by Mary Daheim
Dallas found herself the center of a great commotion when she reached the rooms Flora had selected. The children, both keyed up from the long journey, raced to meet her, Ellen burst into tears, and Meg, who had decided to come along after all, clutched at her mistress’s arm.
“Where’s Father?” Magnus demanded. “Have they killed him yet?”
“Hush, you little beast,” Dallas commanded, annoyed that Magnus obviously knew more than he should about what was going on. “Your father is quite well and getting ready to eat supper.”
Dallas, however, ate sparingly from a tray Flora brought in after her mistress had taken a soothing bath. Within minutes of blowing out the candle, Dallas was fast asleep. She had no idea what time it was when she awoke to find John Hamilton standing next to the bed, clad in a plain dark nightrobe.
“Jesu, John,” she whispered, struggling up on one elbow “you mustn’t come here!”
“The rest are sleeping soundly in the next room,” he said quietly. “If, as everyone thinks, I’ve gone to all this trouble to sleep with you, that’s what I intend to do. Move over, sweetheart, you’re smack in the middle of the bed.”
“No!” she cried and immediately lowered her voice. “The miscarriage ... you know what happened to me when we ....”
“Be still, Dallas, I know all that.” He kept the night-robe on and slipped between the covers. “I wanted to make love to you the night Darnley was killed—and you wanted me to, despite the consequences had we been found out. But tonight we can’t, so it’s quite safe for us to be together. Now stop hissing at me and let me hold you.”
“Oh, fie, Johnny,” she mumbled and rolled over into his arms. “You smell like pine and leather.”
“And you feel like heaven. Good God, Dallas, have you any idea how much I’ve wanted to sleep in your arms again all these years?”
Locked in the security of his embrace, warmed by their enduring mutual feeling, Dallas sighed into his shoulder. “Yes, John, I do. There have been many times when ....” She broke off abruptly, afraid to say more.
His arms tightened around her. “It’s all right, sweetheart, I know. There’s nothing you could tell me that I don’t understand already.” His lips brushed the top of her head. “Now before I discover I’m a weaker man than I thought, we’d better go to sleep.”
Dallas did just that, her head against his chest, one arm curled around his waist. But Hamilton lay awake for some time, savoring the softness of her body through the thin lambswool shift and deeply touched by her perfect trust in him.
Chapter 33
Tarrill paused on her way from the Butter Tron as she noticed a wagonload of possessions being maneuvered into Gosford’s Close. The furnishings looked bulky and ugly, a far cry from the elegant pieces they replaced.
Clutching her parcels tightly, she moved closer for a better look. Morton himself was talking to the kinsman who had taken over the town house. Tarrill knew the shifty earl slightly; she turned away, not wanting to speak to him. She’d seen enough; it upset her to watch the Fraser residence fall to the Douglases.
As she headed towards the fowler’s to pick up a capon for supper, Mistress Drummond hailed her from a grainseller’s stall just off Foster’s Wynd. Tarrill wasn’t in the mood to chat, but the confrontation was unavoidable.
“Och, marriage has made ye bloom! I dinna see ye much of late, though Glennie tells me ye’ve not been at court for a bit.”
Tarrill juggled her parcels and hoped Mistress Drummond wasn’t in the mood for a long gossip. “That’s so,” she replied noncommittally. The royal dismissal had been final but Tarrill had no regrets. She felt she was well out of the turmoil which raged around the Queen. “Donald and I visit occasionally with Glennie and Walter, but keep much to ourselves these days.”
A slow wink closed Mistress Drummond’s left eye. “Ah, ’tis the way it should be with newlyweds! That laddie ye married is a braw one!” Moving closer to Tarrill, Mistress Drummond lowered her voice. “But the Queen! Such an outrage! One husband dead but three months and doubtless dispatched by the new bridegroom himself! And did ye ever see a marriage dissolved as hastily as Lord Bothwell’s!”
It was true. Jean, Countess of Bothwell, had been granted a divorce by the Protestant commissary court on May third; within four days a Catholic annulment had been arranged. A week later, Mary Stuart had married the Border Earl in the great hall at Holyrood—under Protestant rites.
