by Mary Daheim
“Yes, indeed, my lord. Such notions new mothers get! I hardly remember your visit at all!” Dallas laughed merrily at her own apparent folly.
The faintest smile played at James’s mouth. “I’m pleased to see you so well. Are you enjoying the riches of the royal library?”
“Very much,” Dallas replied, wishing James weren’t behaving so civilly. “It reminds me of my father’s, in the house where I grew up.”
James came over to survey the titles. “Ah, yes, your father was a renowned tutor, was he not? I take great pleasure in reading, too, when I have time. And just now, there’s plenty of that while we await the royal heir’s whim.”
Dallas felt as if she were rooted to the spot in front of the secret hiding place. She hoped to heaven that James would find a volume he liked before she was forced to step aside. “So many French poets,” he said with disapproval. “I prefer something less flighty. What would you suggest, madame?”
“There are the chronicles of the Austrian emperors and kings,” she said, recalling that these volumes were on the shelf right in front of James.
He leaned forward to select a title. “This looks intriguing. The Austrian dynasties have always ....” But his words were cut off by the sound of alarm bells ringing outside the castle. It was the signal that Queen Mary’s labor had begun. James leapt to his feet. “Come, we must attend Her Grace!” As Dallas hesitated James grabbed her arm. “Hurry, the entire court must be present for this momentous occasion!”
Reluctantly, Dallas fell into step beside him. There was nothing else she could do, and at least he was leaving the library, too. She’d just have to come back at the earliest possible opportunity.
Mary Stuart had not yet been moved out of the lying-in chamber. The midwife was already present, as were several lords and ladies. The Queen lay in the huge bed, pale but composed.
“Her pains started about fifteen minutes ago,” Tarrill whispered. “She’ll be moved when they come closer together.”
“Poor lady, I know what she’s going through,” Dallas said in commiseration. “But at least I didn’t have fifty people gaping at me in my misery.”
But an hour passed and nothing happened. The Queen began to look apologetic. “A false alarm, I’m afraid,” the midwife told the courtiers. “It often happens, nothing to worry about.”
The lords and ladies began to drift out of the chamber. Dallas filed out with the others, not wishing to appear overhasty in her departure. She glanced around to see where James was, but couldn’t find him. He must have left ahead of her, possibly to confer with some of the other lords on the council.
Once Dallas had left the others, she quickened her pace to the library. Hurrying to the desk, she opened the drawer and removed the jewel case, thanking the Virgin that it was still there. She could do nothing about the disturbed masonry in the wall except hope that the servants who cleaned the library were an uncurious lot.
Hiding the jewel case in the folds of her skirt, Dallas headed purposefully back towards her room. Tarrill was not there, but Flora was busily shining the silver buckles on a pair of her mistress’s evening slippers. Though Dallas trusted Flora implicitly, she did not want her maid present while she opened the jewel case.
“I’m famished, Flora,” Dallas exclaimed. “Waiting around the Queen’s chambers for naught has given me an appetite. See if you can find some pears, will you?”
Flora obligingly left on her errand and Dallas rummaged through her dressing table for something that would pry open the lock. She found a metal nail file and was about to pry up the lid when she noticed fresh scar marks along the edge of the case. She was certain they had not been there before. Anxiously, she used the file to wedge the lid upwards. The lock sprung immediately and Dallas looked inside. As she had feared, the case was empty. But the red velvet cushion clearly showed the impression of a necklace. Not just any necklace, Dallas knew instinctively, but an amulet which had once been examined by her father, and before that, briefly kept in the possession of Iain Fraser’s mother.
Breathlessly, Dallas closed the lid and wiped the top clean with a handkerchief. There were the raised initials “MdG,” shining in the June sunlight. The case had belonged to Marie de Guise, the amulet must have been entrusted to her some twenty years ago by Daniel Cameron. And there was no doubt at all in Dallas’s mind that Lord James had removed the amulet within the past hour.
