. She felt she could not breathe deeply enough of the stinging sharp air, as though her lungs were still full of sickroom odours.
Strange, but her queasiness had disappeared once she had been confronted with the truly repulsive sight of Darnley’s syphilis, and assaulted by the mortal smell of decay. It was as if she could not afford to let her body be weak in any way.
She had not heard from Bothwell, but then it was not necessary. She had done her best to inform him of whatever political statements she had been able to coax Darnley into making, but none of them seemed particularly alarming. Whatever mischief Darnley might have planned for later, he would be less effective now that he was separated from his father, and his father’s men. There was no one in Edinburgh for him to plot with; none of the lords trusted him, or wanted to have any dealings with him.
A huge raven, its broad back gleaming iridescent, flew from tree to barren tree ahead of them and waited for them to pass, cocking its head. Then it would flap its heavy wings and skim through the air to the next tree. It never cawed, but just looked at them balefully.
They travelled in easy stages, stopping even between Callendar House and Edinburgh at Linlithgow. Bothwell was to meet them the next morning and ceremoniously escort them the rest of the way.
It is nearly over! thought Mary, not with joy but with profound relief. Knowing that she would soon be back in Bothwell’s territory, she felt safe once more.
But the next morning, as Darnley walked a little unsteadily to his litter, he motioned to Mary. She left her horse, which she was just preparing to mount, and came over to him.
“I have decided against Craigmillar,” he said. The words seemed unhuman, emanating from a mask.
“But I have installed the baths for you there,” she protested. “The physicians have already moved into their quarters, and set up their apothecary’s tables and weights. You know you cannot go to Holyrood—it is low-lying and damp. Nor can you go to Edinburgh Castle—it is cold and windy. There is no place else suitable.” She tried to keep the irritation from her voice. If she irritated him, he would be all the more stubborn.
“I wish to go to Kirk O’Field,” he announced.
“Wher
e?”
“Kirk O’Field. I am told that the air is good there, and that Lord Borthwick, whose life had been despaired of, recently stayed there, and made a full recovery.”
“But the arrangements have already been made.”
“Then unmake them,” he said grandly, drawing aside the curtain of his litter. “I wish us to lodge at Kirk O’Field.”
“‘Us’? But I cannot stay with you until you have completed your course of treatment!”
“I request merely that you stay in the same house. It need not be the same room. All I want is for us to be under the same roof! That is all I ask! Can you not grant me that?”
“But, Darnley—”
“It is such a little request! And it is the last I shall pester you with!”
He sounded so unhappy, desperately pleading.
“Very well,” she said.
Outside Edinburgh, on the Linlithgow Road, Bothwell and his men were waiting for her, sitting their horses as straight and still as if it were summertime, with no need to shiver or begrudge the time.
A great wash of excitement and relief surged through her. His dear face, his strength, were near once again. It seemed a long time since she had parted from him, instead of only a week. As she drew up beside him and he saluted her, she said, “We go not to Craigmillar, but to Kirk O’Field.”
Bothwell’s surprise registered on his face. “To the church?”
“Nay, to the dwelling where Lord Borthwick recuperated. The King wishes to take his treatments there.”
“But—”
Mary shook her head. “The King insists.”
* * *
When they reached Edinburgh, they passed through a gate in the town wall and then made their way along the High Street for only a short way. Near St. Giles they turned down Blackfriars Wynd, a side street that went directly south, dropping down as it crossed the wide Cowgate, and then rising again as it approached the ecclesiastical buildings on a hill almost outside the town wall. Indeed, some of them did lie outside the wall, for they had been built to stand in open fields—hence the name. In olden days there had been three imposing religious foundations all in a six-hundred-yard row along the hilltop: Blackfriars monastery, the church of Kirk O’Field, and a Franciscan monastery. The Reformation and Henry VIII’s marauding armies had not treated them kindly. Blackfriars, which had once had a stately church and a sumptuous guest house for noble visitors, was now in ruins; the Franciscans had not fared better. Kirk O’Field, which had served as a Collegium Sacerdotum, a training school for priests, had retained its quadrangle of buildings, but these had passed into secular hands. Robert Balfour had taken over the Provost’s house, and the Duke of Châtelherault, head of the Hamiltons, had moved into what used to be the hospital and guest house.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 64