Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  This time last year he had not even arrived in Scotland, she thought. Then he came and I loved him. Is it really over in so short a space? Can love be so fleeting?

  After the baby comes, things will be different. Yes, they will, they must be.

  But in the meantime … I miss Lord James, she thought with surprise. Miss his presence, and what I thought he was.

  No more of that! she told herself sternly. What prince would have so little pride as to miss a traitor?

  XXIV

  Darnley made his way along the back alleys running parallel to the Canongate, his mantle muffling most of his face, walking hunched over so he would not look quite so tall. He had got away again, escaped from the stifling Holyrood to where he could breathe in peace. It was an easy enough matter to disappear in the darkness of Edinburgh once the sun went down. The good men of the Kirk were all indoors—reading their Bibles, most like!—but Edinburgh offered more than just what the Kirk sanctioned. In the wynds and closes there were taverns to drink in and houses where other comforts were available.

  Of the latter he had only recently begun to sample, in a timid, hesitant fashion. The truth was, he felt guilty about it. He was, after all, married. Why should he need to do this? But the things he wished to do disgusted him, and obviously they would disgust his wife as well. It was better to pay directly for it, to buy it from someone who considered his ideas tame, or at the most merely routine.

  And as for the drinking—it was relaxing to go to an establishment where that was the endorsed activity, rather than something that one was always fighting to get a bit more of. Servers were so slow at banquets! (Although the wine was the finest.) And in his chambers there were always the valets, Taylor and Anthony Standen, who looked at him if he poured out an extra dram or two. He knew they were keeping count in their heads.

  Darnley pushed open the door of the Monk’s Arse Tavern—the one with the sign showing a monk lifting his robes to display his naked buttocks. It was a small, dark establishment just off Blackfriars Wynd, and Darnley found it perfect for his purposes: it was popular enough that he did not stand out, but not overly crowded at this time of night. He looked for a place on a bench and signaled to the serving woman before even sitting down.

  “Well! Good evening, Your Majesty!”

  Darnley jumped. Who had recognized him? His eyes raked the room and then he saw the muscular bulk of Archibald Douglas sprawled across one of the benches. Archibald lifted a mug and saluted him.

  Damn! Now he would have to go and sit with his distant relative. He shivered a little; the saturnine, sarcastic Archibald was rumoured to be a murderer, or for hire by murderers.

  “Well met, cousin,” said Darnley weakly, sinking down beside him. He saw the bulging thigh of Archibald only inches from him on the bench; Archibald did not move it, as politeness decreed.

  “I did not know the Queen’s husband favoured such places,” said Archibald. “What a happy surprise.” He took a long drink from his mug, and when he was finished, Darnley saw tiny droplets of ale glistening on the beard-hairs around the man’s mouth.

  “Everyone likes a change,” said Darnley. “And their ale suits my taste.” Indeed it did. Of late he had had to forgo his whisky. Not only was it difficult to obtain, after the disturbances with the Earl of Argyll and his estates up north, but whisky upset his stomach and gave him pounding headaches. He had had to switch to ale and wine.

  “What else suits your taste?” asked Archibald, and Darnley froze. Did he know about the visits to the houses? “I liked the flavour of the Earl of Argyll’s whisky, but that’s hard to come by these days.”

  “Aye.” Archibald grunted and took another drink.

  Darnley’s drink had arrived and he took a big gulp. He had been waiting hours for this.

  Together they drank several mugs. After the first three, Darnley began to get the release he sought. It took three big mugs of ale to equal the effect of one small vial of whisky, but once it was obtained, it was the same sensation. He did not even mind Archibald now; indeed, he felt a certain camaraderie with his kinsman. The candles in the room seemed to glow as beautifully as horn lanterns, amber and soothing. The wooden panelling on the walls seemed to be as rich and rare as ebony. And suddenly a picture of Mary flashed into his mind, Mary with her hair down, in her nightgown, in his bed … with her white feet, like a marble statue’s, peeking out from under the covers.… Those feet … sometimes they met over the small of his back when her long legs encircled him.…

  “Is the Queen busy tonight?” Archibald was saying.

