The Royal Mile

by Mary Daheim

  “Except you’re not ahead, sweet Cat,” George Gordon pointed out. “I can’t afford to go on staking you unless your fortunes change soon.”

  “At least,” Rizzio put in, grimacing comically at Dallas, “we don’t have to play your sister tonight. The lovely Tarrill is uncanny with the cards.”

  “She’s with the Queen,” Dallas said. Tarrill, in effect, had taken over Dallas’s post with Mary Stuart these past months. Only on rare occasions, when the Queen required her full complement of ladies, was Dallas asked to join the retinue. Though she was annoyed by this treatment, she continued to stay on at court. As long as Mary Stuart didn’t formally dismiss her, Dallas felt it best to remain near the center of events.

  And recently she had seen the first glimmer of hope. Darnley was finally beginning to exasperate even the infinite bounds of Mary’s love. His liking for low company, his excessive drinking, his neglect of duty and his increasingly callous attitude towards Mary herself had all begun to turn spring’s passion into winter’s disenchantment.

  But Darnley had one monumental accomplishment to shore up his position: The Queen was pregnant. No matter how odious he had become to his enemies, he had sired the future heir to the throne.

  It was Dallas’s turn to be caught unprepared for the next round of play. Rizzio tactfully drew her back into the game, but she made a stupid blunder and lost the trick to Gordon.

  “Dallas, I’m amazed,” Gordon remarked with a lift of his golden eyebrows. “Your keen mind seems to have deserted you.”

  Dallas’s eyes narrowed. “You know the saying, George,” she said, glancing at Catherine as well. “Lucky at cards, unlucky at love. Still, I like to win—at both.”

  Gordon smirked, Catherine blushed and Delphinia chuckled in her throaty manner. Dallas now concentrated fully, raking in the next two tricks and was almost certain she had the last one—and the game. Triumphantly, she put down her king, only to have Delphinia slowly and smugly play the ace.

  “Fie,” Dallas grumbled, “I thought all the aces were gone!”

  “Nay, madame,” Delphinia purred. “I always keep something in reserve.” She scooped the pile of coins in the direction of her magnificent bosom and gave Dallas a sidelong look. “Never fear, I’m not one to throw my hand in until the final game is over.”

  Later, after the others had gone, Dallas remained with Bothwell, taking a last cup of mulled wine. “I should have thrown the cards in her face,” she sighed, “but I wouldn’t give her such satisfaction.”

  Bothwell leaned back, putting both feet up on one of the empty chairs. “Pah, no need to concern yourself, Dallas. You’re Iain’s wife, you hold all the real cards.”

  Dallas had kicked off her shoes and was massaging one of her feet. She felt at ease with Bothwell, he was Fraser’s friend, even if he had gotten her husband into numerous scrapes in the past. Dallas felt she could trust him and, unlike so many other women at court, could admire his rough-hewn physical charm without being personally attracted by it.

  Bothwell, on the other hand, had found Dallas much changed since the night he’d witnessed her marriage to Fraser some four years earlier. Nubile but frigid, bonnie but independent, that had been his opinion at the time, and he’d frankly wondered why Fraser had taken her to wife. But upon getting better acquainted with her since his return to court, he perceived the difference the years—and no doubt Fraser—had made in Dallas, and now found her company stimulating.

  “You’re right, I suppose,” Dallas conceded. “But then I’m easily upset these days, with Iain gone for so long and the babe due in just two months. Does the Queen ever mention him?”

  Bothwell poured more wine for himself but Dallas refused another cup. “Yes. But she refuses to reinstate him.”

  Dallas pulled her fox-trimmed shawl more closely about her shoulders to ward off the late-night January draughts of Linlithgow Palace. “She is threatening to attaint the dissident nobles when Parliament meets. I keep hoping that as Darnley falls from favor she’ll change her mind.”

  “She may yet,” Bothwell said. “James still plays his waiting game in Newcastle, hoping his royal half-sister will relent.”

  “I’d like to see James attainted—but if he is, Iain will be, too,” Dallas fretted. “I wish to God I could do more for Iain. I feel so helpless.” She sighed and turned to Bothwell. “What do you want, now that you’re back in the Queen’s good graces?”

