The Raven's Heart

by Jesse Blackadder

  He hands me the letter and the necklace, turns on his heel, and walks away. I stare after him until he disappears and then I crack the seal on Angi’s note.

  Alison, I must be brief. I fear Rizzio has told the Queen of the matter between us. You will think I betrayed you, but Rizzio promised if I went to Jean-Paul that you would be safe. In my heart I have been ever true to you. Leave her service, I beg you—you will never reach what it is you seek. Angi.

  She has scrawled a date during my time away in London.

  I look up at the ship, ready to carry me away. They are all full of treachery—Rizzio, who brought this about; Maitland, who held on to such a letter until it was of use to him; and the Queen most of all, who took my hand so tenderly and made me sweet promises, having murdered the person I loved.

  The poison burns in my hand. Perhaps it will be useful to kill my traitorous body, which seems determined to live even without a beating heart at its center. I pocket the pouches, the necklace, and the letter, wrap my cloak about me, walk back to the gangplank, and step off Scottish soil.

  Part II

  1565

  Twenty

  February 1565, the coldest winter in living memory.

  From London, word comes that the Thames has frozen over and Elizabeth’s citizens can walk out on the ice, their children running and slipping around them.

  In Scotland it is too dangerously cold for such frolicking. Its people live their lives with care, staying inside at night, wrapping warmly to leave the house, and never straying too far from shelter. A Scot respects the cold as a worthy adversary.

  Edinburgh’s citizens are tucked away in their beds, the only place holding a semblance of warmth, when the warriors come clattering down the deserted streets. Inside the Flodden Wall in the darkest hour of the night, hooves strike cobblestones, steel clashes against steel. Men jump up in spite of the cold and peer down from the tenement windows, but they cannot see anything in the darkness.

  The next night the guard on the gates is doubled, but in the night’s deepest hours the warriors come again. The sounds of fighting drift up from the wynds and closes and out onto the High Street. Again, the people come to their windows to see the source of such bloody screams, but they can see no one.

  In the daytime, the Queen’s soldiers roam, making inquiries. The town is full of talk, but there are no men with bloody wounds, and no clues.

  On the third night, the fighting reaches a new pitch. There are dying shrieks, the sound of men cleaved by swords. The guards chase the sounds of battle through the streets but they cannot catch up with it. At last they pause in their pursuit, looking at each other uneasily. When the sound of fighting moves down the hill to the swampy moat of Nor Loch, the guards do not dare to follow. Edinburgh’s people do not get up on this night, a night cold enough to freeze the air in their lungs. They lie awake listening as the last screams die away over the swamp. Still no one has laid eyes upon a single swordsman.

  On the fourth day, Lord Darnley rides into Scotland to meet the Queen.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  When I arrived in France half a year earlier, I cared for nothing. In the country of my beloved, the language of our love on every tongue assaulted my ears. The poison throbbed at my breast. Every night I pressed my lips to it and Angi waited on the far side of that kiss. Every night I thought I would drink it, but each time my courage failed me.

  William didn’t seem to notice that all hope had left my world. He pressed me about the castle. At first I said nothing about the Queen’s new promise. What did it matter? I never intended to return to Scotland. But one night William drank more than usual and came at me with his dagger, and I saw in his eyes that he had lost all reason. I found, to my dull surprise, that I was not ready to die and I stayed his hand with news of the Queen’s word.

  Once he understood what I was saying, he let his weapon fall. After that, he was content to leave me alone.

  I had no heart for the task of judging Bothwell’s loyalty, having none left of my own. I cared nothing for poisoning him and collecting a rich payment. I could not even bring myself to observe him. I barely spoke to him through the long months of winter.

  He had sent for me to come to his chambers one night in late January. He had cups of fine French wine, as befitted his position of Captain of the Scottish Guard, and he pressed one upon me.

  “Your blood is thin, lad,” he said. “Drink.”

