Alex glanced sideways at Hob, who looked as worried as she. "Be thankful we won't have the Armstrongs as bedfellows," she whispered as they were led up the narrow turnpike stair.
But that was the best that could be said about their new lodgings. For the small room they were thrown into was dank and bare, with only a pile of dirty rushes in one corner to make some semblance of a bed, and a bucket in another corner for hygiene. Duke's stable is probably more comfortable, Alex thought miserably as she and Hob huddled against the far wall.
"We can only hope the earl doesn't tarry long with the Armstrongs," she said, trying to lift Hob's spirits, "and then we may be out of here." For in a place like this, escape by any other means seemed unlikely, if not impossible.
Chapter 15
Monday 7th October, 1566
ALEX STRAIGHTENED HER spine and tried not to tremble. But the earl of Bothwell was notorious in these parts, and here she was, barefoot before him on the cold stone floor, hands tied tightly behind her back, dirty and tired after a sleepless night in his dank cells.
In contrast, the earl looked hearty and well-rested, sitting at his large hewn-oak table and breaking his fast with a bowl of oat porridge and some unidentifiable beverage in a pewter flagon. "What have you to say for yourself?" he asked, gesticulating with his spoon.
With a tilt of her chin, Alex looked him in the eye. "I say that you have imprisoned us unlawfully, and when Forster hears of it, there will be repercussions."
"Repercussions, you say?" Bothwell's eyebrows arched sceptically.
"Yes. We were carrying out a legal trod, and you had no right to imprison us." She hardened her expression, glad that he couldn't see the butterflies in her stomach. "But if you return our horses and give us safe passage to Kersdale, I will speak with my father, and plead with him not to let the warden carry out any reprisals."
Bothwell nodded slowly, looking at her appraisingly, and for a moment she thought she might have won their freedom. But then he stood, carefully wiped his mouth on a napkin, and walked around the table until he stood before her.
At the fruity smell of alcohol on his breath, and the evil glitter in his eye, she almost took a step backwards. But she set her jaw and tried not to flinch as he put a finger on her bottom lip, then ran it slowly down her chin.
Unlike when Michael had touched her, when every inch of her skin had come alive, at the earl's touch she felt nothing but revulsion.
"Fiery little thing, aren't you?" he said with a sneer, as his finger continued southwards, and flicked open the ties of her chemise.
At this, Alex had to laugh. "Little, you say?" She pulled herself to her full height, made sure that her contempt for him showed on her face, and looked him in the eye—for he was no taller than she.
A pulse throbbed in his temple, and his eyes narrowed. Drawing back a hand, he made as if to strike her.
Alex turned her cheek, heart hammering as she waited for the impact of his blow, and then gasped, when a tall, neatly-dressed woman with mousy-blonde hair entered the great hall.
The newcomer's head jerked up in anger at the sight that met her eyes. "James!"
Her sharp voice stayed Bothwell's hand, and he spun on his heel. Immediately contrite, he opened his arms. "Jean, my darling! How did you sleep?"
She ignored his question, and snapped a finger in Alex's direction. "What goes on here?"
The earl affected innocence. "I was merely questioning the prisoner," he ran a hand down the sleeve of his doublet and pinched at an imaginary speck of dust, "in the hope of eliciting some clues to help with today's raid." Turning his back on Alex, he returned to his breakfast and sat down. "But the wench knows nothing," he added dismissively.
His wife's eyebrows raised sceptically. "If she knows nothing, then why is she still here? Guard!" She motioned to the beefy man who stood silently at the main entrance to the hall. "Escort the prisoner back to the dungeons."
Alex let out a long breath, tension seeping from her limbs as the guard spun her around and prodded her towards the central part of the castle.
Ridiculing the earl might have provoked a beating, but it had saved her—this time—from being molested. For Bothwell's reputation as a brute and a womaniser was well-known, even over the border in England, and he was already on his second marriage.
