The Royal Mile

by Mary Daheim

  After the page and the maid had left, Dallas picked up a dark grey cape trimmed with seed pearls and jet. She held on to her wide-brimmed hat with the grey ostrich feather and turned to her husband. Fraser had finished his packing and was making out a list of instructions for Cummings, who would remain in Edinburgh.

  “I must go,” Dallas said, still sulking. Damn the man, he seemed more interested in his infernal list than he did in her.

  Fraser finished off one more item, then rose to put his arms around her waist. “Try not to be too angry with me, lassie,” he implored. “You’ll be busy, the time will pass quickly.”

  With the moment of departure upon them, Dallas forced herself to smile. “It’s a strange thing, that having gone so long without your love—at least without your lovemaking—that now I cannot imagine enduring the days to come without it.” She laughed wryly, as if at her own folly.

  Fraser realized that he was placing Dallas in an unfamiliar and difficult situation. “As I said, it won’t be for long. Just don’t let Johnny Hamilton try to make some well-bred effort to console you.” The grin he gave her was but a ghost of his usual mocking manner. From somewhere he felt a sense of alarm, and held her tight.

  “My hat! You’ll crush it!” But she lifted her face for his kisses and had to force herself to break from his embrace when Flora knocked once more at the door.

  “Come, my lady, they are gathering in the courtyard!”

  Dallas was at the door, adjusting her hat brim. “I love you, Iain,” she said and hurried into the passageway.

  On a hazy June morning, Fraser and his two retainers trotted through Bishopgate into London. The first thing that struck Fraser were the crowds of people. Soldiers, prentices, housewives, merchants, street vendors and children jostled each other along the narrow streets. House upon house pressed against each other and all but shut out the daylight. Once a city of open spaces, greenery and pleasant vistas, London had grown overcrowded and seemingly airless.

  Maneuvering Barvas through the congested streets was no easy task. Fraser’s patience had worn thin by the time they reached The Strand, which was wide enough to permit less encumbered travel. He had made up his mind to stay at an inn near the river where he would not feel so hemmed in.

  Turning south at Charing Cross, where a stout woman extolled the virtues of her eel pie and two prentices from rival cabinetmakers threatened each other with table legs, they rode toward the Thames. Fraser found a respectable-looking inn near the river’s edge, The Lamb and the Staff. No doubt he would be invited to stay at court once he had presented himself, but until then, the timber-fronted hostelry would do nicely.

  The innkeeper, a burly man who shaved his head, was as garrulous as he was efficient. Being a cosmopolitan fellow whose livelihood was at least partially provided by foreigners, he had none of the prejudices Fraser found in most Englishmen. While his guest dined on leg of mutton and green beans the innkeeper rattled off the latest London news.

  “The court has gone to Windsor, we’ve had plague here, you know.” The innkeeper picked his teeth thoughtfully with a splinter. “No need to worry, the disease has run its course.”

  Fraser drank deeply from his tankard of English ale. He didn’t like it as well as the Scots variety, but he was thirsty. He and the innkeeper were in a secluded inglenook as the common room began to fill up with the noon trade. “So when will the court return?” he asked.

  “Hard to say, our sovereign lady being unpredictable, as her fair sex often is, bless ’em. But I’ve heard she’ll be back soon to welcome the new Spanish ambassador. De Quadra, poor soul, Papist that he was, succumbed to the plague.”

  Frowning, Fraser silently considered this unexpected turn of events. De Quadra had been a known quantity, which was always helpful when it came to affairs of state. His replacement would have to be studied carefully before Fraser could proceed with any negotiations for a Spanish marriage.

  The innkeeper kept on talking but his guest was deep in thought. Whatever else he needed to know, he could learn at the source, the court itself. Besides, he was intrigued by the idea of meeting Elizabeth, that enigmatic, imperious redhead who considered Mary Stuart not just a political rival, but also her chief competition as a woman. Aye, he’d like very much to see Elizabeth Tudor face-to-face. He would leave for Windsor at dawn.

  As Secretary of State, William Cecil had direct access to Queen Elizabeth’s ear with no overbearing half-brother to interfere. Cecil may have been no more clever or resourceful than his Scots counterpart, William Maitland. But Cecil and Elizabeth worked as a team; Maitland and Mary had always to contend with James Stuart.

