The Raven's Heart

by Jesse Blackadder

  Word comes just before we leave Inverness. Bothwell has escaped from the cells of Edinburgh Castle and fled the country.

  Fourteen

  It is close to winter by the time we return to Edinburgh. The smell of the city is like an old friend, rank but familiar. I breathe it in as if I’m starved for it.

  Angelique waits till we are in our bedchamber to question me.

  “Thank God you’re back,” she says. “Until Bothwell escaped we had nothing to speak of except speculation on the Queen’s marriage and rumors from the north. Tell me if it is true she watched her enemies being slaughtered with a smile upon her lips?”

  I force myself to laugh and concentrate on pulling off my boots. “She did not smile. She put down her enemies with the necessary force and earned all of Scotland’s respect.”

  “She has harshly punished a lad who bragged in a tavern,” Angelique says. “Even her loyal Bothwell has fled the country in fear of his life.”

  “We heard. But not how he escaped.”

  “No one knows. Perhaps he was able to bribe someone once Lord James had left Edinburgh.”

  I wonder if William has gone with him. “Enough of war. What is being said about the Queen’s marriage?”

  She smiles. “Talk was open while the Queen was away. Elizabeth grows ever more powerful and even the common people know she still refuses to acknowledge Mary as her heiress. There are suitors in Spain, France, and Norway. We hear rumors that Elizabeth is offering an English noble of her own. But none of those will put our Queen on the English throne, except through war.”

  “She has shown herself capable of war, don’t you think?”

  “A spat with the Cock of the North is not a war against the might of Elizabeth,” Angelique says. “If your family’s honor waits upon her holding the English throne, you could be waiting a lifetime.”

  “Do they say who Elizabeth will offer?”

  “There are only two suitable men in her court. Lord Dudley or Lord Darnley. But they say that one is a traitor and the other is only a boy.”

  I stretch out my legs, my muscles aching after the two-week ride from Inverness.

  “If you want your castle, I think you must encourage the Queen to marry in England,” Angelique says.

  “You think I have influence! Even if Dudley or Darnley were suitable and even if one of them were to bring her closer to the throne, what can I do about it? She will not marry without love.”

  “You can fan the fire of love. Find out what fascinates our Queen and then whisper to her about it. Make her suitor irresistible in the telling. A woman can be led to love.”

  I climb into bed and lie wakeful as Angelique rolls away from me and her breathing slows and deepens. Death lurks behind every corner, especially for a prince. If some ill befalls Elizabeth and our Queen is married to an English noble, she and her husband would rule England and Scotland uncontested. Angelique is right. It is my best chance at the castle.

  I know nothing of Elizabeth’s nobles and I do not think I will hear about them in the marketplace.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  “I expected you sooner,” Sophie says, as Red ushers me into the upstairs room. She kisses me on both cheeks. “Your father has fled with Bothwell. They set out for France and will petition for Bothwell’s pardon from there.”

  “How did Bothwell escape?” I ask, as her servant pours wine.

  She smiles. “In true Bothwell fashion he prized the bars of his window and climbed down the side of Castle Rock. William waited for him in Nor Loch and they rode to Leith, where his ship was docked. No one has ever escaped from the castle before and they are trying to cover it up.”

  I raise my cup. “To safe escapes.”

  She touches her cup to mine. “Bothwell is bold, but he’s a fool. He says he will never waver in his loyalty to the Queen, even though she had him imprisoned. What spell does she cast on men?”

  “She casts it on everyone,” I say. “Even Knox acknowledges her power.”

  She looks at me, taking in my merchant’s clothing as if she has only just noticed my disguise. “Are you in thrall to her thus?”

  I should reveal nothing. But I long for a confidante and Sophie can be trusted.

  “She has my heart,” I say.

  Sophie is silent a long time, until I drop my gaze, feeling my cheeks redden. She takes my hand. “Be very careful, dear one. Keep this buried deep.”

