by Mary Daheim
Fraser froze on the wall. Down below, Goolsby was treading water. The splash had attracted two guards who came at the run along the Tower battlements. Goolsby might make it back up the wall before the guards got down to the bridge by the gate, but Fraser doubted it. If he waited for Goolsby, they were both lost. Instead, he shouted loudly, “Goolsby, you fool, you’ll never catch me now! You’re lucky I didn’t kill you!” As he leaped onto the wharf he saw his accomplice swimming towards the bridge, apparently ready to join the guards in pursuit.
At first, he couldn’t make out Corelli or the skiff in the darkness. But after a suspenseful moment he sighted Corelli, waving from just a few yards down the river. Fraser ran to the skiff, getting in quickly but carefully, so as not to overturn the little craft. Corelli said nothing but plied the oars expertly. They were a quarter of a mile down the Thames, moving with the current, before the Tower guards had their own boat away from the wharf. Ten minutes later they had reached Wapping Wall where horses awaited them. Miraculously, one of the mounts was Barvas, secured by Corelli earlier that day from the retainers who had waited patiently all these months for Fraser’s release. The two men joined Fraser and Corelli, and together they galloped away from London and off towards the coast.
It was almost dawn when Fraser and his companions reached the coast beyond Gravesend. A lone beacon aboard the Richezza signaled to the four men and their exhausted mounts. A longboat had pulled up along shore to take the party out to the mother ship.
Once aboard, Fraser found his crew assembled on deck. He saluted them with a warm sense of camaraderie and gratitude as they cheered his arrival. After a brief speech of thanks, Fraser gave orders for the ship to set an easterly course and then retired to the sanctuary of his cabin. MacRae, his first mate, was waiting for him. Corelli had joined them and an early breakfast was served by one of the cabin boys.
“There were times when I thought not to see this again,” Fraser declared, making a sweeping gesture to include the entire ship as well as the handsomely appointed cabin. “Now I must make a decision—whether to head for France, as Bothwell did, or go back to Scotland.”
“We’ll abide by your decision as always, captain,” MacRae said as he spread marmalade on a crust of brown bread. “But if I may venture an opinion, the men have been land-bound too long.”
Fraser chewed thoughtfully on a piece of salt pork. “True. But a few more weeks won’t kill them, should I decide to go to Edinburgh. I’m not in the same position as Bothwell, I’m not considered a criminal in Scots eyes. Lord James is another matter, but I should have no legal worries about being in Scotland.”
He paused to drink down a big swallow of Scots whiskey, the first he’d had in months. Grinning at his two crewmen, he went on: “You gentlemen also seem to forget that I’ve a bonnie wife I haven’t laid eyes—or hands—on since June and she’s probably either pined away or bought up half of Edinburgh by now.”
Corelli blinked at his captain. “But no, your wife is not in Edinburgh. She’s in London!”
Very slowly, Fraser laid down the knife he’d been using to cut off another piece of bread. He stared at Corelli for a long moment before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was hard as stone. “By God, man, I hope you’re not telling me the truth.”
“But it’s so, captain,” Corelli cried, his black eyes wide. “I thought you knew, she has been there for months!”
Fraser grasped the knife and plunged it into the tabletop. “Good Christ, I never knew! We must go back!” Corelli and MacRae exchanged quick glances. “You can’t, sir, you know that. London will be crawling with men searching for you. If you’re caught, it will certainly mean your death!” MacRae spoke fervently, his hands folded tightly together as if in supplication.
“Not only that,” Corelli went on hurriedly, “but your lady, sir—I was told yesterday while in London that she is in no condition to travel now. She has not been seen outside of Lennox House for the past month or so.”
Fraser had risen from his chair to tower over the two men. “What in Christ’s name are you talking about now? Is Dallas ill?”
There had been two or three other occasions in Corelli’s life when he had wanted to disappear magically, but they had all occurred in the heat of battle aboard ship when he was cornered by the enemy. Yet now, confronted by the fearsome rage of his captain, he wished he were anywhere but aboard the Richezza.
