by Jean Plaidy
“From what I hear the trouble started when you forced an entry into a house in St. Mary’s Wynd.”
“The trouble started long before that, Madam. If you wish for an account of the scores I have to settle with Arran, I shall be pleased to give it.”
Mary waved her hand impatiently. “Please … I beg of you… tell me no more. I am tired of your perpetual bickering. You are dismissed the Court. Go back to the Border. Go anywhere, and if you are not soon gone I shall be forced to make your punishment more drastic.”
“Madam,” began Bothwell, “I appeal to your sense of justice. If you feel I have done aught to deserve blame, then must you cast some blame on Arran. Let me meet him in single combat and settle our affairs thus.”
“No, my lord,” she said sternly, “there shall be no more bloodshed if I can prevent it.”
She looked up into his face helplessly. Her glance clearly said: What can I do? How can I punish Arran with his father, Châtelherault, and the whole Hamilton clan behind him—to say nothing of his supporter John Knox? Go away. If you must fight, fight the English on the Border. I want Scotland left in peace.
“Leave the Court,” she said. “Go at once.” She smiled suddenly. “You will have many preparations to make for your sisters wedding.”
His smile answered hers.
He would retire from Court; he would proceed with his preparations for his sisters wedding; and when the Queen’s brother became his brother-in-law, he would be better fitted to pit himself against Lord James and the whole Hamilton clan.
“My sister,” he said, “will be a sad woman if Your Majesty does not honor us at Crichton with your presence.”
The Queen was still smiling. So he was going. He was not going to plunge into one of those Knox-like arguments which distressed her. “Of a certainty I shall wish to be present at my brother’s wedding,” she told him.
LESS THAN TWO weeks later Mary set out for Crichton Castle, the chief seat of the Hepburn family.
John Knox thundered against the marriage of these wicked people who disgusted virtuous Scotsmen with their fornications and lecherous lives. This baseborn brother of the whore of Babylon, he declared, was known to be a whoremonger; and what of the woman he was marrying? “A sufficient woman for such a man!”
Knox was left in Edinburgh reviving old scandals.
“Janet Hepburn, the bride-to-be!” he cried. “To how many has she been handfast, I should like to know—or rather I should shudder to know—before she prepares herself to enter into this most unholy matrimony with the sanction of the Queen?”
Mary was glad to put many miles between herself and the ranting preacher. She was glad to enter the old castle whose unscalable walls had been built to resist the ruffian raiders from across the Border. Sternly it faced the Cheviots and the Tyne—the Hepburns’ challenge to marauding Englishmen.
Here she dwelt as the guest of Lord Bothwell. She liked the wild outspoken girl who was as bold as her brother, and was not surprised that John wished to marry her.
Lord James, who accompanied her, was more dour than ever. He did not approve of this alliance with the Hepburns. The girl was wild, he complained to Mary. John was too young to be saddled with such a wife. There were nobles of higher standing who would have been delighted with the honor of marrying a Stuart.
She refused to listen to his gloomy prophecies. Here was an occasion for merriment—a wedding, and the wedding of her own brother at that. Lord Bothwell was making a great entertainment for her and she was determined to enjoy it.
“James,” she coaxed, “now that Robert and John are married, you must be the next.”
James listened soberly. He had been thinking for a long time of marriage with the Lady Agnes Keith, who was the daughter of the Earl Marischal. Marry he would, but his marriage would in no way resemble this one between Janet Hepburn and his brother John. For all he knew, John had been caught by the woman at one of the handfast ceremonies where young men and women met round a bonfire and went off to copulate in the woods. Lord James had no desire for such questionable pleasures. When he married Lady Agnes it would be because he had made up his mind that such a match would be advantageous. As yet he was hesitant.
Mary was laughing at him. “Yes, James,” she said, “I shall insist. Your marriage shall be the next. You cannot allow your young brothers to leave you behind.”
Lord James pressed her hand in a brotherly, affectionate way. It was impossible not to be fond of her. She was so charming and so ready to take his advice.
