Before that, however, came the banquet and the dancing.
There were two top tables on the dais at the banquet, one for the couple and their families; the other for Queen Mary and her immediate circle: her uncle Elboeuf, her half brothers, their wives, her honored guest Darnley (very fashionable in black velvet, which set off his fair hair), and two of her Maries, Seton and Beaton.
I saw the Earl of Bothwell sitting just below the dais with some other men and women of rank, including one exquisitely dressed lady with strong, dark good looks, whom someone pointed out to me as Bothwell’s sister, Lady Janet Hepburn. Also at the Bothwell table, with an air of having been squeezed in because no one knew quite where to put him, was the ugly little secretary, David Riccio. I was a little lower down, at a parallel table, my wide silvery-gray farthingale bumping the even wider one of Mary Fleming’s splendid blue velvet. She was off-duty, and opposite to her sat her would-be lover, the middle-aged William Maitland.
The room was big, with a gloriously painted ceiling and tall, mullioned windows, but it was also crammed and extremely noisy. The Earl of Bothwell had been drinking deep and was arguing with someone, thumping his goblet on the board for emphasis and declaring his point of view in a resounding bass voice. At my table, a trio of noblemen whom I didn’t know, all with arm muscles bulging through their embroidered sleeves and red, drunken faces, were exchanging coarse jokes and guffawing loudly, and somewhere behind me someone kept emitting loud, hoarse belches, like a raven with indigestion.
Looking about me, I could not see whether Dormbois was present or not, but Maitland had noticed that I kept on turning my head to gaze about me and put his own interpretation on it.
“Amusing, is it not?” He was a Scotsman, but he was both educated and traveled and could look on his fellow countrymen with an objective eye. He was also a trifle pedantic and enjoyed instructing people. “Two cultures in collision. Queen Mary brought France with her when she came here, and now you see it laid over our rough ways like very thin gold leaf over a slab of Hibernian rock.”
“Really?” I turned to him in surprise.
“Were ye not thinking the same thing?”
“I expect Madame de la Roche would not have put it so poetically,” said Mary Fleming, smiling warmly into his eyes.
Not wanting to reveal an interest in Dormbois, I flinched at the sound of another frightful belch from behind me and said: “Yes, you mean that, I suppose. And that,” I added, as renewed guffaws burst out a few feet away. “I hadn’t thought of it quite as you put it, but of course, you’re right. And there are plaids and fur edgings all mixed up with the brocades and satins . . .”
“And offerings of blood pudding amid the confections of spun sugar,” said Maitland. “Scotland and France will never mix, any more than our whiskey mixes with good wine and God knows there are some men mixing those as well.” He looked around disapprovingly as one of the guffaws turned into a retch and one of the red faces turned a delicate shade of green. Two of the ribald trio quickly got up, hoisted their friend’s arms around their shoulders, and steered him out of the room, at speed.
“I observe,” said Maitland dryly, “that the Earl of Bothwell and that golden-haired English lad Darnley have already been overcome.”
I hadn’t noticed when it happened, but Bothwell’s argumentative voice had stopped. I looked around and saw that he was missing and that Darnley, too, had quitted his place. Queen Mary was looking at his empty seat quite regretfully, evidently sorry that he had gone.
“And there goes Elboeuf as well,” said Maitland as the queen’s uncle got to his feet. “Provision will have been made,” he added reassuringly. “Just outside. At these affairs, there are always a great many such disasters, and many beautiful garments ruined beyond hope. It all means profits for the merchants and tailors, not to mention the laundresses. Some more wine, Madame de la Roche?”
“Thank you, no, I have had enough.” The wine was very strong and I didn’t wish to be among those needing the facilities so helpfully arranged. There was no sign that Bothwell or any of the others were returning. But as I scanned the room in a casual search for them, I saw the face I had looked for earlier. Dormbois was there after all. As my gaze lit on him, he looked my way and raised a goblet in salute to me. I would speak to him, I thought, when the dancing began.