  “Who is this Highlander?” Elizabeth demanded of Cecil as they conferred in her chamber the day after Fraser’s arrival at Windsor. “He’s no Melville or Maitland with some official diplomatic capacity.”

  “He’s a special emissary, Your Grace, come to discuss certain matters of concern to your royal cousin.” Cecil spoke smoothly as he carefully adjusted the white linen collar of his severe black doublet. “He served Marie de Guise some years ago and has been at court off and on since Queen Mary’s return.”

  Elizabeth’s long, tapering fingers strayed to the tiny scars still left on her face from the previous autumn’s bout with smallpox. “Alexander Fraser’s son?”

  Cecil cleared his throat delicately. “No, madame, he’s a bastard, claiming the name of Malcolm Fraser, to whom his mother was married at the time of his birth. His sire is not known.”

  The Queen’s pale brows drew together. “So my dearest cousin would send me an emissary who might have been spawned by some wandering tinker or the local Gaberlunzie man? Is this her way of showing gratitude for the sacrifice I would make to give her Rob Dudley as a husband?” Elizabeth bristled as Cecil wondered if he were in for one of her awesome temper tantrums.

  “Since she is said to place great faith in Fraser, I can only assume she intends to do you honor. After all, her closest advisor is her bastard half-brother, James of Moray.”

  Elizabeth swung her fan at an errant fly. Discussions of legitimacy tended to make her nervous when they struck too close to home. Elizabeth could never forget that many people believed that her own parents’ marriage had never been valid, thus making her as much of a bastard as James himself.

  “God’s teeth,” she exclaimed, squashing the fly on the tabletop, “I’ll see this ignoble Highlander. Have him come to me this afternoon, in my audience chamber.”

  Fraser appeared promptly at three. He had assumed that the Queen would be alone, with Cecil perhaps, but essentially a private audience. He was not pleased to discover the Queen of England seated among a rollicking group of courtiers which included Rob Dudley.

  She did not wait upon ceremony. “Ah, Master Fraser—or is it now Baron Fraser? Come sit, we were just listening to one of Surrey’s new poems.”

  Fraser strode up to the Queen and dropped on one knee. He had rehearsed an appropriately gallant speech but quickly abandoned it in light of his surroundings. “It’s a pleasure to meet the Queen of England face-to-face,” he said quietly. “I’m delighted to know that Your Grace can find ample opportunity for self-indulgence.”

  Though his tone was courteous and the kiss he implanted on her fingertips was impeccable, the insolence of his words could not be missed. Only one man at court could speak to her in such a way and that was Rob Dudley. The other courtiers held their breath while Elizabeth and Fraser took their measure of one another.

  Even seated, she was a tall woman, Fraser noted, though probably not quite as tall as Mary Stuart. Her red hair was curled tightly about her face and her skin was a dazzling white. She was not beautiful, but her features were strong and her hazel eyes had a certain regal allure. She lacked Mary Stuart’s charm and femininity but made up for it with the sort of fascination that only a very powerful and self-confident woman can exude. She wore a gown of peach-colored brocade, too heavy for the warm June day, and every fold of the material displayed sma
ll clusters of jewels. A pearl and emerald necklace hung down her slight bosom, there were emeralds in her ears, and a net of pearls over her hair. A fan-shaped ruff stood almost as high as her head and her fingers winked with jewels. The effect was overdone, yet somehow it suited her. He thought of what Dallas had once said about a similarly overdressed lady—that she looked as if she’d taken the contents of her closet, thrown them up in the air and then run under them. Fraser was both impressed and amused.

  Angered though she was, Elizabeth could not easily dismiss Fraser’s indolently arrogant bearing nor the clear hazel eyes which seemed to take in so much. His dark blue doublet and hose with a matching short cape were well tailored if somewhat plain by English court standards. In fact, she thought wryly, Cecil would approve of such attire.

  But, she had to admit, this rude Highlander possessed a powerful animal attraction. Too dark, of course, his features too sharp for her tastes—but all the same, a formidable man.

