William pulled me closer and I could feel his hand shaking. “I have nothing left,” he said, and I heard the anguish in his voice. Then it hardened. “I won’t give her up. You must foster her as my nephew, Robert Blackadder. Her life depends on you teaching her well.”
“Not the name of your father,” said Margaret. “And not Blackadder. It’s too dangerous.”
“You cannot make us relinquish our very name!” William roared.
“All right!” John stood tall. “We will do it. William, I will get you into service with Lord Bothwell, who will have need of a ship and a captain and is the sworn enemy of Lord Hume. Sail to France and I will send word.”
I stayed at Tulliallan, learning the skills of a boy from John and Margaret’s resentful sons, who delighted in having a girl they could torment like a brother. I learned fast how to twist out of a cruel hold and where to strike to hurt them most. I was tutored in the manners of a noble heir in case I should ever need them. Margaret never managed to give birth to her own daughter and in time she came to hate me for being dressed as a boy and not being her own.
But it was John who took the final step in my protection. Without William’s knowledge, he sent a message to Hume that the family would desist in pursuing the castle in return for an end to the bloodshed. Word came that Lord Hume agreed, though it was never written down.
It was a relief when William came back after three years and took me with him to sea as his nephew, in the service of Lord Bothwell. I learned never to call him “Father” and how to live as a sailor. Each night, just like when I was a child, he whispered about the castle. “No matter what false promise John has made to Hume, it means nothing,” he told me. “We will get it back. The Queen will return it to us. When the Queen returns, justice will be done.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Tulliallan Castle lies two days to the north and William sends me out before daybreak with my instructions. I must convince John Blackadder to present me as his own daughter when he comes to pay fealty at the Queen’s welcome pageant. I have ten days to unlearn the habits of half a lifetime and become a young woman fit for noble service.
By day’s end I come to Stirling, to the Stag’s Rack Inn where my father and I are accustomed to overnighting between Tulliallan and Edinburgh. I take a table in the corner where I can watch the room. The innkeeper’s daughter brings me roasted meats, dripping and dark and what my body longs for. My blood time must be due, with all the extra subterfuge it requires, and I am tired to the bone.
She has looked at me on other visits, the daughter. Smiled across the room, brushed my shoulder with her upper arm as she put down the ale. But she has never spoken and under William’s iron gaze I have never even returned her glance. But now, as my bones loosen and the ale warms my belly, I watch her. Her dress is low and her bosom creamy, and the next time I pass this way, I will not be able to look at her in such a way, the way a young man looks at a woman.
She feels my eyes on her and in a moment she is at the table with the ale jug to top me up. She’s so close I can smell her skin and see the pale hairs on her arm. She turns her head slightly so that her eyes meet mine.
“Alone this time?” she asks.
Her breath is warm on my cheek. Men and women both notice me, for I inherited my mother’s fine French features and dark eyes. William has instructed me how to fight off those men who like their boys young and smooth of cheek, but he has taught me nothing of women. I have put my body out of reach of all.
“Yes,” I say at last and I cannot help but turn. She is still leaning down and my movement brings our faces even closer. Suddenly I feel the desire to join our lips, as though the space between them is nothing so much as a distance to be extinguished.
When a yell comes from a man wanting his cup refilled, she steps back and I slump in relief. I look around carefully, but her father has his back to the room and he has not seen us. She finishes pouring ale and returns to the kitchen.
I finish my meal and drink more ale from a jug wielded by her father, until my eyes start to blur and the room begins to empty. She does not appear again and I walk out slowly, regret colored with relief.
But she is waiting by a corner outside my room as I weave upstairs. She steps out in front of me in the dim light and I grasp my dagger instinctively. She reaches out, covers my hand with her own, and leans in, her face tilted to catch me in a kiss.
