Текст книги "Royal Road to Fotheringhay "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

“I am of age now, brother. When you were my age you were planning to rule Scotland. That is what I am planning to do now.”

“You cannot do it through marriage with Darnley.”

“I will be Queen and choose the man I marry.”

“You cannot ignore the nation and your ministers when you make that choice.”

“As Queen, the nation will follow me in my choice.”

“Never!” cried Moray in a fury.

“You forget yourself, brother.”

“It is you who forget yourself, sister. You behave like a slut with this pretty boy of yours. He shares your bed. The whole Court knows it. I beg of you, if you prize your crown, give up this evil life while there is yet time.”

“You quote Master Knox. There is another who will find his claws clipped.”

“You do not know what you say.”

“I know very well that I say what I mean. Sign this paper and I shall think of you as my good subject.”

Moray’s answer was to fling out of the room.

David came to her later to tell her that Moray had an army gathered about him. Argyle, Châtelherault and Kirkcaldy of Grange were with him. These were the most important noblemen in Scotland; and there was not a general to match Kirkcaldy. Moray had been astute; this was not the sudden move he had intended it should appear to be; he had looked ahead and this was his answer to the suggested Darnley marriage.

She paced up and down the apartment. Civil war threatened, but she was not afraid. She was not a frivolous girl now; she was a woman of deep emotions which brought her great courage.

“The English are with him,” said David. “Elizabeth has promised him arms and men.”

“I care not if the whole world comes against me!” said Mary. “I will be Queen of Scotland at last.”

“The Highlanders might well stand by Your Majesty,” said David. “Bring George Gordon out of prison. Create him Earl of Huntley. Then you will have a new Cock o’ the North to stand at your side. And there is one other whom you could trust. Recall Bothwell. He is only waiting for the summons and he will relish the opportunity to take vengeance on your brother. He will willingly serve you—if only for the opportunity of being back in Scotland.”

“That man! Do you not remember what he has said of me?”

“Forget old grudges, Madam. The need is desperate. He is a foul-mouthed ruffian but a good fighter—the most courageous in Scotland.”

So Mary sent for Bothwell and created George Gordon Earl of Huntley. The new Earl came down from the Highlands with thousands of followers—all brave men and bold, longing for a chance to settle scores with Moray and rally to the standard of the Queen.

They camped about Edinburgh, and the sound of their pipes could be heard in the palace. Along the streets the kilts and steel bonnets could be seen. From all over Scotland warriors were coming to fight for the Queen against Moray.

John Knox watched the growth in numbers of the encroaching Highlanders with apprehension. In vain did he threaten them with eternal damnation; they played jaunty airs on the pipes in answer to him. Most of them were Protestants, but they believed in a wee bit of fun and laughter, and John Knox’s talk of his God’s delight in vengeance was losing its appeal.

Mary was in some doubt as to the loyalty of these men. There was the lecherous Morton who, she knew, had weighed her chances of success against those of her brother, and it was, therefore, a good augury that he had chosen to support her. There was Lord Ruthven, who was supporting her because his children by his first wife were Darnley’s cousins.

It might be that these lords had their own private reasons for being with her in Edinburgh instead of with Moray’s armies; but for the present it was enough that they were with her and she could rely on the new Earl of Huntley and—when he came—on Bothwell.

There was one thing she intended to do before all else and that was legalize her union with her lover. Scandal was rife concerning her; it was more malignant than it had ever been, for Moray, who had previously endeavoured to quash it, now sought to foster it. He had set going a rumor that the Queen was a lewd woman and that David Rizzio and Darnley were both her lovers. He revived the Chastelard scandal. Knox was his ardent supporter in all this.

ON HER WEDDING DAY Mary walked from her apartments to the chapel at Holyrood dressed in the mourning gown of black with a large mourning hood, the costume of a sorrowing widow. She made a somber bride. It was necessary however for her to observe the strict royal etiquette which demanded that until she was another man’s wife she must, on all state occasions, appear as the widow of her first husband.

The Earls of Lennox and Atholl led her to the chapel and then went to fetch Darnley.