Dallas puzzled over what to do next. James must have known about the amulet and the secret hiding place all along. Perhaps he himself had put the jewel case there many years ago. He would suspect her of having found it, but he might not realize how much she knew about the amulet’s significance. Should she put the jewel case back in the library desk drawer or keep it as evidence? But the case itself proved little and its possession might put Dallas in even more danger than she was already. She would return it at once to the library and hope that James could never be sure that she was the one who had opened it.
Half an hour later, Dallas returned to her room where Flora presented her with a handful of pears. Dallas looked at the fruit without appetite; she had thought she would feel relieved after getting rid of the case, but instead, she was overcome with anxiety. James Stuart had yet another reason to wish both herself and her husband out of his way. And Dallas still didn’t know why the Queen’s half-brother waged such a relentless war against them.
Four days later Mary Stuart was delivered of a prince. The labor was long and difficult. While the Queen lay abed too exhausted to even speak, all Edinburgh rejoiced over her fruitfulness in producing a male heir. The court, however, did not resume its round of activities: Mary Stuart was not regaining her strength but lay pallid and enervated for several weeks after the delivery. Her supporters began to worry.
Dallas stayed on at the castle, though she visited the town house more frequently now that the prince had arrived. One early summer evening, returning alone from Gosford’s Close, Dallas stopped off to see Glennie and Walter. Marthe had just baked some special butter and nutmeg cakes which Dallas could not resist. They nibbled and chatted for much longer than Dallas had planned, and by the time she left her old home, it was almost dark.
“Walter will escort you,” Glennie said as Dallas picked up her lace shawl and headed out through the entry hall.
“Nonsense,” Dallas declared. “It’s less than five minutes from here to the castle. I’ll be quite safe.”
Glennie had to agree; there were still a few people abroad and the light had not gone completely. Hugging her sister and Walter, Dallas set out for Castle Hill. From somewhere close by, an owl hooted as two bats fluttered across the wynd, disappearing like wraiths into the eaves of an adjacent house. She had just passed by Tod’s Close when she saw three people walking with an unsteady gait, their arms clinging to each other. One of them was extremely tall and Dallas recognized Lord Darnley at once. He seemed to be holding his companions very intimately, but Dallas assumed that if he was drunk, he needed their support. But as she drew closer she realized that the two young boys accompanying Darnley were not holding him up, but allowing the consort to paw and fondle their strong young bodies. Aghast at such perverted public behavior and never before having guessed this particular vice of Darnley’s, Dallas turned quickly into Blyth’s Close and fled in a different direction towards the castle. She was still running when she turned a corner by the esplanade and collided with John Hamilton.
“Dallas!” Hamilton reached out to keep her from falling. “What on earth—is someone pursuing you?”
Dallas was so amazed to see Hamilton that she momentarily forgot about Darnley. “John! I didn’t know you were in Edinburgh!” She disengaged herself and stepped back to see him more clearly. He was somewhat heavier, there was more grey in his hair and his moustache, but he looked as fit and handsome as ever. Involuntarily, she put a hand to her bosom to quiet her racing heart. The running, of course, she reasoned, that was why she was out of breath.
“I just arrived thi
s afternoon,” Hamilton responded, smiling broadly in his delight at seeing her. She had changed, too, he noted, grown more womanly, and, he thought with a pang, more desirable than ever. “My father wrote to me about the prince’s birth. I thought I should come home for the christening.”
“I’m glad to see you,” Dallas said, thinking the words sounded totally inadequate. She tugged at her shawl, wondering why she felt so befuddled. Finally, she remembered Darnley and blurted out the reason for her flight up the esplanade. “Oh, John, I’m appalled! Lord Darnley is a pederast!”
Hamilton considered the allegation with his usual care. “I’ve heard some tales—yes, it’s possible. But how do you know?”
“I saw him, drooling all over two young boys near Tod’s Close. He was drunk, as usual, carrying on right there in the middle of town!” Dallas was beginning to regain her composure as she let Hamilton take her arm to lead her up towards the castle.
