Виктория Холт - Royal Road to Fotheringhay

“That is quite wrong, Henry.”

“Then show them it is wrong. Give the command to my father. Dearest Mary, please me in this thing… just to prove to me…”

She was weakening; she was sinking into that mood when her senses were in command, when nothing seemed too much to give in return for all the joy and pleasure he gave her.

THE TWO MEN faced each other—the adventurer from the Border and the Queens pretty husband. Darnley was examining the velvet-lined, perfumed gloves—a present from the Queen—which he was drawing on his hands.

“Her Majesty” said Darnley with a smirk which made Both well’s fingers itch to draw his sword, “has appointed my father commander of her armies.”

The colour deepened in Bothwell’s ruddy face. He had been certain of the command. He knew that the men would follow him to death if need be, because he had the qualities of leadership and men feared him while they admired him. To set weak Lennox at the head of the armies was folly. Moreover, Lennox was not even on the spot.

“I would wish to hear that from Her Majesty’s lips before I believed it,” muttered Bothwell.

“Would an order, signed by the Queen, suffice, my lord?”

Bothwell nodded, and Darnley unrolled the scroll he had carelessly carried under his arm. Bothwell studied it.

The foolish woman! he thought. The lives of loyal Scotsmen are at stake, and she can deny this popinjay nothing!

Yet he was too soon returned from exile to risk being sent back again. He bowed his head, but as his eyes met those of Darnley, there was murder in his heart. The strong fingers twitched. He was imagining them, pressing that scented throat until the silly boy had no breath left. He was certain in that moment that the best way any Scot could serve the Queen was by ridding her of the foolish boy she had married.

NEVER HAD the Queen lived through such triumphant days. She herself, wearing a light suit of armor under her scarlet, gold-embroidered riding dress and a steel casque under her hood, rode out with her army behind her. Beside her rode her husband, distinct from all others on account of the gilded armor he was wearing; he had not forgotten to put on his scented velvet-lined gloves.

As she rode south, Mary’s subjects rallied to her.

“God save the Queen!” they cried. They were enchanted by the youth and beauty of their King and Queen. Compared with them the stern-faced Puritan Moray seemed very colourless.

“Give the Queen a chance,” murmured the people. “Why should the bonny lass not choose her own husband if she wishes it! And who is behind this rising of Moray’s? Who but the Queen of England!”

There were many who thought often and bitterly of those raids on their homes, of the marauding hordes from beyond the Border. Those raiders were the friends of Moray. Let Moray keep his friends. Scotsmen were rallying in the cause of their Queen.

And so Moray found a lack of the response which had been expected. Few rallied to his standard, and the English, seeing how matters stood, became evasive. Elizabeth held up the aid she had promised, and Moray’s rebellion, which was to have brought him control of Scotland, was crushed without bloodshed. He was forced to flee across the Border, for he dared not remain in Scotland; and with him into exile went his powerful helpers—Châtelherault, Glencairn, Kirkcaldy and many others.

Knox, reproaching God, advised Him to do His duty by the exiles and bring them back to power in Scotland. He found some comfort in whispering evil gossip concerning the Queen and Rizzio. The latter, he declared, was a spy of the Pope’s; he was the slave of the Roman Harlot; he had corrupted the Queen’s mind while he corrupted her body.

“Was it true,” asked the people of Edinburgh, “that Signor Davie was the Queen’s lover?” It was said that he spent long hours alone with her. He was not handsome, but he had beautiful eyes and he played the guitar with great skill. This guitar in itself was believed to be a magic thing; it was made of tortoiseshell, mother o’ pearl, ebony and ivory. It could make any who heard it its slave. When Signor Davie played it before the Queen, he cast a spell upon her so that she was eager for his embrace.

Such were the tales which were circulating through Scotland.

Meanwhile heartening news came from London of Elizabeth’s reception of Moray, which had been quite different from his expectations. The Queen had received him with great hostility, upbraiding him for daring to question her “dear sister’s rule.” All knew that this was a ruse of Elizabeth’s; all knew that she had promised aid to Moray, and that, had he shown signs of succeeding, it would have been given. But it was a heartening sign to Mary and her friends that Elizabeth should consider it politic to scold Moray for daring to rise against his Queen.

The affairs of the Queen of Scots were more satisfactory than they had ever been before. She was strong now and, while determined to be tolerant in religious matters, was celebrating the Mass with less caution than hitherto.

Mary could have been happy but for the fact that Darnley was growing more and more ill-tempered and arrogant. Her own temper—always ready to break out—had on several occasions flared up against him. Bickering had broken out between them; even their sexual relationship was no longer completely satisfactory. He had changed; he was no longer the tender lover, and his one thought was to exert his superiority over her. Her dignity was in rebellion and her sensuality could not subdue it.

Often she reflected: I could be quite happy now if Henry were only as he used to be.

But gradually she became aware of that other menace; the growing scandals concerning Rizzio.

IN THE Canongate Church Lord Bothwell was being married. Outside the kirk the citizens waited to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom as they passed from there to Kinloch House, where the celebrations would take place.

There was a look of satisfaction on the face of the Border Earl. He was pleased with this wedding of his and with the general turn of events. Here he was, after years of exile and imprisonment, rising and likely to become one of the most important men in Scotland.

He liked his bride—Jean Gordon, sister of the Earl of Huntley—who brought him all he wanted. She was rich, of high birth and a good woman.

At the moment she was pale and a little sullen. She was not as pleased to marry the Earl of Bothwell as he was to marry her; that in itself had provided a certain piquancy, for he was accustomed to being much sought after. Strange that the woman he should honor with his hand in marriage should be one of the few reluctant ones he had ever encountered.

Jean was twenty, very pale, with sandy hair, large eyes and the long Gordon nose. She was proud and cold, he imagined; but that would be a change. Too many had been too warm toward him.

When he had asked her to marry him—having previously obtained the consent of her brother and the Queen—she was cool and distant. Another woman might have been frightened, and he would have known how to deal with such fear; but Jean was too proud to show fear.

She obviously wondered why her brother should have considered a man from the Border, and of such reputation, worthy of her. Only the well arched brows betrayed the thought, but they betrayed it completely.

“I do not see, my lord, how such a marriage could be,” she had replied to his proposal, “since I have already been promised to Alexander Ogilvie of Boyne.”

“Ogilvie!” Bothwell had cried. “Let that not trouble you. I will deal with Ogilvie of Boyne.”

“Deal with him? I do not wish you to deal with him. I am telling you that he and I are betrothed.”