Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Виктория Холт

  The life of adventure had begun. James in his flight from one town to another, saw the soldiers of the English King carry out his orders. As a result the boy was filled with a passionate hatred toward the English, a hatred which burned within him and made him long to act as he saw their soldiers acting. Rape, torture and death were commonplace sights to him. They did not disgust; they were part of the adventurous way of life; he merely longed to turn the tables, and he swore he would one day.

  He became a man at an early age. He was cynically aware of his father’s alliance with the enemy; he knew of his father’s fondness for women.

  He spent a great part of his youth in the establishment of his great-uncle Patrick, Bishop of Aberdeen. The Bishop was a merry man, eager to educate his great-nephew in such a way as to bring credit to the name of Hepburn. He was a great drinker; food and drink, he declared, were the greatest pleasures in life, apart from one other. He would slap the boy on the back when he told him this. The one other? Did he not know? The Bishop put his hands on his knees and rocked with laughter. He would wager the boy— being a Hepburn—would soon know what he meant; if he did not, then, by all the saints, he could not be his fathers son.

  In the Bishop’s Palace the young James would lie awake and listen to the nightly perambulations of his great-uncle’s friends. There were whisperings and laughter, little screams of pleasure. James thought he understood. Life at Crichton, his fathers home, had not been without these phenomena, but never had he known them conducted on the scale they were in the Bishop’s Palace of Spynie.

  The Bishop was very fond of several comely serving women. He would chuck them under the chin or pinch various parts of their bodies as he passed them. Sometimes young James would be with him, but he did not abstain from his intimate greeting for the sake of the boy. Why should he? The boy was a Hepburn.

  “A real Hepburn!” he would say; and if there was a woman at hand he would push the boy toward her and she, taking her cue, would caress him and say that he was indeed a lovely boy.

  In the banqueting hall James would sometimes sit with the Bishop and his cronies, listening to their conversation which invariably concerned their amatory adventures.

  The Bishops numerous children often came to visit him, and he was very fond of them all. There were so many Janets and so many Patricks that James could not remember them all. It was the Bishop’s delight to have them legitimized, several at a time.

  James willingly took to the life at the Palace of Spynie. It was the life for him. He very soon began to swagger with the Bishop and his friends. He learned how to carry his liquor and boast of his adventures. The Bishop was delighted in his great-nephew. “A true Hepburn!” was his frequent comment.

  In France, whither he had gone to complete his education, he found nothing that he had learned at Spynie a disadvantage. He never did and never would like what he thought of as the effeminate manners of the French. He would not abandon his Scottish accent; he would not ape anybody. He was himself and was determined to continue to be. Moreover he found that his methods were as effective as any. There was not a gallant in the Court of France who could boast of so many easy conquests as could James Hepburn, for all that he did not write pretty poems, nor dance and scent himself, nor wear jewels in his ears. His attractiveness lay in his dynamic personality, in that obvious virility. Not for him the graces; he would not attempt to woo. It was his way to take at a moment’s fancy, for that was the way to enjoy. Too long deliberation was fatal to pleasure; his passions came quickly and as quickly passed.

  His most satisfying love affair had been with Janet Beaton, aunt to that Mary Beaton who was one of the Queen’s Marys. She had had three husbands and was nineteen years older than James, but a wonderful woman, tempering wisdom with passion, friendship with love. It was a very satisfying relationship to both of them. They had become “handfast,” which meant that they were betrothed and that the betrothal was binding. Handfasting involved no actual ceremony. The couple merely lived together and, if after a certain period, they wished to go through the ceremony of marriage, they were free to do so.

  The difference in their ages was too great, James realized; Janet realized it also. Janet was the only reasonable woman he had encountered in his amatory life, for he tired so quickly, the women so slowly. Janet had said that though they ceased to be lovers, there was no reason why they should not remain friends. With Janet he had been as nearly in love as he could be.

