The Raven's Heart

by Jesse Blackadder

  I unfold my fan and wave it while I think. In the Borders, William will be in the heart of Hume territory, with spies everywhere. I remember Lord Hume catching sight of my furious face. I may have exposed us already.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I do not know Stirling the way I know Edinburgh; the places where I might don a disguise, the street boys and girls who will lead me safely for the payment of a coin. I do not know how a lady-in-waiting may leave the castle dressed as a boy without any seeing her, or how she may return again at night. But I must speak to William before he walks into such danger. I will step into the freedom of that disguise, the one that has become me, which is no disguise at all. I will slip out into the night and find him at the Stag’s Rack.

  I have drawn my first allowance and I make my way to the guardhouse to bribe a guard. I affect a casual air and in an undertone ask for the use of the guardroom in which to change, and permission to return. He keeps his hand steady and his face expressionless while I press the coins into it, more and more, until my coins are gone and I whisper urgently that I have no more. He glances down once, briefly, nods his head, and gestures to dismiss me. I return to the antechamber with flaming cheeks. As a boy I can bribe my way anywhere, but as a woman I do not know how to drive the bargain.

  After dinner I slip away from the antechamber. I step out into the courtyard, my head high and my step swift as if on an errand for the Queen, Robert’s clothes bundled under my cloak.

  The guard nods at me and stands aside to let me into the guardhouse. I smile in the new coquettish way I am learning and shut the door. When I am safely inside, it is all I can do not to rip myself free of the constraints of the dress. My hands are trembling with eagerness as I unlace and unpin, take off the wig, and wipe the powder from my cheeks. I step into my breeks and jerkin and boots as if they are old friends. I stand for a moment in the sheer delight of it before I open the door, leaving brocade and wig heaped like a carcass.

  The guard jumps to see me and takes a step backward. “You are more man than woman,” he says suspiciously. I wink at him and step out onto the street.

  It is like stepping out of prison and I stride down the hill to the Stag’s Rack like a young man who goes to court his sweetheart. In the tavern is the woman who kissed me. Has she been watching the door through the weeks ever since? As I shoulder my way inside through the warm bodies and the swell of noise, I see her eyes upon me and I cannot stop my smile. She turns away, but I see the smile forming on her lips and her quick glance in my direction a moment later.

  I squeeze through the press of bodies. William is seated alone at a small table, an ale and a bowl of stew in front of him, his face grim.

  “Uncle.” I put my hand on his shoulder.

  He turns in a flash. “What are you doing here?”

  “We must speak.” I sit down opposite, spreading my elbows wide across the table and parting my knees, my body relaxing into its familiar stances. I have been ruined for ever being comfortable as a woman.

  A soft voice at my shoulder. “An ale for you?” she says, and her arm presses against me as she pours. I dare not look at her in front of William, but mutter thanks as she moves away.

  William grunts. “Do you have news from the Queen, then?”

  I pick up the cup and take a long swallow. “She knows my face and my name. But she keeps her special ladies by her side and I am not there yet.”

  He puts both his hands flat on the table and leans forward. “I do not want the castle when I’m too old to ride there and too blind to see it!”

  “Then take me out of her service,” I say. “Let me come back to you and Bothwell and petition the Queen as Robert. Bothwell will speak for us too. She has barely noticed me and I cannot get close to her like this.”

  William shakes his head. “Bothwell has no special favor. Today she appointed him keeper of the Borders, but it is the doing of Lord James, to keep him away from court.”

  “Lord Hume saw me in Edinburgh,” I say. “You may be in danger going there.”

  He lowers his voice. “Hume will have heard by now that the Blackadders have a daughter in court. Even if he knows you are from Tulliallan, he may be suspicious. We are both in danger. It is safer for you to stay with the Queen.”

  I sit back in my seat, a sudden chill between my shoulder blades. I have always been protected, by William, by Bothwell, by Tulliallan’s high walls. Now I am alone in the court, reliant on the Queen’s goodwill for my safety. She has no reason to care for me yet.

