by Nina Mason
Robert stood mute, waiting for his father-in-law to finish. Whilst James was more forthcoming than usual this morning, speaking with equal candor would be exceedingly imprudent.
The king shook his head and drew a deep breath. Eyes on the letter in his hand, he said, “I should have tried harder, I suppose, but felt powerless at the time. As heirs to the throne, they were wards of the state, you see. And Charles insisted they be raised in the Church of England—and marry Protestants. Against my will, I might add. I wanted the Dauphin of France for Mary, not that…that Dutch meschant. Did I argue? I did indeed. Loud enough to lift the roof off the palace. But Charles was a mighty oak and I a frail sapling, being buffeted by cold winds from every direction. I needed his protection. He was my brother, my sovereign, and my only champion. Without him, I would be alone in the wilderness, surrounded by snarling jackals.” Lifting his gaze to Robert’s, he added, “Were I reduced to such a state, what good could I have done for my daughters?”
“None, sire,” the duke replied with a deferential nod of the head. “You did all you could, I am sure.”
“God knows how I’ve tried.” Looking heavenward, the king released a heavy sigh. “But they were taken from me and the duchess in order to be raised—nay, brainwashed—to look upon the Church of Rome with contempt, and to regard my brother as the one to whom they owed fatherly obedience. And with Charles in his grave, they heed only their own misguided notions and the unsuitable husbands my brother chose for them. And now, to make matters worse, that priggish nincompoop is cheating on her—with the governess who reared her to defy me, no less.” He rolled his eyes and spewed another weighty sigh. “Oh, the irony. I might laugh at the satire were I not so utterly woebegone.”
Returning his troubled gaze to Robert’s, James went on. “Of his infidelity, however, I already knew. For I had it in a secret letter from the prince’s private secretary. We arranged for Mary to learn of her husband’s faithlessness through trusted friends, hoping it might awaken her to the truth about the villain she married, and send her back to England and the bosom of her family. But he has her too firmly under his thumb, by all appearances. For even broken-hearted and ill-treated, she stands behind her prince like the bloody subjugate he’s turned her into.”
His Majesty pounded his fists on the bed, rattling the dishes on the tray, and then scrubbed his face with a hand. “Woe is me, Dunwoody. For ’twould seem I am once more powerless to protect my daughters—and my poor heart is all gall and wormwood as a consequence.”
“Not all of your daughters are disloyal, sire,” Robert said, lest he forget Maggie’s devotion. “Nor unhappy in their marriages.”
The king’s expression brightened slightly. “Yes, that is true. Margaret seems content. Then, again, your duchess was raised in the One True Faith and had the good sense to marry a Catholic.” With a small smile he added, “Misunderstand me not, Dunwoody. I have no desire to diminish your role in her felicity, for I know how devoted you are to one another.”
“You are correct, sire. And my devotion to her is such that I would sooner pluck out my own heart than intentionally give injury to hers.”
The king’s brooding frown became a scowl of suspicion. “I suppose you think me a scoundrel for keeping mistresses.”
“Judgment is the Lord’s dominion, sire. Not mine.”
A smile upturned one corner of the monarch’s full mouth. “Well said and delicately put, which is the reason you will be so useful to me in Scotland. That and your being a Scotsman yourself—and thus, largely unknown to the key players. For I understand you made yourself scarce whilst General Dalyell was torturing Argyll’s private secretary, who has since rejoined his scheming employer.”
Sir Thomas Dalyell of the Binns, renowned for his cruelty after his treatment of the defeated Covenanters after the Battle of Rullion Green, had overseen the tortures of Spence and Carstares under royal orders.
Though the king was being more talkative than usual, Robert remained on his guard. Mouth suddenly parched, he said, “Aye, sire. For I lack the stomach for the thumbiken and boot.”