  She decided not to rebuke him, not just yet. Elizabeth never liked doing the obvious. So while her courtiers expected a sharp reprimand or even immediate dismissal, the Queen smiled coolly. “Surrey is a fine poet, it runs in his family. Now do sit, Baron Fraser.” She nudged Rob Dudley playfully with her fan. “Rob, move over a space and make room for our Scots visitor.”

  Dudley obeyed, but not until he had given Fraser a long look of sheer malice.

  That afternoon, while the English Queen and her courtiers extolled the virtues and condemned the follies of Surrey’s poetry, two apparently unrelated occurrences took place, one far to the north in Edinburgh, the other just a few hundred yards away from the audience chamber.

  The first was the discovery of Kennedy’s body in the Nor’ Loch. He had floated ashore late that afternoon and was found by some young boys who had gone for a swim. Fraser’s serving man had been dead for several days and it was all too obvious that he had been tortured before he died.

  The second occurrence was the arrival of a letter, addressed to William Cecil. The messenger who brought it had ridden hard and long but would not be satisfied until he saw Cecil in person. The Queen’s secretary had finally allowed the messenger a brief audience. After he read the letter and had stared hard at the signature to make sure it was authentic, he folded the parchment slowly and grew very thoughtful.

  The deer drive at Ellerig would be the highlight of the summer progress. There, in the heavy woods of Glen Shira, the court would spend more than a week pursuing the magnificent creatures with bow and arrow. The Queen could hardly control her anticipation and spent many hours at practice shooting.

  Dallas wrote letters instead. She wrote to Fraser, of course, trying not to dwell too long on how miserable she was without him, and she also wrote to Tarrill and Glennie. Now that she had been with the court for well over a year, the constant moves from castle to castle and great house to great house had lost their charm. She yearned for a more stable existence and especially for the familiar wynds and closes of Edinburgh. Even when the court was in residence at Holyrood during the winter months, there was little opportunity to explore the city as she used to do.

  She missed her sisters, too, and Marthe and the boys. The failure to get husbands for Tarrill and Glennie rankled her. But when Dallas considered the men at court as possible suitors, they were already married, too highborn or of such disreputable character that she wouldn’t dream of letting them near her kin. Sighing, she sanded the letter and called to Flora.

  “It is the fourteenth, isn’t it? That’s what I put on the letter.”

  “Aye, my lady,” Flora replied, looking up from a pile of mending. “Over five weeks now.”

  “I suppose he could be back any day. He said he’d probably join the court at Ellerig.” At least he had written—twice, in fact. He mentioned little about state matters or the progress of his mission, but his letters were full of vivid details about Elizabeth and life at court. The second letter, dated July third, had arrived at Ellerig the previous morning. Fraser had said the court was moving back to London where Elizabeth would welcome the new Spanish ambassador.

  “I need a messenger, Flora,” Dallas said. “I must get this letter off to my sisters today so it reaches them before they go to visit the McVurrichs at Dunbar.”

  Flora nodded and got up. But when she opened the door, John Hamilton was just lifting his hand to knock. Flora greeted him courteously, then continued on her errand.

  Hamilton was dressed in riding clothes. “We’re off for a gallop,” he said in his usual amiable way. “Are you joining us?”

  “Nay, John, not today, I have a headache.” She smiled wanly at him, grateful for his continued kindness to her.

  Hamilton frowned and lowered his voice. “I’m worried about you, Dallas. Are you all right? Nay, I don’t mean the headache—I mean, well, otherwise?”

  Dallas had to tell someone, and Hamilton’s sympathetic gaze invited her confidence: “I think I’m going to have a child, John.”

  His handsome face turned pale under the summer tan. But he forced a wide smile and stepped forward to hug her tight. “Why, Dallas, that’s wonderful news!” He held her close for several moments, then stepped back, his hands on her shoulders. “Does your—husband know?”

  She shook her head. “ ’Tis not something I want to tell him by letter.” Somehow she looked smaller and younger to Hamilton, even more waiflike than the first time he’d met her in the bookseller’s shop. “Of course,” she went on with a spark of her usual self-assurance, “he will be back soon.”

  “Yes, he may be on his way north even now,” Hamilton said with what he hoped sounded like conviction. He would have added further words of consolation, but Flora came into the room just then, Secretary Maitland on her heels.