Mary gave herself up to the pleasure of being entertained. And what an entertainment Lord Bothwell had prepared for her! She knew that he had sent raiders beyond the Border to procure that which made their feast, but what of that! He was a Borderer with many a score to settle. The eighteen hundred does and roes, the rabbits, geese, fowls, plovers and partridges in hundreds, may have come from the land of the old enemy, but it mattered not at all. They made good feasting. And after the feast there were sports on the green haugh below the castle as had rarely been seen in Scotland, and the leaping and dancing of the bridegroom won the acclamation of all.
MARY NOW felt better and happier than she had for many weeks. Could it be true—as her Marys suggested—that her native land was more beneficial to her health than France had been? It was absurd. These draughty castles, so comfortless compared with the luxury of the French châteaux, and food which although plentiful was less invitingly prepared… could it be possible that these discomforts could make her better? Perhaps it was the rigorous climate, though often when the mist hung about the rooms she felt twinges in her limbs. No. She was growing out of her ailments—that must be it. Of course her Marys declared it was due to Scotland because they were fast becoming reconciled to Scotland: Flem through Maitland; Livy through John Sempill; Beaton through the Englishman, Randolph; and Seton… well, Seton was just happy to see the others happy.
When would Mary’s time come; and who would be her husband? It seemed to Mary that every day the name of some suitor was presented to her.
The Queen of England was anxious to have a say in plans for Marys marriage. If the bridegroom did not please her, she had hinted, she would certainly not name Mary and her heirs as successors to the English throne. That spy Randolph—why was poor Beaton so taken with the man?—always seemed to be at her elbow. She pictured him in his apartment, scribbling hard, determined that his mistress should miss little of what went on in Marys Court.
And now there was to be another marriage. Lord James was at last going to marry Lady Agnes.
Mary wanted to show her gratitude to her brother, and what better time could there be than the occasion of his marriage? She longed to give him what he craved—the Earldom of Moray; but how could she grant him that Earldom when old Huntley, the Cock o’ the North—and not without reason—laid claim to it? Instead she would make him Earl of Mar and beg him to be satisfied with that.
Now for the pleasant occupation of arranging the masques and mummeries. She called her Marys to her, and they fell to discussing the music for the wedding. That led to sending for Signor David whose company never failed to delight Mary. It was always such a pleasure to hear his voice, and now and then she would command him to sing for her.
When he came, all five Marys greeted him warmly.
“Come and sit here,” commanded the Queen. “Now, Signor David, please sing the new song you brought to me last Monday.”
They listened entranced to his beautiful voice.
“You shall lead the choir for my brothers wedding,” declared the Queen.
He was overwhelmed with delight, as he always was by the slightest favor; that was why it was such a pleasure to do little things for him. If she could give him some small task, the doing of it seemed to please him more than praise. His attitude toward her was one of adoring devotion.
“David,” she said, “I am going to make you my valet de chambre. Then we shall not have to send for you when we want you. You will be here am
ong us. Where do you lodge now, Signor David?”
“In the porters lodge, Madame.”
“Well, henceforth you shall lodge in the palace, and your chamber shall be near mine, as I shall need your services often. Can you write in the French language, David?”
“Madame, it is as my native language.”
“Then why did you not tell us before!” cried Mary in French. “Now we shall all speak French. We like to do so when we are alone.”
“Tell us about yourself, David,” said Flem. “That is if Her Majesty would permit it.”
“Her Majesty permits,” said Mary, “and is as eager to hear as you are, my dear Flem.”
“There is little to tell,” began David. “My life was of no great interest… until I came to the Court of Scotland. I was born at Pancalieri. We were very poor, but my father was a musician. From my childhood it was singing… singing songs… and, of course, playing the lute.”
“Then I am glad of that, David,” said the Queen. “Not the poverty, of course, but the singing and the lute-playing. Doubtless it has made you the musician you are.”
“I am glad of it now, Madame, since it brought me to your notice.”
