The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots: A Novel

by Erickson, Carolly

  By the time I reached it, however, the two combatants had begun to laugh, though the insults continued. Finally both men threw down their swords and began playfully buffeting one another, more like boys than men.

  “Good sirs,” I said, going up to them, “dueling is not allowed within the precincts of the court. What do you wish here?”

  The taller of the two, his vest of burgundy velvet askew, his linen sleeves pitted with mud and his soft leather boots black with grime, turned his ruddy bearded face toward me and smiled. He wore a jeweled earring in his left ear and diamonds sparkled from his beribboned codpiece.

  “James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, Your Highness.” He bowed, so elaborately that I wondered whether he might be teasing me.

  His companion followed suit. “Cristy Ricarton, Lord of Faskally.”

  I addressed the earl. “You are my mother’s man. The one she calls ‘dear Jamie’ in her letters.”

  “Does she now? And did she tell you I was coming to see you?”

  “No. But our court has been traveling for many days. Her letter may be following us. Tell me, have you finished your contest of strength?”

  The earl looked at his companion, then down at their two discarded swords. “Are we finished, Cristy?”

  “For the present.” Both men chortled. “Especially since we have been cautioned.”

  “Then come inside and refresh yourselves.”

  I felt the earl’s dark eyes on me, and could not help but be pleased. I liked the humor in his eyes, his curling beard, the strength of his body, so different from Francis’s slender white tapering form. I did not mind at all that he showed me so little ceremony. After all, we were not in a palace, but a country château. And I have never been one to demand deference from my inferiors—unless I feel it is being deliberately withheld.

  Francis did not join us for supper, he was still recuperating from his illness. I dined with the two newcomers—Francis not being well enough to join us—and two of Francis’s councilors, the garrulous, pop-eyed Comte de Dampierre, who I had always found irksome, and the milder, more thoughtful man of law Augustine de Roncelet. My equerry Arthur Erskine stood behind my chair, Adrien and a dozen of the Scottish Archers formed an honor guard at both ends of the long room.

  Insofar as we could, we dined in state, on the best gold plate our traveling chests could provide. I had my tirewoman Margaret Carwood fasten me into a silken gown with ropes of gold embroidery and wide sleeves trimmed in silver lace, and my long red-gold hair was looped and braided almost as elaborately as if we had been at Chambord or Fontainebleau.

  No sooner had the first course been set before us than I asked the earl about my mother’s health.

  “I trust I may be frank with Your Highness,” he said, after taking a swallow of wine from his glass.

  “Of course you may. Indeed you must.”

  “She cannot last. The dropsy. Arran and his bastards have laid a spell on her, and it is killing her.” The Duke of Arran, my nearest male relative, was of the Scots blood royal as I was, and it was no secret that he coveted my throne. He had made himself my mother’s sworn enemy. “My sister and I have kept her alive until now,” the earl was saying. “We know a bit of sorcery.”

  The Lord of Faskally choked on his food, and coughed noisily. “A bit!” he managed to say when he had recovered. “Jamie and Jane could enchant half of Scotland!”

  “Cristy! Don’t forget where you are, and at whose table you dine.”

  “I ask your pardon, Your Highness,” the lord said, then resumed eating greedily.

  “The swelling—the pain she endures—I’m only glad Your Highness cannot see it. It would rend your heart.” The earl shook his head sadly as he spoke.

  “I wanted to send Dr. Bourgoing to her,” I said. “He says he has cured the dropsy with a decoction of black nightshade and he knows of others who have used lady’s glove to arrest its worsening. I wrote to her about sending him to Scotland, but she said no.”

  “The English would never let him through to her. Their ships block Leith harbor.”

  “I could send him down into Edinburgh from the north. He could go by ship to the Isles, then down through—”

  “Through Campbell country! Hah! They’d hack him to pieces as soon as spit on him. Savages, all of them, savages.”

  The Lord of Faskally nodded vigorously at this, and echoed “savages,” and went on eating.

