by Mary Daheim
In the excitement over her summons to Holyrood, it had not occurred to Dallas that she was no better equipped to be a lady-in-waiting than to be mistress of a wealthy man’s home. For the first time in her life, Dallas was discovering that she had a lot to learn—and none of it to be found in a book.
The first week of March had turned unseasonably warm. Although the casement windows in the Queen’s antechamber had been thrown open, no breeze ruffled the heavy velvet hangings. Dallas was seated at her embroidery frame with the other attendants, concentrating on a figure of Apollo who was beginning to look slightly crosseyed as her stitches grew more erratic.
The Queen was not present but her four Marys—Fleming, Beaton, Livingstone and Seton—were plying their needles along with Dallas, Barbara Hamilton and Dorothea Ruthven. Dallas felt awkward in their company, an outsider looking in.
As Dallas plucked out Apollo’s eyes and started afresh her ears were half-tuned to the continual gossip exchanged by the ladies-in-waiting.
“It’s a year of brides,” Mary Livingstone was saying as she bit off a piece of thread with her strong white teeth. “The Queen’s half-brother, Lord Johnny, will soon marry Bothwell’s sister, then her other half-brother, Robert, will no doubt take my lord Cassilis’s sister to wife. And even James Stuart may finally wed with the Earl Marischal’s daughter, Agnes Keith.”
“Agnes!” Mary Beaton made a face. “She’s sour as week-old milk, but perhaps she and James are well suited.”
“Now, now,” clucked Mary Livingstone, “the Queen dislikes criticism of Lord James. In terms of political matters, he is the most reliable of her bastard half-brothers.”
“And the most ambitious,” Mary Beaton retorted. Dallas said nothing but inwardly agreed. James Stuart had impressed her as arrogant, pompous and capable of great ruthlessness. His appearance at court functions always seemed to throw a pall over the occasion.
“Don’t forget we have two brides right here,” put in Barbara Hamilton, who was John Hamilton’s sister. Barbara was somewhat older than the others but she was still a handsome woman.
The four Marys looked up at Dallas and Dorothea Ruthven. For Tarrill’s sake, Dallas had been prepared to dislike Will Ruthven’s bride. Upon their first meeting, she had decided that the dislike was both real and mutual.
“Will and I have been married much longer than Dallas and Iain,” Dorothea said in her wispy little voice. “Tell me, Dallas, do you still feel that wonderful shortness of breath when your husband comes into the room?”
“I’ve never had asthma,” Dallas replied, giving such an abrupt pull on her thread that it broke in two.
Dorothea giggled in mock delight. “How witty you are, Dallas! It must be all those books you’ve read. Is that why you’ve never had time to learn to dance or play the virginals?”
Dallas was growing used to such snide comments. The four Marys were invariably kind, even the Queen’s rather cynical half-sister, Jean Argyll, had not been-outwardly rude, but the taunts of others made it extremely difficult for Dallas to keep her tongue in check. But she did so for the Queen’s sake, since Mary Stuart disliked contention among her courtiers; a recent quarrel between the Countess of Morton and Barbara Hamilton had sent the Queen to bed with stomach cramps.
So Dallas merely shrugged and tried to concentrate on rethreading her needle. But Dorothea wasn’t finished with her prey. “I suppose,” she went on, deftly working gold thread into Helen of Troy’s tresses, “that being a tutor’s daughter, you never had the luxury of time for life’s finer things. You seem to be struggling with your needlework, too.”
The other ladies had all paused to watch Dallas and Dorothea. After more than a month at court, Dallas felt what little patience she possessed begin to unravel like her embroidery thread. “I’ve spent the last ten years taking care of my family. My sisters and I were taught many things but none of them were intended to merely pass away idle time.”
Mary Fleming suppressed a smile; she found Dorothea Ruthven cloying. But Barbara Hamilton frowned at Dallas. “Any skill, whether it be art, music or whatever, is worth learning. Your background is no excuse for not attempting to improve yourself.”
The rebuke made Dallas bristle. “If that’s the case, would you like me to teach you how to empty a chamberpot, Lady Hamilton?”
“Lady Fleming,” Barbara corrected her. With dignity, she lowered her eyelashes. “I’ve been a widow these past three years.”
