by Mary Daheim
But there was one thing he hadn’t considered. The crumpled man with the purple face who lay on the meadow grass was the only other person in the world who knew the identity of Fraser’s father. If neither amulet was ever found, if no other proof could be unearthed, James Stuart was the only man who could offer witness. Though Fraser realized that James would only do so under the most severe duress, he had to stake his future on that frail, seemingly impossible chance.
He glanced at James’s motionless form. “Maybe having his death on my conscience isn’t worth it anyway,” he growled. “His life is sin enough.”
Bothwell let out a deep sigh of relief and clapped Fraser on the shoulder. “Now you’re talking sense! If Scotland is going to be well governed, those of us with ability must keep our wits about us.”
Fraser gave Bothwell a curious sidelong glance. Such a comment was out of character for the turbulent Border Earl! Obviously, Fraser thought, much had transpired during his absence.
One of the moss-troopers had hurried to join Fraser and Bothwell. “What about Lord James?” the man inquired.
“Go tell his servants to fetch him,” Bothwell answered. “They know where to find him, they were the ones who told me about the fight in the first place. And give Baron Fraser his sword.”
“But, sir,” the man persisted, “is Lord James dead?”
Fraser broke in before Bothwell could reply. “Christ, no,” he snorted contemptuously. “The puny-livered swine only fainted.”
Chapter 29
Fraser waited a week for any repercussions from his fight with James. But nothing happened. Though rumors of the encounter trickled out into the Netherbow and down the Vennel and through the West Port, no one could be certain what really had happened. James’s servants knew the value of discretion; so did Bothwell’s loyal moss-troopers.
But Fraser was not deluded by James’s inaction. Though Fraser moved freely about the capital, at least two of his men always kept close by. James, after all, was a very patient man.
The days passed by quickly enough for Fraser. He sought information about the Queen, about Bothwell, about all that had occurred during his sojourn abroad. The Queen wasn’t herself and Bothwell now had great influence in state affairs, having leapt into the breach left by Rizzio’s death and Darnley’s estrangement from the Queen. Darnley himself, despite numerous attempts to reconcile with his wife, was in virtual exile in Glasgow, bullying his servants and drinking constantly.
To lighten the burden of politics, Fraser turned to his sons for company. He delighted especially in Magnus, who displayed a lively imagination and unbridled curiosity. But one of his most frequently asked questions was a very basic, “Where’s Mother?”
Upon learning that the Queen had left for the borders to attend the annual assizes in the company of James, Bothwell and Maitland, Fraser sent Cummings to fetch Dallas.
She arrived at the town house on a blustery day in late October, wearing her too-thin summer cloak, a heavy serge blouse of drab brown and a wool skirt hitched up at the waist so that she could ride her horse astride. After Fraser had greeted her with a resounding kiss and the boys had hugged her excitedly, she unwound the fusty plaid scarf from her tangled hair and kicked off her wet, ill-fitting shoes.
“By heaven, farm life isn’t for me! Six weeks of hauling milk pails, thumping away at Oliver’s damnable loom, and listening to Annie jabber about the cows’ indigestion!” Dallas gazed around the supper room with renewed appreciation, then collapsed into an armchair. “I’m starving, but first I want a bath. Where’s Flora?”
“She eloped with John Knox,” Fraser said, leaning over the back of Dallas’s chair and nuzzling the nape of her neck. “I once offered to give Meg a bath but you gainsaid me. Surely you won’t again refuse me the privilege of assisting at a lady’s toilette?”
Dallas leaned back to look up into her husband’s hazel eyes. “Get the big tub,” she said. “There’s room for two.”
The news from the borders was ominous: Bothwell had been seriously wounded in a typical border foray and lay near death at Hermitage Castle. A few days later word reached Edinburgh that the Queen had ridden with James to visit Bothwell and, upon her return to Jedburgh, had fallen dangerously ill. Churches in the capital were crammed with ordinary citizens praying fervently for their sovereign’s recovery.
