She smiles at these lords like a girl and I see them falter and the glaze come across their eyes and sometimes the swell into their trousers, and it happens to man after man, their cheeks hot, their speech faster, their hearts pounding. Men with wives, mistresses, servants, boys, girls, and whores. None seem immune. From my place I watch how she speaks to each, gravely and with intelligence, and realize these men know nothing of her power. She is content to wait and listen and dazzle them with her court. What does she plan to do?
≈ ≈ ≈
We leave Stirling and ride back to Edinburgh, and this time I ride close to her and the Marys at the head of the procession. I can hear her conversation and I am included in it once or twice.
I ride like a noblewoman whose family owns a castle. There are stares and whispers from other members of the court. Suddenly I have risen. Those who ignored me before now observe with interest, assessing how best to accommodate this shift.
The day after our return to Edinburgh, I come to the Queen’s bedchamber to start the lessons. I have dressed in the womanly way, but I have made sure I will be able to disrobe easily, with fewer pins and laces, and I have brought my boy’s clothes in a bag.
It is a cold day: the streets miserably wet, the rain drumming on the windows, the castle dark and damp already, and still two months until winter proper. But the Queen’s bedchamber is comfortable, fire stoked, candles burning, the stone walls covered by heavy tapestries.
At my entry she dismisses the servants, keeping only La Flamina and Seton.
“Now we will see a marvelous thing,” she tells them. She opens the door to the supper room and gestures me inside.
I strip out of my dress, bind my breasts, and put on my male attire. Then I open the door and step back into the bedchamber.
La Flamina does not have the Queen’s training in impassivity and she gives a small squeal when I emerge. “Who is this?” she demands.
“Why, it is Alison. Don’t you recognize her?” The Queen takes me by the shoulder and spins me around to show me off. “You see? Young Robert here could step out on the street and not draw a second glance. I think even in my court he would not be recognized.”
“Extraordinary,” La Flamina says. “It’s witchcraft.”
“Not witchcraft,” the Queen says. “Skill and practice.” She looks and smiles. “A skill she will share with me.”
Seton stares at me. “It cannot be natural.”
The Queen can order any clothes she desires and she has several male outfits laid out in her bedchamber. I look through them with a practiced eye and choose the least decorative.
“That’s so dull!” she complains.
“Your Grace, it is better we look like merchants, not nobles, if we go out into the city. We will attract fewer stares.”
She nods her assent and then La Flamina undresses her, undoing a good hour’s work. When the Queen is standing in her petticoat, I instruct La Flamina on wrapping a bandage of fine French linen around the Queen’s chest. I keep my gaze averted, though I glimpse enough to know that she, too, is naturally small in the bosom.
La Flamina helps her put on the shirt, the bodice, the doublet, the breeks, the boots, and the short cloak as I instruct. Seton unpins the Queen’s hair and struggles to tuck its length under the short auburn wig. Then she wipes off the Queen’s makeup.
“What now?” La Flamina asks me.
“Darken her chin,” I say.
“I do not know how. You do it.”
I step to the Queen’s side, take the kohl from La Flamina’s hand, and hesitate.
“You may touch me,” the Queen says.
I try to keep my hands steady as I smudge a slight shadow around her chin and upper lip, to suggest that she has facial hair. Her skin is smooth and pale, flawless.
We turn her around to face the mirror and she studies herself carefully. Her height and slender hips help give her a masculine bearing and she has the stance of someone with power. She walks across the room with a long, firm stride, swings around, comes back.
“Well?” she demands.
“Very clever,” La Flamina says. “This is a good game. Perhaps we could have a masque where we all come dressed as gentlemen and the men all come in dresses.”
“That would be fun,” the Queen says. “But La Flamina, do not mistake. This is no game.”
She sits down again in front of the mirror. “A woman needs every device she can call upon and a queen more than most. The nobles still run Scotland, but one day I will in truth rule this country—and wider. I need every weapon at my disposal, and now I am filling the armory. I must know the hearts of men and women all over this land, from those wild men in the Highlands to the smallest babe on Edinburgh’s streets.”
She holds out her hand to me and I step forward and take it. “We have no urgent business today, Robert, save this. You will teach me your lifetime’s learning before the sun sets. Tonight, in the dark, we will leave the castle and roam.”
“Not yet!” In my surprise I answer sharply and then her face reminds me of whom I am talking to. “Your Grace, the streets are not safe and you have not practiced. Let us start here, let us walk, perhaps let us ride out in the park first. Let me show you how to turn aside a fight, lest a dozen come your way on the first night. It will not help your cause to be murdered in a tavern brawl.”
“Very well,” she says. “But I am impatient, Robert. I would see what job these men do running the country while I am cloistered in my rooms. They smile and pat my hand and tell me not to worry. But I will know what goes on in the streets and the taverns and what Edinburgh’s citizens think of their Queen.”
La Flamina and Seton sew and watch us while I school the Queen in the manners of a man. She takes the name of her dead husband, but while I am Robert and she is Francis, the power subtly changes. She looks at me for instruction. I choose what we do. I tell her to walk across the room again and again. I tell her how to relieve herself without causing suspicion. I am the more experienced companion. It is a heady feeling.
