The Royal Mile

by Mary Daheim

His remark made her want to shake him more than ever. But though she rose from the footstool, she made no further move. How could he even think she would betray him when .... Dallas’s mental process seemed to bog down in confusion. She would lose her income, of course, that was the bond, that was her side of the bargain. How ridiculous of him to even consider her betrayal!

  But instead of bargains and betrayal, Dallas’s words surprised them both. “You left me after our wedding night. You hauled your whore right up to the front door and never bade me a by-thee-well!”

  Fraser turned from the window and stared at her with a raised eyebrow. “Ah, so you noticed. I thought you’d be too busy going over my ledgers to care.”

  “I never touched your damnable ledgers!” Dallas realized she was shrieking and put a hand over her mouth. “Well, I didn’t,” she amended in a much quieter voice.

  Fraser shrugged and came to stand in front of her. “No matter, we’ve both kept our sides of the bargain and that’s what matters, eh, lassie?” He gave her that uneven grin and one finger flicked at her chin. “Now I must be off.”

  Dallas blinked rapidly. It seemed there were so many other things she ought to tell Fraser. Surely he would want to know how she’d fared in her weeks at court, surely she should ask where he had been all this time, surely they ought to talk more about this business with Arran and Bothwell and the Hamiltons ....

  But Fraser was already at the windowsill. “Thank you, Dallas,” he said with a wave. “You acted bravely tonight. If Lord James had been successful in his eavesdropping, I might be on my way to the Tolbooth.” One last grin and he was gone.

  For a brief moment Dallas felt uncommonly pleased by his words; perhaps he was beginning to realize that she was a clever woman. But very soon the old emptiness returned and Dallas wondered why being considered clever didn’t seem as important as it had in the past.

  The Queen and James Stuart dealt swiftly with Arran and Bothwell. Both men were imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle and it was generally conceded that Arran would never be released. Bothwell, however, was a different matter. Though James urged an even stiffer penalty for the Border Earl, the Queen was adamant. Bothwell might prove too useful to keep permanently incarcerated.

  John and Claud Hamilton and their cousin Gavin were banished from court. Even Barbara left, though the Queen made her a private and affectionate farewell. Iain Fraser, however, was not found, and despite James’s urgings, Mary Stuart did not press for his detainment.

  Spring blossomed into summer. Queen Mary allowed her half-brother to assume more and more responsibility for running the government. The arrangement suited them both: James quenched his lust for power and Mary satisfied her youthful penchant for enjoying herself. The court moved from palace to palace during the summer, to Stirling, to St. Andrews, to Falkland, to Holyrood, to whichever residence provided the most attractive hunting or the best weather.

  Fraser had rejoined the court at the end of July. Since he was accepted back warmly by Mary Stuart, no one questioned his part in the Arran-Bothwell affair. Arran had been confined to St. Andrews, while Bothwell had recently escaped from Edinburgh Castle and had fled into his border sanctuary.

  On the whole, it had been a damp, dreary summer. But the last three days of July turned warm enough to dry out the long grasses on the golf course at St. Andrews. The Queen and her courtiers laid wagers whether Lord Fleming and Iain Fraser or George Seton and Johnny Stuart would win the match. Lord James, who decried golf as ungodly, sulked in the distance.

  “The Queen should play,” David Rizzio fretted to Dallas. “She is most excellent at golf.”

  Dallas was stroking two mangy Manx cats she had found in the stables. “Her side aches again. She played too much tennis yesterday.”

  Rizzio emitted one of his melodious, dramatic sighs which seemed to convey passion, sympathy and yearning all in a single breath. “Our poor sovereign lady! She needs the strength of a loyal man to help support the weight of her crown.”

  “Mayhap,” Dallas replied absently. She was examining the cats closely. They were ill fed and suffered from obvious neglect. She made up her mind to adopt them. “I should fetch some curds,” she said, more to herself than to Rizzio.

  “You are kindhearted, like our Queen,” said Rizzio, beaming at Dallas as George Seton blasted his way out of a sand trap.