“I hope they’re happy,” Tarrill said, though without much conviction. Only a fortnight after the wedding, she’d heard that the Queen was more distraught than ever and had even threatened to kill herself. Whatever passion had burned between Mary and Bothwell seemed to have been extinguished like a candle in a sharp draught.
Mistress Drummond was forging onward, berating the royal couple for a multitude of sins. “Topsy-turvy,” she declared in summation. “ ’Tis what I call Scotland these days. But there, I’ve run on so, I’ve not asked about your other sister—never was I so shocked in my life over what happened when Lord Hamilton—I used to think so much of him—carted her and her husband away!”
Tarrill herself had been shocked. Eventually, she and Donald, along with Glennie and Walter, had deciphered their sister’s cryptic message enough to figure out that the situation was not exactly what it seemed. Yet at the time they had been stunned and infuriated by the stupefying turn of events.
“It’s all politics,” Tarrill said vaguely. “I don’t understand it myself. If you’ll excuse me, I must be going, I have to get to the fowler’s and ....”
“Ah, ye won’t want to not be there when that Donald of yours comes home!” Mistress Drummond nodded with a faint leer. “Run along now, and give him my best.” She chuckled as Tarrill hurried up towards St. Giles. “Politics, indeed!” she said to herself and chuckled again.
After the first few days at Hamilton Castle, Iain Fraser was given virtual liberty. If he went outdoors to ride or hunt, a nominal guard was sent along, but inside the castle, there were no such restrictions. He was released from the tower room to join Dallas and the children in their suite. Some of the Hamilton followers were puzzled but raised no questions. It was not uncommon for titled prisoners to receive such generous treatment. Then again, perhaps Lord Hamilton had merely changed his mind; indecision had been a way of life with his father, the duke.
The real change, however, had occurred in the relationship between Hamilton and Fraser. In their younger years, the two men’s paths had not crossed frequently. It was only after Mary Stuart’s return to Scotland that both men were drawn into the court circle, and then Fraser’s longstanding friendship with Bothwell made him an enemy of the Hamiltons. His natural contempt for kin and clan feuds might have prevented him from carrying the antagonism further, but Hamilton’s obvious attraction to Dallas had made that impossible. Then, when Fraser had discovered their betrayal of him, hostility flamed into hatred.
On that heart-shattering afternoon at Strathmuir, Fraser had hoped he had killed Hamilton. Afterwards, he was relieved that he hadn’t. Later, when he’d learned that Hamilton was in Italy, nursing his wounded heart, Fraser had actually felt a pang of compassion for his rival. And when he’d encountered Hamilton with Dallas on the night of Darnley’s murder, Fraser had seen him in an entirely new light—not as Dallas’s lover, but as a man who loved Dallas and an honorable man at that.
The mock arrest in Leith Wynd momentarily destroyed any such charitable notions. While Fraser walked out of Leith and up into Gosford’s Close, he loathed Hamilton more than he’d ever hated any man, even James Stuart himself. And then, in a cataclysmic moment of revelation, Fraser understood Hamilton’s true motives—and Hamilton himself. This was not only an honorable man, but a selfless one, a man who loved a woman so much that he would sacrifice his own happiness for hers.
It had not been easy for Fraser to accept Hamilton’s sacrifice, preferring at first to think the other man had acted out of gratitude for Eglinton’s safety. Ultimate
ly, however, Fraser had forced himself to recognize the extent of Hamilton’s actions, and their peculiarly awe-inspiring implications. Hamilton, on the other hand, true to his innate generosity of spirit, had neither asked for nor expected Fraser’s gratitude. He had done what he thought was right and that was sufficient.
But now Hamilton and Fraser were facing a crisis of another sort. Both men had been surprised the previous day when Maitland of Lethington had ridden into Hamilton Castle. When the Secretary of State’s arrival had been announced, their first concern was whether or not Fraser should be sent back to the tower room to underscore his role as captive. But after a brief discussion, they came to the conclusion that if any one had seen through the deception, it would be the clever Maitland.
