The Royal Mile

by Mary Daheim

  “I scarce spoke to him more than once or twice,” Donald said, “but he seemed like a braw enough fellow.”

  Coming from Donald, that was high praise. Dallas was lying on a mound of goose-down pillows while Flora did her hair. A glass of red wine stood on a table within reach and the two Manx cats were curled up by Dallas’s feet.

  “I wish I knew what to do,” Dallas fretted as she reached for the wine glass. “I’ve spoken to Maitland, to the Queen, to Ambassador Randolph. I could see James, but it would do no good and I’ll be damned if I’ll go a-begging to that snake.”

  Donald remained silent, his big, bony hands incongruous under the ruffled cuffs. Dallas remembered to offer him wine, but he refused. “I’d write to Elizabeth herself, if I thought it would help,” Dallas went on, “but she’d probably laugh her nasty head off at my naivete.” She grimaced as Flora combed a snarl out of the thick dark hair. “Oh, I’m so frustrated, just lying here like a lump!”

  Shifting awkwardly in the too-small armchair, Donald reached down to pet one of the Manx cats which had leaped onto the carpet. “Well,” he began slowly, “if I were you, and my spouse were in prison somewhere, I know what I’d do.”

  Dallas eyed him curiously. “And what’s that, Donald?”

  He gave a slight lift of his broad shoulders, as if to indicate that the answer was so simple it almost wasn’t worth mentioning. “I’d go there,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Accompanied by Donald, Dallas set out for Edinburgh on July twenty-third. When they arrived at the house in Nairne’s Close, Dallas was distressed to discover it was shut tight. She had completely forgotten about her sisters’ proposed trip to Dunbar.

  “We’ll just have to go to my husband’s town house,” Dallas announced as she gazed fondly up at her family home.

  Donald was about to mount the cart again when Mistress Drummond appeared in the wynd. She made a great fuss over Dallas, exclaiming at the finery of her riding costume and the amount of baggage stowed into the cart.

  “Your sisters left day before yesterday,” Mistress Drummond said, “fetched by one of the McVurrich lads. Your brother, is that not so?” she asked, pointing to Donald. “Aye, I remember you. They were to go even sooner but—” and she dropped her voice in that familiar tone of a great confidence about to be bestowed. “They had a visitor, Walter Ramsay—his Fiona passed on just a week ago.” She waited for Dallas’s reaction, which came swiftly and genuinely.

  “She’d been ill for some time,” Dallas said sadly. “I’m sorry she’s gone, sorry for poor Walter.”

  Dallas endured a few more minutes of Mistress Drummond’s unfettered tongue and then made her excuses to be off. The little group reached Fraser’s town house a few minutes later, just as the sun began to slip down over the Nor’ Loch. The house looked the same, Dallas noted, but there was an air of emptiness about it. Was no one at home here either, she wondered?

  Cummings came to the door almost at once, but Dallas noticed that he had peered out warily. When he saw his master’s wife, he broke into a wide smile. “Come in, Lady Fraser! Have the baggage brought around to the side, I’ll send a servant right away.”

  Dallas, with Flora at her heels, went into the handsome entry hall. The baggage was unloaded, Flora set about readying a hot bath for Dallas, Donald took care of the horses, and Cummings ordered supper for everyone.

  At last, bathed and fed, Dallas sat with Cummings in the supper room. Naturally, the subject of Fraser’s arrest was uppermost in both their minds. “I could not believe such effrontery when I heard the news,” Cummings said, shaking his head. “Imagine, arresting an emissary of the Queen’s!”

  “But why the charge of piracy, Cummings? That upsets me greatly.” Dallas propped her feet up on a stool and wished the ashiette of pork, new potatoes and fresh peas hadn't made her feel so queasy.

  Cummings gazed at Dallas bleakly. “I guess you couldn't have heard, mistress. About Kennedy, I mean.” When Dallas said she certainly had not, Cummings went on: “A fortnight ago, more or less, some young laddies found Kennedy’s body washed up at the Nor’ Loch’s edge. He'd been tortured.”

  Dallas stared at Cummings, as understanding filtered quickly through her mind. “You think that’s how Elizabeth—knew?”