“It’s unnatural, but some men are like that,” Hamilton said in a voice that neither damned nor condoned. “Poor Mary, how much she’s had to put up with!”
“And now she’s not at all well,” Dallas put in. “Have you seen her since you got back?”
“Just briefly.” Hamilton frowned deeply as Dallas noticed how tan he had become from the Italian sun. “I’m much concerned about her. She told me she hopes to go to Alloa soon, to take the sea air.” He shook his head, then paused to open a door decorated with a finely carved lintel.
“I was there the night Rizzio was murdered.” Dallas shuddered at the recollection as she stepped inside the castle. Torches flared along the walls and a page scurried by carrying a tray of food. “But tell me about Italy. You must have seen many wonderful sights.”
“So I did. The ancient Roman ruins, St. Peter’s, the Colosseum—I went to Padua, Siena, Venice, Milan. Most people were friendly, though some would become distant when they learned I wasn’t a Papist.”
“I suppose a Protestant is a rarity in Rome,” Dallas said. They had paused by a staircase, both increasingly aware that their conversation masked words that had yet been unsaid. It was Hamilton who finally jumped the gap between them:
“Fraser is still outlawed, I hear. But you and he are happily married, is that not so?” The brown eyes begged her to deny his question.
Dallas forced her gaze to remain steady. “Yes, we are. We were apart for a year, but finally we reconciled. We have another son now, named Robert. I love Iain very much, I always have.” She swallowed and was surprised that there was a large lump in her throat.
“I see.” Hamilton was silent for a long moment, then he reached out to touch her hair. “I went away to forget—and ended up remembering ....” His hand dropped to his side, and he smiled ruefully. “Damn, I vowed I wouldn’t beleaguer you with such maudlin self-pity.”
She knew he was angry with himself. She wished that just once he’d turn his anger on her. A violent quarrel might break the spell they had cast over each other. But it would be uncharacteristic of Hamilton to shift any blame from himself to her, and they would only end up forgiving one another.
“You once told me we should put what’s happened in the past,” Hamilton said, one hand fingering the clan brooch which held his plaid in place. “You were right. It’s just damnably hard.”
She sought in vain for a word of consolation that wouldn’t sound trite and yet wouldn’t raise his hopes. But he had already started to back away. Hamilton realized even more than Dallas that there was nothing more either of them could—or should—say. “Good night, Dallas.”
She watched him turn from her. “Good night,” she said softly. And then after he was safely out of hearing range, she added, “Good night, my dearest, dearest John.”
Someone was screaming in pain, pistols exploded with sound and death, swords crashed together and smoke billowed from somewhere in the forecastle. Men seemed to be dying or wounded everywhere, the deck running with blood, and an acrid, sickening stench filled the air.
Iain Fraser rolled over onto his back and sat up with a jolt. The squalid little room in the Copenhagen inn was almost totally dark. The blond woman beside him mumbled in her sleep and tugged at the thin blanket. Fraser glanced down at her, made sure she was still asleep and got out of bed to pour himself a cup of ale. He’d had the same dream for five nights in a row but this time he had awakened before the usual climax, in which he found himself hanging in chains on the sands at Leith.
The Richezza’s crew had attacked two merchant vessels in the past three months, one en route to Genoa, the other on the return voyage. Neither had offered resistance, nothing had happened for a long time to match the bloodthirsty mayhem of his dreams.
Never in the fifteen years he’d spent at sea had he been prey to such pernicious nightmares. In fact, Fraser seldom dreamed at all, or if he did, he could rarely remember what the dreams were about. He had told Dallas he’d stay in Scotland if and when he was permitted to return lawfully. He’d meant it at the time, but once he felt the decks of the Richezza roll beneath him and savored the salt air in his nostrils, he’d begun to hope that Dallas, sensible little wench that she was, wouldn’t hold him to his promise. Yet the dreams of the last few nights troubled Fraser, though he wasn’t an easy man to frighten. At the root of his thinking lay a far more realistic reason for keeping his word to Dallas: Whatever thrills he’d reaped during those fifteen years had begun to pall. One encounter was rather like the next, one cargo as profitable as any other but now devoid of surprises, and there wasn’t a port in the civilized world he didn’t know by heart. He was thirty-five years old, he had a wife and a growing family, and the dwindling excitement was no longer worth the risk.
