The Raven's Heart

by Jesse Blackadder

  He stares at me, shaken, and I am shaken myself by the intensity of my words, based on a lie. My final card has failed.

  Thirty-three

  It is a witch’s creed, to beware of invoking a curse lest it return threefold.

  I stumble into my chamber, lock my door, and wrap my bedding close around my shoulders. My teeth are chattering and I cannot warm myself. My enemies are coming closer, the Queen cannot help me till she gives birth, and my chance at safety with Bothwell is lost.

  All night I believe I can hear the footsteps of one of the Humes outside my room. When the morning comes, I cannot rise from my bed. I try to move the covers back and the fear that engulfs me makes me whimper. I burrow down into the darkness like some winter creature, shivering, and press my eyes shut.

  I feign sickness, hiding in my darkened room while the freezing winter days pass. Bothwell marries Lady Jean with great ceremony, reclaims Crichton Castle with her money, and takes her there to live. When I hear he is safely gone, and that Lord Hume has also returned to the Borders, I emerge back into the court.

  While I was hiding, the Queen called Parliament to try and force her lords into drawing up a bill of attainder against Lord James, withdrawing his properties and privileges. She sent for Bothwell to lend his strength to her cause. And she called on her astrologer to cast the charts and examine the planetary aspects affecting her and her favorites.

  “Damiot says you will triumph in winning your family’s inheritance,” Rizzio reports to me.

  I shrug. “What does the Queen’s horoscope say?”

  Rizzio smiles. “No one is allowed to know that save the Queen herself.”

  “And yours?”

  He waves his hand. “I think those who do not like me must have bribed him. He told me I must go back to Italy at once. He said: ‘Beware of the bastard.’ I will take care that the Queen never allows Lord James into Scotland again.”

  “There are many bastards in Scotland,” I say.

  He laughs. “Indeed. But not so many castles. It is time to fight for yours.”

  The Queen is six months’ pregnant and radiant. Though nothing can cover the parlous state of her marriage, I often see her in repose, her hand resting on her belly, her face calm. When the child kicks, she lets her closest ones lay their hands upon her dress and feel the drumming of his impatience to be out. “That is the footstep of a king,” she says, laughing.

  Back in the safety of her inner circle, my fear gradually recedes. Seton goes home to visit her family, Rizzio sings to the Queen each night before bed, the babe dances in her stomach, and I dare to think again that I might prevail.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Bothwell comes into the presence chamber in smart new clothes, bowing to the Queen with a flourish. I have prepared myself for this moment and I look upon him coolly.

  “Marriage suits you, Lord Bothwell,” the Queen says. “Your wife knows how to garb you well.”

  He straightens. “Indeed, Your Grace. She says I dressed like a soldier.”

  “I pray it is good to be home.”

  He smiles. “Very good, but too far from your side. With your confinement approaching, I must stay here at Holyrood.”

  “A pleasure to have you nearby, as always. Does Lady Jean come too?”

  His smile does not waver. “She is settling into Crichton, Your Grace. It needs all her attention.”

  “She is most generous to let you go so soon after wedding you,” the Queen says. “Stay with us for supper. Tomorrow I will speak to you of Parliament.”

  He finds his way close to me when the chatter of the presence chamber has resumed. There is no room for privacy, for which I’m grateful.

  “I heard you have been ill,” he says. “I trust you were well nursed?”

  “I am quite well now,” I say stiffly. “There is nothing for you to concern yourself with, Lord Bothwell.”

  I can see the relief on his face and for a moment I hate him. He leans forward. “It is time you were married.”

  “If I could get my castle back simply by marrying, Lord Bothwell, no doubt it would be as attractive to me as it was to you. Good evening.”

  He backs away and I keep my face impassive. I will not show any weakness.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Two nights after the first assembly of Parliament, the Queen invites a small group to share a meal in her supper room. We must squeeze our way inside and around the chairs, but the close quarters are warm in the flickering light of her fire. For the occasion, she has invited some of her other relatives—Lord Robert Stewart, her half-brother, and her half-sister Lady Argyll, as well as her apothecary, her equerry Arthur Erskine, and Anthony Standen, the page.