  “I’m only guessing,” Cummings sighed as he poured himself a glass of sherry. “Kennedy liked his drink, you know. He’d often go to a tavern for some libation, staying until curfew, hobnobbing with his friends. But on this particular night, he never came back. I wasn’t unduly concerned, I figured he’d drunk himself into a stupor. But when he didn’t come back the next day, I sent two servants to find him. Kennedy had been seen in The Black Sheep, drinking with two men nobody recognized. Later, when he was in his cups, he left with them. And that’s the last time he was seen alive.”

  Dallas pushed her hands through her disheveled hair. “So you think those men tortured Kennedy and forced him to admit Iain is a pirate?” She watched Cummings nod slowly. “But who hired them—the English or James Stuart?”

  “Either. Perhaps someone else.” Cummings used a napkin to blot up some drops of sherry which he’d spilled on the supper table. “But my money is on that blackguard James.”

  “What of Bothwell? Is he in Edinburgh?” Dallas poured herself a drink, for the queasiness had left her parched.

  “He came and went like a summer wind,” Cummings replied. “To France, I hear. He stayed just long enough to find out what kind of welcome he’d get at court. When he learned that James still considered him a criminal for escaping after the Arran affair, Bothwell decamped.”

  Dallas swore under her breath. “A lot of help he is!” She stood up, holding onto the supper table to steady herself. These passing spells of dizziness and nausea would certainly slow her journey to London. Should she tell Cummings of her plan? She thought not, at least not yet; better to send him a letter from Dunbar. Nor would she tell him—or her sisters—of her pregnancy lest they try to dissuade her from going at all.

  Dallas thanked Cummings for everything, bade him good-night, and walked purposefully up the stairs to the chamber where she had spent her wedding night.

  They reached Dunbar before sunset the next day. Glennie, Tarrill, Marthe and the rest of the family were all surprised to see her ride up to the cottage with Donald and Flora. While they greeted Dallas warmly, there was noticeable constraint between Donald and his father. The two men scarcely spoke to each other during the first part of supper, but Annie McVurrich finally broke the barrier by asking Donald about his life at court. Though he reverted to his taciturn manner at first, Donald opened up after Dallas remarked how well he was thought of by several of the staunchest Protestant lords; at last Oliver McVurrich chimed in with a few questions on his own.

  Dallas, however, did not speak of her own plans until after the McVurrichs had retired and she sat outside in the mild summer night with her sisters. Both women reacted with horror.

  “You can’t go to London!” Glennie exclaimed. “Even with Donald, it’s too dangerous!”

  “Nonsense,” Dallas retorted. “Women travel in England all the time. And I can imitate a London accent quite well.”

  Even as her sisters tried to stop Dallas, they knew their cause was lost. They sat outside for almost an hour, until a stiff breeze came up from the sea. Finally, Glennie got up to check on the boys, who were sleeping with the younger McVurrich lads in the stable.

  “I wish I could go with you, Dallas,” Tarrill said wistfully. “Your life seems so exciting compared to mine.”

  “Exciting? I hardly consider my husband’s imprisonment a subject of envy.”

  But Tarrill went on as if Dallas hadn’t spoken. “You once said your position at court would help Glennie and me find husbands.”

  The resentment in Tarrill’s voice made Dallas both angry and guilty. “I’ve seen to it that you and Glennie are provided for,” she replied defensively. “Tell me, Tarrill,” Dallas asked with genuine sympathy, “are yo
u so unhappy?”

  Tarrill leaned against the trunk of a sycamore tree and stared off into the summer night. “Nay, not unhappy—it’s just that I’d like to find someone to love, who would love me. I’m not sure you’d understand, Dallas, your own marriage to Iain was one of convenience, though I assume you feel something for him or else you wouldn’t be racing off to London ....”

  “Yes,” Dallas broke in abruptly, “I feel something.” She wondered if Tarrill had caught the irony of her words. “Don’t fash yourself, you’ll find a husband. Perhaps the longer you wait, the better your chances that he’ll be right for you.”

