Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Виктория Холт

  Often she reflected: I could be quite happy now if Henry were only as he used to be.

  But gradually she became aware of that other menace; the growing scandals concerning Rizzio.

  IN THE Canongate Church Lord Bothwell was being married. Outside the kirk the citizens waited to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom as they passed from there to Kinloch House, where the celebrations would take place.

  There was a look of satisfaction on the face of the Border Earl. He was pleased with this wedding of his and with the general turn of events. Here he was, after years of exile and imprisonment, rising and likely to become one of the most important men in Scotland.

  He liked his bride—Jean Gordon, sister of the Earl of Huntley—who brought him all he wanted. She was rich, of high birth and a good woman.

  At the moment she was pale and a little sullen. She was not as pleased to marry the Earl of Bothwell as he was to marry her; that in itself had provided a certain piquancy, for he was accustomed to being much sought after. Strange that the woman he should honor with his hand in marriage should be one of the few reluctant ones he had ever encountered.

  Jean was twenty, very pale, with sandy hair, large eyes and the long Gordon nose. She was proud and cold, he imagined; but that would be a change. Too many had been too warm toward him.

  When he had asked her to marry him—having previously obtained the consent of her brother and the Queen—she was cool and distant. Another woman might have been frightened, and he would have known how to deal with such fear; but Jean was too proud to show fear.

  She obviously wondered why her brother should have considered a man from the Border, and of such reputation, worthy of her. Only the well arched brows betrayed the thought, but they betrayed it completely.

  “I do not see, my lord, how such a marriage could be,” she had replied to his proposal, “since I have already been promised to Alexander Ogilvie of Boyne.”

  “Ogilvie!” Bothwell had cried. “Let that not trouble you. I will deal with Ogilvie of Boyne.”

  “Deal with him? I do not wish you to deal with him. I am telling you that he and I are betrothed.”

  “I have the consent of your family to the match,” he had told her grimly, and he had taken her proud face in his hands and given her his bold stare. It had not had its usual effect, and the faintest shadow of distaste crossed her face as he kissed her full on the lips with a laugh.

  But of course it was useless for her to protest. The marriage had been arranged. The Queen had given her consent and Jean’s brother had decided to unite his fortunes with the rising ones of Bothwell.

  Bothwell needed this marriage. Lord John Stuart, who had married Janet Hepburn, had died recently, and that marriage, from which Bothwell had hoped much since it brought him the Queen’s own brother as his brother-in-law, had availed him little. Now that the Gordons were back in favor Jean was an admirable match, and he was determined that she should be his wife.

  So they were married, for Ogilvie was not the man to stand out against the Queen’s wishes and those of such a powerful nobleman as Huntley had become. Jean’s wishes went for little, and here she was—Bothwell’s bride.

  Her hand was limp in his. Never mind, he thought. We shall soon change that.

  He felt grand and powerful, ready to achieve anything. The Queen had wished the ceremony to take place in the chapel at Holyrood, but Bothwell, declaring that he was a Protestant, had insisted that it should take place in the Canongate Kirk.

  The Queen had given way graciously. She was pleased with Bothwell; she had even forgiven him for the slander he had spoken against her, accepting his word that it had been a fabrication of the foul-minded Dandie Pringle.

  In Kinloch House the Queen was the guest of honor. The King had accompanied her, but not very graciously. He was grumbling that one of his high estate should be expected to attend celebrations at Kinloch House. It was a large house, a luxurious house, the property of a rich townsman who was a favorite at the Court; but Darnley, newly come to royalty, could not deign to approve of anything that was not entirely royal. Moreover he hated Bothwell for his manliness and for the fact that he would have made a better general than Darnley’s father. Darnley knew that had Bothwell commanded the army and acted as he wished, the rebels would now be the Queen’s captives and not enjoying their freedom in England, where they were doubtless being encouraged to make fresh plots against the Queen.

  Mary found the wedding less enjoyable than others she had attended. The bridegroom made her uneasy. She remembered clearly the first time she had seen him when she was in France, and how his appraising, almost insolent gaze had made her uncomfortable. He had not lost that habit. Now, in his doublet made of gold-colored silk with its puffed sleeves, its inlets of satin, and with narrow lace ruff about his sunburned neck, he looked more virile in his finery than he did when less splendidly clad, for the colorful, almost womanish garments, called attention to his strength and masculinity. Those powerful shoulders, those strong hands, that hard face engraved with the strains of many adventures which had not always turned out happily, that sensual mouth touched with bitterness which must have consumed him during his exile, made of Jean Gordon’s husband a complete contrast to the handsome young man whom Mary had married.

  Mary felt a qualm of conscience about Jean, who had wanted Alexander of Ogilvie. Jean had been one of her ladies of the bedchamber since Livy had gone and the Gordons had come back into favor, and Mary knew her well. She was a practical girl, and Mary assured herself that she would not allow her disappointment to warp her outlook. She was calm and would prove a steadying influence on the Borderer.

  Jean must be proud, continued Mary’s thoughts, to see Bothwell so shine in the jousts. He was undoubtedly the victor of the tournament, which was very satisfactory indeed, since he was the man of the moment on this his wedding day.