The Secretary, however, was too absorbed in his own dilemma to show much interest in what was happening at Hamilton Castle. He looked haggard and disconcerted as he came into the chamber where Fraser and Hamilton were playing chess.
“I was forced to flee Edinburgh,” he declared, gratefully accepting a cup of whiskey. “God knows I’ve served the Queen faithfully over the years, but a man can only endure so much.”
“Such as?” Fraser inquired, lifting an eyebrow. Maitland gave a short, bitter laugh. “An attempt on my life.” The usually suave gaze flickered with anger. “Bothwell tried to murder me at Dunbar. In the Queen’s presence, no less.”
Hamilton picked up a pawn and set it down again. “Why? You’ve supported him thus far.”
“I’ve supported the Queen thus far, you mean,” Maitland countered, pulling off his riding gloves and tossing them onto a side table. “I’ve always despised Bothwell for the brute that he is. But he, he who murdered Darnley, had the gall to accuse me in front of the Queen of conspiring to assassinate Rizzio.”
Hamilton looked away from Maitland to the chessboard, but Fraser merely grinned at the secretary. “Come, come, William, let’s not be coy. You had a hand in that, and the Queen knew it well.”
Maitland flushed slightly. “I’ll admit I was involved, but I took no active part as Bothwell did in Darnley’s murder. The man laid the gunpowder himself!”
From all that they had heard, there was little reason to doubt Maitland. Bothwell, along with some of his henchmen and several of the Douglases, was said to have been the actual assassin, though no one knew for sure who had strangled Darnley.
“In any event,” Maitland sighed, “when Bothwell attacked me, it was the Queen who intervened. God knows I’m grateful for her intercession, but I could hardly stay on serving her when at any moment some rascally Borderer might stab me in the back.”
Fraser and Hamilton agreed that Maitland had cause to take flight. Yet there was something terribly pathetic about his defection. Somehow, it symbolized the Queen’s own precarious position. Though Maitland’s loyalty over the years had not been flawless, he had been more steadfast than most. If he had abandoned her, how many others would follow?
Later that day, Maitland rode out, towards his country home in the west. Less than twenty-four hours later, another important visitor arrived at Hamilton Castle.
George Gordon had come not to hinder the Queen but to help her. He had ridden hard from Edinburgh that morning, and sweat poured down his ruddy face as he dismounted in the courtyard.
“George?” Dallas inquired uncertainly as she held onto the reins of the pony Magnus was riding around in a circle. “Jesu, you’re more lathered than your mount!”
“Where’s Lord John?” he asked peremptorily as a groom led Gordon’s weary horse away.
Dallas motioned for Magnus to stop hopping up and down in the pony’s saddle. “He went fishing,” she replied. “He’ll be back in an hour or so.” Dallas noted that Gordon had added yet more weight and that his jowls were beginning to sag under the golden beard. She had to bite her lip to keep from smiling at the folly of her youth.
But Gordon was making his own appraisal: The tutor’s daughter, with her head stuffed full of more learning than any woman had a right to know, had somehow managed to end up in the middle of an outlandish scandal involving two of Scotland’s most important lords. The irony was that in her elegantly tailored plum-colored riding habit and matching high-crowned hat, she looked every inch the part of a woman men would fight over. The trim but voluptuous body, the big, dark eyes, the thick hair tucked up under her hat, and the full, sensuous mouth made him wonder why he had virtually ignored her ten years earlier.
But Gordon could not afford to let such distractions deter him further. He had come to see Hamilton—and Fraser—on urgent business. “Your husband, madame—where is he? I assume you still have him.”
Gordon’s tone was insinuating, but Dallas paid little heed because Magnus was trying to pull the leading strings out of her hands. “No, you cannot ride alone!” she told her son firmly and ignored his petulant expression. Dallas turned back to Gordon. “Oh, he went fishing, too. But,” she added hastily, realizing the implications of what she’d just said, “he’s not allowed to keep what he catches.”
“A most peculiar sort of punishment,” Gordon remarked dryly. “In what manner of captivity does Lord John hold your husband?”
