by Mary Daheim
Sorcha winced as she heard wood splinter outside but kept her gaze on Marie-Louise, who had insinuated herself between the King and Queen. It was clear that somehow she had helped her lover gain entrance to the palace.
The armoire shuddered but remained in place against the door. Crouched over the gaming table, King Jamie was beating the green baize cover with his fists. “He’s gone too far this time! I won’t have it!”
Sorcha sidled up to Lord Hamilton, who was bracing his not inconsiderable weight against the armoire, while Morton huffed next to him. “What does Bothwell really plan on doing, sir?” she asked in a low voice.
Hamilton’s grave countenance took on a wry expression. “I couldn’t guess. If I had to, I’d say he wishes to embarrass his royal cousin. I’m afraid,” he added with an avuncular air, “I’ve never quite understood how that laddie’s mind works.”
It seemed a fair assessment, though Sorcha wondered if John Hamilton was taking Bothwell too lightly. While the hammering noises had all but stopped, she could make out other ominous sounds in the hallway. Indeed, she thought she heard voices and footsteps coming from another part of the palace. She took a deep breath and suddenly stiffened. The air was tainted with smoke; gray wisps curled ominously from under the door.
“Your Majesty,” she called out in alarm, “I fear Lord Bothwell has set a fire in the hallway.” Sorcha moved toward the King, who regarded her as if she had lost her wits.
Lord Hamilton, however, was nodding in reluctant agreement. “Mistress Fraser is right, sire. It would appear that Bothwell intends to smoke us out.”
The smoke was growing quite thick, obscuring the far end of the room from Sorcha’s view. The Queen and the Earl of Morton were coughing. Sorcha, feeling queasy as well as choked up, put a handkerchief over her mouth. Outside, a crackling sound could be heard; the King slumped against the gaming table, his thin shoulders shaking. “May God curse the man!” he wailed into the green baize cover.
The King of Scotland’s lack of composure distressed Sorcha, who forced herself to move toward one of the open windows. Marie-Louise had already steered the Queen to the nearest casement, where Anne was taking in deep gulps of air. Sorcha leaned against the embrasure, one hand clutching the damask draperies. It was ridiculous to feel so puny, she reproached herself. The situation was precarious; the smoke was thick as a lowland fog, but it was hardly likely that any of their lives were threatened. Bothwell’s antics smacked more of a prank than of danger.
Loud voices and scuffling sounds erupted on the other side of the door. Sorcha strained her ears to catch a sound or a voice that might reveal what was happening in the hallway. Shouts and running feet, the ring of steel, the sound of blows—the melee ascended to deafening proportions. And then, astonishingly, it spiraled down into silence.
Jamie Stewart had gotten to his feet, standing unsteadily and wiping saliva from his chin. The Queen was half fainting, leaning on Marie-Louise, who was not only looking supremely smug but curiously unaffected. It suddenly occurred to Sorcha that the Frenchwoman had been through a far more frightening trial by fire than this, at Armand d’Ailly’s family home. Despite the weakness that still nagged at Sorcha, she cast a withering, scornful look at Marie-Louise, who deigned not to notice.
Someone was calling from outside the door, a frantic voice begging for entry. Recognizing one of his lieutenants, Jamie heaved a sigh of relief and commanded that the armoire be removed. Moments later, a dozen members of the household guard and twice as many staunch burghers crowded into the still-hazy gaming room. Jamie had by now assumed an air of nonchalance, thanking his loyal subjects who had rallied to their sovereign’s aid. A sheepish Maitland, who, Sorcha realized, had disappeared during the crisis, clumsily crawled out from under the gaming table.
“I must insist upon justice, sire,” Maitland said to Jamie as the troop of armed men trailed out of the room. “Clearly, Bothwell has committed high treason.”
“Oh, indeed.” James sighed, wiping his reddened eyes with a fist. “Yet,” he went on, finally remembering his husbandly duties and going to stand by the chair into which his wife had collapsed, “I should like to know who helped him gain admittance to the palace in the first place.”
“Bribery,” stated the Earl of Morton. “Palms crossed with gold. It’s as simple as that.”
“I wonder,” mused Hamilton, pouring whiskey for his monarch and the others.
Surprised by Hamilton’s perspicacity, Sorcha gratefully sat down on a petit point covered bench. Servants had already removed the battered, burned door from its hinges and were busily cleaning up the debris in the hallway.
