They all knew he meant Janet, the niece of the murdered Cardinal Beaton. At the age of forty-three and with seven children, she had become the object of twenty-four-year-old Bothwell’s unchaste affections.
‘So, Marie has not yet found a husband?’ Magnus Hepburn said, his mind still on his sister.
Bothwell shrugged.
‘She seems devoted to the Queen.’ He hesitated. ‘But as far as men are concerned, I thought she showed a marked reserve. Yet I imagine your sister could be a passionate woman. Perhaps with her friend, the Earl of Edinburgh—I suspect he wants more than just friendship. But, even with him, she retains a measure of reticence.’
‘She’s been ill-treated by fate,’ McNaughton said. ‘She was the one who was to marry my father.’
‘That was over ten years ago,’ Bothwell scoffed. ‘Surely she can’t still be affected by that.’
‘I am,’ McNaughton said. ‘Every time I look at that portrait of my father,’ he paused, looking toward the painting that hung over the fireplace, ‘I am consumed with hatred for the person who took his life.’
McKeever looked concerned at this rekindling of tragic memories.
‘Gavin, I hope you never entertained the slightest doubt about my grandfather. …’
‘No, no, Joseph. I never believed old Murdo had anything to do with the crime. Indeed the thought that your grandfather died so unjustly makes me even more angry. The murderer killed your grandfather too, McKeever, as sure as he killed my father. And he’s still free. Never a day passes that I don’t look up at that portrait and vow vengeance. Surely you feel the same?’
‘I used to. It nearly destroyed me. But life goes on. One cannot live with such hatred forever.’
‘I can,’ McNaughton said coldly.
Bothwell shook his head.
‘Och Gavin, the past is past. Concentrate on today.’
‘It is not in my nature to forgive or forget, Bothwell. I tell you, as God is my witness, one day I will have my revenge.’
XVIII
MARIE watched in silence as the young Francis was solemnly crowned King of France at Rheims. As Queen of Scotland, Mary had no need of further coronation. Outside, rain lashed against the roof and windows and the wind howled as if in mourning. There was no great display of pageantry owing to the recent tragic death of Henry II, and Francis wore a coat of black velvet, while Mary alone of all the ladies present was not dressed in dark colours.
Soon after the coronation, the Court of France, with Francis, Mary and Catherine di’ Medici at its head, resumed its endless travelling. To Marie’s dismay, however, Guthrie Jamieson accompanied them wherever they went. He had become almost a permanent presence at Court since he had won the young Queen’s admiration by ridding her of the detested Madame de Paroy. Every time Marie saw him now, her heart sank. She knew what he was planning, she knew the terrible threat he posed to the Dauphin, and yet there seemed to be no way she could warn Mary without implicating herself. Marie decided there was nothing for it but to confront Jamieson and plead with him to abandon his plan.
Her opportunity came while the Court was in residence at Amboise Chateau on the Loire. One evening, after dinner, Marie sought out Jamieson. She found him alone in the formal garden.
‘Ah, what a very pleasant surprise!’ he remarked. ‘I had thought you were avoiding me.’
‘Enough of your flattery, my Lord! I have to speak with you.’
‘Of course. I presume you have come to tell me that you have seen sense and are ready to help me with my endeavours,’ he said, a wicked smile flashing across his handsome face.
‘No!’ Marie gasped. ‘How could you think that? I have come to beg you to stop this madness and leave the Queen and her husband in peace.’
‘An admirable thought, my dear. Your concern for the Queen does you credit, but you are meddling in matters you do not fully understand. I am afraid that things have already gone too far, wheels have been set in motion that cannot be stopped. Even if I wanted to, there is nothing I can do now. The Dauphin is already doomed.’
For a moment Marie was unable to speak, shocked at what she had just heard.
‘Oh Guthrie, what have you done?’ she whispered.
‘All I have done is try to do what is best for my country and for my Queen.’
