Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

The Countess carefully opened the door of the Queen's anteroom. It was in a state of untidiness from the night's festivities. The door to the bedchamber beyond was closed. Quiedy she abstracted the key from the inside of the anteroom door, transferred it to the outside, closed the door and locked it. Then she dipped in a mocking curtsy, first to Mar and then to the taller of her two attendants, and with a whisper of skirts slipped away downstairs without a word said.

The tall man straightened up. He cast off the voluminous but somewhat tattered cloak and hood of the Atholl colours which had masked both figure and features, and stood revealed, in splendid half-armour, as Francis Hepburn Stewart, Earl of Bothwell. From the basket, beneath the sweetmeats, he drew out and buckled on his sword.

Mar beckoned, and cautiously opened the door of the King's anteroom. Peering within, he signed the others forward.

They moved inside, the third man revealing himself to be Mr. John Colville, a professional diplomat and one of the original Ruthven raiders, high in the Kirk party despite being an associate of Patrick Gray's.

Tip-toeing to the royal bedroom door, Mar listened thereat. He shook his head. With the utmost care, he tried the handle. It was locked, as anticipated, from the inside. James was unlikely ever to forget such a precaution.

The three men drew back. Mar took up a position close to the window, where he could watch the forecourt below. The other two examined the arras which hung against the stone walls, in case it should be necessary to slip behind it for cover from view. They waited, silent.

They were not long inactive. Quite soon there were sounds of stirring from the next room. Then a bout of spluttering coughing. The trio exchanged glances at the unmistakable sound of a chamber-pot being filled. Then, after some more movement, there was a loud thumping on the floor-boards beyond the door. This was the monarch's method of summoning his pages from the room directly below.

Motionless the three men stood, watching the door.

After some more thumping, the King's voice was raised in querulous shouting. 'Tam! Tarn Erskine, you ill loon! Here! To me. A plague on you, you lazy limmer! Here wi' you!'

A pause. Then they heard cursing from within, and the turning of the key in the lock. The door of the royal bedroom was flung open.

James came shambling out, to halt suddenly as though transfixed, as Bothwell stepped forward into the middle of the anteroom. The King made an extraordinary figure. He was naked from his bed, apart from a dressing-robe thrown hurriedly over his sloping shoulders, and his hose which sagged down to his ankles. In one hand he clutched certain of his underwear. Never an impressive figure, he showed now to less advantage than almost ever before. A wail escaped from his slack lips.

'Eh…! Eh…! Christ God – Bothwell!' he gasped. 'Fran… Francis Bothwell!'

The Earl removed his hand from his sword-hilt to sweep off his bonnet in a deep bow, smiling but unspeaking.

The King's great liquid eyes rolled and darted. Panting, he took a single step, almost involuntarily, towards the window.

Mar moved back a pace or two, so that his broad person filled the narrow embrasure. At the same time, Colville hurried from his stance by the inner wall, and slipped past the King and into the bedchamber. It was essential for their purpose that James did not reach either of the windows, to shout to or otherwise alarm the guard in the forecourt below.

James stared from Mar to Bothwell, and back. 'Johnnie!' he choked. 'You, Johnnie! Johnnie Mar.' Then his voice rose in a bubbling yell. 'Treason!' he cried. 'Treason!'

A shade anxiously Mar glanced out and down, to see whether this dread shout had reached the massed ranks of the guard confronting the palace gates. There was no sign of alarm below, however. He raised a hand to Lennox and Atholl, who still stood there, waiting to calm and reassure the soldiers, if necessary.

Bothwell spoke, the first word of any of the conspirators. 'Not treason, Your Grace. Far from it. We but seek your good. And the good of your realm…'

'Liar! Traitor! Devil! Tis treason! You seek my life. I ken it – fine I ken it, Francis Stewart!' Wildly the King glanced behind him, to find Colville standing there within the bedroom doorway. 'Waesucks – I am betrayed! Betrayed!' he all but sobbed.

'Not so, Highness,' Mar declared urgently. 'Would I betray you? This is but a necessary step. To ensure your royal safety. There may be trouble. Fighting. The Papists are stirring, assembling. This Parliament has been sore on them. It is even bruited that Huntly is returning. I have the guard protecting the palace. But who knows who are your enemies within, Sire? The Hamiltons. Morton. Crawford. We are all good Protestants, but…'

'False! False!' James exclaimed. But it was at Bothwell that he gazed, as though fascinated by those piercing, vividly blue eyes under sandy brows. Seeking to cover his nakedness in some degree, he backed against the wall. 'Satan's tool! Satan's right hand…!'

Bothwell grinned. 'Scarce that, Sire – or I could have arranged this a deal more conveniently by witchcraft! I come but to seek your pardon, indeed, for breaking my ward. To stand trial before my peers on the witchcraft charge, if so be that is your royal wish. And to protect Your Grace from the evil that threatens from the Papists and those who would endanger your throne.' All this, the Earl announced with an expression of mockery quite at variance with his words. 'Your Grace has cause to thank me, not to fear me.'

James gnawed at his lip, in an agony of doubt.

'It is the truth, Sire,' Mar assured. 'Fear nothing…'

There was a diversion. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and the landing outside, and the door opened to admit a party of gentlemen. The royal eyes widened at the sound and sight of them, and he started forward in sudden hope, forgetting his precarious modesty and all but leaving his bed-robe behind him. He faltered, stopped, one trembling hand out appealingly, the other seeking to draw together his robe and cover at least his loins with the clutched underwear.

Ludovick of Lennox came first, followed by the Earl of Atholl, the Lords Ochiltree and Innermeath, the Master of Orkney, Sir James Stewart of Eday and Sir Robert Stewart of Middleton. They all bowed to their unclothed monarch, but kept their distance at the other side of the room.

James's expression underwent a series of swift alterations, as sudden relief was banished by uncertainty, perception, renewed fear and alarm, almost despair. He recognised that every man who had come in was a Stewart, of his own house. But they had none of them come to his side. All stood ranged behind Bothwell, even Lennox. Almost, it might have seemed, they left a gap amongst them for their dead kinsman Moray.

The King tried to speak, his thick lips working. 'Vicky…!' he got out, at length.

That young man inclined his head slightly, but said no word.

James looked from one to the other, and back to Bothwell, and a new gleam of hope dawned in those tell-tale eyes. He had his own intelligence, and perceived, panic-stricken as he was, that Bothwell could not have assembled all these fellow Stewarts in order to murder their royal relative before their eyes. Out of a strong sense of self-preservation, and no little cunning, he summoned an excess of courage of a sort, deliberately changing his whole attitude and bearing. He addressed Bothwell only, in as loud and declamatory a voice as he could muster, dropping his underwear and drawing himself up, to hold wide his robe, so that his nakedness should be displayed, not hidden.

'Do your worst then, my lord,' he declared strongly, even though the words trembled. 'I am wholly in your power. Take your King's life. You, nor your master the Devil, shall have his soul!'