I wonder if the child will have his reddish hair? she thought, and instantly a feeling half of guilt and half of excitement flooded her. The child. She carried his child!
She had felt ill this morning, and so the ride would have been unendurable, except that it meant she could spend it in his company, and she cherished the queasiness as proof of the child’s existence.
Bothwell had tried to indicate that he had information for her, but as yet they had had no opportunity to communicate. Five hundred horsemen with glittering steel armaments surrounded them and stretched out for almost a mile behind them, a long, shining dragon’s tail.
They reached Callendar House, near Falkirk, by late afternoon; it had taken all day to travel twenty-five miles. As the sun was setting behind the stone tower, bathing its rough walls in pink, Mary was grateful to dismount and come into the open door where Lord Livingston, his wife, and her dear Lusty stood waiting for her. She rushed to them and embraced them, her friends for so many years.
Mary Livingston, round-faced, buxom, with her simple life … it agreed with her, evidently. She looked healthier than any women at court.
That night there were French songs—which Bothwell knew well, since he spoke perfect French—reminiscences, and guarded talk. No one indicated that anything was other than perfectly and boringly in order.
On the stairs going up to their rooms, Bothwell was able to lean over and whisper, “Double your care. I now know that Lennox has some scheme in hand with the Continent. Secret money has been sent from the Pope, and a Jesuit has arrived here.”
“But I am Catholic!” she whispered back. “Why would the Pope plot against me? Your information is, must be, incorrect.”
“No! I agree, on the surface it is confusing. But—”
Lord Livingston came up beside them, effusively describing their quarters whilst simultaneously apologizing for them.
“… I fear they may prove too small, forgive me. But the new hangings on the bed, just in from Paris, I persuade myself that they will please you—”
“Indeed, yes, I am sure,” said Mary. She had begun to feel ill again, and wanted nothing more than to lie down with a basin nearby. And she needed to finish hearing what Bothwell had to say.
But he was firmly escorted to another wing of the house and there was no opportunity.
As Mary stretched out on the bed, closing her eyes to rest and quell her stomach, Mary Livingston came to bid her a good night’s rest. She lingered for a moment at the foot of the bed, and at the sight of that loved and familiar face, Mary felt profoundly comforted. She longed to be able to confide in Lusty, but even as she was tempted to do so, the utter impossibility of it showed her the great gulf now separating her from her former life. She could not tell Lusty, or anyone who had known her earlier. There was no one in whom she dared confide now, except Bothwell.
She was completely alone without him.
* * *
Early the next morning they parted, Bothwell to return to Edinburgh and thence back to Crichton, Mary to continue the remaining twenty-five miles to Glasgow. Lord Livingston took Bothwell’s place accompanying her.
As they made their way carefully over the winter landscape, penetrating deeper and deeper into the hostile Lennox Stewart territory, Mary was aware of a feeling of disquietude. The western part of Scotland had different loyalties and its own strongmen.
Along the way they skirted the high earthworks that were the remains of the second Roman wall, called the Antonine, now completely overgrown. Mary felt a great sadness remembering that Darnley had once been interested in the traces of the old Romans. He had once been interested in many things—or so she had thought.
Outside of Glasgow they were met by Thomas Crawford, a servant of Lennox’s. He was there to call to Mary’s attention—lest any should miss the insult—that his master was not present to welcome her.
The poltroon! Was he cowering in his chamber in Glasgow Castle, chewing on his nails? Or was he merely mocking her?
She could not hide the contempt in her voice as she said, “There exists no medicine against fear.”
“My Lord has no fear in himself, but only of the cold and unkind words you have spoken to his son,” Crawford bristled.
What a disagreeable, proud fellow this Crawford was—like master, like servant. “Have you any further commission?” she asked.
“No,” he admitted.
“Then hold your peace,” she ordered, and signalled her party to go around him and continue the journey into Glasgow.