  “Nobody knows.” I draw my hand out of hers. “I would find out what manner of nobles Elizabeth may offer our Queen in marriage. Lord Darnley and Lord Dudley are both mentioned.”

  “Give me a week. Christmas Eve I shall have word.”

  I swallow the last of my wine and stand up. “Thank you.”

  She stands, kisses me on the cheeks, then leans in to whisper in my ear. “Look elsewhere for love, Robert.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Back in court, as the Queen’s second winter begins to set in, Chastelard has wasted no time since her return. He has written long, tedious poems about her victory in the north, all mists and crags and heather and deer bounding away at first light, no mention of the bogs and frozen fingers and the wind cutting through our clothes. According to Chastelard, Huntly was struck down by divine vengeance, a sign to the Queen’s enemies that God is on her side.

  I watch them each night. Chastelard sits by her side, laughing. He recites poetry, leaping to his feet when overcome by the urge to declare his love. He scribbles sweet words on pieces of paper and hands them to her, keeping his hand close to hers while she reads them. I see how her face lights up when he appears. They draw into dark corners of the room together and in the shadows I glimpse the Queen leaning in, her lips close to his neck. Do they touch? Does she kiss him, or just whisper in his ear? I cannot be sure. When I am close enough to see his eyes, they are shining and half mad.

  “How can she bear him carrying on so?” I ask Angelique in the darkness of our bed. “He makes a fool of himself.”

  “He is in love with her,” she says.

  “Half the realm is in love with her.”

  “He believes she is taking his suit seriously.”

  I laugh. “But he’s the court poet!”

  Angelique says nothing in the dark, but she may as well shout the words into my ear. You are a hundred times less than that, and look at you.

  She turns away from me and I slow down my breathing deliberately. We sleep back to back.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  When I come to Sophie’s upstairs chambers on Christmas Eve, I am not the only visitor. The dimly lit room is crammed with bodies.

  “Robert.” Sophie comes to my side. She is dressed in finery befitting a noblewoman. “I have news for you.” She draws me to a chair in the corner of the room.

  “What I have learned about Robert Dudley is only what’s widely known in England,” she says. “It is no secret that he is Queen Elizabeth’s paramour. It was even thought he might rise high enough to marry Elizabeth herself, but he cannot cast off the stain of his father’s treason. He was married, but his wife died in strange circumstances and the suspicion of murder lurks. It is said Elizabeth does little without consulting him and they are together many hours of each day—and night too.”

  “Why would she offer him to her cousin, then?” I ask, frowning.

  Sophie shrugs. “That I cannot find out. But our Queen would do well to be cautious of such an offer.”

  “What of the other?”

  “I can tell you more about Lord Darnley,” she says. “He is better known outside the English court, having recently returned from his education in France. His father is Matthew Stuart, Earl of Lennox, who was banished to England some twenty years ago after he helped the English, and there married Henry VIII’s niece, Margaret Douglas. The Stuarts are very powerful still in Glasgow, and the Earl has been asking Queen Elizabeth to let him return to Scotland and reclaim his estates. Now that his eldest son, Darnley, is of marriageable age, Lennox is ambitious for him, having lost si
x of his siblings. Darnley is Mary’s own cousin and in line to the English throne.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Seventeen a fortnight since. He is accomplished in Greek, Latin, Italian, and French, a musician, a poet, a man of letters. He is skilled in the physical arts and well versed in courtly manners. He has been groomed for royalty since he was born. The reports of his beauty and his height are not exaggerated.”

  I feel a knot of dislike for him already. “He sounds like the perfect husband for our Queen. Especially if he is tall.”

  Sophie lowers her voice. “I will tell you something not known in England. He has an appetite for younger boys and he likes to hurt them.”

  I stare at her. “Is it just a rumor?”

  “The Queen should observe him with care. It is too early to see what manner of man he will become.” She sits back and smiles. “Will you stay and celebrate the season with us?”

  “I have an engagement elsewhere.”

  “A pity. I have friends here tonight you would be most interested to meet.”