  After two cups I felt the relief of the wine start to steal through my veins. Bothwell, watching me, leaned over and put his hand on my shoulder.

  “The very spirit has gone out of you. What has she done?”

  I looked at the ground. “She has torn out my heart, Bothwell.”

  “Likely she will break all of our hearts before it is done,” he said softly. He slowly drew me toward him. I stiffened, then gradually relaxed until I was against his chest.

  Holding Angi was like standing on the deck of a ship, in constant motion, but Bothwell’s hold was solid as rock and stone, castle wall and keep. I could rest there, my head tucked under his chin and pressed to his chest.

  “You have a secret,” he said, above me.

  I pulled back quickly, away from his touch. Did he know me a woman?

  “What do you carry at your breast?”

  My hand went to the hidden bottle of poison that I kept tucked against my chest. I drew it out and let it rest on my palm, such an innocent receptacle of glass, its evil tightly stoppered.

  “One of Maitland’s men gave it to me as I left, with a payment to poison you.”

  He laughed. “The lords do not like me overmuch. Are you planning to use it?”

  I shook my head. “Not on you.”

  He smiled. “No. You are not a murderer. But I think you are not safe with that bottle either. Let me take it.”

  I was reluctant to hand it over. It had been a balm at my breast, a promise of release. But Bothwell held his hand out until I laid it in his palm and then he tucked it inside his own jerkin.

  “Good,” he said. “The Queen’s spy should not carry poison.”

  “I am not much of a spy. I have sent no word back to her, of you or anything else. I will never return to Scotland.”

  Bothwell poured out more wine for both of us and gestured for me to sit. “But William has told me about her latest promise to you. Don’t you trust it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good,” he said. “You should never trust the promises of princes. She may mean now to give you the castle back, but it depends only on the advantage to the throne when the time comes. Right now, Lord Hume is high in her favor, while William is only a captain.”

  “And I am only a lady-in-waiting.” Was it because he held me that I wanted to stop lying and tell him at last?

  He stared at me. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve walked past me, seen me, even talked with me as the Queen’s woman Alison Blackadder. I am William’s daughter. I have been disguised as his nephew half my life to keep me safe from Hume.”

  “I never thought William capable of such a lie.” Bothwell got to his feet, shaking his head. He filled our cups again and downed his in a single swallow. “Does the Queen know this?”

  “I went into her service as Alison, but was caught dressed as Robert within a few weeks. She had me teach her how to disguise herself. Do you not remember the masque when she and all her ladies came dressed as noblemen?”

  He shook his head again and I put my hand on his arm. “Bothwell, do not doubt William. He is loyal to you until death. It was only for my safety that he told no one.”

  He was silent for a long moment. “No wonder she likes to use you for a spy.”

  “I am her spy no more,” I took my hand away. “I will not serve her again. I don’t care for the castle any longer.”

  “Now you are the fool,” he said. “It is an evil thing to be impoverished and even more if you are a woman. I have lost most of my money, being imprisoned and on the run. My d
ebtors hold my own castle. I will send you back to her myself before I will let you lose your birthright.”

  “She imprisoned you and banished you. Why do you serve her?”

  “I have my honor,” he said. “I have served Queen and country. For all her faults, she has been appointed by God as our ruler.”

  He refilled his cup, took another swig and winked at me. “And, by God, she is handsome and I never could resist a handsome woman.” He laughed, then grew serious. “That is the truth, although you may report back to her what you wish.”

  “You need not fear what I will report.”

  “Good,” he said. “For I need you to go back to her. Elizabeth has given permission for Darnley to come to Scotland. It can mean only that there is some advantage to England in a match between our Queen and him.”

  “I cannot go,” I said, getting to my feet.

  “I have pressed Mary to marry him and now I fear there is treachery in it after all. I cannot leave France without her permission. You must persuade her that I can serve her better in Scotland. I must return before it goes farther.”