But Claud Hamilton’s arrival spared Dallas having to make a reply. Claud greeted Gordon effusively. Antagonism between the two powerful families had long been smoothed over, partially through the peacemaking efforts of Gordon’s wife, Anne Hamilton.
Dallas purposely turned her back on the two men and gave her total attention to Magnus. A few moments later, Gordon and Claud went inside the castle. Let Claud make the explanations, she thought, he’s slippery as a wet step and twice as dangerous. It always amazed Dallas that the old duke could have sired three sons so totally unalike.
And it had amused her to see the expression on George Gordon’s face as he had eyed her in a fleeting moment of masculine appreciation. She had long ago forgotten the sound of his derisive laughter; indeed, she had virtually forgotten George Gordon completely.
Gordon’s proposal was simple enough. If Fraser and Hamilton pledged to support the Queen, there would be no repercussions from their own felonious deception. Gordon was no fool; he had discerned for himself what was going on at Hamilton Castle after watching Lord John and Fraser ride into the courtyard, obviously enjoying a certain measure of camaraderie,
Hamilton said he’d have to think about the matter. He was torn much in the same way as Maitland; he supported the Queen personally but could not abide Bothwell’s treacherous ambition. He’d also prefer to discuss the matter with his father, who, after all, was still nominal head of the Hamilton house.
Fraser’s attitude was skeptical. He’d quarreled with the Queen in a most bitter, antagonistic manner; he had also broken openly with Bothwell. Only a few weeks ago both were eager to put him in the Tolbooth and probably condone a sentence of execution. “The idea sets ill with me, George,” Fraser said as he slit open one of the salmon he’d caught that morning in the nearby river. “It’s not as if I can provide several thousand troops as John can. Not being my clan’s chief, I could only offer a couple of hundred. And somehow,” he added, dumping the fish’s innards into a bucket, “I don’t think that’s enough to pay for my alleged past sins.”
“Neither of you realize how desperate the Queen’s position is,” Gordon asserted. “Had you been in the capital these past weeks, you’d know that her prestige has all but evaporated. No epithet is too vile for the ordinary citizen to hurl against her. And meanwhile, her former supporters desert her day by day.”
“I pity poor Mary,” Hamilton acknowledged as he gestured for a servant to haul their catch away into the kitchens. “But it may be that her cause is already lost. Who is the actual leader of the opposition?”
Gordon leaned on the edge of the water trough and loosened his jacket. The June afternoon had grown warm. “No one lord leads them. Morton, Lindsay, Atholl, Argyll, young Ruthven, some others. Oh, yes, Kirkcaldy of Grange.”
“Kirkcaldy!” Fraser expos
tulated. “The rest are of negligible character. But I’m surprised at Kirkcaldy. He’s a sound man—and a doughty soldier.”
Gordon nodded. “I know, I was amazed to hear of his defection. And Maitland’s. It leaves the Queen and Bothwell with inferior captains, mainly Border men who are more used to raids than to battles. But if she could count on you two, it would help immeasurably.”
“And you?” Fraser raised an eyebrow at Gordon. “You are committed to her cause?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t,” Gordon replied with obvious indignation. “I put Corrichie Moor behind me long ago.”
John and Claud Hamilton rode over to consult with their father later that day. They returned at dusk, no more enlightened than they had been before they left. The duke had given them at least a dozen sound reasons why the House of Hamilton should support the Queen; then he’d given another dozen why they should not.
But Claud’s mind was made up. “Mary Stuart is our kin,” he told his brother. “She is also our Queen. And unless she is actually deposed and not merely defeated, we will be considered traitors for not offering our support.” The two Hamiltons argued far into the night. By morning, they had agreed to take their men into Edinburgh. Claud’s reasoning was far from selfless, but it was sound. As they mustered their forces outside the castle, Fraser strolled under the arched entrance, swinging a riding crop against his hip.
Gordon, who was riding back to the capital with the Hamiltons, walked over to meet Fraser. “Well? What of you, Iain?”
Fraser scanned the well-ordered ranks of Hamilton men. “They don’t look as fierce as our Highlanders, do they, George? But I suppose they can put up a fight.” He signaled for a groom to bring Barvas. “I’ll go along, if only for the ride.”