by Mary Daheim
“I knew it! I knew it!” Dallas stamped her feet, picked up one of the slippers and hurled it at Fraser. “You’ll leave us—I think you were just looking for an excuse!”
The calm which Fraser had started to recover fled quickly. “By God, Dallas, you know that’s not so!” He grabbed her by the hair and swung her around to face him. “I never make excuses, I do what I want and nobody, not wife, not child, not Queen, not the Pope himself, could ever put me in that position!”
“You arrogant churl,” Dallas shrieked, “let go of me, you’re pulling my hair!” She swung wildly, catching him on the shoulder. Fraser grasped her arm and twisted it behind her as Dallas brought her knee up into his groin. He winced, put pressure on her arm until she gasped with pain, and shoved her halfway across the room where she thudded against the bed.
“You just don’t learn, do you, Dallas?” Fraser breathed as she reached for a book from the nightstand. Before she could aim it properly, he was beside her, clipping her wrist with the side of his hand. He pulled her down onto the floor, in a tumble of legs, skirts, petticoats and leather boots.
Dallas squirmed on the carpet, her hands pushing against his face. Fraser snatched her arms away, holding her wrists above her head with one hand. Infuriated by him and her helplessness, she bit hard into his shoulder; Fraser’s free hand lashed out to strike her cheek.
“Swine!” Dallas gasped in pain. “I’ll pay you back for that!” She arched her back, trying to free herself but his knees pinned her hips to the floor.
The hand he’d hit her with moved down to hold her chin in an immobilizing grip. “Say you love me,” he commanded fiercely. “If we quarrel, we quarrel out of love, not malice.”
“You struck me!” she wailed. “That makes twice!” Fraser had still not released her wrists, but he let go of her chin, his hand moving down to her breasts. None too gently, he pressed through the material of her gown, feeling her nipples grow hard at his touch. “The first time I hit you didn’t count. You were trying to commit mayhem, as you may recall. This time you bit me. You know full well I wouldn’t hurt you unless I was sorely provoked.”
Dallas had moved up against him so that her thigh pressed between his legs. “I won’t endure being hit,” she said half-angry, half-tantalizing.
“You haven’t answered my question,” he reminded her, giving her wrists a little twist. “Do you love me?”
She closed her eyes and went limp under the pressure of his body. “Oh, fie, Iain, I love you more than life! Now either get up or make love to me. You’ve made a shambles of my gown.”
The mocking grin spread across his face. “At least you’ve given me a simple choice. Assuming, of course, that your knee hasn’t permanently emasculated me.”
“It would take more than my knee to do that,” Dallas retorted. He had gotten up and she had rolled over onto her stomach to let him undo her gown. “Oh, Iain, if you must leave, can’t I come with you?”
“Not to sea, which is always the best place for me when I must get away,” he replied as she wriggled free of her clothes. “If I must go, I might as well make it a profitable absence. James can sulk at Wemyss, but I prefer to be more active.”
“I never thought I’d see you side with James over anything,” Dallas said, rubbing her sore arm. She was still on the floor, naked, waiting somewhat impatiently for Fraser to finish taking off his own garments.
“Nor I,” he answered, slipping down beside her. “I can’t think of a less likely accomplice than that conniving whoreson.” He placed his hands between her thighs and put his head down against the warmth of her stomach. “I think I like fighting with you, lassie. You have the quaintest way of making a man forget whether he won or lost.”
Chapter 22
Fraser had been gone for three days when Dallas returned to court. She had wondered if the ban on her husband applied to her as well but had been assured by Tarrill that it did not. “You’ve always supported Lord Darnley,” Tarrill had pointed out, “and the Queen is not angry with you.”
The reminder of her opposition to her husband’s feelings irked Dallas, but she had not admitted it to her sister. Though she was not anxious to resume her place at court, she hoped to soften the Queen’s attitude toward Fraser. Mary had always been fond of him, Dallas reasoned, and if the Queen’s giddy state changed soon, Fraser’s candor might be excused.
Magnus remained at the town house in the care of a husky, affable middle-aged woman named Ellen MacRobie, a widow who was kin to Mistress Drummond. She’d raised six children of her own, and while good-natured, indicated that her charge could push her only so far and no further. She appeared to have no desire to exercise authority outside the nursery, which would eliminate any possible friction with Flora.
