Queen's Own Fool

by Jane Yolen

  “I go because I promised a loyal servant I would,” she said.

  And I thought: Take that in your cheating mouth, you knave, and swallow it! And then I smiled.

  Darnley propped himself up on one elbow, which caused the taffeta mask to slip. The discolorations on his face looked less like pox and more like the poxie, or love disease. “You must beware, Mary. Our noble friends intend to make mischief between us.”

  You hardly need any help with that, I reflected silently.

  “Do not upset yourself so,” said the queen, pushing him gently back against the pillow. “In the morning, you will move to Holyrood and all will be well.” She blew him a kiss and went out the door, passing me in a cascade of silk.

  I followed behind her, saying, “Any man may step in a bear trap once, Madam, but only a madman does so twice.”

  She did not look back at me. “Whatever he has done,” she said, “I married him willingly, so I am as much to blame. Besides, the church allows for no divorce.”

  “You have asked me to remind you, Majesty, that you are no god to make a bad man good. You are but a ...”

  “I need no reminding,” she said, cutting me off.

  What good is it, I thought, to be told you have the queen’s ear when she does not listen?

  We walked down the stairs and on through the rest of the house in the kind of silence that happens between enemies, not friends.

  But once we emerged into the square, she suddenly threw off that mood and began to chatter about the masquerade.

  I chattered back happily, glad to be away from that house that was so thoroughly infected with Darnley.

  It was quite dark now, but pages were standing by with torches. Bothwell’s manservant, Paris, helped the queen into the saddle. As he stepped back, I saw by the torchlight that his clothes were begrimed with dirt and black powder. It was odd that he should be so dirty and still be allowed to touch the queen.

  “Your master has not made a miner of you, has he?” I joked.

  Paris flinched but the queen laughed at my jest.

  “He is a mucky cur,” Bothwell commented laconically. “I shall toss him in the river later to see if that will make him clean.”

  At the palace the partying went on until late. I sang and danced—most of the time with Joseph. His arms about my waist, his hand on mine in public, brought a flush to my face. I came in for much teasing from the Maries and from the queen, too.

  But by the time the newlyweds retired to their chamber—amidst much ribald joking—the queen looked exhausted.

  “May I help you to your room, Madam,” I said.

  Noting my flushed and happy face, she shook her head. “The Maries will help me. Take to your own room, child. I will not need you tonight.”

  Joseph and I walked for about an hour more, through the palace corridors, mostly talking about our childhoods. But at last my eyelids were fluttering closed even as we spoke.

  “I will see you on the morrow,” he said, taking me to my room.

  He opened the door and I turned to say good night. But before I could open my mouth, he leaned over and put a kiss on my forehead, so light that it might have been the touch of a moth’s wing.

  I looked up at him for a moment, then without speaking, I ran into the room and flung myself on my bed. I heard the quiet snick of the door as he closed it, the sharp tip-tap of his footsteps as he moved away down the hall.

  In spite of being tired, I was suddenly in no mood to sleep. The very air seemed charged. I could still feel Joseph’s kiss on my forehead, burning like a brand.

  Air, I thought. I need air. I went over to my window and opened the shutters, but it was not enough.

  So I left my room and went down the stairs and outside, feeling giddy and wild. Standing by the doorway, I could hear isolated voices laughing and singing snatches of earthy songs. The party had not ended entirely. I put my hand to my forehead and once again could feel Joseph’s kiss there.

  But suddenly I shivered. It had turned cold, as Scottish nights often do, and I was not dressed for the weather.

  I thought that if I could not sleep, perhaps the queen could not sleep, either, though for different reasons. After all, the confrontation with her husband had not been pleasant. And if she was still awake, I could apologize for all my sour back talk.

  So I went back inside, up the stairs, and down the long corridors towards her rooms.

  When I got there, however, I heard voices from inside, the loudest of which I could not fail to recognize.