What a contrast he made in his glittering costume! Marys heart leaped with pride as she contemplated him. This was to be the happiest marriage that had ever been.

The Dean of Restalrig performed the ceremony with his priests to help him. Mary’s hand lay in that of Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, and they were indeed husband and wife.

The bridegroom left the chapel in advance, in order that he might retire to her chamber, where she would join him when her women led her there.

“Come!” he cried when he saw her. “I like not this black deuil. You must be a dazzling bride. Cast aside these sorrowful garments and dispose yourself to a pleasanter life.”

Mary feigned reluctance to do this, remembering what would be expected of her, but it was difficult to hide her elation and her desire to be done with reminders of her widowhood.

At last she was persuaded to wear the brilliant wedding garments which had been prepared for her, and her women lost no time in dressing her.

“The most beautiful bride in the world!” whispered Flem; and Mary had a sudden memory of hearing those words before. Then François had been her husband. She fleetingly remembered his adoration. How different was little François from the handsome Darnley!

There followed feasting and revelry. The bridegroom drank more freely than previously, and was inclined to be peevish, but he smiled with pleasure when he heard the proclamation which made it known to the people that he, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, was also Lord Ardmarnock, Earl of Ross, Duke of Albany, and should be called, by the express wish of Her Majesty the Queen of Scotland and the Isles, King of this kingdom.

At last they were alone. This was bliss for which Mary had long yearned. Now she was free to indulge her passion with a good conscience. There need be no hurried partings before the dawn, no furtive whisperings.

But to her surprise and chagrin it was not the same Henry Darnley who now made love to her. It was true that he was a little drunk; it was understandable that the great honors which had come to him this day had turned his head a little. He was fiercely demanding; he was arrogant; it was as though he said: “I am the master now.”

She submitted to this new lover, willingly and happily. But in the morning she began to see that the character he had worn as a mask when he first came to Court had been cast aside. With apprehension Mary began to understand anew the man whom to marry she had risked civil war.

THE TURN OF EVENTS forced Mary to concern herself with matters other than this partial disappointment in her husband. There came a chance to subdue Knox, and Mary took it boldly.

Darnley, at her request and on the advice of Rizzio, went to the Kirk of St. Giles to hear Knox preach. Mary knew that many of the warriors, who had rallied to her and were now encamped about the capital, were firm upholders of the Protestant Faith. She wished to show them that—Catholic though she was—she still intended to follow the policy of toleration which she had promised when she first came to Scotland.

Darnley had gone rather sullenly, and the sight of him, sprawling in the pew, sumptuously dressed and glittering with jewels, put Knox into a frenzy of rage against the Queen and her husband. He could not resist preaching at the young man.

“‘O Lord, our God,’” he cried, quoting from the book of Isaiah, “‘other lords besides Thee have had dominion over us; but by Thee only will we make mention of Thy name.’”

He went on to declare that for the sins of the people tyrants were sent to scourge them. Boys and women were sent to rule over them.

There was nothing that annoyed Darnley more than a reference to his youth. He folded his arms and glared at Knox; but Knox was not the man to be intimidated by a glare in his own kirk.

God justly punished Ahab, he declared, because he would not take order with the harlot Jezebel. In these evil days Ahab joined Jezebel in idolatry.

Darnley, deeply conscious of his new status, could not suffer insults lightly. He stood up and, calling to his attendants that he was going hawking, strode out of the kirk.

Mary was sympathetic when she heard what had happened, and laid no blame on her husband who, so far, could in her eyes do no wrong. Instead—in her new mood of bravado and deeply conscious of the brawny kilted men in their steel bonnets who paraded the town—she sent for Knox.

“Master Knox,” she cried as he stood before her, “this day you have insulted the King. I therefore forbid you to preach in Edinburgh whilst there are sovereigns in the capital.”

“I have spoken nothing but according to the text, Madam,” answered Knox. “The King, to pleasure you, has gone to the Mass and dishonored the Lord God, so shall God, in His justice, make you an instrument of his ruin.”

“How dare you make such wicked prophecies!” cried Mary in panic.

“I but speak as God commands me, Madam.”