Stumbling down the stone stairs as the guard jabbed at her with the butt of his lance, Alex chewed her lip. She had been lucky, this time, that Bothwell's wife had intervened. But if the earl took it into his head to 'question' her again, she knew the outcome might not be quite so benign, and the thought of that chilled her to the core.
Bothwell hunkered in the bracken fringing the Billhope Burn, doglock rifle cocked and held tightly against his shoulder, eyes fixed on the turn in the track ahead where his quarry would appear.
It was a dank morning, drops of dew fringing the long grass, mist rising ponderously from the low-lying ground, and clouds bathing the hilltops, so that visibility was limited to a few hundred yards.
But he could see well enough for this hunt. The deer that roamed Stob Fell and Tudhope Hill were known to drink at the shallow pool just below his position. And one of his men had reported a particularly impressive stag, one whose head would adorn the wall of Bothwell's great hall at Hermitage, and whose meat would fill his belly for days to come.
His mouth watered at the thought of trenchers of dark venison, running with gravy and filling his nostrils with their rich gamey aroma. He could almost taste it, and his stomach grumbled in anticipation.
Gritting his teeth, Bothwell turned his mind from thoughts of food. On a still, heavy day like this, a small sound like that would be enough to alert his prey, and he and his small band of men—hidden on the far side of the pool in case the deer took another route—would return empty-handed.
But even in that event, he need not be dispirited. For with Whithaugh, Mangerton and Shaws cleared, and his dungeons near-full of the worst of the Armstrongs, Elliots, and sundry other supporters, Bothwell's Liddesdale campaign could be deemed a success. And sufficiently productive that he could justify a few hours this morning to fill his larder.
A grim smile played on his lips. This was the best kind of day. The kind of day he lived for. A morning spent hunting deer, an afternoon giving the Armstrongs of Gilnockie his attentions, and then a ride for Cowdenknowes on the morrow to meet the queen en-route to Jedburgh.
He could almost see the queen's smile and the admiration in her eyes when she heard the news. It should raise his status and improve her opinion of him. It might even be worth another earldom.
What he really wanted was for her to see through the machinations of James Stewart, and give him, James Hepburn, the earldom of Moray. But Moray was not at fault here in the Borders, so that would likely have to wait for another day. Sadly.
The dull thud of hooves on peaty soil broke his reverie and put his senses on alert. Training his gun on the track ahead, he stilled his breathing and readied his finger on the trigger.
But the beast that came around the corner was not the stag he expected. Instead, it was the lanky figure of the ironically-named 'Little' Jock Elliot of Park, astride a sturdy brown hobbler, with a stag—Bothwell's stag—hanging over its rump, two arrows bristling from its neck.
Anger flared in Bothwell's chest, and with hardly a thought to the consequences, he fired at the reiver, his aim true, if a little low.
The impact of the shot, somewhere around his hip, threw Elliot from the saddle, and his horse shied and then raced off down the hill with the deer bumping on its back.
My men will catch the garron, Bothwell thought with satisfaction, and we will yet have venison for dinner, and one less Elliot to worry about.
Striding over to the body, Bothwell felt a glow of satisfaction at the dark smear of blood seeping from somewhere above Jock's thigh. Got him good. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot, leaning over to inspect his handiwork.
But like a re-animated corpse, Jock som
ehow produced a dagger, reared up, and lunged wildly at his attacker.
The pain Bothwell felt when the dagger sliced just above his eye was hugely out-of-proportion to the severity of the wound. But the next—to his chest, but fortunately diverted from his heart by his leather baldrick—was more life-threatening. As Elliot thrust the knife for a third time, all Bothwell could think was to use the last of his strength and grab at the blade and wrest it from the reiver.
His lacerated palm poured blood, and with the bleeding wound on his forehead almost blinding him, Bothwell swapped the dagger to his uninjured hand and swung weakly at the last place he'd seen his opponent.
But the weapon met fresh air, and, with a moan, Bothwell sank to the ground, seeking rest for his weary body and release from the pain that harangued his senses.