  “Speak plain, woman!” It was Lord Bothwell. “Will you be done with him or no?”

  What is he doing in her rooms so late? I wondered.

  “Why do you press me so?” the queen pleaded, like a child to a scolding schoolmaster. “What can I do but make the best of this burdensome situation and pray to God to deliver me, for you know I can never divorce him.”

  Bothwell made a disgusted noise, as though spitting out a piece of bad meat. “God is deaf to those who will not shift for themselves.”

  Suddenly his footsteps approached the door and I darted down the stairs, squeezing into an alcove to hide. When his steps died away, I came out from hiding and went back up.

  As I prepared to knock, I heard weeping from within. Would I upset the queen further by intruding? Clearly she needed me now. But just as clearly I did not dare go in.

  So I sank down by the door, struggling to stay alert. The cold stone floor sent a chill through me that at first kept me lively. But it had been a long day and, in spite of my best efforts, I was soon a-drowse, remembering Joseph’s kiss as if in a dream.

  The sudden opening of the door at my back jolted me awake. When I looked up, the queen was standing over me, as startled to see me there as I was to see her.

  Jumping to my feet, I tried to present a seemly face to her.

  “Nicola,” she said, “what are you doing here?”

  I had no answer. The truth was I had no idea why I was there.

  “I thought ... I thought you might need me, Madam,” I answered lamely. “But I did not want to disturb you if you slept.”

  The queen regarded me curiously. “How could you know?” she said, as much to herself as to me.

  “Know what, Madam?” I asked.

  The smile she gave me was wan, as if she were trying to put a brave face on a troubled heart. “Come in, Nicola. I have a task for you. Surely this is the reason God preserved you from the river when your mother and father died. This is the moment—more than the comfort at Amboise, more than scaling down from my window, more than the flight in the night from Holyrood—for which you were sent to me. You are here tonight to save the life of one appointed by God, a life which no man has the right to take.”

  36

  DEATH IN THE NIGHT

  I followed her into the bedchamber, nervous and eager in equal measure. She opened a drawer in her bedside table, handing me a small diamond-studded crucifix that she had carried from France.

  “I know the hour is late, but please take this to Kirk o’Field and give it to the king,” she said. “Let it protect him through the night until he comes safe to Holyrood in the morning.”

  Protect him? I thought. I would rather slay him for all he had done to my sweet queen. I did not say this, of course, but instead asked, “Should I carry so valuable a thing through the city late at night, Madam? What of robbers? What of footpads? I will be a girl alone.”

  “My grandmother gave me this when I was very sick,” the queen explained. “I have always been certain it summoned angels from heaven to protect me. It will protect you as well, Nicola.”

  On the way there, perhaps, I thought. But once given, how will it protect me in Darnley’s presence? Or on the way home?

  “The crucifix is very beautiful indeed, Madam,” I said. “But surely the king is in no danger now.”

  It was as if she had not heard me. “I did not know who else to entrust this mission to. And then God sent me you.”

&
nbsp; “Are you sure you want me to be the messenger?”

  “Who in all the court should the king trust better, Nicola? Without you, we would both have been dead a year past.”

  “I will do all I can for your safety, Madam. You know that.” I placed the cross around my neck and started to leave.

  “It has grown cold outside, Nicola.” She fetched one of her fur-lined cloaks from the wardrobe and wrapped it round my shoulders.

  It was much too long of course, but I felt quite the royal lady until I caught sight of myself in the mirror. This will surely bring out the footpads, I thought. Still, I could not fail the queen, who asked so little of me, so I bowed low to her. She patted my head and then kissed me on the brow, in the very same place where Joseph’s kiss lay.

  Hurrying through the night city, I held the cloak tightly about me. Once I lost my way in the dark. Closes and lanes and wynds seemed to rise up and plunge away again, twisting around each other like overgrown vines. But a partial moon finally enabled me to mark out a few familiar places—like Cowgate—and so I went safely on.

