‘I want you to promise that you will guard and defend my child,’ Mary begged him. ‘He is to be crowned king, for, though it grieves my heart to say this about the man I once dearly loved, his father must not rule Scotland. If you be in charge of my son, then raise him honestly until he is able to govern this country of ours.’
Lord James agreed to this readily, as well he might, for it indicated that he would have the power of regent for a dozen years or more while Prince James grew up. Then he spoke to his doctor before he left. ‘Make sure that my sister doesn’t suffer,’ he said.
‘I understand.’ The doctor bowed his head.
On his way out Lord James almost bumped into another man entering the room.
‘Ah!’ I hurried over. It was Monsieur Arnault, Mary’s French doctor, who’d been sent to Stirling at the beginning of the month to tend to one of those guarding the baby prince.
‘Why are you here?’ Lord James demanded.
The man was surprised. ‘The queen is ill. I was sent for.’
‘Who sent for you?’
‘I, I . . .’ Monsieur Arnault stammered. ‘I assumed it was the queen herself.’ He looked to me for support.
I had no idea what to say. The queen had fallen ill so suddenly and grievously that she’d been unable to summon her trusted French doctor. Had she done so, I would have known.
Lord James turned to me. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You are always there, aren’t you, Lady Ginette? Listening to everything and dripping words into the queen’s ear.’
I was taken aback by his hostility, but before I could respond he spoke again to the French doctor. ‘Be careful with any medicine you may give my sister. If the queen dies I will hold you responsible.’
‘I will do all I can,’ Monsieur Arnault replied with dignity, but Lord James had gone, taking his own physician with him.
A very brief examination let the doctor see that the queen was terribly ill. He went to warm himself by the fire and then suggested I might open a window. I shivered at this, for it was an old superstition that so doing allowed a dying person’s soul to fly more quickly through the air and thus ease its transition from this world to the next. Sadness overwhelmed me. I was about to lose the friend of my childhood, the friend of my life, with no one to share my grief. A noise below made me look down. Duncan Alexander was leading two horses towards the farrier’s yard. Anger rose in me like before, he’d disappeared in a time of crisis, reappearing afterwards.
Monsieur Arnault and I nursed the queen as her life force ebbed away. In the last week of October she lost the power of speech and lay almost lifeless in her bed.
I thought of happier times in France, of Mary’s wedding celebrations, and a sudden image came to me of the prophet Nostradamus and his proclamations predicting the death of three persons of royal blood present in the room that night. King Henri, the lion in a golden cage, Dauphin Francis, the rise of the poison, and now Mary – all royal and brave to meet their end.
Yet, I mused, Nostradamus’s third prediction had referred to the fall of the axe . . .
‘I cannot explain it.’ Monsieur Arnault shook his head. ‘I medicate her majesty and she appears to rally. Then she fails again, and each time she slips further out of this world.’
It was evening time, with frost riming the windows. He was sitting by the fire with his medical books and I sat opposite. There was a soft tap on the door and a servant entered bearing a tray with the little nourishment the queen took each day. So reduced was Mary that no solid food passed her lips, just this bowl of broth, prepared in an individual portion by her own cook and sent direct from the kitchen, covered, to keep it warm.
Except that it was not covered. My eyes rested on the pot lid, which was askew. I glanced up. The servant’s eyes slid away from mine as she placed the tray upon the table by the door.
The soup pot was not covered.
I leaped to my feet and lifted the lid. ‘What is this?’ I asked. One or two leaves of green floated on the surface.
‘I – I don’t know,’ the servant girl mumbled.
‘A herb of some sort?’ I asked quietly, even though my heart was racing.
The girl shrugged.
It was mint. Enough to obscure any other taste and cause no alarm if someone noticed an unfamiliar flavour in barley soup.
Mint to mask a Medici poison.
Mary’s food was always prepared by her own cook, tasted in the kitchen and then covered – to be uncovered at her bedside. In the panic and the long hours of my vigil it had not always been possible for me to oversee this. How many times had I missed being there?