“You will abstrain from preaching whilst there are sovereigns in the capital or suffer the rewards of treason.”

She dismissed him.

Knox began to harangue the Lords of the Congregation more vehemently than ever, urging them to rise against the Queen. Still Mary did not despair. There seemed little need to, as she surveyed the Highlanders who had pitched their tents about the city. Marching through the streets could be seen the kilted warriors, accompanied by the skirling of the pipes—big men, broad and strong; fierce men who did not know the meaning of fear were rallying to the cause of the Queen.

Bothwell was back in Edinburgh, eager to put his services at the command of the Queen—and there was a saying on the Border that Bothwell was worth an army. Huntley’s Highlanders and Bothwell’s Borderers made a formidable assemblage; and the Queen’s eyes glistened as she watched them.

Knox quailed before the display of might. He had found an adversary, who he had not believed existed, in the Queen herself. When John Knox took a look at the steel bonnets of the North he heard the voice of God advising discretion.

So Mary was now ready to place herself at the head of an army which, it was agreed, could not have a better commander than the Earl of Bothwell.

There was only one who opposed that command, and this was the Queen’s husband.

He was peevish, for although he was called King of Scotland, the Crown Matrimonial had not been bestowed upon him. He was furious when he thought he detected a lack of respect in those about him. He resented the arrogant Borderer; he had quarreled with many of the lords and was fast becoming unpopular even among those who had decided to give Mary their support.

He sulked and, when Mary tenderly asked the reason, he flashed at her: “Madam, it is a sad thing when rogues and adventurers are preferred to honest men.”

“My dearest, what do you mean?” asked Mary.

“That villain Bothwell… to command your army! Are you mad? The mans a brigand.”

“He’s the best general in Scotland with the exception of Kirkcaldy—and he is with our enemies.”

“The best general! What of my father?”

“But your father cannot be called a great general.”

“You insult my family and consequently me. Mayhap I had better remove myself from your presence. Mayhap I had better find other friends… true friends who love me.”

Mary smiled at the spoiled boy in indulgent exasperation. He was so pretty—even when he sulked—that she could not help softening toward him.

“Henry, come and sit beside me.”

He did so sullenly.

She stroked his golden hair back from his face, but he rudely shook her off. “What is the use of pretending you care for me, when you insult my family by putting that crude oaf above them?”

“My crown is in danger, dearest.”

“Your crown! Yes, that is how it is. Your crown which you will not share with me. You promised me all I could wish for, and now that we are married it is a different story.”

Mary sighed. “It is a different story now that we are married. Henry, what has happened to you? You were so modest… so gentle… before we married. Was it because you were deceiving me, pretending to be the man you were not… until we were married?”

A cunning look flickered across his face. He threw his arms about her and kissed her, forcing her back into her chair.

“Mary,” he breathed. “You do not love me, Mary.” He was smiling secretly. He had power over her through her sensual need of him. He could get what he wanted from his Queen. “Mary, forgive me….”

“My darling!”

“It is… these people about you… they do not pay proper respect to me. Mary is the Queen, they seem to say, but who is Darnley? Only her consort … of no importance at all.”

“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.”

“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.

A girl like that in the house! he mused. Why, if I do not… then someone else will!

He sent for French Paris whom he had kept in his service even though he knew the man stole from him and had been in that half-jesting, half-earnest plot to poison him.

“Who is the girl in the sewing room?” he asked.

“The girl, my lord? You would mean Bessie Crawford, for sure.”

“How are you sure, man?”

” Tis the only girl in the sewing room that would interest your lordship. Why, I’ve laid a wager with Gabriel that you would take her before the week was out.”

“You insolent knaves!” grinned Bothwell. “And when is this week out?”

“Sir, it runs out this very day.”

Bothwell slapped the man’s shoulder so hard that French Paris’s knees gave way.

“We cannot have that,” said Bothwell.

Paris sniggered. “Her ladyship, in turning out the rooms, my lord, has discarded furniture which she had sent down to the cellars. It well-nigh killed us. An old couch, my lord, there was among other articles. ’Tis there now… old… shabby… having been in use since before my lady’s coming, sir… but still a couch….”