by Julie Sarff
At a quarter till ten in the morning, I am in possession of the rental car keys. Hastily I stow my bag in the back of the car, but darn if I don’t stare dumbfounded at a map for another twenty minutes before I pull out of the carpark. Forget the car’s GPS, AVIS gave me the directions to program it, but every time I punched in Holyrood a chipper voice kept saying, “Do you mean Hollywood, California?” And that chipper voice won’t stop. It repeats itself at random intervals, startling the heck out of me. Somewhere outside of Oxford I’m sure it’s shut itself off. Unfortunately, a second later it pipes up again, sounding more insistent than before, and demanding “Do you mean Hollywood, California? Please respond.”
As if it’s not enough to concentrate on driving on the left side of the road, trying to jab at the GPS controls at the same time is ridiculous. And no matter how many buttons I fiddle with, the chipper voice on the GPS won’t stop. Why must modern technology be so difficult? Why does it take nine remotes to turn on a television?
I don’t know, I shake my head and press down on the accelerator. It’s a long drive to Scotland, but I’m not going to miss this opportunity. Never mind that I didn’t sleep a wink on the flight over, or that my hair is partially mated to my face from leaning against the airplane window. Never mind that I haven’t had a decent meal in hours. I speed along as fast as I can go. Somewhere around Manchester the chipper voice begins to slow down, spitting out:
“Doo youu mean Hollywoooood Cal -eee -forn -iaaaa?” At the same time the BMW begins to make strange knocking sounds. I ignore the extremely low, pixelated voice of the dying GPS, as well as the horrendous knocking noise, and drive on. I only stop to use the restroom or to gas up the car. They day goes by in a blur and even though the GPS must have repeated its message a hundred times, I smile the entire way. I’m spending the night at Holyrood Palace with the Prince and his friends. What could be better than that?
I cross the border into Scotland as twilight sets in. At this pace I should make it in time for my seven p.m. tour of the palace. By now, the car is making some pretty ominous sounds, and the GPS has gone completely haywire. Even though I’ve turned the volume way down, it still roars to life on occasion, spewing out things like, “whooo” or “garrr” or “woolee!”
I don’t care, I press on. I become a little alarmed with the check engine light turns on, and the oil light flips all the way over to bright orange, as if the car is on fire or perhaps possessed.
“Eeefiskkk” the GPS hisses right as I hit a huge wall of fog on the outskirts of Edinburgh. I don’t mind. What would Scotland be without the fog? Luckily there are bright green road signs pointing the way to the carpark outside Holyrood Palace.
“Oops, that’s right, I was supposed to call. They were going to send round a car to the airport to pick me up.” I pull into a space at the empty carpark and whip out my phone. Quickly I dial the number I was given.
“Lizzie, there you are, did you just get to the airport. I’m sorry, I can’t send a car. Take a taxi, I’ll pay for it,” Alex says.
“Actually, I’m here, in the carpark. It’s a long story, I had to drive from Heathrow.”
“That’s mad,” he replies. “Drive right up to the front gate. I’ll let you in.”
A moment later Alex pops out a side door of the castle with a bright black umbrella. He races for the gate. Why is he the one coming to let me in? Where’s the staff?
I stare through the fog as the Prince pulls a very ancient key from his pocket. For a while, he fiddles with the massive lock on the gate. It’s a padlock of sorts; a gigantic black padlock that matches the somber gate. Alex undoes it, let’s me in, and waves as I drive through.
I park the car as he puts the padlock back on the gate. Scrambling out of my BMW, I feel like a kid in the candy store. Are the Prince and I alone at this magnificent castle?
“Lizzie,” he says rushing up and putting the umbrella over us both, “this way, right through the front door. Here now, let the big brawny man take your bag. After all, you must be exhausted.”
I am exhausted. Nonetheless, I hurry inside and let out an enthusiastic gasp. Holyrood is everything Buckingham is not. Holyrood is dark and brooding. Part of the bottom step on the huge, brown staircase is crumbling away, and nobody seems to feel the need to fix it. I imagine it’s been that ways since James I ruled here. Why change it now?