  Rizzio, who has promised to sing a solo later in the evening, is magnificently dressed in a satin doublet and a gown of furred damask. He looks like a king himself and when he raises his cup to make a toast, everyone falls silent.

  “To loyalty,” he says. “And to the punishment of Lord James, who has shown none.”

  We raise our cups. “To loyalty!”

  “Let that be the last mention of him this night,” the Queen says. “I would dwell on happier times ahead and celebrate those who have been true to me.”

  A servant brings in a veal flory, for the Queen has a dispensation from the Lenten rules so that the babe is well nourished in the womb. He begins to ladle it out and the smell of herbs and mushrooms rises, rich and appetizing.

  There is a thud outside the door from the back staircase that winds down into the King’s quarters and Darnley appears at the door. The Queen looks up in surprise as he steps into the supper room.

  “Red meat in Lent—a queen’s feast indeed,” he says. “And your favorites here to share it.”

  “I did not know you wished to join us this evening.” The Queen tries to recover her composure. “But I will call for another plate if you wish.”

  “Don’t bother.” Darnley waves his hand. “I have eaten this night. As I was not invited to join you.”

  “You may join us,” she says. “I am always pleased to have the King’s company.”

  “But not as pleased as you are to have David Rizzio’s company,” Darnley says, staring at the Italian.

  The Queen sighs. “Peace, my husband. Come, sit by me.” She holds out her hand.

  As Darnley comes to her side, another thump issues from the back staircase and Lord Ruthven, one of the nobles who supported the Queen’s marriage, appears in the doorway. His face is deathly white, his eyes burning and dark. He is wearing a gown, but underneath it I can see armor.

  The Queen puts her hand to her heart, as if shaken by his appearance. “You are ill, Lord Ruthven. You should not be so far from your bed.”

  “I am here to defend the King’s honor,” he says. “Send out Davy. He has been too long in your chambers and your favor.”

  All eyes turn to Rizzio, who stares at Ruthven in surprise.

  “What offense has he done?” the Queen asks.

  “Great offense to the honor of you and the King,” Ruthven says. “He has stood between Lord Darnley and the crown matrimonial for his own profit and has made Your Grace banish the nobility, including your own half-brother. He is the destroyer of your kingdom and he tarnishes your own honor by being ever in your chamber.”

  The Queen stares at him. “Are you mad, Lord Ruthven? David Rizzio is here by my royal wish.” She turns to Darnley. “How dare you allow Lord Ruthven to come to me with such accusations? These are my private chambers.”

  Darnley shrugs. “I know nothing of this.”

  She turns back to Ruthven. “Begone, my Lord, or I shall have you arrested for treason.”

  Ruthven ignores her, staring at Rizzio, who looks back at him with a hint of arrogance.

  “Did you not hear the Queen?” Rizzio says. “Begone!”

  “I will not.”

  A gasp runs around the room at his defiance. Lord Robert, Standen the apothecary, Arthur Erskine, and I rise to our feet as one. Lord
Robert, who is the closest to Ruthven, seizes his arm.

  Ruthven throws him off and draws out his pistol in a swift motion. “I will not be handled!” he snaps. “I have come for that man yonder.”

  Rizzio’s bravado deserts him at the sight of the weapon. He shrinks back in his chair. When Ruthven begins advancing, Rizzio whimpers and makes a dash to the window recess behind the Queen.

  “Stop this at once!” the Queen cries.

  There is a crash in the stairway outside and in a moment men are shouldering into the room, so many of them I cannot count. The Queen screams and I have time to see daggers and pistols in their hands and to recognize George Douglas, the bastard, before the table crashes over and the candles are doused in the fall. Lady Argyll manages to snatch a single taper that lights up the hellish scene.

  The room is full of men and in the flickering light I see Ruthven grab the Queen and thrust her at Darnley, who restrains her. Blocked by the bodies, I cannot come closer to her. I struggle and one of them pushes me back hard against the wall.