  A faint smile touched Tarril's mouth. “I hope so, Dallas. It seems as if I’ve waited a long time already.”

  Dallas turned away so that Tarrill would not see the pity in her eyes. Nor did she want her to see the love for Fraser, not now, when she might be on the verge of losing him forever.

  In the morning, Dallas’s sisters sent her on her way with admonitions to take care and the promise of frequent prayers. Donald and his father exchanged a salute which Dallas hoped might signify a reconciliation, and by eight o’clock the little party was headed for the border.

  Iain Fraser was imprisoned in the Beauchamp Tower. His quarters were cramped but not without comfort. He had a bed, a chair, a table and a view of Tower Green. The lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Reginald Stanley, had brought him books with which he passed most of his waking hours. But he was allowed no correspondence and so far he had been permitted no visitors, though Queen Mary’s ambassador, Sir James Melville, had tried to see him on several occasions.

  For a man of Fraser’s restless temperament, the month-long incarceration was nerve-wracking. The only thing that kept him from attempting to tear down the walls with his bare hands was the certainty that somehow he would get out very soon. He had little faith in lawful methods of attaining his goal, but each day he dwelled upon a variety of plans for escape. In fact, he had come to the conclusion that time was as much his ally as his enemy: If he could lull his captors into thinking he was resigned to his fate, they would eventually relax their guard. He had engaged in combat too often not to know that any opponent will ultimately make a mistake through either overconfidence or tedium.

  There was time, too, to speculate on why he had been arrested in the first place. He had overheard the news that Bothwell had been released. Had some plan been afoot all along to substitute one supporter of Mary Stuart for another? Or had James intended all along to have Fraser shut away in an English prison? Certainly that was possible. If his conjectures about James’s enmity were indeed correct, then the Queen’s half-brother would much prefer Bothwell’s presence in Scotland to Fraser’s.

  So the drowsy summer days slipped by, with Fraser absorbed in the intricacies of politics and the difficulties of escape. He thought of Dallas, of course, and wondered how she’d taken the news of his arrest. He hoped she had not done something wildly reckless, such as a head-on confrontation with James. But then she could not be certain that James was behind this particular plot. No, he decided, Dallas would rant and fret and curse, but she would not subject herself to possible danger.

  Dallas was, in fact, less than a mile from the Tower of London. It had taken over two weeks to make the journey, since she felt unwell much of the time, and there had been at least two days when she hadn’t been able to travel at all. But she had finally reached London on August twenty-fourth, where the little party put up at a recently completed inn not far from Whitehall.

  As Fraser had done before her, Dallas set about discovering where the Queen was. In the Midlands, she was told, where Elizabeth was visiting several noble families. She would not return until September.

  “Fie,” Dallas exclaimed when Donald brought her the news. “And Sir James Melville is with them.” She paced her chamber, contemplating the next move. “Cecil, too, I suppose?”

  Donald said he was, though suffering mightily from gout. Dallas could not suppress a small smile of satisfaction at this scrap of information. “Well, then, I must go directly to the Tower. I can’t spend a fortnight lolling about here.”

  Neither Donald nor Flora attempted to dissuade her. If Dallas were rebuffed in her efforts to see Fraser, they’d prefer her wrath to pent-up frustration.

  The next morning Dallas and Donald set off for the Tower. With its massive bulk and flying pennants, the grim stonework looked formidable and menacing; Dallas felt her heart turn to brick.

  When they reached the entrance at Petty Wales off Thames Street, the guards seemed more puzzled than officious. “You cannot be admitted without some sort of pass or letter,” a blond young man half a head shorter than Donald told them. “Even though your husband is here, madame, we cannot permit it.”

  “I’ve not traveled all the way from Scotland to be told I have to obtain some diddling scrap of paper before I see my own husband,” Dallas snapped. “Make way, and let me speak with the lieutenant of the Tower.”

  The guard was somewhat put off by Dallas’s aggressive manner. He was used to women who wept and begged and lamented but not to one who appeared ready and mayhap eager to use her riding crop on him. Besides, he had caught sight of the lady’s husband when he was exercising on the Tower battlements. The young guard had instantly recognized the prisoner as the type of man he wouldn’t care to cross.