  It was a pity that Anna Throndsen was not so reasonable.

  He had set out on an embassy for the Queen-Mother of Scotland. First he was to go to Denmark where he was to use his persuasive powers on King Frederick that he might lend his fleet to Scotland against the English; secondly he must visit the Court of France, taking letters to the Queen from her mother.

  He had set off for Denmark with high hopes, and his sojourn there might have been very successful, for he had won Frederick’s promise of help; but with the death of the Queen, the political situation had changed. England was ready to discuss peace with France and Scotland, so that Frederick’s offer was no longer needed.

  Meanwhile James’s personal affairs were giving him some anxiety.

  Anna was not only attractive, she was clever; she had been outstanding among the women he had met in Denmark, not only because she was dark among so many who were fair-haired, but because she was a shrewd businesswoman. The eldest of seven daughters and having one younger brother, she was bold and ruled her parents. James was immediately attracted and they very quickly shared the same bed. Anna had ideas about marriage; she understood that James was a lover without much love, but with lust which came quickly and was quickly satisfied. But his virility was overpowering, and even Anna had succumbed and had felt the need to satisfy passion and make arrangements afterward.

  She believed that she could use him in the future. James was less calculating. He had the Borderer’s instinct: a successful Lieutenant of the Border, it had been his custom to take his choice of the women prisoners, and the affair would be over and done with quickly; he gave it not another thought. He wished it could always be thus, but there were occasions, in a more regulated society than that of a town in the process of ravishment, when certain tiresome preliminaries were necessary.

  Anna was attractive enough to occupy his attention for more than one night—or even two. She saw the ambitious man in her lover; she saw the Scots noble from impoverished estates, so she allowed the rumor to be put about that she was an heiress to no small fortune. James swallowed the bait and suggested marriage.

  He had never met such a clever woman. In no time she was pregnant. They must be married. She was the daughter of an honorable Danish family.

  He had discovered Anna’s fortune to be mythical; he had also discovered that his desire for her was on the wane; but he could not elude her altogether. When he was ready to leave Denmark (and at that time he had not heard of the death of the Queen-Mother of Scotland and was therefore a petitioner in a hospitable land) he must take her with him, her family said; and in view of the delicate political situation he could see no alternative.

  So he and Anna left Copenhagen, but when they reached Flanders he reasoned with her.

  “Should I arrive at the French Court with a mistress big with child?” he demanded. “We shall have those dandified ninnies laughing behind our backs.”

  “You could arrive with the Countess of Bothwell whose condition is a delight to you,” said Anna quickly.

  “A speedy marriage… and in a foreign land? Impossible!”

  “With a man such as you are nothing is impossible.”

  There was some truth in that, he thought, and, by God, I’ll not take you farther. Hard as it is to rid myself of your company, you are right when you say that with me nothing is impossible.

  He was cunning; he had merely been caught by the unexpectedness of her tactics, for previously he had never been forced to plead with a woman; he had said: “Come hither!” and they came; he coolly w
alked off afterward, leaving them weeping and hoping for his return. He should have known Anna was no ordinary woman.

  “The French,” he said contemptuously, “are sticklers for their etiquette. The Queen has been brought up as one of them. I have my future to consider.”

  “I shall see to it,” said Anna demurely, “that it is our future.”

  But Anna, as her pregnancy advanced, grew less truculent. She wished only to lie and rest half the day. The prospect of an uncomfortable journey across Flanders alarmed her, and she knew that he would not marry her until they reached Scotland and that it would be necessary to have their child legitimized after its birth. But she would know how to find him; he was too prominent a man to be able to lose himself.

  So when he continued to urge that she should stay in Flanders while he went on alone to the French Court, she at length agreed.

  Her farewell was tender, but it held a warning in it. James remembered that warning now. It was ominous. “Do not think I am a woman to be lightly taken up and then cast off. If you think that, James Hepburn, you do not know Anna Throndsen.”

