The shock is ice water in my veins. “What are his wounds?”
“He has taken a great cut to his thigh and smaller wounds to his arm and face. He lies like a dead man in Hermitage Castle and we have no one who knows how to tend to him.”
“Wait.” I push back through the heavy door, wind through the audience to the Queen’s podium, and lean forward to whisper the news into her ear.
“We must go to him.” The Queen goes to rise.
“There’s nothing you can do, and we must continue the hearings,” Lord James says. “If you leave now and rush to his side, these ruffians will have won a victory.”
“I can’t leave him to die,” she says, twisting her fingers.
“Send your physician. You can follow in a few days, when we have finished here.”
She turns to me and I can see the strain in the set of her lips. “Alison, send Arnault at once.”
“Do you wish me to ride with him?”
She hesitates a moment. I keep my face expressionless.
“Yes, go,” she says.
I have time to snatch a few items of clothing and pull on my riding clothes before I run to the courtyard. Bothwell’s messenger is already mounted on a fresh horse and Arnault rushes out a few moments after me, clutching his bag of medicines.
It is twenty-five miles to Hermitage and we accomplish much of it at a gallop, slowing to a trot when the ground is too rough. Arnault, not accustomed to such riding, tries to keep up, and often Bothwell’s man and I must slow down till he catches us, clinging to the mane of his horse, his bag thumping up and down beside the saddle.
We make it just before full darkness blankets us, clattering into the courtyard, our messenger yelling our identity to the guards. I help Arnault climb painfully from his horse. He winces, then straightens up slowly, his hand clutching the small of his back. The messenger unbuckles the medicine bag and leads us to a damp chamber on the lower floor.
My father, crouched by Bothwell’s side on the floor, seems to have shrunk. His hair is almost completely gray and his eyes are haunted. It is a moment before I can wrench my gaze away to Bothwell’s face. He looks like a corpse, his lips faintly blue, skin icy white, eyes closed.
“Does he live?” I ask.
“Just,” William says. “Have you brought a physician?”
Arnault pushes past me and kneels down at Bothwell’s side, forgetting his own discomfort in the manner of one who heals. The wound, when he unwraps it, is ugly and gaping. Its ragged edges are still oozing blood. I bite my lip and the physician’s brow is a furrow. His eyes meet mine.
“What do you wait for?” William asks, bundling the bloody bandages. “Hurry, man!”
“He will need stitching,” Arnault says. “We need hot water, something to wipe away the blood and fresh bandages.” He looks over at me. “Can you help me stitch?”
“I have little expertise, but a strong stomach,” I say.
We make the preparations and then Arnault picks up the needle and catgut, and gestures to me. I take Bothwell’s torn flesh in my hands and draw it together. He does not wake as the needle passes through his skin.
It takes a long while to repair the wound and I am sweating and trembling from the strain of it by the time we are finished. All of us breathe more easily once his flesh is closed up as it should be and William gives a grunt of satisfaction when the fresh bandage is secured. The other gashes, on his hand and forehead, are deep but not mortal. Arnault washes and bandages them.
“Not too much damage,” he says, when he is done. “But the bleeding could still kill him.”
“What can we do?” I can hear the tremor in William’s voice.
“Keep him warm, don’t let him move. When he wakes, try to feed him broth,” Arnault says, getting painfully to his feet. “We will rouse him from time to time to see that he still lives.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Arnault dozes in a chair while William and I seat ourselves at either side of Bothwell. Every hour, servants bring in broth from the kitchen. William cradles Bothwell’s head and I try to dribble it into his mouth. At times he seems to swallow, but mostly the fluid runs down his chin and I must stop lest he choke on it.
Some time in the small hours he swims up from the depths of his swoon and opens his eyes. William is there in a heartbeat.
“My Lord,” he says softly.
“Captain,” Bothwell’s voice is a dry croak. “How bad is it?”
“Not bad at all,” William says.
