by Mary Daheim
Whipping the folds of her scarlet skirt around her, Dallas turned and all but ran back towards the Queen’s chambers. There was a small dressing room on one side, with a separate entrance which no doubt had been used over the years by the mistresses of amorous Stuart kings. If the door was unlocked, Dallas could slip inside and discover why Iain Fraser meant so much to Mary Stuart. Surely even Fraser would not be bold enough to woo the Queen of Scotland?
Surely he might, Dallas told herself grimly, and put her hand to the dressing room latch. It opened easily and she tiptoed inside. The door between the little chamber and the Queen’s room was solid oak. Dallas had to strain to catch the muffled words.
“Arran … erratic,” she heard her husband say. “Bothwell ... assassination of James Stuart and William Maitland ....”
The Queen’s silver voice carried more clearly: “If I were to be taken captive, then Arran and Bothwell would rule Scotland.”
Dallas strained to catch Fraser’s reply. “But Arran says Bothwell would betray him and thus bring down the Hamiltons.” Fraser must have turned away because the next words were totally incomprehensible.
Again, Dallas could hear the Queen without too much difficulty. “Is Arran so insane that he thinks his tale about Bothwell will make me grateful enough to marry him?”
“Yes. But I don’t believe ....” There was a pause before Fraser continued and this time Dallas could only catch an occasional phrase: “... Take Bothwell and Arran into custody .... James won’t believe Bothwell’s innocent ... you must keep James as your ally ....”
“But you are Bothwell’s friend,” Mary protested.
Dallas could not hear Fraser’s answer at all. But she did hear Mary agree that she probably needed her half-brother James more than any other ally in Scotland. And then she heard something which riveted her to the worn floorboards:
“Still, Iain, I need you almost as much as I need James—you’re the only trustworthy emissary I have to keep contact with foreign Catholic powers.”
Fraser’s laugh was muffled. “But in secret ... profitable, too, since I can ply my trade at the same ....”
Someone was in the passage, lifting the latch of the dressing room door. Dallas remained motionless, certain that whoever was about to enter was doing so for the same purpose she had slipped into the little room. As the door swung slowly open she turned quickly and pulled a dove-grey gown from a wooden peg.
James Stuart stared into the gloom at Dallas. He was of medium height, with dark hair, a luxurious beard and hooded grey eyes which concealed all but the most fleeting expression of surprise.
Dallas knew from what Fraser had told her aboard the Richezza that James was no friend to her husband. The animosity between the two men made it imperative for Dallas to prevent James from overhearing the conversation in the adjoining room. It would be calamitous for the Queen’s half-brother to learn of Fraser’s piracy; it might be even worse if he were to discover that Fraser was acting on behalf of Mary Stuart’s Catholic interests.
“My lord!” Dallas spoke too loudly and her smile was overly bright. She made a deep curtsy. “May I assist you?”
James Stuart’s countenance was bland. “I merely wished to see if I had left my cloak and gloves here before I went to the masque. I also wish to bid my royal sister goodnight and assure her that Arran is well taken care of.”
The explanation was so smooth that Dallas could almost believe it. “Let me look for your cloak, my lord. But first let me put back Her Grace’s gown.” Dallas accompanied her words with a great rustling of silk and a clatter of slippers which she managed to topple from a shelf. “Oh, fie, how clumsy I am!” She giggled, pressed her hands to her cheeks, and looked apologetically at Lord James. “I’m still new at court and so ....” Her voice trailed off in feigned embarrassment.
The hooded eyes might have been suspicious; on the other hand, they might have been merely disapproving. It was difficult to tell with Lord James. But Dallas was already busying herself with a pile of petticoats. “I shall attend Her Grace,” James announced, turning back to the door which led into the passage. “I must have left my cloak and gloves in her chamber.”
“Actually,” said Dallas, dumping the petticoats into a heap, “I believe she’s asleep. Lady Jean insisted she retire.”
But James was already out of the dressing room. Dallas followed him, aware that she was about as welcome at his heels as a flea-plagued mongrel. Without so much as a backward glance, James pounded twice on the Queen’s door. It opened immediately, catching James off-guard as he faced a vexed Jean Argyll.