The brush of her lips flares through me. In a day I will be a woman, but tonight I am a lad still. Her lips part under my own in invitation and in a second I understand the meaning of desire. My body moves forward against her, pressing her back against the stone wall. Her tongue is urgent. She reaches her hand along my thigh and the feeling between my legs is a new continent. I do not know if I am man, woman, or beast. Then her fingers brush my codpiece and, in the shock of it, sanity returns. I pull my lips away from hers and step backward. I turn away from her and stand trembling, my nipples aching underneath their prison, my breath ragged. She is silent for a moment, then puts her hand on my shoulder, leans in again, and closes her teeth on my earlobe in a nip that races down my body. And then she is gone.
I stand still for long minutes, my hand against the cold stone wall supporting me. A sound on the stairwell startles me and I gather myself and stride quickly to my room. The tavern is busy with travelers to Edinburgh and another man is already rolled in the bed, snoring lightly. I put my dagger under the pillow in close reach and lay my head down on top of it.
But I cannot sleep easily that long night. I burn as if fevered. It is many hours later that I finally calm myself enough to fall into a fitful doze.
William was right, though I have not known it till this night. I cannot stay hidden as a boy. There are dangers in it I had not imagined.
≈ ≈ ≈
It is another day’s ride to Tulliallan and dusk is falling by the time I reach it. The castle’s tall, sheer face rises from the ground on the top of a small rise, circled by a moat.
A servant opens the portcullis and ushers me up the small staircase to the first floor, where John and Margaret are in their chambers. They stand to greet me. John puts a hand on my shoulder and claps me stiffly. He can never forget what I am underneath. Margaret shudders when I reach for her hand. In public I would kiss it, but in private she keeps herself drawn away from me. Her gaze rakes my travel-stained clothes, my muddy boots, and the horse hair on my cloak.
I turn away slightly from her scrutiny. “You will be pleased, madam, to hear this news,” I say, handing William’s letter to her husband.
John reads the letter thoughtfully and passes it to Margaret. He considers me as she reads.
“Your father will never give this up, will he?” he says.
I stare at him. “Why should he? It is his birthright, and mine.”
Margaret looks up from the parchment. “This is too dangerous. You will never pass as a noblewoman. And what will Hume do when he finds a Blackadder at court?”
I sit, keeping my back straight. “I’m a quick learner. I could bring honor to the family. Hume will believe I am a Tulliallan Blackadder and no threat to him. And what safer place in the country than in the Queen’s presence?”
“One of our own boys should go to court,” Margaret says to John. “Alison has no training to be a woman, let alone a lady-in-waiting.”
“When I am high in her favor, I will reveal who I am and petition the Queen myself for the castle,” I say. “Then the Tulliallan Blackadders can send a son to court.”
John rubs his beard and turns to Margaret. “It could be to our advantage to have a Blackadder close to the Queen.”
“She does not even own a gown.”
“You have gowns aplenty she can pick from. The girl could bring honor to us, if she does well.” He waves for a servant to begin ladling out the food. “I’ve made up my mind. Our sons can go to court later, when this has been done. You have ten days to make sure she knows how to act.”
“Indeed.” Margaret
glares at me across the table as the servants lay out the food. “We’ll start right now, then. Hold your knife this way. No—turn your hand. Like that.”
So begins my unmaking.
≈ ≈ ≈
When the maid wakes me the next morning, I can scarcely believe that such an extent of fabric laid out can be a single outfit. To begin, a petticoat of soft linen against my skin, embroidered in tiny stitches, and silk stockings that slide up the length of my thigh, as soft as the touch of the innkeeper’s daughter. The maid helps me into the Spanish farthingale, with its wooden hoops to hold out my underskirts. Then the bodice, the sleeves, the dress of blue damask, the gloves to cover my rough hands, the velvet hat, the rings, the necklaces, the velvet slippers, and the long cloak for when I step out of doors.
For the first time in years I have not bound my chest, but instead wrestled it into a stiff bodice a hundred times more constraining. It is cut low and my breasts are pushed up to swell at the top of the dress. The feel of air on my collarbones is shocking, as if I am naked.
