“What future was there in it?” he gasps. “Angelique saw sense before you did. All I did was show you.”
I drop him roughly to his feet.
He rubs his throat. “The Queen has not heard from Lord Bothwell and she wants his advice. I’ve told her you’ll leave at once for London with a letter for him. There is a servant packing your bag.”
“How dare you?” I spit at him.
“I’ve done much to protect you, but you are not above punishment,” he says. “Be on the road to England within the hour.”
“I do not trust you,” I say, hating him.
“You shouldn’t trust anyone, not in a court. You have spied enough yourself to know that. But I have explained away your disappearance to the Queen and got you out of here till you can see sense. You’ll be grateful, in the end.”
“I will pack my own things.”
“No.” For a deformed man, he orders like a king.
“Since when am I under your command?”
His look is knowing. “If you want to live, do not try to see Angelique. She has made her choice. Travel as a man and be as hard as one. It will take you several weeks to deliver the Queen’s message and bring Lord Bothwell’s reply. Don’t rush back.”
Before the sun is high in the sky, I am dressed, packed, and sent south into a terribly clear and sunny spring day without having stepped foot in the palace. Everything I have loved is back there and the lack of it is a hole inside me.
Nineteen
Queen Elizabeth says she has the heart of a man, the heart of her father Henry VIII, who was cruel even by the standards of princes. He wooed our own infant Queen Mary for his young son Edward by laying waste to the southern reaches of Scotland right up to Edinburgh when Mary’s mother dared to reject such a match.
In Elizabeth’s country I strive for such a hardness of heart myself. My mind constructs a wall of high stone around my treasonous heart to contain it the way the Flodden Wall contains Edinburgh and keeps it safe. When my heart tries to offer up a thousand excuses for Angi’s behavior, a thousand reasons why she should be on the floor beneath the Queen’s apothecary, my mind strikes them down as brutally as Henry smote the Scottish men and women in his way.
I find Bothwell and William, and stay with them a few days so that Bothwell may read the Queen’s letter and respond to it. I speak little, eat little, and make my escape from them as swiftly as I can.
I use the gold coins that Rizzio gave me to stay in London taverns and try to forget my heart in drink and entertainment. There are bear fights and bull fights and cock fights, bowls and tennis, archery and shooting on the open grounds, and men throwing themselves into the Thames on the hottest days.
When the summer heat becomes unbearable, I take my stiff-legged mare from the stables and turn her head north, back to the land where my heart is imprisoned.
≈ ≈ ≈
In Edinburgh the summer days are so long the nights hardly exist. The streets stink; men walk bare-armed, women put on bonnets against the sun. At the gates of Holyrood, Rizzio comes to meet me and takes me himself to a new bedchamber close to his own quarters. I am to share with two unspeaking older women whom I barely know. They share one larger bed and I have a pallet in the corner.
I dress to meet the Queen, in the trappings of a lady-in-waiting again. Can I keep my heart hard, dressed thus? When I am shown into the Queen’s chambers, Angi is among the party with her. I have rehearsed this moment. I fix my gaze on the Queen, approach, and curtsy.
She smiles. “It is good to see you again, Mistress Blackadder. Come to my rooms this evening, and you can tell me about your travels. I’m sure you have some interesting stories.”
Dismissed, I curtsy again and move away. Rizzio is watching me, but I don’t care. I find myself a seat and at last, after six weeks, raise my eyes to find Angi.
She is waiting for my gaze and when she meets it, her face pale, eyes dark, looking at me with entreaty, my manly heart lurches. Six weeks dissolve into nothing. I must go to her.
But there is something else. Not far away from her, the apothecary is watching me carefully. Angi raises a hand to her throat. My heart slams closed and my rage rises.
“Careful.” Rizzio’s voice is low at my shoulder.
I fight to breathe, hating all of them.
“Are your new quarters to your liking?” he asks.
“They are too close to yours.”
