Виктория Холт - Royal Road to Fotheringhay

“I have the consent of your family to the match,” he had told her grimly, and he had taken her proud face in his hands and given her his bold stare. It had not had its usual effect, and the faintest shadow of distaste crossed her face as he kissed her full on the lips with a laugh.

But of course it was useless for her to protest. The marriage had been arranged. The Queen had given her consent and Jean’s brother had decided to unite his fortunes with the rising ones of Bothwell.

Bothwell needed this marriage. Lord John Stuart, who had married Janet Hepburn, had died recently, and that marriage, from which Bothwell had hoped much since it brought him the Queen’s own brother as his brother-in-law, had availed him little. Now that the Gordons were back in favor Jean was an admirable match, and he was determined that she should be his wife.

So they were married, for Ogilvie was not the man to stand out against the Queen’s wishes and those of such a powerful nobleman as Huntley had become. Jean’s wishes went for little, and here she was—Bothwell’s bride.

Her hand was limp in his. Never mind, he thought. We shall soon change that.

He felt grand and powerful, ready to achieve anything. The Queen had wished the ceremony to take place in the chapel at Holyrood, but Bothwell, declaring that he was a Protestant, had insisted that it should take place in the Canongate Kirk.

The Queen had given way graciously. She was pleased with Bothwell; she had even forgiven him for the slander he had spoken against her, accepting his word that it had been a fabrication of the foul-minded Dandie Pringle.

In Kinloch House the Queen was the guest of honor. The King had accompanied her, but not very graciously. He was grumbling that one of his high estate should be expected to attend celebrations at Kinloch House. It was a large house, a luxurious house, the property of a rich townsman who was a favorite at the Court; but Darnley, newly come to royalty, could not deign to approve of anything that was not entirely royal. Moreover he hated Bothwell for his manliness and for the fact that he would have made a better general than Darnley’s father. Darnley knew that had Bothwell commanded the army and acted as he wished, the rebels would now be the Queen’s captives and not enjoying their freedom in England, where they were doubtless being encouraged to make fresh plots against the Queen.

Mary found the wedding less enjoyable than others she had attended. The bridegroom made her uneasy. She remembered clearly the first time she had seen him when she was in France, and how his appraising, almost insolent gaze had made her uncomfortable. He had not lost that habit. Now, in his doublet made of gold-colored silk with its puffed sleeves, its inlets of satin, and with narrow lace ruff about his sunburned neck, he looked more virile in his finery than he did when less splendidly clad, for the colorful, almost womanish garments, called attention to his strength and masculinity. Those powerful shoulders, those strong hands, that hard face engraved with the strains of many adventures which had not always turned out happily, that sensual mouth touched with bitterness which must have consumed him during his exile, made of Jean Gordon’s husband a complete contrast to the handsome young man whom Mary had married.

Mary felt a qualm of conscience about Jean, who had wanted Alexander of Ogilvie. Jean had been one of her ladies of the bedchamber since Livy had gone and the Gordons had come back into favor, and Mary knew her well. She was a practical girl, and Mary assured herself that she would not allow her disappointment to warp her outlook. She was calm and would prove a steadying influence on the Borderer.

Jean must be proud, continued Mary’s thoughts, to see Bothwell so shine in the jousts. He was undoubtedly the victor of the tournament, which was very satisfactory indeed, since he was the man of the moment on this his wedding day.

What strength! Mary shivered slightly. There was something terrifying about the man. She wondered if the stories she had heard of him were wholly true. Was he really the ruffian he was made out to be? Was it true that he had scores of mistresses?

He was a bold man and a wicked one; she had no doubt of that; yet compared with him, her own Henry did seem somewhat childish and ineffectual.

THE BOTHWELL honeymoon was spent at Seton. To both it was an unsatisfactory honeymoon. Bothwell was bewildered; he could not understand his Jean. She was a Highlander; he was a Lowlander; she belonged to the most important family of the North and her father had been the Cock o’ the North. It was clear that she found his manners repulsive; he had laughed at her when she disclosed this, and determined to make no effort to mend them. He had been piqued by her attitude toward him. No woman had aroused his interest so completely before, and she was not even beautiful. Her pale face with its crown of sandy hair was serene beneath the green and gold cap, and the lacey ruff accentuated its oval contours; he found it impossible to disturb that serenity.

She submitted unmoved to his rough lovemaking. He would have preferred her to protest; then he could have brought into action his famous Border tactics. Her calm expression seemed to say: I am married to you and I will do my duty, no matter how unpleasant that may be.

He had even tried gentleness. Nothing moved her. And once, watching her when she was unaware of it, he imagined by the sadness in her face that she was thinking of Alexander Ogilvie.

“Curse Alexander Ogilvie!” cried the Borderer. “If I had him here I’d slit his throat, and you would see who was the better man.”

“The slitting of throats cannot decide who is the better man,” she had answered.

“It can decide who is the live one,” he had retorted grimly.

“But we were not discussing life and death.”

She showed no emotion when she arrived at her new home of Crichton Castle. What did she think of those stark stone walls built to stand against the raider from the other side of the Border? How did it compare with the glens and fells, the rushing streams and waterfalls of her beautiful Highlands? She gave no sign. It was as though she shrugged her elegant Gordon shoulders and accepted Crichton as she accepted James Hepburn.

“Well,” he roared, “do you like my castle?”

“It is my home, so I needs must,” she replied.

He watched her as she busied herself with the alterations she would make. She had brought several of her mother’s servants with her and she set them sweeping and cooking, cleaning and sewing. Bothwell was amused; he could see that soon he would have a model home.

This wife of his interested him. Her frigidity was such as he had never encountered. A wifely frigidity, he presumed it to be. One would not tolerate it in a mistress. Yet it intrigued him. Here was the first woman who did not melt before his flaming personality.

He had never been faithful to one woman for so long. He might have gone on being faithful, had he not happened to take a short cut through his wife’s sewing room one day.

Seated on low stools were some of his wife’s sewing maids and among them was one who immediately caught his eye. She was small, her face was pale, and her hair the blackest he had ever seen, and so abundant that no amount of restraint could have kept it in order. He was aware of the girl’s brilliant eyes fixed upon him as he sauntered through the room. The older maids modestly kept their eyes on their work.

As he passed the girl he stared at her and boldly she returned his stare. He knew then that he had been too long faithful to one woman, and it was a most unnatural condition.

But he forgot the girl until next day when, on his way to the stables, he suddenly remembered that on the previous day he had passed through the sewing room. He went there again and saw the girl. She was like an inviting goblet of wine ready for the drinking, and he was a man who suffered from the perpetual thirst which only such wine could assuage.