  “No.” He did not know if she was busy or not; he only knew that he felt called to the ale and the women upstairs in the little house a few doors down, where he could drown his fantasies without questions or shame, and so he had gone out.

  “Then she is not with her secretary?” Archibald looked surprised.

  “I know not.”

  “Ah.”

  The word hung in the air like a hummingbird.

  “What do you mean?” Darnley was forced to ask.

  “I mean, it is unusual for her not to be with him—with the strange little man with his strange little tastes.”

  Darnley burst out laughing. “I have been friends with Riccio for some time, and there is nothing strange about his tastes.” Indeed, the Italian had good taste, in clothes, food, wine, books … most of the things the Kirk deemed sinful.

  “Then why does the Queen indulge herself with him?” Archibald asked, as if he were genuinely puzzled.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course, you would say that. I beg your pardon, then. If it is with your permission…” Archibald shrugged.

  Was he implying—did he dare to imply—that he, Darnley, was an acquiescing husband? That he stood by while the Italian secretary pleasured his wife? “Such insult is not to be borne!” cried Darnley, leaping up and grabbing for his sword.

  Archibald stood up, too, and the mass of the man seemed to grow and fill the tavern. “I meant no insult,” he said. “I was merely trying, as your kinsman, to warn you and tell you of danger. It was my loyalty that made me speak.” He looked properly sincere.

  Darnley, who was too drunk even to manage to extract his sword, sat back down. His head was spinning. “You lie. It is not true—” he muttered. Where had Archibald gone? The man had left. Darnley called for another ale.

  He slumped back against the wall, and closed his eyes. He would not go to the women tonight. No, he would go to his wife. To the Queen. Was there any reason why she should not give him what he desired? To hell with the women. And to hell with Riccio!

  Darnley allowed himself to picture the imaginary scene that always aroused him. He wanted Mary to kiss and lick his feet, then lick his legs, slowly, inching bit by bit toward his groin, and wrap his legs in her hair. She would do this by touching his feet with her forehead, and then part her hair in two and envelop his legs, making a tent as she licked her way up to his privates. The thought of the smooth, sleek hair, the warm tongue …

  Suddenly he was so excited he could barely stand it. He fumbled in his purse for money to pay for his ale, and staggered out into the night, hardly able to walk because of his painful erection.

  * * *

  Mary had just asked Mary Seton to bring her the elderflower-water to smooth over her shoulders and neck. It was late, and she looked forward to bed. These days she seemed to need more sleep, and, she had to admit it, she was pampering herself. The delicate scent of the elderflowers seemed to induce sleep, and she liked to close her eyes and imagine herself lying in a summer meadow of flowers.

  “Thank you, dear Seton,” she said, taking the thin glass bottle. The liquid in it was a pale tint of pink. She poured a little out in the palm of her hand and rubbed it slowly over her neck, feeling it easing her, relaxing her muscles.

  “Shall I return later for our rosary?” asked Seton. They had often recited the rosary together just before bedtime, but since Mary had marrie
d, that had been interrupted. Lately, with Darnley away in the evenings, they had resumed the habit.

  “Yes,” said Mary.

  Alone in the bedchamber, she took her time in applying the lotion, then read some of du Bellay’s poetry.

  Si notre vie est moins qu’une journée

  En l’éternel, si l’an qui fait le tour—

  Chasse nos jours sans espoir de retour …

  If here our life be briefer than a day

  In Time Eternal, if the circling year

  Drive on our days, never to reappear …

  The door swung open, and Darnley stood there, hanging on the doorframe.

  “So you are alone!” he said. His voice was loud and accusing. He stepped in and banged the door behind him.

  “Yes, for a little while. Soon I expect—” She closed her book, and rose to greet him.

  “Oh, so you expect a guest? Well, dismiss him!”