Darkness falls outside, the fire sinks down and is restored. At last a servant knocks to call the Queen for dinner. La Flamina goes to the door. “We shall come directly,” she says.
The Queen nods and suddenly it is all back to normal.
“You have done well, Robert,” she says. “On the next clear day we will hunt in the park like this.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” I bow again.
I am her plaything and she is tired of me for the day.
Eight
The Queen came to Scotland in summer, now we are in winter and still the right moment does not come to petition her. Each day there is someone she must talk to, or some meeting with the Lords of the Congregation that she must attend, or there is ice or sleet and we stay indoors. I strive for a chance to speak to her alone, but it never arrives. I did not understand how hard it would be.
She forms her Privy Council, some dozen lords of both religions, though in practice it is Lord James and her wily secretary of state, Sir William Maitland, who make the decisions. As the days pass, men come to see her and bend their knees to ask for this or that. The food is fine and we drink the best French clarets. Her tiny dogs are dressed in blue velvet to keep them warm, and fed titbits from her table. New fancies are paraded for her entertainment. A lion arrives in a cage from Africa and is released into a special enclosure in the garden. An acrobat juggles fire. A bear dances on a chain. One of her French servants, Sebastian Pages, devises exotic masques retelling the great myths. The valets of her bedchamber play viola and lute and sing to her. We play cards and dice, and each night there is music and dancing to keep away the chill of her first winter.
It seems in France the court is always a spectacle, but our Protestant Scotland is a drab place, our churches stripped of finery, our lives stripped of pleasure. Every Sunday, Edinburgh’s citizens—under pain of punishment—gather at Saint Giles to listen to the impassioned voice of John Knox. We hear that he openly insu
lts the Queen.
At last a day comes when the sun shows its face. The Queen appears in the presence chamber more plainly frocked than usual and there are lines of strain at the point where her eyebrows meet. She paces a little, pauses by the window, then turns back and beckons me over.
“I would like us to ride in the hills today,” she says. “But first I must debate theology with John Knox, who has answered my summons at last. I pray I have the wit for it and that I may convince him his anointed Queen is worthy of some small respect at least.”
I watch her leave the room. Today I will have my chance, I am sure of it. My whole body quivers like a hound straining to the hunt. Today, when we ride together, I will speak to her of the castle at last.
Two hours pass; the sun’s light shifts from one window across to the next. The French do not know the rarity of a cloudless winter day, or they would never let it pass thus.
At last there is a stir. The outer door flies open and the Queen strides into the presence chamber. Her face is hard, lips pressed together. The Marys rise to their feet as one and everyone else sinks into a deep curtsy.
“Come,” she says, gesturing at her Marys. I catch sight of her face as she leads them to the bedchamber. She looks like a young girl, her lip trembling.
An hour later, when the sun is slanting its low path toward the southwest, Lusty appears at the door and calls me.
The Queen has composed herself. When I enter she gives me a tight smile.
“While Knox stirs the entire kingdom against me, I at least will ride out and look over his God’s lands. But I wish for a small party only. Can you lead us up Arthur’s Seat?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Then let us go at once,” she says, rising.
The six of us take the narrow stone staircase that winds from her bedchamber down into the empty king’s chambers below, and from there make our way to the courtyard where the horses are waiting. We mount and I take my mare to the front of our small party. They fall in behind me and a knot of guards follows at a distance.
Afternoon clouds are threatening at the horizon and there is already a chill in the air. I have not ridden far when there is a clatter of hooves behind me and the Queen canters past into the lead.
“Come on,” she calls. “The day is short and I would make it to the top.”
I drive my heels into my horse’s flanks and in moments we are galloping at full stretch across the park. The Queen leans over her horse’s neck and urges him on. I am pressed to keep up, until the ground gets rougher and starts to rise at the base of the crag and we slow to a trot. The others are well behind us, cantering more sedately.
“That man would turn the whole country against me!” she says, and her horse tosses his head at the frustration in her words. “He sets himself level with God!”
The ground begins to rise and the horses throw their shoulders into the climb.
“The Protestants do not care for pleasure,” she says, “or to sing or dance. But I cannot believe God Himself to be so set against beauty, or why would He have created it?”
There is no one else to answer her. “I do not know, Your Grace.”
“So many of Scotland’s people were forced to change their religion. Why did you remain a Catholic, Alison?”
Having been schooled by my shrewd relatives in both religions, now I see it is a thing that may be picked up and dropped at will, in spite of what the priests tell us. The whole country has changed religion and as yet we have not been punished for the heresy of it. But I cannot say this to the Queen.
“My family believes in the old ways,” I say. “The auld religion, the auld alliance, the Queen of the May, the Lords of Misrule. Life must have some delight.”
She smiles. “It pains me that people have been forced to relinquish it. Knox would have the Catholics burned. That is why he hates Elizabeth and me, who each tolerate the other’s religion. He thinks it is the weakness of a female ruler.”
We ride in silence, winding around the contours of the mountain, circling our way toward the top.
“I do not know what he would say to women dressing as men,” she says. Then she laughs. “I am being foolish. Of course I know. He would call it an abomination in the sight of God.”
