Burning Ambition

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  With a long sigh, Jamieson slipped gratefully into unconsciousness.

  When he came to, he was lying in his cabin, and his old friend Randolph was standing over him, holding a glass of wine.

  ‘Here, my Lord, this will put new life into you.’

  Jamieson pulled himself up into a sitting position, and took the proffered glass. He drank deeply, and instantly felt refreshed.

  ‘Ah, nectar, pure nectar,’ he sighed.

  ‘Welcome back to the land of the living,’ said Randolph. ‘I presume, though, that your Scottish friends will at this very moment be mourning your untimely demise.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, my noble sacrifice!’ Jamieson smiled.

  ‘How fortunate that you will be able to spend your afterlife at the English Court, instead of at the bottom of the sea.’

  ‘Would that I could, my friend. But if I am dead, it might be better if I remain dead—for a time at least.’

  Randolph frowned.

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Am I not my Queen’s most devoted servant? Have I not shown my willingness to lay down my life for her? Imagine, Randolph, how dear I must now be to her heart. And just think what a joyous welcome would be accorded me if I were to return to Scotland, having escaped from some foul English prison.’

  ‘You would go back?’

  ‘Of course. It would be the crowning irony! And besides, my mission today failed, and I do not like failure. Yes, I shall go back. But not just yet.’

  He smiled at Randolph, and continued,

  ‘I must lie low for a time. Somewhere discreet but comfortable.’

  ‘I have an excellent hunting lodge on my estate at Oxford. You are most welcome to stay there. What say you?’

  ‘It would be an honour.’

  ‘Good. The thing is settled. All that remains is for us to make port somewhere where we can avoid sharp eyes and loose tongues. I shall go at once and see to it.’

  When Randolph had gone, Jamieson sipped his wine thoughtfully. He was imagining the reception he would receive one day in Edinburgh, the glory, the adulation, the gratitude of the Queen.

  He laughed long and loud.

  XXIII

  ‘GARDYLOO!’ came the cry from a tenement window.

  Gavin McNaughton, Duke of Glasgow, was making his way down the Canongate, his mind on meeting once more with his good friends Bothwell and Magnus Hepburn over a tankard of ale in one of Edinburgh’s finest taverns. He only just heard the cry in time to take evasive action. The foul smelling fulzie splashed down onto the street a few feet away from him, and he looked up to see a face disappearing back through the window. He cursed under his breath and continued more carefully on his way.

  Gavin was relieved to reach his destination a few yards further on. Pushing open the heavy tavern door, he peered into the gloom. In a corner, at a table heavy with foaming pewter tankards, sat the two noblemen.

  ‘Greetings, my friends! It is good to see you again, Bothwell, after all this time. I trust you are well?’ he said.

  ‘Fighting fit as ever,’ said Bothwell heartily. ‘Sit and pour yourself a drink.’

  ‘Have you recovered from your voyage home with the Queen—I hear it was not without hazard?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Bothwell replied ruefully. ‘And I think the Queen found the journey more arduous than the rest of us. We were just talking about her ill-health.’

  ‘What ails her?’ the Duke of Glasgow asked.

  Bothwell shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘No physician can discover the truth. She has been back in Scotland for weeks now, and she has hardly been seen outside Holyrood. I hear there have been fainting fits, and she has spent much of her time in bed of late.’

  ‘Whatever it is that ails her, it cannot be too serious,’ said Magnus, stroking his moustache. ‘I visited Holyrood today, and I’m told she will be attending the ball tomorrow as planned.’

  To welcome the Queen back to Scotland, a masqued ball had been organised and was due to be held the next evening. McNaughton, Bothwell and Magnus Hepburn had all been invited, along with the most of the Scottish nobility. It would be the biggest celebration to be held in Scotland for some time.

  ‘I hope the Queen has recovered enough to reward you for your part in her safe arrival at Leith,’ said Gavin.

