Bond of Passion

by Bertrice Small

  Queen Mary nodded her understanding. “There are always those anxious to defame others,” she said, “but why do the rumors of sorcery persist where Duin is concerned? There is always a soupçon of truth in rumors.”

  He chuckled. “Several hundred years ago a laird of Duin was said to dabble in sorcery. He had a wife reputed to be a witch. Together they are said to have held back a terrible storm that raged across the sea in Ireland and was coming in our direction. It is said that the storm, in sight of Duin’s coastline, suddenly dissipated and was gone, sparing Scotland. That laird’s wife was also a great healer. So the legend began, and we have allowed it because we Fergusons of Duin are very private people. Because it is believed we are magical folk, we are given a very wide berth.”

  “How clever!” The queen laughed, clapping her hands. “I wish I might do something like that and make most of the earls and their contentious lords disappear.”

  “I think, madam, I should first make Master Knox disappear if I could,” Angus Ferguson said with a smile.

  The queen laughed again and then turned her gaze on Annabella. “What is it like being married to such an amiable and clever man, madam?” she asked her.

  “He is the best man in the world, to my mind, Majesty,” Annabella said. “I consider myself a fortunate woman. But Yer Majesty has greater good fortune in that she carries Scotland’s next king. May he be born safe and strong. I will pray for it.”

  “Thank ye, my lady of Duin,” the queen said. “Perhaps ye will join me and my ladies during the next few days. Do ye play games?”

  “I do, Majesty,” Annabella said, “and I am honored ye would accept me into yer circle of great ladies.”

  The queen nodded graciously, then looked to Angus. “Duin, I have spoken much, but not yet said those simple words that can hardly serve for the great kindness ye did for me. Thank ye, my lord. Thank ye.”

  “Madam, I would beg a simple boon of ye,” the earl said to her. “Tell no one of my part in yer childhood, for I would keep my wealth a secret. Wealth draws envy. My wife and I will shortly return home, where we live quietly. It is best that Duin be forgotten, and no one be drawn to it, for all our sakes.”

  “I will keep the secret, but I must tell my husband something, else he grow suspicious,” the queen said.

  “Tell him, then, that I arranged a loan for yer mother through my own French relations so ye might have the necessities when ye went to France,” the earl suggested.

  “Aye, ye’re clever,” the queen replied. “I am glad Bothwell has ye, my lord of Duin. He has few real friends, but ye, I believe, will always be loyal to him.”

  “I will, Majesty,” Angus said, “if for no other reason than the evenings we spent together roistering about Paris in our youth.”

  “Ohh, I should have liked to have been with ye!” the queen exclaimed as there came a knock upon the door of the chamber. “Come!” she said.

  A little page appeared. “The fireworks are scheduled to begin, madam, and the king would like ye by his side.”

  “Of course,” Mary said, and she hurried out with the page.

  “I thought Darnley was not king,” Annabella said, confused.

  “She allows him to be called such, but he has not the crown matrimonial,” Angus explained. “Without that, he is not really king of anything. She does it, I suspect, to soothe his ego, but is clever enough to withhold it until he proves worthy, which he has not.”

  “He is a pretty fellow,” Annabella said, “but he drinks too much. I watched him in the church, all proper and dutiful, but once he reached the high board he was swilling from his cup, which was being refilled quite often. He doesn’t look particularly intelligent, Angus. In fact, I think there is a sly look about him.”

  “He’s ambitious without the intelligence to back it up,” the earl said. Then he asked her, “Were ye surprised to learn the source of my wealth, Annabella?”

  “I will admit to wondering where yer gold came from, but I have seen no one taking coins from the air or spinning straw into gold at Duin. I might hae asked ye eventually, my lord, but I know the only sorcery about ye is that which ye weave about me, Angus,” Annabella told him.

  He chuckled. “Ye flatter me, madam. ’Tis ye who have enchanted me.”