‘Liar!’ Marie hissed. ‘You care for nothing but the English gold that will doubtless reward your treachery.’
‘You may believe what you like,’ Jamieson replied, ‘so long as you keep your mouth shut. At any rate, it is too late to save Francis now, and I would, of course, deny everything. Who do you think your precious Mary would believe? Her devoted protector the gallant Earl of Edinburgh, or the Bishop of Moray’s bastard daughter? I think we both know the answer. …’
As she watched Jamieson turn away and walk back towards the Chateau, Marie knew he was right. She knew she could say nothing, but how was she going to face Mary knowing what she did?
One evening over their embroidery, the Queen mentioned to Marie the names Lord and Lady Cairncross. This had meant nothing to Marie until the Queen said,
‘Of course Lady Agnes’s family has been touched by tragedy.’
The Queen’s ladies were all ears, their needles poised in mid-air, waiting.
‘Her grandfather was executed for murder.’ Mary turned to Marie. ‘It was only later, my dear Marie, that I was shocked to discover the victim had been your betrothed.’
‘Why have Lord and Lady Cairncross come to France, I wonder?’ Marie managed.
The Queen shrugged and continued with her embroidery.
Later Mary suddenly said,
‘It is time you were married, Marie. Why have you no young gallant courting you? Or does our good Earl of Edinburgh come into this category. You often seem to be flirting with him when he is at Court.’
If only she knew the truth, Marie thought bitterly.
‘No, no. Definitely not. I mean, he is a friend,’ she lied, ‘but I feel nothing else for him.’
‘Well,’ Mary said, ‘I have heard him give you some pretty compliments.’
‘I care nothing for his compliments or those of any other man. I am perfectly content to continue serving your Majesty.’
‘Nonsense. It is not natural. You must find some worthy gentleman before you are too old.’
Marie smiled.
‘I’m not yet thirty.’
‘I was married when I was barely fifteen,’ replied the Queen.
‘Royal marriages are different.’
‘Love is love. I have the love of my husband. I want you, my dear Marie, to be loved as well. You have my love, of course, but the tender love of a husband is your right, as well as mine. Are you sure you have no warmer feelings than friendship for the Earl of Edinburgh?’
Marie avoided her eyes. ‘Maybe … my original misfortune means that I am fated to be on my own.’
‘Quite the reverse, I’d say. You were unfortunate, I agree, in losing your first love. But that is all the more reason now for you to seek happiness elsewhere.’ She tapped one of her long white fingers against her chin.
‘Very well. If you will not have the gallant Earl of Edinburgh, we must arrange festivities and balls to which I will invite other noblemen of the highest quality. Nothing less will do for my dear Marie. And who knows, if all goes well, I will also pay for a magnificent wedding for you. That is a promise.’
Marie smiled.
‘You are too generous for your own good, your Majesty. But, honestly I have no inclination.’
This was not true. Often she felt strong impulses and passionate desires which she struggled to control. But how could she even think about romance now, weighed down as she was by guilt. By not telling the Queen everything, Marie felt she too had become a traitor. It was all Guthrie Jamieson’s fault, and how she hated him for it.
At the French Court masques and banquets were noisy, colourful affairs enjoyed by all the ladies, young and old. Even the preparations were a great excit
ement and pleasure.
The Queen and her companions loved to dress up in male attire, while the men painted their faces and dressed as women in silks and satins and furs sugared with jewels. Outrageous flirting and hilarity were the order of the day. The Queen insisted that Marie join in the merrymaking, although Marie studiously avoided the Earl of Edinburgh and made a point of flirting with a masked man, even allowing him to steal a few kisses. At one point in the evening, however, the Earl caught up with her and, before she could protest, he had whirled her into a dance. Once again, she was surprised at the iron hardness of his body and the almost painful strength of his grip on her.
‘Take your hands off me, you filthy traitor.’
‘What can you possibly mean?’ he laughed. ‘This is neither the time nor the place to speak of politics. I for one have other things in mind on this merry occasion,’ he said mockingly.
