Виктория Холт - Royal Road to Fotheringhay

“Madam, I have a fondness for this room. I shall always remember it as the four walls within which I enjoyed the greatest experience of your life.”

“You are unbearably insolent.”

“I but seek to speak the truth, Madam.”

“Lord Bothwell, I will not endure your insolence. I have decided that you shall not escape punishment for what you have done. I cannot proclaim your latest misdeeds to the world since I myself was forced to play such an unhappy part in them.”

“Unhappy! You do not know yourself. You have a great capacity for loving, Madam. You have not realized how great. But I have. Would Your Majesty cast back your thoughts to that night and be entirely honest with yourself? Will you ask yourself whether, when you ceased to fight and began to relax, you found that what I so ardently desired was not Your Majesty’s own desire?”

She stared at him. She put out her hands as though to ward him off. He came toward her, ignoring her outstretched hands. There was nothing of the courier about him. He caught her to him and laughed. Then he bent her backward and kissed her. Knowledge of the truth came to her then. There was something in herself which called to that in him which was primitive and barbaric.

“Why did you come back to this house?” he whispered. “Tell me that! Why… why?”

She did not answer. She was breathless with agitation and expectation, for it was clear to her now why she had come back. It was to offer this challenge to him. It was to bring him back here again.

He knew her even better than she knew herself.

She had come back because he had set a torch to that desire in her which had been lying dormant. He had provoked a mighty conflagration. She desired him now with an intensity which equaled his. And when two such as they recognized their needs, nothing could restrain them.

She felt herself lifted in his arms. It was happening again… not in her imagination, but in reality.

THEY WERE lovers now. She could think of little else but Bothwell—the last meeting, the next meeting. The periods between were irksome times of waiting.

Flem had become Lady Maitland of Lethington; Beaton had married Alexander Ogilvie; of the Queen’s four Marys there was only Seton left. Yet it did not seem important; no one was important but Bothwell.

Some already knew of the relationship between them. It was impossible to keep it entirely secret; Bastian, her French servant, knew, and so, of course, did Lady Reres. Seton knew. Others whispered that Lord Both-well seemed to be in high favor with the Queen and it appeared that he would soon be taking the place, in her counsels, of David Rizzio. David’s brother, Joseph, was now at Court and Mary had given him a high place. Yet she was scarcely aware of the young man; she was aware of little but Bothwell.

Darnley watched her. He would stay away from Court, sulking in his father’s castle; then he would return, coming to her apartments, demanding his rights. He was more despicable to Mary than he had ever been; he seemed quite repulsive. How could I ever have thought I was in love with such a man? she asked herself again and again. It was inexplicable, especially as Lord Bothwell had so often been there for her to see. She had been blind—blind to life, blind to passion, blind to love.

Now she had miraculously lost her blindness. This was living. This was what she had been born for.

DARNLEY WAS frightened. Maitland was back at Court, and Maitland was one of those lords who had felt it necessary to leave Court after the murder of Rizzio. This was but a beginning, thought Darnley. He knew that Moray and Maitland would now urge the Queen to pardon Morton, young Ruthven and the rest of them, restore their estates and bring them back to Court. And when they came, what would be their first action?

Darnley was a fool, but any fool would know the answer.

He had been present at the murder of Rizzio; he had given his support to the murderers; the murder had been done in his name—out of his jealousy of the Queen. Yet he had turned traitor. He had changed sides at the crucial moment, so the plot had failed in some way. Rizzio had died, it was true, but the Queen had escaped. She had gathered her followers about her and, with Huntley and Bothwell, had returned to Edinburgh triumphant; the murderers, in spite of all their elaborate plans, had been defeated and forced into exile. And who was to blame? Darnley!

They would never forget and they would never forgive.

And soon the drama would be enacted all over again; but in place of Rizzio there would be Darnley.

If and when the lords returned, he dared not stay. And Maitland was already back.

He was frantic. He began to make plans. He would get into touch with the Pope; he would write to Philip of Spain. After all, was he not a good Catholic—a better Catholic than Mary with her talk of tolerance? Good Catholics did not talk of tolerance. Why should he not procure the support of the Catholic world? Why should he not usurp Mary’s throne? Perhaps one day he would be King, not only of Scotland but of England as well. Moreover he was the father of the undisputed heir.

Lennox, his father, was alarmed on hearing of his plans—for Darnley had to confide in someone, and the only person whom he could trust was his father.

“But, my son,” said the Earl of Lennox, “this is ridiculous. The Pope would not aid you, and the King of Spain is a cautious man. He would not support a rebel such as you would be.”

“A rebel! I am the King.”

“In name only. The Crown Matrimonial has never been bestowed on you.”

“It is so unjust. I was promised. And first Rizzio frustrated me… and now it is Moray and Bothwell. Maitland is back. My old enemy. He will kill me. I know he will. He will bring the murderer Morton back, and together they will kill me.”

Lennox, in great agitation on account of his son’s hysteria, wrote to the Queen telling her that Darnley proposed leaving Scotland for Spain.

Mary sent for her husband. He came, ill at ease.

“What are these wild plans of yours?” she demanded.

“I shall not tell you.”

“Henry, I insist.”

“Why should I stay here?” he screamed. “What am I? You only want me to stay because you fear the scandal my departure would give rise to. Take me back. I demand to be taken back. I wish to be your husband in very truth. Let me stay with you, share your bed and board. Then you shall not have a more faithful servant.” He threw himself at her and tried to put his arms about her. She drew back in disgust.

“Mary… Mary,” he pleaded. “You used to love me. You used to come to my chamber because, you said, you wanted us to be alone even if it was only for a little while.”

She pushed him away. She hated to remember those times; and even now she was comparing him with another. She would never allow Darnley to touch her.

She said: “If you attempt to put your hands on me I shall call the guards.”

He whimpered: “What have I done? How have I changed? You used to be eager for me.”

“If you say that again you will regret it.”

“But I will say it… I will!”

“Go quietly now or I shall call the guards. In the morning you may state your case before the lords of the Court.”

He had no help for it but to go; and in the morning he faced them nervously—Moray and Maitland among them, those two who hated him and he believed sought to destroy him, those two who would not be satisfied until they had brought his enemies back to Court.

Moray did not intend to spare him, nor did Maitland. The cold eyes of Moray, the sarcastic ones of Maitland frightened him. He scraped his feet on the floor and scowled at his toes.

Why was he going to run away? they demanded.