A humorless laugh escaped the king’s mouth. “But feel quite the opposite about the lash, I hear tell. Though, come to think of it, I’ve heard no twattle on that score since I removed you and Margaret to Holyroodhouse, leading me to believe you’ve either given up your vices or practice them with commendable concealment.” With a droll glint in his eye, he added, “Though inclined to believe the latter is the case, do feel free to set me straight should I be in error.”
“You are correct, Your Majesty. I have indeed given up my wicked ways.” Feeling a qualm of guilt over the escapades of the previous night, Robert hastily tacked on, “For the most part.”
James released another heavy sigh and raked his fingers through his hair, which had greyed some over the past five years. “Yes, well…as fascinated as I am to know more, I have other matters vying for my attention at present. Not the least of which is the perfidy of my own flesh and blood. Mary I can do naught about beyond continuing my campaign to make her see reason. I have already written to her at length about my motives for converting—and sent her numerous books defending the Catholic faith—in the hope that greater enlightenment might wear down her prejudices.”
Robert, surprised to hear this, arched an eyebrow. “Have your efforts yet born fruit?”
“Only if you count her scathing critiques of the tomes I shared a fruitful result,” the king returned with a pinched expression. “But Mary always did have a sharp mind and a talent for seeing things as they are rather than how others would wish her to perceive them.” After a pause, he added, “Which is the reason I find her total blindness with regard to her husband so damnably confounding.”
“You could always arrange to have her kidnapped and the marriage annulled,” Robert proffered in jest.
A genuine smile enlivened the king’s features for the first time that morning. “Say, that is a good thought. And after she returns to her senses, I could arrange a new marriage to a Catholic prince.”
Robert kicked himself for having made the suggestion. Though he knew of the king’s penchant for mad schemes, he never dreamed James might take such a ludicrous suggestion to heart. Rather than attempt to dissuade him—never a good idea—he steered the conversation back to his reason for being there. “And what of Princess Anne, sire? How do you plan to punish her betrayal?”
“By locking her up,” James said with the ring of conviction. “Not in the Tower of London, tempted though I am, but in her own lodgings, methinks. I shall confine her to the Cockpit until she comes to her senses, which should give her plenty of time to contemplate her crimes—as well as her misguided views on the Roman church. I just hope my younger daughter will prove more educable than the elder, but flatter myself I am not so foolish as to hold my breath.”
A few minutes later, Robert left the king’s bedchamber, satisfied that he’d made some headway toward opening the king’s eyes about the fork-tongued devils surrounding him. He just wished he could do the same with regard to Lord All-Pride before he departed for Scotland. But, alas, there was insufficient time to gather the proof he’d need to convince James his fair-haired boy was little more than a fair-weather toady.
* * * *
The masquerade ball was being held in the banqueting hall, and, as Maggie entered the building on Robert’s arm, she gasped in amazement. The interior was rectangle with a soaring ceiling and second-story spectator galleries overlooking the gleaming wooden floor. Swagged garlands of gold and silver rope interwoven with fresh flowers hung from the upper railings. The middle of each swag displayed a large wreath composed of the same ropes and flowers. The metallic cords of the ropes twinkled in the candlelight like stars in the heavens. The magical effect was amplified by the heady perfume of the cut flowers, which transporting her instantly back to the garden at Balloch Castle. Sudden homesickness gripped her with a power that stopped her in her tracks.
Robert stopped. “Ar
e you all right, Rosebud?”
She was anything but—and for more reasons than missing their castle in Dunwoody. For she was painfully aware this was their last night together. Quite possibly forever.
No. She would not entertain such thoughts. The mind had the power to manifest, and she would not give life to such morbid musings. “I am perfectly well,” she replied, grateful her angel’s mask hid the lie. “I was just overwhelmed for a moment by the splendor. The parties at Holyroodhouse, though sumptuous enough, pale in comparison.”
“I agree. The decorations are lavish, to be sure.”
“As is the room itself. Why do you suppose my father has not used the hall before now?”