She tried unsuccessfully to break away from his embrace.
‘We are two of a kind, you and I, admit it.’
‘No,’ she replied.
‘Oh yes! And one way or another, I’m going to bed you.’
‘Your conceit appals me.’
‘Conceit has nothing to do with it. I’m just stating a fact.’
‘It is not a fact, sir. It is only a figment of your lurid imagination. It is nothing more than wishful thinking.’
‘I think we both know it’s more than that!’
‘No, we do not!’
Finally, she broke away from him and returned to her previous partner. Later, as the maids d’honneur prepared the Queen for bed, they all laughingly exchanged stories of their adventures of the evening.
‘Ah, there is hope for you yet, my dear Marie.’ The Queen clapped her hands enthusiastically when she heard about the stolen kisses. ‘My plans are bearing fruit.’
Then, a few days later, word came from Scotland that the Dowager’s health was failing fast.
The subsequent news of the agonising death of the Queen Mother from dropsy was kept from Mary for ten days. When the Cardinal of Lorraine eventually broke the news, Mary collapsed. Marie and the Marys were acutely distressed for her and fluttered over her, doing their best to nurse and support her. But she refused any sort of comfort or consolation from anyone.
Heartbroken, Mary retired to bed and stayed there. Only gradually did she return to the routine of Court life.
And now she had something else to worry about. Francis’s health had worsened since his accession to the throne. His skin now had a greyish pallor and was blotched with red patches. Different diagnoses were made. It was claimed he suffered from a number of dreadful ailments. A wasting disease, possibly leprosy, was hinted at. Worst of all were the rumours that he was being slowly poisoned.
Marie guessed the truth, yet did nothing. How could she say anything now? It was too late. Several times, she almost broke down and told the Queen, but at the last moment her resolve always failed her and, racked with guilt, she remained a helpless onlooker as the Dauphin’s condition deteriorated.
As his condition grew worse, everyone at Court shrank back from Francis in distaste. There was only one person he could turn to and that was Mary. She never shrank from him. She, the great beauty of the Court, the most desirable woman in the country, never failed to show patience, tenderness and loyal friendship to her husband.
As she sat one day with Marie, her embroidery lying untouched beside her, Mary broke down and wept, saying,
‘I fear the end is near for my poor husband.’
Marie looked away to avoid meeting the Queen’s gaze. ‘Can’t the physicians do more to help him?’ she asked.
‘So far none of their potions seem to be doing any good. They want to keep him in bed but Francis was always happiest when he was active. Now he can hardly move.’
They fell silent. Although she said nothing, Marie was consumed with guilt. She had betrayed her friend. The Dauphin was dying and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.
Within days, Francis was seized by a fainting fit followed by a fever. A large swelling had appeared behind his left ear. He was violently sick and in agony with head pains. Mary never left his side, nursing him and trying to comfort him.
Rumours flew around the Court. A Huguenot valet had put a poisonous powder in the King’s nightcap. An English spy had poisoned him while he slept. An Orleans barber had poured poison in his ear while cutting his hair. Catherine di’ Medici publicly sought answers in the occult, although many pointed the finger at her. But nothing helped Francis—not Mary’s patient and devoted nursing in his darkened chamber, not the manifold remedies tried, not the rages of the Guises.
All Mary could do was try to alleviate her husband’s suffering, and to that end she sent for Ambroise Pané, a Huguenot who was the best surgeon in France. But it was to no avail.
Finally, a month before his seventeenth birthday, the King’s ordeal came to an end.
Marie later went to attend to Mary in her darkened mourning chamber lit only by tapers. Mary was the only person in the Court who had abandoned herself to passionate grief.
‘Dear Marie,’ she whispered, ‘I am desolate. I have not only lost my loving husband, but a friend and dear companion of my childhood and youth. He was always part of my life, as far back as I can remember.’