  This would be a lesson to him in future. But he had no great qualms. He was not one to brood on the future; he let that take care of itself. He had been in too many scrapes to worry about consequences; he had faced death so often that he was not to be alarmed by a persistent woman.

  A page came to him and, bowing before him, asked if Lord Bothwell would be so good as to follow him.

  He did so until the page threw open a door and announced: “My Lord, the Earl of Bothwell.”

  He started forward expecting to see the young Queen of whom he had heard so much. Instead it was a red-clad figure, tall, dignified and imposing; and he recognized the Cardinal of Lorraine who, he had heard, with the help of his brother ruled France.

  The two men took each other’s measure. The sensuality of each was his most outstanding characteristic, yet there could not have been two men more different. The Cardinal was the gourmet, Bothwell the gourmand. The Cardinal was subtle; Bothwell was direct. One was a man of physical inactivity, the other a man of action. The Cardinal pandered to his sensual appetites, using aphrodisiac means—mental and physical—to stimulate them; Bothwell needed no such stimulation. The Cardinal was a coward; Bothwell did not know the meaning of fear. They were two strong men, but their strength lay in different directions.

  The Cardinal disliked the boldness of the coarse Borderer; Bothwell disdained the arrogance of the elegant gentleman. But they were each aware of the power possessed by the other. The Cardinal, by far the cleverer of the two, was able to hide his resentment the more easily.

  “I had thought to see my Queen,” said Bothwell.

  “Monsieur,” smiled the Cardinal, “you have come from Scotland where Court manners are slightly different. In France we await the pleasure of the Queen. We do not present ourselves unless commanded to do so.”

  “I have letters from the Queens late mother. Doubtless she will be eager to receive them.”

  “Doubtless. But as Queen of France she has much with which to occupy herself. I know you have come from Denmark where you did good work. I heard from my dear sister, before her unfortunate demise, that you were a worthy young man whom she delighted to honor with her trust. I therefore welcome you to the Court of France.”

  “You are gracious, Monsieur le Cardinal, but it is my Queen I have come to see.”

  “You have the letters from her mother?” The Cardinal extended his slim white hand.

  “My instructions were to hand them to none but the Queen herself.”

  “The Queen has no secrets from me.”

  “So I have heard,” answered Bothwell. “But those were my instructions.”

  The Cardinal sighed. “There is one matter I must discuss with you. The Queen does not know of her mothers death. I myself wish to break the news and break it gently. She has suffered from bad health lately and I fear the shock might prove too much for her.”

  Bothwell’s lips were set in an obstinate line. He did not see why he should take orders from the Cardinal. He disliked taking orders. His policy with the late Queen had been a bold one. He was no Court intrigant and flatterer. Now that her mother was dead it was well for the Queen of Scots to know of the acute danger which such a situation threatened. He had come to warn her of just that; and now, this man, doubtless for reasons of his own, was forcing him to silence on a most important issue.

  “I have had no instructions,” declared Bothwell, “to keep silent on this matter.”

  “Until now… no,” agreed the Cardinal.

  “My lord Cardinal, this is a matter which I must discuss with others of my countrymen. Lord Seton is here at Saint-Germain. I—”

  “That gentleman has already received his instructions in the matter.”

  “And the King of France?” said Bothwell with a trace of insolence. “These are his instructions?”

  “The King, Monsieur, knows nothing of the tragedy. If he knew of it, he would be unable to prevent himself from imparting it to the Queen.”

  “So then the King and Queen are kept in ignorance of certain facts which concern them!”

  The Cardinal decided to smile at such insolence. He said: “The King and Queen are very young—little more than children. It is the express desire of her uncle, the Duke of Guise, and myself as well as the Queen-Mother of France, not to overtax them. We lighten their burdens as best we can. It is our considered opinion, in view of the Queen’s failing health, that she should not at present suffer the shock such news would give her. Therefore, my lord Bothwell, you will say nothing of her mother’s death. I myself will break the news to her when I consider she is fit to receive it.”