  “I will miss your mother when she goes,” the earl went on. “A lion of a woman! She’s got the heart of a man of war. The English besieging us on one side, the mad Scots rebels on the other, with the villain Arran at their head, and she herself sick as a dog—and still she never gives up.” He shook his head in wonderment. “She sent me here to ask for troops and money. Only we both know it won’t do any good. She can’t last. And when she dies, Scotland will be a land of chaos.”

  “But my husband did send reinforcements months ago. I know he did.”

  The earl nodded. “I told you, the English ships block Leith harbor. Those men he sent were waylaid and attacked. They never set foot on Scottish soil.”

  For a time there was silence while a fresh course was served. Then, as we ate, my husband’s councilors questioned our guests about the English, how many ships they had in the harbor, how many men came ashore when they attacked, what sort of armaments they had.

  I listened, doing my best to eat a little, though my appetite had left me. Talking of my poor mother and her severe illness made me sad and tense. I drank a little wine in an effort to calm myself.

  The councilors droned on, the Lord of Faskally continued to eat and drink heartily, but the earl, while he answered all the questions put to him ably and knowledgeably—or so it appeared—often met my eyes, with a searching look that puzzled me.

  Then the conversation turned in an uncomfortable direction.

  “You know, of course, that our king is unwell,” the Comte de Dampierre said, addressing the earl, “and many believe he will die without an heir of his body.”

  “To speak in my presence of my husband’s infirmity, and of our childlessness, in such a callous way is discourteous,” I interrupted. But the count went on, as though I had not said a word.

  “His brother Charles will succeed, which will mean that our queen dowager will be regent, which will no doubt inflame the Protestants—”

  “I must ask you to guard your tongue, sir,” I said, aggravated at the count, “or leave the table.”

  The count glanced at me dismissively, then went on.

  “Adrien!” I called out, addressing the captain of the Scottish Archers. Almost before I had finished speaking his name he stood beside me. “This gentleman has had too much wine. Will you please escort him to his room?”

  “I obey only the king’s orders,” the count snapped.

  “And I the queen’s,” was the captain’s retort, and he took a menacing step toward the count.

  Monsieur de Roncelet got to his feet. “If you will excuse me, Your Highness, I believe these matters can be left for discussion another day. Come along, Dampierre.”

  For a moment I thought the count would challenge my authority again, but instead he threw down his linen napkin and turned to leave the room.

  In an instant the Earl of Bothwell was on his feet, kicking his chair noisily aside.

  “Monsieur le comte! You will ask the queen’s permission to withdraw, or you will answer to me!”

  Slowly the count turned, bowed in my direction, and murmured, “With your permission, Your Highness.”

  “You may go.”

  The earl sat down again. “Now perhaps we may finish our meal in peace. And then, Your Highness, if I may, I would like to see the king.”

  FIVE

  Even before we entered Francis’s bedchamber we could hear him coughing. I went in first, telling the three Gentlemen of the Bedchamber who were in attendance on him that he had a visitor.

  “A visitor?” Francis croaked. “What visitor?�
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  Though the hearth fire blazed high and the room was hot, he was swathed in a woolen blanket, his feet wrapped in warm leggings. He shivered—or perhaps he was trembling in fear. Visitors frightened Francis.

  “It is the Earl of Bothwell, my mother’s man. A friend.”

  “A parasite, you mean. Dampierre has cautioned me about this friend, this friend wants money.”

  The earl came in then, and at his first sight of Francis, could not help but whisper, “By all that’s holy!”

  My poor husband was indeed a ghastly sight. His dark, stringy hair stood out around his pale, thin face with its startling gashes of red where the skin disease that tormented him had broken out. With every rasping cough he brought up green sputum, which he wiped away impatiently with one wet hand. His wild eyes were full of fear and bad temper, and the sight of Bothwell, with his twinkling earring and sparkling codpiece, made him cackle.

  “A cockscomb then! As well as a parasite!”

  Bothwell bowed.