The little village, spread out on the banks of the River Clyde, looked innocent and inviting as they approached it. In the centre of the town were a castle, a cathedral, and an adjoining Archbishop’s Palace, empty since Archbishop Beaton had taken up permanent residence in Paris when Knox and his followers had prevailed seven years ago. It was to this pretty little cluster of buildings that the Queen made her way just as the setting sun was turning the waters of the Clyde crimson.
XLVII
Darnley was fidgeting with his pen. He had been seized suddenly with the desire to write poetry, as he was lying in bed ruminating on Mary’s cruelty in contrast to his own pure and intense longing. He had roused himself from his sweat-soaked, foul sheets, and left his bed to sit shakily at his little table. Anthony Standen, his servant, had been instantly at his side, ready to coax him back into bed, but instead had been ordered to bring him pen and ink. He complied; Anthony had learned to obey always, immediately and unquestioningly. It was one of the things Darnley liked best about him.
Now Darnley, clad in his nightshirt with furs draped round his shoulders, slumped over the table and eyed his verse.
“Sweet—what rhymes?—tweet? ‘In pursuit of their sweet, they tweet…’? No. Meat? ‘To adore her is my meat’? Heat? Ah…”
He stared off into space and let the words sort themselves out in his mind, arrange themselves into the proper rows, like soldiers. How wonderful it was to have this poetic faculty.
“Ah … here it comes.” He sat straight up and let the words pour down his arm.
Though I think in pain,
In passing to and fro,
I labour all in vain;
For so have many more
That have not served so
In pursuit of their sweet.
The nearer the fire I go,
The greater is my heat.
Perfect! And already the next verse leapt fully formed out of his mind.
The turtledove for her mate
More sorrow may not endure
Than I do for her sake
Even her which has in cure
My heart.…
The pain. The pain was so wrenching he could not have borne it, except that he knew it would be ending soon. That gave him great comfort; to know that he had the power to bring about his own delivery and surcease of his pain. And that he and Mary would be together forever. In the chronicles of history their names would always be mentioned in one breath.
I will make us immortal, he thought. What higher gift can a lover offer?
“Sire, Sir James Balfour is here,” Standen announced.
Now the last verse would have to wait. He hoped he would not forget it. The last line was to be ‘Farewell, I say no more’. But now to the means.
Darnley adjusted the taffeta mask in front of his face and clapped a hat on to hide the patches where his hair had fallen out.
“Enter,” he said, holding his head up proudly on his thin neck. He drew his robes about him.
Balfour came in and tried to keep his repulsion from being visible. He was a middle-aged man whose skin had a peculiar paperlike quality and was stretched tight over all the planes of his face, looking almost shiny. He kept his hair shorter than did most men; his eyes were so light they gave an immediate impression of being just hard, milky marbles with no colour at all.
“I am honoured to be summoned, Your Majesty. In what way may I be of service?” he said, kneeling.
Darn
ley had helped him receive his appointment as secretary of the Council the previous autumn, despite his reputation as “the worst scoundrel in Scotland,” earned the hard way over formidable competition: the murder of Cardinal Beaton; the plundering of ecclesiastical property; betrayals and blasphemy. Balfour had been willing to serve him—until someone else might pay a higher price. So far no one had.
“If—just suppose—I wished someone to die in an explosion … would it be technically possible? I know cannon explode, and the flimsy castle erected for that express purpose on the green at Stirling was blown up, but if one wished to rig a chamber…” Darnley’s voice was quivering. What if it were not possible? He would be so disappointed! He caught his breath and waited.
“That is an inexact science, Your Majesty. Powder varies in its strength, and often becomes damp in our climate and fails to light at all. You would do better to arrange it in Italy!” He laughed, a dry, humourless laugh, as hard as the planes in his face.
“Unfortunately that is not an alternative.” How dare this man laugh at him? He was as bad as all the rest. “If it must be brought about in Scotland, how would one go about it?”
