The Raven's Heart

by Jesse Blackadder

  “Where are you hurrying to, laddie?”

  “I am on the Queen’s business.” I struggle, trying for a position where I can kick his groin.

  “I don’t doubt it.” The cold of his dagger tips my throat. I freeze.

  “What brings the Queen here to Dunbar in such secrecy? And who are you?”

  “Her favored servant Robert.”

  “I will slit your throat if you don’t speak.” His breath is hot in my ear, his grip tight around my neck. “Who is the Queen here to see?”

  “Bothwell,” I choke.

  Suddenly his entire body weight thrusts against me and he makes a guttural groan like a man in rut. His dagger clatters to the ground and he sags.

  “Robert!” William’s low voice comes from behind the man. He grabs my arm. The man crumples to the ground. I stagger away from him, coughing.

  “Did you finish him?” It is Bothwell.

  “Straight through the heart,” William says.

  Bothwell shoves the body with his foot and grunts his approval. In the faint light of the tavern lantern I can see his grin. “Come on then. We’ll drop Hume’s spy in the harbor on the way. Is your mistress ready to see us?”

  “She’s waiting,” I rasp out.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  “How did Hume know we were coming?” William asks, as we wait for Bothwell to finish with the Queen.

  “He has spies in court, like everyone,” I say.

  “You were all too ready to blurt Bothwell’s name.”

  “He would have cut my throat!”

  “Lucky I got to him before you betrayed me too.” William glares at me. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like to live in danger. Be careful, or Bothwell will guess you aren’t a boy at all.”

  “You should tell him,” I say, rubbing my throat. “It is better he hears from you than from the Queen.”

  “It’s not time yet. What has she said about Bothwell’s letters?”

  I sip my wine to ease my throat. “She says Bothwell is championing Lord Darnley, but she thinks to marry straight to another throne. Don Carlos is her preference.”

  William stands and paces. “If the Queen marries Spain, do you think she will stay here in Scotland? Do you think she will care about some small estate on the border? Hume’s spawn will multiply and you will end your days unmarried in the Spanish court.”

  I jump to my feet. “I tell you, William, I am doing everything I can!”

  There is a knock at the door and Bothwell enters. He gulps down a cup of wine and looks at me. “Do you know anything of the Queen’s mind in this matter?”

  “She is not Elizabeth, with a man’s heart.” My voice is hoarse. “If you think Lord Darnley can win her love, you must contrive for them to meet.”

  “Sound advice,” he says. “But Elizabeth will not let him travel here. We have an impasse.”

  I fix my gaze on Bothwell, ignoring William. “My Lord, all of Scotland knows your determination on the battlefield. Find a way to bring Darnley to Scotland.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  The waning moon is a sliver in the sky as we leave Dunbar. My imagination fills the ride back to Edinburgh through the dark with menacing shapes looming by the roadside and hoofbeats ringing out behind us in pursuit. When we arrive at Holyrood I take my leave of the Queen and run to our quarters. Angi is under the covers, facing away from the door. I undress and climb in behind her, my arms moving around the curve of her waist to pull our bodies together. But for once she does not roll her head back and open her eyes with a smile.

  “Angi?”

  “It’s nothing,” she says. “Just my blood time.”

  Gradually her breathing slows and after a long time her body softens and twitches. Just before I drop off to sleep I remember the crescent of the waning moon. Angi and I have bled in tandem since we first shared the bed, long before we were lovers. But my own blood isn’t due for another week, when the moon is dark.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Angi is still distant when we wake. We must rise and dress early, for the Queen has arranged a riding party with a visiting noble and there is no time to talk. But she won’t quite look at me and her face is drawn. For the first time I taste the fear of losing her, and by comparison the grip of one of Hume’s spies on my throat is nothing.

  The Queen calls me to lead the ride. I must turn my face into the north wind and take them in a gallop, finding the twisting pathway so her guest will see which way to ride and his horse will not stumble.

  When at last we pull up, having left her noble trailing behind us, the Queen looks at me and furrows her brow. “Your lips are blue. Are you unwell?”