On a rainy afternoon in late June, Dallas disinterestedly watched a billiards match at Holyrood between the Queen, Darnley, Lord Randolph and Mary Beaton. Dallas had joined Tarrill, Rizzio, Mary Fleming and Lord Erskine, but drifted away from them when the old Duke of Chatelherault entered the room. She had not seen him for some time and could not refrain from inquiring about his son’s welfare.
Chatelherault knew of the scandal involving his favorite son, Johnny, and Lady Fraser. He knew that John had almost been killed over this dark-haired, voluptuous little chit, but in spite of that, he had a soft spot in his heart for her. Indeed, he’d never met a mistress of John’s that he hadn’t liked, and this one must have been special if his son had wanted to marry her.
But Hamilton had lost her and now had exiled himself to Italy, a state of affairs which Chatelherault lamented. His eldest son, Arran, was still imprisoned at St. Andrews, and his youngest, Claud, was constantly involved in petty intrigues.
And now here was the wench responsible for John’s long absence from Scotland, asking how he was getting on and looking as if she actually cared. “He enjoys the climate, the change of customs, most of the food,” the old Duke replied, kindly enough. He would like to have added that Hamilton had taken a Roman marchesa as his mistress, but decided to spare Dallas that piece of news. “He was going north this summer, to the Italian lakes to fish and hunt.”
“I’m glad he’s faring well,” Dallas replied with sincerity.
Chatelherault nodded as Darnley expertly sent a half-dozen balls ricocheting into the side pockets. The Queen squeezed his arm and praised his play. Darnley seemed to inflate with pride, glancing at the others to make sure they offered their own plaudits.
“While I don’t like Johnny being away,” the Duke said in a low voice, “there are times when I’m glad he’s not here to see all this. The Darnley pup would surely turn his stomach.”
Dallas was surprised at how freely Chatelherault spoke to her. But of course he’d heard that Fraser had quarreled with the Queen over Darnley. And everyone at court knew that Darnley had actually cuffed the old Duke and called him a fool.
“I hear the Queen has applied to Rome for a dispensation so they can be wed,” Dallas commented, trying to steer the conversation onto more neutral ground. “Being cousins, they need the Pope’s permission.”
Chatelherault snorted. “She’ll not tarry for Pope nor any man, save that puling laddie. Now that her French blood’s running full spate, Her Grace won’t wait much longer to have him in her bed.” His weary eyes looked down at Dallas as he compared the Queen’s impetuosity with the procrastination of his middle son. If Johnny had acted more impulsively, if he’d married the pert little Cameron before Fraser stole her away, maybe it would have been a good thing after all ....
Chatelherault’s prediction about Mary Stuart was on the mark. The Queen did not wait for the dispensation but married Henry Darnley on Sunday, July twenty-ninth. Garbed in black to symbolize her widow’s status, Mary Stuart was escorted to the Chapel Royal at Holyrood by her future father-in-law, the Earl of Lennox.
Dallas and Tarrill knelt together in the second pew as Darnley entered to join his bride. He appeared jaunty and actually giggled when he had diffic
ulty placing one of the three rings on Mary’s finger. When the marriage service was concluded, he kissed his new wife rather breezily and left the chapel. Though he had agreed to be wed according to Catholic rites, he’d have no part of the mass which followed. Mary remained with her ladies, her face transfigured during the holy sacrifice.
“I’ll wager her mind isn’t on her prayers,” Dallas whispered with a nudge in her sister’s ribs.
“Pray that she’ll be happy,” Tarrill whispered back.
Dallas nodded half-heartedly and tried to direct her attention to the altar. It was scarcely six o’clock in the morning and she resented rising so early, even for a royal wedding. Wearing her heavy gown of brocade and suffering from the early heat haze which penetrated even the stone walls of the chapel, Dallas was feeling dizzy. She was almost certain she was pregnant again.
Somehow she endured, sufficiently recovered to help the other ladies undress the Queen and array her in the most sumptuous of gowns to indicate her step towards a happier life. Threads of gold shimmered against creamy satin, a diamond tiara nestled in the auburn hair and a fabulous assortment of jewels sparkled at throat and wrists. Mary Stuart entered into her nuptial festivities like a goddess sailing the high tide of heaven.