  I made a grab, fast as a striking snake, to snatch the poison back from his breast, but he was faster and caught my wrist before I even touched him.

  “I would rather die than go back to her,” I said, trying to wrench myself free.

  He shook me hard. “You may as well poison William and yourself if you give up like this.”

  “Give me the bottle and I will,” I spat at him.

  He laughed at me. I watched him, disbelieving for a moment, and then flew at him. I landed a punch on his face that split my knuckle before he held my hands down.

  “Good,” he said. “Don’t let her defeat you like this. Go back and fight for your castle like a man. There’s a ship leaving for Scotland tomorrow.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I was sixteen when I made the journey carrying the Queen by sea from France to Scotland. This time I am near twenty. Three-and-a-half years in her service, drinking in the pleasure of love like a drunkard—the pleasure of my secret passion for the Queen and my real passion for Angelique.

  On this rough winter passage back to Scotland I have no poison snuggled at my breast to comfort me. Without its promise of escape, I find that Bothwell is right. I want that damned castle after all. The Queen has torn my heart out and now I want the safety of high stone walls. I want to sit inside a fortress that cannot be taken. I will ride out and hunt stag, I will order feasts and music in my great hall. No one will tell me if I should dress as woman or man.

  I have been the loyal servant of William’s desire for the castle. By the time I arrive in Edinburgh, I know for the first time in my life what it is to want it for myself.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  The Queen is caught at the royal castle at Stirling in the freeze and Lord Darnley, who arrived in Edinburgh a week before me, has set out to meet her.

  I stay with Sophie while I wait for their return and she fills me in on what is spoken in the streets. The city is ablaze with gossip. Lord Darnley and our Queen are in love. She has become his paramour without consideration for church or state. They have been secretly married. They will overthrow Elizabeth and rule the land. The French and the Spanish will send armies to further their cause. He has been sent by Rome to restore the Catholic religion. Sophie tells me that rumors of his secret vices have also reached Edinburgh.

  Knox rants from his pulpit, blowing hot air on the coals of gossip. His two favorite words are harlot and jezebel, until in the minds of the ordinary people the Queen is already tried and damned for committing unspeakable acts with this English noble.

  When finally the weather clears enough for them to make the journey back to Edinburgh, every inhabitant of the city risks the cold to come out on the street and see for themselves the scandal of our Queen and this boy who thinks he would be King. The gates at Netherbow Port are flung wide open and the crowds wait, muttering, pressing on either side of the road.

  The Queen leads her procession up the High Street. They are bundled heavily against the cold, but the Queen and Darnley push back their hoods to show their faces. I crane my neck to see what is written there.

  After my years in her service, I can read every nuance of her expression. It is true, what the gossips say. Our Queen rides with her head high and her feelings blazing like a war pennant in the breeze. It sears me like a brand—I too rode like this. Though I took more care to hide my heart, it blazed thus, until she cut it out.

  She is in love. Perhaps, at last, I have a weapon of my own.

  Twenty-one

  I have left word at the palace of my return and I am summoned to meet the Queen the next day. It is still dark as I make my way down the High Street, muffled in heavy wraps. There are few people out and, though it is after eight in the morning, the gloom has barely lifted and the wind shrieks between the tenements.

  The cold suits my purpose. I am ice inside and out. After six months in France, a man’s clothes, a man’s posture and swagger, and a man’s confidence with weapons have become my protection. I am armored against softness as surely as I am clothed against this treacherous cold. I arrive in the palace, shake the ice off my boots and shoulders, leave my heavy coat and hood in an outer room, and step into the presence chamber to meet the Queen.

  Rizzio, my betrayer, comes to the door to greet me. He is dressed in lordly magnificence, his fingers jeweled.

  “It is good to see you back, Robert. You have nothing to fear here. It is all past now.”