William lifts his head and I come closer with the broth. Bothwell catches sight of me, but cannot make out my features in the half-light. “Who is that?” he croaks.
“It’s Alison,” I say. “The Queen sent me with her best physician.”
He blinks and attempts a grin. “That bad?”
The physician comes across and kneels by Bothwell’s side. “I have stitched your wound,” he says. “If you stay still, God willing you will recover.”
“I must piss,” Bothwell says.
“Your captain will hold a container. Afterward you may have a little laudanum. Is there much pain?”
“A little,” he says. A soldier’s answer.
I leave the room while they attend to his needs and come back with fresh broth. William and I take our accustomed positions and this time we are able to trickle more down his throat. When we have finished, the physician gives him the laudanum and after a few minutes his head rolls back in William’s lap. William lowers him to the floor. I have never seen him so tender.
The physician listens to Bothwell’s heart and then sits back on his heels. “We should pray.”
He means this literally, but I do not pray, God having never saved anyone I loved. Someone in the castle brings a priest to mutter some Protestant prayer over Bothwell.
“Why don’t you take some rest?” I ask William, who is still kneeling uncomfortably by the bed.
“Do you think I am too old to sit watch?” he snaps.
Arnault frowns at me and I try to think how I can placate William. “Next week the Queen’s party is riding to meet Lord Hume,” I say softly. “She is taking the castle back from him and returning it to us. She has all her lords with her to compel him.”
The look on his face changes and I cannot fathom his expression.
“Come back with me to Jedburgh and ride to Blackadder in the Queen’s party. We have nothing to fear from Hume now. The might of her kingdom is against him.”
He still won’t meet my eyes.
“William?”
“I have lost my honor,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “Do not talk to me of the castle. I must make amends before I can step foot in there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I will not speak of it!” he snaps. “If you will converse thus, you must go outside,” Arnault interjects. “You may lead his men, Captain, but in the sickroom I have the authority.”
If there was somewhere else to go, I would leave, but it is deep in the night and we are in a fortress full of fighting men. I stand and move to another part of the room where there is a chaise.
It’s not till I am lying down that my exhaustion washes over me. My riding clothes are stained with Bothwell’s blood, my body aches from the hard ride and the strain of crouching by the physician holding Bothwell’s flesh steady for the stitches. I look across at William’s face as he kneels on the ground by his lord. What has happened to his honor?
Forty
Hermitage Castle is a stronghold of Bothwell’s family—a military base—well fortified, but with little in the way of comfort. I am the only woman there apart from the servants. While I crouch by Bothwell’s side and will him to survive, a messenger is despatched to Jedburgh to inform the Queen that Bothwell still lives. I stay by Bothwell’s side and ensure I am not left alone with William. We barely speak to each other.
For that whole night and the next day, Bothwell hangs in a twilight, drifting in and out of consciousness, awake, asleep, half-d
ead. We dare not move him from the rough bed on the floor. William, Arnault, and I are all stiff from kneeling beside him and taking only snatches of rest.
At last, after the second night, he wakes fully with the sun, and there is some color in his cheeks again.
The physician pushes himself painfully out of his chair, limps across, and lowers himself to Bothwell’s side.
“It seems like you’re the one in need of a doctor,” Bothwell says, and the ghost of his booming voice is present again.
I smile and there is a lightening of William’s exhausted features as we kneel on the floor by his bedding.
Bothwell looks at the three of us. “You’re enough to give a man nightmares.”
“Keeping death at bay is hard work, my Lord,” Arnault says.
Bothwell snorts. “I kicked death in the arse and told him to leave me alone a while longer. But he’ll be back if I don’t get something to eat.”
We call the servants and order food. I can almost feel the word flashing through the castle like a thaw. Bothwell lives! As he tears into a plate of roasted meats, the sound of cheering rises from the courtyard. He cocks his head and listens for a moment.
“Did that damned Jock Elliot get away after he stuck me?” he asks, chewing loudly.