“Hush, James,” Jean whispered to her half-brother. “Our poor sister is asleep. If you wish to see her, you’ll have to wait until morning.”
James frowned at Jean, glanced quickly past her, but saw nothing except a darkened chamber. “As you will,” he muttered, bestowing a brief look of displeasure on Jean and ignoring Dallas altogether. Both women watched in silence as he walked briskly down the corridor.
After he was out of sight, Jean turned to Dallas: “Don’t worry, Iain is gone, safely out of the palace.”
Dallas sighed with relief and started back to her own quarters. Flora Campbell was dozing in a chair when Dallas returned to her room. The maid jumped as her mistress entered, but got quickly to her feet and appeared as alert as ever. Dallas decided to dismiss her for the night, since she was too weary to answer questions or engage in conversation.
After Flora was gone, Dallas disrobed quickly and slipped into her nightdress. She was about to climb into the big bed when she heard a knock at her door. Damnation, Dallas thought, one of the other ladies wants to gossip into the night about Arran and the Queen. She considered ignoring the knock but finally gave in, slipped on her robe and went to the door.
Standing there with one hand leaning on the door frame was John Hamilton. By the light of her candle, Dallas saw that his riding clothes were rumpled and there was dust on the dark plaid that was flung over one shoulder.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Dallas, but may I come in for a moment?” He waited for her response but it was clear that he was in a great hurry.
“If you must, my lord,” Dallas said, stepping aside to let him in. She felt uncomfortable receiving Hamilton in her nightclothes but she had little choice.
“You are alone?” Hamilton inquired, glancing swiftly around the room. When Dallas nodded, he seemed to relax a bit. “Is it true that my brother is in the palace?”
Dallas placed the candle down on the lacquered table. “He is. He came to see the Queen. He acted ... unbalanced.”
Hamilton flicked the riding crop he was carrying against his thigh. “By heaven,” he muttered, “I should have guessed he’d make more mischief. I couldn’t find Barbara anywhere. Dallas, what happened? Where is Arran now?”
“The Queen told James to take charge of him.”
“James! He’ll not treat my brother kindly, I’ll wager that.” Hamilton moved anxiously around the room, apparently trying to determine his next move. “If Bothwell’s true intent was to undermine our family, he’s succeeded. And if my brother invented all this himself, then the result is the same.” He stood behind an armchair, his hands resting on its brocaded back. “Unlike most other courtiers, I am not an ambitious man, Dallas. But I have great pride where my family is concerned. I will not stand by and let anyone destroy the Hamiltons.”
“It’s a pity you weren’t born the eldest,” Dallas said quietly. “You would have made a much more suitable match for Her Grace.”
Hamilton eyed her speculatively. Then he moved around in front of the chair to where Dallas was standing. Without warning, he took her in his arms and kissed her lips. It was a tender, probing kiss and Dallas was too surprised to resist.
But Hamilton released her at once and shook his head. “I should either have done that a long time ago or not at all,” he said, as if to himself.
“You’re quite right, my lord,” Dallas said in a shaky voice. “I’m a m
arried woman now.”
“You went through a marriage ceremony, you mean,” Hamilton said bluntly. “But you don’t sleep with your husband.”
Dallas hoped he couldn’t see that she was flushed. John Hamilton was the first person to say aloud what many must be thinking—that her marriage was one of convenience, and something of a sham to boot. Barbara must have told him, Barbara, whose antipathy towards Dallas had seemed so puzzling. Nor did Dallas still understand unless Barbara thought her brother had been spurned for Iain Fraser.
“Whatever arrangement my husband and I have, it’s none of your business, my lord,” she said with a haughty toss of the thick brown hair. “Now if you please, I’d rather you would leave. No doubt your brother needs you.”
Hamilton had stepped closer and Dallas feared he would take her in his arms again. “And you don’t?” he asked softly.
“Not in the least,” said Iain Fraser. He was sitting in the window embrasure with one long leg draped over the casement.
“Jesu!” whispered Dallas, whirling around to see Fraser swing his other leg over the sill and drop into the room.
