Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (75 page)

Now his grooms were come into the chamber, ready to escort him to the
Protestant Kirk oi lie Canongate. The Queen had wanted them to be
married in the Chapel Royal by Catholic rites. But he had refused, for
all that his bride came from a Catholic family. He would decide where
the ceremony would be, and not be the guest of the Queen.

Then she had insisted that she and Darnley he could not refer to him as
"the King," even in his own mind would provide a banquet afterward at
Holyrood. Again he refused, choosing instead to have it at Kinloch
House, the home of a rich burgher. In addition, she gave
cloth-of-silver and white taffeta from her own cupboard to the Lady
Jean for her wedding dress, and his bride accepted, to his
displeasure.

"She wants to wed us, dress us, and feed us," he had grumbled. "As if
we were indigents or infants."

"Is not the Queen to be nourisher and mother to her people?" Jean had
said. "Doubtless she takes pleasure in it. And she may feel she needs
to make amends for the execution of my brother John."

"Bah. If he died for love of her, is that her doing? Men fall in love
and do foolish things. Why should she feel obliged to recompense
us?"

"And why should we feel obliged to refuse? The material she offers is
worth many pieces of gold. We must take what fate, guilt, and
circumstance offer us; the same partners will rob us of plenty in times
to come."

He had turned away. Her practicality smacked of opportunism.

Ah, his bride!

The groomsmen surrounded him, hailed him. In a buoyant body, they
conveyed him to the Kirk, where she would be waiting for him.

Mary sat calmly in the royal box at the Kirk: a royal box that had
never seen a Stewart until this day.

What would the Pope think? she wondered. If he could see me now,
gracing a Protestant wedding .. .

She glanced over at Darnley, sitting beside her. He was sober and, as
always when in that state, ingratiating and innocent.

The church was crowded; there was scarcely an extra seat. Since the
Reformed Kirk did not allow music, the buzz of voices filled the
sanctuary. Now the Bishop of Galloway, the Lady Jean's uncle, made his
way down the aisle, wearing the modest attire of the Reformers. He
took his place at the front of the church.

At a signal, the guests began reciting a Psalm, and then Bothwell
appeared from the right, flanked by an attendant. He stood quietly in
front of the Bishop.

The Psalm changed to a canticle of joy, and then the Lady Jean, heavily
veiled in gossamer so that her cloth-of-silver gown shimmered like
opal, made her way down the long aisle to join Lord Bothwell.

Mary could not hear their voices as they recited their vows. She saw
Bothwell take Lady Jean's hand, then put a ring upon it. She saw him
kiss her, lifting her face-veil to reveal her features. She heard the
Bishop announce in ringing tones, "They are man and wife together."
Then they turned and, facing the congregation, marched out. Bothwell
was grinning. Lady Jean looked pleased.

In the large hall of Kinloch House, the company waited for the Queen
and King to make their appearance before starting the festivities. The
musicians were playing discreetly, delicately, and the banquet tables
were laid with fine linen and glittering with crystal and gold. At the
head table, ornate carved chairs were reserved for the bridal couple
and the royal couple.

As Mary and Darnley passed through the doorway, Bothwell bowed and his
new Countess curtsied.

"Felicitations," said Darnley, taking their hands. "Felicitations, and
may Hymen bless you and your hearth."

"Hmmm." Embarrassed, Bothwell nodded curtly.

Mary led the way to the waiting table, moving gracefully through the
throng of her subjects.

The larger, more ornate chair was hers, and she did not offer it to
Darnley. He pretended not to notice. Seated on Mary's right was
Bothwell, and on her left was Lady Bothwell. Next to her was her
brother, the new Earl of Huntly, blond and handsome. The rest of the
company quickly seated themselves and the servitors began bringing out
the streams of dishes some delicacies from the Strathbogie region, seat
of the Gordons, and some from the area of Liddesdale, Bothwell's
stronghold. Mary, whose appetite had waned during her pregnancy, took
small helpings of salmon pie and powsowdie. The latter looked most
unappetizing, a mixture of sheep's head and mutton flank, but tasted
surprisingly good.

