In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  As soon as Adam turned his back, Mary let fall her petticoat. She and Darnley were the same size and she often wore his breeches and doublets at the hunt. Such unconventionality scandalized her court and her women, but she was beyond caring about such niceties.

  Beaton arrived, looking very pale, her mouth a round “o” of astonishment.

  “Ah, Beaton, lace this doublet, and then fetch my boots and find my black cloak.”

  A speechless Beaton bobbed a curtsey, laced the doublet and went in search of the boots and cloak. She alone of Mary’s ladies realized the utter futility of argument.

  When all was in readiness, Mary mounted her horse, a spirited stallion bred for speed, and without a word of farewell to her worried ladies, set off at a gallop for Hermitage Castle. It would be thirty miles in the rain and dark, over moorland and bog. But she cared not; she simply must reach Bothwell before it was too late.

  Pasha was now sixteen years old. He had always been well-treated, never overridden. But sixteen was old for a hunter. War horses were old at ten. There was no chance of finding a change of mount on the moorland, even if she had had time to send ahead and arrange for post horses. So Pasha was her only hope.

  She rode in a posture meant to aid a laboring horse, her head almost even with the stallion’s; every now and then she would whisper, “You can do it, Pasha, my darling, my love. Do it for me, who loves you,” she coaxed. On and on, horse and rider almost one in the dark, they rode. At the crest of every hill she would stop to let the others catch her up and to let Pasha get his breath. She would listen for their hoof beats, and as soon as even one rider resolved into shape in the mist, off she would go again, at full speed.

  The others wondered how she could be so sure of the direction; it was full dark and there was no moon. But even had there been a moon, it would have been obscured by the clouds. Mary had an unerring sense of direction, but there were hazards aplenty that might serve to take them off course.

  Mary’s single-mindedness of purpose was enough to keep her going. But she did worry about Pasha’s footing. He was an Arab, bred to tread dust and sand. On grass, or through the leaves of a thousand autumns in the forest on the hunt, he was sure-footed and swift. But their route was riddled with bogs in whose quagmires he might very well become stuck, or break a leg. It was a risk she must take.

  Mary knew the lay of the land between Jedburgh and Hermitage Castle; she had made the journey before in daylight. There were three possible routes; the longer one was the safest, taking them well south of the dangerous country around Note o’ Gate, where they themselves might very well be set upon by rievers, even on such a night. The low road could not be navigated in the dark, too much of it skirted marshland. And so on the route she had chosen, thirty miles lay between her and her beloved, wounded and possibly dead already. As the miles sped by, sometimes they were on the more solid ground of the moor, but every so often this gave way to bog. Pasha seemed to have a sixth sense about it, and she gave him his head, as long as he did not stray off the southwest direction in which she knew they must go.

  At the top of the next rise, Adam caught her up and exclaimed, “Your Grace, I beg of you, please do not stray so far ahead. We might lose you or you might be set upon before we can get to you to help you.”

  The wind had risen and blew cold, stinging rain in their faces. “I am sorry, Adam, but I dare not tarry. I must get there.” And with that she spurred Pasha forward again.

  “Pasha, Pasha, my dearest, my darling, get me there and I will never ask such a thing of you again,” she shouted above the banshee howl of the wind and the pounding of hoof beats on the solid ground. But she could tell that the horse was beginning to flag. Her fingers and the tip of her nose were numb with cold, as were her toes in the soggy leather boots. But there was one thing she could do to help the horse. Her woolen cloak was now sodden and weighed heavy; she pulled the pin that held the clasp and flung the garment away, pin and all.

  And then finally, up and up she came from the valley and amongst the rolling hills she saw lights. It had to be the castle.

  Pasha’s breathing sounded like a bellows now, but still she coaxed him forward. “Just a little bit further, my love, my darling; I promise you shall be rubbed and dried and watered and you shall have all the oats you want. And apples.”