“I hate to break up this intimate discussion,” Fraser said lazily, standing with his thumbs hooked in his belt, “but isn’t it past our bedtime, wife?”
“Lord John is concerned for his brother,” Dallas explained in an unsteady voice. “He’d like to know what is happening.”
“So would we all,” remarked Fraser. “I’d suggest, then, that Lord John go ask James. After all, the Queen’s half-brother usually knows where each sparrow falls—and why.”
“Your husband is probably right,” Hamilton conceded. He moved uneasily towards the door, as if he were torn between getting away from Fraser and leaving Dallas alone in what he was certain could be a dangerous situation. His innate gallantry got the better of him, however, and he turned to face Fraser squarely. “I came here uninvited, and with no intention of compromising your wife. To my knowledge, she is as virtuous as she is fair.”
“You need not categorize my wife’s attributes to me,” Fraser replied quietly. “I know her much better than you do. But my patience is wearing thin. In view of the fact that your younger brother, Claud, attacked me tonight and since your presence here compromises Dallas regardless of your intentions, you may consider yourself very fortunate that I haven’t already killed you.” Fraser’s words were bland enough to match his smile, but his eyes held a menacing threat.
Hamilton’s hand had moved by reflex to his dirk but he stopped and stared back at Fraser. The two men glared at each other, in a brief but eloquent exchange of pride, anger and enmity. Dallas had the feeling that an imaginary gauntlet had been tossed down between them and that this was only the first scene of a dangerous drama.
Finally Hamilton turned on his heel and headed for the passage. He paused briefly to look over his shoulder at Dallas, as if to assure himself that she would be all right without his protection. Then he slammed the door and left them both staring after him.
Dallas decided to wrest the advantage from Fraser by attempting a frontal assault. “Will you explain how you happen to be jumping through windows in Falkland Palace at midnight?”
Fraser had sunk into the armchair where he was munching at some sweetmeats which Flora had placed in a crystal bowl. “Marchpane,” Fraser said appreciatively. “A great favorite of mine.” He put another piece in his mouth and offered the bowl to Dallas.
“Fie, I’ve no mind to sit around in the middle of the night eating sweetmeats and talking nonsense!” Dallas stood in front of him, her hands on her hips. “What in heaven’s name are you up to?”
“I was up to the windowsill before I realized you had a guest,” Fraser retorted amiably. “A guest, I might add, you ought to avoid.” Noting that she was on the verge of an explosive response, he put up a hand. “No, not just for the obvious reason. The Hamiltons are in disgrace. They will not be welcome at court for some time. Don’t get involved in their troubles.”
“And you?” she countered. “What of you and my lord Bothwell? Is he not in trouble, too?”
“Aye, and that’s why I made my unorthodox entrance just now. Bothwell did not go into the borders as I had thought he would. He remained, bold as brass, in Edinburgh. Don’t ask me why, he can be as unpredictable as April weather. But he will no doubt be arrested and so may I, as his accomplice.”
“But you haven’t done anything,” Dallas protested. Fraser put the comfit bowl aside and brushed some crumbs from his cloak.
“That would hardly matter to James Stuart. If he thought he could get the Hamiltons, Bothwell and me out of the way in one blow, he’d do it. I may still get away in time—but if I do I’ll have to stay away, perhaps for months. So whether it’s imprisonment or self-imposed exile, I won’t see you for a while. Consequently, I thought I’d better make certain you were paid up in advance. I’d hate to have a wife suing me for her allowance in addition to my other problems.” He pulled a heavy pouch from his shirt and tossed it to her. “There, that ought to keep you and your relations for a bit.”
Dallas took care not to measure the pouch’s contents this time. “Thank you,” she said petulantly.
“Your gratitude is overmuch, wife,” he grinned, getting up from the chair. “Do you realize how long it would take a High Street whore to earn that sum?”
“I don’t but I’m sure you do,” she replied tartly. “How much do trollops like Delphinia Douglas and Catherine Gordon cost you?”