The following day, Mary announced that henceforth her husband would be known as. King of Scotland. When the proclamation was nailed up on the Mercat Cross, only one voice shouted, “God save His Grace!”
It was the Earl of Lennox.
Dallas lay on a divan in the rooms she shared with Tarrill and fervently wished the waves of nausea would pass. She was two and a half months gone with child, and just as miserable as she had been with Magnus. Just as alone, too, she told herself savagely, cursing her husband for the hundredth time.
“I’d consider it most thoughtful of Iain if he could stay around long enough to help me get through bearing his babes,” Dallas grumbled.
Tarrill giggled. “Well, at least he stayed around long enough so that you can have them in the first place.”
“That’s not funny,” Dallas snapped. “Why don’t you go teach Donald to spell ‘consideration’ or some such helpful word a man ought to know?”
“Donald is doing very well,” Tarrill replied. “He seems slow, but it’s not because he’s stupid, he’s just careful.”
Dallas eyed her sister speculatively. “Oh? Well, I never thought he was stupid. Tarrill, fetch me some aqua vitae, I’m perishing of thirst.”
Tarrill was pouring the liquid into a crystal tumbler when the door flew open. Darnley swayed into the room, obviously drunk. “Where’s m’wife?” he demanded, looking fuzzily at the two women.
“Her Grace is next door in her chambers,” Tarrill responded, aghast at the consort’s condition so early in the day. Rumors of Darnley’s drinking habits had abounded in recent weeks, but neither Dallas nor Tarrill had actually seen him intoxicated.
“Pah,” he expostulated, “m’wife must be here, ’tis her room, is it not?” He looked about, apparently trying to convince himself he couldn’t possibly be mistaken.
With effort, Dallas got up to face Darnley. “Nay, Your Grace, you came to the wrong door. My sister and I have the chamber adjoining the Queen’s.”
Darnley’s eyes focused on Dallas. “Wait—I know you now, you’re Lady Fraser, the one who almost caused my parents to be arrested. My mother is in the Tower now, is that your doing?”
Dallas tried to conceal her contempt and annoyance. “Certainly not. Queen Elizabeth was displeased with your marriage plans. When you refused to return to England, she arrested your mother.”
“Elizabeth!” He literally spat out the name. “Cunning bitch! Who cares if she didn’t want me to wed Mary!” He laughed and hiccuped at the same time, then his eyes narrowed. “But Elizabeth isn’t the only one who disapproved. Your husband didn’t want me to marry the Queen either, is that not so? Eh?” He jerked a long arm in the air where it dangled while he awaited Dallas’s reply.
“I let my husband speak for himself,” Dallas said crisply.
The arm flopped to Darnley’s side. “Arrogant bastard,” he mumbled. “He liked to tell m’wife what to do, she used to listen—but,” he added maliciously, “not anymore! Now she listens t’me.”
“I’m sure she does,” Tarrill said with a forced smile. She had moved next to Dallas, standing protectively by her pale sister. “Perhaps you’d best go to her and offer your counsel now.”
“I know what to offer,” Darnley retorted with a lascivious giggle. He patted his codpiece and started to walk away uncertainly. But he paused at the door, steadying himself with a groping hand. “I don’t like your husband, Lady ....” His beardless face puckered at the effort of recalling Dallas’s name. “I don’t know where he is, but I’ll see to it that he stays away.” And with that, the King of Scotland staggered out into the hallway, leaving the door open behind him.
The following day, James, Earl of Moray, and Baron Iain Fraser of Beauly were put to the horn. The proclamation was spread through the Canongate, down the High Street and into the Lawnmarket. Both men were declared outlaws and their properties forfeit to the Crown. Henry Darnley had disposed of his two most outspoken opponents in one stroke.
Immediately upon hearing the shattering news, Dallas raced to see the Queen. Mary Stuart and some of her ladies were working on the royal doll collection. Swatches of brightly colored fabric lay scattered on the bedchamber floor and the crimson counterpane was covered with dolls of every size and shape.
The Queen’s page Bastien admitted Dallas. Mary Stuart looked up from her work to see Dallas rush across the room and drop into a deep curtsy.
