More laughter as Randolph inspects her clothing carefully, buying himself some time.
“I am sure she could not fail to be entranced by you,” he says at last.
The Queen acknowledges his footwork with a nod. “Then I shall send my cousin one of my own rings to show her the regard in which I hold her.”
She claps her hands for the dancing to begin and takes one of her ladies-in-waiting as a partner. There is laughter around the room and those lords who are scandalized do their best to hide it.
The Queen is the center of attention tonight, but I feel exposed. I spy out Lord Hume and move as far away from him as possible. He is surrounded by men in the colors of his livery and my mouth dries as I watch them through my mask.
Lord Bothwell is standing alone and I make my way to his side.
“It is I,” I say in a low voice.
He lifts his drink and toasts me. “You must be high in the Queen’s favor, Robbie boy. You arrived in her own party. William will be pleased.”
“Who are the men with Lord Hume?”
“David Hume, sixth Baron of Wedderburn, his son George, who will be the seventh Baron, their wives, and some younger brothers.”
“Which of them holds Blackadder?”
He turns to me. “Alexander Hume. But he has never come to court.”
I press myself back into the shadows. “Why are they here?”
“A show of strength.” Bothwell drinks again. “It’s better if they don’t see you talking with me. Any enemy of Hume is in danger. I have been dodging his spies all over the Borders these past weeks.”
“I will take my leave.” I begin to move.
“Whatever your plans are, act soon,” Bothwell says. “I may not be able to protect William much longer. Just the name of Blackadder is enough to put you in danger.”
“I have news for William,” I say.
“He is at Katy’s Tams, and in sore need of good news.”
I slip away through the crowd and flee the curious stares. I take the chance to leave the castle, draping a plain cloak over my finery. I make my way up the Canongate, through Netherbow Port, and along the High Street to Katy’s Tams, the place between my shoulder blades tingling all the way.
William is sitting in one of the booths toward the rear, with his back to the door. I cross the floor, keeping my head low, and slide onto the bench. My palms are sweating. A barmaid comes over with jug and ale and pours me a cup. I take a gulp and look at William.
“I told you never to dress as Robert again,” he says.
“The Queen herself dresses me like this for her amusement.” I lean forward. “I have succeeded. She has promised to help us.”
There is a flash of hope in his eyes as he raises his head. “Help us?”
“She has promised if I continue to serve her faithfully, our castle will be restored to us when she succeeds to the English throne.”
His eyelid begins to twitch.
“Before this we had nothing,” I say.
“Do you know,” he says quietly, “how old Queen Elizabeth is?”
“She is older than our Queen, and England’s last three rulers have all died young. The life of a ruler is never secure. Our Queen could succeed any day.”
“She could die any day too,” William says through gritted teeth. “It was a mistake to send a woman to do a man’s work. You’ll come back with me. We’ll both work for Bothwell. The castle will be won back only through blood.”
“I am committed to the Queen’s service,” I say. “John and Margaret have placed me there until the Queen gives me permission to go.”
He clenches his fists. “I shall have them ask her to release you.”
“No!” I say. My vehemence startles me. The prospect of leaving the Queen is a physical pain in my chest.
He starts to rise from his chair. I have never defied him before.
“I have a royal promise, and the protection of the Queen,” I say urgently. “Even Bothwell cannot stand up to the might of Lord Hume and it may be he cannot protect you either. We cannot win it back by force, William.”
His fists are still clenched. Will he strike me, here in the tavern? My body tenses, ready to dodge him. He stares at me another moment and then lowers himself back into his chair.
“Get me a drink,” he says, and I am off the bench and halfway through the crowd before he can blink. I order him a full cup of whisky and take a small one for myself. My hands are shaking as I carry them back to the booth.
William takes the drink. “You must fight the way a woman does. Serve the Queen till she cannot do without you. Do her most secret tasks. Make her need you. Put her in your debt. Then use all your persuasion until she says yes. One of us will prevail.”
I toss back my whisky and place the empty cup on the table. “I must go, or I shall be missed. I will do as you ask.”
“I know,” he says.
≈ ≈ ≈
The Queen calls for another masque to fight off the winter.
“Wear that outfit again,” she says to me. “Put on the mask. Speak French. Lord Hume has gone back to the Borders, so you need not worry.”
It is dangerous, but my heart thrills at the secret between us and the way she looks at me when I emerge from behind her dressing screen in my hose and doublet.
The Queen’s Scottish poet, George Buchanan, has scripted a story for the masque where Apollo and the Muses throw themselves on the mercy of the Queen after fleeing their homes during war.
The actors declaim their parts dramatically, the music heightens the intensity. The wine flows freely and though the rest of the country will be chewing on salted meat this late in the winter, the Queen has ordered a slaughter so we may feast on fresh flesh.
I am her private favorite, but on such a night I do not come near the Queen. I stand back in the crowd and content myself with watching her. She is gracious to her guests, to her foreign dignitaries, to her Marys. I hug her secret affection for me to my chest and speak to no one.