  “I hae never seen fireworks,” she said blushing. “I dinna believe we are meant to remain in this wee chamber.” She took his hand, and together they went from the room, hurried to the hall, and took their places by the tall windows to watch the sparkling reds, blues, silvers, and golds of the exploding fireworks celebrating the marriage of James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, to Lady Jean Gordon, sister of the Earl of Huntley.

  Chapter 7

  True to her word, the queen welcomed Annabella into her small circle of ladies. The winter was bitter and long. The women spent their days sewing and gossiping, for the queen’s pregnancy kept them from other pursuits, such as riding, hunting, and hawking. Three of the queen’s Marys were still with her. The Italian secretary, Riccio, kept them amused, but the truth was that Annabella found the days boring.

  It was obvious that the queen and her husband were not on particularly good terms. The more Annabella saw of Darnley, the less she understood why Mary had married him. True, he was handsome, and she heard that in days past he had been considered quite charming. She saw none of that charm, however. What she saw was an ignorant young man with a thirst for power, who, had he been actually made king, would not have been capable of ruling anything, as he was incapable of ruling even his own emotions. And he was jealous of his wife’s friendship with David Riccio.

  Annabella didn’t think a great deal of the Italian either. He had charm, she was forced to admit, but no common sense. He delighted in being the queen’s favorite, and used his small position to flaunt himself before the rough and mostly dour powerful Scots lords. His manner of dress was fashionable to the nth degree but did little to alleviate the fact that he resembled a small and very self-important toad. But Mary was deeply fond of him, and foolishly overlooked his faults, for he amused her. And little else did these days.

  Annabella’s days among the mighty were numbered now as March came. She and Angus would leave court by the middle of the month to return to Duin. Hopefully the weather would turn toward the spring by then. Two nights before they were to leave, she finally shared her happy secret with her husband. They lay abed after a particularly satisfying bout of passion. Cradled in his arms, she spoke softly.

  “We will have an heir by Michaelmas, my lord. Does that please ye?”

  At first he was not certain he had understood her, and then he said, “Ye’re with child?”

  “Aye.” She snuggled closer to him.

  “How long have ye known?” was his next question.

  “It was Jean who told me, for I have never had a bairn.” Annabella attempted to conceal her sin.

  “And when did Jean suggest to ye that ye were with bairn?” His voice had grown serious, and he moved to look into her face.

  “J-just before we came to Edinburgh,” Annabella responded, and then continued in a rush, “but I didn’t want to tell ye, because then ye wouldn’t have come, and the invitation was from the queen herself, and I knew Bothwell wanted ye here too, Angus.”

  “I see.” His voice was cold.

  “I am not some fragile flower to be encased in cotton wool just because I am expecting a bairn,” Annabella defended herself. “Coming to court would nae harm the bairn at this stage, but it was important to ye and to Duin that we come.”

  “’Twas a decision to be made by me,” he told her. “Ye’re carrying my heir.”

  “Ye would have said nay, and then Bothwell would have been offended and, more important, the queen. And now we’re going home, so where is the harm in it?”

  “Ye should have told me,” the earl insisted.

  Annabella wanted to argue with him. She had never seen him so stubborn, but he had made his point. They would be leaving for Duin in just a few m
ore days. Still, she could not help saying, “I did what I thought was best for ye, and for Duin, Angus.”

  Angus Ferguson could not help laughing aloud. “Ye’re hardly a biddable woman, Annabella,” he told her. “Still, no harm is done, and I’ll find a comfortable vehicle for ye to travel home in. We’ll travel more slowly this time, but we’ll get there nonetheless.”

  “I can ride,” she said. “And I want to get home quickly. Did I not promise my sister Agnes that she could come and stay wi’ us this summer? She will be good company for me. I am looking forward to seeing her. I want Matthew to go and fetch her from Rath.”

  “Ye’ll travel home in a padded cart, madam,” her husband told her. “And ye’ll nae ride again until after the bairn is birthed.”

  Annabella was silent now. There was no use arguing with this man. She was doomed to a boring trip. They would not stop at Rath this time, but go straight west from Edinburgh across Scotland and then south. “Aye, my lord,” she muttered dutifully.