  “I must go,” I say at last. “I can’t risk being missed.”

  He grips my arm. “Don’t do this again. Your days as Robert are finished.”

  I stand, nod to him, and slip away between the drinking men. I can feel the eyes of the innkeeper’s daughter on me. My desire for her is a clutch in my belly, but I am not Robert any more and, even if I was, how could I take anything more than a kiss?

  Outside in the cool air, the moon has risen. I run up the steep, twisting streets to the castle.

  The guard is keeping a look-out for me, and nods when I call softly from the shadows. I slip by him and into the dark corner where my clothes wait.

  A woman of my new rank cannot dress unaided and this is the danger in my escapade. I wrap my long cloak over my clothes and tuck my cropped hair under the wig. If any catch sight of me, I hope I will pass as a woman cloaked to go outside.

  I hear his step behind me. “You need help, I think?”

  I turn quickly. “I am fine.” I keep my voice level.

  He is standing so close I can feel his breath.

  “So are you man or woman?” he asks. His hand gropes at my waist and grips it.

  “Please,” I say. “I have paid you well this night.”

  “It does not cost so much to leave the castle,” he says. “But it costs a great deal more to return. Now what are you?” He jerks me closer, pulling me against his body. I hunch my shoulders so that he won’t feel my breasts. His lips meet my neck, forcing my head back, and his tongue is a sickening wet against my skin.

  “I am a boy,” I hiss, low in his ear.

  He jumps back, pushing me so hard that I stagger. “Witch,” he spits, crossing himself.

  It is a dangerous accusation and I cannot allow it to stand. I snatch my dagger and swing around so its point is at his throat in a heartbeat.

  “I am on the Queen’s secret business and she will be most displeased if I am harmed.” I reach down and pick up the bundle of my female clothes, pulling them under my cloak.

  He says nothing, standing aside as I pass. I turn at the door. “Do we have an understanding?”

  He makes a disgusted sound.

  “I know where to find you,” I say. “Not a word to anyone, or the Queen will hear of it.”

  I keep the dagger outstretched and back away until I reach a corner. “We will do business again,” I say as I step out of his sight.

  As I flee on silent feet across the cobblestones, my breath comes in gasps. I must cross the lion’s garden, enclosed and unguarded in the center of the castle, and creep to my quarters unobserved. I reach the gate, wrench it open, and stumble through into the open square.

  A rabble of voices meets me and I skid to a halt. The square is full of men, their voices upraised.

  “Here! The Queen’s woman,” a voice calls and a guard is by my side, grasping my arm through the cloak.

  “Quickly, we may not touch her.” He breaks into a run, dragging me across the courtyard. I smell smoke and then I see the Queen on the ground, hunched over, eerily lit by flickering torchlight. For a moment my fevered mind thinks they are attacking her and I begin to struggle with the guard. Then she goes into a spasm of coughing.

  “Help her,” the guard says, thrusting me forward. I can feel my wig coming askew and I struggle to pull my cloak around me before I kneel down at the Queen’s side. She is gasping and choking, her eyes streaming, and she clutches frantically at my cloak. The stink of smoke rises from her and
I can smell wine on her breath.

  “What happened?” I demand of them.

  “Candle too close to the bed,” a guard says. “The hangings caught fire. We just got her in time.”

  “A flask, does someone have a flask?” I put my arm around her shoulder. She clings to me, coughing. I unstopper the flask that a guard has pushed into my hands and hold it to her lips. “Just a sip,” I say. “Hush. You’re safe.”

  She sips, chokes, coughs again, and sags into my arms. I rock her.

  A high-pitched cry comes from across the courtyard: her Marys in full voice. The Queen lifts her head, her eyes still streaming, and for a moment she looks at me with no recognition in her eyes.

  You shall not touch a queen. I have forgotten this.