  “Him?”

  “You know who I mean!” Darnley lurched toward her.

  Not again! Not drunk again! Mary felt her heart sink, and at the same time she was enraged. Her elderflower-water ritual, her quiet moment, the little circle of beauty and refinement she had created, privately, was now to be smashed. “No, I do not.” She backed away.

  “Come here! Do not back away from me!” He grabbed her and pressed himself against her. She could feel his arousal, and it was as much an assault as Lord James’s rebellion. He started tearing at her clothes, but he was so drunk all he could do was paw at her.

  “Down here! On your knees, and serve me!” He grabbed at her head and tried to push it down toward his feet. She pulled back and slapped him, hard, across the face.

  “Sober yourself, you drunken bully!” she cried. “How dare you come into my chambers like this?”

  “Your chambers, your chambers?” he said, in a wavering, singsong voice. “What is this ‘yours’ and ‘mine’? Are we not one flesh? Is not a husband made one with his wife? Come, and be one with me!” He jumped forward and tried to tackle her, but she easily sidestepped him.

  It was all she could do not to kick him as he lay there on the floor. She was trembling. She backed up and, walking to the door of her chamber, called her guards.

  “Remove the King,” she said with a flat voice. “Take him to his own chambers. Call his valets to attend to him.”

  When Darnley was gone, dragged away, she was overtaken with a violent fit of shaking.

  When he drank, her husband was a monster. And he was getting worse; the times were coming closer together now. She would have to keep her door locked from now on. She walked over to it, still shaking, and turned the big iron key in its latch.

  XXV

  Darnley had tried the inner door to Mary’s bedchamber, and it was bolted. Until then, he had not even entertained Archibald Douglas’s suggestion that there was anything amiss. Indeed, it was to prove Douglas’s sly innuendo wrong that he had mounted the spiral stairs between their rooms and walked softly across the landing and grasped—ever so gently—the door handle. Pulling the door snugly toward its frame to muffle sound, he had turned the handle and then pushed. No motion. It was bolted from the inside. It had never been bolted before.

  He put his ear up against the thick wood; there was no keyhole to look through. He heard the voices plain and clear: hers and his. Mary’s and Riccio’s.

  Feeling physically ill, he slumped against the door. He was betrayed.

  Or was he? Could it not have an innocent explanation?

  But why the locked door, then?

  No. There was no explanation other than the one Douglas had hinted to him.

  Riccio. Riccio was Mary’s lover.

  Darnley would have laughed, had not the insult to himself been so great. The Italian was old—at least fifty!—and a head shorter than Mary. He was ugly, and of low birth.

  But that made it all the more personally degrading.

  If she had chosen Maitland, smooth and sophisticated and highly intelligent … well, then … or Bothwell, with all his bed-training and knowledge of how to please a woman that way … or even de Foix, the French ambassador, with his European savoir-faire and his background of intrigue … any one of whom I might say, “He has this and I have not” … But Riccio!

  He turned and descended the steps, so stunned he was almost surprised he could still put one foot in front of the other. He reentered his bedchamber and flung himself facedown on the great bed. The bed that Mary used to visit. But she came no more.…

  Tears blurred his eyes as scenes from their former trysts insisted on playing in his mind, as vividly as any Dutch painter might depict them. How she had sought him out … the things she had said.…

  Were they all lies? Was she saying the same things to Riccio at this very moment, directly above him?

  He beat his fists against the feather mattress. The thought of Mary in the embrace of another man tortured him.

  You must face it, he told himself sternly. The truth is the truth. She amused herself with you, used you to get herself with child so she could provide an heir with royal blood for the throne, and now she has no further use for you. She promised you the Crown Matrimonial; now she says that is impossible, that you must sign papers and attend Council meetings to earn it. But that is just an excuse. The truth, the truth … the truth is you’ve served your purpose. Now you are expendable. The truth is she loves you no more.