Balfour breathed through his mouth to avoid the foul smell of Darnley’s breath; it smelled like a peat bog with a rotting corpse in its midst. “In order to achieve an explosion, the powder must be tightly packed and contained. For a small explosion, a barrel would suffice. But to demolish a stone chamber … ah, that would require mining underneath.” He saw Darnley’s mouth clamp in anger. “Or using a house that has a low crypt or vault already beneath it.”
“Do you know of such a house?”
“Why—yes.” Balfour grinned. “My brother Robert has exactly such a dwelling—the old Provost’s house at Kirk O’Field. But it is a rather costly dwelling, and he, of course, would have to be recompensed.” He crossed his arms. “It would be an expensive killing. Why not just use a dagger? Much more economical. Quieter. Cleaner.”
“I don’t want it to be quiet or clean. I want it to be spectacular!” he cried.
“I see. Of course, the advantage to an explosion is that many people can be killed simultaneously, so perhaps if you look at it that way it is not so expensive. And it obliterates all clues. And it certainly makes a statement. Everyone will know it was intended and no accident.”
“Exactly,” breathed Darnley.
Balfour winced at the odour.
“Can you arrange this?” asked Darnley.
“Indeed. But, even at the risk of displeasing Your Majesty, I must know whom you intend to kill.”
“Why?”
Balfour said curtly, “Because even I have principles. I will not kill just anyone. There are some my conscience will not permit.”
“Oh?” The man was a liar. He had no conscience; he was only afraid he himself might be the intended victim. “Come closer, then. I will speak it only into your ear.”
Holding his breath, Balfour put his head near Darnley’s.
“The Queen,” Darnley whispered.
Balfour started, and Darnley saw it.
“Speak now,” said Darnley. “Can you see your way clear to it, or no?”
Balfour slid his eyes sideways and grinned. “Aye. I can undertake the task.” And what might it be worth to others to try to prevent it? he wondered. Perhaps I shall become a very rich man!
“Good,” said Darnley. “You make me very happy.”
XLVIII
Mary and her party reached the courtyard, dismounted, and made ready to enter the castle itself. Huntly, Livingston, and their retainers had found quarters in town, and the Hamiltons likewise. Attendants with flaming torches led their horses away. Suddenly in the twilight Mary caught sight of Sir James Balfour leaving by way of a smaller door to one side of the castle. He was forced to pass through a far corner of the courtyard to the stables, and though he kept his cloak pulled partly across his face, his distinctive colourless eyes betrayed his identity to Mary.
Why was he here? The erstwhile henchman of Knox, the Cardinal’s murderer, was now supposed to be in Bothwell’s pocket. So Bothwell had told her. Bothwell had not mentioned his being in Glasgow. Obviously Bothwell had not known.
Mary nodded to him and he perfunctorily acknowledged her. The very furtiveness of the gesture disturbed her.
Bothwell warned me, she thought. He said there was danger, of what sort he was not sure. But certainly there are things here we do not know.… I am deep in my enemies’ territory. Here my husband and his father are kings indeed.
She made her way slowly up the stairs inside the castle, holding her skirts. What awaited? Darnley’s nursing would require several rooms, all connected, to administer all the necessary medicine and treatments.
Smoking torches lit the dark, narrow, tunnellike passageway, throwing uneven shadows on the bald stone, unrelieved by any tapestries. It was like a corridor in a nightmare, murky, cold, beckoning. She almost expected the sconces to move, like ghostly hands.
Why were there no guards here? Mary quietly turned the handle of the first door she came to. Inside was only a pallet and a table with stoppered jars, opaque bottles, and open bowls of dried herbs. The odour of marjoram and angelica permeated the chamber.
The next room revealed a bed of royal dimensions, hung with blue velvet embroidered valances, topped with a tasseled canopy, and even a prie-dieu before a crucifix. But this room, like the one before, was empty. Nonetheless Mary entered it and passed through it to the next, where she heard the low murmur of voices and even the sound of a lute.