“She is about to have a baby,” he replied at last, his accent suddenly as thick as it had been when he first sailed with Fraser from Venice.
Fraser’s hands covered his face in anger and despair. Why had that damned fool Melville not told him? Had Sir Reginald known all along, too? He realized Dallas had probably written to him and that her letters had been intercepted. But he’d never dreamed she would come all the way to London, that she was with child, and now about to give birth alone in a strange country, with only the Lennoxes for companionship. Fraser had never gotten the opportunity to meet them or the son Mary Stuart had charged him to study as a possible consort.
But there was no point in being angry with his crewmen. As always, they had acted in his own best interests, convinced that their only goal was Fraser’s freedom. Dallas would have encumbered them severely, and the flight might even have touched off premature labor, endangering both her and the child.
But such reasonableness did not comfort Fraser in the slightest. His wife was about to give birth to his bairn and she was in danger. As soon as his escape was made known to Queen Elizabeth, there was no telling what revenge she’d seek.
“Damn all,” he breathed, looking up at MacRae and Corelli. “Turn back. I can’t leave my lassie.”
Pale dawn filtered across the Thames’s broad mouth as the Richezza dropped anchor. Fraser and six of his men would go ashore north of Tilbury as soon as the tide changed. Silently, they stood at the ship’s rail, waiting to lower the longboat. Corelli’s fingers strayed nervously to his dagger. MacRae chewed his lip and wondered if there wasn’t some final, compelling argument he might offer that would dissuade his captain from committing certain folly.
It was not words which finally changed Fraser’s mind, however. As the wan winter sun rose up behind them, their eyes were attracted by the gleam of steel. Ringed along the shore, as far as they could see, were helmeted soldiers. Fraser swore, grasped his telescope, scanned the half-mile, and swore again.
“Crafty bitch,” he snarled. “Elizabeth knew I’d probably have a ship waiting.” Swinging around, he pointed the telescope up river. Sure enough, a trim caravel was sailing past Tilbury, cannon protruding from the bulwarks. “Lift anchor!” Fraser scowled at both Corelli and MacRae, silencing the sighs of relief which had sprung into their throats.
Slowly, too slowly, it seemed to the crewmen, the Richezza’s sails unfurled and lifted under the morning breeze. A sudden explosion off the bow rocked the ship, sending several crewmen to the deck and slamming Fraser against the rail.
Righting himself, Fraser ordered his crewmen to return the fire. The English vessel was gaining on them and he had little doubt that the second volley would find its mark. Counting on the Richezza’s maneuverability, he shouted to turn the ship to starboard, and nodded his head in grim satisfaction when the cannonfire struck some one hundred yards off the port side.
Then the Richezza’s own guns opened up. The English vessel was not hit but slowed down. Now, moving with the wind, Fraser noted that his ship was pulling away. Elizabeth wasn’t foolhardy enough to risk one of her vessels being sunk in vain pursuit of an alleged pirate, Fraser reasoned. She had probably counted on a surprise attack or the possibility of the Scots ship being unarmed. Even more likely, she must have reckoned that Fraser would either not make it as far as the river or else be caught by the soldiers if he tried to return.
But as the Richezza sailed smoothly towards the mouth of the Thames and the open waters of the North Sea, Fraser received no gratification from their narrow escape. He had no choice now but to go n
orth, to Scotland, and leave Dallas to fend for herself.
The Lennoxes, however, were doing their best to help Dallas in her dangerous predicament. The news of Fraser’s flight from the Tower reached them at the breakfast table, brought in person by a distraught Melville. Dallas, along with the two Lennox boys, was also present when the ambassador rushed in.
“I don’t blame your husband, madame, for wanting to escape,” Melville declared as he refused the offer of eggs and ham, “but I fear it may go ill with you. Queen Elizabeth knows you’re here and within a very short time, she may send men after you. Is there some place you can go?”