By All Saints’ Day, the latest reports were more optimistic. Dr. Arnault had worked a miracle and the Queen appeared to be improving. Bothwell was said to be definitely on the mend. Even the very fog which enshrouded the city seemed to sigh with relief.
On a frosty evening in mid-November, Fraser looked up from the list of improvements he’d been writing down for the manor house at Beauly and asked Dallas if she’d consider going to Craigmillar Castle. “The Queen is being brought there by litter to recuperate,” he explained. “I must abide by my word to remain in Edinburgh, but too much has gone on lately that I don’t understand. If you agree to go, I’ll send several men to protect you.”
Dallas put aside the copy of Herodotus and frowned. “The rumors about the Queen and Bothwell are distressing. They’re also confusing—some say he is wooing her and others say he uses threats and witchcraft.”
“The only witchcraft Bothwell uses with women is in bed, but whatever means he exercises to gain control of Mary Stuart and the government, his rise must signify James’s fall.” Fraser had gotten up to throw another log on the fire. Outside, the wind had picked up, rattling the shutters and blowing snow clouds down from the north. “However amicably Bothwell and James may cooperate now, they hate each other, they always have. There’s bound to be a confrontation, with the Queen caught in the middle.”
Dallas pulled the skirts of her pale blue peignoir away from the hearth as the dry wood sent out a scatter of sparks. “Mind the carpet, Iain, you’ll put holes in it yet.”
“It’s the wind, blowing straight down the chimney.” Fraser knelt down to shove the logs back further. Dallas’s mouth curved into a fond little smile as she watched her husband cope with the fire. For almost a month she had lived in relative, unfamiliar peace with her husband. He made only occasional protests about his confinement to Edinburgh, and she had begun to feel as if the secure, stable life she had so long desired was within her grasp.
“I’ll go to Craigmillar if you wish,” she said after he had stood up and was wiping his sooty hands with a napkin. “I’ve no mind to leave you and the children, but if you think it necessary, I’ll be your eyes and ears at court.”
Fraser leaned down to kiss her nose. “I think it is. And though you’ll be well guarded, you’re safe now. Whatever James thinks you know about the jewel case or the forged bond, he is certain you would have told me, too. There’d be no point in persecuting you further.”
“How tactfully you put that,” Dallas commented dryly. “Yet I’m not sorry you didn’t kill James. Is that simple-minded of me?”
“Nay, lassie,” Fraser assured her. “You’re soft-hearted, as I’ve often told you. And,” he added, stretching out on the floor in front of the fire, “I love you for it.” She would never have to know about Maclnnes and Clark; his own conscience would bear the burden for both of them.
Dallas managed to put off returning to court for several days, and by the time she left, the Queen and her retinue had moved to Stirling for the royal christening. On a cold, grey morning in December, she rode out of Edinburgh with Flora and six of Fraser’s men.
While Dallas unpacked with Flora’s help, Tarrill greeted her sister with a puzzling tale. “Donald came to Craigmillar for a few days in order to go over the christening expenditures,” Tarrill began, sitting on the bed while Flora frowned at the wrinkles Dallas’s gowns had accumulated during the brief journey. Neither sister had any qualms about talking freely in front of Flora; over the years, she had proven herself as discreet as she was loyal.
“After supper one night, Donald and I slipped away, to explore the castle. Donald remembered that he’d lef
t a ledger in an anteroom just off the Queen’s audience chamber. As he intended to recheck his figures before meeting in the morning with the prince’s guardian, Lord Erskine, he had to retrieve the ledger at once.”
Tarrill had gone with him, both moving noiselessly into the anteroom in case the Queen had retired for the night. But they realized immediately that Mary Stuart was not only still up, but conferring with her most important nobles. The door to the audience chamber was ajar just an inch or two, but Tarrill and Donald could hear the earnest, conspiratorial voices without much difficulty.
“Donald motioned that we should leave at once,” Tarrill said, a fine crease appearing between her dark brows. “But I was curious, I knew they were talking about Darnley, and though I shouldn’t have, I insisted we stay.”
“ ’Twas natural, go on,” Dallas urged. “What did you hear?”