His brain swimming, he could only imagine that the disarmed Elliot must have seen his disadvantage and made his escape. With luck, the blackguard would be apprehended by Bothwell's men further down the glen.
But the Earl's luck was running out. His energy ebbed as his life-blood flowed richly red over the sandy banks and into the peaty waters of the Billhope Burn.
Mossy turf cushioned his cheek and the burbling of the stream faded as his vision greyed and he passed slowly into unconsciousness.
Chapter 16
LOUD SHOUTING ABOVE his head and jostling of the litter carrying him roused Bothwell from his swoon.
Opening groggy eyes, he blinked against the rough linen bandage drooping towards his eyelids. His chest and hand had also been bound, with expediency rather than skill, and he lay on the rough travois they'd intended for the stag. With a weak smile, he realised that the man beside him led Elliot's brown horse with the deer still tied behind its saddle.
At least our hunt was successful.
But then the shouts of his guards began to penetrate his wooly brain. It appeared there was some altercation over their entrance to Hermitage; that somehow the dungeon guards had been overcome and their prisoners had taken over the castle. Or at least most of it, for somehow Bothwell's wife had rallied the servants, and they'd barricaded themselves in the Douglas Tower, with archers on the ramparts aiming down at the portcullis and making escape for the reivers a dangerous affair.
One of the men carrying the litter noticed that Bothwell had roused. "Sire, the Armstrongs hold the portcullis and wilna let us in. They want to parley terms."
Bothwell gave a tiny nod, then winced at the pain behind his eyes. "Tell them…send a man."
"Aye, sir."
Bothwell must've drifted off again, for the next thing he knew, someone shook his shoulder and the spike of pain roused him awake.
"Robert Elliot of Shaws is here to speak with ye, sire." This time it was the Earl's captain who spoke.
"Yes," Bothwell said shortly, remembering not to nod.
A dark figure loomed over him. "If ye want into yer castle, ye must let us free," said Elliot, his face grimy and evidence of alcohol on his breath.
They've been at my cellars. Anger flared and then fizzled as quickly as it had grown, for Bothwell had no energy for ire. "Yes," he said weakly, "Go free."
"And a pardon for all. Charges to be dropped," added Elliot.
But a fresh wave of pain wracked the earl's body, and he squeezed his eyes shut, clamping his jaw against the agony in his chest.
Distantly, he heard his captain's agreement to the reiver's terms, and then he knew no more.
Alex was wrong in her assumption that escape from Hermitage was impossible. It just proved impossible for her and Hob.
On the second day of their incarceration, from snippets of conversation overheard from their guards, and from the loud shouts and howls they heard emanating from the dungeons below, they surmised that the Armstrongs of Mangerton, interred in the lower prison with some Elliots that'd also been taken by Bothwell on his night-time foray, had overcome their guards and taken over the castle—or at least parts of it.
Fortunately for Alex, the Armstrongs seemed unaware of the first-floor prison—or perhaps they were too busy looting the wine cellars to come searching for undefended women, and she and Hob were thankfully left alone.
Alone—without food or water. It was a situation which left Alex and Hob in dire straits, and it almost had her wishing for a visit from the vile earl again. For at least that way, they might have their thirst quenched and their bellies filled.
As day gave way to night, they huddled together for warmth, trying to ignore their grumbling stomachs and parched throats, wondering what the next day would bring.
Chapter 17
Tuesday 8th October, 1566
IT TOOK UNTIL the following day, after a worrying twenty-four hours unattended by any guard and their thirst growing by the minute, for Alex and Hob's situation became clearer.
A younger, chattier guard came to service them, telling an almost unbelievable story that the earl, gravely wounded in a fight with Jock Elliot of Park, had been denied entry to the castle by the Armstrong ruffians. It was only after negotiation with one of their fellow-prisoners, Robert Elliot, that Bothwell was allowed entry in return for freedom and amnesty for all the prisoners.