The ball was held in an adjacent room. Streamers embroidered with words of well-wishing and garlands of evergreens and paper flowers spanned the room; crossed banners bearing the devices of Sempill and Livingstone adorned the wall above the canopied throne provided for the new-wed pair. Not that they occupied it for long, for when we all crowded into the room on the heels of the principals, the musicians were already in their place in the gallery overlooking the floor. Within moments, they had begun a galliard melody, and John Sempill was on his feet, holding out his hand to his bride and leading her out to open the dance.
They had the floor to themselves for a short while, and then Queen Mary herself, partnered by Moray, rose to join in, and that was the signal for everyone to follow her example. At that moment, Dormbois appeared at my side, offering me his arm. “Will you partner me, madam? Your mourning state does not prevent you?”
“Not today. I note that the queen is dancing too, and I have no wish to be a death’s-head at the feast,” I said, and went with him onto the floor.
As well as not wishing to cast a blight over the merriment, of course, I also wished to speak to him in something like privacy. At the edge of the floor, I had been standing in a crowd of others. Now, as Dormbois and I faced each other to exchange bow and curtsy before beginning to dance, I said in a low voice: “You have news for me?”
“Iphm,” said Dormbois irritatingly. “Maybe. But you are too businesslike too soon. First, let us dance.”
We did. He was an excellent performer, I must say: surefooted, agile, with an air of having a perfectly fit body under complete control. He was wearing mulberry again, which suited him, and a number of very fine rings, which flashed in the light from the tall windows as he held my hand aloft. The days were lengthening and it was not yet time for candles.
When the galliard was over, he handed me back to my place and then, to my annoyance, left me without a word in order to claim the hand of another lady for a pavane. He did not return to me for an hour. The dances grew livelier, well-bred galliards and dignified pavanes giving place to spirited reels and hilarious round dances. Queen Mary, obviously enjoying herself immensely, took part in most of them, with a variety of partners, although they didn’t include Darnley, who seemed to have disappeared for good, along with Elboeuf and Bothwell.
Anxious to talk to Dormbois again, I tried to avoid dancing too much and declined offers from Riccio and the depressing Rokeby, although I took the floor once with Maitland and joined in with a round dance, for which partners were not needed.
Dusk drew on at last, early, for the day was overcast. There was an interval, during which people could get their breath back and the musicians could take some refreshment, and a steward announced that a supper had been laid in the dining hall. The candles were lit. As the music started up again, I began to wonder if Dormbois had left the festivities like Darnley and the others, but then he was back, once again offering his arm. I accepted, and at once found that we were parading, not onto the floor, but through the door to the supper room.
Here too, there were candles but fewer than in the dancing chamber and there were pools of shadow along the walls. As yet, only two or three people were there, standing with their backs to us as they chose cold meat and cheeses from the table. Dormbois, after pausing for a wary moment in the doorway, gripped my elbow and steered us quickly across a corner of the room. He whisked us out through a side door, down a staircase, along a short passage lit by a couple of flickering flambeaux in wall sconces, and into a small stone-floored chamber. This was lit by two more flambeaux, but the window embrasures were caves of gray shadow. He led me to one of them and sat us down o
n the padded window seat.
“Well,” I said, “if anyone finds us here alone together like this, my reputation won’t be worth a penny.”
“Who is going to find us, lassie? I made sure no one in the supper room noticed us. My apologies for leaving you so brusquely earlier, but I didnae want to draw any attention to us. Not that they’d be interested, anyhow. They’ll be too busy thinking up rude jokes to make at the bedding. I was sorry not to dance with you longer for you dance like a dream come true. As I told you the day we met, I like you fine.”
“Thank you. You dance well, too. But, Sir Brian . . .”
“Oh, lassie!” He shook his head at me and put a heavy arm around my shoulder. I thought it politic not to remove myself, but I could not help stiffening and he gently shook me. “Och, now, I’m not an ogre, am I? And nor are you a timid virgin. Twice-married should mean seasoned.”
“I am not a dish of venison, either,” I said tightly. “Sir Brian, I must ask your pardon if I seem lacking in response, but I am lately widowed and I have no wish to . . . to involve myself with any other man as yet.” Even as I said it, I was conscious of the warmth of his hand, which lay on my upper arm. It had been a long time since I said good-bye to Matthew, a long time since I felt a warm, loving male hand on me.