The quiet response silenced Dallas momentarily. She had forgotten that Barbara was Mary Fleming’s sister-in-law. The complexities of court relationships still baffled Dallas. But that particular maze wasn’t what vexed her now. The reason for Dorothea’s hostility was obvious. But Barbara’s attitude puzzled Dallas, since John Hamilton had always been so friendly.
But the awkward silence was broken by a knock at the door. It was David Rizzio, the young Italian court singer, who bowed his way into the room.
“Come in, Davie,” Mary Beaton said, relieved at the diversion. “We’ll teach you to stitch if you’ll teach us to sing.”
The swarthy little man with the homely face and wavy black hair grinned at the three ladies. “Alas, I could never stitch as well as you can already sing. I thought perhaps the Queen was with you. I’ve composed new songs for next week’s masque.”
Mary Livingstone informed him that the Queen was in a council meeting. “You could sing them for us,” she urged.
Rizzio shook his head in an exaggerated way. “Oh, no, no, no. She must hear them first, they are in her honor.”
Mary Beaton pressed her lips together to keep from smiling at the young man’s obvious devotion to Mary Stuart. Rizzio had arrived a short time earlier in the train of the ambassador from Savoy. He had found his niche at once in the Scots court, enthralling his noble audience with a rich bass voice and a heart-rending style. Although some said his love songs were directed only at Mary Stuart, none could doubt his genuine talent.
Teasing Rizzio out of his obvious disappointment, Mary Livingstone jabbed playfully at his midriff with her needle. “If you won’t let us hear your songs, why not go serenade Master Knox under his window in the Netherbow. He is quite the connoisseur of music, I’m told.”
But Rizzio had been in Scotland long enough to know all about Master Knox. “Signor Knox knows only solemn, ugly Protestant hymns,” he replied with disdain. “Lah, lah, loh, loh,” he intoned in a purposely off-key voice. “Dio mio! Such music is the real sin against God!”
All the ladies laughed and Rizzio joined them with his deep guffaw. They were still chuckling when the door flew open and the Earl of Arran charged into the room.
“Where’s my lute?” he demanded of Rizzio, grasping the smaller man by the front of his doublet. “You took my lute!” Arran was fairly jigging with wrath.
Rizzio was both astonished and perplexed. He tried, with some respect, to disengage himself but Arran held tight. “I did take it last night, but only to hand it to Her Grace. She still has it, I am quite sure.”
Barbara Hamilton had stood up and glided over to her brother’s side. “Becalm yourself, Jamie. Master David has done you no wrong.”
Arran let go of the doublet and stood gaping at Rizzio. Dallas had not yet seen him up close and noted that he was neither as tall nor as good-looking as his brother John. His brown hair was parted in the middle and longer than was fashionable. He wore a small moustache and a short beard and his full lower lip seemed to be in a perpetual state of pout.
“Perhaps the lute is in the Queen’s chamber,” Barbara said in a soothing voice. “Shall I look?”
Arran appeared not to hear her. He aimed a kick at Rizzio’s shins, missed, muttered, “Cur!” and bolted out of the room.
“Is he all right?” Dallas asked in wonder after Arran had banged the door shut.
“He is highly excitable,” Barbara answered calmly.
“Where is your middle brother, John, these days?” Dallas asked as Rizzio curled up on a cushion a
t her feet. “I’ve not seen him since I came to court.”
“He keeps to himself at his home in Arbroath,” Barbara replied. “He would prefer to disassociate himself from Arran’s quarrel with Bothwell.”
“Prudent,” Dallas said but thought fleetingly that court life might prove more congenial if John Hamilton were present.
Chapter 8
The great hall at Falkland Palace was festooned with as many spring flowers and as much greenery as could be found in late March. Sprigs of fresh evergreen, bunches of daffodils, bowls of crocus, and nosegays made from primroses enlivened the grey palace walls.
The Queen’s ladies looked like a spring bouquet in their identically cut but variously colored chiffon gowns. The other women glittered in court dresses trimmed with jewels, furs and exquisite laces. Even the men had burst out of their somber Scots cocoons and cut dashing figures in the glow of the thousand candles which lined the long walls.