Alex drops my bag and stows his umbrella in a stand.
“Look up, Lizzie,” he insists. I do. Honestly, it’s like seeing the sun for the first time. The ceiling is sheer heaven. The grand staircase at Holyrood was made to draw the eye upwards to the amazing plaster friezes overhead. High above us soar carved angels that are as large as human beings.
“It’s…it’s…” instantly the historian in me is unleashed and I am telling the Prince how the ceiling was made, how the plaster was pieced together on the floor and then lifted into place.
“Then the artists, lying on scaffolds, finished each intricate piece by hand.”
“It’s nice to see you too, Lizzie, although you look awful. You look as if you haven’t slept in days.”
I beam at him. “Who needs sleep, when you have this,” I raise my hands to the ceiling.
“C’mon, change of plans, I need help in the kitchen.”
“In the kitchen?”
“Yes, the kitchen, hurry!” He pulls me by the hand.
“Look at all these fine tapestries. See how faded they are. Do you realize that when they were first sewn the colors were very vibrant, some would even say garish?” I inform as we pass a tapestry of a hunting scene.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he replies and rushes me through a room that is chock-a-block full of oil portraits. I fire off the names of each of the famous royals as I recognize them, while the Prince practically drags me along.
“Mary De Guise,” I shout. Alex tugs. “James the first,” I proclaim. “Oh, and that scoundrel, Lord Darnley himself.”
“Wait!” I stop, strong as a mule, “Is that the portrait of Mary Queen of Scots?”
“The one that shows her as pure Catholic martyr?” he replies and continues to tug on my hand.
The portrait of Mary is all-encompassing. She stares out, spooky as can be in a black dress with a high frilly collar.
“Then, this is the one?” I ask
“Which shows her being beheaded in one corner, yeah, this is the one.” He drags me onwards, through more dark, brooding rooms. I turn my head to look in every nook and cranny. Toward the back of the house, we reach a different set of apartments. These rooms are not for the tourists. These rooms have been redone. No faded tapestries or dark oil paintings here. Here there is plush carpet and tasteful, relaxed furniture. The walls are painted a most fashionable color of brown. This is obviously a room for people living in modern times. This is a room where the royal family must spend their time when they come for the one week of the year they spend at Holyrood.
“You know,” the Prince muses as I catch a whiff of something -smoke? - coming from the room ahead. “You are the first woman whose hand I have held who hasn’t become a pile of mush.”
I stop glancing around the room and glare at him as if he has nine heads. “On behalf of my sex, I am insulted,” I say reproachfully. Wait now, yes, it’s definitely smoke; I can see it pouring out from under a door.
“Leave it to the historian to be more taken with the stuff in the castle than she is with its Prince,” he laughs.
My mind reels. What is he saying? To be honest, I did feel a thrill down my spine when Alex took my hand. I mean look at him, he’s gorgeous - huge smile, tousled hair, big ears and all. But then he seems in such a hurry to reach the kitchen that I didn’t take it personally when he started pulling me along. After all, a prince like him would never be interested in a woman like me. A prince like him marries small, dainty, extraordinarily beautiful girls from wealthy, well-bred families. They don’t marry tall, pudgy women. Everyone knows that.
Alex pushes open the door o
f the kitchen and we hurry through. The smoke is so overwhelming, it makes me cough.
“What on earth?” I ask as he lets go off my hand and makes his way to the most glittering stainless-steel range I have ever seen. Quickly he dons a pair of oven mitts and pulls open a door.
“The frittata!” he yells.
“You’re making a frittata?” I ask, wondering why Alex is doing his own cooking.
He pulls a heavy iron-cast skillet out of one of the ovens. Standing in front of me, with smoke swirling all about, I can’t see a thing.
“Where did you learn how to make a frittata?” I laugh, finding everything so absurd.
“Eton,” he responds and places the smoking dish down on the kitchen island.
“It’s a little burned, not that bad,” he adds.
“It looks like an enormous hockey puck!” I reply.