  I pull my hands away from her and draw back as her eyes widen and she stares at me. My wig has fallen off, my cloak is askew, I am revealed.

  I jump to my feet as the Marys come tumbling toward us. In the confusion I step backward through the guards and melt away into the shadows.

  It’s not till I reach my bed that I realize I have left behind my bundled dress.

  Seven

  My quarters are far from the Queen’s chambers and the distant sounds of the hubbub have not woken Angelique. I undress in the dark, roll my boy’s clothes into a ball, and stuff them into my trunk.

  I spend the night tossing in dread. By the time I wake from fitful sleep, there are guards outside my door with orders to keep me there. Angelique looks at me round-eyed for an explanation, but when I shake my head, she silently helps me dress and leaves for her own duties. I pace the room, preparing an explanation. I cannot tell the Queen the truth, not before I have gained more favor.

  The Queen keeps me waiting and it is afternoon before I am escorted into her presence chamber. A few servants are in attendance and the Marys are not with her. I cross the length of the room feeling her stare upon me and drop into a deep curtsy.

  “It seems I have you to thank for helping me last night,” she says, when I am seated opposite her and my cup is full. “The guards tell me you were the first to come to my aid.”

  I bow my head and say nothing. She looks at me for a long moment, then stands up and crosses to the window.

  “But they cannot tell me how you arrived so quickly, when your bedchamber is so far away,” she says, looking out.

  I do not answer and my heart begins to pound. She turns in my direction but I keep my gaze on the floor.

  “One of the guards swears that you had short hair and were wearing breeks.”

  I lift my head and she holds up her hand.

  “I told him that could not be, but then he showed me your dress, bundled up and dropped in the courtyard. They say perhaps you are a spy and had something to do with the fire in my room. What say you to that, Mistress Blackadder?”

  Though she is but eighteen years of age she has learned the look of a queen from her foster mother, Catherine de Médici of France, the look of a queen who holds your life in her hands and is turning it over and over like a bauble while she decides what to do with it. It is a look that sends me to my knees.

  “I did not know of any fire. I was outside my rooms last night and came through the lion’s garden on the way back,” I say.

  “Outside your rooms for what reason?”

  This much I know from living in disguise. A half-truth is better than a complete lie. I take a deep breath.

  “Your Grace, your people love to play and dress other than they really are. But lately the reformers have prevented it. They have forbidden the May games, and they punish any who play at Robin Hood and the Abbot of Unreason. They crush the pleasure of the ordinary men and women, who live hard lives and have little joy. Your people cannot even attend mass any more.”

  “So I am aware, but what is this to do with you?”

  “Your Grace, I have seen that you like to ride astride and be the equal of a man. You may think it strange, but I have always loved to play in the May games as a man. I have done so since I was a child at Tulliallan, with the families on my father’s estate, when we raised the maypole and the procession ran through the fields. I promised our people I would ask you to lift this cruel ban. I thought the best way was to show you myself the enjoyment that could be had from such dressing up. Last night I was rehearsing in a private place in the garden so none could see me. I planned to surprise you.”

  She regards me silently. I stay on my knees, head down. She only has to lift her finger and my life will end.

  “When you dress this way, do others mistake you for a man?” she asks.

  “Why yes, Your Grace.”

  “Do you dress so other than during the May games?”

  I keep my eyes lowered. “I do, Your Grace. I do not like the restraint of being a woman all the time.”

  She reaches out as if she will stroke my hair, but then twists her fingers in my wig and tugs at it. The shock makes me gasp. It is too tightly pinned to come off, but she must feel that it is not my own hair she holds. She uses it to lever my head back until I am forced to look into her eyes.

  “You will have to show me if I am to believe you.”

  The guard takes me out through the chambers, past the curious eyes of the courtiers, to my room. I am panting like a creature pursued as I take out my rolled-up clothes from the trunk. We retrace our steps through the stares of those in the presence chamber to the Queen’s bedchamber.

