The Raven's Heart

by Jesse Blackadder

  Since hearing from Elizabeth, the Queen has been cool with Darnley. But at Stirling, under the force of his charm, she melts. She laughs like a girl and leans close to him. She is happy.

  However, he still has not grasped one essential element of courtship, that of allowing her to long for him. He is by her side constantly, his suit unrelenting. He does not know about the dance of seduction, stepping forward, then moving back, the coming together, the drawing apart, the turning away. He is a boy and, when he wants something, all he knows is to put out his hand to take it.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  On a sunny April morning we are mounted in the courtyard, the horses’ coats gleaming in the sun, the air so clear it hurts. We are waiting for Lord Darnley to appear for the hunt, but he is not an early riser and this is not the first time he has held up the party. This morning no one minds terribly. The horses arch their necks and prance, laughter rings out, the dogs sniff and wag around our mounts’ legs.

  At last Darnley’s manservant appears and makes his way to the Queen. She bends in the saddle to hear him and straightens when he has finished.

  “Lord Darnley is unwell and will not join us this morning,” she announces. “Let us go, then.” But her disappointment is plain.

  When the deer pulls ahead of us in an overgrown part of the forest, instead of pursuing it even harder as she usually does, she reins in her horse and waves the party to a halt. The dogs disappear on its trail and a quietness falls.

  “I have no heart for this today,” she says. “Let us go back.”

  Rizzio comes to meet the Queen in the courtyard and whatever he says causes her to dismount swiftly and hurry inside. I swing to the ground and take his sleeve before he follows her. “What is it?”

  “Lord Darnley is gravely ill,” he answers. “I thought it best she go to him.”

  “This is good news.” I hand the reins to a stableboy. “It may be just what is needed.”

  “Perhaps.” He is uneasy.

  “What? Is it some foul disease he has fallen to?”

  Rizzio is pale. “I’m sure it is no more than measles.”

  “Strange for one of his age to have measles,” I say. Rizzio’s eyes slide away.

  Quickly the rumor circulates around Stirling Castle that it is no ordinary rash affecting Darnley, but a virulent and agonizing outbreak across his entire body. Our refined Queen may not realize the significance of his symptoms, but even the stableboys know the marks of syphilis.

  That evening I wait for Rizzio outside his room, startling him as he comes to the door.

  “Is it true he has syphilis?”

  Rizzio unlocks the door and pulls me inside. When the door is shut he turns to me, his face set. “The court physician says it could be measles. The cook’s babe has it.”

  “She cannot marry him if he is syphilitic.”

  “Most of her other suitors probably are too.”

  I stare at him and he looks back, unflinching. “Nothing is safe in a royal court. You, of anyone, know it. We play deadly games every day.”

  “Could you send her into this, knowing the risk?” I ask.

  He sits down. “I serve her, Robert. She wants two things: her right to the English throne and to marry for love. Darnley is her best chance for both.”

  I am surprised, in a dull way, what I am willing to do in the cause of my castle. I cannot resist the chance to taunt Rizzio. “Perhaps you should see the physician yourself. Darnley was in your bed only weeks ago.”

  “Get out,” he says in a low voice.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I do not know what happens in that sickroom, except that the Queen emerges with a flush on her cheeks and a tremor in her hands. Her kingdom has shrunk to this one room. Her divine service to the people has shrunk to serving one man.

  She calls me to his chamber early on the fourth morning. Darnley is asleep and even at rest the change in him is shocking. The rash still patterns his body; I can see its livid trail running down his throat. The vital young man of just a week ago has disappeared.

  “I did not realize he was so ill,” I say.

  She smiles at me and her face seems lit by some inner glow.

  “Last night I thought I might lose him, like I lost Francis,” she says. “But I bargained with death and pulled him through.”

  “When did you last sleep?”

  “I take snatches here and there,” she says, with a wave of her hand.

  “He does not look well yet.”

  “The cook’s infant has died of the measles. The physician has examined Henry this morning and said he should recover fully, as long as he has careful nursing.”

  I register her use of Darnley’s first name silently. “No doubt you can leave the best nurses here with him when we go back to Edinburgh,” I say.

  “We’re not going back to Edinburgh without him. I promised him that if he survived I would marry him.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  The Queen transfers her court to Darnley’s room, justification perhaps for having housed him in the King’s chambers when he is not a king. She conducts meetings and attends to correspondence. Men come and go, speaking to her awkwardly, glancing sideways at Darnley, who smirks at this demonstration of his place in her affections.

  He shows no wish to recover too quickly. He rolls his head weakly, and the Queen places a compress on his brow. He lifts his limp hand and she is there with a sip of water. The musicians play and servants bring food. The fire crackles through the day and the night. He tosses his long legs when he is bored, and she strokes his head and devises some new entertainment to keep him happy.

  She calls for Lord James. He comes to the bedchamber entrance, steps inside, and bows shallowly.

  “Dear brother, come here.” The Queen holds out her hand from the chair next to the bed.