Mary Stuart looked exceptionally lovely that night. The white gown set off her complexion and auburn hair. If she was under a strain, only those who knew her intimately could detect it in the faint shadows which appeared under her amber eyes. James Stuart was at her side, and though he was not dressed as gaudily as the others, his dark visage was set off to good advantage in a well-cut grey velvet doublet slashed with cloth-of-silver.
The masque had been a great success and the courtiers cheered Rizzio’s new compositions. Afterwards, the musicians plied their instruments while the company danced the evening away on the great hall’s shining tiles.
Dallas had been dancing with Maitland but was now chatting in a group which included Mary Fleming, Kirkcaldy of Grange, George Seton, Jean Argyll and a titian-haired woman Dallas didn’t recognize.
From behind her hand Dallas asked Jean Argyll, “Who is that?”
“Delphinia Douglas, some kin to Morton,” Jean whispered. “She’s a widow just out of mourning so doubtless you’ve not seen her at court before.”
At that moment Delphinia appeared to catch Dallas’s eye. She was very tall, with a full, blooming figure and strong facial features. “I don’t believe I’ve met the lady in red,” she announced in a husky voice to George Seton.
Seton, who was the Queen’s dancing master, introduced the two women. Dallas was polite but wondered why Delphinia looked at her in such a knowing manner. Does she, too, look down on me because I’m only a tutor’s daughter? she wondered. There was no time for further speculation, however, for the Earl of Morton had joined the group and was taking great pains to greet each of the ladies in a deliberate, if, it seemed to Dallas, unctuous, manner.
“It’s good to see you back at court, Delphinia,” he declared, his small, squinting eyes appreciatively taking in her voluptuous body. “I hear you’ve found some consolation to alleviate your bereavement.” Delphinia’s generous mouth curved into a half-smirk, half-smile, but before she could respond, Morton had glanced at Dallas. “I also take it you’ve been introduced to Mistress Fraser?”
“Indeed,” Delphinia purred, squaring her broad shoulders so that her awesome bosom strained invitingly at the fine damask of her gown. “I’d been about to tell her how sorry I was that her husband is not in attendance tonight. Pray tell us, Mistress Fraser, how is it that we so seldom see you in your bridegroom’s company?”
The exchange between Delphinia and Morton had left no doubt in Dallas’s mind as to who was consoling the obviously unaggrieved widow. Catherine Gordon, Delphinia Douglas—how many women was Fraser dallying with? Keeping her fists clenched tightly at her sides lest she submit to the impulse to grab a handful of Delphinia’s titian hair, Dallas forced herself to sound as sweet as honey mead: “I never discuss my husband’s activities with others, his business and court duties being a man’s sphere, after all. And,” she added, sweeping an insinuating look at Delphinia from under her dark lashes, “since he’s precisely what I’ve always desired in a spouse, I’d never dream of criticizing him.”
Delphinia allowed herself a husky little laugh. “How charming! Iain is a fortunate man to have such an accommodating bride. Doubtless you fulfill all his needs in the same way he does yours—assuming, of course, such needs coincide.”
An impatient grunt issued from Kirkcaldy of Grange’s throat. Renowned as a fighter, he had little time for word battles, especially where women were concerned. But neither Dallas nor Delphinia appeared to notice his displeasure. “Needs, like tastes, vary,” Dallas said in the same dulcet tone. “Take food, for example—some savor a dainty partridge—while others prefer the haunch of a big fat cow.”
Morton’s round little mouth grew even rounder as Mary Fleming put a hand to her lips to suppress her mirth. As for Delphinia, the statuesque body had gone rigid though her expression remained fixed. She had no opportunity to retaliate, however, for the Queen was signaling to her ladies that she wished to retire. Dallas excused herself, and with Mary Fleming and Jean Argyll, hurried off to join their mistress.
As the ladies chattered their way to the Queen’s chambers, Lord Johnny Stuart came hurrying after them. “Your Grace,” he called to his half-sister, “James has the Earl of Arran with him. He’s bringing him to you now.”
Mary Stuart brushed an auburn curl from her forehead. “I shall await him in my chambers,” she said, and asked that all her ladies remain until the audience was over. Once inside the chamber, she pulled off the pearl and gold tiara which suddenly seemed to weigh down her entire body.
