≈ ≈ ≈
David Hume and his men leave at first light the next day. I watch them from the slitted window of Darnley’s bedchamber and, once they have cantered off into the snow, I let myself out and leave him to sleep off the effects of the wine.
The days pass and the snow keeps falling. I keep my back against the wall and speak as little as possible. I lie in bed at night with my eyes open, clutching my dagger, listening for footsteps. I try to reassure and cajole Darnley. He does not mention Hume again, and I do not dare ask.
At last news comes from Holyrood that the French have sent a delegation to invest Darnley with the order of Saint Michael, the highest honor offered by the French King. Even Darnley is relieved to get an invitation so he can return to Edinburgh without losing face. By the time we set out on the freezing three-day ride, the spirits of the whole party have risen and my relief at returning to the safety of Holyrood goes unnoticed among the general air of anticipation.
In my imagination, Holyrood has become larger, brighter, warmer, and more colorful. I am surprised when we clatter into the courtyard that it is smaller than I recalled. But the Queen, waiting to receive her husband with a cautious smile, is as tall as she ever was. She stands to greet him and turns her cheek for his kiss. The musicians strike up and already the discomfort of Peebles is receding. The French party has arrived, the smell of fresh roasted meat is in the air, the winter dark is kept at bay by candles and lanterns and roaring fires. I am safe at Holyrood, as close to a home as I have had since I was eight years old.
There are so many guests at the feast to welcome the King and the French delegation that there is barely room for us all in the hall. I squeeze into a seat with some lower ranked courtiers in a far corner from which I can watch the dais. Who is high in her favor at this time? She seats the King by her side, so that all is in order under the careful eye of the French, who will be watching to see how the royal marriage progresses. Beaton, Seton, and La Flamina all sit at the Queen’s table, as do Rizzio and Bothwell. I will him to look at me.
“It’s been buzzing while you’ve been in Peebles,” one of the courtiers says. “Madam Beaton is to wed at last.”
“I thought Randolph was out of favor with the Queen,” I say. “Surely she’s not allowing Beaton to marry him?”
“Oh, you have been away a long time,” she says. “Randolph is long gone. Beaton is to marry Lord Ogilvy.”
At my blank expression she rolls her eyes. “Robert, Lord Ogilvy has forever been the prize of Lady Jean Gordon. She was hopelessly in love with him. But even her dowry couldn’t entice him to marry her. She’s heartbroken. The Queen has promised to find her a good match but she says she’d rather cut off her hair and go into a convent.”
“The Queen has plenty of her own admirers to choose from; she’ll find someone to settle on Lady Jean,” says another from across the table. “Or one of those young men in the French party, that dark one. He could mend a broken heart!”
There is a ripple of laughter. The members of the French party are uncommonly handsome, especially the young man my neighbor has singled out. But I pay him little attention. My eyes follow Bothwell and there is a feeling in my chest that is half pleasure, half pain.
I sit quietly during the French speeches praising the King and Queen of Scotland and their union. The announcement of the marriage of Ogilvy and Beaton is made by the Queen herself. Beaton blushes like a virgin and not the woman who kept the English ambassador dancing to her tune as long as it was fortuitous. Then the Queen and King invite a select party to accompany them and the French delegation into the presence chamber for dancing and poetry. Bothwell leaves in the Queen’s party and I spend the long night alone.
The next morning when I attend the Queen, her chambers are in a flurry, crammed with people and entertainments even before the winter sun has lifted its cold head over the horizon. She calls me into the supper room and when I rise from my knee, she offers a cup of wine. The tiny room is hot and close, the fire crackling in the grate, but after the cold of Peebles even this stuffiness is welcome and I let it seep into me. The French wine spreads fingers of warmth into my belly.
Carrying a child agrees with the Queen. Her face has filled out, her eyes are bright, her long fingers rest on her swelling belly. The visiting French delegation has cheered her.
“Speak to me of the King,” she says. “What has his manner been?”