“Your Grace,” Dallas implored, remaining at the Queen’s feet, “please, may I speak to you alone?”
Mary Stuart glanced uncomfortably from Mary Fleming to Jean Argyll to Mary Seton. “You know the others well,” the Queen said stiffly. “Say what you will.”
Dallas was sure she saw sympathy on the faces of the three ladies; all the Marys had been recently reproached for their lack of enthusiasm over the royal marriage. “Your Grace,” Dallas began, “I am horrified to learn Iain has been outlawed. He has served you well for many years. Even,” she added pointedly, “at considerable risk to his personal safety.”
The Queen plucked at the thick strands of a tiny raven-tressed wig. “He was loyal to me for a time, yes.” Her tone was measured, her gaze averted from Dallas, who still knelt at her feet. “But he chose to withdraw support when I needed it most. The same holds true for my half-brother, James. The Crown cannot tolerate dissent which flirts with treason.”
“Treason!” Dallas shot to her feet. “My husband would never countenance treason! All he did was give you his honest opinion. And though I argued with him at the time, he was right!”
“Sweet Virgin!” The Queen’s trembling hand dropped the little wig, which fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird. “You dare to speak so bold, too!”
“Though tardily,” Dallas retorted. She sighed unhappily, noting the tears in Mary Stuart’s eyes. “Fie, madame, neither Iain nor I wish you ill. Every effort he’s ever expended has been for your own good and that of Scotland. And I, in my small way, have tried to be your loyal servant.”
But the Queen was beyond reason or apology. She turned her back on Dallas, reaching out blindly for Jean Argyll. “Leave me,” the Queen sobbed, falling into her half-sister’s arms.
With great effort, Dallas clamped her mouth shut and swept out of the royal presence.
“You’ll leave the court, then?” Tarrill broke the nub of her quill in her agitation. She and Donald were working on his penmanship in the garden at Holyrood.
Dallas plopped down on a cushion next to her sister. It was a lazy August afternoon, heavy with the scent of marigolds and phlox. “I don’t know ... the Queen didn’t actually dismiss me .... Mayhap I would serve Iain’s purposes better by staying on. Yet I don’t know if I can bear to watch that wretched Darnley gobble up his new
power like a spoiled brat stuffing himself on too many sweets.” She stared off in the distance to the hilly mound of Arthur’s Seat, which stood sentinel above the palace.
“What of your husband’s properties?” Donald asked, as down-to-earth as ever.
“I’d like to know,” Dallas said bitterly. “I can’t think how they’ll take Beauly Manor away without a battle from the Fraser clan. As for the town house, I’ll fight for that myself.”
“Dallas, you must be careful. You can’t wage war against the Crown by yourself, especially now that you’re ....” Tarrill flushed, but her sister interrupted.
“Fie, Tarrill, Donald isn’t an innocent. I care not if he or anyone else knows I’m pregnant.”
Donald lifted his fair head slowly. “That’s fine news, Dallas. My good wishes be with you.” He smiled and reached out to touch her hand.
She gave his fingers a quick squeeze. “You’re a good fellow, Donald, thank you.” Across the garden, moving towards the rear entrance of the palace, a tall figure caught her attention. “By Our Lady, that’s George Gordon.” Dallas hadn’t seen him since the night he had smuggled himself into Inverness Castle. He appeared somewhat heavier, less quick of step and—as always—so totally self-absorbed that he paid no attention to Dallas or her companions. The lack of reaction did not disturb Dallas; she merely gazed at him bemusedly and asked when Gordon had returned to court.
“Today, in fact,” Tarrill answered. “ ’Tis said he’ll be restored to his father’s lands and titles. And,” she went on, adjusting the nub of her quill, “Bothwell is rumored to be en route to Holyrood.”
Dallas broke off a tuft of ageratum and brushed its purple bloom against her cheek. “Hmmmm, that’s interesting. One Catholic lord reinstated, one Protestant lord reinstated. And in exchange, one of each faith outlawed. How delicately our monarchs play their game.” She tossed the ageratum aside and stood up. “But, by heaven, I’ve decided I’ll stay at court to fight for my husband, even if I have to learn how to wield the claymore to do it!”