  “No, Madam, only cold,” I dissemble, as we wait to let him catch up.

  When we ride back and meet up with the rest of the party, Angi gives me a tiny, tremulous smile that sweeps away my despair and makes me weak with relief. But when we return to the palace in the fading light of afternoon, she disappears in the hubbub of horses, riders, servants, and grooms in the courtyard. She is not at dinner, and when I retire, wild with panic to find her, the bed is empty.

  When she creeps in, long hours later, with chattering teeth and icy fingers, and takes me in an iron grip, I break into wild sobs that she muffles against her neck, rocking me with soft murmurs. In moments, we’re kissing, faces wet, bodies slick, and she slides down between my legs and brings me to a painful pleasure that is almost unbearable. I go to touch her but she draws my hand away and straddles my leg instead and her pleasure is as hard and desperate as mine.

  Afterward, wet-faced, she murmurs, “It is nothing, don’t worry, don’t worry,” and my raw heart is quietened.

  But something has changed, and whatever Angi keeps secret lies between us at night, breathing in the dark. In the daytime my mind moves in wider and wider circles trying to find it, and there is no peace, only the fear that I will lose her. Each night in our bed, the unleashing of desire is as potent as the first time we touched each other. I sleep little, awake with terror or longing, and the cold seems more intense than ever.

  Winter slowly loosens its grip. The Queen writes again to the Spanish King about marrying his son, but his reply, when it finally arrives, is evasive. There are no more letters from Lord Bothwell, and no word from William. Lord Darnley does not come to Scotland. The first daffodils sit in tight, hard buds waiting for warmer weather and the snowdrops nod their white heads.

  Eighteen

  The windows of the Queen’s chamber are open to let in the spring sunshine. Rizzio has rejoined the musicians and sings in his angel’s voice. Since the meeting with Bothwell I have had nothing to report to the Queen. The marriage stalemate has gone on for so long that no one is expecting a sudden move. When a messenger is admitted with news from Lord Darnley, the room comes to life.

  “He has sent you something?” asks Lusty, peering around the Queen to see what the package contains. “What is it?”

  “Patience,” the Queen says.

  “Patience!” Lusty nudges her. “You’ve been patient for three years! It’s time for impatience. Open it quickly.”

  The Queen laughs and there is an air of anticipation in her voice. She pulls at the ribbon and takes the lid off the box.

  “An engraving,” says Lusty. “At last we can see what manner of man the young Darnley has grown into.”

  The Queen stares at the miniature closely, then puts her hand to her throat and passes it to Lusty. Once it is out of her hands, every courtier in the room clusters around to see the famous Darnley face.

  The other ladies exclaim over his large, dark eyes, but it seems to me he has a weak chin and a thin mouth. I must see the Queen married, but I feel a hot knife of dislike for this lad.

  It turns out that the gift is from Darnley’s mother, the Countess of Lennox, under genteel house arrest in England at Elizabeth’s order, a hostage to ensure that her husband returns to England.

  “She urges me to consider marrying her son,” the Queen says, reading the letter as t
he miniature is passed from hand to hand. “And here, she lists his qualities. He’s outstanding at writing, hunting, hawking, dancing, music, golf, he is a learned scholar, a Catholic, in line to the English throne, and what’s more, he’s tall!”

  A ripple of laughter runs through the room, although each of us can see the slight flush on the Queen’s cheeks.

  Rizzio’s singer’s voice cuts through the giggles. “Have a care, Madam,” he says. “The way the Countess offers her Catholic son hides a treasonous idea, that England’s Catholics may rally behind the two of you and challenge Elizabeth. It may be a snare.”

  The Queen sighs. “Ah, Rizzio, at the first hint of a suitable marriage partner you pour scorn upon him. Can you not permit me even a moment to dream of a husband who is accomplished, learned, of beauty, and here, she says it, utterly loyal?”

  “Your court and your country contain plenty of men who are so, but they are not the husband for a queen,” says Rizzio. “You, who are the prize of Europe, who may marry into any kingdom, should not lower yourself to one of your cousin’s nobles.”