  ‘Hardly! She’s more taken with that scoundrel the Earl of Edinburgh than me. I’m sick of hearing about it. All he did was lose one of the finest ships in my fleet! He could easily have outrun the English, but he chose to turn and fight, against my express instructions. I told the Queen this, but she takes no heed. She thinks he’s a hero!’

  ‘Is there any news of him?’ said Gavin.

  ‘None,’ Bothwell replied. ‘And I doubt we will see him again! Anyway, at least the Queen has included me in her list of Privy Councillors. So perhaps I should not be too unhappy.’

  Gavin McNaughton’s thoughts strayed back to the ball, and he turned to Magnus.

  ‘I take it your sister Marie will be attending?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course … but she’s become more the Queen’s sister than mine. She never leaves her side.’

  ‘I look forward to meeting her,’ said Gavin. ‘And I’m sure you will now have time to catch up with your other affaires, eh, Bothwell?’ The Duke’s tanned features broke into a broad smile.

  His companions well knew Bothwell’s notorious reputation for affairs of the heart, and they all laughed together at the prospect of the evening ahead in the company of the splendid James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell.

  The next day, the three of them sat down along with hundreds of other guests for the banquet at Holyrood. The long tables groaned under the weight of an endless procession of dishes. Beef, mutton, and poultry, game and wildfowl, were followed by venison, boar, hares and rabbits. These dishes were served alongside pigeons, pheasants, curlews and capercailzies.

  The Queen’s French chefs had introduced new ways of preparing and presenting food. Whole deer, boars’ heads, huge savoury jellies and pastry castles were the magnificent set pieces of the feast.

  ‘At the German Court,’ Magnus Hepburn said, ‘I have heard they serve roast horse and cat in jelly.’

  But the Duke of Glasgow was not interested in food.

  ‘Is that your sister in the green satin?’ he asked.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘The colour becomes her well.’

  The meal ended with candied fruit and nuts, sugar cakes and marzipan, and the Duke of Glasgow and his companions washed it all down with a glass of Athole whisky. Wine was also served with ‘confits’ in the French fashion, and Magnus remarked,

  ‘They say the Queen is creating a little France here and I’m beginning to think they are right.’

  The dances confirmed it. The ball was opened with a slow and stately pavanne. This gave courtiers a chance to display their finery and the Duke of Glasgow made a splendid show in dramatic black velvet, with a high white lace-edged ruff. He sought out Marie Hepburn and she rose smiling to take his hand. His father, he thought, had good taste. This girl was breathtakingly beautiful. It was amazing she had not found a husband long ago. Her loyalty to the young Queen was admirable but still ...

  Now, however, he could see what Bothwell had meant when he’d described her attitude to men. There seemed to be an invisible wall around her keeping men at bay. She danced with grace and dignity, but there was something strange about her … especially after he’d introduced himself. Of course he could understand how his sudden appearance in her life could bring back memories, but she looked startled, almost shocked, when she heard his name.

  After the dance, he led her from the floor saying,

  ‘I never realised my father’s chosen lady was so beautiful. What a tragedy he never lived to know the happiness that I’m sure you would have given him.’

  ‘A tragedy indeed, sir.’

  ‘Marie … may I call you Marie?’

  She nodded, avoiding his eyes, and then attempted to take
her leave of him, but his firm hand detained her.

  ‘Marie, you are promised to me for this galliard. Come.’

  ‘I don’t think—’ She began to protest but before she could finish speaking, he had dragged her back onto the dance-floor. He had begun to whirl her into the complicated and lively sequences of hops and jumps that made up the galliard. Such was the energy and skill needed for the dance she had neither the breath nor the concentration for anything else.

  As the music came to an end, the Queen came towards them, clapping her hands in delight.

  ‘What splendid dancing partners you make, dear Marie, and … ?’

  The Duke of Glasgow bowed over the Queen’s hand.

  ‘Gavin McNaughton, Duke of Glasgow, your Majesty.’

  ‘Ah yes, Glasgow. A very pretty place. That name? Yes, of course, I remember. My dear Marie was betrothed to your father. I have told her many times that she has been mourning far too long. My poor Marie has been living like a nun for years.’

