Текст книги "Royal Road to Fotheringhay "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

“Send the girl down to the cellar to get wine,” said the Earl.

“Yes, my lord. And lock the door and bring the key to you?”

“How well you follow my plans, man!”

“My lord, there have been other times.”

“Do it then. I’d like you to win your wager with sly Gabriel.”

Paris went off chuckling.

BESSIE HAD HEARD much of the Earl and she never tired of listening to stories of him. They whispered of him that no woman was safe if he fancied her.

“Keep your eyes on your work,” said elderly Nan, who sat stitching beside her when the Earl passed through the room. “Don’t go casting them in that direction, my girl.”

Bessie did not reply. She sat still, shivering with excitement.

When she left the sewing room that afternoon French Paris was waiting for her.

“You’re to go down to the cellar,” he said. “You’re to bring up a flagon of red wine.”

“Where to?” asked Bessie.

“To me in the kitchen.”

Bessie went down the stone stairs to the cellar, taking the candle which Paris had thrust into her hand.

“Watch your step,” he called after her.

Bessie did not like the cellar very much. It was dark and damp and there were cobwebs which touched her face as she groped her way forward.

Suddenly she heard the door shut behind her and the key turn in the lock.

“Master Paris!” she called shrilly. “Master Paris!”

She went up the stairs and tried the door. She was right. It had been locked. It was a silly trick, she supposed. Paris was teasing her. She looked around her. She must not be frightened. It was just a joke; she must remember that. The servants liked to play jokes on one another. Well, she would do as she had been bidden. She would get the flask of wine and then, if he had not unlocked the door by then, she would bang on it and call for help.

She went to where the flagons were stored, and picked up one; but as she turned toward the door she saw that it was open. She laughed with relief.

“A silly trick, Master Paris,” she said. “Don’t think to frighten me”

But it was not Master Paris who had turned and was locking the door behind him. Bessie’s heart raced as the tall figure of the Earl came toward her.

She dropped the flagon as she heard him laugh.

“My… my lord …,” she stammered.

Then she felt those strong arms seize her.

“I … I do not understand, my lord.”

“You cannot deceive me, Bessie,” he said. “You understand very well indeed, as you did in the sewing room, did you not?”

“No, my lord, I—”

“No!” he cried. “Then I shall have to make you.”

With that he picked her up as though she herself were no heavier than the smallest flagon of wine. He put her on the couch. Then Bessie began to understand.

THE QUEEN was humiliated beyond endurance.

She and her husband had been entertained at the house of one of the rich burghers of the city. Darnley no longer attempted to hide from her the fact that he was a heavy drinker and, worse still, a drinker who could not carry his drink.

He no longer bothered to disguise his true nature. She had to agree with others that he was vain, dissolute and despicable. He would pick quarrels with those who dared not stand up to him; he brawled in the streets, accosting women, demanding that his companions did likewise; he boasted of his mastery over the Queen who, he asserted, was so madly in love with him that she would deny him nothing.

Mary watched him, and as she did so her feelings toward him were first lacerated with humiliation and then began to grow colder.

She had begged him this evening to drink less. He had shouted at her before the company that it was no matter for her to decide what he should drink. She should remember that he was her lawful husband. He knew how to punish her, he said with a leer, if she did not treat him with due respect.

This was more than Mary could endure.

She bade good-bye to her host, and, in tears of humiliation and rage, left the house.

Darnley stayed on to drink himself unconscious and be carried back to Holyroodhouse by his attendants and friends.

She was in her apartment when one of them came to tell her that he had been brought back to the palace and put to bed.

She nodded coldly.

There were no more tears; she was no longer heartbroken, for she had made a strange discovery: she had ceased to care for Darnley.

She did not understand herself. That raging passion which had swept over her had turned completely cold. It had died as suddenly as it had flared. She could not understand how she could have imagined herself in love with the dissolute youth. She began to see him in a new light. The blue eyes which she had thought so beautiful now seemed inane, the soft lips weak and foolish. She had begun to suspect that what she had so desperately needed was not Darnley’s love but a lover. She was beginning to know herself.

A great sadness came to her. She had dreamed of the perfect union, and she was discovering most bitter disillusion. Darnley’s boyish naïveté was assumed; he was hideously experienced; he was full of vice; he had practiced every sort of depravity. How he must have laughed at her for falling such an easy victim to his youthful charm.

