Burning Ambition

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  MARGARET

  THOMSON DAVIS

  * * *

  BURNING

  AMBITION

  BLACK & WHITE PUBLISHING

  Contents

  Title

  Part I Scotland 1546

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  Part II France 1558

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  Part III Scotland 1561

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  PART I

  SCOTLAND

  1546

  I

  THE old town of Haddington was alive with rumour. Although a bone-chilling February wind was whistling through the town, the market square was packed with people going about their normal business. But there was only one topic of conversation that day—the news that George Wishart, the notorious heretic, was amongst them and would preach that very afternoon at the market cross.

  As the great bell of St Mary’s church tolled in the background, and the afternoon wore on, anticipation grew in the crowd that filled the square. Then, appearing seemingly from nowhere, Wishart was there, standing on the uppermost step of the market cross. A wave of excitement passed through the crowd—it was not every day that their quiet little town witnessed such bold defiance of both the church and the law of the land.

  In a calm yet powerful voice Wishart began to preach.

  ‘My friends, how good it is to see so many gathered together here today to listen to the true word of the Lord. For so long you have been deceived by the lackeys of the anti-Christ of Rome. Now, at long last, the time has come to overthrow them—yea, just as our Lord cast out the moneylenders from the Temple!’

  A few scattered cries of ‘Amen to that!’ rose up from among the crowd, but many looked apprehensive, fearful to be seen to agree with such dangerous sentiments. At the back of the crowd, two figures on horseback—a tall, broad-shouldered young man and his companion, a young woman with fiery red hair—stood out from those around them. Their expensive clothes and fine horses marked them out as members of the nobility, and even the preacher seemed to notice them. They appeared to be engaged in a heated discussion.

  ‘Marie, why will you not listen to me?’ asked Donald McFarlane. ‘I keep telling you—it’s too dangerous for you to be seen anywhere near this man, especially now that they are calling him a heretic!’ He gestured towards Wishart, while his eyes raked the crowd, searching for any sign of trouble.

  ‘You worry too much, Donald,’ his companion replied. ‘Why should we care about what he may or may not be? Let’s just enjoy the spectacle. God knows, there is little enough excitement in our lives.’

  ‘If your father finds out where you have been and who you have been listening to, then you’ll understand why I worry about you,’ Donald told her in an exasperated tone.

  Marie looked petulant. ‘I only want to listen to the man. Where’s the harm in that?’

  ‘You know perfectly well that Wishart is preaching reform of the Catholic clergy as well as the Catholic church. For God’s sake, Marie, have you forgotten your own father is the Bishop of Moray!’

  ‘My father …’ Her voice filled with bitterness. ‘How could I ever forget him? But tell me why should I take any notice of an old lecher like him? He treats my mother like a mere plaything, and he takes precious little notice of me!’ Her mother, Effie Dalgliesh, was one of the Bishop’s concubines, and Marie herself was only one of his many illegitimate children.

  Her voice was raised with the passion of her feelings and Donald hissed a ‘Wheesht’ at her.

  ‘No, I’ll not wheesht,’ she said in a louder, more defiant tone, clearly intending those around to hear. ‘I think Master George Wishart talks a lot of sense!’

  A few of the crowd were beginning to look round at the two young riders.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Donald hissed. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, and if you carry on like this, you’ll get us both thrown into the Cardinal’s dungeons.’

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘Of course not. As ever, my only concern is for you.’

  Immediately Marie felt guilty. Donald had been a good friend since childhood. She knew he was no coward. His problem was the intensity of his love for her. And that was her problem as well. He wanted them to marry and settle down in some cottage or other on his father’s land. But, as the youngest son, Donald would never have any claim to the McFarlane estate or to the big fortified house on the hill. Even so, it wasn’t Donald’s lack of money or prospects that discouraged Marie. At least, she didn’t think it was. She told herself that she just didn’t want to settle down. She was only sixteen and in a restless, vague kind of way, knew that she could and would do better and more exciting things with her life.

  The dominie, Mr Fraser, who taught her with such dedication at the village school, had told her she was destined for better things, and she was determined to work hard at her studies and make the most of her opportunity to learn. Her education was one of the few things for which she felt some gratitude to her father, for it was Patrick Hepburn, the Bishop of Moray, who financed the school and the dominie.

  The dominie! Now there was a man she could look up to and admire. Mr Fraser spoke his mind without fear or favour and seemed to have earned some measure of respect from the Bishop, and he had certainly earned Marie’s intense admiration and complete devotion. There was no doubt that Marie was his favourite pupil, for he spent so much extra time with her. Recently he had even suggested that she came to live in the schoolhouse.

  Jeannie, Mr Fraser’s wife, had been outraged. Marie had overheard her yelling at her husband, and his patient reply,

  ‘But she could work for her keep. She could help you in the house when she’s not attending to her studies. I worry about her living with that stupid harlot of a mother and that old lecher the Bishop. She’s in moral danger, Jeannie.’