One of the guardsmen had returned, bowing his way over the threshold and looking crestfallen. “My Lord, Bothwell has escaped, apparently the same way he entered, through the Duke of Lennox’s stables.” The man hung his head, as if he were solely responsible for Bothwell’s brazen behavior.
King Jamie’s eyes grew very round. “By the Holy Cross, the man must be found! He will be found!” Jamie whirled on Maitland. “I swear it, I’ve done with that sorcerer! He means me great harm! I’ll have everyone in the palace interrogated, tortured, if need be. See to it, Maitland!”
“We could start in this very room,” Sorcha announced with a calm she didn’t feel. Her green eyes traveled deliberately to Marie-Louise, who stood next to the King, behind the Queen’s chair. “It is no secret,” Sorcha declared in a reasonable tone, “that the Frenchwoman in our midst has been Bothwell's paramour for some time. Who would be more likely to conspire with him?”
Marie-Louise lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Ma foi.” She laughed in her throaty voice. “How the Scots love to accuse the foreigners! Do they ever make us feel welcome instead of suspect?” The question seemed to be posed to everyone, yet Sorcha knew it was directed at Queen Anne.
Indeed, Her Majesty was sitting bolt upright, squinting at Sorcha with bleary eyes. “That is so,” she remarked in careful tones. “It is difficult to be a stranger here, I think.”
Sensing a major confrontation, John Hamilton chose the role of peacemaker. “It’s been a nerve-racking night,” he intervened tactfully. “I suggest we all withdraw to rest, so that on the morrow our minds will be fresh to contemplate these problems with more clarity.”
Morton was about to voice his eager agreement, but Sorcha was on her feet. “I crave your pardon, My Lord, but I didn’t speak lightly. I must stress that if Bothwell was aided in entering Holyrood Palace, it was through the offices of his mistress.” She stood erect, her chin jutting, the green eyes level. “I trust that upon reflection, you will all see the common sense of what I say.”
Jamie, digging at one nostril with thumb and forefinger, pondered Sorcha’s words. “Women—whether French or not—do strange things for love,” he admitted, though Sorcha noticed he would look neither at his wife nor her favorite lady-in-waiting. “I should hate to think that anyone would betray our consort’s trust,” he added, not without bite.
A great guffaw of contempt erupted from Marie-Louise’s red lips. “That women do strange things for love is so true, Your Majesty!” She took two gliding steps around the Queen’s chair and pointed a long finger at Sorcha. “This trollop, for example, is my own husband’s mistress, and even now seeks to shame me to hide her harlotry!” In two more swift steps, Marie-Louise was glowering down at Sorcha. “I see through your childish game! You wish to dishonor me because you carry my lord’s bastard!” The long fingernail wagged dangerously close to Sorcha’s eyes. “Deny it, Highland whore! You, who eats like a pig, can’t bear the sight of food! You, brown as a berry, now pale as ash!” Her menacing finger dove downward toward Sorcha’s belly. “You, with your quaintly unfashionable waist, bulging like a birthing bitch! Dare you accuse me of betraying our sweet Queen?”
Only the terrible truth of Marie-Louise’s damning onslaught could force Sorcha’s surrender. She reeled—the room was far more hazy than it had been earlier—and would have toppled over h
ad not John Hamilton caught her in his arms. She knew nothing else until she awoke in her own bed, with a worried Ailis sitting by her side.
Chapter 28
The King of Scotland and a garishly feathered parrot were scrutinizing a small round dish that contained coarse yellow powder. Jamie grunted as the parrot squawked. Both looked up with startled expressions when Sorcha was announced.
Jamie jabbed at the bowl of yellow powder with his index finger. “See this? It’s a witch’s concoction, seized from that last batch of hags we roasted in North Berwick.” He gazed up at Sorcha with eyes that were as righteous as they were frightened. “Our justice consumed their earthly bodies. Those evil crones can’t harm me now, can they, Coz?”
For all his bravado, uncertainty tainted his voice. Sorcha sought to reassure him, but wished he’d first bade her sit. She had spent a sleepless night, overcome by her own terrors. Ailis had bathed her forehead with rose water, plied her with brandy, massaged the tension out of her neck and shoulders. But still Sorcha had not slept. The episode in the gaming room had undone her usually staunch nerves.
