“I pay him well already, for singing.”
“But his needs have grown,” Henry responded, with one of his most angelic smiles. “And I have assured him that to please me, you would not refuse my request.”
There was a subtle undertone of coercion in Henry’s words, and I sensed it, and it troubled me. Instead of coming to me, cap in hand, with an offer of marriage Henry was requiring me, indeed almost coercing me, to do his bidding, to benefit his friend. He was threatening to withdraw his amiable companionship if I declined, and he was well aware of how much I desired that companionship.
“But if David becomes my secretary, who will sing the high countertenor parts? No one else at my court can sing so sweetly, or so high.”
“I can both sing and write letters, I assure you,” David Riccio said smoothly. “I am at your service at all hours.”
I thought I saw the two men exchange smiles, and I suddenly felt left out.
“Let me speak to Lord Darnley alone about this,” I said. Immediately Henry shifted his tone, ordering David to leave the room in his haughtiest manner.
What had just happened? Why did I feel so worried and uncomfortable, so confused?
Presently I tried to find my way back to familiar ground.
“It is good of you to be so concerned for a man who is so far beneath you, and a foreigner at that,” I began when we were alone. “I have had some dealings with Italians,” I added, thinking of my former mother-in-law. “They can be slippery.”
“Davie is a good fellow, and honest enough.”
“He worships you. He is as enamored of you as any girl,” I said, laughing, “even though he is old enough to be your father.”
When Henry made no reply to this I went on.
“I imagine that you are pursued by many girls and women. Yet you remain unwed. Surely you don’t shun the admiration of women?” I smiled flirtatiously.
“I find both men and women to be delightful companions,” was Henry’s neutral response.
“They say David sings so beautifully because he became a castrato as a boy in Italy,” I said after a time. It was well known that Italian boy singers were caponized—a word I preferred to “castrated”—so that their voices did not change, but remained high and pure.
“Indeed,” was all Henry had to say.
“He is really not a man at all. He will forever be a boy.”
I searched Henry’s face, to gauge his reaction, but his features remained blandly composed.
“It must be a cruel fate for a man, to be deprived of the pleasures of manhood,” I ventured.
“But if, as you say, he remains a boy, then he must not miss what he has never known,” Henry said at length with a wan smile. “Now, about the vacant post of secretary—”
“Yes, yes. He can have it, if it would mean that much to you. You have never pressed me so hard on anything before this afternoon.”
“Perhaps we are on a new footing.”
I pricked up my ears at this. Did he mean what I hoped he meant?
But he seemed eager to change the subject.
“Do you know, Your Highness, I believe you and I share the same birthday. The seventh of December.” He was suddenly all smiles and charm, his tone bright and open.
“Why, yes.”
“It must be fate,” he said. “Our fates are linked.”
Michel de Notredame came into my mind, with his pronouncements about the inescapability of fate and my own baleful destiny. Was Henry, Lord Darnley to be a part of my future? I hoped so. I wanted him to be. I had never wanted anything more. But why oh why was it taking so long to happen?
EIGHTEEN
I was ready to burst.
I thought, if I have to endure one more endless afternoon with Henry, watching him smile at me, hearing him hint that our fates are linked, trying not to shout aloud my feelings for him, I will surely go mad.
Then I heard a clatter in the courtyard below, and saw, from my bedchamber window, that a ruddy-faced, bearded man was riding in on a limping roan, scattering the grooms and chickens that lay in his path. He reined the horse in, and one of the grooms came forward swiftly to hold the bridle while he dismounted.
It was Jamie! I looked in my pier glass, smoothed my hair and adjusted my bodice and skirt. I waited for him to come to me.
But he did not come. After half an hour I sent Margaret to inquire where he was.
“The Earl of Bothwell is with the Lord of Faskally,” Margaret said primly when she returned.
“And where is the Lord of Faskally?”
“He has been taken to the Dominican friars to recover from his wounds.”
“His wounds? What has happened?”
“I can’t say, Your Highness.”