  I stand. “Another time.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I make my way to the lane where the entry to William’s house is hidden. I let myself in and head down the stairs in the dark. When I light a candle, the room is cold and covered in dust, and I can see he has left hastily. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and curl up on the floor while Edinburgh celebrates its Christmas above me.

  William and I never speak of my mother, but on Christmas Eve, the day she was killed, William always drinks himself to insensibility. I strain to remember her face, but I cannot conjure it. I strain to hear her voice, but it is lost to me.

  I have lived my whole life hungry, yearning for the castle to fill the emptiness inside me. If I do not win it soon, it feels like I will starve.

  Fifteen

  The year 1563 begins with the coldest winter in memory. Food is in short supply already and even the great feasts of Holyrood are sparse.

  It is in this deep winter that Chastelard plays his hand. You would think a poet would wait for spring and the softening of winter’s cold grip. But madness has overtaken him and his poet’s heart knows no meter or rhythm.

  The Queen orders another night of music and dancing to take away the winter cold, and dresses us as young noblemen once more. When the dancing is finished after midnight, we climb the staircase, frosty-breathed, and pour into her presence chamber. The Marys are laughing and the room is warm after the iciness of the corridor. A serving girl has hot wine waiting and she pours it into silver cups.

  As I sip my wine, I hear a soft, metallic sound from the bedchamber like the sound of a weapon.

  I catch the Queen’s eye, and I can see she has heard it too. Seton and La Flamina are still whispering and giggling, oblivious. Covered by their laughter, I rise, make my way to the door, and whisper urgently to the guard.

  Four guards come quietly into the room. The Marys falter but the Queen gestures for them to continue their chatter and says in a bright voice, “Beaton, did you not think that Maitland was enchanted by your garb tonight? You should be careful; perhaps he would prefer a young man!”

  Beaton gives an uncertain giggle and then the guards charge past us and into the bedchamber with a shout. Bumps and crashes issue from the room and a man’s voice cries out. None of us recognize the melodic tones of the poet until the guards bring him into the outer chamber. When she sees Chastelard, the Queen turns white.

  “Under the bed, Your Grace,” the guard says. “Armed with these.” Another guard holds up a sword and a dagger.

  “Not to hurt you, Mary, you can’t think that, you can’t—” Chastelard’s voice is cut off by a sharp jerk on some restrained body part.

  “Put him somewhere cold and triple the guard.” I can hear the rage in the Queen’s measured tones.

  “Just let me talk, let me explain.” The guard twists on his arm and the poet’s voice rises to a shriek.

  The guards drag him from the room. The Marys babble in shock, and reach for their wine, and when the Queen stands, with a shuddering sigh, they stand too. Seton reaches for her and embraces her.

  “We will all sleep here tonight,” Lusty announces. “We will stoke up the fire and keep it burning, and bring quilts and pillows. You won’t be alone.”

  “No,” the Queen says. “But thank you. It’s late. Seton will sleep with me in my bedchamber. The rest of you leave me.”

  I am the last to leave and I turn at the door. “Thank you, my raven,” she says.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  The Queen calls me to her bedchamber early the next morning. Seton is already doing her hair.

  “What did he intend?” she asks me without preamble.

  “Your Grace, he is in love with you. He recites love poems to you every night.”

  “But he is the court poet.” She frowns. “That is what court poets do. They do not come armed into the royal bedchamber.”

  “I do not believe it is courtly love he feels.”

  She is silent for a long time, then sighs. “What think you, Seton? Have I acted somehow improperly in this?”

  Seton hesitates. “Perhaps you have been more familiar with him than you should.”

  The Queen stands impatiently. “Speak plainly!” she says to me. “What has been said?”

  “You lean on his shoulder and whisper in his ear,” I say, my heart beating fast. “You kiss him, or so it appears. You keep him close by your side, you dance with him, you press his hand.” I stop, lest the extent of my observation is revealed further. “There has been talk. The courtly love you speak of is not well known in Scotland. You are the Queen and marriageable. Chastelard, in his lust, perhaps truly thinks to woo you.”

