He takes me to a tiny windowless room with a bed, a chair, and a small fireplace. The servant squeezes my two trunks next to another already in residence. The largest holds my five dresses, my new jewels, my tiny shoes. The smaller, which Margaret does not know about, contains my riding breeks, my male clothes, my boots, and my dagger.
“You will share with Angelique Lambert, one of the Queen’s French party,” he says. “Put your things away and return to the antechamber.”
He leaves and I sit on the bed and wrap my arms around myself. Compared with the French, we are peasants. John knows little of a royal court and William knows nothing. We have not had an adult monarch living in this country since the Queen’s father died nineteen years ago.
I must put our case to the Queen before the Hume family ingratiates itself with her. But Lord Hume is one of her leading nobles and I am now one of the lowest members of her household. As Robert, I had a small chance of capturing her attention. As Alison, none.
≈ ≈ ≈
The ribbon is made from silk and it slides through my fingers, heavy with the weight of its own importance. It is a deep crimson, a fine offset to the white gown the Queen wore yesterday, which is now ready to be examined for damage, carefully arranged, hung, and aired. The ribbon is to be rolled free of creases and stored in a perfumed drawer, the embroidered slippers placed close—but not too close—to the fire so they are perfectly dry before being put away. There are dozens of such outfits that make up the Queen’s wardrobe and the care of them is an exacting task requiring many hands.
The Queen’s household contains several hundred servants, nobles, musicians, valets, ladies-in-waiting, and friends who seem to have no specific role. The four Marys, her companions since birth, are the apex of the court pyramid. They traveled to France with her when she was five and have not left her since. They share everything—even her name. Mary Beaton, Mary Seton, Mary Fleming, and Mary Livingstone. They are known by nicknames: Beaton, Seton, La Flamina, and Lusty.
The court of our new Queen is more French than Scot. More than half her three hundred household members are French and they carry an air of contempt for their new country and its inhabitants. They have helped me understand that my French is passable at best, my manners rough, my wardrobe of Margaret’s best dresses laughably out of date, and my knowledge of the daily power-play of a royal court nonexistent.
I had imagined I might brush her hair or warm her nightgown by the fire. But for countless hours I sit or stand in the antechamber of the Queen’s apartments, where all who wish to see her must begin their journey. I observe who comes to pay homage and the expressions on their faces as they emerge from her presence, searching for clues to how I might plead the Blackadder cause.
At night, when my jaw aches, I return to the tiny quarters I share with Angelique, another lowly ranked lady-in-waiting who sees no more of the Queen than I do. We barely speak during the tedious business of undressing. We say our prayers separately, bid each other good night, and roll on our sides to keep a space between us in bed. She falls asleep quickly and leaves me to my nightly planning.
Since I was presented to the Queen I have barely met her eyes. William has waited forty-two years for justice and I have waited the sixteen years of my own life. Every day has become interminable; I must fasten the words down inside me, lace them into place, and keep them there, lest they spill out at the wrong time and ruin our cause.
On my tenth day in court, a group of nobles arrives in the antechamber to see the Queen. Dark with resentment, I watch them being announced. At the rear of the group is Lord Hume.
I take a sharp breath at the sight of him and swiftly drop my eyes so that he does not see me. It was not so difficult to lead the Queen to believe I am the daughter of a lesser noble family. But we have never known for certain if the Hume clan realizes William still has a living heir. If Lord Hume hears the name Blackadder and believes our family is reviving the old claim, I might be conveniently murdered like my relatives.
When I look up again, he and the other nobles have passed through to the presence chamber. It takes all my strength to stand still, half smiling, when I wish to run or stamp and clench my fists with fury. He has the Queen’s ear already.
I run through my useless plans again, but I can think of nothing new to attract her attention. My female accomplishments are unremarkable at best and my masculine ones inappropriate. William’s plan is a failure. He would have done better to simply bring me as Robert every day with the other petitioners and wait in the hope of gaining an audience.