  Marie flushed. ‘Not so!’

  ‘You dare to contradict your sovereign?’ the Queen said in mock anger. ‘Marie Hepburn, I sentence you to dance with the Duke of Glasgow and keep his company for the rest of the evening.’ And with that she swept away.

  Despite herself, Marie couldn’t help enjoying the company of the handsome young gallant with eyes like blue diamonds. Here was a man whose appearance at least was more to her liking. He was slim and elegant, but not flamboyantly turned out. She concluded that he must have inherited his good looks and good taste from his mother. He certainly bore not the slightest resemblance to his father. They quaffed wine together and danced until she was dizzy and had to plead with him to stop. He flirted with her quite outrageously. She was glad that the Earl of Edinburgh was out of her life. Although, strangely, at the same time she missed him.

  Never before had she drunk so much wine. Her head was swimming with it. It also heated her blood until her whole body throbbed with passionate need. Willingly, if somewhat drunkenly, she allowed the Duke to lead her away from the ballroom. She was so dazed and in such heat she was not even aware of how she reached her bedchamber. She had a vague memory of being carried, of floating along through shadowy corridors, of being undressed, then caressed. Then, with closed eyes, she relaxed to intoxicating and unadulterated pleasure. Eventually, she fell into a deep sleep. In the morning she awoke feeling refreshed and with a wonderful, sweet, soothing contentment in every part of her body. Then, gradually, her brain sharpened into awareness. Everything that had happened the night before pained her. The Duke of Glasgow was the last man on earth she should have been intimate with. She felt sick with disgust at herself.

  ‘How could I?’ As if her life was not complicated enough.

  The Queen and the Marys were delighted. Mischievously, they tormented her by plying her with sly questions. Marie tried to appear cool and casual.

  ‘I don’t know what you are hinting at. The Duke is very handsome but we are used to seeing many handsome men at Court, are we not?’

  ‘Indeed we are,’ the Queen laughed, ‘but we do not immediately fall in love with them.’

  ‘Or dance so often with them or allow so many stolen kisses,’ Livingstone teased.

  Marie flushed. Livingstone was a fine one to talk.

  ‘I am deeply embarrassed. I fear I must have indulged overmuch in wine.’

  ‘More than wine,’ Livingstone said, making them all giggle behind their palms.

  Marie tried to smile and at least give some appearance of good humour but her mind and her emotions were in disarray.

  The next time Marie and Gavin McNaughton met was at the wedding of Bothwell’s sister, Lady Janet, at Crichton Castle, in the rolling hills to the south of Edinburgh. The Queen was to attend the wedding celebrations and stay the night at the castle.

  Despite his finances being at a low ebb, Bothwell was determined to give his sister a wedding worthy of a queen’s presence, and so, after the ceremony, there was a splendid banquet. There were countless wild does and roes, rabbits, partridges, plovers and moor fowl, wild geese, wild ducks and other kinds of exotic wild beasts. Afterwards, the bracken-clad haugh below the castle was the scene of great revelry.

  The Duke of Glasgow, however, was finding it surprisingly difficult to renew his attachment to Marie Hepburn. Her coolness towards him, her constant avoidance of his company, pained him after their last meeting. On the way to the wedding she had kept away from him, riding as near as she could to the Queen. At the ceremony she had sat with her head bowed as if in constant prayer, and during the banquet she had made a point of sitting between Seton and Beaton and ignoring him completely.

  He was determined to get an explanation, yet it was very late before he managed to waylay her amid the shadows of the ornate Italian cloister that enclosed the courtyard.

  ‘You startled me,’ she cried out, then shrank back from him as he made to embrace her.

  ‘What is the matter? Surely I’m entitled to know what I have done to offend you?’

  She hesitated, then shook her head.

  ‘It is nothing you have done.’

  ‘What then?’

  She hesitated again and avoided his gaze.

  ‘It’s … it’s just who you are.’

