Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (109 page)

It was a death by fire, then, but as far removed from the slow, ugly
death at the stake as a fiery Arabian stallion, trained to race, was
from a hobbling old donkey. One was a marvel of nature, awe-inspiring
in its power, the other a poor, paltry, failing thing.

Death by fire. It was a fitting way for an adulteress to die
prescribed by law, even. And she was an adulteress. Any lingering
doubts had been removed that afternoon when he saw her gazing on
Bothwell. The look in her eyes had been unmistakable.

And as for his own death he felt a strange, almost erotic power in
planning it and knowing he could achieve it in exactly the manner he
wished. He felt like God. God might have planned for him to die of
syphilis, or be murdered by the Lords like Riccio. But he had
outwitted God. He would not settle for the donkey of God's choosing,
but mount the Arabian steed and ride to a thrilling death.

A certain Edinburgh merchant accepted sixty pounds from Sir James
Balfour in exchange for enormous quantities of powder on Thursday,
February sixth. He was told it was needed for the royal arsenal which,
strictly speaking, was true. Later that day the Balfour brothers and
Standen transported it to Kirk O'Field. But there was so much of it
that even by nightfall only half of it had reached the cellars of
Robert's house. In the dark they began digging the tunnel, but managed
to complete only half of it by daybreak.

They laboured all that morning bringing more powder, but the merchant
ran out. He himself awaited further supplies on Saturday, he assured
them.

After the Queen had retired to her quarters that Friday night, they had
to tell Damley that all was not prepared. They were met with a string
of curses.

"It was a greater undertaking than we expected," said James. "But by
Saturday night "

"Damn your lying soul to the blackest depths of hell!" Darnley
snarled.

James Balfour felt anger rising in his tired body. They had laboured
for a day and a half already, going without an entire night's sleep.
Suddenly he doubted Darnley's promise of a reward. Darnley was
ungrateful for all their efforts, and oblivious of the risks they were
taking for him. No wonder everyone hated him.

"Sire, we have done our best and will fulfill the task as we promised,"
he finally said. "It is only a day or two delay."

"You don't understand, you thick-skulled ape! This is the last night
the Queen stays here! My course of treatment is over! We are to move
to Holyrood tomorrow. I am cured," he said sarcastically.

"Then have a relapse," said James with equal sarcasm. "Surely you can
manage that in order to extend your stay until Monday."

"The Queen will go to the wedding at Holyrood on Sunday. There will be
festivities in the evening "

"Bull piddle. You can prevail on her to return to Kirk O'Field
afterward. After all, her life depends on it." He chuckled with a
grating sound.

"This is all your fault...." Darnley continued.

James Balfour stood there as Damley called him every insulting name he
had heard in France and England as well as Scotland. The abuse bounced
off him, for he had long been inured to the power of name-calling. He
even smiled at the foolish boy, blathering away, totally unaware that
the illusory power of words was no match for the true power of
information.

Surely Scotland would prove more grateful for the efforts, and
knowledge, of Sir James Balfour. Scotland was aweary of Darnley.

He kept smiling until Darnley ran out of breath.

Bothwell put his feet up on a footstool and warmed them before the
hearty fire in the quarters he had been assigned at Holyrood. He liked
the room;

it was on the south side and looked out over the palace gardens and
park toward Arthur's Seat. He also liked the status the room
assignment implied.

Now he had a little leisure to read Sextus Julius's Stratagems and
Subtleties of War and escape into the military campaigns of ancient
Rome. How different they were from the swooping attacks in the Border
hills.

How would I have fared in these campaigns? he asked himself. Marching,
with rows of men, forming the testudo, making a tortoise shell of
shields when approaching enemy fire

There was a soft knock at the door.

Bothwell heaved himself up to answer it; French Paris was out searching
the merchants' stalls for Both well's costume for the coming masque,
and he was alone.

James Balfour stood on the threshold, an expectant grin on his face.
"May I?" he asked, stepping inside without waiting for an answer.

"Evidently," said Bothwell.

Immediately he sensed this was no ordinary visit. Balfour looked
eerily excited.

"What is it?" asked Bothwell.

Balfour peeled off his mantle and gloves and threw them arrogantly on
the little table where BothwelFs military book rested.

"I have information that may be the most valuable you have ever
purchased," he said grandly.

"Oh?" Bothwell tried to sound calm, but he knew it was the missing
part of the Darnley plot he had been seeking. Balfour had sniffed it
out; like the vermin he was, he had managed to listen from holes and
obscure vantage points. "How does a hundred pounds sound?"