“Your Grace, he was in an unhappy temper at Peebles.”
“Why?”
“The crown matrimonial.”
“I cannot give it to him unless he shows himself ready for it,” she says, with a frown.
I keep silent.
“What company does he keep?”
“There is one George Douglas, a cousin. He left with us for Peebles and was ever in the King’s ear. David Hume of Wedderburn came one night and the three of them spoke for a long time.”
She frowns. “Perhaps this investiture from France will raise his spirits, if he feels some honor is his due.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But their talk concerned me. They do not wish Rizzio well.”
“Now my husband is back in Holyrood, I will keep a closer watch.” She strokes her belly. “It is strange to me that our King was so agreeable and mild of manner before our marriage, and then became a changed man after it. Do you not think it odd, Robert, that there was no warning he would prove so difficult?”
“It is strange,” I say.
“Perhaps you are not such an astute spy after all,” she says, after a silence.
“I have been a poor judge of the King’s character. Let me serve you some other way, I beg of you.”
“He always asks for you, and there is no other I trust to keep a watch on him.”
“I could serve Lord Bothwell, if it pleased you,” I say, as if it matters not.
“Lord Bothwell,” she muses. “He can scarcely afford any servants of his own. We shall have to do something about it. But that is a soldier’s life. Don’t you wish for something softer?”
“I will go wherever it pleases you, Madam.”
“You will,” she says. “I have need of you today. In our entertainment for the French tonight, we will all be appearing in male dress. You will help us get ready.”
“Even you, Your Grace?”
She laughs and pats her belly. “Not me, this time. But all my women. We must keep the French delighted and they do enjoy such play.”
Thirty-two
I glue moustaches to their upper lips and make sure their breasts are bound, though nothing will make Beaton flat there so I disguise her bosom with draped frills. By the end they are like a group of gorgeous peacocks, bright of face, slender of leg, smooth of skin, as handsome as the French delegation itself.
The Queen, radiant and big-bellied, is the perfect foil for them, their boyishness highlighting her womanhood and showing it off to perfection.
As everyone is going in disguise to the masque, I will too. I have not dressed as a woman since Angi’s death more than a year and a half ago, but I am bent on my quarry now. Tonight I will approach Bothwell as a noblewoman, masked so that he does not recognize me. The Queen lends me one of her lesser gowns and sends a servant to help me get ready.
The musicians are playing a merry beat, the buzz of voices rises to the rafters and the hall is hot, lapped by the icy air outside. Already there is flirting and laughter; already every person in the room wants to drive away the winter cold. Some of the more pious of the lords look scandalized, but they do not leave, instead using stern faces as their own disguise.
The Queen and King enter the great hall to a blast of trumpets and the applause rises to a roar. The Queen inclines her head, smiles, and takes Darnley by the hand. His eyes are wide with anticipation and he gazes around the room in delight.
I have placed a half-mask across my eyes, which allows me to move in anonymity. But even with my disguise, the sight of the Hume party across the hall brings goose bumps to
my flesh. Lord Hume’s glance around the room seems filled with menace.
Just before the masque begins, I find Bothwell. I remember what a woman would do and pause nearby as though I have happened to come to rest. When he catches sight of me and gives a bow, I see from his smile he has no idea who is behind this finery. He turns away to continue his conversation, but when the trumpets blare again for the masque to begin and we all shuffle to clear a space in the center, it happens that we are next to each other as the actors begin the play.
I am acutely aware of the animal scent of him. The heat and unaccustomed tightness of the bodice around my ribs make me sway. He notices and puts out an arm to steady me. When I sag against it, he takes me around the waist, leads me out of the press of bodies to a chair, and finds a cup of wine for me. As I sip it, his eyes are on my breasts, swelling up at the top of my dress. When I catch him gazing, he lifts his eyes to mine with a smile. I thank him without giving myself away and send him back to watch the rest of the masque.
