The Royal Mile

by Mary Daheim

  Marthe paused and passed a hand over her face. “If she thought to fool Malcolm, she was mistaken. He was canny, in his way. Still, the time passed peaceably enough. My wee one was born about two months ahead of ye, Iain. So when Malcolm took Catherine to the convent, I did not go with her. But when her hour came, she sent for me, and my man and I traveled through the dark night to be at her side. You had just come into the world when we got there and Father Beathan was with your poor mother. She was so weak.” Marthe paused, pressed her lips together and shook her head at the sad memory. “She asked that we be left alone. And then she told me who the nobleman was, who your father was. Oh, Iain, my poor bairn, you were sired by Jamie himself, our good King!”

  The silence which followed appeared to immobilize all three of them. Marthe seemed to be holding a deep breath; Dallas’s unblinking stare was fixed on her husband’s shadowy face. He sat with his hand resting on his knee, his eyes boring into the well-trodden carpet. Daniel Cameron had been right after all. Fraser had never doubted the dying man’s words, it was the only explanation for James Stuart’s deep antagonism .... James, his half-brother ... the Queen, his half-sister ... and if he had calculated rightly, he was some months older than James, if he’d been legitimated as James himself had been, he, not James, would have fallen heir to all those perquisites and powers ....

  Fraser laughed aloud, shaking his head in wonder. How could he have had even the most fleeting of doubts? But Delphinia’s story had been well contrived; Daniel Cameron had been a mortally ill man who had been incoherent until Fraser arrived in Nairne’s Close.

  Fraser stopped abruptly and looked at Dallas. She was staring dumbly into space, the hint of a frown playing about her eyes. “Well?” He reached over and grabbed her wrist, making her head jerk forward. “Don’t you have anything to say to your royal bastard of a husband?”

  Slowly, her free hand encircled the wrist which held hers. “I don’t know what to say—except that at least it explains where Robbie got his red hair.”

  Fraser let go of her wrist but held onto her hand. “I’d expect more jubilation from you, madame,” he said in a tone that was only half-teasing. “You wanted to know the truth all these years. Now you’ve found out that one great secret your father—and I—had to keep from you.”

  “True enough.” Dallas nodded, displaying more of her usual animation. “Maybe I just can’t take in all that’s happened this afternoon. Or maybe I always knew that you didn’t spring from the loins of some vagrant caird or plundering reiver. Truly, Iain, I marvel that it never occurred to me before.”

  “I wonder how long James knew,” Fraser mused with a shake of his head. “Even when I first met him at the university at St. Andrews he was unfriendly. But he couldn’t have known then, Marie de Guise was still alive. What happened, I wonder, to the second amulet the priest told you about, Dallas?”

  “Och,” interposed Marthe, “wonder no more.” She reached inside her bodice and drew out a gold amulet, set with a ruby, not unlike the one Delphinia had displayed earlier that day. “Here,” she said, pulling the chain over her head, “this is the mate to the one Master Cameron gave to the Queen Mother. Your own sweet mother entrusted it to me before she died.”

  Fraser took the necklace from her and turned it over in his brown hands. “Jesu.” He pressed the side and the circular top clicked open to reveal a lock of red hair and an inscription in French. “To dearest Catherine,” it read, “in devoted remembrance—James Rex.”

  “You mean you’ve worn it all these years and no one ever knew?” His tone was incredulous as he gave the amulet to Dallas so that she could study it more closely.

  “Och, of course no one knew!” Marthe said indignantly. “I don’t go about with my dresses like so, the way some women do nowadays.”

  Fraser laughed and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “You are a remarkable woman, Marthe—or should I say, Moireach? But what happened to you after you left Beauly?”