There was one other factor—a most important one—which had caused her to decide on the measures she would take: she was pregnant.

Perhaps her pregnancy made her less eager for his embraces; perhaps the slackening of desire had given her a chance to see him as he really was. No matter. She saw; and she had made up her mind.

She rose and sent a page to David Rizzio with a message that she wished to see him at once. It was midnight, but he had not retired. Early hours were never kept at Holyroodhouse.

“David,” she said, “I have something secret to tell you. I wish no one else to know it. I hate Darnley.”

“Madam!”

“Yes, it is true. It has suddenly come to me. I did not really love him. There had been so much talk of marriages, and they never materialized. I suppose I wanted a lover and he was there. He seemed more eligible than anyone within reach. Now I think him loathly. Oh, David, you wonder. I have been so doting, have I not? You wonder if I really mean what I say.”

“Madam, his behavior tonight was disgraceful.”

“His behavior every night is disgraceful. He was quite insincere before the wedding. Now we see him as he really is—an arrogant upstart, a drunkard and a lecher. Let us face the truth, David. How has he behaved toward you? Do not speak. I will tell you. He has been insufferable, although when he first came here, knowing the influence you had with me, he made himself most agreeable. That is the truth, is it not, David?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“And you agree with me that my marriage is the biggest mistake I ever made?”

“It was mine too, Madam. I do not forget that I urged you to this marriage.”

“Dear Davie! You did, it is true. But you could not have urged me to the altar if I had not wished to go. The mistake is mine, not yours. We have both been deceived, but let us not ponder on past errors. I have determined to banish him, right out of my heart and from my bed. He shall never share the crown.”

“No, Madam, he should not.”

“It is great good fortune that I have not already bestowed on him the Crown Matrimonial which would have given him powers equal to my own. Then we should have been too late. In future no documents are to be shown to him. We will have a stamp made with his name on it so that his signature will not be necessary on any documents, and you can affix it without consulting him. Consult him! What would be the good of his opinion!”

“Madam, he will be infuriated when he hears of this.”

“Davie, his fury matters not at all. I will show him that any power he wields comes from me. I shall never give him another chance to humiliate me as he has tonight.”

David was smiling; he was well pleased. His dignity was dear to him, and Darnley had insulted him time after time. David had known that the Queen must one day grow out of her infatuation, and he was glad that time had come.

“Madam,” he said at length, “you do well to cut Lord Darnley out of your policies. He has no conception of the important part you have to play in world politics. His own egoism, his own vanity are so large that they obscure his vision and he cannot see beyond them. Madam, never has your position been so secure. These dispatches from the King of Spain make his attitude clear. He is delighted with the turn of events in Scotland, and this happy state of affairs, he knows, has grown out of Your Majesty’s prompt action against the rebel lords. With Moray and his friends in England, and with Knox subdued, you have so pleased King Philip that he is planning to help you establish yourself even more firmly on the throne of Scotland, with the Catholic religion restored. Madam, I know that the King of Spain sees no reason why an attack—providing our affairs continue to improve—should not be made on our enemy beyond the Border. The King of Spain visualizes the day when the Protestant bastard is robbed of the crown she has no right to wear, and it adorns your own fair brow.”

“Queen of England and Scotland, David!” Her eyes shone. “That is what I want. If we were one country, then would these wasteful Border raids be discontinued. We are one land; we should stand together. That way lies peace, Davie.”

“Yes, Madam. It will be the happiest day of my life when I see you crowned Queen of England.”

“And Philip will truly further this end?”

“He has said so quite clearly … or as clearly as can be expected from one so cautious. I beg of Your Majesty to read this dispatch.”

They were bending over the table reading, when the door was burst open. Darnley stood watching them; his nightshirt was open at the neck, his hair disordered, his face blotchy, his eyes bloodshot from his recent carousal. He was still very drunk.

“I knew it!” he shouted. “So you are there then… you two together. I knew I’d catch you. I know it’s true what they say of you… furtively creeping away together…. The Queen of Scotland and a low-born music-maker. By God!”

The Queen said haughtily: “Go back to your apartment at once.”

Darnley laughed. “Do not think to deceive me, Madam.”

“I have no intention of deceiving you. I will tell you plainly that I am weary of your disgraceful behavior. Henceforth you and I live apart.”

