The Raven's Heart

by Jesse Blackadder

  Darnley carries no purse. The Queen does not have one either. It is me who pays our way.

  “I have our purse,” I say loudly. I draw out the purse, shake it so that it clinks, and send it on an easy underarm throw to the ground near the Queen.

  “Now get yours,” says the man holding Darnley.

  The dagger presses closer to Darnley’s skin, making him gasp. He stares at me entreatingly, and a wet stain spreads on the front of his trousers. The other man starts patting at the Queen’s clothes. His face changes suddenly. He drops the point of the dagger and grabs at her breast with his open hand.

  “Jesus,” he exclaims. “Quite a treasure hidden here.”

  The eyes of the other man dart toward them and in a moment it is all laid out before me. The man holding Darnley still has the dagger at his throat. The man facing the Queen has his back to me and his dagger down. I draw out the Queen’s pistol. Who can I save?

  I see, with a strange clarity, that he will break her heart and bring ruin down on this city. Rizzio says she is a grown woman making her own choices, but in this moment the choice is mine. I could save her from his cruelty and his disease, and give her a chance at joy. For a heartbeat I hold the future of all the country in my sweaty grip on the pistol. But with Darnley gone, the English succession crumbles and with it, my reward.

  I make my choice. The Queen shall be wedded to him, Scotland shall have this boy as its King, and I shall have my castle. When the Queen flashes out a swift leg and catches the man facing her in the groin, I raise the pistol and fire upon Darnley’s captor.

  My aim is true. He takes the shot in the face and falls. Darnley staggers as the blood spatters him. The other man is still writhing on the cobblestones from the Queen’s kick.

  “Run!” I yell at them, as the door to the tavern starts to open. Darnley hesitates. I grab the Queen’s hand and pull her, calling him to follow.

  I take us twisting and turning through the back alleys. With the roar of voices behind us, we weave and duck and turn and double back. I don’t dare stop until we reach the gates of Holyrood, pull a hood over Darnley’s face, and call for the guards to let us in.

  When we reach the Queen’s chamber, Rizzio leaps to his feet and Seton cries out at Darnley’s bloody visage. Rizzio quickly calls servants to tend to him and the Queen, and draws me into a corner.

  “We were attacked at the Siren,” I tell him. “I had to kill one. The other lives.”

  He nods. “I will take care of it. You did well.”

  I lean close to him. “Rizzio, he is not only a bully and a fool, but a coward too. No good will come of this.”

  Rizzio shrugs. “It’s out of our hands now. Nothing will stop this marriage.”

  “I should have let that ruffian slice his throat.”

  He looks across at the two of them, Darnley submitting to the ministrations of a servant, the Queen watching anxiously. “But you didn’t,” he says.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  The race is on for the royal marriage to take place before the rebellious lords raise an attack. The Queen is waiting for the Pope’s permission for her to marry her cousin, and for the return of Bothwell at the word of a messenger. But when a spy arrives with reports of Lord James’s army amassing, she decides to wait no longer and has the marriage banns read out at Saint Giles.

  Rizzio calls me to the privacy of his own chambers. Away from the court’s gaze, his arrogance has disappeared. He is pale with fear.

  “The message she sent recalling Bothwell must have been intercepted,” he says, twisting his fingers as he paces. “You must fetch him yourself from France. You will have to miss the royal wedding.”

  I give a bitter laugh. “You cannot think I will mind, Rizzio. When can I leave?”

  “At once. I have your safe conduct, and money to buy you and Bothwell the fastest passage back.”

  I take the pouch from him and he grips my hand. “This is no minor spat among her lords. This is rebellion. What else could Lord James intend with an army but to murder his own sister?”

  “Being the Queen’s favorite will be no help to you then,” I say. He shudders. “Nor you. Hume’s men are asking about you. I am deflecting them, but keep out of their way when you leave. You should travel in heavy disguise.”

  “That is my specialty, Rizzio.” I wrap my cloak around me.