But whatever I set out to do has worked, for he is back by my side as soon as the masque is complete, inviting me to accompany him to dinner. The noise of the hall means he cannot hear my voice clearly, and I take care to speak softly with an accent. I begin to enjoy drawing him to me when he does not know who I am. I let him think I am part of the French delegation. I sit by his side at the table and my body of its own accord does those things that a woman does to attract a man—turning toward him and then slightly away, lips parting a little, looking into his eyes as he speaks and then lowering my gaze.
I am not acting. It is a revelation to find myself as a female animal hunting for a mate. It is as ruthless and bloodthirsty as anything I’ve known.
The wine flows freely around me. The dancing begins decorously enough but quickly becomes wild and fast, a blur of color and movement. I am in Bothwell’s arms. It is not just the dancing that makes me pant. My cheeks feel hot, my whole body is charged and vital, the quarry is in my reach.
He leans close to my ear. “Take off your mask.”
I smile and shake my head. I know how mystery inflames him. Our bodies are pressed together and speaking their own language, one that passes through brocade and leather in a heartbeat. His hand tightens around my waist. I am half amused and half angry that I can draw him to me so easily in the guise of someone else.
At last the dance finishes and we come to a halt amid raucous cheering.
“You must be quite out of breath, madam,” Bothwell says close to my ear. “Would you care to step outside?”
I nod.
We wind through the crowd just as the musicians strike up the next dance. In the courtyard the flakes of snow drift down, melting as soon as they touch the stone. We stand side by side, drawing in the cold air, but my cheeks won’t seem to cool.
He leans in slowly, so that I may pull away, but I can no more pull away than I can catch my breath in the rib-crushing embrace of the dress. Our lips meet and I am so hungry for him it makes me dizzy again. He does not break from the kiss, but brings his arms around me to hold me steady and draws me closer.
This is no casual kiss between a French visitor and a Scottish noble before returning to the dancing. After some moments he pulls back and I reach behind my head and untie the ribbon holding the mask in place. It falls.
A soldier is never taken unawares. His eyes widen a little, but if he is shocked he conceals it well. “You must be an enchantress,” he says, coming back for another kiss.
Now his kisses are demanding and his mouth moves down my neck and shoulders, his lips are on the swell of my breast, his mouth hot and the air freezing. The sound of the party drifts out, the snowflakes melting everywhere. No doubt the guard at the gate is watching but I don’t care. I am wild and dangerous, my heart thudding, the call of my body insistent. I would have him here against the wall in the courtyard.
“I have rooms in the palace tonight,” Bothwell says at last, his breath hoarse. He picks up my mask and ties it on again and then we find our way to his chamber. He dismisses his dozing servant and kicks the fire into crackling life.
I am gorgeously trussed in the Queen’s dress, and when he turns me around to unfasten it, I shake my head. I cannot return it damaged, and I cannot get in and out of it unassisted.
We stand, my back hard against a tapestry, the Queen’s skirts spread out around our hips and thighs while he finds his way to my pleasure. Once he is inside me, I wrap my legs around his waist. My desire is so great, and the constriction to my breathing so extreme that it feels I will die from them both. I am gasping, my eyelids flickering, lights dancing in front of my eyes, a roaring in my ears. He is in me, deeper and deeper. My whole weight is balanced on him, I am splitting in two, I am falling, the roar in my ears is the Blackadder Water, the stone against my back is my own castle wall. He is groaning in my ear and he drives through the center of me as the fire roars up into the room, as the snowflakes hiss and sizzle, as my body convulses and gasps, as I cannot breathe, as the lights swirl and swirl, as it all turns dark.
≈ ≈ ≈
When I wake, there is a pillow against my cheek. I am lying face down and there is blessed air flowing into my lungs, as cool and life-giving as water.
“Are you all right?” His hands are struggling with the lacing of the dress. I nod and feel him relax.
“I was worried I hurt you,” he says, helping me roll over.
I take a deep, shuddering breath. “No,” I say, and my voice sounds strange to my ears.