  “Not really, Davie, not like Her Grace at any rate.” She gave Rizzio a warm smile. They both shared similar experiences at court, being outsiders and the objects of frequent derision. Dallas turned to watch her husband drive the ball a hundred yards or more above the long grass. She had scarcely seen him since his return to court. Like the other players, he was in his shirtsleeves; but unlike the others, and despite the heat of the day, Fraser had not yet broken a sweat.

  “Ugh,” said a husky voice behind Dallas. “What are those dreadful animals doing here?” Delphinia Douglas stood tall and magnificent in a richly embroidered gown of cream-colored silk.

  Dallas glared defiantly at Delphinia. “They’ve been abandoned, poor things. I intend to take them under my care.”

  Delphinia’s laugh was low and contemptuous. “How charming. But then I find it touching that you have those creatures on which to bestow your affection.”

  Rizzio stopped watching Johnny Stuart’s swing from behind an oak tree. He scowled at Delphinia; in the past, many of her barbs had been aimed at him.

  But Dallas didn’t rise to the bait immediately. She picked up one of the cats and watched Iain Fraser line up a short putt. “ ’Tis the last hole, I believe,” she said mildly.

  “You don’t golf, I take it?” Delphinia asked, giving Fraser a little wave as the ball dropped into the hole.

  “Nay,” Dallas answered politely. “But Davie has offered to teach me tennis.”

  Delphinia raked Rizzio with her glance. “How kind. It is always a fine thing for a man to teach a woman skills that she lacks.”

  Dallas compressed her lips tightly and turned away to watch Lord Fleming’s good-natured argument with George Seton. The courtiers were spurring the men on as the match reached its conclusion.

  “There’s an archery competition tomorrow, I understand,” Delphinia went on in her husky voice. “I don’t suppose you’ve tried that sport yet either, Mistress Fraser.” Dallas, still trying to remain calm, admitted that she hadn’t. “I enjoy it,” Delphinia asserted, catching at her tawny veil, which a sudden breeze had blown askew. “Though I have had a problem with my stance—-I must practice tomorrow.” She smiled widely and applauded lustily as Fraser and Lord Fleming were proclaimed victors. “Bravo, Iain,” she called, waving her long white hand in a victory salute.

  Fraser grinned back but approached the Queen as etiquette demanded. Dallas could no longer contain her tongue. She picked up the other cat and stood at Delphinia’s elbow. “If you’re having trouble with your stance, I suggest you spread your legs further. I understand you always score better that way, Mistress Douglas.” And with that sally, Dallas stalked off, a cat under each arm, leaving Delphinia looking aghast and Rizzio unable to control his mirth.

  The August sun glinted off the windowpanes of the little houses which clustered around the town square as Iain Fraser strolled the high street of Linlithgow. Small children tumbled with each other along the side of the dusty road and Fraser paused to retrieve a ball which a chubby red-haired boy of about five had tossed into a horse trough. Fraser lobbed it back to the child, who seemed fascinated by the tall, dark man with the deep suntan and the hint of the sea around his eyes.

  Fraser was feeling exceptionally well this morning. His self-imposed exile had proved most profitable. Two Flemish barks, an English caravel, and several other lesser foreign vessels had yielded sufficient booty to keep him and his crew affluent for the next few months. In addition, he had visited with King Philip of Spain at Cadiz. It had not been a prearranged interview; the Richezza had needed some minor repairs after the encounter with the English caravel. Cadiz had been
the nearest port, and flying the flag of Scotland, Fraser had sought refuge there. As the King happened to be staying in the city while on pilgrimage, Fraser deemed it politic to present himself to the austere Spanish monarch. Naturally, Mary Stuart’s future had been discussed along with the possibility of marriage with Philip’s son, Don Carlos. Fraser was not impressed by the tales he had heard of the young man. Indeed, he sounded as unstable as Arran. But it would do no harm to play with the possibility, and such marital maneuverings kept other royal powers guessing, especially Elizabeth.

  But as Fraser continued on his way back to Linlithgow Palace, he felt the first faint hint of apprehension disturbing his sense of well-being. He had been in danger too often both on land and sea not to know when trouble was a-brewing. He moved along purposefully, the only change in his manner being the proximity of his right hand to his dirk. Ahead of him was a small inn, the King’s Corbie. He decided to test the daring of his pursuer and stepped inside.