‘Wait one moment,’ I said to the girl, ‘and take some of these things away.’ I pointed to the dirty goblets and napkins. As she bent to pick them up, I took from my sleeve the dagger than Duncan had given me and which, after Rizzio’s death, I always carried with me. I came up behind the servant girl and placed it at her throat.
‘I will plunge this into your neck if you do not answer me at once: has anyone tampered with this food?’
She began to tremble with fright. ‘Telling the truth is your only hope,’ I said. ‘If you do not speak, then you die right now.’
By the fire the doctor was gazing at me, open-mouthed. ‘Summon the queen’s guard,’ I told him, ‘and quickly.’
He returned with Gavin of Strathtay and Duncan Alexander, and had obviously told them of my suspicions. The girl was now loudly protesting her innocence of any crime.
Duncan smiled at her pleasantly. ‘There is a simple way for you to prove that you know nothing of this matter,’ he said. He offered her the bowl of soup. ‘Drink it,’ he ordered.
She screamed and dashed the bowl from his hands.
Monsieur Arnault gave the queen an emetic which caused her to vomit black blood. Then he forced her to drink a tablespoon of warm wine and I helped him to wrap her cold limbs in strips of blanket. I lay beside her in the bed and held her close to me and whispered in her ear that I would be bereft without her and that I would not let her go. Her lips moved soundlessly and I thought she heard me, so I continued to say words of encouragement and persuasion: ‘Your bonny son is pining for you, Mary. He needs you to arrange his Christening Banquet. Prince Jamie wants his mama to sing him a lullaby in French and Scots.’
I began to sing cradle songs as I’d done those years ago in France when she’d become demented upon hearing of the death of her mother.
‘There is faint colour on her lips,’ Monsieur Arnault whispered to me.
‘Praise be!’ I murmured in reply.
I got up from Mary’s side so that we might reapply the blanket compresses.
‘Listen,’ he said.
There was silence from the bed, no sign of the rattling cough of the last weeks. I leaned over in alarm, then I heard the sound of quiet breathing. Mary was enjoying the most peaceful sleep she’d had for many weeks.
Chapter 38
IN NOVEMBER MARY was fit enough to travel to Edinburgh, but her health was impaired. She was constantly weak and subject to frequent episodes of nervous exhaustion. And her mind was troubled.
Her husband, fearing more than ever that he would be set aside in favour of his son became wilder in his behaviour, publicly hinting that the child might not be his. He threatened to travel abroad to enlist the help of the Catholic monarchs in Europe, claiming that his wife had shamed her religion by conceding to Protestant demands and was no longer mentally fit to govern.
The latest rumour was that the Lennox Stuarts were plotting to be rid of the queen in a more decisive way. I was convinced that someone had already attempted to poison Mary in Jedburgh, but I had no proof. There’d been no opportunity to question the unfortunate servant girl. The next morning she was found dead inside the cellar where Duncan Alexander had locked her – no wound on her body, only a mottled rash upon her neck.
Mary arranged to confer with her lords, including Bothwell and William Maitland, at Craigmillar Castle on the outskirts of the city
, to explore the possibility of an annulment or a divorce. Lord James Stuart was not present as his wife was unwell and he wished to remain by her side.
‘The problem is that any action along those lines might render your child illegitimate.’ Duncan spoke first at the meeting.
‘Petition the pope,’ Mary ordered. ‘Find out what can be done, for I need to be rid of my husband before he does my child and myself permanent harm.’
‘You are agreed then,’ William Maitland said slowly, ‘that in some way kingly power is removed from Lord Darnley?’
‘I am,’ Mary said.
‘Better,’ said Bothwell, ‘that Lord Darnley be removed from kingly power.’
Mary’s eyes flickered towards him and then away. ‘Whatever method must be by consent of parliament.’
He gave a sly smile. ‘Before or afterwards?’
Maitland tutted.
Mary glanced from one to the other. ‘What is the advice of my brother, Lord James Stuart?’
‘If he were here, we might ask him,’ said Bothwell, ‘but he contrives not to be.’
William Maitland kept his gaze fixed upon the queen’s face. ‘Lord James will look through his fingers at whatever solution is found for this problem.’
‘Then I hope the problem can be solved to all our satisfactions,’ Mary said wearily.