  He takes my arm and I can feel terror in his clutch. “For God’s sake, bring Bothwell with all haste.”

  Twenty-eight

  It is a relief to sail away from Edinburgh. Every street in the city holds memories, while the sea promises nothing but waves. I long for the wind in my face, for the peace that comes with crossing the sea.

  But all of my ghosts follow me. I judged the Queen a murderess, but it is I who have fired a pistol into living flesh and left a man dead. I do not know if she recalls those she has sent to their deaths, but I cannot stop thinking of the boys I have sent to Darnley to keep him busy and the thief who had his knife at Darnley’s throat. Perhaps a woman waited somewhere for him; perhaps he had children who are now hungry.

  The ship carves its steady course southward. The sailors scurry and scramble, never at rest, while I stand by the rail and watch the empty horizon, thankful I will be absent from the Queen’s wedding. Since the night at the Siren, I have seen little of either the Queen or Darnley. I am not surprised he avoids me. I saw him piss himself in terror and he will not forgive me for it.

  While I am rocked by the sea, my blood time comes. When the Queen first sent me to France as a soldier to spy on Bothwell, I went to a wise woman who gave me herbs to forestall it and I have not bled since Angi was still alive. I hide my bloody rags and throw them overboard in the dark. I do not want to become a woman – not yet.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  When William first takes me to Bothwell, I have to force myself to stand still and clench my jaw so that I will not weep at the sight of him.

  “Robert says the Queen wants you back.”

  Bothwell half rises. “Is she in danger?”

  “Grave peril,” I say. I tell them the tale of Lord James and the other rebel lords, the armies amassing, the rumors of kidnap and assassination.

  Bothwell interrupts me. “When was she to wed?”

  “It will be done already, if all has gone well,” I say. “The twenty-ninth of July.”

  “She might already be murdered.” He pushes away the plate and stands, knocking food and pitcher, leaving the table a shambles. “I have known it. I did not want to leave her, and now it is a week at least till we can get back. Damn that greedy brother of hers. Surely the Earldom of Moray should have been enough for him.”

  William laughs bitterly. “Would it have been enough for you?”

  Bothwell gives a soldier’s dangerous grin. “We’ll get the first passage.”

  “She has sent money,” I say, jingling the purse.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  We sail on the Medusa, a small, sinister-looking vessel with a solid set of cannons on the deck. The captain takes us by an indirect route, keeping close to the French coast and spending much time peering through his spyglass.

  The weather has changed. Sky and sea and wind are portentous with the uprising in Scotland, tasting of smoke and blood and steel. If we arrive to find the rebels have seized the throne and murdered the Queen, then Bothwell will have a price on his head, while my life and William’s will be worthless.

  Bothwell questions me about the past three months: which lords are loyal, which have rebelled, and any that are prevaricating still. He listens to what I know about forces and numbers, then screws up his forehead and makes his own calculations. He asks about locations and stares skyward to visualize them. My information is old now, but his soldier’s mind takes it in, wrings out every detail, and examines the possibilities.

  “And what of you?” he says at last, when we have exhausted matters of state.

  I look out to sea. “I have been the Queen’s loyal servant, doing everything in m
y power to help her marry where she desires.”

  “So have you discovered what is wrong with Scotland’s new King, long may he live?” he asks.

  “There is little right with him,” I say. “He is cruel, vicious, cowardly, spoilt, and selfish. It’s hard to imagine a worse man to rule Scotland.”

  “Yet she wants him.”

  “With a passion. And I have obeyed her will, though the things I have done make me sick.”

  “Such as?”

  It is the kitchen boy I think of. Sending him to Darnley seems the worst act of all and I cannot bring myself to confess it. Instead I say: “I shot a man.”

  He is silent, but I sense him listening still, this soldier who has killed men in hot and cold blood, for revenge, punishment, and survival. Even, perhaps, for convenience.

  “He set upon us when we were in disguise in the city. I would have done better to let him kill Darnley and rescue the Queen from this marriage.”

  “But you want your castle.”

  “I did not know the foul things I would do for it,” I say.