“What else, David?” asked Beaton.
“When I was of an age to leave home, I was sent to serve the Archbishop of Turin. There I played music, sang in his choir, and acted as his secretary.”
“Were you as competent a secretary as a musician?” asked Beaton.
“I think I gave satisfaction, my lady, since from the Archbishop I was able to go to Nice and the Court of the Duke of Savoy.”
“And there became secretary to Moretta,” added Mary. “Who knows, I might make use of those secretarial qualities also. I will do this, David: I will pay you a salary of sixty-five pounds a year, and, if you please me, I shall increase it.”
“Madame, your goodness overwhelms me. It is sufficient reward to serve Your Majesty.”
“But it is not sufficient for us, is it?” she demanded of her Marys.
“We would have you dressed in velvets, you see,” explained Flem.
Mary said: “Beaton, my dear, give David money so that next time he comes to us he may be dressed in velvet. And he must have a jewel too.” She looked down at her hands and drew off a ruby ring. “The color suits you, David. And I think it will fit your little finger.”
His dark eyes gleamed, and they saw the tears shining there. He fell to his knees, and taking the ring he put it on his little finger; then he pressed it against his lips.
“There it shall remain,” he said, “until the day I die. A constant reminder of the day Your Majesty gave it to me.”
JOHN KNOX preached the wedding sermon in the Kirk of St. Giles.
Lord James was a favorite of his; he looked to the young man, with high hopes. Naturally there were times when it was necessary to admonish his pupil, but John Knox had declared Lord James to be a friend of God and the true religion, which meant a friend to John Knox; and John Knox, the practical man, while keeping his eyes fixed on his place in Heaven, saw no reason for ignoring advantages which might accure here on earth.
He was not sure of Agnes Keith. He did not trust women. So now he spoke out. “Unto this day the Kirk has received comfort from you. Let God and the Kirk not find you fainter in purpose than you were before, or it will be said that your wife has changed your nature.”
Mary was restless, waiting impatiently for the sermon to be over. When would the odious man finish? Was this the way to preach a wedding sermon? But Jamie was listening intently; and others seemed spellbound by the fire-breathing preacher.
Through the streets, when the church ceremony was over, went the wedding procession. It was magnificent, but Mary remembered another in comparison with which this seemed like a village wedding. Yet it was more grand than any seen before in Edinburgh, and it would show the people how she loved this brother of hers. He was a Protestant and she was a Catholic; but that made no difference to their love, she believed, and she wished her people to take this to heart.
James, now Earl of Mar, still hankered after the Earldom of Moray; but Huntley, who lived in the Northern Highlands like a king, could not be persuaded to give it up. James had said: “It is a sad thing, my dearest sister, that there should be those in this country who endow themselves with a status above that of the Queen.”
“It is,” Mary agreed. James was referring to Huntley; Mary was thinking of John Knox.
The feasting went on for several days, and the citizens gathered outside Holyrood listening to the music and seeing what they could of the dancers. There were banquets and masques; and Mary had arranged that everything should take place in the elegant French manner.
Through the streets of Edinburgh John Knox stalked, shaking his fist at the palace.
“Within those walls,” he roared, “the Devil dances. Painted harlots mingle with seducers. There’ll be fornication in the Palace of Holyrood this night.” That subject dominated his mind; it was one on which he seemed compelled to dwell. “Jezebel calls the tune, and her four handmaidens—Sin, Lechery, Lust and Evil-living—beckon the weak.”
During the revelry, Mary found time to talk to her brother. “Jamie, on occasions like this I feel at peace with the whole world. I would like to call my enemies to me and speak peaceably with them. I fear John Knox is too far set against me, but what of the Queen of England? If I could have a meeting with her … if we could discuss, in person, our differences, would that not be a good thing?”
James smiled at his sister. “It would indeed.”
James was indulgent. She was so pretty, and so impetuously foolish at times. She would never be a great ruler; she would be no match for the Queen beyond the Border. Elizabeth of England would never have tolerated in her country such a powerful nobleman as James intended to be in Scotland.