Darnley reeled and hiccupped. “Oh… so he satisfies you, does he… this low-born …”

Mary rose and strode toward him; she could not control her rage. She took him by the hair and shook him. He stared at her in bleary wonderment.

“’Strue …” he said. “He’s your lover. That stunted go-by-the-ground, that—”

“Be quiet!” cried Mary. “I will have you taken to the Tolbooth.”

Darnley’s mouth fell open. “Come, Mary,” he spluttered. “Come to bed—”

She pushed him from her and he fell to the floor.

“David,” she said calmly, “call two of his men. They shall carry him back to bed. Now I shall go to mine. Good night, David.”

She went out, leaving Darnley lying on the floor in his drunken stupor.

DARNLEY SWAGGERED about the Court. If the Queen denied him her bed, others did not. He was watched—though he did not know this—by many lords of the Court. There was Maitland of Lethington, now affianced to Mary Fleming. He was privy to the secrets of the bedchamber. It was not that Flem wished to betray her mistress’s secrets; she loved her mistress second only to Lord Maitland himself. But Maitland was the cleverest statesman in Scotland; he had beguiled the English Queen and the English ambassador with his diplomacy; so it was not difficult for him to discover all he needed from his beloved Flem. Maitland’s vanity had been deeply wounded. He had been the Queen’s chief adviser, had employed his skillful diplomacy in England, and on returning to Scotland had found another in his place: David Rizzio, the upstart musician.

Clearly Scotland would be a happier place for Lord Maitland of Lethington if Rizzio were no longer there.

There was Ruthven—slowly dying of a wasting disease and determined to enjoy great power before he departed from this life. He too resented the Queens trust in her musician.

There was James Douglas, Earl of Morton, the most treacherous of them all, the man without scruples, the cruel lecher whose bastards were numerous. He was in touch with Moray who was trying to obtain the Queen’s pardon, and return to Scotland. Morton, feigning loyalty to Mary, was also in league with the English. He was fully aware of the Spanish plot to strengthen Scotland before making an attack on the English Queen’s throne; Cecil and Elizabeth were also aware of this plot. The unlucky Queen of Scots did not know how many of these gentlemen who surrounded her were spies for the champion of Protestantism, Elizabeth of England.

Moray was waiting to leap back into Scotland. So Morton, Maitland, Ruthven, with Argyle and others, met to discuss the new state of affairs, how to rid themselves of the upstart Rizzio whose foreign policy had led them to this pass, how to restore Moray and the exiled lords to their estates, how, when destroying Rizzio, to destroy also—or at least make impotent—the Queen herself.

Money and support were not lacking from England, for Elizabeth was now genuinely alarmed. Philip of Spain was behind this plot, and he could always alarm the English Queen. Philip sent money to Scotland, but the English, being warned of this through Cecil’s clever spy system, waylaid the ships which carried the treasure, captured it and brought it to London.

Philip’s advice to Mary was that, since the operations must be delayed, owing to the capture of the treasure, she should feign friendship with Elizabeth and lull the suspicions of the English.

Mary did not know that those noblemen who surrounded her throne were in the main spies for England. These men were Protestants and had no intention of allowing their country to return to the Catholic Faith, but it did not occur to their Queen that they could be so blatantly treacherous.

As for Rizzio himself, clever as he was and faithful to the Queen’s interest, he had his weakness. He could not resist strutting a little, each day adding something to his finery. An arrogance had crept into his manner. Were the great lords of Scotland going to endure the arrogance of this upstart? Was a musician, a player of the harp and the guitar, a singer in the Queen’s choir, to be set over the chieftains of Scotland?

David Rizzio became even more unpopular than Darnley for while the lords despised Darnley they were forced to admire and envy Rizzio who had risen from obscurity to power.

Morton sat beside Ruthven’s sickbed in the latter’s Edinburgh house. Ruthven lay back in bed; it was clear that he had not long to live, yet his eyes were brilliantly alive in his yellow face; they burned with a lust for Rizzio’s blood. Morton was not surprised, gazing at the strange gaunt face, that many believed Ruthven to be a witch.

Ruthven’s hopes lay with Morton. The most ruthless of the lords, it was to Morton’s interest to have Moray back in Scotland, and Morton would have no compunction in committing murder to bring that about. He was no newcomer to the art of murder.