  My eyes widen to hear him speak to her thus, in front of all of us.

  “Thank you for your opinion, good Rizzio,” she says, tight in the jaw. “I will think upon it.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  That night the Queen summons me to her chambers and tells me we will roam the streets in disguise.

  Now that it is spring, the night streets are busy, the taverns full, and for some time we simply roam like two young merchants. When we have wandered the length of Edinburgh, skirted the Tolbooth, peered into the castle gates, and walked all around Saint Giles, we step into the White Hart Inn and order ale. I elbow us through to a corner table where, under the hubbub of voices and laughter, we can talk unnoticed.

  “It’s been too long since I’ve done this,” she says. “Too long where every word and deed must be watched and analyzed. I am sick of it. Rizzio advises that I marry Spain, and I would do it, but King Philip is a worse prevaricator than Elizabeth. She says I must marry where she tells me, but then she will not tell me!”

  “There are rumors. You have heard them?” I ask.

  She laughs, but bitterly. “I hear nothing but rumors; they are driving me mad. Is there anything new that you have heard?”

  I have not mentioned this rumor before because of the insult implied in it. “It is possible that Elizabeth may offer Lord Dudley.”

  The Queen puts her tankard down with a thump, her brow creased in anger. “How widely whispered is that one? Where did you hear it?”

  “First from my father, through Lord Bothwell, last winter. Did he not mention it to you? Since then, I have heard it even here in Edinburgh.”

  The Queen looks around the tavern at the red faces, the glow of the lanterns, the bare shoulders of the whores tucked into willing arms, laughing loud. She shudders.

  “No, he did not mention it.” She drops her head. “What will my people think of me? Elizabeth scarcely bothers to hide that her master of horse is her paramour. How is it she can behave so and yet still rule her court, while I, who am a truly good Catholic queen, am bullied and overridden day after day?”

  “I have heard something else, about Spain.” I lean forward. “They say King Philip keeps Don Carlos hidden because he is syphilitic. He’s violent and unstable, and may not live.”

  She sits back. “I have heard he is ill, but not the cause.”

  “This is why King Philip evades you. He does not know if his son is fit to marry, let alone rule.”

  The Queen sips her drink and out of lifelong habit I scan the tavern. It is a merry night in Edinburgh and if anyone is spying on us, I cannot see them.

  “Maitland says only that Don Carlos has had a fever and will soon be recovered,” she says at last. “In this matter I trust him. Your rumors may be nothing more than that. Where did you come by them?”

  “A merchant who has connections all over Europe and has given me much true intelligence. The Spanish ambassador will hardly reveal such a thing to Maitland.”

  She regards me for so long that I become uneasy and shift in my seat. “Do you wish to return?” I ask.

  “I have a mind to see you married, even as I will be, God willing,” she says. “When I asked you to dress thus and gather information, I thought it would be for a few seasons at most. But now it is time you stopped this and found a husband.”

  “I wish only to serve you,” I say quietly.

  “That is because you have not known love.”

  “I know the love of a loyal servant for her queen and that is enough for me. I have no wish to marry.”

  “And yet I wish it,” she says, with steel in her smile. “I have a Catholic court, after all, and too many of my courtiers are unmarried. It gives Knox something to point the finger at. Rizzio agrees.”

  I lean close across the table. “I cannot marry until I have my birthright. My father will not permit it. Please, allow me to keep serving you as I have.”

  She considers me. “I will not force you. I know what it is to be told to marry for expedience. But you know my wishes now.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I accompany the Queen back to her presence chamber, where La Flamina is waiting to undress her and sleep by her side. The Queen pats my cheek as she parts from me. “Don’t look so stricken. Love is not to be feared.”

  The route back to my chamber through the darkened corridors of the palace leads me past Rizzio’s quarters. So absorbed am I in the prospect of marriage—threat or promise—that I almost walk into the two dark figures holding a whispered conversation in the hallway. Rizzio’s unmistakable twisted form and another cloaked silhouette. They draw apart at my approach.