  She dismisses the guards and servants and watches me, her face impassive. I realize she will not turn away. With shaking fingers I peel off the dress, the sleeves, the ruff, the bodice, the farthingale, the dozens of pins, down to my under-shift. Off comes the wig to show my black, cropped hair. I unroll my clothes and pull on the breeks with their codpiece. I quickly bind my breasts and don the jerkin, the soft shirt, the boots. I lift my cloak, throw it around my shoulders, and raise my eyes to her again.

  She walks around me. “I wouldn’t know you,” she says. “But can you be a man? The illusion is good, but there is more to a man than his clothes.”

  Our future rests upon me in this moment and the promise of the castle looms. I take a deep, trembling breath, and raise my head. I stride across the room, straddle the gilt chair, and cross my arms over its back.

  “Madam,” I say, dropping my voice to its accustomed timbre. “It’s an autumn day out there and the weather is blooming. What say you we take the hawks and ride into the hills? We might flush a coney or two, or a pheasant whose feathers would seem richer in your hair.”

  There is a moment’s shocked silence and then she claps her hands and laughs the delicious laugh I remember from the ship.

  “Extraordinary!” she says, and comes and sits by me. “No, stay where you are. I like you better as this cocky fellow than another simpering lady-in-waiting. Alison? And what name do you go by as a man?”

  “Robert Blackadder, Your Grace.”

  Her eyes widen. “Robert the Edinburgh messenger?” she says. “With the chestnut horse?”

  I bow my head. “At your service.”

  “You dared to fool me. You even ride the same horse. You are a master in this.”

  She falls silent for a long moment. “What a slippery skill it is and what end might it be turned to? Can you be trusted?”

  I drop to my knee in front of her. “Give my loyalty any test.”

  She considers me. “A woman may learn many things, disguised like this. Things that will never otherwise come to the eyes and ears of a queen. Is that not so?”

  “I have gone unnoticed in worlds you can barely imagine, Your Grace.”

  She leans close. “Then you will teach me this. I want to learn to dress and walk and talk as a man. I can already ride and hunt and even fight a little, but all as a woman. I want you to teach me, and then you and I will creep out at night in disguise and explore the streets and drink in the taverns. Will you do this?”

  She is a queen and she asks me such a thing as if it is a request.

&nbs
p; “I will see what can be done about the May games,” she says, before she sends me away.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  She has watched men die in any number of ways. She sat with the merciless de Guises as the French rebels were punished brutally and publicly, execution after execution in the courtyard by the Loire River until the water ran red and she was thoroughly schooled in the princely art of swift revenge. She sat by the bedside of her child-husband, the young French King, as the brain abscess led him to a slow and excruciating death. None of the French were surprised that the sickly Francis did not survive his seventeenth year, but the accounts tell of her weeping and lamentation at the loss of a boy more brother than husband. It is whispered that he was too young or too ill or in some way deformed and that their marriage was never consummated.

  She has come from the most extravagant court in Europe, but though she has been a queen since she was six days old, she has never in truth ruled. She does not know the hidden struggles for power, the ancient lines of enmity and loyalty within the clans. She greets her half-brother with joy and does not perceive—or ignores—what I can see from his eyes: that his heart is full of rage at her return and his loss of the regency.

  It does not take a prophet to see that as power shifts and hangs in the balance, danger is everywhere. She is always guarded and always at risk. It was so when Elizabeth came to the English throne and faced attempt after attempt on her life.

  But in spite of the dangers around her, our Queen has brought laughter into the court. She orders her musicians and poets to perform, and calls for feasts and dancing each night. The serious business of ruling happens elsewhere in the realm of men, while the Queen has become its glorious public face. The men are well satisfied with this and they smile at their Queen and compare her favorably to wilful Elizabeth, who knows about every matter in her lands. How could our Queen know? She has been cloistered in the French court, the child Queen of Scotland married to the child King of France and both of them kept delightfully amused at every moment lest they notice the business of ruling taking place around them.