The grin faded slightly from Fraser’s mouth. He shrugged. “Catherine’s family has more wealth than Croesus. As for Delphinia, she’s a lusty willing wench who makes only an occasional mercenary demand. Which reminds me,” he said, glancing out the window to make sure no guards were yet combing the grounds for him, “I must make a demand of my own.” He paused just long enough to watch Dallas’s eyes widen. “Nay, lassie, nothing of that sort—Johnny Hamilton has no doubt already drained you of passionate emotion. I had in mind something less exciting—food.”
“I’ll summon Flora,” Dallas announced without expression. The maid appeared promptly, making Dallas wonder if she had been listening at the antechamber door. Fraser requested beef, bread and whiskey. After Flora had departed on her errand, Dallas moved restlessly about the room, placing the money pouch in a drawer, adjusting the drapes which Fraser had disarranged, and fidgeting with the remaining pieces of marchpane in the crystal comfit dish. Fraser watched her with detachment, standing with his back to the small fireplace, his elbows resting on the mantelpiece.
“How,” he asked at last, “did you end up in that dressing room to foil little Lord Jamie’s eavesdropping attempt?”
Dallas dropped a prayer book she had picked up from the small lacquered table. “Fie,” she breathed, bending to retrieve it. “I was curious, I wanted to know why you had come to Falkland and ....” Dallas looked surreptitiously at Fraser, then fixed her gaze on the prayer book. “Well, I wanted to know how you had gotten hurt.”
Fraser brushed at the cut on his cheekbone. “Oh, this? Claud Hamilton and some of his cronies set upon me thinking I might know where Bothwell was. Luckily for me, they drink better than they wield a sword.” He paused, waiting for Dallas to respond, but she did not. “Well, now at least you know why the Queen wanted to speak with me privately. At least I assume you heard enough.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt and regarded her levelly.
“I did.” Dallas met his gaze then and it was impossible for her to mask the concern she felt. “Piracy is dangerous enough—but acting as a secret emissary—what happens if you are caught?”
Fraser rubbed the bridge of his nose and shifted his stance from one booted leg to the other. Before he could speak, Flora came into the room bearing a linen-covered tray. Ever discreet, she sensed that a private conversation was taking place and immediately withdrew. Fraser seated himself in a chair next to the small lacquered table and began to cut up his beef.
“Queen Mary made it very clear from the
start that she could offer me no personal or political protection,” he said matter-of-factly. “If I am discovered in either guise, as pirate or envoy, she is impotent to help me.”
He paused to let this sink in fully on Dallas. She sat down on a footstool next to Fraser’s chair and pressed her fingers against her chin. “Who knows this besides you and the Queen?”
“My crew guesses—but they are unquestionably loyal. Cummings knows—and you.” Fraser’s gaze was now almost as solemn as Lord James’s. He and Dallas stared at each other for a long, silent moment; each recognized that Dallas held his fate in her hands in ways that neither of them had ever fully fathomed until now.
Dallas stood up abruptly, smoothing the folds of her night-robe. “Well, I have no intention of betraying you, Iain. Though I wonder why the Queen must have such secret dealings in the first place.”
Fraser broke off a piece of oatmeal bread and smeared it with butter. “For purposes of military alliance against Queen Elizabeth and England, to find a suitable Catholic consort, to keep in contact with the Pope. Her reasons are sound—but unacceptable to Lord James and his Protestant adherents.”
“I see.” Dallas was quiet for a moment. She needed time to consider her husband in this new light. And husband he was, a fact which had somehow eluded her in the past hour of tension and surprise. Dallas dropped back onto the footstool and asked Fraser if he had tended to the cut on his cheek.
“I did. But,” he went on, pushing aside the now empty tray and draining the last of his whiskey, “it’s touching to know you’re concerned about my welfare.”
“Stop mocking me!” Dallas had a sudden desire to grab Fraser by the shoulders and shake him. But her husband only laughed, got up, and moved with pantherlike grace to the window where he gazed down at the man-made lake and beyond, to the ancient kingdom of Fife.
“A fine view you have,” he commented in his usual drawling, indolent voice. “You’ve done right well as a married woman. No wonder you won’t betray me.”