But such thoughts made him fonder of her than ever. He liked to see her dancing and enjoying her French games, laughing at the witticisms of her fool, La Jardinière, frittering away the days whilst the grown-ups got on with the work.
“I am glad,” she said, “that you are in agreement with me, Jamie. I will sound Randolph on the subject at the earliest possible moment. Oh, Jamie, I do so long to see her. One hears so many tales of her. Her courtiers say she is dazzlingly beautiful, but we hear different reports sometimes. I should enjoy meeting her face-to-face.”
James looked into his sister’s animated face. “She would never forgive you if she saw you.”
“Forgive me! For what, James?”
“For being a hundred times more beautiful than herself.”
Mary was delighted. Compliments came rarely from James. Poor frivolous lass! James was thinking. Thinking to set herself against the shrewdest woman in the world!
But it was for her frivolity—and all that it might lead to—that he loved her.
At that evening’s banquet, Mary, who had previously had a word with the Englishman Randolph, lifted her golden goblet of wine and, rising to her feet, cried: “I drink to the health of my sister of England, Queen Elizabeth.” Whereupon all at the table rose and drank with her, to the especial delight of Thomas Randolph who adored his Queen, and Mary Beaton who adored Randolph and so was delighted to see friendly relations between him and her beloved Mary.
And as the bridegroom, James, the new Earl, joined in the toast, he was not thinking of a possible meeting between the two Queens, because he did not believe it would come to pass; he was not thinking of his bride and his marriage, because that was something accomplished and he never wasted time in profitless thought; what occupied his mind was how he could openly call himself the Earl of Moray and take possession of the rich lands which went with the title, and he concluded that this could only come about through the downfall of the Cock o’ the North.
BOTHWELL WAS not pleased by the state of affairs. His prospects had promised to be so fair at that time when the Queen had sent for him to arrange her voyage back to Scotland. Since then he had twic
e been banished from Court. He was growing ambitious. He knew that James Stuart was against him; he knew too that James Stuart was a friend of the English. The Queen—a foolish woman—did not realize that. In her sentimental way she thought of her dear Jamie merely as her brother, not as the man whose chief aim was to strip her of power that he might add to his own.
He, Bothwell, wanted to see Scotland free from the French and the English. He was ready to serve the Queen; but he wanted a high place for the Earl of Bothwell.
He realized now that he had been foolish to allow his feud with the Hamiltons to put him out of favor. What he had done by his impulsive prank was to play right into the hands of James Stuart and Maitland; but he would beat them at their own game, and to do this he must contrive reconciliation with the Earl of Arran.
How to do this? Bothwell had an idea. He would seek the mediation of John Knox. Knox, of course, would condemn Bothwell for his profligate ways, but even so the Earl would not be so damned in the eyes of the preacher as some were, since he was a professed Protestant; moreover Knox himself came from the Border country and had lived with his parents in a district over which the Hepburns held sway. It was not difficult, therefore, to obtain, through a third party, the desired interview.
Knox received Bothwell in the sparsely furnished room at the manse not far from Market Cross.
“At last,” cried Knox, rising and standing as though he were addressing a meeting, “you have seen the errors of your ways. You have lived a riotous life and now you have come home… like the prodigal son. You wish to leave your sins behind you … to lead a better life…. You wish to love your neighbor as yourself—”
Patience was not one of Bothwell’s virtues. He cut the preacher short. “If I could have Arran’s friendship instead of his enmity,” he said, “I could stay at Court with a mere handful of servants. As it is, I have about me hundreds of men-at-arms. I must be prepared to meet an attack at any time, and it is very expensive.”
Knox was inclined to be lenient. When he was a boy he had been humble before the lords of the estate. This man with the arrogant manner had reawakened that youthful respect. Hard-livers the Hepburns had always been, but they had not been harsh with their own. Moreover, Knox saw in this lusty man one whose friendship could be useful to him.