  “It was taken with bloodshed. There’ll be bloodshed to get it back,” he says. “Have you the heart for it?”

  “I have no heart left.” My voice is shaking.

  He closes his big hand around my forearm and squeezes it. My chest heaves with a dry sob, so close to escaping that it’s almost unbearable. He keeps his hand on me until I have myself under control again, and there is something so solid and steady about his grip that I ache when he lets go.

  We stand in silence another few moments and then he stiffens, stares at the horizon, and lets out a shout. The captain lifts his spyglass in the direction Bothwell points. A moment is all he needs to confirm the sighting. The wheel spins and the deck tilts suddenly as the ship yaws to one side. Bothwell is gone, down in a few bounds to stand near the captain. In a moment I understand why he chose a small, fast vessel. His sharp eyes can pick a larger English ship on the horizon before our lower mast is visible to them, and we are able to flee before being seen.

  We set a zigzag course and lose them by the afternoon, running ahead of them into a storm. Bothwell and William ride it out with all appearances of delight, but I feel wretched. I steal William’s hip flask and tie myself to the railing, hunched into a tight ball against the wind and rain. By the time Bothwell comes out to find me, I am half insensible, my head nodding, body rolling with the ship’s pitch.

  He unties me and takes my weight easily as I stagger against him, slip, clutch, half-fall, recover. Everything is moving—sea, wind, deck, and the inside of my head; the whole world is rocking and pitching. There’s rain running down my face and my mouth tastes of salt. He leads me to the tiny cabin the three of us share. William is not there.

  “Take your clothes off, and get into bed,” I seem to hear him say.

  After that there is nothing I can recall with certainty. I dream I am still clutching his sleeve and that he must peel my fingers away. I dream that he presses his lips for one tender moment against my forehead. I dream that he strips my clothes off and wraps his huge body around mine like a blanket and that I fall asleep with my head on his broad chest.

  When I wake in the morning with my head split in two, I am still in the sodden mess of my wet clothes in my tiny narrow bunk. There is no room for another body to have fitted beside me.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  In any spare hours, Bothwell drills me in swordplay. I lack a man’s strength and though I am fast with a dagger, I have never had much practice with a sword. The first day that we train, Bothwell has no trouble pinning me, over and over.

  “You’re wasting your time, my Lord,” William calls out sourly.

  Bothwell smiles. “If the rebels are fighting, everyone who wants to live will need to know how to use a sword.”

  Under his tutelage I begin to improve. We chase each other around the ship, up and down the steps and across the decks. During one fight we both leap up and balance on the railing that runs across the middle of the ship, dividing the upper deck from the lower. We inch across it, swords clashing, while some of the crew watch us, cheering and whistling. At the end, Bothwell puts up his sword and bows low, and I do the same. When I straighten, he is smiling.

  There is something in his eyes that stirs me and the moment lengthens. Our gazes are locked together and I cannot turn away from him.

  The sound of running feet jolts me out of the moment. William is down on the deck below me, his sword raised.

  “Let’s see what you’ve learned,” he says.

  Bothwell laughs. “Show him, Robbie.”

  I jump down in front of William, hold my sword up straight in front of me, and we begin to fight. To my surprise we are evenly matched and I can see William did not expect it either. Around us the sailors fall silent and I can hear only the clash of steel on steel, the whistle of wind in the stays, and our harsh breathing. I was already panting from my duel with Bothwell but it is not long before William is panting too and the sweat begins to course down his face.

  He comes for me hard, giving no quarter, but from somewhere I have found the grace of a sword fighter and he cannot find a way through my defenses.

  “Have a care, William,” Bothwell calls. My eyes flicker toward him and in that instant William flashes the point of his sword to my throat. I freeze.

  “Ship!” the captain bellows.

  William lowers his sword. The first boom of cannon fire comes across the water.

  “Come and help me, old man!” Bothwell yells, running to the foredeck of the ship.