  “Angi?” I am bewildered.

  “You are out late,” she says. “I will be by presently.”

  Rizzio says nothing as I pass, but the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

  It is another hour until Angi returns. She comes to the bed, cold-skinned, and turns her back.

  I reach across, but she is unyielding to my touch. “What is his business with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  She is the breadth of a kingdom away from me. I lie on my back, staring into the darkness.

  “The Queen thinks I should marry,” I whisper at last.

  There is no response. Defeated, I roll on my side away from her.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Now it is Angi I must spy on. She keeps her lips tight when I ask a question. She will not let me touch her. She says it is her blood time, but I know it is not. For three nights she turns away in bed, and she avoids me by day.

  The Queen succumbs again to the pain in her right side and takes to her bed, and the whole of her court is called upon to try and lighten her cares. Her servants bring the most tempting pastries on trays from the kitchen. Her valets uncork the best wines. The fire is stoked and fresh rushes are laid on the ground.

  Angi stands across the room from me. Our pact not to look at each other in public was once a delicious game, a promise broken a dozen times in an hour with fleeting glances. But now there is no game in the way she avoids my gaze.

  “I am so sick of being confined,” the Queen says, squirming under Seton’s ministrations. “Where is my medicine? I need something to help me rise from the bed.”

  Rizzio steps forward. “I will send someone. While you wait, we have a song ready for you.”

  He turns to Angi. “Pray call upon the apothecary. He is late with the Queen’s medicine.”

  Angi curtsies and leaves without a word.

  Rizzio and the other musicians begin a soft song. As it swells around us, Seton supports the Queen into a half-sitting position and helps her sip a cup of wine.

  The song finishes and we applaud politely. Rizzio looks across at me. “Alison, go and find out what is delaying Jean-Paul.”

  I can read nothing from his face. I curtsy and back out of the room.

  The dispensary, with its bunches of dried herbs and po
tions in glass bottles, is below ground level, at the end of a twisting corridor. I must take a lantern to light my way, even during the day. As I approach it I expect to find Angi and the apothecary, Jean-Paul, returning to the presence chamber. But I make my way to the door without meeting a soul.

  I raise my hand and bang loudly, then push the door open in a single movement. Jean-Paul has some creature down upon the floor, squirming, while his arse pumps up and down. Our eyes meet over his shoulder. It is Angi.

  Some animal instinct propels me. I wrench myself away from the door and into the corridor and break into a run toward our chamber. I rip the hated dress and wig and jewels from my body, uncaring of the damage to them. I pull on my oldest clothes, the ones I wore as Robert before coming into the Queen’s service. Thus dressed, I run down the back staircase, my breath coming in great gasps. I pelt across the courtyard to the stables, saddle my horse, and within twenty minutes of my betrayal I am galloping across the park toward the foot of Arthur’s Seat.

  The image of Angi underneath him is branded into me. By the time I have pushed the mare to the highest point that she can climb, steaming and snorting, I have still failed to outrun the pain. I throw myself from her back and run to the summit and it bursts from my mouth in a wild cry that sends the ravens up in flight.

  I will kill them both and then, steeped in blood, I will ride like a madman to my father’s castle and slaughter as many of the Hume clan as I can, until I am killed myself. At least I will have done William a small service in my agony.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I wake to Rizzio’s hateful angelic voice. “Robert.”

  I roll over and my head pounds. I can still taste the whisky that brought last night’s oblivion. With awakening comes memory and I recall why I am asleep in the stables in the straw of my mare’s bedding. I groan.

  Rizzio nudges me with his foot. “The Queen has been looking for you. You disappeared without permission.”

  “You had a hand in this.” I scramble to my feet.

  “Do you know how much danger you were in? People are burned as witches for less. The Queen cannot afford such a scandal in her court.”

  “You have no right.” I reach out and grab him. His twisted body is surprisingly light and how good it feels to shake him and drag him toward me. How good it feels to lift him so high that his feet are dangling and his breath choked in his throat.