  Rizzio is scrabbling on the floor, slippery with the spilled stew, reaching for the Queen’s dress. When he finds it, he holds on as if it will save him. In his terror he shrieks, “Sauvez ma vie, Madame!” Then a dark shape lunges across the Queen toward Rizzio and I hear his scream of anguish.

  They push past me to take him and his shrieks fill the confines of the supper room as they drag him to the door, until I want to clap my hands over my ears. I can hear his fingernails scrabbling across the bedchamber floor.

  “Let go of me,” the Queen says to Darnley. “Help him, for God’s sake!”

  “Don’t move.” The man in front of her pushes and I hear the Queen’s gasp. I peer past his silhouette to see that he has a pistol pressed against her belly.

  “Keep your sovereign and wife to you, Sir,” Ruthven orders Darnley. “Don’t be afraid, Madam. This is done with the King’s consent.”

  From out in the hall, Rizzio’s screams rise suddenly in intensity. I can hear the sounds of the struggle, unarmed Rizzio against the daggers of a dozen men. Despite his betrayal of Angi, despite the uneasiness of our alliance since, I could not wish such a slaughter for him.

  “Oh God.” The Queen clutches her throat. “I beg you, do not kill him.”

  Rizzio’s voice trails off in one last, awful cry that seems to chill the very air, and then silence falls. It is broken by a battle yell from the outside staircase: “A Douglas! A Douglas!”

  “Bring her into the bedchamber,” Ruthven says to Darnley.

  The Queen blanches, looking down at the pistol still pressed to her great belly.

  “All is well,” Darnley says, loosening his grip around her. “You are safe.”

  They push us into the bedchamber. A smear of Rizzio’s blood streaks the length of the floor. The man holding the pistol puts it away and Ruthven disappears into the presence chamber. The Queen sinks to a chair.

  “This is a wicked deed,” she says to Darnley.

  He walks to the bed and seats himself upon the covers. “Rizzio has enjoyed your company and—it is said—even your body. Why should I stand for it? I am a fool in my own kingdom. You promised me when we married I would be your equal in all things, but Rizzio has persuaded you to treat me cruelly. He deserved his punishment.”

  The Queen puts her hand to her belly and I cross to her side. She waves me away and looks up at Darnley.

  “I tell you this, my Lord,” she says. “You have known of this evil plan and now you will live with what it spawns. I will never lie with you again. I will be your wife no longer. One day I pray your heart will be torn out as mine is now.”

  Ruthven staggers back into the room and makes his way to a chair. “Take the counsel of your nobility and all will be well, Your Grace.” He slumps over. “Bring me wine, for God’s sake!”

  Anthony Standen looks around the room. When no one moves, he goes to the sideboard, splashes wine into a cup, and puts it down in front of Ruthven.

  “If I die in childbirth from this, then my friends will hold you responsible,” the Queen says. “The King of Spain and the King of France, among others, will be revenged upon you if I perish. The very child in my womb will live to see you repaid.”

  A roar comes from outside, the sound of voices raised. I can hear footsteps and shouting. One of the henchmen peers out the window.

  “It is the town watch,” he says. “Calling for the Queen.”

  She goes to rise, but Ruthven gets to his feet. “If you speak to them, we will slice you into pieces and throw you over the wall.”

  She sinks back to her chair, stunned. Darnley crosses to the window.

  “Good people, all is well,” he calls down to them. “We have justly punished a papal agent who infiltrated the Queen’s household. The Queen is safe. Do not be alarmed. Return to your beds.”

  He closes the window and comes back to the Queen’s side.

  “What was David’s fault?” she asks.

  “He is too Catholic for this kingdom,” Ruthven says. “He plotted with Lord Bothwell and caused you to ban your brother from Scotland, which is an evil thing.”

  “Lord James, my half-brother, called his own army to rebel against me, do you not recall?”

  “He is ever loyal to you,” Ruthven says. “He will swear his fealty when he arrives tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks. “He is banished in England.”

  “He is on his way to Edinburgh,” Ruthven says. “Your own husband signed his safe conduct from England and Lord Hume and his men accompany him.”