Unfortunately, that amnesty did not to extend to Alex and Hob. They remained locked in their tower cell for a further week, while the earl lay feverish on his bed, seriously ill from his injuries and in danger of his life.
During that time, Alex's thoughts were dark. What will happen to us if the earl dies? Will his successor give us a hearing? Or will the guards do away with us before then to save inconvenience?
All they could do was to pray for a good outcome or hope that her father might somehow hear of their plight and intervene. He might be furious at their exploits and disown her or marry her to some gouty old baron. But his wrath would be easier to face than a hangman's noose…
Mary stared at the hastily-scrawled note in her hand, conflicting emotions causing her shoulders to sag with relief whilst her jaw clenched in annoyance.
Here she was, at Cowdenknowes near Melrose, where she'd agreed to meet with her nobles and bishops before continuing on to Jedburgh for her justice eyres, and only now did her husband, Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, send her a message to say he would not be accompanying her. No doubt the hunting and hawking is too good over at Lennox.
Mary scowled. If she, the queen of Scots, took her duties as lightly as the king did, the country would be in even more disarray than it already was.
And he wonders why I will not give him the crown matrimonial? Before their marriage, Darnley had bewitched her with his boyish charm and good looks. But she had quickly become disillusioned with her young husband, whose lewd behaviour had got a lady of the court with child. His immoral appetites also had him appearing drunk and debauched at various taverns around town, more often than was seemly, and frequenting male brothels on a regular basis.
He was an embarrassment who, now that he had provided her with a son and heir, would prove less trouble away from court than at her side. But it irked her that he would ignore her summons without good cause. For if he wished the equal power that the crown matrimonial would give him—and to succeed her if she died first—he should show more interest in affairs of parliament and more wisdom in the way he conducted himself.
Taking a deep breath, Mary tried to clear her mind and steady her emotions, so she could face her retinue with grace and composure.
But it was no good. Her stomach churned and her nerves jangled every time she thought of Darnley. Mayhap t'would have been better if we had never married. Even if it meant that her young son, James, would not have been born.
For the king's arrogance and disdain for political affairs had also given the Protestant lords more cause to plot against her, egged on by the fundamentalist preacher, John Knox, whose hatred of women and Catholics was legendary. So, as a Catholic queen, in a country that had espoused Protestantism some years before, her rule was on a knife-edge.
With sufficient gold in her co
ffers, she could have funded an army of mercenaries and brought her fractious lords to heel by force. But in converting to Protestantism, they had cannily appropriated for themselves the vast land-holdings and tenancies of the monasteries and churches of the old faith, giving them wealth and power far above their station.
It left the royal family fighting for scraps and taxes, to the extent that Mary's father, James V, used to regularly visit his rich lords, arriving with his whole court to extract the levies he was due in kind, if he struggled to get them paid in gold.
Mary might have copied her father, if she had trusted her nobles not to poison or assassinate her while she was partaking of their hospitality. For they had already killed her beloved Italian secretary, David Riccio, and might have killed Mary herself, if it were not for the last-minute intervention of Darnley—a turnaround she still did not understand, since he had aided the plotters and led them to her chamber in the first place.
Instead, she had a few lords—mostly Catholics—who were true to her cause, and she surrounded herself with those whenever she could—like now. Huntly, Seton, Atholl, Livingston and Fleming would all accompany her to Jedburgh. And, of course, Bothwell, who would meet her there with a pack of miscreants for the assizes.
If only the king were more like Bothwell, she thought sadly. The earl might not have the height and dashing good looks of her husband, but he had tenacity, loyalty and decisiveness to offer. Not to mention at least two impregnable castles and an army of three hundred mosstroopers. I should have waited and found me a stronger husband, one who would give me victory against the Protestant lords.
But to Mary, her marriage vows were sacred and, unlike her much-married great-uncle, Henry VIII of England, whose rampant libido had brought about the Protestant reformation that was causing her such trouble, she could not divorce her husband just because he was inconvenient.
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