  The common room was filled with the smells of dry rushes and frying meat. Two men lounged in a corner, drinking from heavy tankards. A serving wench came through a side door, a basket of eggs over one arm. She set the basket down on a table and walked with a deliberately swaying motion towards Fraser.

  “I’ll have four of those,” he said, indicating the eggs. “And some bread and ale.”

  She dimpled at him and curtsied, low enough to reveal the deep cleft between her full breasts. Fraser absent-mindedly patted her generous bottom as she turned towards the kitchen. He waited with his legs stretched out on the wooden bench, his eyes on the door. At least five minutes went by before he was rewarded by the entrance of a small, wiry man in a canvas jerkin and mismatched riding boots. The little man looked wary but determined. He high-footed it over to Fraser, who was stroking his hawklike nose and eyeing the new arrival speculatively.

  “Let’s see—you began following me just after I passed the horse trough, correct?” Fraser asked.

  The little man’s mouth opened wide to reveal several gaps in his teeth. “Canny,” he said with an appreciative grin. Then he leaned down and whispered into Fraser’s ear. “My lord James Stuart wishes to see you, sir, at once. He’s at an inn down the road, The Sword and Shieling.”

  “A pity I’m headed in the other direction.” Fraser looked indolent but his right hand was never far from his dirk. He’d be damned if he’d go traipsing off to The Sword and Shieling and fall into James’s neat little trap. “Why don’t you ask Lord James to join me for breakfast? The eggs here were collected just minutes ago.”

  “He said you must meet him at the other inn,” the man repeated doggedly. “Right away. It’s urgent.”

  “All things are urgent with James.” Fraser looked up as the serving wench, her breasts jiggling provocatively, came towards him with the platter of eggs, bread and a tall tankard of ale. She bestowed another dimpled smile on him and brushed his arm with her thigh. Fraser reached out to caress one of her breasts, winked, and then set about eating his breakfast.

  “Lord James is not a patient man,” the messenger warned. He waited for a response but Fraser was stuffing half an egg into his mouth.

  “Salt!” he called out and the serving wench hurried back to the table. After she had gone and the eggs were seasoned to Fraser’s taste, he turned back to the little man. “On the contrary, Lord James is infinitely patient. That’s part of his game, to wait and wait and eventually outlast his opponents. However,” he added, quickly turning on the bench to grasp the messenger by the jerkin, “I am not patient at all. Have you no manners? I’m eating!” With one hand, he shoved the man away, sending him sprawling onto the rushes. The two men in the corner looked up from their ale with mild interest. The serving wench’s mouth formed a small little circle of admiration. But the messenger stared venomously at Fraser, got to his feet, and stalked from the inn. Fraser turned back to his breakfast and speared another egg.

  An hour later, when Fraser returned to his quarters at the palace, he was surprised to find James Stuart waiting for him. Lord James sat at a small escritoire, the hooded eyes regarding Fraser with unconcealed animosity.

  “So you declined my invitation,” James said by way of greeting. “That was most thoughtless, sir, in fact downright impertinent.” Fraser did not reply immediately. “Well?” James demanded. “Have you lost your usual glibness?”

  “I’m so overwhelmed by your visit that I can’t think of an appropriate comment. I considered 'Get out,’ but it sounded so boorish.”

  James, who was well known for his self-control, bristled in spite of himself. “You go too far, Iain. I should have you arrested this very moment.”

  “On what grounds, James? Or do you need any since you hold the reins of Scotland so firmly in your hands these days?” Fraser’s tone was hard as flint, but a smile played at his mouth.

  “In your case, I could find ample grounds. I’m not convinced you had no part in Bothwell’s escape. And now you meddle in foreign affairs!” He had raised his voice and had to check himself to keep from pounding his fist on the escritoire.

  Fraser was somewhat taken aback. But of course the Queen would have told her half-brother about King Philip’s offer of Don Carlos as a possible bridegroom. If the two countries were about to enter negotiations, then James would have to be informed. No doubt the Queen had somehow made Fraser’s reasons for being in Cadiz sound quite innocuous. She could no more afford to betray his role to James than he himself could.

  “I’d hardly call it meddling to deliver a message from the King of Spain to the Queen of Scots,” Fraser declared. “Come, come, James, what would you have done in my position?”