It was one of those rare moments in Dallas’s life when she felt totally devoid of spirit. She was glad Fraser had gotten away, but if only he could have taken her with him! Did he know now that she was in London? Would he risk coming back after her? She hoped not, though suddenly she was so overcome with yearning for him that she actually felt weak.
The Countess, however, was taking matters into her own hands. “Lady Fraser can go to Chelsea. I have a former maid there who recently married a quite respectable clockmaker. They are kind and discreet.”
“And indebted to you, Mother dear, since you gave her fifty guineas as a wedding present,” Darnley smirked.
“Now, now, Henry,” his mother said in mild reproof. “It’s a smart girl who knows which side of her bread gets the butter. Yes,” she went on, turning to Dallas, “have Flora and Donald pack your things at once. You should be gone within the hour.”
The Earl of Lennox had risen from his chair. “You just sit, Dallas, and I’ll tend to that. Eat up, it’s not a long journey but it’s a miserable day.”
Dallas was grateful for his kindness but her appetite was gone. She glanced outside at the steady rain and hoped it wouldn’t turn to snow before the day was out. Melville was making his excuses to be gone. It was clear he was nervous about his presence in Lennox House. It simply would not do to have the Queen’s men find him there.
And Melville had only been gone about ten minutes when the soldiers arrived. Dallas was upstairs, making sure Flora and Donald had packed everything, when the Countess rapped frenziedly on her door. “They’re below,” she whispered as if the soldiers could hear her through the thick floors. “Quickly, get Flora and Donald out the back way with your things.”
“But I’d better go with them,” Dallas protested.
“My dear, there’s no time. Besides, they aren’t looking for a middle-aged maid and a young lad. And there’s no mistaking your condition.” The Countess chewed at her thumbnail. “Ah, I have it! Come with me!”
Dallas stumbled along as quickly as she could down the passageway to the portrait gallery. The Countess propelled her through the door and into a room Dallas had seen many times before, with its walls covered by portraits of Tudors, Douglases, Stuarts and other illustrious ancestors. Rummaging in a cupboard, the Countess extracted a painter’s smock and a large beret. “Hitch up your skirts, slip this smock on and put your hair under the beret,” she commanded Dallas. “There, that’s the easel where Master de Vroot has been working on our son’s portrait. Take these brushes and try to look as if you knew what you were doing.”
“But surely they’ll see I’m not a man, even in this huge smock!” Dallas cried.
“Not with your back turned,” the Countess replied, helping Dallas tuck her skirts and petticoats inside the smock. “They’ll see what they think they’re seeing, a rather small, rotund Dutchman hard at work.”
Both women froze as they heard the thud of footsteps in the corridor. “They’re here,” the Countess breathed, hurrying briskly to the door. “Hold on, good fellows,” she called out to the Queen’s men. “Now what is this? Have you talked to my husband?”
There were six men, attired in the Queen’s livery. Yes, they had seen the earl. He had told them Lady Fraser had escaped with her husband, had, in fact, left two days earlier. But they had their orders: Lennox House must be searched.
The Countess was still standing in the doorway. She shrugged her plump shoulders. “If you must, though I resent this intrusion very much and will certainly tell the Queen about it when next I see her.” She made an expansive gesture towards the portrait gallery. “Look where you will, but don’t disturb Master de Vroot. He’s finishing our darling son’s portrait and is extremely temperamental. You know these Dutchmen,” she added in a low, conspiratorial tone.
Two soldiers came inside the gallery, opened one or two of the cupboards, decided they were too small to hide anyone, glanced fleetingly at the alleged Master de Vroot whose back was to them and who appeared absorbed in touching up Lord Darnley’s eyebrows.
“Very well, we’ll take the bedchambers next,” one of the soldiers said. The Countess followed the men out of the room, warning them not to disturb Master Tucker either, the expert craftsman who was refinishing the molding around the fireplace in the Count’s bedroom. “He’s being paid by the hour, you see,” Dallas heard the Countess say before the door closed.