“I suspect,” said Sorcha carefully, leaning one hand on the table to support her flagging body, “those so-called witches never did Your Majesty harm when they lived. I shouldn’t worry about them now if I were you.”
Instead of relief, James evinced a scowl. “Coz, are you saying that we acted unjustly? Surely you can’t mean that after last night. First, Bothwell escaped from Edinburgh Castle; then he harasses us in our very chambers. Who else but a wizard could manage such feats?”
Risking reproach, Sorcha sat down unceremoniously in an armchair anointed by dried white streaks that looked suspiciously like parrot droppings. “Bothwell is an inventive, athletic, daring sort. He’s also calculating, despite his daredevil manner. Getting out of Edinburgh Castle was probably not nearly as dangerous for him as it would be for most men. Besides,” she went on pointedly, “I still say he had accomplices in both circumstances. Queen Anne may disagree, but I believe that Marie-Louise has been in league with Bothwell all along.” She gazed boldly at the King, though the parrot had assumed a far more defiant posture than its master.
“Yes, yes,” Jamie agreed irritably, “I—we, that is—have always given considerable weight to what you tell us. Yet Marie-Louise is so devoted to the Queen, and I—we—are so indebted to her, since often we aren’t able to be with Her Majesty due to … uh, affairs of state.” While Jamie didn’t have the grace to blush at his own subterfuge, he at least allowed Sorcha the hint of a wink. “Even now, Anne is quite inconsolable, between Bothwell’s outrageous escapade and your accusations concerning her favorite lady-in-waiting.” He rapped his knuckles on the table, making the small bowl bounce, its contents shivering like pollen in the wind. “I wish Moray were here—he’s the only other person who can soothe our Queen.”
At Moray’s name, Sorcha looked away, her thoughts diverted to Donibristle, where even now she supposed Gavin Napier was meeting with the Bonnie Earl. The Highlands remained on the verge of a blood-letting, with George Gordon’s troops still poised at the edge of MacKintosh and Grant territory. She had received two letters from Napier since he went north, the first from Gosford’s End, the other from Badenoch. In neither had his news been good.
King Jamie had risen, taking the parrot off its perch and onto his shoulder. Heedless of whether Sorcha sat or stood, he began to pace the audience chamber in his bandy-legged, graceless gait. “I have had to assure Anne that Marie-Louise will not be punished,” Jamie said, dispensing altogether with ceremony and reverting to the first person pronoun. “For her own part, Marie-Louise has forsworn Bothwell.” He heard Sorcha’s snort of disdain and whirled about; the parrot nervously flapped its wings and flew noisily over to the mantelpiece. “She gave guarantees. Don’t think me foolish, Coz—I insisted she prove her allegiance. This very day she rides north to George Gordon, with a letter of Fire and Sword to use against Bothwell.”
Sorcha gripped the edge of the table with rigid fingers. Her brain whipped into a frenzy of thought, torn between basic mistrust of Marie-Louise, her fear of George Gordon’s vaulting ambition, and most of all, what this unexpected development might mean for Gavin Napier. “Do you think George Gordon will desist in his Highland aggression to come south and pursue Bothwell? They used to be allies, you know.”
“Of course I know! I’m the King!” Disgruntled, Jamie prowled next to the mantel, pausing to pat the parrot, which flexed a claw in the King’s direction. “But George is basically loyal. More to the point, he must see Bothwell—who, after all, possesses royal blood—as a serious rival. I should guess that would mean more to him than acquiring a forest full of stags and rabbits.”
“Canny,” murmured Sorcha, offering the King a little smile. “You could be right,” she allowed, though fear still tugged at her heart. “I pray you’ve defused the situation in the north.”
“Aye, and why not? As I said, I’m the King.” He puffed out his narrow chest and smiled in that lopsided manner Sorcha found quite endearing. “Now,” he said, marching in his ungainly way toward the chair where Sorcha perched not unlike the anxious parrot on the mantel, “I must inquire, being not just your sovereign lord, but as your kin, is it true that you are with child?”
The question, posed with that unexpected candor James increasingly exhibited, caught Sorcha off guard. Her fingers slid from the table into her lap, as if protecting the babe in her womb. “Aye,” she replied softly, glancing up through her lashes at Jamie, “I am.”