At last the nobles emerge, striding through the antechamber with the air of men well pleased. Lord Hume claps the shoulder of Lord James and laughs out loud. Then, without warning, his gaze swings around and catches me before I can wipe the fury from my face. For a second his eyes fix on me and then he is past and I am left with the color high in my cheeks and my heart thudding with shock. Have I revealed myself?
George Seton follows the nobles out and announces that the Queen will ride to Stirling in the morning and any of the household with their own mounts may join the party.
My heart thuds again. There has been more excitement in a few minutes than in the whole of my ten days at court. I have a chance, at last, to ride with the Queen.
Five
The autumn weather is cold and gray, but I would not care if it was a tempest. I enter the courtyard dressed in my riding habit with my new breeks underneath. A stableboy holds my mare and I cup her velvet nose in my gloved hands and inhale her honest smell.
The French courtiers grumble about the icy cut of the wind but I turn my face toward it with delight, and my mare, sensing my desire, stamps and jerks her head. She has been confined too, in the royal stables, and she pricks her ears.
The Queen’s horses have arrived at last from France. Milk-white palfreys: large-boned, shiny-eyed creatures with impossibly glossed coats. Even an autumn day such as this is enough to make them snort and swivel their ears at the breeze—they will suffer through a Scottish winter. My mare, with her coat already well thickened for the season, looks small and shaggy beside them, and her Spanish breeding is nowhere evident.
The Queen and her Marys all ride astride, though I notice that her French courtiers do not and my heart begins to pound. Am I violating some court protocol? Will she notice me not with favor but anger?
The Queen climbs her mounting block. She gracefully steps into the stirrup held by George Seton, though there is no missing the sight of her breeks as her leg rises over the horse’s back and she settles into the saddle. I glance around. Some from her new Scots household have forgotten themselves and are staring in fascination.
The stableboy comes around to help me mount and I must remember to do so like a woman, relying on his strength to boost me to the horse’s back. I can feel eyes upon me as I take my leg across. Head bent, I arrange my reins, my cheeks burning. Standing out in a court is a dangerous thing.
Some four dozen of us move in a clatter out of the courtyard through the front gates. Once we are away from the city outskirts, the Queen and her Marys push their horses into a smooth, fast pace. George Seton urges the rest of us to greater speed so that we are not left behind.
I am the only other woman astride, but I am surrounded and jostled, invisible as always. I take a breath, pick up the reins, and urge my horse through the scuffle of riders to the fore of the party. The Queen is some way ahead but the ground is rough, and while the palfreys hesitate and slow their stride, I catch up. Their horses plunge into a gallop and I press forward to join them.
I lean low over the horse’s neck and she responds, her muscles bunching and stretching underneath me. The rest of the party falls away behind us and, when at last the Queen slows her horse, the countryside around us is deserted and our companions a blur of color far back along the road.
At the sound of my mare’s hooves approaching, the Queen turns around. The Marys merely glance and return to their chatter, but I feel the Queen gaze
intently at my horse. I halt a reverent distance away and she gestures me to come closer.
“I know this creature, do I not?” she asks. “She is like to Artemis, who carried me into Edinburgh.”
I bow my head, unpracticed at the angle and depth of the movement on horseback. “Your Grace, she is the same horse.”
“Belonging to a lad,” she says musingly.
“Robert Blackadder, my cousin. He loaned her to me so I would have a worthy mount to ride in your service.”
She smiles slightly. “Horsemanship must run in your family.”
“Let’s gallop up the hill,” says Lusty, her horse recovered and prancing to be gone. “We’ll see for miles from up there.”
The Queen glances back to our party, still far behind.
“They’ll catch us,” Lusty says. “Come on!”
