Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Виктория Холт

  Gabriel was glad to escape and, during his absence, Bothwell remained eying the others who stood wretchedly before him.

  He was no ordinary man, and they knew it. He had uncovered their treachery. That in itself was bad enough; but they understood they had betrayed themselves by their clumsy behavior. It was not that they lacked the courage to carry out this murderous plan, nor that their master had discovered their treachery, which was so alarming; it was his complete indifference to their power to harm him. They were in no doubt that he had witchcraft to aid him, and they knew that they would never dare make an attempt on his life again.

  Gabriel returned with the girl from the kitchens. She was young and comely, and Bothwell’s eyes lit up as they rested on her.

  “I am returned hungry, girl,” he said. “Bring me food and drink … at once. Let no hands touch it but yours. You understand, my girl?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Well, hurry and bring plenty, for my hunger is great. Bring it yourself. And hurry … I am waiting for you.”

  Then he turned and left them—four guilty men and an excited and expectant girl.

  IT WAS FEBRUARY, and that winter was bleak. Even in the far south the weather had been rigorous. The Thames had been so frozen that people could walk across it in safety. The bitter wind buffeted the staunch walls of Wemyss Castle on the Firth of Forth whither the Queen had come to stay with her brother, the Earl of Moray.

  The Queen was growing more and more uneasy in her brothers company. She knew that he was against her marriage, either with Don Carlos or one of the French Princes, because neither marriage would serve his plans. He was all for her marrying an Englishman; he was working for Elizabeth and the Protestant Faith.

  He had told her that a marriage with Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, would be desirable. If Mary married Leicester, he pointed out, the Queen of England would declare Mary and her heirs successors to the English crown.

  Did he not see that the idea was ridiculous? Elizabeth’s cast-off lover! It was meant to be an insult. Whom else did Elizabeth favor? Mad Arran? Robert Dudley’s brother, the Earl of Warwick? Mary smiled to remember the English Queen’s comments on Warwick. He was not, of course, as handsome as his incomparable brother, declared Elizabeth, but he was by no means ugly. Nor was he ungraceful. It was only when compared with Robert that he might seem so. If one did not set him side by side with Robert, one would find him a husband worthy of a great princess. Clearly Elizabeth meant to be insulting.

  There was one other who was a possible husband. That was Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley; but Elizabeth, being against the match, would not let him come to Scotland. Yet Lord Lennox, Darnley’s father, who was in Scotland, continually hoped for a meeting between his handsome son and the Queen; so did Darnley’s mother, Lady Lennox, who was in England and at the mercy of Elizabeth.

  Mary herself was beginning to wish for the meeting, and she was excited when Lord Lennox sent a message to her.

  “My son, Lord Darnley,” ran the message,

  has arrived in Scotland. He had the greatest difficulty in leaving England. The Queen however at last gave her consent, though grudgingly, and my son left at once, fearing to be detained once more before he could make his escape. It seems that no sooner had the Queen given her consent than she regretted it and sought means of detaining him, but my son, greatly desiring to see Your Majesty, had already slipped across the Border. He greatly desires to pay his loyal homage to his gracious Queen, and we shall follow this messenger with all speed to wait upon Your Majesty.

  Mary smiled. So at last she would see this young man of whom there had been so much talk. She vaguely remembered seeing him at the Court of France, but he had been a boy of fifteen then. Now he was nineteen—a man.

  She called to her women.

  “Come! What shall I wear? What is most becoming? It is a long time since my Lord Darnley and I met. I would not wish him to think that time had wrought havoc with my looks.”

  “Madam,” all four Marys assured her, “time has but enhanced your beauty.”

  And, looking into the Venetian mirror brought from Fontainebleau, she believed they were right.

  MEANWHILE Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, was riding with his father at the head of his retinue on the way to Wemyss Castle.

  He was very tall and slim. His face was smooth, for he wore no beard, and because his complexion was so fair this made him seem younger than he really was. His prominent eyes were deep blue in color, his hair golden, but his chin was weak and his mouth loose. He was so young that the excesses in which he delighted to indulge had scarcely made any mark on his face.