“Consider yourself lucky. They face south, they catch winter warmth. You can stay in the Queen’s favor if you are careful.”
“Do you threaten me, Rizzio?”
He smiles and fans himself, covering the movement of his lips. “A warning only. The Queen knows nothing about you and your paramour. Keep it that way.”
After lunch the Queen orders her courtiers to an afternoon ride in the park. The four Marys are gleeful, but I see a few glum expressions elsewhere. In spite of my resolve, I cannot help looking at Angelique. Her face is stricken, but when I see she is staring at Jean-Paul, I turn away abruptly. Rizzio, who has gained a permanent dispensation from riding on account of his twisted back, settles himself into a plush chair as we follow the Queen out.
“We will race around the foot of Arthur’s Seat,” she says as we mount in the courtyard. She looks across at me and smiles. “There is still no one here who rides as well as you.”
Within moments she and I are ahead of the others, and by the time we reach the base of Arthur’s Seat, they are far behind us. Normally the Queen can outride me too, but I have spent much of the past six weeks on horseback and my mare is road-hardened. I ride at the Queen’s side easily, but keep from passing her, so that our horses gallop in tandem. When we come around the base of the rock, she pulls up, laughing and fresh-faced. She has never lost her delight at riding thus.
“With your gift for disguise, I should have left you here on the throne and gone myself, to see what the world is like these days,” she says. “What is the mood in England?”
“All the talk is of marriage.” I let the mare lower her head and catch her breath. “Yours and your cousin’s. Among men there is great impatience, as if they are waiting to know who they really serve. The Catholics are afraid and many are converting. But some think that Elizabeth will never marry.”
She nods thoughtfully. “And what of Bothwell?”
“I have a letter from him. He is still urging you to consider Lord Darnley. He writes to you of Don Carlos’s accident.”
“Accident?”
“The word is all over London that he fell down the castle stairs in a drunken rage and almost died. His father’s surgeons have operated on his brain, and performed a near miracle, restoring his sight, but it seems he has lost what was left of his mind. He tried to strangle his father in a wild fit.”
The only sound is the panting of the two horses, gradually easing. “The ambassador mentioned a small accident, that is all. He assured me Don Carlos had recovered,” she says at last. “Why does Bothwell always pass me such troublesome information! If he had not been so loyal to my family, I would swear that he himself plots to make my life miserable.”
The sound of hooves throbs behind us and both horses prick up their ears. The Queen lifts the reins and swings her horse around. “Bring me his letter tonight,” she says.
The rider behind us is shouting as he pulls level with us. “One of the ladies has fallen from her horse. We need the Queen’s surgeon quickly.”
The Queen frowns. “I will go back to them,” she says. “Ride for Arnault and bring Jean-Paul too.”
I lean low over the mare’s neck, urging her with boot and rein and voice, and she picks up her speed. We startle a flock of ravens, rising into the air cawing as we thunder past. My heart tells me which woman is in trouble.
I clatter into the courtyard, yelling at the stablehands to saddle more horses, and send servants running to find the Queen’s physician, Arnault. He comes running out within minutes, followed by the apothecary, but I speak only t
o Arnault, refusing to look at Angi’s lover. There are more instructions called, horses saddled, a litter made ready to follow us, and we set off again.
My mare gallops strongly, but I must slow down for the others over the rough ground and the ride feels eternal. At last the group comes into sight. The women are gathered around, while the men have drawn away to huddle by a rock nearby.
I ride close enough to see three things: Angi on the ground amid the women, her eyes closed, her face stripped of color. The splash of blood on her dress, shockingly red. And the Queen stepping forward to meet us.
I have seen that look of cold fury on her face before, her lips pressed hard together so they are almost bloodless.
“Gentlemen,” she says, and at the tone of her voice they both stop in their tracks and bow low. “Your assistance is needed here urgently. Although it appears that you,” and here she looks at the apothecary, “may have already had a hand in this matter.”