  At last I saw the Kirk o’Field square, and headed straight for it. Before I could set foot in the open, I caught sight of two men huddled in the shadows by the king’s dwelling. The moment they spied me, they vanished into the shadows like accomplished thieves.

  How queer, I thought. Why did they not come forward to rob me, a mere girl without the protection of an armed man?

  I paused to see if they would reappear, but when they did not, I drew in a deep breath and started quickly across the square.

  Just then the door of the king’s house opened and Lord Bothwell stepped out into the street, a pistol stuffed into his belt and a long dagger at his side.

  I made a sound then, between a scream and a sigh of relief.

  He turned, saw me, and his boar’s eyes narrowed. He did not look pleased.

  I thought to run off into the shadows then, but my arms were suddenly gripped from behind and I was dragged off, kicking at my abductors, into a dark alley.

  This time I did scream, or at least I tried to, but a hand clapped down over my mouth. Twisting my head around, I saw that it was Bothwell’s servant, Paris, who held me so tight. Another man stood by, his face hidden by a hood.

  Suddenly Bothwell himself loomed over me. “Girl, what stupid fancy has brought you out here this night of all nights?”

  Paris lifted his hand from my mouth so that I could answer. My voice squeaked with fear. “I am on an errand for the queen.”

  “As am I,” he responded. “And I will tolerate no interference.”

  “I plan no interference, my lord,” I managed to say. “Just give me leave to deliver my message and I will be gone.”

  “Is it done?” asked the man in the hood.

  Bothwell nodded. “The fuses are lit. In a few minutes it will be over.” He turned back to Paris. “You know what needs doing. So do it—and quickly.”

  “No,” interrupted the hooded man, “She is just a girl. And on the queen’s errand.”

  “Is she any less dangerous for that?”

  They glared at each other, with Paris caught uncertainly in the middle. For a moment, his grip slackened. I took the chance and tore myself from his grasp, leaving the fur-lined cape in his hands.

  I ran wildly, without thought, fear nipping like a wolf at my heels. When I reached the edge of the square, I was suddenly confronted by three more men. I drew in a ragged breath and looked around for some avenue of escape.

  “Take her!” Bothwell called after them.

  I swerved away and dashed back towards the king’s house as fast as my legs could carry me.

  Bothwell cursed and I heard several pairs of feet pounding behind me. Not daring to look back, I ran for the door, flung it open, hurled myself inside, and slammed the door behind. In the fading firelight from the hearth, I saw a small chair. Grabbing it, I jammed it under the door’s handle.

  Then hands on knees and breathing in great gasps, I tried to think. Why are they chasing me? What had they said?

  Fuses!

  Oh, dear Lord!

  I had jumped out of the skillet, into the fireplace.

  “Your Majesty!” I cried out. “Your Majesty!”

  A servant’s sleepy groan answered me, so I ran up the stairs to Darnley’s room and burst in noisily. He leaped out of bed, almost tumbling into the open bath. His servant Taylor, who slept at his bedfoot, was awakened as well.

  “What?” Darnley cried. “What is going on?”

  “Murderers, Your Majesty,” I gasped. “Assassins. At least half a dozen of them outside. They have set fuses.”

  “Fuses?” He repeated. “Do you mean gunpowder?”

  “Gunpowder, yes!” Why is the man so slow? “The fuses are already lit.” I could kill him myself. “We must leave this place at once, but not by the front door.”

  “But why?”

  God’s wounds, would he not stop talking and move.

  “There are men outside the door and armed.”

  “Armed?” he echoed again. “Then how am I to escape?”

  I—not we—he gives no thought to Taylor or me.

  Taylor’s eyes searched the room that was made shadowy by the flickering of the dying fire.

  “Over there, sir,” he said. With remarkable presence of mind he snatched up a piece of rope, tied it to a window rail, then dropped it over the side.