  “Thank you, sister, but I have a slight cold and the court physician has advised I should stay away from Lord Darnley, lest in his weakened state he succumb to another illness. If you can bear the inconvenience of raising your voice a little, we may converse from here.”

  “Certainly.” She smiles. “Robert, pour my brother a glass of wine.”

  “Thank you, but not wine,” he says. “Sister, it hardly seems private in here. Perhaps we should speak alone.”

  “Those here are my trusted companions.”

  He looks around briefly, his glance flickering over each of us. “What do you wish to discuss?”

  “Brother, a matter of the highest importance concerning my state, my people, and my own happiness. I wish you to be the first among my lords to know that I will marry Lord Darnley, giving Scotland a king and, by God’s will, heirs to the throne.”

  She has gambled that this unexpected announcement, in Darnley’s presence, will force Lord James to give his blessing. But she underestimates him. He stands silent for a moment, his frown deepening.

  “Madam, surely you do not take such an important step without the advice and opinion of your Privy Council? I shall call them together at once and advise that you wish to discuss the matter of your marriage.”

  “I shall certainly call them together, but my mind is made up,” she says. “In this matter I will not be instructed by my Privy Council, nor any other.”

  He pauses. “Elizabeth has given her consent to this? I had not heard.”

  “Elizabeth has always suggested I marry an English noble, and there is no other so highly ranked, nor so suitable,” says the Queen, her voice cold. “I am the Queen of my own kingdom, I do not need her permission to marry.”

  “But perhaps Darnley, who is her subject, does?” Lord James strides across the room. “Madam, there is a great deal to consider here, and not least the matter of religion. Scotland is a Protestant country now. You cannot marry a Catholic. I have it on good authority that Elizabeth will never approve of this marriage and that it will be the end of peace between our countries and the death of your hopes for succession. You must take advice on this.”

  The Qu
een tightens her lips and reaches across the bedcovers to take Darnley’s hand. “I tell you once more, and I am your Queen, I will marry this man.”

  “As for the succession,” Darnley pipes up, “once my claim and Mary’s claim are joined, they become one claim so strong that it cannot be easily put aside. On the matter of religion: I am a pious man but I do not mind so much in which church God is worshipped. When I become Scotland’s King, I am willing to worship in the manner that brings the greatest peace to the country. You need not fear.”

  Lord James looks over at the bed in contempt. “I see you have chosen yourself a man of principle. His moral code is stamped across his body for any to see.”

  He turns abruptly and strides to the door. When he reaches it, he turns. “I cannot countenance this union. I will call the Privy Council together to force you to see reason. You may be a queen, but where a queen marries is a matter of concern to every man in the country. You do not have the right to make this choice alone. I wonder you do not treasure your own health more highly, Madam.”

  He walks out into the hushed presence chamber, where even the musicians have fallen silent.

  “I have the measles,” Darnley calls out behind him. “Nothing more than the measles. Ask the court physician.”

  Rizzio looks through into the presence chamber and gestures at the musicians, who hastily strike up their instruments. “Let’s call for some more wine and drink to your marriage. Your brother doesn’t believe in celebrating, does he?”

  The tension eases at his words and a murmur of conversation starts up. A servant begins pouring more wine. The Queen crosses the room to stand where Lord James himself stood, by the window.

  “Don’t worry, my beloved.” Darnley holds out his goblet. “He cannot bear that his bastard birth has denied him a kingdom. Let him call the Privy Council. What can they say?”

  “Better to call the Privy Council yourself.” Rizzio joins her at the window and presses a goblet into her hand. “Here, drink. You are pale. Your brother forgets himself. There is no reason to think the rest of the lords share his views. Call them together yourself and give them the news.”

  “You are right,” she says, and takes a swallow of wine. “We will convene the council at once.”

  She turns to Darnley and smiles, and he has already forgotten—if he ever realized—what he has said about religion, and she takes another sip of wine and perhaps she promises herself to forget too.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  She prepares for an Easter celebration the like of which Stirling has never seen before. She will hold a lavish feast at which Darnley is the guest of honor and, reviving an old tradition, she also orders preparations for a servants’ feast at which she herself will wait on those who serve her. I have little heart for such celebration and I am relieved when she sends me to Edinburgh carrying messages for the Privy Council members, drafted in Rizzio’s laborious hand.

  He accompanies me to the courtyard to see me off.

  “She asks that you come back for the feasts,” he says. “But Lord Bothwell goes to trial in Edinburgh and I thought you would like to see him.”

  “What difference can I make?” I gather up the reins to mount. “She will probably have him beheaded, will she not?”

  He puts a hand on my arm to speak for my ears only and I suppress a shudder at his touch. “She will need a soldier like Bothwell on her side if Lord James incites the other lords against her. We must make sure he survives this trial.”

  I laugh. “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Do not let Lord James carry out his own vengeance,” he says. “Send word at once if Bothwell is at risk.”