  The Border Earl chuckled as he riffled through the deck of playing cards, which still lay on the table. “A rich wife, for one thing, but I’m assured of that. Plans are underway for my marriage to Jean Gordon next month.”

  “George’s sister?” Dallas shifted in her chair, for the babe had begun to stir strenuously in her womb. “I’d heard some gossip linking your names, but I’d also heard Jean Gordon’s heart beat in a different direction.”

  “That’s the lady. Oh, it’s no love match, but she’ll do as she’s told, and since George is now Earl of Huntly, his wishes are to be obeyed.”

  Dallas leaned forward, elbows on the table, slim fingers pressed together under her chin. “You and George will make a strong alliance. As friends of Iain’s, can you not bind together to reinstate him?”

  Bothwell frowned. “I told you, I’ve made certain hints to the Queen, but she seems implacable ....”

  “You made them alone,” Dallas pointed out, “but if you and George both press for his return, you might succeed.”

  The heavy dark-red brows lifted slightly. “Mayhap. But I wouldn’t count on it in our sovereign’s present mood. Pregnancy has weakened her, physically and emotionally. There are undercurrents I much mislike these days. I would to God I could take these cards and foretell the future.”

  Dallas understood what Bothwell meant. “Maybe it’s well that we can’t know the future,” she said at last. “If we did, we might not be able to face it.”

  Chapter 24

  Three weeks later Tarrill lay ill at Holyrood with a raging fever and severe stomach cramps. The Queen’s physician had been called, diagnosed the disease as a form of influenza, and assured Dallas that her sister would recover. “But,” he warned Dallas, “in your condition, I’d stay away from her until she is well.”

  Dallas was loath to take his advice but did. She summoned Donald to look after Tarrill, packed a boxful of belongings, and had a coach take her to the town house where she spent several days playing with her son and teaching him his ABC’s.

  Donald McVurrich’s visits to Tarrill during her week-long illness had created yet another bond between them. On her first day out of bed, he had finally plucked up the courage to kiss her. To his surprise, she kissed him back. Donald began to wonder if his hopes might aspire to his heart’s ambition.

  Dallas noted the change between them when she returned to Holyrood. Tarrill, however, was not all that pleased to see her sister come back. “You’re less than a month away from being due,” she reminded Dallas. “You ought to stay at the town house where Flora and Dr. Wilson can tend you.”

  But Dallas shook her head. “Nay, Tarrill, the days drag by so now, and with Iain still away, I think I’d go mad just sitting around. I can’t get down on the floor to play with Magnus, I can’t hold him in my lap, it’s most frustrating. At least here, something is always happening to stir my interest.”

  “If you call one pregnant woman watching another interesting,” she said with some asperity. “The Queen moans and groans all the time, smiling only at Rizzio. And don’t think there aren’t any number of people who find that irksome!”

  “I wouldn’t think you’d be one of them,” Dallas commented mildly. “You’ve always seemed to like Davie well enough.”

  “I still do, it’s the situation I don’t like. I’ve never cared for intrigue or politics.” She rubbed her fingers along her temples and gave Dallas a faint smile. “I still have headaches from my illness, maybe that’s what makes me irascible. Thank heaven Donald comes by to cheer me every day.”


  Dallas made no comment but was almost as grateful as Tarrill for Donald’s attentions to her sister.

  Mary Stuart emerged from her cocoon of pregnancy to take part in the Bothwell-Gordon nuptials. Once again, she played the royal patroness, paying for Jean’s wedding gown, giving advice on the festivities, and refraining from criticism of Bothwell’s insistence on being married according to Protestant rite.

  Dallas did not attend the wedding but managed to find an elegant silver-edged mirror in the secret cellar which she dispatched as a gift. Impatient for the babe’s birth and extremely uncomfortable, Dallas spent that twenty-fourth day of February watching Magnus build a fort on the nursery floor. Later, while he was taking a rare nap, she wrote again to Lord Hugh Fraser, this time boldly asking for his clan’s assistance in the event Parliament moved to attaint her husband.

  The following week, Dallas discovered she had acted none too soon: Parliament was to convene on March seventh; James Stuart and Iain Fraser were to be attainted on March twelfth. Dallas was back at Holyrood when she heard the shattering news. She immediately sought an audience with the Queen but was turned away by David Rizzio.