Darnley was bent over the lute, singing to himself. She recognized him only by his voice, for the creature she saw was almost bald and covered with livid purple sores, and his hands were skeletal. A death’s-head plucked the strings of the lute, and sang,
“O ye highlands and ye lowlands,
O where have you been?
They have slain the Earl o’ Moray,
And laid him on the green.”
Darnley tilted his head back and closed his eyes, making him look truly like a skull.
“He was a brave gallant
And he rode at the ring
And the bonny Earl o’ Moray
He might have been a king.”
“A bastard will never be king,” she said loudly.
Darnley snapped open his eyes and stared at her. “So you’ve come,” he stated, but it was an accusation, not a welcome. Now it was too late for him to hide his face behind the taffeta mask. No matter—let her see him as he was!
“As you see.” She tried not to stare at him, but the transformation was so startling she had to struggle not to. His flesh had melted from his always-delicate bones, so that he looked like one of those grotesque, sticklike figures swinging from gibbets, only his skin was not black and rotted, it was translucent and rotted, dotted with scabs and patches of purple. The bald head made him look preternaturally old.
“Bourgoing has helped me,” he said, laying aside the lute. “You should have seen me earlier!” His eyes narrowed. “Come, dear wife, and kiss me!”
She forced herself to smile and made her way closer to him. He looked even worse close up. Some of the sores were still oozing. She found an unblemished place near his left eye, and lightly touched her lips to it.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Already I feel the healing begin.”
His breath stank, with a distinctive odour unlike anything she had ever smelled before. It festered; there was no other word for it.
I cannot go through with this, she thought. No, not for anything can I allow myself to be shut up with him, to spend the night in that room. I will have to bring him back with me to Edinburgh, keep him close at hand, and then, one night when he is healed.…
Or will he ever be healed? What if this sickness is permanent, or mortal? What if he only gets worse? What if this is my only chance to spend the night with him?
Then I will have to endure my later shame, for I cannot—
“You stare, dear wife. D
oes the sight of me disgust you?”
This is what sin looks like, she thought. His happens to be visible on his face, that is all. Mine and Bothwell’s is as yet invisible. But all sin is as ugly as this, could we but see it.
“No. I pity you.” And it was true, she did. As when François had lain ill so many times, and as when Darnley himself had had the severe attack of measles, she was moved. “I would you could be instantly healed. It pains me to see you in such discomfort.”
Anthony Standen, Darnley’s handsome young English attendant, seemed to materialize out of the shadows in the corner of the room. Darnley scowled at him.
“Bring me some heated towels,” he demanded in a querulous voice. “My face needs dabbing.”
Standen left the chamber.
“Are you pained? It is your unkindness to me that has made me ill,” he said. “It is because of your cruelty that I am as you see me.” He glared at her and then slowly, accusingly, ran his hand over his bald pate. “God knows how I am punished for making a god of you and for having no other thought but of you!”
She stepped as far away from him as politeness would allow. “I fail to see how I have treated you cruelly, nor have I ever in any way wished you to treat me as a god.”
“You are cruel when you refuse to accept my repentance, to reconcile with me.” He attempted to rise, but his weakened legs would not support him. They shook with the effort. “Oh, you say I repent and then fail again. But I am young! Am I not permitted the failing of youth? Why do you expect so much of me?” He glared at her. “You have forgiven others of your subjects who have transgressed—traitors like Morton and Lord James. Yes, to them you are merciful!”
He looked so innocent and helpless. But he was full of lies; possibly he lied so much that even he could not remember his lies and therefore felt himself honest.
“What of the rumours that have reached various members of the Council that you have a ship at the ready to convey you from Scotland? And there is a Mr. Hiegate who has revealed that you are plotting to seize me and crown the Prince. A Glasgow man, Walker, reported it to me.” Mary attacked him back.
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