  ‘She is the moral danger,’ Jeannie had screeched, ‘and she’s in our house too much as it is. She’s far older than any of your other pupils. Why is she still here at all? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  ‘She’s a gifted child, that’s why. …’

  ‘She’s no child! She’s sixteen and could pass for twenty with those brazen eyes of hers.’

  Marie could just imagine Mr Fraser’s pained expression at his wife’s ranting, but his voice remained patient.

  ‘She’s gifted, Jeannie. Her grasp of Latin and mathematics, and now her Greek—’

  ‘I’m sick of hearing about how wonderful that bastard is. Don’t ever forget that’s all she is—just another of the Bishop’s bastards…’

  That had brought Marie near to tears. Because it was true. She was just another of the Bishop’s bastards. Yet, at the same time, it had only made her all the more determined to get the better of this millstone that hung round her neck.

  Marie’s gloomy thoughts were interrupted as George Wishart’s voice rose to a crescendo.

  ‘My brethren, you must exhort your Prelates to repent of their wicked ways, or they will feel how terrible is the wrath of Almighty God!’

  ‘Aye! Es
pecially those damned sinners Beaton and Moray!’ came a harsh shout from the crowd.

  Marie looked round to see who had spoken against her father. She did not recognise the face, but the man who had spoken was a tall, imposing figure with a long unkempt beard and a wild look in his eye.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Marie whispered to Donald.

  ‘Take no notice, it’s only Knox—he’s a local troublemaker. Just ignore him. Everyone else does.’

  But Marie felt something strangely compelling about the stranger dressed in black. As she stared at him, he turned and caught her eye, and scowled back at her. She couldn’t help thinking that he looked like a dangerous man to cross.

  As Wishart continued to preach, Knox kept interrupting, denouncing Marie’s father and Cardinal Beaton again and again, but then a sudden commotion at the far end of the market square silenced everyone for a moment, as they turned to see what was happening.

  ‘Damn!’ said Donald. ‘I knew this would happen. It’s the Cardinal’s soldiers.’

  As the horsemen rode into the square, the thunder of hooves, the cloud of dust, and the sunlight glinting on weapons and armour created instant panic in the tightly packed crowd. Marie and Donald’s own mounts reared and pawed the air in fright as women screamed and everyone struggled this way and that, desperate to reach safety.

  As the soldiers crashed through the crowd, men, women and children were knocked aside. A few unfortunates who fell in the path of the horses were trampled under iron-shod hooves, but the horsemen seemed oblivious, intent only on seizing their prey—the heretic, George Wishart.

  Donald and Marie managed to stay on their horses, but they were carried helplessly along by the crowd. Suddenly, Knox pushed roughly past them and ran towards Wishart, shouting loudly at the soldiers as they seized the preacher.

  ‘Unhand him, you spawn of Satan!’ he bellowed.

  The soldiers ignored him, and Knox, picking up a large stone as he ran, hurled it at them. The soldier he hit cursed loudly, drew his sword and turned round to face his attacker, but Knox was no fool—he had already melted back into the anonymity of the crowd.

  ‘Come on,’ Donald urged Marie. ‘The quicker we’re away from here, the better.’

  Marie seemed transfixed by the violence that surrounded them, looking on in horror as the soldiers struck down Wishart’s few remaining supporters.

  ‘We must do something…’ she cried.

  ‘Don’t be a fool. This has nothing to do with us! And there’s nothing we can do—except get ourselves out of here.’ Marie had lost sight of the preacher now, but she knew that if these were the Cardinal’s men, then they would be taking Wishart to the Cardinal’s castle at St Andrews. Her father, along with a multitude of other members of the clergy and the nobility, was staying there at the moment, and the Cardinal had no doubt organised the arrest of the notorious heretic as a way of impressing his guests.

  Marie turned her horse to follow Donald. She was trembling.

  ‘What harm has that man ever done to anyone? I must speak to my father. I’ll speak to the Cardinal if necessary.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ said Donald. ‘All that will do is let them know you were here, listening to a heretic preaching. Who do you think ordered all this anyway? It was the Cardinal himself, no doubt with the full support of your father!’

  ‘I thought you sympathised with people like Wishart,’ said Marie.

  ‘You know I do,’ Donald replied. ‘But now is not the time for heroism. Even the bold John Knox has flown.’

  They had a long journey ahead of them, and as they rode in silence away from the chaos of the town, Donald had time to reflect on what they had just witnessed.

  If only he could tell Marie just how much it had all meant to him. She knew nothing of his true involvement with Wishart and the underworld of secrecy and deceit in which he moved. Only a few short months before, Donald had stumbled into that world, and it had seemed as though nothing would ever be the same again. At first, he had attended a few of Wishart’s secret gatherings. Gradually, the preacher had taken Donald into his confidence until one day, after all the others had left, Wishart had taken Donald to one side.

  ‘I have been watching you closely, my friend,’ Wishart said, ‘and I think you are the sort of man I can trust. Am I right?’