Maitland had alluded to divorce, if the Queen would permit all the Rizzio assassins, especially Morton, to return from exile. Mary consented somewhat reluctantly but pointed out that the divorce must in no way jeopardize her son’s legitimacy. Bothwell and George Gordon had begun to talk among themselves, apparently questioning how long such legal maneuverings would take. Sir James Balfour, the only lawyer in the group, pointed out that both Pope and Parliament would have to consent. Maitland interrupted at this point, suavely mentioning “other means.”
“Then he said something strange, to the effect that ‘James would look through his fingers’ at whatever method was employed to rid the Queen of Darnley.” Tarrill paused to see what effect this statement had on her sister. But Dallas merely frowned a little and said nothing. “The Queen protested that they must do nothing to dishonor her,” Tarrill continued, “and Maitland assured her that whatever happened would meet with Parliament’s approval. Argyll got up then, saying something about getting parchment and quills. Donald and I feared he might come into the anteroom as such writing materials are usually kept there, so we hurried out as quickly as possible.” Tarrill sighed and tucked her legs up under her taffeta skirts. “We discussed it all at great length but didn’t know what conclusions to draw.”
Dallas toyed idly with her pearl and ruby bracelet. “Treason, I’ll wager,” she declared at last. “They’ll arrest Darnley, charge him and execute him. After all, didn’t King Henry in England do the same with two of his consorts?”
“That’s so.” Tarrill picked up a fox muff Flora had just unpacked and absently stroked the soft fur. “Yet Donald thinks they have no solid charge.”
Rising from the bed, Dallas gathered up an armful of petticoats to store in the garderobe. “Darnley connived at Rizzio’s murder and many still think the real target was the Queen. A miscarriage at that stage would have killed her.”
But Tarrill remained uneasy. Dallas’s ready acceptance of a treason trial puzzled her. She could not guess at how much her sister longed for a continuation of tranquil domestic life with Fraser and the children. To Dallas, Darnley’s arrest and execution would be a neat, legal means of eliminating the man who had originally been responsible for sending her husband into exile. A more sinister means of ridding the Queen of Darnley might mean disaster.
Prince James’s christening was held with great pomp on December seventeenth in the Chapel Royal at Stirling. While many Protestant lords refused to enter the chapel itself, James Stuart, Bothwell and Argyll all attended, but one person’s absence was noted with mounting speculation: Darnley was not present.
He was at Stirling, however, pouting in his chambers. Mary made excuses for him and allowed Bothwell to act as surrogate host. During the festivities, the Queen appeared more like herself, laughing, dancing, exuding her special charm to all, including the eighty nobles sent by Elizabeth to grace the occasion.
One evening while the courtiers muffled themselves against the cold winter air, fireworks were set off from the Carse of Stirling below the castle. Dallas stood with the others along the battlements, watching with wonder as spectacular bursts of color illumined the distant Ochils against the winter sky.
“It’s a shame the prince is too young to enjoy such sights,” John Hamilton commented as he edged in between Dallas and his sister, Barbara. “Though it seems grown-ups delight in fireworks as much as children do.”
“True enough,” Dallas replied, huddling into her miniver-trimmed cloak, “but they smell so!”
Hamilton smiled down at Dallas. They had seen each other casually during the fortnight since she’d come to court. On the surface, their relationship seemed to have resumed the pattern which had existed between them before their flight from London. If Hamilton still longed for Dallas, and if she herself had never quite understood her feelings for him, they kept these thoughts to themselves.
Barbara was gasping in wonder at an explosion of goldfish-shaped fireworks. Dallas, however, was gasping in wonder at something quite different: James Stuart had just strolled out onto the esplanade with Delphinia Douglas on his arm.
“What’s this?” she whispered to Hamilton. “Has that snake James taken up with Delphinia?”
Hamilton glanced surreptitiously at the pair. Delphinia wore a magnificent purple cloak trimmed in swansdown; James was not as somberly clad as usual, since Queen Mary had personally selected a handsome new green doublet for him to wear during the christening festivities.