  I say nothing, but incline my head. Did he betray Angi and me to the Queen in his efforts to avert a scandal? I doubt I will ever find out. His smile does not waver and he gestures for me to follow him to the Queen.

  In front of her I bow down on one knee, keeping my eyes on the rich patterning of the carpet until her pleasant voice rings out.

  “Robert. This is a surprise, and a happy one. Come and be seated by me.”

  She smiles at me the way she did when she first favored me and there was some girlish delight she wished to share. She holds out her hand and draws me to a chair by her side and calls for food and drink.

  “Now, loyal Robert, tell me of France. Tell me of Bothwell. And you shall hear the news of Scotland.”

  Her attention is not completely with me. This is a woman infatuated; her pulse beating faster, her breath coming quickly, a flush on her cheeks.

  I give her a public report of my activities, the one suitable for members of the court to hear. That Lord Bothwell is fit and well and representing Scotland with honor in France, though he sadly misses the Queen and yearns to see her. She gives me the public report of matters in Scotland—that there is no final word yet on her succession to the English throne, but relations between her and Elizabeth are warm.

  “And our cousin Lord Darnley has come to Scotland at last to see his family’s estates,” she says, her smile widening. “However, the weather has been so dangerous that he has made his stay with the court for now. Perhaps you saw him in the procession yesterday?”

  “I was not close enough to see his face. Is it true, then, he is as fair as they say?”

  There is a titter from a couple of the ladies standing close by and the Queen’s color becomes a little more heightened.

  “You can see for yourself,” she says. “He will be joining us for dinner.”

  The Queen may not be able to disguise her heart, but she is the mistress of conversation and she turns her attention upon me, asking about my father and the weather in France and inconsequentialities until Lord Darnley comes striding in the door.

  He crosses the room in half a dozen strides, sweeps into a low bow, takes the Queen’s hand and kisses it lingeringly. Seated next to her, I observe how he raises his eyes teasingly to hers and moves his lips softly against her skin, until she laughs and draws her hand away.

  “My Lord, this is Robert who returns from Bothwell’s service in France,” she says.

  His eyes flicker over me appraisingly
and I can see something in him—something I’ve seen in other men who look at me as a boy. It is hunger.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  That night the Queen calls me to her bedchamber for a private meeting. I am wearing the uniform of the Scottish Guard from France, for the protection it offers. She rises while I am down on one knee and comes across to me. She stretches out a hand and runs her finger along my shoulder, feeling the thick fabric.

  “You have become even more handsome as a boy. Does no one wonder, now, at your soft cheeks?”

  “No one feels my soft cheeks, Your Grace.”

  She laughs. “Come and sit. Tell me of Bothwell.” She waves at Rizzio and La Flamina. “You may play chess by the fire. I will speak to Robert alone.”

  “It is Bothwell who sent me back to you,” I say, taking a seat close by her when they have moved. “He does not trust Elizabeth’s motives in sending Lord Darnley to Scotland and now he is uncertain about the wisdom of the match. Bothwell says if Elizabeth has sent Darnley, she must have some secret reason.”

  The Queen tightens her lips. “It seems I can always rely on Bothwell to bring trouble. You have seen Darnley. Think you he has been sent by Elizabeth as part of some foul plot?”

  I lower my eyes. “I cannot know that.”

  She laughs and puts her hand on my arm. “Come, forget diplomacy. Remember how many times we have talked as girls together? So tell me. What do you think of him?”

  “There is no doubt he is as fair as they say, and as tall. But there are less complimentary things being said of him.”

  “Such as?”

  “That he is not to be trusted, that he is a lover of boys, that he drinks to excess and is violent.”

  “Who says this?”

  “It is common gossip in the taverns, Your Grace.”

  She looks away. “Being a soldier has made you hard. I thought you would have been happy for me. Would your gossips rather I marry some deformed foreign prince who will visit here once a year? I am hounded by priest and nobleman alike to marry, but when finally one comes along who is suitable, they find fault with him.”