  Marthe pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. The late June afternoon sun had made the parlor uncommonly warm. “I had lost both child and husband within a span of six months. Your aunt and uncle, the ones who took ye in after Malcolm drowned that wild night on Beauly Firth, said I could stay on with them, but there was so much sadness there for me. I misliked leaving ye but decided to go south, where my man had kin. I ended up working for a MacKintosh family whose daughter was soon to wed and move to Edinburgh. That was your mother, Dallas, and she was the one who insisted I be called Marthe. She said, dear lady that she was, the Lowlanders would never be able to pronounce the Gaelic name. So on to the city I went, leaving my past behind me. Strange, how very strange that I served both your mothers, and tended the two of you as bairns.”

  “Strange indeed,” Fraser drawled. “What a shock it must have been when I showed up as Dallas’s prospective husband!”

  Marthe’s eyes went round with remembrance. “Och! That it was! I could scarce believe it! But it seemed right somehow, almost as if the two of ye belonged together from the very start. But though Master Cameron told you the truth, I still couldna break my own vow of silence. Oh, I knew ye needed proof and I had it—but I knew, too, I’d pass on afore ye and leave the amulet to Dallas as the safeguard for your futures. But today—well, I had to speak up to spare ye both a terrible heartbreak.”

  It was Dallas’s turn to kiss Marthe. She hugged the serving woman close, repeating her name over and over. “And you did spare us! I can’t imagine what might have happened if you hadn’t spoken out!”

  After Dallas had released Marthe, the old serving woman got to her feet. “Whether ye tell all or not, ’tis your business now, Iain. In truth, I’m glad to be rid of the secret, it’s been a terrible burden all these long years.” She paused to give them one last fond look. “Now I must amble on to the kitchen, I’ve a supper to make!”

  When Marthe had gone, Dallas and Fraser stared at the amulet which was resting on the little oak table. “I can’t help but think Marthe might have saved me a lot of trouble if she’d revealed her secret a long time ago,” he said wryly. “Though God knows, I hold a vow as sacred as the next man.”

  “James still would have tried to get you out of the way, I’ll wager,” Dallas asserted, putting her arms around Fraser. “And if there had been no secret, if my father hadn’t mentioned your name on his deathbed, I might never have gotten to know you.”

  “Hmmmm.” Fraser nodded his head once in assent. “I’d like to get reacquainted. It’s been over a week since we parted at Hamilton Castle. Can you lock that parlor door?”

  “No,” Dallas murmured into his chest. “There’s no key and as you may have noticed, this is an easy room on which to eavesdrop. Marthe’s been doing it for years.”

  Fraser sighed as he let his hands stray down her back and over her hips. “I’m still poor, you know, king’s son or not. If there’s any place in this overpopulated house that’s private, would you consider surrendering yourself to a royal pauper?”

  “I was dreadful that morning before you left,” Dallas murmured, forgetting the first part of his question and nibbling on his ear. “You know I didn’t really mean it, don’t you?”

  “I’m never sure what you mean and what you don’t,” he said low, working rapidly at the hooks on her gown. Fraser kissed her once, twice, three times before his weight finally forced her down onto the carpet by the hearth.

  “You were most ungallant at Hamilton Castle,” Dallas declared as she felt his hands fondle her buttocks.

  “So I was,” Fraser admitted readily enough as he took off his own clothes. “But you are an aggravating little wench.”

  “Oh?” Dallas held his face between her hands. “Still, you seem capable of putting up with me.”

  Fraser laughed and shook his head. “I can’t seem to not put up with you. How did a carefree libertine like me end up doting on the impossible likes of you?”

  Dallas answered him by
pulling his head onto her breasts. “At least you don’t find me tiresome,” she said as her hands slid down to capture his firm manhood in her slim fingers.

  “True,” Fraser replied in a muffled voice.

  “Mmmmm,” murmured Dallas and squirmed with delight as his hands and mouth made havoc of her senses. They made love in the little parlor for over an hour and no one disturbed them until Marthe announced it was suppertime.

  Chapter 35

  Fraser returned to the castle after supper. Though resigned to his political position, Dallas had urged him to stay on at the Cameron house. The house might be crowded, she argued, but she had her old room to herself.

  “Nay, lassie, I must remain at the castle with John and his men,” he’d told her. “All seems quiet enough, but no one is sure what will happen—or when.”