  “My lady,” the maid began, but Maitland smoothly stepped in front of her. He, too, was dressed for riding, in a debonair outfit of blue serge trimmed with miniver. Despite his patented aloofness, Dallas had warmed to him since he had begun courting Mary Fleming.

  But Maitland spoke before Dallas could offer a greeting. “My lady, I have distressing news.” As a reflex action, he glanced at Hamilton, remembered that the other man and Dallas were friends, and decided he could speak freely. “Your husband has been arrested by Queen Elizabeth for piracy.”

  The room seemed to move in great waves, the floor actually felt as if it were shaking under her feet, and the three other people turned into a great blur. Dallas did not feel Hamilton’s arms catch her as she fell, and the next thing she knew, she was lying on the bed with a cold cloth over her forehead and Flora was holding smelling salts under her nose.

  “Oh!” She choked and sneezed at the same time. “Get that out of here, Flora!” She put her hands over her face and lay back on the pillows. The cold cloth had fallen onto the floor and Hamilton picked it up, proffering it to Dallas. “Nay, I don’t need that, either. Maitland, tell me, why? What happened?”

  “A message arrived just a few minutes ago,” he explained, his carefully cultivated diplomat’s voice tinged with genuine sympathy. “Iain had gone to London with the rest of the court. Just as the retinue entered the city the Queen’s men arrested him and took him to the Tower. He was charged with at least fourteen individual acts of piracy against English vessels and their crews.”

  Dallas felt sick, enraged, weak, desperate and stupefied, all at once. But she forced herself to remain rational. “Why? On what grounds? I don’t understand.” At all costs, she must protect Fraser, even—maybe especially—from his own countrymen.

  Maitland shrugged. “I don’t know. Queen Mary is mightily upset. Though just after your husband’s arrest, the Earl of Bothwell was released.”

  Hamilton frowned quizzically at Maitland. “Hold on, William, this begins to sound rather strange. One Scot for another? How do you figure that?”

  “I don’t,” Maitland replied candidly. “Not yet, at least. If Bothwell returns to Scotland, mayhap he can enlighten us.”

  Sitting u
p on the bed, Dallas spoke fiercely: “If it’s ransom they want, I’ll pay it. If it’s politics, then you, Maitland, must secure his release. If it’s something even greater, then the Queen must act.”

  Maitland smoothed his trim moustache. “It’s not ransom, Dallas. And I cannot act without the Queen’s sanction, though God knows she wants Fraser returned almost as much as you do. But then she wanted Bothwell’s release, too. We must consider Elizabeth’s reasons, obscure as they may be, and—other factors.”

  Dallas knew all too well what Maitland meant: James. The Queen’s half-brother would not want Fraser back in Scotland any more than he had desired Bothwell’s return. And without James’s support, both Maitland and Mary Stuart were stymied.

  But Dallas would not openly acknowledge the powerful grip in which James held them all. She rose from the bed to face the others. “A pox on Elizabeth and such 'other factors.’ Iain will be released, I’ve no doubt of that.”

  Yet for the rest of the day her imagination dwelt on the sinister fate of prisoners condemned to the Tower, of pirates hanged in chains on the strand at Leith, and of the gallows tree in Liberton’s Wynd.

  Chapter 14

  The deer drive was a great success. Armed with bows and arrows, javelins, and even a few stout clubs, the courtiers galloped through Glen Shira in a great state of excitement. Several hundred of the local inhabitants had been commandeered to flush the animals from the woods. They chased the deer in large herds towards the royal party while the Queen watched with sparkling eyes and cries of delight.

  Dallas did not join them. It wasn’t just her horror of watching the magnificent animals killed and then skinned before her very eyes which kept her away; she had plans to devise, decisions to make. She had seen the Queen, of course, who had lamented Fraser’s arrest most deeply.

  With little hope that he would ever receive the letter, Dallas wrote to Fraser. But frustration gnawed at her. Surely there was some more positive action she could take. It was Donald McVurrich who finally helped make up her mind. He had come to visit while he was off-duty; naturally, he was sorry to hear about Fraser’s arrest.