  Thirty-four

  The conspirators remove all of us from the Queen’s presence as the night deepens. They take Darnley first and she turns her back on him as he leaves.

  I walk to the door. She is fighting to keep her composure, but I can see her terror at being left thus in her chamber, unprotected.

  “You cannot leave her alone,” I say to Ruthven.

  “Lady Huntly will stay with her,” he says, pushing me outside.

  Lady Huntly, the widow of the Earl of Huntly and the mother of John Gordon, who both died in the Huntly rebellion, has good cause to hate the Queen, even though her husband’s clan has since regained its standing. She is waiting at the door and I have almost passed her when she drops one eyelid in a wink, keeping her face otherwise expressionless.

  I descend the main staircase outside the Queen’s presence chamber, expecting at any moment to be seized. Rizzio’s enemies are my own; they have no reason to spare me. Rizzio’s blood is on every step and the metallic smell of it hangs heavy in the air. Douglas men are milling around at the foot of the stairs and calling out to each other. I can see Lord Lindsay and the Earl of Morton in their midst.

  As I reach the bottom of the staircase, I glimpse Rizzio’s body. They have stripped him naked and thrown him face down across a large chest. There is more wound than skin upon him and the blood of his cuts and stabs is still dripping to the floor. The gorge rises in my throat.

  “Do not tarry.” Standen is waiting for me. “They have sealed the palace doors.”

  I walk past Rizzio without pausing. The men who were in the Queen’s supper room follow Arthur Erskine to a silent corridor, white-faced with shock.

  Erskine looks around at us. “We will be lucky to live through this night. But swear, all of you, that we shall help the Queen however we can.”

  We swear.

  “We must find Bothwell,” he says. “Pray he has not been murdered too.”

  With perhaps only hours until Hume and Lord James arrive, my own survival as well as the Queen’s depends on finding Bothwell. But when we creep to his chambers, they are empty, the door swinging open. He has gone.

  I clutch Standen’s arm as my courage deserts me. “What shall we do?”

  Erskine looks grim. “We will hide in the wine cellar tonight,” he says to us softly. “There is a stout lock and the kitchen servants will keep watch for us. If there is any chance for the Qu
een to escape, that will be her route and we should know how it lies.”

  We creep through the servants’ corridors, hands on our daggers until we come to the kitchen. The Queen’s French servants, terrified at the noises that have drifted down to them, beg us for news of what has happened in the palace. When Erskine fills them in, there are cries of outrage.

  “We will find a way to rescue her,” he tells them. “There are too many guards tonight, but tomorrow we will make a plan. Will you keep watch if we shelter in the cellar?”

  We descend the short, steep flight of stairs into the dark of the cellar and the servants push the heavy door closed. It is all I can do not to cry out with the horror of it, the walls pressing in on us, the cold air and the single flickering candle. We lie down on some sacks and pull up the rough blankets the servants have given us.

  “Try to sleep,” Erskine says. “We will need our wits tomorrow.”

  He blows out the candle, but I do not sleep in the thick darkness and I doubt the others do either. Sometime in the night’s blackest hours I remember watching David Hume and George Douglas fanning the fire of Darnley’s fury at Peebles with their whispers. Now I know what they planned. And David Hume knows I overheard them.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  In the morning we climb out of the cellar and make our way cautiously along the corridors until we emerge at the foot of the staircase leading to the Queen’s chambers. Armed Douglas men are everywhere. My gut roils with fear as we cross the floor and join the Queen’s ladies who wait there, staring at her captors defiantly.

  At last the door to the presence chamber opens and Lady Huntly comes down the staircase, her chin high. “The Queen must have a midwife,” she says loudly. “She is in danger of losing her child.”

  Lord Lindsay pushes his way to the front. “It is likely some French trick she plays. Just craft and policy. I will see for myself.”

  As he shoulders his way up the staircase, a guard seizes Lady Huntly and runs his hands over her. She slaps him away and comes down the rest of the staircase.

  “You.” She singles me out. “Take me to the Queen’s physician at once.”