I waited another half-hour, then called for Margaret to help me dress. I put on my least uncomfortable gown, and a light cloak—for it was a warm day—and my riding boots. Then I called for Bravane and, with Adrien and six other guardsmen escorting me, rode to the nearby Dominican monastery of Our Lady of Grace. There I found Jamie, in a dormitory room with a dozen beds. In one of the beds was Cristy Ricarton, thin and wan. Jamie sat beside his bed, talking to him in a low voice.
I went in and politely but firmly shooed the monks out. They did not demur; I was their benefactor, after all. I offered them the protection of my soldiers when the angry Protestants had tried to destroy the old religious house the year before, and threatened to burn the monks out.
“Do you see what that swine Darnley has done?” Jamie said to me as soon as I approached the bed. “He’s attacked Cristy. Wounded him so badly he can’t walk. He may never walk again. And do you know why he did it? Because Cristy had the misfortune to enter a room ahead of the high and mighty Prince Henry, that’s why. Prince Henry. That’s what Darnley demands to be called now.”
“They fought?”
“No, they did not fight. Darnley clouted Cristy from behind, breaking his legs and his back. Poor Cristy will never be able to fight again.”
I sat silent, looking down at the suffering Lord of Faskally, remembering how skillfully he swung his broadsword, parrying Jamie’s murderous blows, when the two practiced their strokes against one another, how strong and agile he had been.
“Henry thinks too highly of himself,” I said. “He punishes others when they fail to honor him.”
“He is a brutal maniac.” Jamie looked at me, a look of disgust. “But you honor him, don’t you? They say you will be his wife.”
I shook my head. Jamie’s words pained me. “He hasn’t asked me,” I said softly. “I fear he never will.”
“It would be a poor enough bargain, lass, if you made it.”
I swallowed. I could not keep the tears out of my voice. “But you see, I love him.”
Cristy had gone to sleep. Jamie got up from his bench beside the narrow bed.
“And does he love you?”
At this I began to cry, I couldn’t help it. I was glad there was no one else in the room besides the sleeping Cristy, no one to witness my shameful weakness.
“He teases me with talk of our future, he smiles at me like an angel—”
“Has he said that he loves you?”
I shook my head. I could not look at Jamie. I was in agony.
“But oh Jamie, I am dying of love for him!”
“By all the saints, woman, look at yourself! He’s turned you into a sniveling, quivering mound of pudding! Where is your dignity! I thought you were a queen!”
This angered me. “But it is as a queen that I desire him! He has royal blood. Our children will rule Scotland and England too, perhaps, if our cousin Elizabeth does not marry. Besides, I know full well that men often do not love the women they marry. Can you tell me honestly that you love Jean Gordon?”
“Pah! That match was never made for love, but for lands. We both know it. And we are not married yet, only promised.”
Jamie came over to me and, as he had done once before, softly stroked my cheek with his
rough knuckle.
“Don’t try to pretend, Orange Blossom. You are just being stubborn. I know you. I have seen you in all your moods. Clearly this man Darnley has bewitched you. He is toying with you, making you miserable, so that he will get what he wants.”
“And what is it that he wants?”
“Why, your kingdom of course. Can’t you see he is just the tool of the English? Of that fiend Elizabeth? She wants Scotland, just as her father did! She means to get it—not by sending her armies to fight us, but by sending Lord Darnley. He is the beautiful bait she wants you to swallow. Once you become his wife, he will take all your power and authority for himself—and rule here, as Elizabeth’s deputy.”
It made sense—yet I resisted believing what Jamie said. I did not want my dream of love to wither.
He saw the willing disbelief in my eyes, and it exasperated him.
“He is English!” Jamie shouted. “We Scots despise him! We do not want him for our lord and master!” His words echoed in the old dormitory, making Cristy stir in his bed and moan. Then Jamie added, in a mumble, “And not just because he is English, but because of what he is.”
I waited a long moment before replying.