Within an hour of Angi’s slow return to the castle by litter, the news has spread from turret to cellar, kitchen to stable. The Queen’s lady is pregnant and miscarrying. The father is the Queen’s apothecary, who has given her herbs to cast out the child and hide their disgrace.
The Queen’s fury knows no limits. She orders us all to leave her and spends the afternoon in the chapel with the door closed.
Now I have cause to curse my family for training me in both religions. I am loyal to neither of them, so I do not have a right to pray to God. If I did, what would I ask for? Mercy? Or retribution?
She sends for me at last, before dinner, with a request that I bring the letter from Bothwell. Rizzio opens the door to her bedchamber and shows me in, his face expressionless. The Marys are there, seated in a circle.
The Queen takes Bothwell’s letter from my hands. She reads it swiftly, then hands it to Rizzio as if he were indeed her husband. He reads it while she paces.
“It is too much, this waiting and scheming for marriage,” she says. “With so much intrigue, I cannot rule even my own court, let alone my country. While I am waiting on Elizabeth’s pleasure, I cannot find a true word about the Prince of Spain or even meet Lord Darnley, and in the meantime there is scandal here right in my own palace.”
No one speaks as she continues to pace, though Rizzio shoots me a warning look.
“It will not be suffered! I will not be humiliated by foreign princes and then by my own household,” she bursts out. “I shall have an answer from Spain. I shall meet the young Lord Darnley, and I shall know my cousin’s wishes once and for all so that I may make my decision.”
Rizzio nods and I stand silently. The Queen stops her pacing and turns to face all of us. “This is a Catholic court, and if I let this matter today go unpunished, then it is proof to Knox that everything he accuses me of here is true. I must be as rigorous as the Protestants, as hard on wrongdoing as they. I have prayed for guidance in this matter. I must make an example of them. This will not be tolerated in my household.”
“What about a trial?”
The Queen looks at me sharply. “There is no need of a trial, Alison. They have both confessed to their sin.” She turns away. “They shall be punished. Some may think me too harsh, but a woman ruler must be harsher even than a man at times, to prove she is capable of it.”
Rizzio’s face is stricken and that, more than the Queen’s words, sends a cold shiver through my body.
“Leave me now,” she orders. “I thank you for the letter, Alison. La Flamina and Seton, ready me for bed.”
I wait for Rizzio outside. “What punishment does she mean?” I ask when he comes out.
He is pale. “She means to have them executed.”
It is as if he has punched me in the stomach. I stagger and he takes my arm to stop me falling and begins to hurry me along the corridor.
“Whatever hand you had in this, it will come back to you a thousandfold,” I hiss at him. He half drags me into his room. I slump to a chair and he crosses to a low cupboard and splashes out two cups of whisky. He takes his in a single swallow and gestures for me to do the same.
“What did you tell the Queen?” I ask.
“I told her nothing of you and Angelique. It is unfortunate they were caught, or it simply would have blown over. I did not foresee this.”
“I must see her.”
“Listen to me.” He pours out more whisky and his hands are shaking. “There’s nothing you can do. If you interfere, you could end up on the gallows too. If you think this pregnancy is scandalous, imagine if the truth came out. All three of you would hang, or worse. At least a hanging is swift.”
≈ ≈ ≈
It is raining on the day of the execution, the first hint of summer’s end. The Queen has ordered me to attend her, finely dressed as a woman. “You must sit by me, lest I swoon,” she says. “I cannot bear to put a woman to death, and yet I must.”
I do not know how I can live through such a day, and yet I must.
When the two of them are brought out to the gallows and the charges read to a jeering crowd, Angi lifts her head to find me. Our eyes lock and she manages a tiny, ghastly smile that makes the crowd jeer even more.