  Angus chuckled. He knew how much that murmur of obedience cost her, for Annabella was a proud woman, and every bit as stubborn as he was himself. Stroking her sable head, he bent and kissed it. “There’s my good lass,” the earl said.

  The next day, their last in Edinburgh, the Countess of Duin was invited to Holyrood in late afternoon to say her farewells to the queen. Annabella was surprised as she dismounted in the courtyard of the palace to see old Patrick Ruthven, Lord Ruthven. When their eyes met briefly he quickly ducked from her view. What a pity, Annabella thought. I had heard he was on his deathbed. His death would have been a great relief to the queen, for he is not an easy man, and has made difficulties for her. Then with a shrug she made her way to the queen’s private apartments.

  There she found that Mary was entertaining a small group of her friends. The three remaining Marys were there, as were Riccio and several others. They had eaten an early supper in the apartment’s tiny dining room and now returned to the queen’s dayroom, where a fire burned in the hearth, although the icy north wind blowing through the cracks in the windows made it difficult to heat the chamber. They welcomed Annabella warmly, having come to like the plain-faced but charming Countess of Duin.

  “I have come only to say farewell,” Annabella told them. “We leave for Duin on the morrow. Angus is anxious to return home.”

  “Back to the dull borders,” Riccio said.

  “Living in a beautiful small castle on the sea might prove dull for ye, but it isn’t for me,” Annabella answered.

  “Sing a final song for us, madam,” the queen said. “I have come to enjoy yer voice and the simple songs ye have introduced to us. David, accompany the countess.”

  They had discovered in the weeks she had been with them that Annabella had a lovely voice, and prevailed upon her often to sing for them. She sang simple songs of the borders and of Scotland. Going over to Master Riccio, Annabella told him the song she would sing, and the Italian tuned the strings on his instrument in preparation.

  Lord Darnley entered the queen’s rooms, surprising them all, for he rarely came to see her any longer. Smiling warmly in an effort to ease his obviously nasty mood, the queen beckoned her young husband to her side as Annabella began to sing.

  Early one morning just as the sun was rising, I heard a maiden singing in the valley below. Oh, do not leave me. Oh, do not grieve me. . . .

  The lute suddenly screeched with discord and crashed to the floor.

  Annabella looked up and saw Lord Ruthven pushing into the queen’s chambers, and behind him a group of armed men. They had obviously overcome the queen’s guards to reach this sanctum. Ruthven pointed a bony finger at Riccio, who jumped from her side with all the agility of the amphibian he resembled to get behind the queen. The look of fury on Lord Darnley’s face as the little man struggled to hide himself was terrifying.

  “Give us the Italian!” Lord Ruthven said in a dark voice.

  “How dare ye enter my chambers uninvited, my lord,” the queen said.

  “Give us the Italian!” Lord Ruthven demanded a second time.

  “To what purpose?” Mary wanted to know. “It is obvious to me that ye come here with no good outcome in mind. Leave me at once!”

  God’s bones, Annabella thought. She is so brave, and I am terrified.

  “Not wi’out the little rat whose service does ye nae credit. He needs to be put down, madam, and we shall do it this night,” Lord Ruthven said. “We dinna want this papal spy in yer service turning ye from what is right and just for Scotland.”

  “Ye are mistaken, my lord,” the queen said. “David is no spy. If ye believe he has done some wrong, then present your proof, but of course ye cannot, for there is none.”

  Lord Ruthven’s face grew almost purple in his rage. He took a threatening step toward the queen, and as he did Annabella flung herself, arms outstretched, in front of Mary Stuart. “Remove that bitch!” Ruthven roared.

  Several men jumped at his command, attempting to pull the Countess of Duin away from her defensive position in front of the queen. Annabella fought them furiously but was finally pulled away and flung to the floor of the chamber. She struggled to regain her feet, but Lord Darnley stepped forward and delivered several brutal kicks to Annabella’s form, forcing her to remain where she was. Then he restrained his wife as the screaming and shrieking Riccio was dragged from the chamber. Ruthven and his party plunged their daggers into the little man over and over again.