  Donald was puzzled, but replied,

  ‘Of course. I would never betray you.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it, Donald, for now I am going to tell you something that you can never repeat to another soul. Do I have your word as a gentleman?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Excellent. Until now, my friend, you have seen me as nothing more than a simple preacher, have you not? Well, I have to tell you I am much more than that. I am an agent of his Majesty King Henry VIII of England, and I came to Scotland to work for the benefit of both our nations. Your country is in grave danger from the plots and schemes of the French, and only an alliance with the might of England can save this land from civil war.’

  Donald was stunned by what he was hearing. Wishart continued,

  ‘As you know, the greatest ally of the French in this land is that old fraud and lecher, Cardinal Beaton. If he were to be … eliminated … then the French influence in Scotland would be at an end. To put it as simply as I can, I am here to bring all this about. But I need help, and I think you may be the man I have been looking for.’

  Donald knew there was much sense in what Wishart was saying, yet what he was suggesting would mean becoming involved in treason and murder. But Wishart had been very persuasive.

  ‘And remember this, Donald. King Henry does not forget his friends. If you join me in this business, it will mean wealth and position for you in the new Scotland. I know you are unlikely to inherit much as a younger son, and this may well be the best chance you will ever have to make your way in the world. Think hard, Donald, think very hard before you turn it down.’

  Donald’s mind had been in turmoil. But one thing and one thing alone had finally decided it. He had always known that without wealth and property he would never be able to marry Marie. Wishart was right: this was an opportunity he could not refuse.

  ‘I think you have found the man you are looking for, Master Wishart,’ Donald said, and the two men had shaken hands. Then Wishart began to tell him how they would proceed.

  Now, as he rode beside Marie, Donald wondered what would become of Wishart, but more importantly he wondered if Wishart would betray him. So long as Wishart maintained the façade of being a simple preacher, then Donald would be safe. But who could tell what Wishart might let slip, under the inevitable torture he would undergo as a heretic in the dungeons of Cardinal Beaton?

  Their journey back to St Andrews passed without incident, but Wishart’s fate was still on Marie’s mind. As they arrived, Marie turned to Donald,

  ‘I will speak to my father,’ she said stubbornly.

  He looked round at her with a sigh.

  ‘Oh, Marie …’

  He looked so familiar, so dear to her in his dark cloak, and his hat with its low flat crown hidden by a halo-like brim and small horizontal ostrich feather.

  But she wouldn’t capitulate.

  ‘I only want to help the preacher.’

  ‘I know,’ Donald said with another sigh. ‘And I suppose nothing I can say will stop you so I might as well save my breath.’

  Marie dismounted with a smooth agile movement despite the restrictions of her long skirts, and Donald led their horses away to the stables.

  As Marie crossed the courtyard she passed Magnus Hepburn, the only other of her father’s illegitimate children she had actually met and who, like herself, had been allowed to adopt the Bishop’s surname.

  He gave her a cursory greeting. They had never been friends. On the contrary, he had always taken every opportunity to play cruel tricks on her and torment her. Until the last time when she’d fought back, nearly scratching his eyes out, as they rolled about on the schoolhouse floor. Even
Mr Fraser had been shocked at her behaviour.

  But Magnus Hepburn had never tormented her again.

  She remembered Magnus’s mother pouncing on her later and dragging her before the Bishop in an absolute fury. Alice McNeal had always been jealous of Effie Dalgliesh of course, and any favouritism the Bishop might show to Effie or Marie.

  ‘Do you know what this wicked red-haired fiend has just done?’ she had screamed at her paramour.

  ‘Wicked red-haired fiend?’ the Bishop echoed. ‘That is surely something of an exaggeration.’

  ‘No, it is not,’ Alice insisted. ‘She set upon your son, scratched him, kicked him and actually rolled about on the ground punching him black and blue.’

  The Bishop tutted, secretly amused at the thought of that tedious boy Magnus being beaten by a mere slip of a girl.

  Then he’d tactfully smoothed Alice’s rumpled feathers with the promise of a new gown.

  He’d also promised to punish Marie. This punishment had consisted of ordering the dominie to give her extra work, which was no punishment at all. Indeed, it only increased Magnus’s jealousy of her.

  Nellie, Effie’s maid, met Marie in the corridor and said,

  ‘The mistress wis lookin’ for you. She’s up in her bedchamber.’

  Marie nodded, and reluctantly climbed the narrow stairs.

  ‘Where have you been?’ her mother demanded as soon as Marie entered the room. ‘I told you to stay here in the castle and help me entertain the Cardinal’s important guests.’

  ‘Entertain the Duke of Glasgow, you mean,’ Marie said contemptuously. Effie had been attempting for some time to persuade Marie to marry Machar McNaughton, Duke of Glasgow. The fact that he was a repulsive, fat old man did not discourage Effie at all. Her only thoughts were for the material advantages such a match would bring.

  ‘All right, all right. And what’s wrong with that? It’s about time we took our proper place in society. And this is our best chance.’

  ‘Our proper place in society?’ Marie laughed. ‘And what might that be?’

  Her mother fluttered her eyes heavenwards as if appealing for help from the Almighty.