by Mary Daheim
Mary Stuart was surprised to see Tarrill and her tiny bundle. She had not yet heard about Dallas’s delivery and, indeed, had forgotten all about the other woman’s advanced state of pregnancy in her anxiety over the welfare of her own unborn royal babe. “He’s adorable,” she cooed, pulling the blanket aside for a better look. “And red hair! Tarrill, I treated your sister badly last night. I regret my behavior very much.”
“As matters turned out, I’m sure Dallas will not think unkindly of you, Your Grace.” Tarrill noted that the Queen was pale but composed. Her eyes were reddened and fatigue lines showed around her mouth, but otherwise she was concealing the ravages of the previous night remarkably well. Glancing discreetly around her, Tarrill made sure that Darnley was still looking out the window and that her back was turned to Lindsay. “See, madame,” she said, pulling aside the blanket, “how long he is! And touch his hand, it’s soft as gosling fluff.”
Only the twitch of a muscle next to the Queen’s mouth revealed her surprise as she saw the rolled-up piece of paper tucked between Robert’s small arm and chest. She made as if to touch his hand but palmed the paper instead. “A delightful babe,” she agreed as her hand slipped beneath the fur throw. “Newborn children are sent to us like welcome messengers from heaven.”
“True enough.” Tarrill smiled as the two women’s eyes locked together in understanding. “And such messengers need not be answered but only accepted as they are.”
Darnley swung away from the window, regarding Tarrill and the baby with a petulant expression. “You’ll tire Her Grace, she’s been through a strenuous time.”
Tarrill had to hold her tongue in check; how could Darnley play the hypocrite so blatantly? She curtsied to the royal couple, murmured her farewells, and acknowledged Mary Stuart’s dismissal.
When Donald McVurrich had left the palace that morning, he’d taken the simplest and most direct route: Several of the guards on duty were from the royal household but had been ordered, under pain of execution, to serve the conspirators. Donald had selected two he knew well from his own service as a guardsman, explained his mission, and after a minimum of indecision, the men had let him out of the palace. Donald, they reasoned, was an honest man.
But getting Iain Fraser out of Holyrood was a different matter. Not even Donald’s staunchest friends would have permitted the outlawed baron to leave the palace. So, well after dark, Fraser and Donald crept downstairs to one of the rear entrances. They waited in the shadows until they heard a crash outside, then Donald raced to the door. The lone guard, whom Donald recognized but did not know well, stood uncertainly at his post, trying to determine from which direction the noise had come.
“Over there!” Donald called in a low voice, all but pushing the smaller man over in his effort to move him away from the door. “It’s some knave who tried to assault Mistress Tarrill! He must have jumped out the window!”
Both men ran towards the arbor Donald had indicated. Quick as a cat, Fraser slipped out the door and made for a tree some thirty feet away. He grabbed the lowest limb and swung himself up into the concealing branches.
Donald and the other man searched the area by the arbor carefully. “He must be here,” the guard said. “I heard him land.”
“Maybe he broke his leg and is unconscious,” Donald suggested, making sure his body barred the sight of the bolster Tarrill had thrown out the window. “Or maybe he’s slunk away. I’ll go around this way, you go back by the trees over there.”
The man hesitated, then agreed. A few moments later he was wishing for moonlight or at least a torch when something hit him from straight out of the sky. Fraser had dropped down from the tree, and one blow to the skull knocked the guardsman unconscious. Knowing his luck was running thin, Fraser fled through the palace gardens and into the sanctuary of the misty night.
Donald saw him go, rushed back to retrieve the bolster, and carried it upstairs. He paused just long enough to nod in reassurance to Tarrill and hurried back to the rear entrance in time to see the guardsman trying to sit up.
“What happened, man?” Donald exclaimed as two other guards came cautiously around the corner from another part of the palace grounds.
The man’s eyes were still glazed. “I dinna know .... Someone jumped me from yon trees .... Did ye see him?”
“Nay, I was over by the lion pit. Damn,” Donald moaned, “he must have run off.”