Leaning nearer her ear, he whispered, “Perhaps because his father was marched through this very room under the whip on the way to his execution—which took place right outside.”
Maggie shuddered at the gruesome image, remembering that the first King Charles had been her grandfather.
Though the ball had not yet gotten underway, there were several people milling about in masks and costumes. Some were dressed as clowns and jesters. Others wore suits and gowns made from a harlequin print. Like her and Robert, many more merely wore masks, cloaks, and plumed tricorn hats to augment their fanciest attire. Some of the masks were full-faced, like theirs. Most were of the sort Robert used when he tied her up, but with the eyeholes cut out. Some depicted animal heads or resembled the birdlike guises physicians wore to avoid contamination during the plague.
In the gallery above, the musicians were tuning their strings. Tables of artfully arranged platters of food lined the ground-floor perimeter. Several also held bottles of wine and pitchers of what she presumed to be ale, small beer, and a punch of some sort. Every table was decorated with multiple candles and arrangements of the same flowers as in the swags. Iron candelabras stood in the corners near folding screens painted with scenes of gondoliers in the canals in Venice.
She scanned the crowd for recognizable masks or partial faces. She saw a few she knew belonged to the queen’s maids of honor—women with whom she had only a passing acquaintance—and hoped it was a sign Mary herself might put in an appearance.
“If the queen comes tonight, you must dance with her,” she told Robert, snapping open her fan. The heavy cloak over so many layers was making her uncomfortably warm. “And Lady Fitzhardinge, now that she is a friend.”
“I shall.” He led her toward one of the beverage tables. “And many other beauties as well, and hope it shall drive you mad with jealousy.”
He seemed in high spirits, which pleased her. If both of them were low, their last evening together might be morose, and she’d much rather her last memory of him be a happy one.
No. I mustn’t entertain such thoughts, lest I make them real. He will come back from Scotland. He will, he will, he will.
Reaching deep for her high spirits, she fluttered her fan flirtatiously. “I will be exceedingly jealous, especially if you fail to dance with me as well.”
“I shall dance the first and last with you,” he said. “Will that suffice?”
“I suppose it must,” she replied with forced gaiety.
Had she her druthers, she’d dance with none but her husband for the whole of the ball, but that would be judged as very poor form. The purpose of a ball, particularly a masked ball, was to be inclusive, not exclusive, and, between her confinement and her husband’s illness, she’d socialized little enough of late.
Robert picked up one of the dark-green bottles and poured her a glass of claret before filling a stoup of ale for himself.
She glanced around to be sure they were out of earshot before saying in a low voice, “I am glad the princess has been confined to her quarters, but fear Lord M will be on the prowl this evening. Do you see him anywhere? I should like to know what he’s wearing so I can do my best to avoid him.”
“That puts me in mind of something I have been meaning to mention,” he said. “Duncan had the oddest encounter the other night. Apparently, Lord All-Pride wanted to examine my cloak and mask—on the claim he wished to avoid me tonight.”
“Though I am vastly relieved to hear it, I must know the reason he wishes to avoid you”
“I can only presume he fears I mean to make trouble over the kiss he stole from my wife.”
“In fairness, he did not steal the kiss,” Maggie clarified. “I gave it willingly in exchange for information.”
“Extortion and theft are the same crime in my books, dearest.”
As she once more scanned the crowd for anyone who might be Lord M, she alternated between sipping her wine and flapping her fan, desperate to raise a breeze. Just standing here, she was sweating under her clothes. Once the dancing started, she’d grow unbearably overheated, which would not do. For she was bound and determined to dance this evening. She loved to dance, especially with her husband, who was exceedingly light on his feet for so tall a man. Unfortunately, owing to her miscarriages and confinement, she had been forced to sit out most of the sets at the masquerade balls and parties during their years at Holyroodhouse.