  “Your Highness,” he said. “I am James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, come to bring you greetings from the Queen Dowager Marie of Scotland. She wishes you a quick recovery and fortunate prospects for a long and happy reign.”

  A thin smile crossed Francis’s moist lips.

  “Does she indeed? And does she add her apologies for cursing me with a barren daughter for a wife?”

  “He doesn’t mean that,” I said, moving closer to the earl. “He is only echoing his mother. When we are alone he doesn’t speak to me like that.”

  “Sire,” the earl went on, “both our realms, Scotland and France, are under siege from the English enemy. It would be well for us not to insult each other or provoke quarrels, but to combine our strengths to fight off this scourge.”

  “Well said, for a borderer,” Francis sniped. “But as you see, I am under siege from quite another source.” A spasm of coughing interrupted him. I could hardly look at him, he was so wretched, and I so helpless. At length he went on, his voice low, his head bent toward the floor.

  “I refer to my mortality. Now leave me. There is no money for you here.”

  The earl bowed again, and murmuring, “I am sorry to have found Your Highness in such an unwell state,” left the bedchamber. After a moment I followed him.

  “I have a great and sudden thirst,” he said as I came up to him in the dim torchlit corridor. “Seeing death face to face puts me in need of drink.”

  I was glad that he made no pretense, that he said what we all saw—that my acid-tongued husband was not likely to live much longer.

  “It isn’t true, is it?” he asked. “The rumor that he has leprosy? Because if it is, then you probably have it too.”

  “No. But a worm has bored deep into his ear and Michel de Notredame says it cannot be gotten out. It is rotting him from the inside. The cough, the rheums, the terrible rash—all are caused by this deathly worm.”

  The earl shook his head. “Poor girl, it must not be easy for you. You must try to have a child, you know. That is your only hope. Otherwise—”

  I took a deep breath. I knew what the alternative would be.

  “Otherwise,” I said, “the queen dowager will send me back to Scotland. Back to the wolves.”

  The earl’s smile was rueful. Yet I saw sympathy in his eyes. “You sound like your mother. But now I must go. No doubt Cristy has already found the nearest tavern. I’ll join him, with Your Highness’s permission.”

  “Of course. Thank you,” I added.

  “For what?”

  “For your truthfulness.”

  He nodded. “And I thank you for yours.” We looked at each other then, and smiled, and let the moment linger. I felt something stir deep within me, a sensation for which, then, I had no name. A slowly spreading warmth, a comfort, a sheltering peace. And I was aware once again, as I had been when I first saw him in the courtyard earlier that day, of his bodily strength and vigor.

  “Let’s hunt tomorrow,” he said, “if the day is fine.”

  I nodded.

  “Good night, Your Highness.”

  “Good night, my lord.”

  SIX

  Early showers of rain had left muddy patches in the little wood, and as the kennelmen in their leather breeches brought out the hare hounds they splashed through freshets that ran between the chestnuts and the old hornbeams. The dogs yapped as they leapt through the brushwood, and my little roan tossed her head and skittered nervously under me as we waited for the hunting party to assemble.

  I felt a bit guilty, leaving Francis in order to course hares, especially since, of the two of us, he was the one who most loved to hunt. But he was hardly able to leave his chair, much less ride, and I told myself that I was not merely seeking fresh air and exercise, I was taking counsel with my mother’s most faithful supporter, the Earl of Bothwell. Whatever conversation we had, whatever further rapport we developed during the day’s sport, would benefit France and Scotland—and my husband as well.

  “There now, Bravane,” I called to the horse, reaching down to pat her neck, steadying myself on the planchon under my feet. My skirts were damp, the morning had not been kind to my riding clothes. Yet as I looked down at the sadly rumpled taffeta the air seemed to brighten and the sun came out, its sudden warmth cutting through the early morning chill. All around me wet leaves glistened as they trembled in the breeze, and the rich smells that rose from the moist earth seemed to grow stronger. Grooms were loading up the horses with baskets of food, and the huntsmen, stamping their feet and flapping their arms, their breaths steaming in the cold air, were signaling to the beaters to begin thrashing the undergrowth with sticks in order to drive the hares toward the open field beyond the wood.