Although full of remorse about the Dauphin, Marie was ashamed to admit to herself that she was relieved it was all over. Perhaps now she could put this dreadful episode behind her and make a fresh start.
But the harsh realities of royal life were all too soon brought home to her. Only one day after her son’s death, Catherine di’ Medici made an inventory of the crown jewels and asked Mary to return them to her.
Marie realised exactly what this signified—that their time in France was coming to an end.
XIX
ALTHOUGH they hardly met now, their shared secrets bound Marie and Jamieson together. She could see it in his eyes. He had seen her commit bloody murder, and he had involved her in the death of the Dauphin. Fear of what he would do next kept her mind forever focused on him, even when he was not there. Yet on the surface, as far as anyone else could see, they were still friends.
She despised herself, but she also felt murderously angry at him for what he had turned her into, a traitor and an accomplice to murder. More and more often she wished that somehow he would just disappear, go away and never come back. Sometimes she was horrified to find herself imagining what it would be like to kill him.
But the plain fact was that Guthrie Jamieson had never revealed her secrets to anyone. Why should she be so apprehensive about him ruining her now? Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t without risking bringing about his own downfall.
Still she worried. And each time he returned to the Court, she experienced yet another kind of agitation. A physical need had been awakened and was growing into a torment of desire. She felt deeply ashamed.
She didn’t even like the Earl of Edinburgh, she hated him. But that did not seem to matter to him. One day as she sat alone, engrossed in her embroidery, the door suddenly flew open and Jamieson strode into the room. Marie immediately stood up, surprised, and he grabbed her and pinioned her against his massive rock of a body. In a panic, she struggled and stamped on his feet and was about to knee him in the groin when he jerked up his own knee to prevent her.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I have a better use for that part of my anatomy.’
Despite her struggles and the way she jerked her face from side to side, his mouth found hers.
After a long kiss, she surfaced to tell him breathlessly,
‘For God’s sake, leave me alone! I hate you, you pig!’
He just laughed and kissed her again. Then he carried her through to the bedchamber. She still blushed with shame when she thought of how they had behaved like animals. The grunts and growls, all the animal noises, had echoed and re-echoed in her head, firing her senses long after he had left her bed.
That had been the first of
many couplings between them. Soon the Earl began to insist that she marry him.
‘No, I cannot,’ she told him. ‘I don’t love you and that’s the truth of the matter.’
‘Is that so important?’ he asked.
‘It is for me,’ she said.
‘But we enjoy each other so much. You are far more passionate than any other woman I’ve ever known. Indeed, you have spoiled me for any other woman.’
‘I will never marry you, sir.’
‘We shall see,’ he said.
He was corrupting her, changing her character. She had always vowed that she would never end up like her mother. She would never be in any way dependent on a man’s whims, particularly not a man as dangerous and deceitful as Guthrie Jamieson.
One day Marie might marry, but it had to be for love, not for money or power or position. However, she had never reckoned on this overwhelming physical passion. It was something different, separate, totally self-indulgent and selfish. It had nothing to do with love.
XX
THE death of Francis had left Mary, Queen of Scots in a precarious position. She was no longer Queen of France and she was surrounded by enemies. A return to Scotland seemed her only option, and by the summer of 1561 the decision had been made. Mary and her chosen courtiers, servants, and ladies-in-waiting, accompanied by the Earl of Edinburgh, were to leave for Scotland.
Marie felt that a net was closing in around her. For her, returning to Scotland was like stepping back into a nightmare. She had hoped the murder of the Duke of Glasgow was buried in the past, a dreadful episode that had long been forgotten, but the prospect of the journey and the thought of setting foot once more on Scottish soil brought all her fears flooding back. She tried a thousand times to tell herself she was being ridiculous. After all, even at the time of the murder, no-one had suspected her. As far as everyone else was concerned, the guilty person had been found, revenge had been taken and that was an end to it. In fact, it was the thought of being responsible for not one death but two, and worse still for the death of an innocent man, that disturbed Marie most.
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