They even ride in unison, these five, like sisters. No sooner does the Queen smile and raise her reins than their horses break into a gallop together. This time I ride alongside, but as we veer off the road and onto a winding track leading up the hill, Lusty hesitates. Tracks branch out in all directions, worn by sheep and cattle searching for feed. I have traveled this road between Stirling and the capital countless times and explored its back tracks and byways. William has taught me every escape route. If my uncle Patrick had known such tracks when he was ambushed outside Edinburgh by the Humes, he might have lived.
“Lead us,” the Queen says.
I urge my mare to the front and onto the summit track.
We canter to the top and pull up to survey the land. Their palfreys are blowing, coats wet with sweat, and the Queen watches my mare appraisingly for a moment before turning her attention to the countryside. I gulp the autumn air like a tonic and follow her gaze.
Edinburgh Castle looms up on its rocky outcrop, embraced by the Flodden Wall. Outside the wall, the strips of small holdings farmed by the city’s inhabitants stretch out into fields and grazing lands. The harvest is almost done, the fields lie stubbled. In the distance, heavy clouds are dropping rain. A coil of smoke rises from the roof of a cottage below us.
“Why, look,” La Flamina points. “They have grass on the roof. How quaint.”
They all peer and then the Queen turns to me. “Is it some manner of shelter for beasts?”
“Beasts and men together,” I answer. “In winter the beasts shelter inside and keep people warm.”
“Let us look,” Lusty says. When the other three make noises of disapproval, she persists. “Mary should know what manner of people she rules.”
This time the Queen moves to the lead and they fall behind her without a word. I pause for a moment before following. Our followers could miss the track we have taken up the hill and pass us by. Does a lady-in-waiting dare to remind the Queen of such a thing?
As we approach the cottage, children stare open-mouthed. “What a hovel!” one of the Marys exclaims.
As the Queen rides up close, a man pushes aside the hide door and comes out. His red hair and ruddy skin are in high contrast to the dull gray of his clothes. He is bearded, hands and feet earth-stained, his blue eyes wary. The Marys come to a halt. There is a moment of silence and then the Queen rides forward.
“Good man, please forgive our intrusion,” she says, and I can hear the warmth in her voice. “It seems we have strayed foolishly from the road and our traveling party. Would you be so kind as to point out how we might return to it?”
He takes a step toward her. She will smell the reek of him, the honest stink of earth and animal and sweat. I suddenly want him to show her that peasants in Scotland have pride and strength the equal of any in France.
“Dangerous riding alone,” he says. “I’ll take ye to road.”
“You’re too kind,” she says.
He begins to walk and after a moment she realizes she is meant to follow, and turns her horse around. The children have crept outside the door and a woman tries to gather them back in, but she cannot help staring either at such gaudy finery.
He swings down the path in long strides, his bare feet unhesitating so we must keep our horses at a good step to keep up with him. I can feel the first spits of rain as he brings us around the hill to the road. Our party is halted some way farther back. Someone catches sight of us, a shout goes up, and they start to move in our direction.
The Queen smiles down at him. “I thank you.”
He nods, his face expressionless. So close to Edinburgh, surely even such a family will have heard that the Queen has returned?
George Seton pulls up with a clatter of hooves, his face red. “Your Grace,” he pants. “It is most dangerous to stray alone from the road. Scotland is full of wild men. I must insist you stay with the party.”
“I have been well protected by one of my subjects,” she says. “Pray see that he is rewarded.”
She gathers her Marys with a gesture of her head and they break into a canter again. She has not looked at me and I hesitate. Can I still ride with her close circle, or am I relegated to the crowd of followers?
I glance down at the peasant, incongruous amid the glittering courtiers. George has pressed a coin into his hand and he clutches it, staring after the Queen. I cannot see the expression on his face under his wild beard, but his eyes are glowing like my own eyes must look on this day when at last I have ridden close to her and she has spoken to me.