  Her frown deepens while I speak and she walks to the window. Seton and I are silent. Eventually she swings around.

  “We will go to Fife at once,” she says. “Somewhere quiet for a few days. I will have Chastelard reprimanded and banished to France this day. No one else shall hear of this foolishness. You are not to speak of it.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  The Queen rides through the High Street in her elegant finery, flanked by the four Marys at their most gracious, smiling and feminine. Bringing up the rear is Lord James, now openly known as the Earl of Moray, in his grim Protestant black. His new name refuses to lodge in my mind.

  I watch the shining faces turned toward us as she passes. Is it any wonder she cannot see the finer nuances of desire, when almost everyone who looks upon her is half helpless with it?

  As we come out of the city to an area of open fields, she reins in her horse till I am beside her. “Ride with me,” she says. We set off at a gallop across the heather, racing side by side, leaving the rest of the party behind. At last we draw up by a stream and let the heaving horses lower their heads to drink.

  “You did not warn me of this,” she says.

  I feel a sudden pang of fear. “Your Grace?”

  “You knew how he felt and what others were saying, but you did not speak.” She pulls up the horse’s head. “Chastelard is a fool, but a dangerous one. To be caught in my bedchamber could raise an evil scandal, and I can’t have it, not when marriage and succession are undetermined. You must watch more closely.” She swings the horse around. “Do not fail me again.” She kicks him into a gallop. I wait a beat before following her so that she will not see the blush on my face.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  At Rossend Castle we are given the best welcome that can be managed in such a foul season; the castle knew of our visit only when a hasty messenger arrived a few hours ahead of our party. We eat a plain meal of salted meats, listen to a somber recital by the Queen’s musicians, and go to bed so early that many, used to the late nights of the court, grumble and find it hard to sleep. But the Queen promises that if the weather holds we shall go hawking.

  The long February night finally comes to an end and in the morning we ride out to meet the hawking master. For some hours the fine birds swoop
and scream and strike their prey and dig their talons into our leather gloves. They swivel their heads and watch us with their inhuman eyes until the hunting is done and they are masked again.

  The evening draws in, bringing another gloomy night. The lord and lady of the castle do their best to make us comfortable. The musicians play once more in the cold hall, their breath frosty. But the Queen is fresh-cheeked from her day outside and goes to her bed with good humor. Seton and I accompany her to the bedchamber and she smiles as we begin to unhook her stays.

  “It is good to be tired from doing something,” she says. “I have breathed fresh air and felt the ground under my feet. I have left behind Edinburgh and my cares for a day. It is good to come out into the country.”

  As she speaks, I press my fingers against the stiff fabric of her dress, and loosen the lacings holding it tight. The soft fabric of her underthings is exposed when suddenly there is a clatter outside and the door bursts open. It is Chastelard. Where has he come from? His eyes are wild and he comes at the Queen in a headlong rush.

  “Please hear me, my love, you must listen, you can’t send me back to France. I love you, Mary. And you love me. You can’t deny it.”

  He is raving and pushing at me to get to her. I shout his name—“Chastelard! Chastelard!”—to wake him from this madness. Seton is shrieking and then there is a crash at the door and the sound of steel. I have never been so glad to hear it.

  It is Lord James, sword brandished, and he gives a roar that halts Chastelard long enough for the guards to rush in and take him. They push him face down on the floor, an arm twisted behind his back. Lord James pushes the point of his sword between the poet’s shoulder blades.

  “Kill him, my brother,” the Queen says.

  The room falls silent suddenly and a log cracks in the fire, making us jump. Chastelard’s breath comes in sobs but he has the sense not to plead for his life. The sword tip quivers and I wait for it to plunge into his back.

  But I have forgotten it is Lord James, the statesman, who has him pinned. He was regent for nine years and he knows how to choose the right moment for killing.