Her face grows serious. We come to the last part of the climb, a steep scramble. I dismount, find a rock that will suit as a step, and take the Queen’s hand to help her from her horse. When I let go, my skin burns underneath my glove.
We clamber up the final rise and, when we emerge at the top, she gasps. Scotland’s capital lies below us. Holyrood looks insignificant down at the lowest point in the valley. It is Edinburgh Castle, high on its crag, which dominates the city. Beyond the Flodden Wall the land spreads out, winter-bare, the fields in their neat squares, the dark earth ready to receive the next crop of oats, the sheep dotting the pastures. Tiny wreaths of smoke coil up from the cottages and holdings outside the city, and, over the sea, storm clouds are piling. The wind cuts at us, smelling of rain.
“It is not like France,” she says. “Some of my French companions think it a mean and barren place.” She turns a full circle and smiles at me. “But its blood is in my veins. I will come to love it, as I have loved France.”
She is standing by my side, so close, just the two of us and her kingdom spread out at our feet. I need only to turn her around and she will be facing the distant shape of the Lammermuir Hills where the Blackadder Water rises. On the southern side of the hills, the Blackadder Castle calls to me.
A voice comes up from below—the Marys have reached where our horses are tethered. If I am to ask her, it must be now.
I turn my head to face her, but before I can open my mouth, she speaks.
“Mister Knox would be outraged if he thought that I—or even you, Alison—played at dressing as men. I must give him no cause to attack me further. There must be no hint of scandal in my household.”
My throat tightens. She stares across the valley and up at the castle.
“Your Grace—” I begin.
“If I am to do such a thing, no one must know. Only you and my four dear ones. Do you understand?”
Her eyes are burning into me. I am favored, like the Marys, and the feeling of it is a draft of hot wine on a cold night.
“You have my word.” I try to keep my voice steady.
“Good,” she says. Then the Marys are upon us and the moment is gone.
≈ ≈ ≈
On Christmas Eve the Queen allows those of her household with family in Edinburgh to visit them. Lord Hume is one of the Queen’s guests and I am glad for a chance to avoid him. I have learned how to bribe the guards of Holyrood successfully, with money and stolen wine from the Queen’s cellars. I leave the castle dressed as Robert. I have heard that Bothwell and William are lodged in Bothwell’s house in the Canongate and I want to report to William on my progress in winning the Queen’s favor.
One of Bothwell’s servants answers my knock. I wait in the hall until William comes down the stairs, carrying his weapons. He halts.
“I told you not to come like this,” he says.
“How else could I see you?”
He shrugs. “Be swift. Bothwell is about to ride out against that madman Arran, who is busy telling everyone he will marry the Queen. We tried to trap him when he went to a whore last night but he escaped and now he’s come to avenge his honor.”
“Everyone knows Lord Arran is mad,” I say. “Why does his father not just tie him to the bedposts when he raves thus?”
“The son is mad and the father is a fool. But tell me, are you close to the Queen yet?”
“I have made much progress,” I say. “I am one of her favorites. Any day I will have the chance to ask her.”
William leans close to me, even though there is no one to hear. “I learned in the Borders that Hume’s spies are making inquiries. There is no time to lose.”
“If I’m too hasty, I risk everything.”
“Hume will
find us out. You must act.” William buckles on his sword and I watch him enviously. After the endless manipulation of the court, a simple street brawl would be a relief.
“Can’t I come?”
“No,” William says. “It’s dangerous to be out. There’ll be fighting all over Edinburgh tonight. Bothwell’s got four hundred men waiting and Arran the same.”
I follow William outside. Bothwell’s men are gathering and the street is crowded with horses. Torches and lanterns flicker, the breath of man and beast turns into white clouds, the air smells of sweat and snow and ale. The city is throbbing and alive, with a thousand fighting men contained in its walls and no chance that the night watch can enforce the silent hours.
As a roar rises from Bothwell’s amassed men, I leave them and wind through the streets back to Holyrood. The bribed guard refuses to let me in with so many people still around and sends me to climb the wall near the graveyard and slip into the Abbey. I creep through a servant’s entrance into the kitchen and find a maid I can send to Angelique with a whispered message to bring clothes so I can return to our chamber without scandal. She does not know of my disguises, but I will have to enlist her help.
When the servant brings her to where I am hiding, she stares at my male dress, her mouth agape. I put a finger to my lips.
“The Queen wishes me to dress thus,” I say. “She has asked me to be discreet.”
She hands me a bundled-up dress and a wig as requested, and turns her back while I step into a storeroom, divest myself of Robert, and emerge as a disheveled Alison.
“It is only a game of the Queen’s.” I take Angelique’s arm so that we may walk back to our quarters. “But no one else must know.”
“It is a dangerous game,” is all she says.
Nine
The Queen’s first Christmas is feasting and drinking, dancing and masques, music, life, and color. The celebrations continue for three days until no one can face another meal laid out in the great hall, or raise themselves to dance another jig. The palace is quiet for one exhausted day, and the next morning she summons me to attend her.
The Raven's Heart Page 6