  “You’ll do,” William says and runs after Bothwell.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  With capricious winds and dogged pursuers, it is twenty-one days after setting sail from France when we make a last dash for the closest port of Scotland. The ship puts in at Eyemouth just across the border, with the singing of cannon balls in our ears. The English warship pursuing us falls back. The captain sends a last cannon shot in its direction in defiance, though it is out of range of our smaller weapons.

  “They would pursue us only if our arrival will make a difference,” Bothwell says, as we stand on the deck. “It is good news.”

  We take the first boat ashore. Bothwell goes in search of intelligence and William and I to a tavern for a meal that isn’t salted. Bothwell is back by the time we are halfway through, and he tears into his own plate of meat, dark and juicy.

  “The battle hasn’t been fought, though there was a skirmish in Edinburgh when the rebels tried to take it over,” he says. “The Queen is traveling around, gathering troops to fight them. We’re in time.”

  William hits the table with his fist and grins. “Then let us get to Edinburgh!”

  I look at him in surprise. Why is he so enthusiastic?

  “No,” says Bothwell. “She’s called for my help, and it seems she’s not yet in Edinburgh herself. We’ll gather troops and weapons. In two days I can raise an army here and then we have something to offer when we arrive. I’m still guilty of treason, remember? I must go back with a show of strength and not creep into Edinburgh’s gates like a dog.”

  William nods. When Bothwell goes to find another drink, William leans over the table to me. “It is good you’ve learned to fight. Lord Hume and his clan will be on that battlefield. You and I will find justice through the sword this time.”

  Twenty-nine

  She has defied them all and married him and, when her own lords rebelled against it, she rode out to fight them.

  I can feel the difference of it as soon as we step into Holyrood, bringing two thousand armed men with us from the Borders. When I left, the palace was preparing for a wedding but expecting bloodshed. Now the fear is gone and in its place is a reckless confidence. Even the servants are jaunty.

  The Queen calls us to meet her in the great hall. She is seated on the dais, Darnley by her side, and she is dressed as a warrior queen, in gold-plated armor, her hair flowing loose. She is magnificent. My breath catches at the
sight of her, no matter how I thought my heart was hardened.

  Bothwell and I kneel before her. She offers him her hand.

  “We have the rebels on the run.” Her voice is strong and clear. “They are cowards and will not stand. We have chased them from Glasgow to Edinburgh and back again.”

  “We heard there was fighting in Edinburgh,” Bothwell says.

  She smiles. “When the forces of Lord James tried to take Edinburgh, the people themselves rose up and drove them out. Knox has fled, Lord James hides like a rat in Dumfries, and the rebels betray each other. My army is at Stirling now and I have gathered forces from all over Fife to meet me there. We shall rout the rebels for good, and Lord James shall see who rules this country.”

  “You will hardly need me, Your Grace.” Bothwell smiles back at her. “I thought you a queen. I had no idea you were such a general.” He looks up at Darnley, on his throne at last. “I congratulate both of you on your marriage. Together you are a force to be reckoned with.”

  The Queen laughs. “Come and eat. I’m sure we shall find some task for you.”

  As we dine, Bothwell listens, nodding and asking questions about strength and forces and location and weaponry. Darnley sits by the Queen’s side, all affability and attention. I watch her. When I left, she was frightened and defiant, a child determined to have what she wanted, but afraid of the wrath of her brother and other lords. Now, she tells us, she has donned pistol and helmet and ridden out at the head of an army, into rain that the very devil could have sent. She has set the rebels to flight without a blow being struck. They are not defeated yet, but she has won the moral victory already. With a soldier like Bothwell on her side, there is not much chance the rebels will get the upper hand.

  There is something else, too, in her face and her bearing. Our Queen has become a wife while I have been away, and I see it has not been displeasing to her. She has grown from a young, infatuated girl into a woman. Perhaps Darnley is capable of love?

  “We should march at once on Dumfries,” Bothwell says. “While the lords lead you in this merry dance, they tire your men and run down your supplies, and gain time to build up their own strength. We can leave today for Stirling and take all the men there.”