I came forward to help her rise but was forestalled by Bothwell, who took my place and Mary’s arm.
‘Lean upon me,’ he said in a rough, kindly tone.
‘I do.’ Mary smiled at him. ‘I do.’
‘Be wary of James Hepburn, the Lord of Bothwell,’ Jean cautioned the queen, for she had noticed her strolling with him in the garden at Craigmillar.
‘He is one of my most loyal lords,’ Mary replied. There were pink spots on her cheeks. ‘And I do like his way of dealing. He attends to matters directly, without subterfuge.’
‘Bothwell attends directly to anyone in a skirt,’ Jean responded tartly. ‘They say he called upon the wife of the Border reiver whom he beheaded to offer his condolences.’
‘I’ll wager that was not all he offered her,’ said Marie Fleming.
‘Do not allow passion to govern your acts,’ Jean went on. ‘I well know how that can be the downfall of a woman.’ Separated from her husband, the Earl of Argyll, she had dallied with several gentlemen of the court.
Mary’s face was disapproving, but then she smiled as she replied, ‘In future I will not be seduced by the handsome appearance of any noble lord. When I struggled in childbed, did I not cry out that I would never lie with a man again?’
‘Yes,’ said Jean, ‘and didn’t I tell you that is what all women say in childbirth?’
The other women laughed.
‘We become swayed by their professions of love,’ said Marie Fleming.
‘Their flattery,’ said Marie Seton.
‘Their gifts,’ I said, thinking of the flowers Duncan had once given me for my birthday.
‘Their looks,’ said Jean. She closed her eyes and gave a little moan. ‘And lips,’ she added.
We chuckled in merriment.
‘From this day forth it is by his deeds that I will judge a man,’ said Mary. ‘Their actions to support me will be how I take their measure.’
Which brought our minds back to James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell.
When Mary mentioned Bothwell’s name again to me in private, I was more dismissive of him. We were at Stirling Castle preparing for the baptism of Prince Jamie, and she’d ordered special suits of clothing for three of her lords, Lord James Stuart, the Earl of Argyll and, of course, Bothwell.
‘My Lord Bothwell has been a constant strength and support to me throughout my troubles,’ she explained, ‘and deserves such a reward.’
‘It’s more than that, isn’t it?’ I replied. ‘You are attracted to him too.’
‘In some ways I am,’ she admitted, ‘but this time I am thinking of what’s best for Scotland. Apart from Lord Seton, the Flemings, Lord Herries, Sir David of Cairncross and a few others, the rest of my lords, including the Earl of Argyll, have rebelled against me at one time or another. James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, never has. His loyalty is absolute.’ She looked at me and added, ‘Trust is the foundation of a relationship.’
I fingered the rich cloth of the lords’ christening outfits, with its fine embroidery worked with jewels. ‘In time they will all want more than pretty suits,’ I said sourly. ‘Yes, they will help you by engineering Darnley into a position where he can do no harm, but then they will jostle each other to see who can fill the vacuum.’
‘Why, Jenny, you are not normally so intemperate,’ Mary chided me. ‘I thought Gavin of Strathtay kept you amused with his wit, and where is Sir Duncan Alexander? When he was last in our company I saw you give him dour looks, and yet he still watches you.’
‘Does he?’ I said in surprise.
Mary nodded. ‘Often. When he thinks no one else notices, I see him gazing at you.’
Should this cause me pleasure or concern? He and I had not spoken at length since Jedburgh and doubts were lingering in my mind. True, he had effectively discovered the servant girl’s part in what might have been a plot against the queen, but it was he who had locked the girl in a cellar where, within hours, she’d died.
For the christening of her son Mary wanted her ladies to dress in red but I refused. Red was a colour I would not wear again, and coming across the petticoat that Duncan had given me in my clothes chest, I handed it to the queen. ‘Since your illness at Jedburgh you feel the cold more than I do,’ I said to her. ‘I would like you to have this.’
The Protestant lords and the delegation from England stood outside the Chapel as the baptismal rite and liturgy were performed in the Catholic tradition. Lord Darnley did not appear, but kept to his rooms, drinking wine and ranting against his wife and her advisers, while his son was christened Charles James, to be known as James, in memory of his maternal grandfather, the previous king.