The other two guards were strangers to Donald and eyed him suspiciously. Lindsay’s men, Donald decided, judging from their badges. “Who?” one of them asked. “Who got away?”
Donald shrugged. “One of those Frenchy cooks. No loss, I’d say, their food’s too rich anyway.” He saluted the other men and loped off into the palace.
“I don’t like it,” the Lindsay retainer said, watching the door swing shut behind Donald. “It may be a trick.”
The man Fraser had attacked struggled to his feet and snorted. “It’s a love brawl, not politics. Mistress Tarrill is involved and now that Master McVurrich has risen in the world, he’d like to think he owns her. Christ, my pate hurts—have you anything to drink?”
Relieved that Fraser apparently had gotten away safely, Dallas slept well that night. The following morning she awoke refreshed and wanted to sit up for a while.
But Tarrill reacted with firmness. “You know what happened last time. I’m going to make sure you don’t overdo.”
Dallas protested but knew Tarrill was right. There’d be no jostling coach rides, no frantic flights, no exertion of any kind for many weeks. No love-making either, she realized with a pang, but put that unhappy thought aside when Meg placed Robert in her arms.
Late that afternoon, a visitor arrived. Donald, who had gone to open the door just enough to see who the newcomer was, found himself staring into the haughty countenance of James Stuart.
“I’m here to see Lady Fraser,” James declared, as if his sudden appearance in Holyrood Palace was not in the least out of the ordinary.
Donald hesitated, glancing back to look at Dallas who was reading a history of the Punic Wars. “It’s my lord James Stuart of Moray,” he told her, seeing her own look of amazement.
Laying the book aside and adjusting the ties of her nightrobe, Dallas instructed Donald to let James in. Striding briskly across the room, the Queen’s half-brother allowed Tarrill to pull up a chair for him beside the bed.
“Congratulations, madame,” he said with a curt bow. “I understand you’ve provided your husband with a second heir.”
“How kind of you to pay your respects,” Dallas said dryly. “Show my lord the babe,” she commanded Meg, who was clearly undone by the arrival of such an illustrious personage. “It seems that you and Lady Agnes have some catching up to do,” Dallas added smugly.
James glanced with disinterest at little Robert. “All in good time, madame,” he said coolly. “If you will, I’d like to speak privately.”
Dallas twirled a lock of thick hair around her finger. “Well—under the circumstances my companions are not free to entertain themselves just anywhere. Have you a suggestion, sir?”
“The situation has changed somewhat,” James said impatiently. “They may go where they wish, as long as they stay in the palace.”
Dallas shrugged. “Very well. Tarrill, why don’t you and Donald show Meg how to get to the kitchens?”
The trio trooped from the room while James examined his blunt fingernails. He was dressed in riding clothes which were somewhat rumpled and soiled, and he had aged a bit since Dallas had last seen him.
“Where is Fraser?” James asked without further preamble.
Dallas was still toying with her hair. “Great heaven, I wish I knew. Iain is so unpredictable, such a restless sort.” She gave James the most cloying of smiles.
“Madame,” James intoned without changing expression, “I know he has been at Holyrood within the last forty-eight hours. He was seen the night Rizzio was murdered.”
It was probably true, Dallas reasoned,
several people could have glimpsed Fraser while Bothwell and George Gordon were leaping out of windows and general chaos reigned. But James’s insinuation about her husband’s presence in connection with Rizzio’s death was going too far.
“I won’t deny Iain was here,” Dallas retorted. “Would you deprive a husband the privilege of being with his wife when their child is born?”
James ignored the question. “I’ve met with the Queen. She is behaving most reasonably and has spoken with the lords who saw fit to dispose of Rizzio. I’ve personally urged her to act with clemency, but there will be limits to such mercy.”
The threatening tone served only to rile Dallas. “I don’t understand. You’re making no sense, sir.”
With a sigh that indicated he felt he was dealing with a particularly obtuse child, James pulled a sheet of parchment from inside his jerkin. “This was entrusted to me earlier today. It’s signed by the conspirators who agreed to kill Rizzio.”