It takes the maid more than an hour to dress me, paint my face, settle a wig over my cropped hair and braid it. By the end, I cannot recognize the person staring back at me from the hand mirror.
It takes all my strength to keep myself straight and upright when I walk into Margaret’s chamber. She surveys me coldly, then rises and circles me. The maid stands, head lowered, while her handiwork is inspected.
“You have done well,” Margaret says. “I wouldn’t have recognized her.” She dismisses the servant and I relax a little, letting out a tightly held breath.
“You,” she turns to me, “look like a yokel. The clothes are nothing if you cannot carry them. Stand straight.”
She places one hand on my belly and the other between my shoulder blades. She pushes and I try to follow her directions. Eventually, when I am in such a position that it seems my bones will snap, she nods.
“Better. Now stay like that.”
She crosses to the fire, seats herself, and resumes her sewing without another glance.
“It is a beautiful dress,” I say.
“You will have another four such.” She does not raise her eyes from her sewing. “Only the best, so you do not shame the family in front of the Queen. My husband says I cannot possibly need such finery down here in the country and that I shall hardly miss them.”
I am silent. I hold the pose for as long as I can. At last I move slightly and the dress rustles.
“You think you will be allowed to slouch and fiddle while waiting on the Queen?” she snaps, looking up. “You have but a few days to learn to stand still. If you are such a quick learner, you will have no trouble with it.”
I glare at her.
“Do not look at the Queen thus,” she says. “Keep your eyes down unless she speaks to you.”
“How am I to befriend her without looking at her?”
She laughs. “You will not befriend her. Do you think for a moment your father’s plan can succeed? You will never get your castle, Alison. It is long since lost.”
“She has noticed me already.” My voice rises. “She has favored me. Our cause is just.”
“She has noticed a boy, you fool.” She stands and strides across the room until the hoops of our dresses touch. “I give you this advice for nothing. Find a husband, or you will spend your life in Edinburgh’s sewers. Become a woman and make yourself a match.”
I raise my chin. “I thank you for the advice. But I will win our castle, whatever you think.”
She shakes her head and returns to her seat. “You think you know what it is to be strong, like a man,” she says in a low voice. “That won’t help you now. It’s time to learn a woman’s endurance.”
≈ ≈ ≈
I win a single victory.
“The Queen herself rides astride,” I say to Margaret when she comes to teach me side-saddle.
“The Queen comes from France, where all manner of wickedness takes place,” she says. “A Blackadder woman does not ride astride.”
I seek out John and appeal to him. “Something must make her notice me. She is a very great horsewoman. It is one way I can gain her attention.”
He scratches his head and at last nods. “Ride side-saddle with us to Edinburgh. I will arrange that we carry another saddle for you. Once you are at court, the choice is yours. Do not cause a scandal, mind.”
“Thank you.” I hesitate. “There’s one more thing. I will need an allowance. A lady in court must buy fripperies and new clothes and bribe servants. The family is expected to provide.”
He shrugs. “Very well. I will make arrangements with the Queen’s household.”
If I were a boy I would have shaken his hand, but I do not know what to do and we stare at each other for a moment and then both drop our eyes.
“What does she wear for such a thing?” he asks, as I turn to leave.
“Breeks, under her riding habit.”
He grins. “You will want some, I suppose. I will speak to the tailor and have them made.” He glances sideways at me. “You had best pack them where Margaret doesn’t see.”
Four
When our party sets out for Edinburgh eight days later to welcome the Queen, a new Blackadder daughter rides by Margaret in unaccustomed side-saddle, voluminous skirts hanging down. Even Artemis still snorts and spooks when I come near, not recognizing me, and the stableboy has to hold her while I mount.
Bewigged, bepowdered, befrocked, starched, ruffed, pinned, primped, primed, head spinning with a million nuances of what to remember and what to forget. But pride keeps me stiff in the saddle, my slippered feet in the stirrups, my hands light on the reins as befits a woman of my standing. Pride reminds me to drop my gaze when men stare or wink at me.