  Pasha loved apples; she never greeted him or her charger without a pocketful of them. But on this night she had unceremoniously mounted and fled. It hurt her to think that Pasha must have been disappointed; she would see to Bothwell and then, when she was satisfied that he should live, that he could live, she would give Pasha his apples…

  ###

  Mary slithered from Pasha’s back, landing in the mud at the castle door with a dull thud and a splash of water. Two of Bothwell’s Borderers guarded the door; she could just make them out in the wavering torchlight.

  “Doth my Lord Bothwell yet live?” she cried.

  The younger of the two men looked askance at the bedraggled stranger. His hand went to his sword hilt. “Who asks?” he challenged.

  “Stay thy hand, you young fool! It is the queen!” The elder of the two sentries bowed and replied, “Aye, he lives, but I fear me that his life hangs by a thread, Your Grace.”

  Mary seized the saddlebags and drew them from from Pasha’s heaving body. The exhausted horse’s legs were splayed, as if he could no longer hold his own weight. His breath came out in steaming puffs through his flared nostrils, and his head hung so low that his velvety muzzle practically brushed the mire at his feet.

  “See to my horse,” she said, patting Pasha on the neck, “and send my woman to me as soon as she arrives. There are several others behind me on the moor.”

  She had briefly used Hermitage as a headquarters in the summer of the year before, during the Chaseabout Raid, as the conflict with her brother was now being called. So she knew the layout of the castle, and she headed without further ado for the stairs that led to the laird’s bedchamber.

  She pushed open the door, flung the saddlebags to the floor, and strode up to the bed. In the dim firelight she studied Bothwell. He was exceedingly wan and his breath came in short, rapid, barely perceptible gasps. As she had feared, the bandages that wrapped his head, his right hand and his torso were soiled and blood-soaked. A sob caught in her throat. God send that she was in time!

  One of Bothwell’s eyes was swollen shut, but the lids of the other fluttered and the eye opened a slit, revealing its glittering emerald color, evident even in the flickering flames of the fire.

  Just then the door opened to reveal Mary Fleming, soaked to the skin, holding the saddlebags that had been packed with linens and blankets, to the queen’s orders.

  “Leave them,” said Mary. “And fetch me a basin of hot water. Then see to your own comfort, whilst I tend to the earl.”

  Fleming nodded, lay down the saddlebags, and departed in silence.

  As soon as the door closed behind Fleming, Mary turned back to the bed. From her lips came all the endearments that she had so recently lavished upon poor Pasha. “Oh my Darling, my poor love!” she cried, tears swimming in her eyes. “What have they done to you?”

  The side of his face with the eye swollen shut was twice its normal size, and evidenced every color of the rainbow; his lips were split and broken, and his ear was a bloody mess beneath the filthy rags in which his head had been wrapped by his well-meaning men.

  Bothwell blinked that emerald eye, but his lips were too swollen to speak; he nodded to her, a barely perceptible movement of his head. He was used to seeing Mary attired as the queen she was; gowned, bejeweled, her hair dressed and shining with the scented oils she used to enhance its luster. The bedraggled creature before him now bore little resemblance to that woman. She was dressed in a man’s breeches, hose, doublet and leather knee boots, spattered with mud from head to toe, and her hair hung in Medusa-like strands to her waist. And yet he knew her instantly; and yet she looked beautiful. Something stirred in him that h
e did not recognize, something that he had never felt before.

  Mary saw before her only the bruised and battered body of the man she loved more than life itself. It must be so; she had ridden to him without a thought for the danger to herself. At the sight of him her heart gave a twist. Never had she ever thought to see him brought so low. He must not die! And would not, if she had anything to do with it. To work!

  Mary recalled the time, only four months gone, when she had lain close to death after the birth of her son. There had been so much blood! The result of that for her had been a raging thirst. Did poor Bothwell’s thirst rage now, as hers had done? There was a cup and a flagon on the table by his bed, but he was far too weak to move and avail himself of it.