She gave up the search for Mulgrave when a trumpet fanfare loudly announced the entrance of the king and queen, resplendent in their costumes. Her father wore a gold half-mask and a suit embroidered throughout with metallic threads that shimmered in the candlelight. Queen Mary donned a simple black half-mask and wore a gown of gold. Under her smart plumed hat, her dark hair was a cloud of curls tied in sections around her face with metallic ribbons.
When the courtiers moved toward the royal couple like a swarm of locusts, she and Robert held back, not wishing to be trampled in the stampede. Turning his back to the sycophantic spectacle, Robert picked up an oyster and slurped it from the shell. Maggie, following his lead, chose a petit-four from a tray of artfully decorated bite-sized cakes and popped it into her mouth. Delight coursed through her as the sinful flavor of chocolate seduced her taste buds. She did so love chocolate—a weakness she no doubt inherited from her mother, along with her pretty face, flaxen hair, and slender figure.
A few years back, through the rumor mill at Holyroodhouse, she’d learned that her mother had been Lady Denham, her father’s first public mistress—a distinction she’d gained by refusing to come and go via the back stairs of the duke’s palace, as his other mistresses were required to do.
Maggie and Robert nibbled more delicacies and drank another glass each before the first strands of the prelude to the allemande filled the room—the prompt for the dancers to take their places. After plucking the wineglass from her hand, her husband offered his arm. As she clasped the wide cuff of his coat, he led her to the floor, where, falling in line with the rest of the couples, they joined hands. Nervous excitement thrummed through Maggie’s veins as the lively metered notes of the dance wafted down from the gallery.
They began the promenade—a series of three steps interrupted by a rise and small kick repeated down the length of the room. Minding her steps and the music, she stole a glance at the other couples within view. She and Robert were not the most polished among them, but neither were they the most tarnished. The line moved back to the head of the room, after which she and Robert held forearms and turned around each other. Fear of losing him made her hold on a little longer than the dance strictly called for, throwing them off by a full beat. Though masks hid the expressions of the surrounding couples, Maggie could feel the judgmental glares fixed upon them, and knew they would be mocked afterward.
At court, imperfect dancing had ruined more than one reputation.
As the dance continued, she and Robert exchanged no words. The mask made talking difficult in close proximity and impossible at a distance, but feeling his regard in every gaze and touch of his gloved hand, she returned the sentiments in similar fashion. In the dance, touch and looks communicated affection, and she felt her husband’s to the depths of her soul.
When the music ended, he escorted her back to the refreshments, whereupon he set off in search of
another partner. He looked dangerous in his devil’s mask, but in a seductively sinister way. Whilst fanning herself furiously, she kept her gaze on him as he claimed his next partner—a lady in a black coat and cat’s mask. Jealousy sank its teeth into her heart as he led the lady to the floor. Though protocol demanded they dance with others, the spectacle of her husband with someone else on his arm set her blood aboil. Whilst Mistress Margaret might be willing to share him, Modest Maggie was not as unstinting as her licentious alter-ego.
A man in a harlequin suit and feathered mask stopped before her. “Would you be so good as to honor me with a dance?”
“I would indeed.” She took his offered hand. “Thank you kindly for the invitation.”
Neither his voice nor demeanor struck a chord. He led her to the floor and they took their positions a few couples from Robert and his partner. The dance was the courante, which called for much livelier steps than the first.
Maggie was winded and had lost track of her husband by the time the dance ended. Returning to the refreshment table, she poured herself another glass of claret and gulped it down.
As she stood fanning herself wildly, another unknown gentleman invited her to dance, but she demurred. She was not up to the bourrée, a French dance similar in style to the gavotte, only with a faster tempo and more intricate footwork. She also wanted to visually locate her husband, who’d been swallowed up by the throng, which had increased considerably in size and merriment since the dancing started.
Spotting Robert’s devil’s mask across the room, she refilled her glass before attempting to make her way through the crowd. She was waylaid by a trio of ladies in shepherdess costumes who expressed their delight that the duke was looking so well after his illness. By the time they left her, Robert had vanished from her line of sight.