  His father was talking to him with great seriousness as they rode along.

  “My son, you must act with care. This is the most important moment of your life. It is imperative that you find favor with the Queen. You must curb your drinking habits; and, whilst you are at Court, do not indulge in too much lechery—covertly or otherwise. Make sure that you win the friendship of David Rizzio.”

  “That low-born scribe!” said Darnley distastefully.

  “Low-born scribe he may be. But what he wills, the Queen does”

  “So he is her lover then?” suggested the young man nonchalantly.

  “I did not say so. He is her adviser, and she sets store by his counsels. He is an arrogant upstart who must be treated with care.”

  “Father,” said Darnley, “do you think the Queen will take me for her husband?”

  “It rests with you, my son. Your looks are fine enough.”

  Darnley smirked. He was very vain of his looks.

  “But,” went on his father, “if she should discover your drinking habits and how violent you become when you indulge them; if she learns of your adventures with village girls and tavern sluts …”

  “She shall not. Father, I will be good. I will be angelic. And then Her Majesty will give me the crown—a present for a good boy.”

  SHE RECEIVED him in her audience chamber. He knelt before her, a tall, slender youth, and she thought: How charming he is! How young!

  “Madam,” he said, “at last I kneel before you. It has been my dearest wish since parting from you in France.”

  “My dear Lord Darnley,” she answered, “you cannot be happier to be here than I am to see you.”

  “Madam, your beauty dazzles me. I fear I shall stammer or be speechless.”

  “Why, you have made an excellent beginning. Come, sit beside me. I would hear news of the English Court.”

  He sat beside her and many watched them. The Earl of Lennox did so with high hopes. Moray did so with annoyance; the last thing he wished for was Mary’s marriage with Darnley. The fellow was arrogant and a Catholic. If such a marriage took place the Catholic lords would be rising and driving the Protestants—and with them John Knox and Moray—out of Scotland.

  Mary meanwhile was recalling their meeting at the Court of France. “You played the lute for me.”

  “I blush for shame. I trust Your Majesty will give me a chance of showing that I have improved since then.”

  “Certainly you must play for me again. You danced well, I remember. You must lead me in the galliard.”

  “Madam, nothing could give me greater pleasure.” He was looking at her ardently. “Forgive me, Madam,” he murmured. “I had not known that anyone could be so beautiful.”

  “We will ask the musicians to play for us, and we will dance. But first there is the banquet.”

  She allowed him, as guest of honor, to lead her to the banqueting hall; he sat beside her and she drank from the same goblet to remind him that he was her blood-relation, and to assure him that he was heartily welcome at her table.

  She noticed how his eyes kindled as he drank.

  “Madam,” he said, “I fear I disgrace myself. I am intoxicated.”

  “On so little wine?”

  “On so much beauty, Madam.”

  “And you recently from the Court of England! They say Elizabeth’s beauty is l
ike the sun.”

  “Madam, the Queen of England has no beauty. She is shrewish—an old woman, and the vainest in the world.”

  “You are young, my lord. It may be that I, who am twenty-two seem an old woman to you.”

  “I know not what Your Majesty’s age may be, but you are the most beautiful and perfect being in the world. That is all I know.”

  She had heard similar flattery before, but this seemed different. It was his youth perhaps which appealed so strongly.

  The Cardinal of Lorraine, had he been present, would have realized that the sensual side of Mary was tired of waiting for the gratification so long denied her. Mary was eager to fall in love, and if the ideal lover whom she was beginning to desire so ardently did not come to her, she was ready to invest the nearest and most likely man with the necessary perfection. Mary’s sensuality was clamoring for expression, and here was a handsome youth paying extravagant compliments, a youth of the blood royal, a Catholic like herself, and therefore suitable to be her husband.

  Mary did not ponder on the qualities of this young man. Outwardly he filled her ideal; she was tremulously eager for passion to overtake her.