  She fetched the cup and filled it half full with wine from the wineskin, then watered it well from the flagon; for some reason, it was known to be more efficacious so. She sat on the bed and propped his head gently upon her lap, holding the cup to his swollen lips. She filled the cup a second time and cradled his head in its dirty clout while he thirstily drank his fill.

  A tentative knock sounded on the door and Fleming entered with a basin of steaming water on her outthrust hip. She placed it on the table by the door, nodded to Mary and departed, closing the door softly behind her.

  Mary had assisted the leech with the wounded men during the Huntly Rebellion. She knew what must be done. If Bothwell’s life were to be saved, his wounds must be cleaned, salved, and properly bound. She soothed Bothwell’s brow with a tender hand and kissed it lightly.

  “I must see to your hurts, My Lord,” she said in a whisper.

  If she were going to clean and bind Bothwell’s wounds, she must first clean herself. Without hesitation, Mary removed her mud-spattered clothing and spread each piece out by the fire. When they were dry, she would brush them clean. She knelt by the saddlebags and retrieved the fine linen cloths that the Cellarer had packed at her command. Carefully, she washed herself, as Bothwell watched with that emerald eye. In the firelight, the water drops falling to the floor from her body resembled a cascade of diamonds.

  The iron hooks on the wall held various items of clothing. Mary selected a fine lawn shirt; it felt soft and smooth on her clean skin. There was simply no substitute for the feeling of well-being that a clean body and a fresh garment afforded one. Bothwell next!

  Mary always carried a dagger; she retrieved it now from the leather belt that held her pistols. The shirt she wore was far too large and fell off one shoulder; it was all but transparent in the soft glow of the firelight as she approached the bed.

  Bothwell’s men had meant well, bringing him back to the castle, to his own bed, and binding his wounds. But it was not enough. Gently she lifted his blood-soaked shirt and sliced it down the middle; his breeches followed. She spread the fabric until his naked body was revealed. His skin was, as she knew from those tantalizing glimpses of his neck, very white where the sun could not reach it. She pulled the fragments of his bloody clothes out from under him, then she bathed his body with clean linen cloths from the saddlebag and warm water from the basin. When he was clean, she began to explore his wounds. It was as she suspected; his short, shallow breathing was the result of broken ribs. She heated the poultice on a shovel in the fireplace, then applied it to his rib cage. She bathed the cuts and gashes on his head, arms and hand with wine from the wineskins, then dabbed on the honey; it was old and thick, and used as a salve, was known to prevent a wound from festering. When every hurt had been bathed, anointed and wrapped in fresh, clean bandages, Mary lay down, exhausted, beside him. He turned his head slightly so that he could see her with his good eye. In a barely perceptible whisper he said, “Thank you.”

  Tears welled up in Mary’s eyes. “Oh, My Lord,” she cried. “You may thank me the better by not dying!”

  His attempt to smile made a grotesque mask of his face, with its battered eye, bruises, and split and swollen lips. “Mary,” he croaked in a whisper.

  She put a gentle finger to his broken lips. “Hush. Do not try to speak.”

  As he dropped off into a dreamless slumber, Bothwell’s last thought was how strange it was to be abed with a woman only to sleep.

  When he awoke to a brooding yellow and gray dawn, it was to find that the queen had gone back to Jedburgh.

  Westminster Palace, November, 1566

  Elizabeth looked about her at the sea of faces. She had been dreading this moment for months; ever since mid-June. For that was when her cousin, the Queen of Scotland, had given birth to a son and heir. Yes, it was the same old familiar scene, but with one difference; this time the pressure brought to bear on her to either marry or name a successor would be intolerable. These men would never understand why she could do neither. She would just have to weather the storm of their anger and discontent once more. Unless she missed her guess, it would not be the last time by a long stretch!

  And she knew that this time, the men of Parliament meant to hold hostage the funds that she needed so badly to run the country. The fools! Could they not see what she was trying to do? She needed money for ships to strengthen the navy, and to make improvements to the defenses of the vulnerable Channel ports. To hear them talk, one would think that she spent all her money on jewels and fine clothes! She looked down at the rings on her fingers, at the ropes of pearls strung about her neck, at the jewels sewn onto her gown. Well, what of them? Most of them were gifts, booty from Spanish galleons taken by her English pirates, and wealth she had inherited from her father and her sister. And a queen must look like a queen, after all.