“You killed him, they said,” William says.
“Good,” he grunts. “Treacherous dog.” He wolfs down a few more mouthfuls and gulps a cup of ale. I have forgotten what a soldier he is underneath his court manners.
“Have the trials started?” he asks. “Has she hanged any yet?”
There’s a pause. “The Queen is riding up from Jedburgh tomorrow,” Arnault says. “You’ll hear about the trials then.”
“You’d better get me off the floor, then. And give me a wash and a shave.”
His rush of energy doesn’t last long. By the time he’s finished eating, his eyelids are drooping. “William?” he says. “Get me a report on our prisoners.”
“My Lord—”
“With your own eyes. I want to know exactly how cold and hungry they are.”
“My Lord—” William struggles.
“William! Now!” Bothwell says. “I’m sick of the sight of you!”
William heads for the door.
“You too, good fellow,” Bothwell says to the physician. “Go and stretch your legs. I am weary of being watched.”
I get up too, to go with them, but Bothwell’s gaze, not sleepy at all, pins me. “Wait. I would have a word with you about the Queen.”
The door closes and we are alone. I come to his side. He reaches up a hand, clasps my fingers with what remains of his brute strength, and draws me down till I am kneeling on the floor at his side.
“I’m not out of danger,” he says. “Just a kiss. A kiss to save my life.”
The pull of his hand is inexorable. I should fight it, but I do not. I have seen him almost die. I want this kiss too.
He tastes like a soldier but he kisses like a king. My body remembers and I do not draw away. I breathe as much life back into him as I can, and then I forget about life and respond to him. My own body is on fire when at last I draw back.
He smiles. “At least Jock has left me with my manhood.”
Feet approach from outside the door and I drop his hand. He says nothing, but gives me a long look, breaking it only as Arnault comes in.
“You must rest, my Lord,” the physician says, raising his hands in frustration. “Sleep, and in the morning we will move you to a proper bed, ready for the Queen.”
“Ready for the Queen,” he murmurs, his eyelids falling. I get up and walk away from him. I promise myself it is the last kiss.
≈ ≈ ≈
The next day Bothwell and I play cards. He is recovered enough to be chafing at his restriction and in need of activity that will keep him safely confined to his bed. His men wash and shave him, dress him in clean clothes, and move him into the largest chamber in the castle with a fire roaring in the grate. There’s color in his cheeks again, but too much movement drains it away in an instant, and under the glow his cheeks are sunken and thin. He is recovering, but a sour wound could still kill him. The physician has instructed me to keep his spirits up and stay by his side. But I must glare at him warningly when his eyes stray to my breasts. At my look he grins, unrepentant.
Lunch has been served and I am helping Bothwell cut up his portion when there is a hammering at the door. “The Queen!” a servant calls through the slit. Before there is time to dissemble, the door flies open and she is there.
I can see in an instant what these past days have cost her. Her face is whiter than Bothwell’s, and her eyes stare from dark sockets. There is nothing regal about the way she rushes into the room and the working of her face when she sees him. For a moment it seems she will weep openly, but she takes control, gathers herself, and crosses to his bedside. I stand and move aside.
“They told me you were near to death,” she says, her voice unsteady.
“Madam.” He bows his head, ridiculously, in the bed. “I am a tough old soldier. It will take a lot to kill me.”
“It takes very little to kill any of us, Lord Bothwell. I am more grateful than you know to find you have survived.”
There is an awkward silence and with a visible effort, she tears her gaze away from him and takes in the presence of the physician, and me, waiting by the bed. Her eyes narrow slightly.
Arnault steps forward. “Your Grace? We have a meal prepared for you and your party downstairs. Do you wish to eat?”
“Bring it up here,” she says. “Lord Bothwell and I have much to discuss and little time, as I will ride back to Jedburgh tonight. You and Alison must go and make your preparations to return with us.”