Balls and masques were followed by bonfires and a spectacular fireworks display. Mary begged him, but Lord Darnley would not attend the celebrations
‘Jenny, by doing this he casts doubt on the legitimacy of our son.’ She was wringing her hands. ‘His wickedness is far-reaching. The ambassadors and foreign dignitaries who are my guests will carry stories of this home with them.’
There was nothing I could say. Darnley’s behaviour was foolhardy and cruel. Lord James Stuart took advantage of Mary’s distressed state to push his own agenda, and pressed her on matters he’d been pursuing for the last six months. On the very evening of the christening I heard him say to her, ‘At this joyous time perhaps your majesty might consider looking kindly on the petition of those of your lords residing in England who wish to come home.’
Lord Ruthven was now dead of natural causes, and two of his accomplices had been executed for their part in imprisoning the queen and murdering her chaplain. Mary had agreed to think about a reconciliation with the Earl of Morton, Lord Lindsay and some of the others who’d plotted to kill Rizzio. Lord James Stuart had worked ceaselessly with William Maitland to persuade her that giving these men the queen’s pardon was the best way to achieve unity among the nobles. After consideration Mary saw wisdom in this.
‘If they are at home,’ she told me, ‘I can have them watched. Otherwise they’ll stay in England, planning another rebellion. And as John Knox has gone there on extended leave from his ministry at St Giles, perhaps it is better that my truculent lords are away from his influence.’
Anything else was unworkable. She could not survive if she antagonized the whole of the Douglas clan – which meant excusing Morton and Lindsay.
However, before signing the pardon, Mary felt entitled to register her resentment. ‘You are aware that you are asking me to forgive the men who murdered my loyal servant David Rizzio?’
Lord James was ready with a diplomatic answer. ‘They were certainly involved, it’s true, but their motive was to prot
ect your majesty from one they saw as a schemer and a spy who might lead you to unwise deeds.’
When he heard of the pardons Lord Darnley entered the queen’s rooms in agitation, and almost ran to catch at her sleeve. At first I thought he was set on having another row, but then I realized that he was trembling with fear, not rage.
‘You have made it intolerable for me to live at court!’ he cried. ‘Perhaps to live at all. The lords who will return, Morton and the rest, bear me ill intent, for they believe I betrayed them.’
‘You have always protested your innocence in the murder of Rizzio,’ Mary retorted, ‘so should have nothing to fear from these people.’
‘I am going away to be with my family in the west,’ Darnley told her, ‘where I will be safer.’
‘There is nowhere now that is truly safe for that man,’ Gavin commented when I relayed this conversation to him.
We were walking in the castle gardens. Gavin had asked me to spend some time with him as he too had to leave Stirling having been called to Tayside to visit his ailing mother.
‘When I am at court again, Jenny,’ he took my hand in his, ‘may I apply to the queen that we may be betrothed?’
I allowed him to lace his fingers with mine. Sir Gavin was courteous, handsome and of noble standing, and he often made me laugh with his comic observations about life at court. Now he moved towards me and his face was close to mine. ‘Think on it,’ he said softly, and brushed his lips against my cheek.
I closed my eyes as I felt a small frisson of pleasure. ‘I will,’ I promised him. ‘I will.’ I owed it to him to make an honest reply. But how could I when I did not know the answer? The feelings I had for Gavin did not match, in either intensity or depth, those I bore for Duncan. I reflected on the state of my dearest friend, Mary, who’d been caught in the trap of love. Perhaps it was better to marry a man for companionship rather than passion.
I intended to tell no one of Gavin’s proposal but, as was the way within the court, our interlude in the gardens of the castle was soon public knowledge. I refused to discuss it with the Maries or Jean, who hounded me to hear every romantic detail. It had the opposite effect on Duncan Alexander. No longer did he dally in a corridor to exchange views with me, and I became awkward when he was in our company. Mary did not press me, and spoke only to say that she would accede to whatever I wished. I had no idea what my answer would be when Gavin returned.
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