“Well then,” I said at length, “if he is as calculating as you say he is, why hasn’t he asked me for my hand in marriage?”
“Can’t you see why?”
I thought of David Riccio, of all the times Henry and David came to my apartments together, of the music they made and their close friendship. Of how I felt left out when they were with me. Of the words of John Knox, words which I had dismissed when he said them but which now seemed important.
I lifted my eyes to Jamie’s bearded face. “What is a catamite, Jamie?”
“Who used that word with you?”
“John Knox.”
“He would.” He sighed. “A catamite is a boy who serves a man’s lusts.”
Unwelcome thoughts and images rushed into my mind. The beautiful boy Henry and the ugly middle-aged David. Inseparable. So comfortable together, almost like brothers. Only not brothers—
I pushed the thoughts aside.
“I have been foolish. I have let my desires confuse me. I have forgotten that a queen cannot daydream about love the way a milkmaid or a peasant girl can. Thank you for reminding me.”
I heard myself speaking, yet the voice I heard was not my voice. It was too harsh, too real, too sensible. It was not I but the Scots queen who was speaking, my outward self. I knew it, and Jamie knew it too.
“Now now then, Orange Blossom. You may yet find a man who loves you—if you are very lucky. Your mother did: and it was my father.”
“But they couldn’t marry!”
“No,” he said softly, “but they could share a dream.”
NINETEEN
After my talk with Jamie I tried my best to put Henry out of my mind. I saw as little of him as possible. I gave orders to my equerry Arthur Erskine, who stood at the door to my rooms during the day, that Henry was not to be admitted to my apartments. That he was to be told that I was ill—and in fact I did suffer, for my efforts to forget him gave me headaches and took away my appetite.
I wrote to Queen Elizabeth thanking her for sending Henry to Scotland for a visit and hinting strongly that it was time he returned home. I waited for a reply, but never received one.
I thought of leaving the court myself for a time, in hopes that while I was away, Henry would order his trunks packed and leave.
But he did not—and despite all my efforts, I could not put him out of my mind. Every time I glimpsed him the old enchantment was revived. I tried to keep in mind all that Jamie had said about him, but in the end I lost the thread of reason and gave in to the strong pull of my desire.
When Margaret Carwood came to me and told me that Henry was buying aquavit from a blowsy vendor who sold it near the Tollbooth, and that he was flirting outrageously with her, I was overjoyed. How could he be a catamite if he was so enthusiastically pursuing this woman?
Jamie was admitted to my apartments about a week after I had talked with him that day in the monastery dormitory. He was brusque and businesslike.
“I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m taking Cristy back with me to Huntly.”
“How is he?”
“He will live—but he will never be whole again.”
“Please tell him that I am truly sorry for his injuries.”
A curt nod was his only reply.
There was an awkward silence between us, and though Jamie had said he was leaving, he seemed to linger. He fidgeted.
“You were wrong about Henry, you know,” I said after a time. “He likes girls. Women. Margaret has seen him with one. She says she is sure there have been others.”
Jamie scoffed, then laughed. “I fear to tell you, lass, that this Henry of yours has a wide palate of sexual tastes. Men are his favorites, but he likes sex with boys, with girls, with women, probably with sheep and goats. He has a reputation as long as my arm!”
He spoke harshly. He meant to wound me with his words. I stepped back as if slapped.
“That’s one reason the hateful English queen sent him here among us, to your staid court. He was making a spectacle of himself at hers!”
“I don’t believe you!” I cried. “I can’t believe you!”
“Hell and damnation, woman, how can I make you see that this worthless lout you think you are in love with is simply beneath you, in every way? That if you were to marry him, as you plainly want to, he would make you miserable.” He was pacing as he spoke, accentuating his words with every long stride. “He would take his pleasures with others and leave you lonely and wretched. Believe me, I have known others like him. Heartless men who take all that a woman has to offer and then throw her aside to suffer.”
Warming to his urgent plea, he grasped my hand.