“You’re right, you’re right. I need to go with Plan C.”
He seems to be devising “Plan C” on the spot. As he leans against the kitchen island deep in thought, I examine the room. Except for the stone floors, stone walls, and a stone sink that runs the expanse of the east wall, the rest of the Holyrood kitchen appears to be retrofitted to the most modern of standards.
“Where’s the staff?”
“On vacation, except for a few guards in the guard house. Holyrood is closed for renovation, starting yesterday. That’s why I thought it would be the perfect place for a private birthday party.”
“And you thought you would cook for… how many people?”
“Ah now, that part was not planned. You see, I was going to hire the palace chef, as she lives about a mile from here. She agreed to do it but she’s come down with a bout of the flu. Didn’t know that till I got here a couple hours ago. So it was quick over to the grocers and back. But look, I’ve made a green salad,” he points to a pile of butter lettuce, dressed every so lightly. He’s placed it in a beautiful blue porcelain bowl that looks hundreds of years old.
“I bought some bread and a cake and I thought -- I can make a few frittatas. That should be enough to tide us over till morning when we can all head out to the Dark Horse for a proper Scottish breakfast. I was just in the middle of it when you rang.”
Hmm, when he puts it that way, I feel slightly guilty. Apparently I came at an inopportune time and as a result his frittata is burnt to a crisp.
“How many people will we be cooking for?” I enquire, reaching for a clean apron that hangs on a hook.
“That’s the spirit, Liz, we’ll dig in. I’ll show you how to do it. We’ll cook them up on the stove. Then we’ll add the cheese and tuck them into the ovens. Although perhaps for a little less time than the previous one.”
It turns out the Prince is expecting twenty people to show up in about an hour. As I whisk eggs around in a big white bowl, Alex concentrates on cooking the frittata over the open flame. Soon things are starting to smell good. My empty stomach grumbles, revealing the fact that I am starved. Hearing my loud stomach, Alex tells me to help myself to some bread.
“A little something to wash that down with?” he asks and pulls two wine glasses off the shelf. “I opened this red a while ago. Can I pour you a glass?”
It’s probably not a good idea. I probably shouldn’t be drinking on the job. After all, I am a professional biographer. But wait a minute. I just flew from New York to London and then drove all the way to Scotland in a possessed car. I deserve a drink.
“What are we drinking?” I ask him, feeling happier than I think I have ever felt in my life.
“I don’t know, some California rubbish,” he quips. “I bought it at the liquor store around the corner. There’s a wine cellar in the castle, but all that stuff is for important meetings and the like. I can’t just nick it,” he states as he chops chives furiously with a knife.
“When will everyone else be here?”
“Soon, they’re on the last flight of the day which should be landing,” he glances at his watch, “just about now. Whisk, Liz, whisk like the wind! They’ll all be arriving at any moment and they’ll be starved.”
I am whisking away when the Prince’s iPhone lights up. “That’s Rose now,” he says and picks up the phone.
“Boo, where in the heck are you?”
There’s a long winded reply on the other end and the Prince’s brows knit together.
“I told you not to book the last flight of the day, now what are you going to do?”
There’s more long winded conversation from the very sad-sounding “Boo” and then Alex hangs up.
“Well, I’m afraid, Lizzie, it wasn’t meant to be. Everyone’s stuck in London. It’s just you and I. Of course, we can’t stay here. We can’t give the gossips more fodder. There’s a nice inn down the road.”
“We can’t stay here?” I ask crestfallen. There goes my night in Holyroodhouse.
“Well, we don’t have to go just yet. I’ve got five frittatas in the oven…”
“And a pile of dishes in the sink.”
The prince glances around. Holyrood’s stream-lined kitchen is a mess. Whatever they taught him at Eton, it was not how to pick up after himself. It takes us over an hour to clean up.
“Might as well eat here, why get the dining room messy?” he says when we finish toweling off the last dirty dish.