  What strength! Mary shivered slightly. There was something terrifying about the man. She wondered if the stories she had heard of him were wholly true. Was he really the ruffian he was made out to be? Was it true that he had scores of mistresses?

  He was a bold man and a wicked one; she had no doubt of that; yet compared with him, her own Henry did seem somewhat childish and ineffectual.

  THE BOTHWELL honeymoon was spent at Seton. To both it was an unsatisfactory honeymoon. Bothwell was bewildered; he could not understand his Jean. She was a Highlander; he was a Lowlander; she belonged to the most important family of the North and her father had been the Cock o’ the North. It was clear that she found his manners repulsive; he had laughed at her when she disclosed this, and determined to make no effort to mend them. He had been piqued by her attitude toward him. No woman had aroused his interest so completely before, and she was not even beautiful. Her pale face with its crown of sandy hair was serene beneath the green and gold cap, and the lacey ruff accentuated its oval contours; he found it impossible to disturb that serenity.

  She submitted unmoved to his rough lovemaking. He would have preferred her to protest; then he could have brought into action his famous Border tactics. Her calm expression seemed to say: I am married to you and I will do my duty, no matter how unpleasant that may be.

  He had even tried gentleness. Nothing moved her. And once, watching her when she was unaware of it, he imagined by the sadness in her face that she was thinking of Alexander Ogilvie.

  “Curse Alexander Ogilvie!” cried the Borderer. “If I had him here I’d slit his throat, and you would see who was the better man.”

  “The slitting of throats cannot decide who is the better man,” she had answered.

  “It can decide who is the live one,” he had retorted grimly.

  “But we were not discussing life and death.”

  She showed no emotion when she arrived at her new home of Crichton Castle. What did she think of those stark stone walls built to stand against the raider from the other side of the Border? How did it compare with the glens and fells, the rushing streams and waterfal
ls of her beautiful Highlands? She gave no sign. It was as though she shrugged her elegant Gordon shoulders and accepted Crichton as she accepted James Hepburn.

  “Well,” he roared, “do you like my castle?”

  “It is my home, so I needs must,” she replied.

  He watched her as she busied herself with the alterations she would make. She had brought several of her mother’s servants with her and she set them sweeping and cooking, cleaning and sewing. Bothwell was amused; he could see that soon he would have a model home.

  This wife of his interested him. Her frigidity was such as he had never encountered. A wifely frigidity, he presumed it to be. One would not tolerate it in a mistress. Yet it intrigued him. Here was the first woman who did not melt before his flaming personality.

  He had never been faithful to one woman for so long. He might have gone on being faithful, had he not happened to take a short cut through his wife’s sewing room one day.

  Seated on low stools were some of his wife’s sewing maids and among them was one who immediately caught his eye. She was small, her face was pale, and her hair the blackest he had ever seen, and so abundant that no amount of restraint could have kept it in order. He was aware of the girl’s brilliant eyes fixed upon him as he sauntered through the room. The older maids modestly kept their eyes on their work.

  As he passed the girl he stared at her and boldly she returned his stare. He knew then that he had been too long faithful to one woman, and it was a most unnatural condition.

  But he forgot the girl until next day when, on his way to the stables, he suddenly remembered that on the previous day he had passed through the sewing room. He went there again and saw the girl. She was like an inviting goblet of wine ready for the drinking, and he was a man who suffered from the perpetual thirst which only such wine could assuage.

  A girl like that in the house! he mused. Why, if I do not… then someone else will!

  He sent for French Paris whom he had kept in his service even though he knew the man stole from him and had been in that half-jesting, half-earnest plot to poison him.

  “Who is the girl in the sewing room?” he asked.

  “The girl, my lord? You would mean Bessie Crawford, for sure.”

  “How are you sure, man?”

  ” Tis the only girl in the sewing room that would interest your lordship. Why, I’ve laid a wager with Gabriel that you would take her before the week was out.”

  “You insolent knaves!” grinned Bothwell. “And when is this week out?”

  “Sir, it runs out this very day.”

  Bothwell slapped the man’s shoulder so hard that French Paris’s knees gave way.

  “We cannot have that,” said Bothwell.

  Paris sniggered. “Her ladyship, in turning out the rooms, my lord, has discarded furniture which she had sent down to the cellars. It well-nigh killed us. An old couch, my lord, there was among other articles. ’Tis there now… old… shabby… having been in use since before my lady’s coming, sir… but still a couch….”

  “Send the girl down to the cellar to get wine,” said the Earl.

  “Yes, my lord. And lock the door and bring the key to you?”

  “How well you follow my plans, man!”

  “My lord, there have been other times.”

  “Do it then. I’d like you to win your wager with sly Gabriel.”

  Paris went off chuckling.

  BESSIE HAD HEARD much of the Earl and she never tired of listening to stories of him. They whispered of him that no woman was safe if he fancied her.

  “Keep your eyes on your work,” said elderly Nan, who sat stitching beside her when the Earl passed through the room. “Don’t go casting them in that direction, my girl.”

  Bessie did not reply. She sat still, shivering with excitement.