  She walked with him as far as the entrance to the close where he kissed her good-bye. There was still a tinge of light between the tall houses, and over in Blyth’s Wynd they could hear children calling to each other. After Fraser disappeared, Dallas remained in the close, pacing the cobbles until darkness settled in over the rooftops. She knew she ought to be exhilarated by finally learning the truth about Fraser’s parentage. But now, with time for reflection, she began to speculate about what effect having proof of his royal parentage would have on their lives. Would he become obsessed with a vaulting ambition? Would he attempt to usurp James’s place, since the man Fraser could openly acknowledge as his half-brother had left the country? Would he compete with Bothwell for a share of Mary’s power? Most of all, would his royal blood exact the ultimate price: Was it possible that she would finally lose Fraser forever?

  Dallas leaned on the curving stair rail and peered into the night, wishing that it were the future and that she might see what it held for all of them.

  Dressed as a man, Mary Stuart had fled Borthwick Castle and ridden to meet Bothwell at Cakemuir. From there they went to Dunbar, where they called for their troops to rally ’round them outside Musselburgh.

  “How many men does she have with her?” Hamilton asked Gordon as the clang of weapons and mail resounded from the castle esplanade.

  Gordon perused the message a third time. “About six hundred,” he replied, fingering his blond beard. “I keep thinking there is a mistake in the number written down, but that’s what it says.”

  “That’s madness!” Hamilton exclaimed. “Even with our reinforcements, we can’t match the rebels by half!”

  “Do you mean to tell me, George,” Fraser said as he paused in fastening his chain mail, “that Bothwell and the Queen have not been joined by supporters along the way?”

  Sitting down heavily on a wooden bench, Gordon sighed. “I’m afraid so, Iain. None of the ordinary people a Stuart sovereign can usually rely on have rallied to her standard.”

  An ominous silence enveloped the room. The three men seemed wrapped deep in their own thoughts, and there was little doubt among them that each was contemplating the same decision.

  Fraser was the first to speak, throwing his helmet across the trestle table with a gesture of disgust. “By God, they’re doomed. The Queen and Bothwell are finished.”

  Gordon got to his feet. “Hold on, Iain. If we go, there will be a fighting chance. At best, we might create a stalemate—at worst, the Queen and Bothwell may escape to raise more troops later.”

  But Fraser shook his head slowly, definitely. “Nay, George, that’s not the worst that could happen. And that’s not the point, either.” He placed one spurred and booted foot on the bench and looked from Gordon to Hamilton. “If the people aren’t willing to support the Queen, then it is pointless for us to do so. In my opinion, when any ruler falls so far as to lose the confidence and loyalty of his—or her—subjects, then that person has surrendered the right to rule. You’re a Highlander, George, you know the truth of what I say. Where you and I come from, the chief has to earn and keep the clan’s respect.”

  Gordon rubbed at his forehead, eyes closed, his pained expression clearly showing the uncertainties which racked him. “You speak well enough, Iain, but we’re talking of the Queen, not some fierce Highland toiseach.”

  “It’s the same thing,” Fraser asserted. “Think it through, George. A good clan chieftain serves his people, his land. When Mary Stuart first came to Scotland, I hoped she would do the same. Young and naive as she was, I saw in her a hope for the future, the healer of old wounds and the benefactress of a sickly nation. But through her own fault or that of others, she’s failed. I, at least, will not offer my sword—or my life—to a sovereign Scotland neither wants nor deserves.”

  For a moment, Gordon said nothing, then looked at Hamilton. “What of you, John? Do you agree with Iain?”

  A small, sad smile touched Hamilton’s mouth. “In a sense, I do. But I’ve not the vision of Scotland that Iain has. I see this wretched mess as Bothwell’s doing, more than Mary’s. If I could fight for her, and her alone, I’d do so without a qualm. But because of Bothwell, she has lost her people, and I see no other course than to remain here with my men.”