“Mary, I have heard him speak of you. He ridicules you! Do you know what he calls your court? The Crib of Chastity. Believe me, he does not speak or act like a man in love.”
I shook my head and began to turn away, not wanting to hear his hurtful words. But he grabbed me by my shoulders.
“No! You must listen!”
And then, suddenly, impulsively, he kissed me.
Oh, how he kissed me! I was lost in that kiss. I drowned in it, I yielded to the immense tide of feeling that flowed over me when I felt the pressure of his warm, soft lips on mine.
Then, just as suddenly as he had grabbed me, he released me.
“There,” he said, his voice rough, even angry. “That is what a man in love would do. Has your Henry kissed you like that?”
Catching my breath, I barely managed to say “He hasn’t kissed me at all.”
“And what does that tell you then?” he said as he turned to walk out of my chamber. “Don’t make this mistake, Mary. Don’t be led astray by your lusts!”
“And shall I see you at your wedding then?” I managed to say as he was leaving, my voice weak.
“Eventually. As you can tell I am putting off the evil day for as long as I can.”
“While being led astray by your lusts?”
He turned back toward me. “As often, and as fully, as I can,” he said evenly, then with a curt bow, walked out.
On an impulse I summoned Henry into my presence.
He did not come for an hour or more, and when he did arrive, clad in a doublet of purple velvet and with a gold chain around his neck that must have weighed half as much as he did, he was not alone. David Riccio walked in after him, keeping a respectful distance. David too was regally clad, in a gold and lilac doublet lavishly embroidered with silver threads and shoes with gold buckles.
“Lord Darnley, I would speak with you alone.” My heart was pounding, but I maintained my outward reserve.
“As you wish.” Henry gave a swift half-turn, lifted one elegant leg, and kicked the startled David in the groin. Moaning, David went.
I thought, this is not happening the way I dreamed it would. Bu
t I must do as my heart leads me.
I came forward and extended my hand toward Henry. He took it, solemnly. His hand was cold and clammy.
“Lord Darnley, it would please me if you would become my husband. Are you agreeable?”
His expression did not change. The light from the high window played on his fine white skin, his candid hazel eyes with their long lashes, his perfectly molded features.
“I assume you are offering me the crown matrimonial? I think any other course would not please our cousin Elizabeth.”
His response was such a surprise that I did not know how to answer. I had never thought of anything besides marriage itself, our wedding, our rapturous joining. But of course there were other considerations. When I married the dauphin Francis I had spent an entire morning signing documents that spelled out in great detail just what my status would be after we became husband and wife. All of a sudden I realized what was at stake, that what Henry was asking was that I would make him not only my husband but my royal consort—and king in his own right, should anything happen to me.
I looked at him. Was this the moment he had been waiting for since the day he arrived, I wondered. Had it all been calculated, every word, every gesture? Was Jamie right about him? Did he want nothing from me but my throne?
“We can leave that decision to my councilors and lawyers,” I said.
“This is a decision for us to make, and no one else. Am I to be merely your husband, or am I to command the dignity that is my right by birth, the dignity and honor of a royal prince?”
I very nearly refused. I very nearly said, let us consider this and talk it over tomorrow. How close I came! But my cheeks burned with the excitement and tension of it all, and his response was so cool that I feared he might refuse me. It was so hard to think clearly when I was near him. Here we were, on the brink of agreeing to what I had been longing for for so many sleepless nights, so many restless afternoons. I could not risk losing him. I could not.
“Yes, yes of course then. Anything you like! Only say that you will marry me!”
He smiled then, with satisfaction though not with joy, and kissed me on the lips—a surprisingly dry, swift kiss. Those sweetly curving red lips that I had yearned to kiss were at last on mine. Yet their touch was not at all as I had dreamed it would be. I clung to him, wanting more, wanting to be overcome by a passion so exquisite it would surely be unbearable. But I felt no passion. It was nothing like Jamie’s kiss, that remarkable kiss that had shaken me to the depths of my being and moved me so beyond myself that I was lost.
The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots: A Novel Page 9