I said primly: “I am only here with you because I hope you have something to tell me. I think you know that. Please, if you have found out anything that bears on my cousin’s death, let me know what it is.”
“Businesslike, businesslike.” He shook his head again, and a stray flicker of light from one of the torches made his silver temples gleam.
“Sir Brian, please!”
He withdrew his arm, and no, I did not regret the removal of that warm, strong hand. I told myself so, with vigor. “I’ve news, surely, lassie,” he said. “Not the name of the fellow who crept in at your cousin’s window and put the blade in his chest. Maybe it was Ericks and maybe it wasn’t. Who knows? But I can tell you this: Master Furness, the tavern keeper, who told the inquiry of the quarrel between Ericks and Edward Faldene, didna come forward of choice. He is not a man to get entangled in an affair like murder, unless he had to. Someone laid information with the authorities, and it was the constable’s men who went to him and questioned him and required his testimony. And I know who laid that information.”
“Who?” I turned eagerly toward him. Too eagerly. His right hand was behind my head and his mouth was on mine on the instant. I froze, keeping my lips closed, and after a moment he sat back with a sigh.
“You’re a hard conquest, lassie. Well, the harder the nut the sweeter the kernel; that’s what I’ve always thought.”
“Sir Brian, you were saying . . .”
“Aye, I was. But for the moment, I think I’ll say no more.”
“What?”
“I could have you, you know,” he said thoughtfully. “Here on the floor of this very room. We’re here alone and I’m stronger than you are.”
“This palace is full of servants.” I sat still however, knowing by instinct that it was the safest thing to do. The more you waggle a piece of string, the more readily will a kitten pounce after it; dogs chase rabbits—or cats—mainly because they run. I have seen a dog completely disconcerted by a cat that sat down in its path and stared at it. “I’m sure,” I said icily, “that a few loud screams would attract attention.”
“I daresay they would. And in fact, I have no intent to force you. That’s no way to make love. A man’s needs must be desperate to do such a thing and desperate in these matters I have never been,” said Dormbois complacently. “But sometimes, when a lassie is especially charming, a little persuasion may be in order, to convince her where her own best interests and happiness may lie. You want the name of the man that gave Ericks’s name to the authorities. I will tell you, sweeting, as your morning gift, when you wake on a pillow with your head next to mine . . .”
“How dare you? It would appear,” I said, standing up and shaking my skirts angrily, “that I shall be forced to discover what I want to know by myself. I made a grave mistake in asking for your help.”
“Och, not so fast, lassie.” Out shot that strong hand again, and it closed on my wrist. “I said I had no mind to force you, but I’ve told you a little, have I not? Will you no’ give me a kiss, a real, loving kiss, by way of payment? Is that too much to ask? You might enjoy it! Why not try?”
“There’s someone in the passage! Let me go at once. I am not prepared to be discovered in your arms!”
I spoke so sharply that his grip actually did slacken and, jerking myself free, I stepped quickly away from him. It was just as well, for the sounds in the passage were coming nearer and an instant later the door was thrust open. Three men blundered into the room, disputing.
“Thisisanoutrage!” One of them was extremely drunk and slurring all his words together. As they stumbled into the circle of light from the torch above the door, I saw tousled fair hair above black velvet. “You have no right, no rightatall . . . !”
“I’ve every right, you damned young fool.” One of the men grasping him also had fair hair, though his was a deeper shade, and as I stood transfixed, I recognized his voice. “You were sent here for a purpose and I was sent here to see you did your best at it, and no, I will not look on while you throw it all to the winds . . . !”
“Lemme alone, I tell you!” This was accompanied by a surge of movement, as of violent resistance, followed by an ominous “Aaaaurgh!”
“Oh, Gawd, he’s goin’ to throw up again,” said the third man. He was dressed, as far as I could see, in soldierly brown, and his voice, which was also familiar to me, was that of a Londoner.
“I woanallowit . . . not a child. Getchahandsoffme! Wouldn’t treat Bos . . . Bot . . . Bothwell or Elbif . . . Elboeuf like this-ohGod—urgh!”