He hands me a fork and I dig in. I’m so hungry I can’t take it anymore. We eat the first frittata right out of the pan, occasionally dipping into the salad. I take a sip of what is truly an awful California wine and ruminate about how this would all be terribly romantic if it weren’t for the fact that he is a Prince and I am his biographer.
“Another frittata?” he asks. I motion for him to bring it on. I must admit, I am quite caught up in the moment. When Alex puts his fork down on the countertop and gives me a strange look, my mind goes wild and I wonder if he is going to lean in for a kiss.
“Wait,” he says quite seriously, “I bought a delicious chocolate cake. It’s in the fridge. I’ll cut us both a slice and we’ll take them on our tour around the castle. How will that be? You look like the kind of woman who loves cake.”
Instantly all the warmth and happiness of the moment drains out of me. “You look like the kind of woman who loves cake”— what the heck does that mean?
That’s it. Tomorrow I diet. Sean used to tell me my love handles were adorable, but I don’t think he really believed it. Once he bought me a gym membership for Christmas. I went to that gym on occasion and sat in the locker room reading history books, so that Sean wouldn’t feel like he had wasted his money. Why did I even bother?
I watch the Prince pull an enormous chocolate cake out of the fridge. In curly brown writing it reads, “Happy Birthday, Sparky.”
I don’t even ask about “Sparky.” I am still feeling offended by Alex’s cake comment, although the confection he plunks down on the table looks mighty tasty. He cuts two enormous slices; each one so large I’m sure it will instantly add five pounds to whomever eats it.
“You are eating on a dish that was given to Queen Victoria by the Countess of Blois on the occasion of her thirtieth birthday.”
“Oooh,” I gasp and forget about the calories in the cake.
“No, I’m just kidding. I have no idea where these dishes came from. Just making crap up. Anyway, you’ve got frosting smeared all over you lips, did you know?”
I blush ten shades of red.
“No matter, I think, we’re ready. Shall we get a good look at that painting, the one of Queen Mary? Then it’s off to her state apartments. I’ll show you exactly where they killed David Rizzio as he clung to the Queen’s skirts. If you like, we can sit behind a tapestry and wait to see if we can catch the ghost of Bald Agnes.”
He says all this with the most mischievous twinkle in his eye before turning heel and heading out of the kitchen.
Queen Mary’s chambers, left in situ as they were by Queen Victoria when she inherited the palace, are extremely eerie at night. They might be fine by daylig
ht, with 500 tourists marching through. But with the setting of the sun, and a particularly thick fog all about, the entire North-West tower gives off a disturbing vibe.
Dutifully Alex reenacts how Mary’s second husband, Lord Darnley, came rushing up a private spiral staircase from his room below. With the help of his group of henchman he dragged poor Rizzio, Mary’s private secretary, from the hem of her skirts. Darnley and his men then used their swords to turn the poor man into a pincushion.
It’s easy to imagine such a tragedy on a night like tonight.
“I have to confess I don’t really know who Bald Agnes is,” I say, when Alex is done imitating Rizzio falling over dead.
“What? There’s something the historian doesn’t know?” he mutters, standing back up and picking his cake plate up off of Mary, Queen of Scot’s bedside table.
“Well I ….I sort of stick with the leaders of countries and all… ”
“Of course you do. You specialize in royals. Which is lucky for me, because that’s how we met.” He grins and takes another bite of his cake. “Well, let’s see, Bald Agnes, the poor woman was garroted and burned at the stake for witchcraft by James I. It was in the late 1500’s, I believe. I’m not too good with dates. But I believe they were seeing witches everywhere in those days.”
“And you really think you saw her ghost?”
“Who knows what I saw when I was three!” he jokes. Then he takes me around and shows me some of the amazing objects in Queen Mary’s room. The most amazing of which is a chest with tortoise shell hearts that gleam ominously in the track lighting. In this light, the hearts appear blood red. Alex opens the doors to the chest, inside is a maze of tiny drawers. He opens each one and we peer inside until he gets to a small door hidden behind all the other doors. Inside, it is like a small stage surrounded by mirrors. On the stage, reflected in all the mirrors, is a little brown book that appears to be made out of vellum.