I drop into a curtsy at the hardness in her voice and, without daring to catch Bothwell’s eye, I leave the room, my cheeks burning.
After all these years with the Queen, I have become a mistress at hiding my heart and my desire. I have covered up, meticulously, any hint of what is between Bothwell and me. But in one moment she has caught me unawares.
≈ ≈ ≈
I change into my riding habit, which a servant has labored to clean of its bloodstains, and go to find William.
He is in his room, a small, dark place where the chill of the castle seems especially concentrated. He is lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and I’m struck again by the way he has become an old man so suddenly.
“William?”
Silence, and at last a soft grunt.
“I am riding with the Queen tonight. In a few days we will go to the castle. Will you come?”
He shakes his head and anger rises in me.
“All these years, and now it’s in reach,” I say. “Bothwell lives. Why do you mope like a woman?”
I expect this will drive him to his feet, his hands at my throat, but he turns his head away from me and his voice is flat.
“I was left in charge of the castle and the prisoners when he went after the Elliots. They broke out while I slept and took over the castle. When the garrison came back carrying Bothwell near to death, the prisoners demanded weapons and freedom. They got them, else he would have died at the gate.”
I take a deep breath. “Border criminals are scum. You’re not the first to be tricked by them.”
He glares at me. “I’m disgraced and no womanly words will change it.”
“For God’s sake, you’ve been an honorable soldier all your life. Aren’t you allowed to make one mistake?”
“Old men make such mistakes.” He rolls away from me and faces the wall. “Even the Queen thinks me too old to take the castle.”
I do not know what to do with him in such a state. I am used to his rages, but this black melancholy mystifies me.
“It is no crime to be old,” I say, trying to sound gentler. “When we have the castle, you can rest. You don’t need to be a soldier any more.”
He says nothing and at last I rise. “In days, Hume will be brought to jus
tice. If you wish to see it, make haste to Jedburgh and ride with me.”
≈ ≈ ≈
The Queen spends several hours cloistered with Bothwell and the day grows short. The horses are saddled and waiting in the courtyard, the stableboys stamping and blowing on their hands, the sun slipping lower toward the hills. Lord James strides up and down impatiently, slapping his riding gloves on his thigh. He comes to a halt beside me.
“We will be riding all night,” he says. “Go and tell my sister to come away. Bothwell might live, but that won’t be much use if she is lost in the dark!”
I curtsy and hasten back into the castle, through corridors heavy with evening gloom. I knock on the heavy oak of Bothwell’s door. There is a moment’s silence, and then his voice: “Enter.”
The Queen and Bothwell are alone and something about their studied positions feels odd. I look from one to the other.
“Lord James begs you to leave for Jedburgh, Your Grace,” I say. “It is late and he fears for your safety.”
“Indeed, he is right,” she says and rises from her seat near the bed. “Lord Bothwell, you must excuse me, for we need to return this night.”
“I am humbled you have traveled so far,” he says.
They gaze at each other and she does not move. The silence grows until there is a small cough from the open door. Arthur Erskine, the equerry, has come up.
“Madam, the hour grows late.”
The Queen lingers a moment more. “Very well,” she says at last. “Lord Bothwell, your health. I will see you at Jedburgh when you can be moved.”
Her tone is so formal that I drop my head as she sweeps out of the room. Bothwell’s gaze is fixed on her departing figure.
“Alison, Arthur, do not tarry.” Her voice is imperious, and I must follow her. I take one last glance at Bothwell, who gives me a crooked smile, and then I am hurrying after Erskine through the corridors. The sun slips behind the hills as we emerge into the courtyard and mount the horses.
A full moon is rising, moving in and out of the clouds. Erskine and Lord James lead the way in the moonlight and every shadow is full of menace. Where there is flat ground we canter, but when the track is pocked or boggy we must walk the horses painstakingly through the muck. The Queen wraps herself in her cloak and says nothing.
The Raven's Heart Page 29