“Rene of Elboeuf and the Earl of Bothwell aren’t courting Scotland, and if you’re being treated like a child it’s your own fault! You’ll bloody well get sobered up and you’ll go back up there and dance with Her Majesty . . . oh, bring it up on the floor, damn you! Throw it up and throw it out and let’s hope you’ve brought nothing back from that whorehouse that’s harder to be rid of than bad wine . . .”
“Aaaaurgh . . . gh!”
“Tut tut,” said Dormbois reprovingly from behind me. The soldierly Londoner had grabbed the head of the drunk and was holding him steady while Henry Lord Darnley, wooer of Queen Mary Stuart, Lady Lennox’s precious son and hope of future power, emptied his system onto the flagstones. The man with the dark gold hair jumped out of the way with a muttered oath and found himself staring straight at me. “Dear heaven, what’s this? We don’t seem to be as private as we thought . . . who are you? And who’s that in the window behind you? Come into the light!”
“Good evening, Master Henderson,” I said, to my friend Mattie’s husband, Rob, with whom I had, to my regret, quarreled when we had worked together the previous year. “This is Sir Brian Dormbois, who has been trying to obtain some information for me. Dear Rob . . .” The endearment was a sop, an attempt to reawaken our old friendship, though I could see, even in the shaky torchlight, that there was no friendship in his face. “Dear Rob, what on earth are you doing in Scotland?”
13
Links in a Chain
Rob appeared to know Dormbois already. He cut short my attempts to introduce my unwanted suitor more fully but requisitioned his services immediately to help his man take Darnley away to be sobered up by the fastest means possible and then returned—preferably chastened—to the wedding festivities and the ballroom and the company of Queen Mary Stuart. Rob then sank down onto the window seat vacated by Dormbois, wiped his brow, and said: “I could kill that wantwit Darnley.” Unexpectedly, his tone was almost amiable.
“Rob, what’s going on? I thought you were at court in Whitehall.”
“I was, but I was given an assignment which brought me north.”
“Looking after Darnley?”
�
��Exactly. And it takes some doing, I can tell you.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. I sat down at the other end of the window seat. “I knew that policy had changed—that Queen Elizabeth and Cecil had decided that a marriage between Mary and Darnley wasn’t, after all, the worst thing that could happen, even if they are both Tudor descendants. But you’re talking as though they actually want the marriage so much that they’ve sent someone—you—along to promote it.”
“They do and they have. I’m the someone. Oh, Darnley was hardly their first choice. What Cecil really hoped,” said Rob, “was that Robert Dudley could be married off to Mary. He hasn’t got any Tudor ancestors and he’s a good sound Protestant . . .”
“I wouldn’t trust too far to that,” I said, remembering an occasion when Elizabeth’s good-looking Master of Horse had harbored serious hopes of marrying her, despite widespread disapproval, and been quite prepared to change his religion if Philip of Spain would promise to lend him an army with which to put down any indignant rebellions.
“No, nor would I, to tell you the truth. But he really does have affection for Elizabeth and I fancy they looked on that as a safeguard. Anyway, it came to nothing. He didn’t want Mary, and even though Elizabeth made him Earl of Leicester last autumn, Mary still doesn’t want to marry the man that she calls the Queen of England’s horsemaster. In the tone of voice you’d use to say a mere groom.”
“That sounds coarse, for Mary Stuart,” I said, amused. “She’s so charming. Has she really said that?”
“I’ve heard her.” Rob did not share my amusement. He said soberly: “Mary is on the marriage market. You know all this, Ursula! If we don’t stop her, she is likely to marry into one of the European Catholic royal families—Spanish if she can manage it—but anyway, someone willing to back her claim to Elizabeth’s throne through force of arms. Compared to that, Darnley has considerable advantages, just because he is of Tudor descent. A son from such a marriage would be a sound heir for England, and by the look of it, Elizabeth is never going to produce one of her own. And he’s not likely to be dangerous to England himself, because firstly, he doesn’t have an army at his beck and call, and secondly, we have his mother in England. One threatening move on Darnley’s part, and Lady Lennox will be in the Tower. She’s our hostage, in other words.”
A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) Page 13