“By Our Lady,” the Queen murmured fretfully, “I’d like to be done with this quarrel of Arran’s and Bothwell’s.” Though a fire burned low in the grate, the March winds had put a chill in the night air. Mary Stuart asked Dallas to fetch a robe, as the chiffon gown suddenly seemed inadequate.
“Thank you, Dallas,” she said with a tired smile. She was adjusting the feathered bodice when Mary Fleming admitted the Queen’s two half-brothers and the Earl of Arran. James had the earl by the arm, but when Arran saw the Queen, he broke free and flung himself at her feet.
“Mercy!” he shrieked, burying his face in the folds of her robe as a terrible fit of sobbing consumed his thin shoulders.
The Queen looked down at Arran with mingled distaste and compassion. “Why are you here at Falkland, my lord? We understood you to be at your father’s place.”
Arran lifted his head. “Ah,” he said softly, suddenly looking well pleased with himself. “My father wanted to keep me confined, but I outwitted the old fool. I tied my bedsheets together and climbed out the window. Try though he may, he cannot keep us apart, sweet wife-to-be.”
Mary Stuart tried to hide her revulsion. “You are very clever,” she soothed. “Now do get up, my lord.”
Though he struggled to his feet with some difficulty, Arran’s smile remained fixed. “Some say I would harm you—that’s vile calumny. ’Tis not I who would endanger you, ’tis Bothwell! The man’s a sorcerer!” Arran’s eyes began to roll and his spindly arms flailed at the air.
The spectacle was both frightening and embarrassing. Mary Fleming clasped her hands in a prayerful attitude, James Stuart scowled ferociously, and Dallas had a terrible desire to laugh aloud. But the Queen sat calmly, and when the pathetic earl seemed to have regained his composure, she smiled. “I think perhaps my brother should see that you get some rest. It’s been a trying day for you, my lord.” She glanced at James. “Will you take my lord to a quiet room where he can feel secure?”
James Stuart nodded and grasped Arran firmly by the shoulder. The earl started out docilely but turned at the door. “We’ll wed soon then, sweet Queen?” he whispered.
Mary Stuart stiffened but managed to keep her smile in place. “You may be assured that I’ll see to your future,” she said softly.
Arran sighed with contentment as James Stuart led him away into the darkened passage.
“Your Grace,” Jean Argyll urged, “you must retire at once. This incident has been most distressing.”
Mary Stuart sat motionless for a momen
t, her skin almost transparent. But before she could reach out to take her half-sister’s hand, Iain Fraser strode into the room and dropped down on one knee in front of the Queen. He was dressed in riding clothes and there was a deep cut under the hollow of his left cheekbone.
Dallas stiffened, her thoughts racing back to the last time she had seen him, on their wedding night. Fraser, however, did not acknowledge her presence.
“Iain!” cried Mary Stuart, giving him her hand. “How good to see you! But you are hurt—what happened?” Fraser dismissed the cut with an offhand gesture. “Nothing serious. But it may be a cause for concern to you. May I speak with you privately?”
The Queen nodded, then asked her ladies to withdraw. Dallas hesitated; was she to be sent away with the others while her husband conferred with Mary Stuart? But both the Queen and Fraser stood motionless, obviously waiting for complete privacy.
Dallas trudged after the others, aware that her husband had not given her so much as a glance. Bastard philandering pirate, she cursed under her breath as she stalked down the hall. She had not seen him in weeks, not since their wedding night, and the cur couldn’t even greet her with courtesy. But the Queen—oh, that was different! There was an obvious intimacy between them, an affection which Dallas detected in just those brief moments. Mary Stuart’s concern for the cut he had suffered, his nonchalant response, the warmth with which she welcomed him ....
Dallas paused in mid-step; the others were a few yards ahead of her in the passage and paid no heed. Iain Fraser was a pirate. Of course, he was a courtier, too. In fact, that was all he was to the rest of the world—only she and his crew knew of his other guise. It was puzzling. Fraser had no real political power or influence. He wasn’t a Hamilton or a Gordon or a Douglas or a Stuart. He was no diplomat like Maitland or soldier like Bothwell. So why was Mary Stuart so eager to seek his counsel?