“It would be a simpler matter to waylay the fellow,” Morton was saying. “It would be over in a few minutes. He could be hustled into one of the city wynds and two stout men would make short work of him.”

“Nay,” said Ruthven, rising on his pillows and falling back with exhaustion, “that is not the way. She shall see the deed done. She is heavy with her child now. In less than four months it will be born … if she lives … if she survives…. No! Let him be taken when he is closeted with her. Let her see the deed done. She has insulted us by her preference for the low fellow. Besides …”

Morton nodded slowly. “It may kill her,” he said bluntly. “Her health is not good… and a pregnant woman, seeing her lover done to death before her eyes … I see your point.”

“There is the hope that it may prove too much for her. But we shall not turn our daggers on the Queen. No … no … let her death come through shock, through remorse… anything you like. There is one other whom we must implicate in this. Neither my lord Moray nor Cecil and his Queen wish it to be known that this is a political murder. So there must be another reason for the death of our little musician, and we have it to hand.”

“Oh yes, we have it at hand. The Queens pretty husband must be implicated. We are all agreed on that.”

“The murder of Rizzio,” said Ruthven, “is to be no political murder. It has nothing to do with bribes and instructions from England. It is a crime passionel you understand.”

“Then he must be with us when the deed is done.”

“He must indeed! You can arrange that. The silly young fool will believe all you tell him. He is like a peevish boy robbed of his toys. She will have nothing to do with him. He whimpers because he finds more pleasure in the bed of a queen than in that of a tavern wench. He’ll not be difficult to manage. Then we shall have the whole world shocked by the wanton ways of a queen. And if she does not die of shock, she will be most certainly ruined.”

“And the child will doubtless not survive this.”

Ruthven nodded. “Go to your work, friend Morton,” he said.

MORTON HAD asked to see the young King and to see him alone.

Darnley scowled when he saw his visitor. He was not fond of the Douglases. But Morton was full of flattery—the sort which could not fail to please.

“What a delightful doublet! Never have I seen such a happy blending of color. Ah, mayhap it is Your Majesty’s fair complexion and golden hair which makes the color seem so perfect. It is small wonder that the Queen is so madly in love with her husband.”

Darnley’s scowl deepened. He was recalling the scene which had taken place early that morning. He had waited for Mary in her apartment, had driven out her women and insisted on seeing her alone. She had come at three in the morning, smiling serenely; she had been playing cards with Rizzio. They had supped together, with one or two others as company; and then had settled to the cards. As the game had been so exciting they had gone on playing until early morning.

Darnley had complained: “It is a shameful thing that you keep your husband waiting while you play at cards with a low musician.”

“My shame,” she had retorted, “is that I have such a husband to keep waiting.”

She cared nothing for him, and now she was unkind to him. She kept all secrets from him. He was never allowed to see any state papers.

He had seized her arm and said: “Madam, I demand my rights.”

“Your rights?”

“To share your life, your bed, your crown.”

She had laughed and pushed him from her. “You have forfeited those rights, Henry. Now leave me and send my women to me, for I am tired and wish to go to bed.”

“I will not go!” he had declared. “I shall stay here. You cannot turn me away.”

“I can and I will.”

“I shall shout to the whole palace that you are turning me out of your apartment.”

“Shout all you wish. You will only be telling what is already known.”

“Mary… dearest… I love you.”

“No,” she had said. “It is a good thing that neither of us love each other. Now go or I shall have to have you turned out.”

He had ignobly left the apartment, and the memory rankled.

Now he continued to scowl at Morton as he said: “The Queen is not in love with her husband.”

“The Court knows it,” said Morton, “and resents it.”

“Resents it?” said Darnley, alert.

“Do you think, Your Majesty, that we like to look on at the vulgar intrigue between the Queen and this foreign upstart?”

“So there is an intrigue!”

“Does Your Majesty doubt it?”

“I… yes … no … I am not sure.”

“They would be very careful in your presence, I doubt not.”

“Very careful! You… you mean …?”

“Your Majesty, he is with her night and morning. What are they doing, think you—discussing state secrets all the time?”

Darnley’s eyes narrowed. “It is true. It is shameful. I … a king … to be treated so! I… who have been faithful to the Queen!” He faltered and looked at Morton but Morton was not smiling at the obvious lie. He merely looked sympathetic.