Their heads are covered, and once her eyes are closed to me I can close my own. The Queen takes my hand and holds it tightly and when the gallows crash, she squeezes and gives a soft moan. The crowd erupts in a cheer. Beside us, La Flamina falls in a swoon, and the Queen lets go of my hand as the ladies all turn to attend her.
I do not look at the gallows where two figures hang and I keep an iron fist closed inside me, lest the sound of my heart being torn apart finds a way to escape. I will run, after this. I will take my love for Angi and run as far from the court as I can with it.
I sit with my head down amid the flutter. And then there is a light touch on my shoulder.
The Queen is looking down at me, her face sorrowful. “You were friends with her, I know. I am sorry for it. I was fond of her too.”
The Queen is pale but composed as she sweeps us all back into the carriage and down the High Street. We pass underneath the windows of John Knox’s house where it juts out into the road, a spy hole where he may stand and keep his nasty eye on Edinburgh.
There is a moment in the courtyard when the Queen and I are standing together and the others have moved away, fussing with La Flamina as she is helped across the cobblestones. There is not even a servant with us.
The Queen turns to me. “I must have loyalty, Alison.” She looks at me with such tenderness that I struggle not to weep. “Your loyalty has been steadfast. I have not forgotten your castle, or the struggle of your family. I have decided: you will not have to wait until I ascend the English throne for your reward. Only that I secure my succession. It is close. The English Parliament meets soon to discuss it, and it will be ratified in law. When it is done, I will grant you your castle.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Autumn comes. The city swirls with red and gold leaves, falling in spirals of gorgeous color. Edinburgh’s citizens venture out of the city’s gates to look at them and speculate on what they portend for the coming winter.
My heart is curled up and dead within my chest. It crackles when I move and I know, dully, that soon it will simply crumble to dust and blow away. In the meantime my body acts as though it is still alive, waking in the mornings, arising from my bed, assisting my room companions with their dress, riding out with the Queen. I do not care for anything. I cannot summon the will to smile or converse. Every day has blackness at its core.
Even Rizzio leaves me alone. He daily rises in the Queen’s favor. She takes his advice in decisions of state. I no longer care for any of it.
I have lost count of the days and weeks by the time the Queen calls me to her side.
“I have a task more suited to you than staying here in court,” she says. “I am ordering Bothwell to France to lead my soldiers there. You will go with him in your old disguise and report to me on his activities. He says he is loyal to me, but I nee
d more proof. You will find it for me. By the time you return, God willing, your castle will be yours again.”
She takes my hand and presses it. In the early days of her rule she did such a thing often, but she has come to learn the dangers of touching her favorites. The last time she touched me thus was at Angi’s hanging. This time my hand lies in hers, a dead thing. She releases me.
≈ ≈ ≈
The day of my departure arrives and I find myself standing on the port at Leith with salt wind in my face. I will leave this treacherous city, these bloody shores, these streets full of ghosts and dead leaves, and go to the milder shores of France instead. I have sold my mare, Artemis, blowing softly in her nostrils to say goodbye. I will not be coming back.
Just before I am about to step onto the ship there is a tap on my shoulder. It is one of Maitland’s men. He draws me away from the ship to a quiet corner.
“I have something for you,” he says. “A letter from your friend, the woman the Queen had hanged.”
“How would such a letter have come to you?”
“She knew Rizzio could not be trusted. I have her token.”
He opens his hand. Angelique’s silver necklace lies on his palm. I reach for it, but he draws his hand back.
“In return, Maitland would have something from you.” He withdraws two small leather pouches from inside his cloak and hands them to me.
“There are those who wish to ensure Bothwell never returns to Edinburgh and has no further influence on the Queen.”
One pouch clinks with coin, and is heavy. The other is small, and from the feel of it, contains a bottle.
“A few drops in his food will do it. There is a payment there for you, and another much larger waiting if you are successful. Enough, perhaps, to free you from the Queen’s service.”
Rizzio was not the only one watching me to find a moment of weakness. How many others have been guessing at my thoughts?
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