  Twenty-six

  The trial of Lord Bothwell. There would barely be a man in the country who has held so loyally to the Queen, and barely one punished more for it. Likely that a hundred men will call the Queen a whore across Edinburgh’s taverns this night—even John Knox does so—but they do not have Lord James Stewart, the Earl of Moray, as their enemy.

  I do not realize how formidable a foe Lord James is until I arrive in the city. It is a spring evening in Edinburgh, long and warm and light, and the streets are crowded with men on horseback, thousands of them, wearing his colors, their armory clearly visible. Mothers pull their children close; men keep their backs to the stone walls and watch impassively. His soldiers do not go to their lodgings, but ride around the streets, grim-faced, so that any who may sit on the jury that judges Lord Bothwell tomorrow will feel the weight of the force against him.

  Sir William Murray’s house is outside the Flodden Wall in the Canongate, away from the city’s stink. Armed harquebusiers challenge me before I reach the door and I must wait until a servant can fetch Murray himself to let me in.

  “I am glad the Queen has seen fit to send someone,” he says as he leads me inside.

  Bothwell and William are sitting together and they rise to their feet as I walk in.

  “Does the Queen send protection?” William asks.

  “Only me.” I can feel their disappointment. “But I have permission to send for help if it is needed.”

  William shakes his head and Bothwell sinks to his chair again. “Is it true the bastard has filled the city with soldiers?”

  “There are thousands of them.”

  “Does he think I am an old woman, to be frightened by numbers? As if he would dare to have me struck down in the street!”

  “It is the very kind of thing he would dare,” Murray says. “Some soldier would carry the punishment and he would be rid of you.”

  Bothwell spits on the floor. “If he wants to be rid of me, let him come here in single combat and try his luck.”

  “Enough!” says Murray. “Listen to me. It is not safe for you to go to court tomorrow. He is intimidating the jury and stirring up the citizenry. If you are present and found guilty, the crowd might take the dispensing of justice into their own hands—there is no crime in killing a treasonous man.”

  “What do you suggest?” Bothwell asks. “There is not time to ride to Stirling and back tonight with reinforcements from the Queen.”

  “Your cousin and I will represent you in court,” Murray says. “I will increase the guard and you must stay in the house. I do not believe they will drag you from here by force.”

  William’s face is angry. “If the Queen is so concerned, why did she not at least send men?”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  There is little sleep for any of us that night. Murray retires to his room; Bothwell sits by the table, wide awake; William falls asleep in a chair. I doze on the floor. The clink of weapons, the low mutter of voices, and the clatter of horses’ hooves move through my slumber.

  When I open my eyes, the air is changing from black to gray. William and Bothwell are sitting at the table, their backs to me. The murmur of their voices has risen a little. I lie still.

  “I am sick of it,” Bothwell is saying. “All I want is to live my life and serve the Queen. A few more riches perhaps to pay my debts. Instead I spend my life dodging prison.”

  “The thing a man most desires is forever out of his reach,” William says.

  “If I survive this, I will ask the Queen to let me come home and marry. I will find some woman who likes her bed and make a brood of children on her. I do not like this feeling that if I am hanged tomorrow, there is nothing left of me.”

  “Offspring are not always as you would expect them to be,” William says.

  Bothwell drops his voice, but I can still hear him. “Ah, but your offspring is so fascinating. To live in disguise all this time! She fooled me utterly.”

  “Perhaps she is not even mine. You can never tell with women what lies they may tell you.”

  Bothwell laughs. “William, you fool, of course she’s yours. Just look at her.”

  William grunts and I hear him shifting in his chair. I press my eyes shut and keep still.

  “You have yourself a treasure there,” Bothwell continues. “Have a care with her. If I had be
tter prospects, I would half think to marry her myself.”

  “I have ruined her for marriage.” William’s voice is heavy. “She has no dowry, no lands, no title, and she is old now. I have done wrong by her and I do not know how to right it.”

  I cannot bear to hear any more and I stir loudly and roll over, yawning and stretching, silencing them.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I thought Bothwell would be accustomed to confinement, with the time he has spent imprisoned, but he is restless all day, walking around, staring out of the window, giving sudden exclamations of annoyance. He leaves the room and roams the house, but he makes the servants nervous with his agitation, and soon he is back. In spite of his restlessness I am relieved. William and I have no words to say to each other and the silence between us is oppressive.

  Late in the afternoon we hear the sound in the streets—a swell of voices, a faint but powerful roar like thunder rolling behind Arthur’s Seat, portentous. We look at each other. The guards below stir and take a tighter grip on their weapons.

  Murray and Bothwell’s cousin Sir Alexander Hepburn come galloping down the Canongate. They stop and confer with the guards, then stride inside. In a few moments they are at the door and we are all on our feet.

  “The jury was rigged, or bribed, or threatened,” Murray says. “I’m sorry.”

  Bothwell takes up his whisky and downs it in a gulp. “Will I hang, then?”

  “You have not been sentenced. They must now refer it to the Queen—and therein lies your hope,” says Murray. “I asked for surety from Lord James that he and his men would leave you safe while he sent word to the Queen, and in front of the court he agreed.”