  Just as the horns sounded I glimpsed the earl, cap-a-pie in burgundy velvet and mounted on a dark jennet, riding up to join the party. Then we were off, as one great gray hare after another broke free of the scrub and darted off ahead. Slipped of their collars, the dogs raced after them, barking excitedly, and we on our mounts raced after the dogs, coming to a halt now and then when the clever, nimble hares bounded out of sight and the puzzled hounds paused, yapping and circling, until they caught sight of fresh prey.

  For two hours and more we rode, in and out of copses, through wet expanses of fern and moss, over bare heath and across fields already shorn of their harvest. Hare after hare fell to the kill, though most, it seemed, escaped. They were vermin, they ate the crops and unless they were hunted, their numbers grew far too great. Still, I was glad when they flew across the fields, veering away from the hounds, turning with dizzying speed, their angular movements impossible to predict or follow. I was glad each time the dogs gave up, baying, for I knew that meant another hare had gotten away.

  Escape was much on my mind in those days. For had Michel de Notredame not told me that my entire life was an escape from a dark fate? And were not my mother and my husband seeking to escape death?

  Riding at full tilt across the sun-drenched fields on that morning, feeling Bravane’s strong muscles moving rhythmically under me, taking risks as I rode—for I have never been one for prudent coursing—I felt that escape from dark premonitions was indeed possible, and I laughed aloud as I went.

  Suddenly I heard strengthening hoofbeats and felt Bravane shudder as another horse passed her, nearly colliding with her in its mad gallop.

  “You there! Watch out!” I shouted. But the swift rider did not pull up, or even turn to acknowledge me, he merely raised one gloved hand and shouted, “All for risk, woman! Arise and away!”

  I looked more closely at his back. It was the earl! The burgundy doublet and feathered cap, the dark jennet, surely there could not be another member of our party that resembled him so closely.

  The sun was nearly overhead, and I was both hungry and thirsty. I could tell from the cries of the dogs and the way their heads drooped and their tongues lolled that they too needed rest and refreshment. We came to a brook and I stopped to let Bravane drink her fill, sta
nding in the long grass that grew at the water’s edge. Up ahead there was a patch of shade where a grove of beech slanted down a sloping hillside. The grooms were there before us, spreading linen cloths and laying out the contents of hampers.

  “There are snakes in that grass,” came a low warm voice. I looked around, and saw the earl, approaching on his weary, sweaty-flanked horse, which moved up to stand beside Bravane at the edge of the brook, drinking from the swiftly flowing water.

  “You nearly knocked us over,” I said irritably. “Your jennet owes my Bravane the courtesy of an apology.”

  The earl removed his cap, revealing tousled light-brown curling hair.

  “We beg your royal pardon. We were chasing the fastest hare ever born.”

  “And did you catch him?”

  “Alas, no.” He looked down into the water. “I fear I am not at my best. The tavern last night was well stocked, the drink flowing, the company—”

  “Yes, I can imagine the rest.”

  He chortled. “I am short of sleep. But not too drowsy to offer to bring Your Highness some food.” He dismounted, letting the reins of his horse go slack across its broad back, and strolled off in the direction of the grooms in the beech grove.

  I dismounted and stretched my stiff limbs. Leaving Bravane to drink, I took a few steps along the water’s edge. It felt good to move, to feel the breeze on my cheeks, to loosen, slightly, the tight lacing of my bodice (after all, Margaret was not there to notice and tell me I looked disheveled). I took off my cap and let down the braids of my high-piled hair, feeling the coolness of the wind and closing my eyes for the sheer pleasure of it.

  I walked back to where the horse waited and secured her to a tree trunk. The earl had returned with a groom who carried a basket of food and a cloth, which he laid out for us to sit on. When the plate and cutlery had been arranged, the metal trenchers and goblets, I thanked the groom and told him he did not need to stay to serve us. He bowed and, jumping across the brook at a bound, departed.