  They danced. Darnley—by no means inexperienced—realized that he was making a good impression on the Queen. He could, he believed, become King of Scotland if he wished. His ambitions grew as he pictured the future. His father was right. He would step with the utmost care during the coming weeks. He would be modest rather than bold, for he must not forget that she was a queen. There was more to be gained than a brief pleasure before riding on to the next conquest. If he could continue in the success he had had this night, in a few weeks she would be madly in love with him. And then…

  These were delightful pictures. Darnley, King of Scotland, the crown matrimonial glittering on his head, and an eager, passionate woman—and a very beautiful one—desperately in love with him!

  He was a graceful dancer and the Queen chose again and again to dance with him. The pavanne and the galliard were danced; and Mary had torches brought that they might dance—as she had in the salle de bal at Fontainebleau—the branle des torches in which the dancers passed torches from one to the other. Then they danced the branle des lavandières, and that other dance, the Purpose, in which the partners kissed. In this last dance Mary was again Darnley’s partner, and the kiss they exchanged was full of meaning to them both.

  From that moment the Queen was in love. She had made up her mind who her husband would be. She thought it was because he was the most handsome and charming young man she had ever met. She did not stop to count other reasons. She did not remind herself that she must marry, that she was tired of waiting, that too many and strong forces were against a grand marriage into the royal houses of Spain and France. She did not think: Elizabeth of England is against my marriage with Lord Darnley; therefore I wish to marry Darnley. She did not think: I am young; I long for a lover, and I have waited too long.

  THE MARYS discussed the newcomer while they undressed their mistress. “Very handsome!” was the verdict.

  “He dances so gracefully,” said Mary.

  “I noticed how he kissed Your Majesty in the dance,” ventured Beaton.

  “Well, what of that? It is as necessary to kiss in the Purpose as it is to clap hands in the branle des lavandières.”

  “Necessary, Madam,” agreed Beaton. “But not always pleasant.”

  Mary tapped her cheek with feigned annoyance. “Livy dear,” she said, to change the subject, “you are very quiet.”

  Livy came forward and, kneeling before the Queen, laid her head in her lap.

  “Madam,” she said, “do you remember that when we were little we all swore we would not marry until you did?”

  “I do, darling.”

  “You married once… and were a widow, but none of us has married. I have often wondered who would be the first. And now this handsome Lord Darnley has come along …”

  “What are you mumbling into my skirts, Livy? Get up at once and show yourself.”

  But Livy continued to kneel.

  “’Tis clear,” said Flem, “what has happened. Lord Sempill has been asking her to marry him for these many weeks, and she has put him off by declaring that she has vowed a vow to the Queen.”

  “No, Livy! That is ridiculous!” cried Mary. “You are in love with this tall and handsome Sempill?”

  “Yes, Madam, but—”

  “Rise, Livy. Get up at once. You are to marry Lord Sempill… immediately. I insist.”

  “Oh, Madam,” said Flem, “let it not be immediately… otherwise Master Knox will have all sorts of suggestions to make against poor Livy and her Sempill.”

  Mary stood up and her eyes flashed. “Who cares for Master Knox! Let him rave. Livy, my dearest, you shall have the grandest wedding ever seen, and all the world shall know how I love you. We shall have masques and mummeries… feasting… dancing …”

  “And you, dearest,” said Flem, “will dance the Purpose with Lord Darnley.”

  “Have done with you!” cried Mary. “You insolent Fleming! And if I dance with Darnley, you shall partner Maitland. Come! You know how I love a wedding, and what wedding would I rather attend than that of my dear Livy?”

  “Your own perhaps?” suggested Beaton.

  They were all gay that night. The Queen had never seemed so beautiful, but they had never before seen Mary radiantly in love.

  * * *

  THEY WERE happy days which followed. Each morning Mary awoke with a feeling of excitement. Each day Lord Darnley waited on her; and each day she was a little more in love with him.

  What a delightful young man he was! He was so eager to be liked by everyone. It was a charming quality. Moray looked at him with suspicion, but the young Lord Darnley did not seem to be aware of his dislike. He was open and frank with him; he went with him to hear one of John Knox’s sermons, and listened so intently to the preacher that even Knox—knowing Darnley to be a Catholic—was flattered. He was deferential to Maitland and to all the lords of the Court. He seemed to imply: I know that I lack your wisdom, but please remember I am young yet and I long to learn.