  “Damn!” Gordon banged his fist on the trestle table, toppling an ale tankard onto the floor. “Why did I ever talk my sister Jean into letting Bothwell go so easily?”

  Fraser was taking off his chain mail and stretching the neck muscles which had grown tense during the last painful quarter of an hour. “Don’t blame yourself, George. Maybe we shouldn’t even blame Bothwell or the Queen. We Scots have always put ourselves above our country. Mayhap, in the long run, we’re all guilty.”

  The castle esplanade was deserted while the evening breeze from the Firth scattered the dirt in little grey clouds. Iain Fraser walked along the battlements, pausing by Mons Meg, the giant cannon cast in Belgium to defend Edinburgh from the English.

  Hamilton and Gordon were still inside the castle, drinking a great deal and reassuring each other that they had made the right decision. But Fraser had left them, realizing that all the whiskey in Edinburgh would not assuage his sense of guilt.

  Neither of the others could imagine the difficulty of his decision. If Mary Stuart had become less to him as a sovereign, she was much more to him as his sister. His longstanding concern and affection for her had to be reassessed in a new light. It was as if the affirmation of their kinship had stripped Mary of her monarchy and permitted Fraser to see her for the first time as a human being: charming but unstable, generous to those she loved but easily swayed where her heart was concerned, born to reign but not to rule, and incapable of putting her country’s needs above her personal desires.

  Watching the shutters close one by one on the houses which marched down Castle Hill, Fraser wondered if he would have reacted differently if he’d not known of his own royal ancestry. No, he decided, rivalry played no part. Being able to verify his knowledge made him feel curiously detached, as if he were viewing the world around him through new eyes.

  To his right, he could see the steep roofs of the house in Nairne’s Close. A light still burned behind the window Fraser adjudged to be Dallas’s. She was probably reading in bed, the thick hair tumbling over her shoulders, the small, slim hands turning the pages, the full, pouty mouth changing in expression from disagreement to pleasure. His obstinate, loyal, perverse little lassie had taught him a few things over the years: Wild as a Highland glen, canny as a Lawnmarket merchant, she’d bound him to herself with ties stronger than country or kin. If her love for him had been flawed, so was his for her. Perhaps that was the greatest lesson he had learned from her, that love was as imperfect as the people who offered it to one another.

  The long summer twilight had slipped into darkness but the light in Nairne’s Close still glowed like a beckoning star. Fraser moved away from the castle battlements and headed down the esplanade towards the haven of his lassie’s arms.

  Standing in the long shadow of the Tron Kirk, Dallas moved closer to Iain Fraser as the noise of the crowd grew more deafening and venomous. “I can’t see around all th
ese people,” she said nervously, “though I’m not sure I want to.”

  Fraser, being at least half a head taller than most of the other onlookers, had a clear view of the High Street. Slowly, picking their way through the clamorous throng, the soldiers and their horses moved towards the Black Turnpike, a large timber-fronted house owned by the Provost of Edinburgh.

  Near the front of the procession, the Queen of Scotland rode between two insolent guards who seemed to be laughing at her expense. Mary Stuart wore a simple red and blue goodwife’s outfit, hastily borrowed in Dunbar since she’d been unable to bring any of her own clothes with her when she’d flown from Borthwick.

  There had been no battle that day at Carberry Hill. The rebel lords had merely waited until what few troops Bothwell had under his command melted away. He’d demanded that one of the enemy nobles meet him in single combat, but no challengers had come forth. At last, after a parley, it was agreed that if Bothwell withdrew from the field, the Queen would be escorted back to Edinburgh. Fearing not for herself, but for him, Mary had urged him to acquiesce. Reluctantly, he had embraced her for the last time and ridden off, while the Earl of Morton had signalled for his men to take the Queen as their prisoner.

  While the mob hurled taunts and invectives, Mary rode with her head high, shoulders rigid, eyes staring straight ahead. Despite the homely garb, Fraser thought she’d never looked more regal.

  “What’s happening?” Dallas asked as the crowd’s noise reached an unprecedented pitch.