It is late, after dinner, when he comes, sweeping into a courtly bow, sinking to one knee before her. He does not rise at once, but looks up, holds his cap to his richly decorated breast, and recites a poem to her. I edge through the crowd. As I come closer and hear his French, I recognize Chastelard, the poet who arrived in Scotland with the Queen and then returned to France.
I am no poet, but to me his words are sweetmeats: thick on the tongue, quickly gone, leaving my belly sour afterward. But French is the language of such poetry and already I can see that the court—and the Queen—are enchanted by his manner.
“Pierre de Chastelard,” she says when he is finished, “It is a pleasure to hear your voice again. I have missed a true French poet.”
“Ah, but you have the incomparable Buchanan, who is known even in France,” he says, still on his knees. “My words are but a humble imitation of what he can compose.”
“True, Buchanan has no equal. But I would fill my court with musicians and poets like a feast, and there are fewer of them here in Scotland. I pray you will delight me with your presence until the winter ends, at least.”
He bows low again. “I would be honored.”
“Come, sit by me, tell me of France.”
Buchanan may be the Queen’s favorite poet, but he would never sit so close to her side, leaning right across her to whisper into her ear. She does not rebuke Chastelard, but lets him stay there and then leans across him in the same manner to whisper some private thing, and they both laugh, faces close together.
The heart is a measuring device, able to detect the tiniest nuance of distance. I have seen her sit close to other men. I have seen her lean in to speak some private word. I have seen her laugh with them. But I feel a twisting in my chest looking upon the two of them.
The French ambassador is smirking, but Randolph, the English ambassador, is watching the Queen in alarm. She has asked me to warn her of danger, has she not? I move closer to them and cough to attract her attention.
“Robert?”
“Your Grace, the ambassadors look restless. Perhaps it is time you began a dance?”
She nods her head. “Come here.”
I present myself before her.
“Pierre, this is my faithful servant, Robert,” she says.
I rise in time to see her whispering in his ear and his eyes widen with interest. Suddenly I feel like an oddity for her amusement. With the shallowest of bows possible, I turn and walk away.
The musicians strike a chord to begin the dancing as I return to my place against the wall. When the Queen calls out for us all to stand and join in, I stay still, sullen.
Angelique crosses the room to my side. “Don’t be a fool,” she whispers. “Dance.”
Somehow I put my hands on the parts of Angelique’s body where they are required to go, enter the line of couples poised, and as the music starts, we dance.
I must help the Queen find a husband, but I have not, until tonight, known how it will feel.
Twelve
I have lived my lifetime with the bitter knowledge that something of mine has been taken, but I have not truly known what a vile thing jealousy is. I cannot bear to watch the Queen cavorting with Chastelard and I cannot bear to be away from her.
I must win back her fascination. I must find rumors and gossip and information that hold as much weight and color as Chastelard’s poems.
Always the talk in the city is of her marriage, and much of what I hear will not be to her liking. Scotland is full of young nobles, come to power early after the bloody battles of Flodden and Pinkie Clough killed a generation of their fathers and grandfathers. They have time and money without maturity and they play the games of boys.
James Hamilton, the mad Earl of Arran, comes from the powerful Hamilton family which lies close to the throne. But he is not the only noble with the desire for royalty. I hear tavern gossip that John Gordon, a handsome son of Lord Huntly, thinks he has a chance at the Queen’s hand too. Lord Huntly is chancellor of the Privy Council and a Catholic, high in the Queen’s favor. But while he bows his head and makes fealty here in Edinburgh, it is said that he rules the northern corner of Scotland as if he were its king.
I listen and wait and watch for something more than gossip. The tale is repeated around the city, but I can never pin it down. Late at night I creep back into my room, strip off my clothes, pull a nightgown over my head, and slide into bed next to Angelique. She rolls her warmth toward me and breathes evenly and her eyes are closed. I do not know if she is asleep or only pretending.
≈ ≈ ≈
One morning in early spring I join the Queen’s ladies in the presence chamber where the fire roars high. The Queen is an accomplished needleworker, but I am inadequate at best and have been assigned some mending where the quality of the stitching cannot be seen.
Chastelard is not with us and for once I can simply relax in the Queen’s presence. I watch her, discreetly glancing up from my sewing. I have missed her.
The Queen jumps to her feet suddenly and strides across the room to the window. She peers outside restlessly while we watch, ready to move at her order. The room is warm and close; the windows have not been open since November. I am grateful that I may escape the feeling of suffocation, the inactivity, the always-cold fingers, toes, noses, the yearning for fresh air. Without my explorations I would sink into a half-stupor through the winter.
A guard knocks and enters the chamber. “The Earl of Arran,” he announces.
The Queen nods. “Bring him in.”
Lord Arran rushes across the room toward the Queen. By the time the guards have gathered their wits, he is on his knees, gripping her skirt and babbling incoherently. She draws back and as the guards haul him to his feet, some of his senses return.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, forgive me, but you are in wicked danger.”
She considers him for a moment, then nods to the guards, who drop his arms.
“It was Bothwell, Madam, who made me do it. He wants to rule the country. He made me agree that he and I would kidnap you and take you to Dumbarton Castle.”
“What?” Her voice is icy.
“Bothwell told me I must then use you for my pleasure until you agree to marry me.”