  Mary was glad that he liked David Rizzio and that David liked him. Darnley did not appear even to consider Rizzio’s humble birth. He would be seen in the courtyards walking arm in arm with the Piedmontese, or begging him to sing or play the lute for him. He had even taken to sleeping in David’s bed, which was a symbol of friendship.

  “I wish to be as near to Your Majesty as possible,” he told Mary. “I sleep with my sword beside me. Then, if need be, I could rush to Your Majesty’s defense.”

  Mary smiled at that. “No one will harm me.”

  “But if they should try… I would wish to be the one there to protect you.”

  So charming he seemed, so simple and unspoiled. When they were close together she wanted to kiss his smooth cheek. Her senses bounded at the thought of kissing him.

  How delightful he was during that game of the bilies he played with her, Thomas Randolph and Mary Beaton.

  Randolph was disturbed by Mary’s liking for Darnley, for he was working hard to bring about a marriage between her and Leicester. What, wondered Mary, did he think of the favor she showed Darnley whom Elizabeth considered her subject and whom she now, Mary believed, so deeply regretted allowing to leave England?

  Randolph and Mary Beaton had won at the bilies against Darnley and the Queen, and Darnley was obliged to present Mary Beaton with fifty crown’s worth of jewelery—a brooch, a ring and two watches—as the stake.

  “Madam,” he said to Mary afterward, “I humbly ask pardon. I played so badly.”

  “You did indeed, my lord,” she agreed. “You seemed to pay scarcely any attention to the game.”

  He lifted those big blue eyes to her face. “Madam, it was because you were near me….”

  She laid a hand, which had begun to tremble, on his shoulder. She moved closer to him. Her body was crying out for him. She wished in that moment tha
t she were not the Queen surrounded by courtiers. She longed to be alone with him, to say: “I love you. We will marry one day, but for the moment we may be lovers….”

  She turned away, dizzy with desire. She heard his voice, hushed and gentle: “Madam… Madam … if I dared … if I but dared…”

  LIVY WAS MARRIED to Lord Sempill with great pomp—the first of the Queen’s Marys to marry.

  “It will not be quite the same henceforth,” said Mary sadly. “Dearest Livy will often be with us, but we must not be selfish. She will wish sometimes to be in her new house with Sempill. How we shall miss her!”

  Livy married! thought Mary. So should I be! It is time I married; and here is the one I love; here is the one I will marry.

  She could not resist talking of Darnley. “What think you of my lord?” she asked David.

  “Lord Darnley is worthy of Your Majesty’s regard.”

  “I am so glad you like each other, Davie. He is charming, is he not? I could not have borne it if you two had not been friends.”

  She held out her hand. David took it and held it to his lips.

  David, who was clever, understood the turmoil within her. He understood the meaning of this new feverish beauty which was hers. She was ripe for marriage; she was longing for the handsome youth; she was all desire, as wise David had always known she could be. David himself had dreamed of arousing that desire; as had others, he had sensed the promise within her. But David was a man of ambition. To be the Queen’s lover would indeed have been a dangerous position for a humble musician; as her most trusted secretary and adviser he was much safer.

  Everything that David wished for was falling into his hands. The Pope himself congratulated him on the good work he was doing in Scotland. The Pope sent advice. It seemed incredible that the mighty Pope was sending kind messages to David Rizzio who, when he had first come to Scotland, had slept on a table in the porter’s lodge because there was no bed for him. What David wanted, and what the Pope wanted, was to bring Scotland back to the Catholic Faith, while setting her apart from Europe. The Pope did not wish Scotland to be the fief of Spain, nor of France. What the Pope wanted was a Catholic Scotland to stand against Protestant England—yet aloof from the great Continental powers—a Catholic husband for the Queen, yet not a great prince from Europe. Darnley was the suitor favored by Rome, and therefore by David Rizzio. When the Queen married Lord Darnley more friendly messages would come from the Pope, more rewards would fall to David Rizzio.