“Ah.” James’s response was equally soft-spoken. “Good Christ,” he muttered, “is it all true? Is Marie-Louise’s husband truly your lover?” Before Sorcha could reply, Jamie frowned deeply and wagged a finger at her. “Wait—his name is Napier; I remember that now. But long ago, there was another, an ancient drone you sought to insert in my mother’s household. I recall hearing later, after she … she died, that this Napier was neither ancient nor a drone.” Jamie was leaning over Sorcha, his small eyes like slate. “Did you deceive me, Coz? Have you deceived us all?”
“Certainly,” Sorcha replied, her own frown a match for Jamie’s. “I had no choice.”
Sorcha’s frankness diverted Jamie’s wrath. “Good Christ,” he said again, tugging at the surcoat that hung awkwardly from his shoulders. “How could you? You’ve dishonored our name, our royal house!”
“Oh, God’s teeth,” expostulated Sorcha, “had it not been for your grandfather dishonoring my grandmother, we wouldn’t be related in the first place! Please, Sire, this is no time for homilies on virtue! Gavin Napier doesn’t know about the child yet; no one does, except my maid, Ailis. At least I didn’t think anyone else knew until that vile Marie-Louise sniffed out the truth last night.” To her horror, Sorcha had begun to cry. “I just … want to … go home,” she sobbed, covering her face with trembling hands.
Disturbed by Sorcha’s outburst, the parrot flapped from the mantel to a curved wall sconce across the room. Equally discomfited, Jamie shifted from one foot to the other, then clumsily patted Sorcha’s heaving back. “Now, now …. If you’d like to go home, why not?” Certainly Sorcha’s departure would save the embarrassment of having one of the Queen’s ladies—and a cousin to the King at that—bear a bastard child at court. “Let me think.” Jamie ruminated, chewing on a fingernail. “You can’t marry this Napier because he’s already married to Marie-Louise. Now, I know I promised you a husband years ago; mayhap all this is my fault—I didn’t keep my word.” He fretted his beard, worried his nether lip, and fussed with the sable trim of his black surcoat. “There was never anyone quite suitable, at least not someone you’d want to marry. Truly, Coz, I’d hoped to find you a noble, wealthy, braw bridegroom, a man worthy of your ….” He halted, snapping his fingers. “By our Sweet Savior! Why didn’t I think of it sooner!” Jamie beamed down at Sorcha, who was regarding him dismally through her tears. “Moray! He’s perfect! I’ll speak to Maitland at once!”
Staggering
slightly, Sorcha got to her feet. “Oh, nay, Sire, he’s but widowed a month! It would be unseemly, such haste! Nor would he wed someone who carried another’s child! Think again, I pray you!”
But the hard, chilly slate had returned to Jamie’s eyes. He wore a cunning expression, though he gazed not at Sorcha but across the room, in the direction of the parrot, which appeared to be going to sleep on the wall sconce. “Our consort grows overfond of him,” the King mused, as if to himself, or possibly the parrot. “I would see the Bonnie Earl otherwise occupied.” Abruptly, he swung back to Sorcha. “It’s a marvelous match, dear Coz, fashioned by fate. Besides, he already has children by another woman. They need a mother, just as your bairn needs a father. Think on it; you’ll see I’m right. So will your good parents.”
What her parents would think of Sorcha’s pregnant state was something she had shut out from her mind. Yet, for the moment, it would do no good to consider their explosive reactions. Sorcha knew that only one thing mattered—now that she was past the early, nauseated state of her condition, she must brave the winter weather and head for the Highlands. Never mind that Lord and Lady Fraser waited there—in the north she would find Gavin Napier and the haven of his arms.
Hastily, she wiped her eyes with one lace-trimmed cuff and straightened her shoulders. “A litter, perhaps, if you’d be so kind.”
Momentarily puzzled, Jamie pulled his right ear. “Ah? Oh, in which to seek out Moray? Well enough, though wait until I’ve conferred with Maitland.” He made a face at his chancellor’s name. “I wonder, sometimes, how well he serves me. What if Bothwell intended to kidnap him because Maitland wishes me ill?”
Drained and weary, Sorcha had no desire to discuss John Maitland’s skittish politics. She was saved from responding when the parrot suddenly opened its eyes and swooped onto the table. Before King James could stop the bird, it pecked freely from the little bowl, devouring beakfuls of yellow powder.