There is a gasp around the room and the guards step forward again. The Queen holds up a hand.
“Then he and I would rule the country,” Lord Arran continues. Spittle gathers at the sides of his mouth and his eyes wander strangely. “God told us to do this, but I cannot, and now I beg your forgiveness.”
“You have confessed to treason, Lord Arran,” the Queen says.
He sinks to his knees. “Yes. But it was Bothwell’s suggestion, Your Grace, and he who put me up to it. I made him believe I agreed so I could reveal it to you.”
She nods at the guards again and they seize him. His voice rises. “You must listen, Your Grace, you are in danger. He means to take the throne.”
The guards drag him from the room and I breathe out in relief. But her face is grim. She says to another guard, “Bring Lord James at once.”
It is eight months that she has reigned here on Scottish soil and her nobles are still jostling and vying for their own advantage. Lord James arrives within minutes and when he hears about Arran and Bothwell’s plot, his lip curls almost imperceptibly. Statesman that he is, he has kept his loathing of Bothwell well hidden from the Queen.
“We will not tolerate any risk to you, my sister,” he says. “They must both be arrested at once and thrown into the castle where we can keep them under watch.”
She smiles at him. “Thank you, dear brother. It is a sensitive matter, as you can imagine.”
Bothwell is a rogue, but in one way he stands apart from the rest of the nobility. His loyalty to the Queen cannot be bought off at any price. The other lords, with their complex networks of clan loyalty, religion, old hatreds and new feuds, do not like him for it, and now Lord James has his chance.
I must reason with her. Surely she knows the loyalty of Bothwell has never been found wanting? But she goes into her inner chamber. By the time she comes out, hours later, it is to hear from Lord James that Bothwell has been arrested.
≈ ≈ ≈
“I must speak to her!” I take my frustration out on Angelique in our tiny bedchamber, pacing up and down. “If she knows the truth, she will order his release.”
Angelique is sitting on the bed, her hair loose over her shoulders. “Do you believe so?”
“How could she not?”
“No doubt she has seen your desire to speak to her and yet she has not permitted it,” Angelique says. “I do not think she wishes to hear about Lord Bothwell.”
“But only this night past I have heard the same rumor about Huntly’s son John Gordon! Arran is deranged; he has likely mixed up the two men in his mind, even if any of it is true.”
“Do you know that she secretly made her brother the Earl of Moray last week?” Angelique asks.
I spin around. “I have not heard this.”
“You have been away from the palace much of the time,” she says. “It is Lord James whom she favors now, and Lord James has imprisoned Bothwell. She does not wish to confront her brother. I fear your Bothwell shall stay in the castle dungeons for some time.”
“But this charge cannot stand up in a trial on the word of a madman.”
“If it goes to trial.”
“How could it not go to trial? The Queen herself said she would examine Bothwell.”
Angelique laughs, throwing up her hands. “Are you such an innocent, Alison?” I glare at her and her face becomes serious again. “It is not Bothwell you must think of. You cannot help him, but your anger endangers you.”
“She has imprisoned a man wrongly.”
“Is that it? Or is it because she favors another above you?” She stands up and comes close to me, dropping her voice. “I warned you. Do not think yourself safe for a moment. If you have heard rumor of another plot, then rebuild her favor
by finding the details for her. Make sure you do not go down with Bothwell.”
“You have been a courtier too long,” I say, turning away.
“And you, not long enough,” she says. “Courtiers die, just as noblemen and soldiers do, when their judgement is poor.”
≈ ≈ ≈
On a normal night Angelique’s eyes turn to me when I come in, dressed in whatever finery the Queen has ordered that day. She turns me with gentle hands, helps untruss me, peels back my disguise. She turns away when I’m down to my underwear and, when she looks again, I’m in my nightgown with no powder, no wig, no frock, no tunic, no clothes to delineate me as male or female. I help her with her clothes and brush her hair. We get into bed together like sisters.
She is asleep when she is meant to be and keeps her eyes always in the correct direction. So why do I wake to find us breathing in rhythm? Why do I let my gaze stray when she is undressing, in hope of catching sight of some sweep of skin?
I wake in the dark, the morning after Bothwell’s arrest, to find her hand in my hair. Her palm curves around the shape of my skull. Our breathing is slow and in time. A warmth has spread from her sleeping hand and down into me.
Outside the first birds are thawing their frozen throats, ready to start the day. There is a different quality in the air this morning, some subtle scent or change in temperature. During the night, spring has arrived.
I allow myself a few moments to feel what it is like to be close to another body and then I draw myself away with a sudden movement.
“What is it?” she asks sleepily.
“I do not like the smell of your breath so close to me,” I say.
She turns over, away from me, without a word.
Thirteen
I believed that William and I were allies of one of the Queen’s leading lords. But Bothwell has fallen and all those aligned with him are now tainted by association.
Bothwell and Arran are imprisoned in cells gouged out of the stone-cold bowels of Edinburgh Castle. Lord James still rules much of the country with an iron fist, no matter who sits on the throne in Edinburgh, and his grip is nowhere tighter than on the lock of the cell where his enemy Bothwell paces.
The Raven's Heart Page 9