They had left not a minute too soon. Dallas suddenly felt the first spasms of labor flash across her back and into her midsection. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry and had to sit down on the floor. Holy Mother of God, she thought, has all this upset made the baby come early? The spasm having passed, she clumsily pulled herself to her feet and took off the beret. Her skirts had already tumbled back down about her ankles and she wondered how long it would take for the Countess to get rid of the soldiers.
As it turned out, they were in the house nearly an hour. They found nothing, however, except the irascible Master Tucker, who insisted they had destroyed his inspiration for the day and ought to be put on the rack. He had stormed from Lennox House in a fury, telling the Countess he would never return. “You will,” she said matter-of-factly, and went back inside to hurry the Queen’s men along.
When she went to tell Dallas that it was safe to come out, she found her writhing on the portrait gallery floor.
The baby was born late that night, delivered by the expert hands of the Countess’s own physician. A sizeable fee would keep the man quiet, should he guess that the new mother was not the kitchen maid she was purported to be. Dallas had suffered a great deal, but her child, though premature, was healthy and of good size. It was a boy, and the exhausted mother was convinced he looked exactly like his father.
“I’ve no name for him,” she lamented when the little bundle had been put at her breast. “I didn’t want to name him without consulting Iain. What shall I call him?”
“At this juncture, I’d call him Trouble,” the Countess snorted, but could not resist a smile for both mother and babe. After all, she remembered well the many infants she had borne in this same bed, though only two sons had survived. “Now, sleep, my dear, we’ll worry about getting you to Chelsea later.”
But Dallas did not sleep. After the baby had been placed in a tiny cradle the Countess had resurrected from somewhere, she laid in the bed, wondering where Fraser was and if he had gotten away safely. All she knew was that he had fled the Tower and gone down the Thames in a skiff with another man. Where was he? When would she see him again? Finally, overcome by self-pity and weariness, she dozed off into a fretful sleep.
The next night, Donald, Flora and two of the Lennox retainers helped move Dallas and the baby by litter to Chelsea. Word of their imminent arrival had been sent ahead. The Countess had not wanted to move Dallas so soon but feared the soldiers might come back. She had already taken too many risks for this worrisome if amusing Fraser chit. Oh, she was fond of Dallas in her way; in fact, her determination reminded the Countess of herself in younger years. But she simply couldn’t take more chances. When Dallas told the Countess she could never repay her, her hostess had smiled enigmatically.
“Life is strange,” the Countess had said before she closed the curtains on Dallas’s litter. “There may come a day when you can show your gratitude in a way beyond our wildest dreams.” The last glimpse Dallas had
of the Countess was of that lady’s benign smile being bestowed on her tall young son, Lord Darnley.
Within a week, the furor over Fraser’s escape died down. Elizabeth had first taken out her wrath on both Sir Reginald Stanley and Sir James Melville, but once Fraser had gotten out of the Tower and sailed down the Thames, it was fruitless to expend men and money on further pursuit.
As for Dallas, the Queen wasn’t convinced she had flown with her husband. The wench was supposed to be well gone with child, and while Elizabeth deplored being outwitted by Margaret Lennox, Fraser’s wife wasn’t worth further effort. A Queen of England had more important things to think about than a passel of crazy Scots who ought to stay on their own side of the River Tweed.
So Dallas was left in peace at the little house in Chelsea. During the next three weeks she began to regain her strength. The baby did not fare as well, however, for Dallas had no milk. A wet nurse was found, and Dallas was relieved to see the child fill out.
“As soon as he’s sturdier we’ll go home,” Dallas declared one frosty February morning as she sat rocking the child while Donald mended Gala’s saddle. The couple who had so generously taken them in were gone for the day, Alicia to market, and her husband, Tom, to his shop at the other end of the road. Though the house was cramped with their guests, both Alicia and Tom remained cheerful and complacent. They found the newcomers a diversion, and the baby thrilled Alicia, who was expecting her first child in the summer.
“The roads may not be fit for travel just yet,” Donald said to Dallas. He had been a pillar of quiet strength during the last months and they had grown closer, much like an older sister and a younger brother.