The woman stirred again, one plump arm stabbing out in the direction of Fraser’s side of the bed. He stood with the ale cup in his hand, watching her with disinterest while she settled back into a deep slumber. There was no adventure in the women he met, either. This one was like the rest, ultimately submissive and infernally dull. Nor did he give them more than mere physical satisfaction: There had been a time when he would woo them with words or a few gallantries, talk of his life at sea or draw out their own backgrounds and listen with attention. The last year or two, he realized that he’d ceased to have any contact with his bed partners except on the level of sheer lust.
The only window in the shabby little room was covered with horn. Fraser could see nothing through it, not even moonlight. He could hear the sea outside, however, slapping against the wharves of Copenhagen. From somewhere in the distance, roistering sailors hooted drunkenly into the night.
Fraser dressed quietly, tossed some coins onto his pillow, made sure he hadn’t left anything in the room, and slipped outside. He had paid the innkeeper in advance, as the man had sullenly insisted. There was no reason why he should spend the rest of the night in that sordid place.
Looking in every direction, Fraser made sure he was not followed by footpads or other riff-raff which lurked about the waterfront. Hand on his dirk, he walked past the sailmaker’s dingy doorway, down by the deserted fishmonger’s stalls, and beyond a net-mender’s shuttered windows. The sailors he’d heard while he was still inside the room had long since disappeared. The night was empty, only the sea was alive.
In less than ten minutes he could make out the masts of the Richezza, swaying gently at anchor in the summer breeze. The ship’s longboat lay at the end of the wharf. He jumped down into it, picked up the oars and began to row out over the incoming tide. He’d made up his mind: He would turn the Richezza over to MacRae, a man of little imagination but enormous competence. He would say nothing until they reached the Isle of Lewes; he wanted no protests from the crew, no arguments, no doleful partings. When they dropped anchor in Scotland, he would simply, finally, walk away.
Chapter 27
During the month of August, Dallas returned home while the Queen and her court traveled to Alloa. Tarrill wrote from the seaside establishment, saying that Mary Stuart was feeling somewhat
better.
Three weeks later, Dallas received two other messages, each arriving within an hour of the other. The first came from Donald, and was written in the neat, round hand Tarrill had taught him. It stated briefly and concisely that he had been promoted to the Exchequer’s household and would be moving out of Holyrood within a week. Dallas was very pleased.
But the second letter pleased her even more. It was written from Beauly in Iain Fraser’s surprisingly artistic but slanted hand. “I arrived here two days ago, my mission in Rome accomplished as well as could be managed under the circumstances,” he wrote guardedly. “Meanwhile, I am touring my properties to make sure all is well for the harvest and to implement certain other plans I have herewith set out to do.” Dallas puzzled briefly over this statement, then continued: “Sorcha sends her fondest greetings. I send my own to you and to our dear children, and expect to lie in your arms before summer’s end.”
Dallas gloated over the words like a rabbit who has just discovered a clump of clover. But how Fraser could enter Edinburgh without being detected caused her much worry. He’d managed it in March, but his luck couldn’t hold forever. Nor was there the slightest hope that James Stuart might have softened in his attitude. Dallas folded the cherished letter carefully and tucked it away in a little carved cedar chest where she kept her greatest treasures.
Before summer’s end, Fraser had said. Well, August was almost over. He’d be coming soon if he kept his promise. Anticipation overcame worry as Dallas smiled happily at her own reflection in the bedroom mirror.
Queen Mary was back in Edinburgh, making arrangements for the prince’s christening. Darnley had joined her at Traquair, where Tarril said they had engaged in a shockingly tasteless quarrel. The King and Queen were said to be on extremely bad terms.