“There are many of us,” said Morton slowly, “who wonder why you do not do the fellow to death. None could blame you if you did.”

“No!” repeated Darnley. “None could blame me.”

“I have received news from the Queen’s brother in England.”

“Moray! He is no friend to me.”

“But would be. It is a shameful thing, he says, that you should be denied your rights. Not only are you denied the Queen’s bed, but the Crown Matrimonial. Lord Moray says that if you will restore to him and the exiled lords their estates which have been confiscated, the first thing he will do on his return to Scotland will be to give you that crown.”

“How could I bring about his return? How could I restore his confiscated estates?”

“Alas, how could you? A short while ago when the Queen doted on you, it might have been possible for you. But now… another holds her favor. David Rizzio is the man who enjoys all her favors… every one… adviser, secretary of state… lover …”

“I would I could kill that man!”

Morton smiled. “Your Majesty,” he said, “let us leave the palace. Let us be sure that we cannot be overheard. There is something we have to say to each other.”

BOTHWELL AND his household had moved from Crichton to another of his houses, Haddington Abbey. He was finding enough to entertain him in his own household for a few weeks. Jeans attitude toward him had not changed in the least, and he was still intrigued by it. Bessie Crawford supplied the erotic entertainment which he had always found necessary—and life passed pleasantly.

There were matters to be attended to on the estate. Jean was doing for Haddington what she had done for Crichton; she was never idle; even when she sat resting she would have her embroidery in her hands.

He saw Bessie often. Her great eyes would follow him, waiting for the signal. Upstairs in the loft… this minute … or out in the fields away from the Abbey… Bessie would be there—a small, quiet girl who could be aroused at his touch to a passion which equalled his own.

He liked Bessie. Between them they—she and Jean—were responsible for his long stay on his estates. He might have continued to stay but for one thing.

It happened quite simply. He went to the sewing room because he had been reminded suddenly of Bessie and felt an immediate need of her company. Bessie was there alone; his wife had been with her, for they were working together on the same piece of tapestry; but when he arrived Jeans chair was empty.

He said: “To the loft! Wait there for me.”

Bessie scrambled up. Her eyes were anxious. She began: “My lord … I cannot—”

“Go, my girl. Go up, I say.”

She stammered: “My lord… my lady …”

He seized her by the shoulders and pushed her toward the door. She almost fell, laughing on a note of high-pitched laughter that betrayed the rising excitement, that complete abandonment to his will. She picked herself up, dropped a hurried curtsy and ran from the room.

He laughed, and after a few moments followed her to the loft.

Bessie was always inarticulate with him. They had exchanged few words. Words were unnecessary in such a relationship. But now it seemed she was trying to tell him something. She had work to do. She must not be long. He would not listen; he did not want chatter from Bessie. He forced her down on to the dusty floor of the loft. The very fact that she wished to go made him determined to keep her there. He liked resistance; he had come to expect it on the Border.

So he kept her there longer than usual, and Bessie, while she could temporarily forget her anxiety, found that it had returned to her when she was at last released.

She made her way down to the sewing room. The Countess was there; so were several of the servants.

Bessie, red-faced, her dress dusty, put in a shamefaced appearance.

“And where have you been?” demanded Jean.

“Please, my lady… I—”

“Look at the dust on your dress. What has happened?”

Bessie stammered: “I… I… went to the loft—”

“You went to the loft when you should have been using your needle! Look at your hands. They’re filthy. Go and wash them. You must not do delicate needlework with hands like that. Then I shall want to know why you left the sewing room to go there.”

Bessie, glad to escape, almost collided with the Earl who was then coming into the room. Bessie ran. The Earl scarcely looked at her. But he was betrayed. His clothes were as dusty as those of Bessie. It was a strange sort of dust. Remains of cobwebs could be seen attached to his doublet as they had been to Bessie’s hair.

Jean looked at him sharply. She knew that the servants were looking too. She was aware of suppressed laughter. Knowing the Earl, and understanding Bessie, there was only one conclusion to be drawn.

She said nothing to her husband, but mentioning that she had work for them to do, she commanded the servants whom she would need, to accompany her to the kitchens where she wished to make arrangements for that night’s supper.

Half an hour later she returned to the sewing room where Bessie—the dust brushed from her dress and her hands clean—was diligently working.