  ‘You mean because I am my father’s son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sweetest girl, I loved my father greatly and I can appreciate, indeed applaud, your loyalty and sensitivity. But many years have passed and life has to go on. One thing I’m sure of is my dear father would give me, give both of us, his blessing. In life he denied me nothing. Death would not change him.’

  Marie gazed up at his handsome face, and when he took her into his arms his gentleness enfolded her. She could have wept. She had such a grateful tenderness for him. She felt she couldn’t deceive him. Yet she could not hurt him either. She wept and he kissed her tears away and told her everything would be all right.

  And she longed to believe him.

  XXIV

  THE old town of Edinburgh was buzzing with the news. The gallant Earl of Edinburgh was alive! The sole surviving member of his ship’s gallant company, he had been captured by the English, but had managed to escape and would soon be returning to the capital. Marie heard the news with a mixture of dread and—though the realisation shamed her—relief. And so it was with mixed feelings that, on the day of his triumphant return, she found herself amongst the crowds who lined the ancient High Street to welcome the hero home. The whole town had heard how the Earl had saved his Queen from the English.

  They did not have long to wait. Mounted on a magnificent black stallion, Guthrie Jamieson surveyed the scene around him. He could not help thinking how amusing it all was, and remembered the words of his friend Randolph before they parted, words of gratitude and thanks for all he had done for the English cause.

  The time he had spent in England had been pleasant enough, although, as he was supposed to be a prisoner, he could not enjoy life at Court. Instead he had visited some of his close friends, who entertained him royally at their own expense. Although he had failed in his mission to hand over the Queen to the English, there would be other opportunities.

  And then there was Marie. He had spent much of his time in England thinking of her, and wishing that she was there with him. He had never had such power over a woman before, but he was starting to believe that it was more than that.

  But this was his day. His triumphant return to Edinburgh. As he passed the Tolbooth, he lifted his hand from the bridle and saluted the crowd, who roared back in approval. He was enjoying this mightily. Especially the irony of it all. If only they knew what he had done, and what he was planning to do. And he smiled to himself at his own audacity and cunning.

  As she watched him pass through the Canongate, Marie couldn’t help thinking how handsome he looked in his finery, sitting astride the huge stallion, waving and smiling at the crowds. She had not wanted him to see her, but as he surveyed the crowd h
e caught her eye and bowed his head towards her. She could feel her face turn red, and turned and hurried off in the opposite direction. Guthrie Jamieson smiled as he watched her go.

  Later, as he dressed for his audience with the Queen, he caught up with all the Court gossip. He had been away for some time, and his first concern was Marie. As he listened to the news of the ball and Marie’s blossoming relationship with Gavin McNaughton, his face became thunderous.

  ‘How long has this been going on?’ he demanded.

  ‘Many months now, my Lord,’ came the reply.

  ‘We shall see about that,’ he bellowed as he stormed off in search of her.

  When he found her in her chambers, she gave him a frosty welcome.

  ‘Do not pretend that you are coy or shy, my lady. I know you are neither,’ he sneered.

  ‘I’m not pretending anything. But I am no longer the plaything of your ravenous appetites, my lord.’

  ‘Ravenous, yes,’ he grinned, ‘for I have sorely missed you.’

  ‘Well, I have not missed you.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘What conceit!’ She stamped her foot in annoyance and frustration for indeed she had been perfectly happy and content in the company of the Duke of Glasgow. He was such a considerate and tender lover.

  ‘Am I not entitled to some conceit when a beautiful creature like yourself has such an appetite for me?’

  She flushed deeply at the memory his words brought to mind. She had literally crawled all over him, biting, licking, sucking. It had been a kind of madness.

  ‘I’m ashamed of myself. I admit it.’

  ‘No, no,’ he protested, ‘you mustn’t feel like that. There is no need.’

  ‘But I do feel like that.’

  His eyes glimmered.

  ‘I’m sure it would help if I made an honest woman of you.’

  ‘You don’t understand. Things have changed while you have been away.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I know all about you and the Duke of Glasgow. I admit I am surprised at you, especially after what happened to his father Machar.’