As James held the parchment up by one corner Dallas scanned the names. Sure enough, between Ruthven’s and Morton’s signatures was Iain Fraser’s. Incredulous, Dallas looked more closely. She had practiced her husband’s signature too often not to be familiar with every nuance. For one thing, the two r’s in his last name were always dissimilar. And, she noted with relief, the ones etched on the bond were exactly alike.
“Twaddle,” Dallas scoffed, flicking at the parchment with her fingernail, “that’s a forgery!”
If James was taken aback by her assurance, he didn’t show it. “You’d say that, of course. But most people would accept it as proof of your husband’s complicity.”
“Has the Queen seen this?” she asked, pointing to the parchment.
“Not yet, but she will.” James was putting the bond back inside his jerkin. “She might forgive the others since they weren’t outlaws to begin with—but for your husband to compound one offense with another even more heinous ....” He shook his head dolefully as if he could hardly fathom such evil doings.
To his amazement, Dallas burst out laughing. “Fie, my lord, no wonder Protestants hate playacting. They’re so inept at it!” She saw the hooded eyes regard her warily. “Don’t feel bad,” she went on with mock amicability, “you just made one mistake.” She paused but he said nothing. “You put Iain’s name on the bond but left off your own.”
James’s withering glance would have made a less brazen person than Dallas cringe. “Really, madame, such allegations are groundless. I’ve been in England for months.”
“Quite so,” Dallas replied. “And only a man who knew something was going to happen could have gotten from Newcastle to Edinburgh so quickly. I’ve made that trip and I know it can’t be done at this time of year within thirty-six hours as you claim. I daresay, James, you must have set out well before the first lunge was ever made at poor Davie! I marvel that no one else has figured that out—yet.” James started to interrupt but Dallas was just warming up. “And who has benefited most from Rizzio’s death? Not Darnley, who’s back cringing at his wife’s side. Not Lord Ruthven, who looks ready to drop dead at any moment. As for the others, I can’t imagine they’ll reap great rewards. But you—you come galloping into Holyrood as the compassionate brother and Mary falls into your arms! It’s all very cunning, now it’s my turn to congratulate you!”
At this point, Dallas was actually out of breath. She sat back in bed, her arms folded across her bosom. James looked as if he had declared war on himself in a titanic struggle to retain his self-control. At last he stood up, the hooded eyes as expressionless as ever. “Your recent delivery has made you prone to the wildest fancies, madame. I trust you’ll get over them quickly. If not,” he added in a chilling tone, “I’ll make certain that a remedy is provided for you.”
Stuart of Traquair, the Captain of the Royal Guard, had sensed nothing amiss until he felt the cold menace of steel at his throat.
“Keep your cries to yourself and you’ll keep your life,” a low voice commanded Stuart in a not unpleasant tone. “You and I have business to conduct, in the name of the Queen.”
“Fraser?” Stuart turned slightly in the unyielding grip but dared not move further.
“Aye. Are you loyal to the crown of Scotland?” The words were whispered, but intense. The two men stood locked together in the cloister just outside the Chapel Royal at Holyrood. Darkness had set in a bare five minutes earlier and Fraser had been relieved that Stuart had been late in making his evening rounds. He was equally relieved that Donald’s information about the captain’s routine had been accurate.
But Stuart had not yet answered Fraser’s question. “Well?” Fraser pressed his dirk against Stuart’s neck. “Speak, dammit, I haven’t got all night.”
“I could talk better if you’d take away that damnable dirk. My head’s a-spin with all that’s gone on these past two days.”
Fraser considered the matter, decided to trust Donald’s opinion of Stuart’s devotion to the Queen, and released the other man. Stuart turned around slowly, adjusting the collar of his uniform and trying to assess Fraser’s intentions.
“I have a personal loyalty to the Queen, yes. But my men and I have been acting under a certain amount of duress and ....” He chewed his full underlip as his forehead wrinkled in consternation.