  Annabella could not hold on to consciousness after that and slid into darkness. When she managed to regain her senses she was still on the floor, Mary Beaton, one of the queen’s maidens, leaning over her, waving a burning feather beneath her nose. The young woman’s eyes were filled with a mixture of sympathy and admiration. She put her arm about the Countess of Duin’s shoulders and helped her to a seated position.

  “Ye were very brave,” Mary Beaton said low.

  “What has happened?” Annabella asked. She felt a sticky wetness between her legs and a cramping in her belly. Dear God! Not the bairn! Not the bairn!

  “Ruthven and his ilk have gone,” Mary Beaton said. “The townsfolk gathered before the palace, but that snake Darnley told them all was well, and that a papal spy in the pay of the Spanish king had been discovered and slain. The people dispersed, but Bothwell’s men are battling with the Earl of Morton’s men to reach the queen as we speak.”

  Annabella’s glance went to the queen, who was weeping over the murder of her secretary and friend, her head in her hands. “Mistress Beaton,” Annabella said. “Help me from this chamber quickly.” Then she groaned low.

  “Ye’ve been hurt by Darnley’s blows,” Mary Beaton said, genuinely distressed.

  “I am losing the bairn I’ve been carrying,” Annabella said. “I cannot do it before the queen, lest my misfortune cause her to miscarry too. Please, I beg ye, get me from this place now, and find my tiring woman who came wi’ me.”

  “Can ye stand?” Mary Beaton asked.

  “I must,” Annabella said, struggling slowly to her feet. The cramping was worse now, and she felt blood drizzling down her legs as Mistress Beaton slowly helped her from the queen’s chamber.

  Once outside, Mary Beaton spoke to the young guard, who was now disarmed and rubbing his head from the blows he had received when Ruthven and his band had broken into the queen’s apartments. “The Countess of Duin has been injured in the melee. Find and fetch her tiring woman, Jean Ferguson, to her. She will be in my chamber.”

  The guard nodded, and went off.

  “’Tis not far,” Mary Beaton said as she aided Annabella down a narrow corridor.

  Annabella said nothing. How could this have happened? She had come to bid the queen farewell, and got caught up in a maelstrom. They reached Mary Beaton’s chamber, and with the help of Mistress Beaton’s tiring woman, Annabella was able to reach the bed, where she lay down just as she began to weep.

  “What has happened, my lady?” Mary Beaton’s serving woman aske
d fearfully.

  Quickly, the young woman explained the situation. She then bent over Annabella, whose eyes were closed, although tears were slipping down her face. “My Susan will stay with you. Your Jeannie will be here soon.” Then she hurried toward the door just as Jean Ferguson dashed into the chamber.

  Mary Beaton quickly explained what had happened, and then she left.

  Hurrying to Annabella’s side, Jean lifted her mistress’s skirts, gasping at the profusion of blood. “Holy Mother!” She crossed herself, but then, recovering, she began to direct Mary Beaton’s servant. “Can you fetch me cloths to take up the remaining blood? And a basin of cool water, please.” She bent down. “My lady, dinna weep. What’s done is done. Weeping will change nothing.”

  “Darnley,” Annabella said, opening her eyes. “Darnley did this, Jeannie! Angus must know if I die.”

  “What do ye mean, my lady?” Jean glanced quickly about to see whether Mistress Beaton’s servant had heard, but the woman was on the far side of the chamber.

  “I stood before the queen to protect her from the ruffians who had broken into her chamber and were threatening her as they attempted to catch the Italian, Riccio. When they were finally able to pull me away, I was flung to the floor. I attempted to get up, but Lord Darnley kicked me several times, preventing it. He is responsible for my loss.” Her eyes blazed with anger. “I shall have my vengeance upon him, Jeannie. I shall!” Then she fell back as a wave of dizziness overcame her.

  “Dinna upset yerself,” Jean cautioned. “If it’s revenge ye would have, then ye must live to take it, my lady.” Taking the small knife that hung at her waist, Jean cut away Annabella’s bloodied skirts and removed her bodice.