“James has many vices, but none as interesting as adultery,” Hamilton said and then wished he hadn’t for he saw Dallas stiffen and Barbara scowl. “No,” he went on rapidly, “if James and Delphinia are going about arm in arm, it isn’t because of any romantic notions—Lady Agnes is at Wemyss, suffering from the early stages of pregnancy, so it’s possible that James is merely squiring the widowed Delphinia about for the festivities.”
It was possible, Dallas admitted; but Delphinia had looked smugly suspect when she’d swept by on James’s arm. “Those two are like a pair of cobras, ready to strike. I mislike their connivance.”
“Don’t let it spoil the evening,” Hamilton said, not wanting to alarm Dallas further. But he realized as much as she that any conspiracy between Delphinia Douglas and James Stuart boded ill for Dallas and Iain Fraser.
Two days before Christmas, Dallas returned to Edinburgh just in time for a whirlwind shopping tour of the Lawnmarket and the High Street. She told Fraser about Delphinia and James, but though he was intrigued, he did not appear overly concerned.
“Delphinia is a born schemer,” he said. “Who knows, she may be using James to help her find a rich husband.” As for Tarrill’s account of the meeting at Craigmillar between Mary and her nobles, Dallas’s abbreviated, sketchy description left Fraser puzzled. “If they pardon the other lords for their part in the Rizzio murder, then I can’t see how they can charge Darnley with his role in the tragedy.”
“You know how things can be twisted,” Dallas said blithely, holding up a toy sword she’d purchased for Magnus. “Do you think he could hurt himself on this?”
“Hmmmm?” Fraser was deep in thought, one long leg slung over the arm of the chair. “Nay, but keep him away from Robert.”
The preparations for Christmas continued at a hectic pace; this would be the first time Dallas and her own brood would spend the holiday with her other relatives. They gathered together at the Cameron house on Christmas Eve, with Glennie and Walter and the boys, with Marthe and Tarrill and Donald. As new snow drifted down outside and the old carols reverberated within, Dallas thought the night seemed perfect. Donald had never quite overcome his awe of Fraser, and Walter had always felt a trifle uncomfortable in his brother-in-law’s presence, but after several refills of the wassail bowl, the company grew increasingly congenial.
On Christmas day itself, the family joined together once more, this time at the Fraser town house. Dallas had festooned the walls with pine boughs and red satin ribbons; great swatches of fir stood in tall vases and garlands of holly decorated each of the fireplaces. Dallas herself wore a new gown of red silk trimmed with silver and a matching silver r
ibbon was entwined in her dark hair. Fraser declared she was the bonniest Christmas package he’d ever seen.
That night, when they were replete-with drink, food and each other, Dallas curled up against Fraser in the big bed and laughed over the antics of the children. “Jamie and Daniel are so grown-up these days,” she said, “but they were scamps this afternoon, shredding their presents and fighting with each other over who got the best ones.”
“Magnus should have been punished for taking away Robert’s gifts,” Fraser declared. “I’ll be glad when Robbie is old enough to defend himself.”
“I couldn’t punish Magnus today,” Dallas said, clasping Fraser’s hand against her stomach. “At Christmastime, I suppose we must “look through our fingers,’ as Maitland said of James Stuart.”
Dallas felt her husband tense. “What do you mean, “look through our fingers’? I don’t understand.”
“Oh,” Dallas replied, shrugging drowsily, “ ’twas something Tarrill overheard that night at Craigmillar. If the nobles used other means to get rid of Darnley, then James would look through his fingers and not make trouble.” She yawned elaborately and nestled into the pillow.
But Fraser had released her and was sitting up. “Dammit, Dallas, you didn’t tell me everything! You mentioned Parliamentary approval, divorce and treason charges, but not this!”
“It’s late, Iain, I’m tired,” Dallas said peevishly. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
Fraser grabbed Dallas by the wrist, jerking her up into a sitting position. “You’ll tell me now,” he commanded. “You should have told me in the first place.” He struck off a piece of flint, to light the one taper by the bed. Dallas blinked against the sudden brightness and pulled the comforter up around her shoulders. Annoyed, she launched into the entire story but was careful this time not to omit any of the details.