  “What I’d like to know is how you got in that position in the first place,” James growled. The heavy dark brows came together in the familiar frown. “I don’t like it, taking such matters into your own hands. You’re not on the council, you have no official position at court, you possess no title. In fact,” James added slowly, “you don’t even know who your father was.”

  “Oh?” The dark wedge of eyebrow lifted. “Do I not? How can you be so sure, Jamie?”

  The room grew ominously quiet. James’s eyes were wide open, staring at Fraser with an incredulity that was tinged by fear. “You were never able to learn anything, I’ve heard tales of how you tried, even back when we were both at the university.”

  Fraser shrugged. “I didn’t—then. But that was over ten years ago. I know now.”

  “I don’t believe you.” James’s tone was brusque, one hand cut at the air as if in dismissal of such an obvious falsehood. “It could have been anyone, a tinker, a shepherd, one of your father’s own clansmen.”

  “But it wasn’t.” Fraser moved slowly to the escritoire and drew himself up to his full height, towering over James. “My mother was no less discriminating than your own, Jamie. Though yours was inclined to make her indiscretions public.”

  James’s grey eyes held a chilling, icy light—and then the heavy lids shrouded any further expression. “You talk. You pretend, perhaps. It makes no matter—you have no proof.”

  Fraser did not answer. He just stared at James for a long moment and knew without the slightest doubt that Daniel Cameron had been right.

  “So,” James finally said to break the silence, “it makes no difference what you think you know.” He picked up his serge bonnet and clapped it on his head. “You are still a bastard, Iain Fraser.”

  Fraser stood with his arms folded across his chest, making no motion to open the door for Lord James. “Aye,” he said lazily, “and so are you, Jamie. So are you.”

  The Earl of Bothwell had sent for Iain Fraser, who set out the following dawn for the Border country. It would mean a full day’s ride to Hermitage Castle, but Fraser knew Bothwell would not have sent for him unless there was an urgent reason.

  The court was due to leave Linlithgow the following day, August eleventh. Fraser had planned to travel with the Queen’s party but now he would have to catch up with t
he royal entourage somewhere along the way, at Stirling, perhaps, or Perth.

  It was close to midnight when Fraser sighted Hermitage. The structure stood on a little slope above a small copse and a rolling burn. It was an ancient castle, around whose walls many a battle had been waged. Fraser appreciated its strength and position as he noted that light shone from two slits in the stone. The earl must still be awake, he thought as he dismounted and led Barvas up the hill to the moat.

  Six of Bothwell’s moss-troopers appeared virtually from nowhere, their pikes gleaming in the moonlight. Fraser identified himself and after a brief discussion among themselves, the retainers ordered the drawbridge let down.

  Fraser found Bothwell sprawled by the fire in the dining hall, an empty wine cup in his hand. “You made good time, Iain,” the Border Earl said.

  “I assumed you had ample cause to summon me here,” Fraser responded, settling himself onto a deerskin rug near Bothwell. “I haven’t eaten since late this afternoon. Is there anything left in your larder this time of night?”

  Bothwell banged the wine cup on the hearth and two serving men came running. Fraser asked for meat and cheese and bread, with ale to wash it down. Then he pulled off his boots, peeled away his cloak and stretched himself. “Well? What’s afoot?”

  “How’s your wife?” Bothwell poured himself another cup of wine from a leather jug. He wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t quite sober, either. When Fraser didn’t reply, Bothwell chuckled. “All right, all right,” he sighed, propping himself up on one elbow. “I’m off to France. I want you to go with me.”

  “Christ,” muttered Fraser. “Why should I want to sit around kissing the French King’s arse for the next few months? I’m not about to be put to the horn.” He kicked at a bone Bothwell’s hounds had left on the hearth and one of the dogs let out a low rumbling noise in his throat.

  “I can’t stay here forever, like some secluded monk,” Bothwell declared. “James will get to me somehow, even if he has to bribe one of my servants into putting something unsavory into this.” He brandished his wine cup, slopping some of the contents onto his shirt. “And then James will go for you next. This progress is no ordinary sojourn. The Queen aims for a showdown with the Gordons. If you go north, you’ll regret it.”