Six
The small town of Stirling, with its steep cobblestone streets twisting and winding up the hillside, does not seem grand enough for a queen. But its castle is magnificent. Rebuilt by the Queen’s father for his French wife, it rivals both Holyrood Palace and Edinburgh Castle and outshines the other royal castles of Linlithgow and Falkland. It is said its great hall rivals some of those in Europe. Presence chambers for queen and king are opulent and, without the crowd of Edinburgh courtiers, diplomats, and nobles, the Queen’s rooms here seem spacious and bright.
The absence of Lord James, her bastard half-brother, lightens our lives also. In his Protestant black, he has brooded over the Queen’s court at Holyrood. He can chill the laughter from a room simply by entering. This separation must be to their mutual relief. He can continue with the business of running Scotland, while she may play at being its glorious figurehead.
And I continue as one of her unremarkable ladies. I thought once we had spoken and ridden together that I might be admitted to her inner circle. But for three days she and the Marys walk past me in the antechamber as if I am a creature embroidered into one of the tapestries, and I am left again clenching my fists behind my back.
Four days after we arrive, Lord Bothwell comes to Stirling and strides into the antechamber. William follows. He nods to me and turns away, though from the prickle at the base of my neck I surmise he is trying to spy on me.
Bothwell shakes his head at the offer of wine and a tray of dainty food, and he refuses to sit but stands like a soldier, his legs apart while his presence is relayed to the Queen. He has found himself a position where he can observe the room, his back to the wall. I keep my eyes averted and half turn away from him.
Bothwell has believed I am William’s nephew these past five years and he thinks Robert has some lowly position in the Queen’s household. I have played my new role of lady-in-waiting well until now. But with William and Bothwell in the room, I panic. I feel like an oaf in my court-fine dress and I do not know how to stand or arrange myself. I fear Bothwell will see beneath all my layers of disguise.
When Bothwell and William are called to enter the Queen’s presence chamber, I watch their backs disappear and wait for my color to subside.
“Do you know the Lord Bothwell?”
I swing around. It is Angelique, who sleeps by my side each night but is still a stranger.
“By reputation,” I say, affecting a slightly bored tone. “A relative of mine serves him.”
She nods. Like me, she spends much time in this antechamber. I have not mastered the idle conversation of courtiers yet, but this day, expo
sed, I need a companion.
“He does not look like a lord,” she says.
I bristle. “He may not be such a courtier, but he is the most loyal of the Queen’s nobles.”
She shrugs and we lapse into silence. At last we hear the door to the presence chamber open and she turns. “Here they are. Your Lord Bothwell must be dining with the Queen.”
I glimpse the Queen talking animatedly to Bothwell as they lead the way from the presence chamber. William waits behind and as I straighten from my curtsy he is standing in front of me.
“Why, cousin,” I say, holding out a hand for him to kiss. “What brings you and Lord Bothwell to Stirling?”
“My Lord has business with the Queen,” he says gruffly.
“Are you staying long?”
“No. Lord Bothwell is going to the Borders and I will go too.”
I blink in surprise. “I thought Bothwell was staying in Edinburgh.”
“Lord Bothwell goes where the Queen wishes,” he says. “And what of you? Do you spend much time with the Queen?”
Angelique laughs beside me and fans herself.
“A little,” I say. “I rode with her on the way from Edinburgh.”
“Then you are not—close?” He stares at me, his face beginning to work.
“Cousin, you flatter me.” I give a courtier’s laugh. “You had best catch up with Lord Bothwell. Or are you going to your usual lodgings?”
He catches himself. “My lodgings. Good day.” He turns abruptly and hurries away.
Angelique smiles at his back. “Your cousin has been little in court, either. In France, if a lord and his men arrived in such clothing they would be sent away to prepare themselves properly.”
I glare at her. “Lord Bothwell is known in this land for having never wavered in his allegiance to the Queen, not even when offered inducements. You know nothing of Scottish lords and their loyalty.”
She laughs. “And you know nothing of being in court.” A moment later she walks away.
The Raven's Heart Page 4