  “Her Grace is unwell again,” he said, his huge eyes sympathetic, though for the Queen or herself, Dallas could not tell. “She must rest, if she is to open Parliament on Thursday.”

  “Davie, you know how imperative it is that I see her,” Dallas implored, wishing the babe would stop churning in her womb. “If there is any chance at all that she’ll grant me an interview, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

  This time Dallas was certain Rizzio’s compassionate gaze was meant for her alone. “I will, I promise. Now rest yourself, madonna mia, you are pale as ash.”

  Dallas did rest, that day and the next. By Thursday she felt somewhat better, though Rizzio had sent no summons. From her window, Dallas watched the procession form in the courtyard before heading to the new Tolbooth where Parliament would assemble. She saw Bothwell, George Gordon and several other nobles surrounding the magnificently gowned Queen, but Darnley was nowhere in sight. Sulking no doubt, Dallas decided, as she turned away from the window in disgust.

  Two days later, Tarrill came into their chambers just before suppertime. “Oh, Dallas,” she moaned, her hands pressing her temples, “I have one of those wretched headaches! Could you take my place with the Queen?”

  Dallas laid aside the little bedgown she’d been sewing for the new babe. “Don’t be absurd, you know the Queen won’t want me in attendance. I’ve been waiting a week to see her and she’s ignored my pleas for an audience.”

  Tarrill was wringing out a cloth in cold water. “Then I’d think you’d jump at this opportunity,” she said querulously. “Knowing I’m not well, she could hardly turn you away.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’d consent to let me speak,” Dallas pointed out. “Besides, I can scarcely move. Go find someone else to take your place.”

  But Tarrill was already on the bed with the cloth over her forehead. “I can’t get up again, I have to lie still. If you won’t go, do be quiet!”

  Dallas complied, for at least five minutes. Maybe Tarrill was right, maybe in that intimate atmosphere the Queen would listen to her entreaties, maybe if the pregnant Queen saw Dallas so close to giving birth, she’d relent. There was so little time before Parliament would act. Clumsily, Dallas struggled to her feet and trudged slowly but quietly from the room.

  The little supper closet off the Queen’s bedchamber was lighted with a dozen candles, casting an amber glow on the party already assembled at the long narrow table. Dallas hoped her entrance would be unobtrusive, but her unwieldy condition made such a wish impossible. As Dallas attempted a futile curtsy, the Queen looked faintly dismayed, nodded abruptly and gazed down at her plate.

  Dallas sat at Tarril's place between Lord Robert and Arthur Erskine. Once again, Dallas noted that Darnley was not in his wife’s company. Rizzio was helping Jean Argyll to a plate of breaded oysters. Anthony Standen, the Queen’s page, was pouring white wine for his mistress. Later, perhaps, Dallas tried to console herself, when they played cards or listened to music, the Queen might unbend and hear her out.

  They were just finishing the first course when the door to the privy staircase opened, revealing the elongated figure of Lord Darnley. The Queen’s surprise was more obvious this time, but her welcome was almost as chilly.

  “I thought you’d be in the town, as is your wont,” she said pointedly. The Queen turned to Standen. “Anthony, fetch His Grace a chair.” She turned her attention back to her food while Darnley edged nervously up to the table.

  Dallas felt what little hope she’d had melt away. The evening was going to be a disaster. With Darnley lurking about, there would be no opportunity for her to plead Fraser’s case. All appetite vanished, she pushed her plate aside, and wondered if she should excuse herself and leave.

  Before she could make up her mind, the privy staircase door opened for a second time. This time the others were as startled as the Queen, for Patrick Ruthven stood in the doorway, the glint of armor showing under his court gown.

  Looking around Erskine’s shoulder, Dallas noted that Ruthven’s eyes were wild and his skin was dead white. Will Ruthven had confided recently to Jean Argyll that his father was mortally ill. Dallas wondered if the man were in a delirium and had wandered by accident into the supper room.

  But Ruthven’s voice was coherent when he finally broke the sudden silence: “Your Grace,” he said with a curt nod to the Queen, “let yon David come out; he’s been here too long.”

  The Queen gasped; Lord Robert’s hand went to his side, but he wasn’t armed. Darnley looked down at the table, unable to meet his wife’s angry gaze. “Is this your doing?” she demanded of her husband. “What impertinence do we have now?”