  When she left the sewing room that afternoon French Paris was waiting for her.

  “You’re to go down to the cellar,” he said. “You’re to bring up a flagon of red wine.”

  “Where to?” asked Bessie.

  “To me in the kitchen.”

  Bessie went down the stone stairs to the cellar, taking the candle which Paris had thrust into her hand.

  “Watch your step,” he called after her.

  Bessie did not like the cellar very much. It was dark and damp and there were cobwebs which touched her face as she groped her way forward.

  Suddenly she heard the door shut behind her and the key turn in the lock.

  “Master Paris!” she called shrilly. “Master Paris!”

  She went up the stairs and tried the door. She was right. It had been locked. It was a silly trick, she supposed. Paris was teasing her. She looked around her. She must not be frightened. It was just a joke; she must remember that. The servants liked to play jokes on one another. Well, she would do as she had been bidden. She would get the flask of wine and then, if he had not unlocked the door by then, she would bang on it and call for help.

  She went to where the flagons were stored, and picked up one; but as she turned toward the door she saw that it was open. She laughed with relief.

  “A silly trick, Master Paris,” she said. “Don’t think to frighten me”

  But it was not Master Paris who had turned and was locking the door behind him. Bessie’s heart raced as the tall figure of the Earl came toward her.

  She dropped the flagon as she heard him laugh.

  “My… my lord …,” she stammered.

  Then she felt those strong arms seize her.

  “I … I do not understand, my lord.”

  “You cannot deceive me, Bessie,” he said. “You understand very well indeed, as you did in the sewing room, did you not?”

  “No, my lord, I—”

  “No!” he cried. “Then I shall have to make you.”

  With that he picked her up as though she herself were no heavier than the smallest flagon of wine. He put her on the couch. Then Bessie began to understand.

  THE QUEEN was humiliated beyond endurance.

  She and her husband had been entertained at the house of one of the rich burghers of the city. Darnley no longer attempted to hide from her the fact that he was a heavy drinker and, worse still, a drinker who could not carry his drink.

  He no longer bothered to disguise his true nature. She had to agree with others that he was vain, dissolute and despicable. He would pick quarrels with those who dared not stand up to him; he brawled in the streets, accosting women, demanding that his companions did likewise; he boasted of his mastery over the Queen who, he asserted, was so madly in love with him that she would deny him nothing.

  Mary watched him, and as she did so her feelings toward him were first lacerated with humiliation and then began to grow colder.

  She had begged him this evening to drink less. He had shouted at her before the company that it was no matter for her to decide what he should drink. She should remember that he was her lawful husband. He knew how to punish her, he said with a leer, if she did not treat him with due respect.

  This was more than Mary could endure.

  She bade good-bye to her host, and, in tears of humiliation and rage, left the house.

  Darnley stayed on to drink himself unconscious and be carried back to Holyroodhouse by his attendants and friends.

  She was in her apartment when one of them came to tell her that he had been brought back to the palace and put to bed.

  She nodded coldly.

  There were no more tears; she was no longer heartbroken, for she had made a strange discovery: she had ceased to care for Darnley.

  She did not understand herself. That raging passion which had swept over her had turned completely cold. It had died as suddenly as it had flared. She could not understand how she could have imagined herself in love with the dissolute youth. She began to see him in a new light. The blue eyes which she had thought so beautiful now seemed inane, the soft lips weak and foolish. She had begun to suspect that what she had so desperately needed was not Darn
ley’s love but a lover. She was beginning to know herself.

  A great sadness came to her. She had dreamed of the perfect union, and she was discovering most bitter disillusion. Darnley’s boyish naïveté was assumed; he was hideously experienced; he was full of vice; he had practiced every sort of depravity. How he must have laughed at her for falling such an easy victim to his youthful charm.

  There was one other factor—a most important one—which had caused her to decide on the measures she would take: she was pregnant.

  Perhaps her pregnancy made her less eager for his embraces; perhaps the slackening of desire had given her a chance to see him as he really was. No matter. She saw; and she had made up her mind.

  She rose and sent a page to David Rizzio with a message that she wished to see him at once. It was midnight, but he had not retired. Early hours were never kept at Holyroodhouse.

  “David,” she said, “I have something secret to tell you. I wish no one else to know it. I hate Darnley.”

  “Madam!”

  “Yes, it is true. It has suddenly come to me. I did not really love him. There had been so much talk of marriages, and they never materialized. I suppose I wanted a lover and he was there. He seemed more eligible than anyone within reach. Now I think him loathly. Oh, David, you wonder. I have been so doting, have I not? You wonder if I really mean what I say.”

  “Madam, his behavior tonight was disgraceful.”

  “His behavior every night is disgraceful. He was quite insincere before the wedding. Now we see him as he really is—an arrogant upstart, a drunkard and a lecher. Let us face the truth, David. How has he behaved toward you? Do not speak. I will tell you. He has been insufferable, although when he first came here, knowing the influence you had with me, he made himself most agreeable. That is the truth, is it not, David?”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “And you agree with me that my marriage is the biggest mistake I ever made?”

  “It was mine too, Madam. I do not forget that I urged you to this marriage.”