We ride into Edinburgh in the afternoon, the day before the Queen’s pageant. My legs ache and my head pounds but I will not let Margaret see a second of weakness. I hold my head high and smile as if we have just mounted up to ride out on an autumn day.
Edinburgh is in a frenzy. The trumpets herald the arrival of another noble family into the city. We clatter under the archway of Netherbow Port, led by John and flanked by servants and followers.
Above our heads a huge canvas dragon is being hoisted into place with ropes. Black-painted moors, dressed in yellow taffeta, march up the High Street before us. A choir of children raise their voices as we pass, piercing the babble of the street with the beauty of their rehearsal. Men roll barrels across the cobblestones to the High Cross fountain, which will flow with wine during the Queen’s pageant. At the Salt Tron, they are building a bonfire that could burn a dozen heretics.
My father, pressed against the side of the road, is looking out for us. John stops to speak briefly to him and passes on. William’s gaze turns to me and it is as if I am some magical creature. For a moment he looks afraid.
“Witchcraft,” he mutters.
I open my mouth to tell him it is nonsense, and then close it again. He has never looked at me with awe before and I would not turn it away so fast. Then, strangely, he bows to me. I look up to see John and Margaret waiting, and Margaret inclines her head for me to follow. I look back at William.
“You are their daughter now,” he says. “A Tulliallan Blackadder. Go.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Her eyes flicker over me in an instant. They are politely attentive, no more. Her presence chamber is crowded with ladies-in-waiting, the unmarried daughters and cousins and eligibles of her nobility.
“We are honored to offer our daughter, Mistress Alison Blackadder, into your service,” John says, bowing so low that his beard droops toward the floor. There is a titter among the finely dressed ladies standing behind the Queen and I hear them whispering in French. I keep my eyes lowered.
“What are her accomplishments?” asks a man seated by the Queen.
“She sews and sings and is fluent in French,” John says.
“How does she worship?”
John hesitates. It
is now against the law to be a Catholic, but the Queen herself is one. William has judged it best that I serve her as a Catholic, but it is risky to mention it openly. The Queen’s first private mass in the chapel royal at Holyrood was disrupted by rioters until Lord James himself called them off.
“She is very devout in her prayers to the Virgin,” he says at last.
The Queen looks away, fanning herself, and someone leans over to whisper something into her ear. I make a small cough, praying that only John will hear it.
“She is an excellent horse rider,” he adds.
The man looks my way again. “Does she bring her own horse?”
“Of course, and a fine beast it is.”
The Queen glances up. “Do you hunt?”
As Robert I could speak to her. As Alison I do not know what to say. I take a shallow breath, restricted by the dress. “My preference is deer, Your Grace, but I have hunted small game many times.”
Her eyes could be glass. The silence lasts so long that I wonder if she expects me to say something else.
“I have heard that Your Grace will hunt the Caledonian bulls in the park at Stirling. I would be honored to be included in such a hunt,” I add.
There is a sharp intake of breath from somewhere and her eyes suddenly focus on me terrifyingly. John clears his throat to make some excuse for my foolishness, but she waves a hand to silence him. The man who has been asking the questions leans over and confers with her. After a moment he sits back.
“Thank you, we shall take your daughter into our service for the winter and see how she learns the manners of court,” the man says.
Another giggle comes from somewhere in the crowd of women. The Queen looks around in annoyance.
“There are several who require lessons in the manners of court,” she says, and silence falls instantly.
“You will be seen to outside.” The man gestures for us to leave.
≈ ≈ ≈
The man by the Queen’s side is George Seton, brother of one of the Queen’s Marys and the head of the new royal household.
“Come away to your room, then,” he says, when at last he comes out of her presence chamber. “A servant will bring your trunks.”
The Raven's Heart Page 3