  “It’s—it’s for your own good,” he mumbled in reply.

  The Queen was about to upbraid Darnley further but Ruthven broke in: “Madame, you have relied too long on this foreign secretary of yours—his arrogance is insufferable, his influence is insupportable, and his familiarity with your person is beyond contempt.”

  Rizzio had scrambled from his chair and backed down along the table to cower by the room’s only window. Ruthven pushed his way past the others but was momentarily diverted by Arthur Erskine. Jean Argyll cried out, Lord Robert leaped up to aid Erskine, and the Queen reeled against the table.

  “Lay no hands on me!” Ruthven shouted. And then the room was filled with hurtling bodies as several men rushed through the privy staircase door. One or two of the Douglases, Ker of Fawdonside, Will Ruthven, and at least three others Dallas didn’t recognize, were charging in Rizzio’s direction. Chairs overturned, plates crashed to the floor, one of the velvet wall hangings was ripped loose and fell in green and crimson waves across the carpet. Jean Argyll just managed to grab a single taper as the candelabra toppled over the table’s edge.

  Somehow, the Queen had reached Rizzio’s side, where he knelt, clinging to her skirts. Ker and one of the other men held pistols, while the rest of the intruders brandished long, gleaming daggers. Someone reached out to wrest Rizzio away from the Queen, their shadows dancing grotesquely off the wall like so many writhing bats. In a confusion of motion, noise and terror, the little secretary was dragged from the supper room, out through the bedchamber and into the adjoining room above the main stairway. His frantic cries echoed back to the immobilized supper party: “Justizia, justizia!” he screamed. “Sauvez ma vie, madame, sauvez ma vie!” Scuffling sounds, more cries—then silence.

  “Jesu!” Dallas whispered, leaning against the wall. A vague pain fluttered across her back but there was no time to think of that now. People seemed to come racing in from all directions, Mary Stuart’s attendants through one door, the assassins’ accomplices through the other. Somehow, the Queen’s people managed to disperse the assailants who retreated into the bedchamber.

  “Miserable cur!” Mary Stuart screamed at Darnley. “You are the guilty party
, more so than the others! Oh, God help me, I’m surrounded by traitors!”

  Just then Ruthven staggered back through the door and collapsed into a chair. He was sweating profusely and gasping for breath. Grabbing the decanter of white wine, he sloshed some into a glass and drank greedily.

  “And you, Patrick Ruthven,” the Queen cried, whirling on the shaking nobleman, “you’ll suffer for this, I swear it by the babe I carry in my womb!” She pressed a hand to her side and ordered Jean Argyll to find out what had befallen the pathetic Rizzio. Darnley was at the window, calling down to the townspeople who had heard the commotion and were beginning to assemble in the courtyard. Mary moved towards him, but Lord Lindsay, who had just entered the supper room, roughly pulled her away.

  “Keep your distance, madame,” he commanded, “or I’ll cut you into collops!”

  The look of hatred which Mary Stuart cast upon him would have withered a more sensitive man. Jean Argyll burst through the door. “Davie is done to death,” she shrieked hysterically, “butchered by these madmen!”

  The Queen swayed, caught herself on the table and made a stupendous effort to regain her composure. Ruthven and Darnley were slinking away, but Mary made no move to stop them. She muttered something in French, put an arm around Jean Argyll, and turned her face away. Lord Robert came to comfort both his sisters, telling them that they had best retire before the evening’s terrible events did serious mischief to the Queen and her child.

  Throughout these exchanges, Dallas had been frantically pondering what could be done to help the Queen. Was Rizzio the only intended victim? Would the assassins return to slay their sovereign? Or did they hope that the tragedy would trigger a miscarriage and possibly eliminate both mother and child in one blow? Dallas was sure of only one thing: She must find Lord Bothwell. He’d know what to do, he’d take decisive action.

  Dallas stumbled out through the bedchamber and into the adjoining room. She paused, eyes riveted on a pool of blood near the top of the stairs. Rizzio must have been murdered there, then dragged down the steps and out of the palace. Repelled by the brutal imagery, she picked up her skirts to avoid the crimson stain. A third of the way down the staircase, she stopped suddenly as the flutter of pain assailed her lower back once more. This time there was no mistaking the cause: Dallas knew her labor had begun.