“Oh, Bessie,” said Jean, “your father lives in the smithy outside Haddington town, I believe.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“That is fortunate for you. Gather your things together and go to him immediately.”

“Go… m’lady?”

“Yes, Bessie. I find that I no longer require your services.”

Bessie blushed and stammered, then burst into tears. To leave this wonderful house, to live in her father’s wretched smithy, to help at the anvil instead of doing fine needlework, to have as a lover some village lout instead of the great Earl of Bothwell—it was too much to be borne!

“Now, Bessie, it is no use weeping. Get ready. Go at once. I shall expect you to be gone in an hour.”

There was nothing Bessie could do but obey.

Bothwell shrugged his shoulders when he heard what had happened. Then he burst out laughing.

“So you’re jealous, eh?” he said. “Jealous of a sewing girl!”

“Not jealous,” his wife replied. “Pray visit her if you wish. I have no objection now that she will be no longer here. It is merely that I cannot have you making demands on her time when she is working for me.”

He was astonished. He had never known such a woman.

After that he had Bessie brought to him on one or two occasions. The tradesmen of the town were obliging, providing rooms where they could meet, and carrying messages to and from the smithy; but he grew tired of such arrangements. His lust always demanded satisfaction without delay. By the time matters could be arranged his ardor had cooled or been slaked elsewhere.

So … he returned to Edinburgh.

IT WAS Saturday evening. The March winds howled down the great chimneys as the Queen was taking supper in the small closet next to her bedroom. She was in her sixth month of pregnancy and her physicians had advised her to fortify her strength by eating meat although this was the Lenten season; they had also prescribed quiet for the royal patient. The servants were hurrying into the closet with dishes of meat which they set on the small table. Mary was reclining on a couch and beside her were her bastard sister Jane, Countess of Argyle, and her bastard brother, Lord Robert Stuart. It was a small party in view of the doctor’s advice, and the Lord of Creich her master of the household, Arthur Erskine, her equerry, the Queens doctor, David Rizzio and a few servants completed it.

The beef was delicious, and with it they drank French wine.

“This wine always reminds me of Chenonceaux,” said Mary wistfully. “Oh, what happy days they were!”

“Would Your Grace go back?” asked Robert.

“Nay, brother. If I went back I should have to return again by the same road, and at times I found the going tedious.”

“Signor Davie looks grand this night,” said the Countess.

David looked down at his damask gown which was trimmed with rich fur. His doublet was made of best satin; and his hose were of russet velvet. There was a fine feather in his cap, and about his neck hung a great ruby, a gift from the Queen.

“Yes, Davie,” said Mary, “’tis true.”

“I should consider it an insult to Your Majesty to appear clad in anything but the best I could assemble,” said David.

“You are right, Davie,” said the Queen. “I like not drab garments. Sing us something of France, please. I have a longing to hear French songs tonight. Master Erskine, I beg of you pass Davie his guitar.” She turned to one of the serving men. “Can you pull the curtains a little closer? There is a draft.”

“The wind is fierce tonight, Madam,” said the Lord of Creich.

The servant had gone to the window. For a few seconds he looked out and saw figures moving about below. They were numerous and they were in steel bonnets, with guns, swords, Jedburgh staves and bucklers.

What were these men doing out there? He had heard of no reason why they should be there. They might be troopers. What was afoot tonight? Some exercise, he supposed. He would have mentioned it to the company but, as he turned from the window, Signor David was already playing his guitar and his rich voice was filling the small chamber.

When the song was ended, the servant left the apartment. He was going to make sure that he had interpreted correctly what he had seen. He quickly discovered that there were many—possibly more than a hundred—armed men stationed about the palace.

Almost as soon as he had gone, the door which led to the private staircase was opened and Darnley came in. Mary frowned. He appeared to have been drinking. He came to where she sat and slumped on the couch beside her; he laid a hot hand on her arm.

“Have you had your supper?” she asked coldly.

The company had become silent and tense, waiting for one of those scenes which seemed now inevitable when the Queen and her husband were together.

Darnley had not answered her, and suddenly all except the Queen had risen to their feet, for, standing in the doorway through which Darnley had just come, was Lord Ruthven. His face was yellow above his gleaming armor; his hair was wild and there was a look of death on his face. For a moment they thought they were seeing Ruthven’s ghost, as they knew he was near to death and not expected to leave his bed again; moreover he had always been suspected of having magical powers.