He pours whisky into a cup and brings it across to the bed. I sit and gulp a mouthful and gasp at its fiery taste.
“It’s too dangerous for you to stay here tonight,” he says. “When you are recovered you must go back to your rooms.”
His eyes are dark in the firelight, his lust sated. In its absence I cannot see love there. It is a sobering moment.
He may not love me, but we desire one another. Very well, then. For the sake of the castle I would bind myself to him and forgo love. I like him well enough, and that will serve us when the lust of the body slackens. But now I must use lust to bring about this marriage.
≈ ≈ ≈
The next evening I dress myself carefully as Robert and go to Bothwell’s chambers while he is dining with the Queen’s party. He has a new manservant, a Scot nicknamed French Paris, whom I send out to the stables with a false order from his master to saddle the horse and wait.
It is late when Bothwell strides through the door. He stops when he finds me there, his hand moving at once to his dagger.
“You surely don’t think I mean to harm you,” I say.
He drops his hands. “You surprised me.” He comes to me and brings his face down to mine for a kiss. I ignore the rush in my belly and draw back slightly.
“I have not had my blood time since you first brought me to your bed, at Christmas.”
Our eyes meet. “Jesus.” He draws back. “You said nothing last night.”
“I meant to. I did not expect it to be so—wild—between us, and afterward there was no time to stay and talk. I thought it better to come to you tonight like this, rather than risking a scandal.”
“With this news a scandal is upon you already.”
“The scandal is on both of us.” I look at him hard. “Remember the Queen’s lady and her apothecary? Both were hanged, not just the lady. But perhaps you do not know, for you were in exile then. The Queen was merciless.”
He sits, staring at the flames. “What do you want me to do?”
“We must marry. The child will be early and some may gossip, but by then we will be safe.”
He jumps to his feet, his face working. “I cannot.”
“Of course you can. You are high in the Queen’s favor. If you ask, she will permit it.”
“You don’t understand,” he says, pacing. “The state of my affairs is desperate. I cannot even afford my own lodgings in town, but must beg on the Queen’s generosity and stay in the palace. I am a hair away
from destitution.”
“Destitution matters nothing if we are both hanged.” There is no act in my anger.
“Let me finish.” He halts. “My situation came to the Queen’s attention and she has matched me with Huntly’s sister Lady Jean Gordon, recently jilted by Lord Ogilvy. She is heartbroken and rich, while I am poor and in dire need of a wife. She announced it tonight, at dinner. We are formally betrothed.”
I stare at him. Edinburgh’s cold seems to claw its way through the castle walls and into my blood, tracing a path around my body and into my chest until it is a physical pain under my bindings.
He reaches a hand out, but I cannot go to him, or I will be lost and doubly lost. The promise of safety snatched. And worse—my secretive heart did not tell me it had given itself to him.
“It is not only I who did not speak up last night, it seems.” I get to my feet. “You were content to take me to your bed knowing you were about to be betrothed.”
He drops his hand. “A noblewoman of my acquaintance is much practiced in enchantment and knows how to cast out a child with herbs and spells.”
I turn upon him. “You would rather murder your own child than offend Lady Jean?”
He puts up his hands to ward me off. “If you cannot face it, I have a man in my employ who needs a wife. He is a good man, and he would treat you well. If we arranged it fast, perchance not even he would know that the child is not his own.”
The cold inside threatens to swallow me. “I am of noble birth, Lord Bothwell.”
He spreads his hands. “What am I to do? The Queen has decided, Lady Jean has agreed, it has been announced. I will not be permitted to change my mind, not now. It is too late for us, Robbie. I’m sorry. More sorry than you know.”
The few steps to the door feel like the distance across half the city. I reach for the latch and then something makes me swing around to face him.
“I say this to you, Lord Bothwell. Your only chance for a living son lies in my belly this night. Once he is cast out and I am left with that stain on my soul, you will sorrow for the rest of your life, for never will a child of yours live to birth.”
The Raven's Heart Page 24