  “Sir Reginald is not at his residence today. But he will return tomorrow and I’ll tell him about your visit,” the young guard said, hoping to soothe Lady Fraser’s temper.

  Dallas narrowed her eyes at the young man. “Very well. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, before eleven.” And Dallas swished away towards Thames Street, with Donald right behind her.

  Sir Reginald was a reasonable man who often wished he had never been appointed to the lieutenancy of the Tower. He and Lady Stanley had a fine house with a private garden and even a small orchard and the pay was good enough, but the responsibilities frequently overwhelmed him. Oh, most of the poor wretches imprisoned there deserved their fate and maybe worse. But now and then, the Tower received a victim whose punishment Stanley secretly questioned—such as Iain Fraser—and though Stanley, like most Englishmen, had little love for the Scots, he had grown to admire and respect the man.

  So when Sir Reginald received word that Lady Fraser was in London demanding to see her husband, he reluctantly granted her an interview. His first impression enchanted him—the big dark eyes, the rich, thick hair done up in a gold mesh net, the full, firm figure dressed in a dark red riding habit with a flurry of white lace at the throat. A charming little thing, he thought, and no doubt a fit mate for the dark, lean pirate who was imprisoned nearby in the Beauchamp Tower.

  “After all,” Dallas was saying demurely when Sir Reginald had poured her a glass of wine, “I’ve been married to Iain for almost two years, and if anyone knew he was involved in piracy, it would be me. But, sir, I find the accusation laughable!” Dallas plied her fan and fluttered her lashes.

  “Yes, well, of course, these things happen,” Sir Reginald said, noting the trim ankle below the red hem of Dallas’s skirt.

  “ 'These things’?” Dallas’s eyes grew round. “I don’t understand. You mean a mistake?”

  “Uh, well, I can’t say that, and then there’s been no trial yet,” Sir Reginald said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair as Dallas pulled off her white kid gloves. “But in truth, madame, I can’t give permission for you to see your husband until I have word from the Queen or Cecil.”

  Dallas’s eyes sparked for just an instant, but she maintained her guise of a demure young wife. “But who would know, sir? Just you and me—and Iain, of course. It would be our little secret. Oh, I do love secrets, don’t you?” She leaned forward and gave a breathy little laugh.

  Sir Reginald reminded himself that he was a hardened soldier who’d served his country bravely in France some twenty years earlier. Drawing himself up to military posture in his high-backed chair, he shook his head. “Nay, madame, as delightful as
it might be, rumors would run amok in this place before you ever got back outside. But,” he added more gently, “I’ll send a letter with your request to Master Cecil as soon as the court is back in London.”

  Dallas hesitated between resignation and fury. But the lieutenant of the Tower seemed to be a decent sort, and ultimately she might gain more by keeping to her original pose. As hateful as the prospect was, she’d have to give in. Thanking Sir Reginald effusively, she cast one last lingering look at him over the rim of her fan.

  The first russet leaves of autumn had drifted down outside the inn’s narrow windows before Dallas heard from Sir Reginald. On the twentieth of September he wrote to inform her that his request on her behalf had been refused. Fraser was allowed no visitors and that dictum included his wife. He apologized profusely and added, as if to placate her somehow, that Fraser was well and in apparent good spirits. He had not, however, told his prisoner of Dallas’s presence in the city.

  “I would not have raised his hopes unduly, since I feared his anticipation at seeing you might be dashed by Master Cecil’s decision.”

  So, Dallas thought, Sir Reginald had felt all along that her request would be denied. She gave orders to Donald and Flora that she would leave immediately for Whitehall.

  The palace had been reconstructed on the site of Cardinal Wolsey’s magnificent York Place. It was set on the river’s edge and had been a favorite residence of Elizabeth’s parents, King Henry and Anne Boleyn.

  Dallas corralled a page and announced imperiously that she wished to see Sir James Melville, the Scots ambassador. The page glanced at the other petitioners waiting in the antechamber, compared their unstylish attire with Dallas’s turquoise blue finery, and informed her that she would be next. Five minutes later, he ushered her into Melville’s chamber.