Balfour laughed. "Absurdly low. Where is your much-vaunted sense of
chivalry? Is that all the Queen's life is worth to you? Ah, there are
others who will pay more to ensure it succeeds." He made a patently
false move to retrieve his mantle. Bothwell grabbed him so hard the
two bones in his lower arm grated against each other.

"Tell me," he breathed.

"Let go of my arm."

Bothwell dropped it. "Name your price, then. I haven't time to
bargain like a fishwife."

"Or a soldier of fortune?" Balfour shook his arm. Suddenly he was
suspicious. "Why do you care?" This was more than a soldier's or an
adventurer's eye to the main chance.

"I have always been loyal to the crown," Bothwell replied smoothly.
"Now tell me your price, and your information."

"A thousand pounds," said Balfour. "In French crowns, so as not to
reveal its source."

"Done." He would get the money.

"May I have your signature on this?" Balfour produced a piece of paper
to serve as a promissory note, and Bothwell hastily signed it.

After Balfour had slowly, deliberately folded the paper and concealed
it on his person, he insisted on pouring himself some wine and sipping
it before saying, "The King intends to murder the Queen."

He had paid a thousand pounds for a rumour? A rumour he already knew?
Bothwell flushed with anger. "The King could not manage to do so. No
one will trust him or serve as his sword arm. The Queen's servants are
all loyal," he said.

"Gunpowder is loyal to whoever lights it, and it lies obedient and
waiting."

"Where?" Bothwell felt jolted.

"In the vaults beneath the house at Kirk O'Field. The plot is that the
Queen will spend the night there on Sunday and be killed in an
explosion."

"And the King?"

"He will light the powder and escape."

"How do you know this?"

He laughed a dry little laugh. "I have put the powder there myself. It
took a day and a half."

"So you were paid to put it there, and now you'll be paid to take it
away?"

"Indeed. My hourly labour fee is impressive, is it not?"

"You mined your own brother's house?" Bothwell was stunned.

"With his permission."

"So he is party to the plot. Who else is?"

"No one. As everyone knows, the King is so unpopular no one would plot
with him."

Relief flooded Bothwell. The rumours had hinted at a widespread
plot.

Balfour was smiling. "In truth, I have run out of powder. I bought
all there was in Edinburgh, but it is not tightly packed enough yet.
Another five hundred or thousand pounds is required."

"Leave me to remove it," said Bothwell. "I can dispose of it easily in
the royal stores at Dunbar. Then no one can trace it. And doubtless
your good brother Robert will be pleased to have his building spared."
He attempted to smile at Balfour. "And the King will not know his plan
has been discovered and dismantled?"

"No."

Balfour's promises were more worthless than lies. The only way to
secure his cooperation was to deceive him.

"Leave it for now. You need rest after your exertions," said Bothwell.
"You did right to come to me. Doubtless there will be further rewards,
high offices granted from the crown.. He ushered Balfour toward the
door. "I will need house keys in order to remove the powder," he
said.

"Here." Balfour dropped them in his hand: a thick iron ring with
massive long keys. They weighed like a stone.

"Good evening," said Balfour. "Do not exhaust yourself. It is heavy
work." He laughed again.

After he left, Bothwell sank down on a bench. He could hardly think,
he could only feel. He had to sit and let his blood calm down.

Darnley had provided his own death warrant. All he, Bothwell, had to
do was blow Darnley up before he knew what was happening.

I will bring the extra powder from Dunbar. French Paris and my kinsmen
will help carry it and place it. Sunday night as he sleeps, we will
light it and blow him up. People will think he blew himself up by
mistake. The crime will punish the criminal, and that will be the end
of it.

Mary will be free. And we can marry.

Instead of exultation, the word "marry" seemed like a manacle, dragging
him to some unknown doom.

He reached for his military book and held it like a talisman.

I am a soldier, not a statesman. I only wanted to possess her body,
not her crown. And there is something else besides.. ..

Those who love her seem to die untimely or unnatural deaths. Francois.
Chastelard. John Gordon. Riccio. Now Darnley.

He shook his head. Womanish speculations and tremblings. He had a
task before him, and if he did not carry it out, Mary would die.

Against his will he admired Darnley's ingenuity in harnessing alchemy
to do his work when no man would set his hand to it.

"But to prevail requires more than ingenuity," he said softly. "It
also requires courage, timing, and luck."

Be lucky, Bothwell, he thought fiercely. Be lucky now, just this once
in your life, and you need never be lucky again.

Mary was confused. Bothwell had not come to the reception chamber to
pay court to Darnley in the past two days, and had sent her no private
messages. French Paris was curiously absent too, and although Mary
tried to involve herself in the spirit of the coming wedding festivity
for Bastian and Margaret, the feeling of evil that seemed to be holding
its breath did not abate when the bride and groom both chose black as
the colour of their wedding attire.