  At that realization a pain akin to a sword wound went through him. But it was as nothing compared to its brother-thought: perhaps she never did, and all your memories and treasured words are but untruths. Even that which you thought you had, you never had.

  Maybe the child is Riccio’s.…

  He wept, squashing his pillow. He wept until he felt limp and almost dead.

  He must have fallen asleep, for when he opened his eyes they were crusted shut by dried tears. He groaned. Why was he fully dressed? There was something ugly, something unpleasant, crouching just outside his consciousness … what was it? It was as hulking and silent as a great hayrick casting a shadow on new-reaped fields. Suddenly it rushed upon him with a cry of triumph.

  Your wife has deserted you. Furthermore, your wife never loved you.

  He lifted his head. The palace was silent. Riccio must have long since departed from the rooms above.

  But there were places in Edinburgh that never slept. Little places behind even the wynds, with doors unmarked and plain.

  Suddenly he felt overwhelmingly lusty and desirous of a woman. All women were alike in the dark, he had heard it claimed. And it was so! Yes, it was!

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His new woollen tights pulled pleasingly over his knees.

  Why, I need not even attire myself, he thought. I am prepared already.

  His feet touched the floor and he padded quietly to the lit candle flickering on his writing desk.

  I think I will invite Riccio to join me, he thought. Perhaps he will say something to allay all this. Perhaps there is some explanation. Perhaps it is not true.…

  Perhaps it is not true. At that thought, his heart leapt up.

  He took his candle and made his way along the gallery to the rooms of Riccio. He knocked softly.

  There was a stirring within, a shuffling. Surely Mary was not in there with him?

  I am the King, he told himself. I may enter where I will. He turned the handle—this one was unlocked—and strode in.

  Riccio sat up in bed, gasping.

  Robbers, thought Darnley. He thinks I am a robber. What a jest—he is the robber!

  “Good Lord D—Your Majesty—what troubles you?” Riccio sputtered.

  Darnley thrust the candle directly in his face. It was lined and weary. The hair was lank and greasy. That made it all the worse.

  “Nothing troubles me,” he said lightly. “I have a mind to sample some rather unorthodox offerings in certain quarters of Edinburgh, and I thought a companion would be a jolly thing.”

  “Oh.
” Riccio lay back on his pillows. He looked exhausted. An old man should not involve himself in what he was evidently involving himself. “I must beg to excuse myself,” he finally said.

  “Nay, that you must not!” said Darnley, yanking on the neck of his nightshirt. “You must accompany me. I refuse to go alone! And I am, after all, your King!”

  Riccio roused himself and left the bed. Even in his embroidered nightshirt he was a comical—under ordinary circumstances—sight. Now he was just disgusting.

  “You must excuse me for a moment,” he said, retiring to a screened alcove to dress.

  Was his member red and raw from its recent employment? As he tucked it away, did he pat it and relive each moment?

  “I am ready,” he finally said, emerging.

  “Good,” Darnley replied.

  They set out silently, Darnley pulling the sleep-clumsy Riccio along the palace corridor and then out into the fresh air. He stumbled on the cobblestones and Darnley jerked him up.

  “Wake up!” he hissed. “You must be alert for what will follow!”

  So Riccio was exhausted from all his lovemaking? What clearer proof?

  Darnley knew a side gate that led them out, avoiding the guards and their torches. It took them around the south side of the palace, and then along dark alleyways and narrow wynds where moonlight never penetrated. All was dark; there were no lanterns left burning, and no lamps still flickering inside any rooms as they passed. It was the very deepest, stillest time of night, with no sound except for the scurrying of rodents disturbed at their passage.

  The stone houses seemed to radiate the cold, and soon Darnley was shivering even inside his wool mantle.

  “Turn here,” he told Riccio, and around a corner the faint sound of voices could be heard. And then he was knocking softly on a door, and it was opened by a woman who had obviously been already awake. Yet the room behind her was too dimly lighted for honest work.

  “I seek Letitia,” Darnley said. Now his voice was thick with excitement.