  “You are not afraid that someone’s indiscretion may betray the news?”

  “We know how to deal with indiscreet people, my lord. And all of us who love the Queen have no wish to do aught which would bring harm to her. Give me your assurance that you will say nothing of her mother’s death, and no obstacle shall be put in the way of your meeting the Queen.”

  Bothwell hesitated, but only for a moment. He was sharp enough to see that this man could prevent his meeting with the Queen.

  “I give my word,” he said.

  The Cardinal was satisfied. There was that about the Scottish adventurer which implied that having given his word he would keep it.

  JAMES HEPBURN, Earl of Bothwell, stood before the Queen of France and Scotland.

  He had knelt and kissed her hand and had now been bidden to rise. He was acutely aware, among those about her, of the red-clad figure of the Cardinal.

  So here was the Queen of Scotland! he pondered. This was the young woman of whom he had heard so much. This was the “skittering lass” the Hamiltons referred to. She was but a pale and delicate girl.

  It was characteristic of James Hepburn that in those few seconds he had stripped her of her royalty and had seen her as a woman. He was aware of curling chestnut hair that gleamed red and gold in places, long—but not large—eyes, a gentle and smiling mouth, a skin that was pale and delicate, a carriage which suggested pride of race and great dignity. He thought her fair enough, but he had been expecting one more dazzling. He thought of Anna’s dark beauty; Mary Stuart’s was of a different kind.

  That underlying, but as yet unawakened sensuality which was the secret cause—far more than her beauty—of Mary’s attractiveness, was beyond his perception. He was attracted by the obvious. He thought Mary unhealthy and the unhealthy did not please him. She was French, for all she called herself the Queen of Scots. Her dress and manners—everything about her—was French. She was a fragile and pretty creature—that was all as far as he could judge.

  That she was his Queen was quite another matter.

  “My Lord Bothwell,” she addressed him, “you have brought letters from my mother.”

  He said this was so and that he was honored and delighted to have the opportunity of offering them to her.

  He took t
hem from the pocket of his doublet and gave them to her. Smiling, she took them. Then he saw her charm. A pretty wench, he thought, but, alas, not a bonny one.

  The Cardinal was murmuring to the Queen: “I will relieve Your Majesty of these documents.” Mary handed them to him. “Later,” went on the Cardinal, “if it is Your Majesty’s pleasure, we will go through them together.”

  “That is my pleasure,” said the Queen.

  Bothwell’s lips tightened. He himself might just as well have handed the documents to the Cardinal. Did she never do anything unless this man allowed her to?

  The Queen was smiling at Bothwell. “Pray sit down,” she said. “Here beside me. There is much I wish to hear of Scotland.”

  He sat down. She threw a sidelong look at him. That virility alarmed while it fascinated. She was not sure whether she found it attractive or repulsive. With the Cardinal hovering beside her she believed she found it repulsive. She had heard of this Bothwell; he was the successful Lieutenant of the Border and would have been living a wild life. She pictured him, ravishing the towns across the Border, driving the cattle before him, herding the women… like cattle. She had heard of such things. He would be brutal, this man. He made her shiver.

  “You have come by way of Denmark,” she said.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. It was the wish of the Queen, your mother, that I should visit the Court of King Frederick to make requests of him.”

  “She will doubtless have told me of these requests in the letters you bring.”

  Bothwell was astounded. Did she know nothing? Was she left entirely in the dark? He had come to warn her of the state of her Scottish realm. He had come to warn her of the claims of Arran, the treachery she might expect from the Bastard, Lord James Stuart; he had come to warn her of the machinations of Elizabeth of England and her minister Cecil. There was an immediate need to appoint a new Regent. Yet she—a silly, simpering girl—seemed to know nothing of these matters. Could it be true that she gave no thought to anything but dancing prettily and writing and reading verses?