“And a house divided?” Fraser’s face was half-mocking, half-sympathetic. “Never mind, from now on will you serve the Queen?”
Stuart considered Fraser’s question for a moment; it was clear that he was not an impulsive type. “Aye, I will.”
“All right. I’ve not much time to waste,” Fraser said, looking into the darkness to make sure they were still unobserved. “Arthur Erskine, Anthony Standen—both are indisputably loyal?”
Another pause. From somewhere in the distance, Fraser heard the sound of heavy footsteps. “I’d say so, yes.”
“Others?” Fraser moved deeper into the shadows as the footsteps came closer.
Stuart had heard the noises by now. He peered nervously into the night. “I don’t know. I can only vouch for these two.”
“Go with them to the Queen. Do as she commands, she knows how to get out of the palace if you will help her.” Fraser was already moving away, keeping close to the walls of Holyrood, making sure his boots made as little sound as possible.
There was no response from Stuart, who could make out the forms of the approaching men by now. “Who goes there?” he shouted, very much the Captain of the Guard. Fraser was out of earshot by the time the men replied.
The element of risk in getting Mary Stuart out of Holyrood was high, but the escape plan was simplicity itself. The scheme hinged on two critical factors—securing Darnley’s cooperation so that Mary could get past the sentries on the privy staircase, and making sure that her rescuers waiting in the grounds remained undetected. The success of the first half of the plan lay entirely with the Queen and her ability to win over the unstable Darnley. The second part was up to Fraser.
In the four hours that passed between Fraser’s encounter with Stuart of Traquair and the planned escape of the Queen, Holyrood Palace appeared moribund. Scarcely half of the windows showed candlelight behind them and virtually no one went in or out. Fraser remained hidden on the grounds, moving only once, when his retainer, Simpson, came to join him at their appointed rendezvous.
It was only a few minutes before midnight when the two men heard someone walking nearby. Fraser glanced up over the thick yew hedge but could not identify the newcomer in the darkness.
“He’s pacing,” Simpson whispered. “He keeps going back through the cemetery where Her Grace is supposed to come out.”
“Christ.” Fraser edged along the ground, stopping at intervals to see if he could recognize the intruder. At last the man stopped by the chapel door, his restless form exuding an air of impatience.
“It’s young Ruthven,” Fraser said in a low voice. “Damn the whelp, what’s he doing out here?”
“Do we skewer him?” asked Simpson, who nev
er balked at bloodshed in a worthy cause.
Fraser didn’t reply at once but kept his eyes riveted on Will Ruthven’s outline. If all went as planned, the Queen and Darnley would enter the Chapel Royal from the south door, which provided private access from the palace. They would proceed across the south side to the great west entrance and then out into the cemetery.
Just as Simpson unsheathed his dirk, the figure of a woman appeared along the north side of the chapel. She was moving quickly, her skirts fluttering in the night air.
“Tarrill!” Will called out, his hands turned upwards in a pleading gesture. “Thank God you came!”
“It’s madness,” she said, out of breath and clearly out of patience as well. “I got your note, I wasn’t going to come, but ....”
“I know, I promised a long time ago I’d never approach you again. But I had to explain how I got involved in this dastardly affair, I couldn’t spend the rest of my life thinking that you’d condemn me as a murderer.”
Fraser and Simpson both knelt motionless by the hedge. Time was running out, it must be almost midnight. Stuart of Traquair and the others should be arriving at any moment. Tarrill knew the escape plan, it had been written out in the note she’d smuggled to the Queen with wee Robert. Why didn’t she get Will Ruthven out of the way?
“We can’t talk here,” Tarrill said, as if in answer to a prayer. “Come, we can go to my sister’s room. She’s sleeping.” She’d already turned away from Will and was moving hastily along the side of the chapel. Will hurried to catch up, already launched upon his explanation.
“Families must support each other, my father always said, and when he told me how much harm Rizzio was causing the Queen with his baseborn ways and self-aggrandizement ....” His voice trailed away as he and Tarrill rounded the corner of the chapel.