  She sighed. Best get on with it, then.

  “My Lords,” she said, her voice ringing to the very rafters of the Presence Chamber. “As you all know, I have called this Parliament so that you may vote the crown a subsidy. The funds are sorely needed for the weal and defense of the realm.”

  The Speaker of the House of Commons, Richard Onlsow, bowed and addressed the queen. “Your Grace,” he said, in the booming voice that had helped to get him elected to his post, “Before any subsidy can be voted, your Commons must have an answer, promised to us on more than one occasion by yourself, on the issue of Your Grace’s marriage and the succession.”

  It was no more than she had expected; she was ready with her reply.

  “You wish me to name a successor to my crown,” she said, her eyes scanning the room and meeting, if even for the briefest moment, the eye of every man present. “But do any of your know what it is like to be the second person in the realm? I am painfully familiar with that role, my lords, as I held it during the reign of my late sister. I have no wish to be buried alive, sirs! Think you that I have forgotten what the road from London to Hatfield looked like when my sister was on her deathbed? Yea, and many of you here now were on that very road! Well do I know that your fickle love for me cannot be trusted to withstand such a temptation as readying yourselves for the next regime! I assure you, sirs, that I will have no such journeyings in my reign! I refuse to live my life in the shadow of an heir. Should I be made to live my life in fear and dread? Know you not the perils to mine own person of naming my successor? What of the many of you here today who sought to involve me in your schemes whilst my sister was still queen? Yes, lower your heads in shame. I know who you are, so do you, and were it not for my honor, your knavery should be known to all! Can you be trusted not to do the same, should I be so rash as to name an heir to my throne? Should I place my successor in such a position, and expect that he would be pious enough not to seek to be first in the realm before his time? Is not this very thing in danger of happening as we speak? Think you that I am not aware of the letters sent to some of you by my cousin of Scotland, asking for the support of my own Parliament to name herself as heir to the throne of England?”

  It was true; Cecil’s spies had intercepted Mary’s letters, and Elizabeth, trembling with rage, had read them with her own eyes. In the uncomfortable silence that followed this revelation, she sought out the eyes of the men whom she knew had re
ceived such letters. Few dared to meet her gaze, and meeting it, did not hold it long.

  No one dared to speak; the only sounds in the great room were the shuffling of feet, a stifled cough.

  “And since when,” she said, “is it Parliament’s occupation to meddle in the succession? The subsidy I am asking for is for the good of the people of this realm. What matters it who is queen if our land is overrun by a foreign power? The navy needs ships, sirs, and the sailors to man them! The Channel ports need their walls repaired and cannon to repel attack! What do you think I am going to spend the money on, after all?”

  Certainly, all sound arguments, but they had heard all this before. The disgruntled Commons looked to the Lords to rein in their recalcitrant queen. As the premier peer of the realm and the queen’s cousin, all eyes turned to Norfolk. Reluctantly, he came forward and bowed.

  “But Your Grace,” said the duke. “The last Parliament disbanded with your promise to marry ringing in their ears. On the word of a prince, you said. What has become of that promise?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “I do not need a kinsman who is little better than a traitor to remind me of my promises.” That was a cutting remark, and Thomas Howard had not the temerity to rejoin it. He had been one of the recipients of a letter from the Queen of Scotland.

  The Earl of Leicester was thought to have great influence over the queen; all eyes shifted to him. Surely if the queen were to marry, it would be to him?

  “Your Grace,” said Dudley. “If you would but marry me, all of this aggravation could be avoided once and for all.”

  Elizabeth eyed him coldly, but she knew what it had cost him to declare himself so openly. She had no wish to shame him in front of his contemporaries, but some response was needed. “My Lord,” she said quietly, “I had thought that if all the world abandoned me, that you would not do so.”