  His nightgown flapping about his legs, Darnley climbed over the rail and began to slide down the rope. Grabbing a cloak for his master and a dagger to defend him with, Taylor started after him.

  I had no option but to follow and hope we could all get clear before the place exploded.

  When I was but halfway down the rope, I twisted around and saw Darnley running across the garden with Taylor at his heels. Before they got to the far gate, a half-dozen men jumped from hiding on all sides and grabbed them.

  “Mercy!” the king cried.

  But they were without any mercy, and one of the men whipped a cord round the king’s throat. Taylor lashed out with his dagger but was quickly wrestled to the ground, and strangled as brutally as his master.

  Dangling from the rope, the cold wind buffeting me from side to side, I was too frozen with horror to move. Had my wishing killed the king? But I had not wished Taylor dead, and there he lay in the garden by his master’s side.

  And what of the other servants in the house? Surely I had to go back and warn them as well.

  Do I have time?

  My cold hands gripped the rope and I tried to shift upward.

  Suddenly the knot came loose under my weight, and I was dropped the last few feet to the ground. I landed in a heap on the brittle grass and for a moment lay there, stunned.

  Any bones broken?

  Then, not waiting for an answer, I scrambled, frightened, to my feet. I was terrified. Had my fall been heard? If so, I had to get away at once. Only ...

  Which way?

  I feared the rope around my neck more than any blast of gunpowder. It seemed more real. So I raced away from the garden, that place of quick death, and around the side of the house, where I ran headlong into a man who was every bit as solid as a wall.

  “You are serving your mistress ill this night,” Bothwell said, drawing his long knife. “She demanded this favor of me, with her heart if not her lips, and I cannot let you betray us.”

  I stared at the knife and suddenly remembered Davie’s poor body and all its bloody wounds. I tried to move but could not. All I could do was scream.

  But my cry was drowned out by a massive detonation as the house exploded with a noise like the end of the earth. The force of the blast knocked us both off our feet. Clouds of dust and shards of splintered stone flew everywhere. Desperately I rolled away, then stood and ran blindly through the smoke and the dust and the shattered brickwork, coughing and vomiting as I ran.

  37

  REFUGE

  Bothwell bellowed a command and, when I risked a
backward glance, I saw three men chasing after me. I knew they meant to silence me, and I pelted down the street, crying loudly.

  “Help! Help me!” I called, my voice echoing in the stone canyons of the streets as I ran. A few of the houses came blearily awake with lighted candles.

  I did not dare stop running. To ask for refuge would give my pursuers all the time they needed. So I ran on, into the maze of twisting streets that snaked over the steep hills.

  At last a pain stabbed though my side and I collapsed against a wall, sucking in a burning breath. A part of my mind was yelling at me to keep moving, but my body refused to listen. I was dizzy with running, my ears still ringing from the blast.

  “Which way did she go?” I heard a voice call behind me.

  “There, over there!” answered another.

  I lurched back into motion again, feeling as if my insides were about to burst.

  As I rushed along the deserted roads, the footfalls of my pursuers got closer. Or was it the pounding of my blood in my ears? I dared not stop to figure it out.

  Then I saw a dark shadow coming towards me, a single candle like a star in its hand.

  Towards me, not behind!

  I tried to call for help, but only a rasping breath came from my lips as I pitched forward at the shadow’s feet, my knees scraping on the cobbles.

  A large hand took me by the arm and helped me up. The candlelight passed over my eyes, blinding me.

  “I know that face, do I not?” said a dour but familiar voice. “I have seen ye many times passing in the queen’s retinue, singing verses not fit for a lass’s ears never mind her lips.”

  I looked up into the frowning features of John Knox.

  “I remember now,” he said. “Yer the queen’s own fool.”

  He released my arm as Bothwell’s men came charging up to us. They skidded to a sudden halt before him.

  “What manner of men are ye that pursue a wee girl through the streets at this hour?” Knox’s voice rang out as though he were addressing a church full of people and not three armed men.