"I was brought up on this," said Bothwell, motioning to the server to
bring him more. "It is nursery food, in truth, something Border
mothers give their hairns to serve as supper. But I always loved
it."

"In France we had cinnamon broth with stewed Normandy apples," she
said, remembering with a stab of sweet longing those happy evenings in
the royal nursery with Francois and Elisabeth and Claude. "I miss
their apples."

"You'll have to send for them, then. They should survive a sea journey
well enough." He took a great gulp of wine. "Still longing for
France," he said matter-of-factly.

"No, that I do not."

"True, you've no reason to long for France when you surround yourself
with Frenchmen, speak French, sing in French, write in French, sew with
French threads, read French books, and have a French cook to prepare
proper French dishes. And, oh yes, your confessor, that Dominican,
what's his name? and your physician, Bourgoing. Didn't I warn you
long ago?"

"You make it sound as though I have committed a crime!" She glared at
him, sitting there so smugly, so much at home. "Can I help it if" the
Scottish foods, physicians, and books are so inferior, she almost said,
but stopped herself "if ... if I was brought up there and I, too,
formed childish preferences? I am trying to learn of Scottish things
"

"With that Italian, Riccio?" He drank some more wine and plunged his
knife into a hunk of venison on his plate and then transferred it to
his mouth. He deftly ran his tongue over the sharp blade to clean it.
She watched, expecting to see a thin line of red spring up along the
broad tongue. But he went on talking as if nothing had happened.
"Everyone detests him."

"Their hatred baffles me," she said. "He has done nothing."

"He has displaced your Scottish councillors. People think he is a
Papal agent. Some even whisper that you are his lover." He repeated
the venison, knife, and tongue feat.

How absurd." But she remembered Melville's warning months ago. She
down at Riccio, seated at a lower table. He was smiling and gesturing.
Suddenly she had to admit it: from a distance he did look like a
frog.

"It offends me that he is here today," said Bothwell. "Why did you
bring him?" His voice was rough.

"He is of my household; he is a friend."

"Yet you are not providing the feast, but good burgher Kinloch." He
jerked his head toward the lean, blue-eyed merchant of Baltic trading.
"Did you assume an Edinburgh tradesman would want to feed a foreigner?"
He glared at her. "You underestimate their hatred of him. You
underestimate their dislike of your consort and your marriage. You
underestimate the weakness of your position. You underestimate "

"You overestimate my mercy and tolerance!" she snapped. "For a
subject to use such licence in speaking to me, no, it is not to be
borne! You are impudent, sir, and above your station, and for all it's
your wedding day, your mouth is an unruly knave!" She turned to Lady
Jean, who had been talking to Darnley. "I wish you much joy in this
rash, overbold talker!"

"I could say the same to you," said Bothwell, his words in the ear of
her turned head, "for you've just described your own husband."

She started to retort, to leave the table, when she realized that no
one else had heard him, and that indeed, Lady Jean was attempting to
answer her hasty words.

"Your Majesty, he's a soldier and speaks as he would to his troops,"
she said in a quiet voice. "If I must choose one or the other, I
prefer a rough-spoken soldier to a smooth-spoken courtier." She
glanced subtly at Darnley, who was smiling blankly, and the point was
made.

"I hope his wooing proves more gentle than his manners," said Mary,
looking at the placid, self-possessed young bride. Bothwell's quick,
rough amours were well known. She had even been told by Riccio that
Bothwell's embraces were so crude he often posted someone as a lookout
while he had his way in a corner with a wench, then buttoned his
breeches and departed five minutes later. Poor Lady Bothwell!

"We will be honeymooning at Seton," she said, interrupting Mary's vivid
picture of Bothwell hunched in a corner indulging his lusts.

"I wish you joy," Mary managed to say.

"We anticipate it," she said. "Thank you."

"Indeed we are longing for it," Bothwell added in a low voice.

The banquet went on until late afternoon, and then was followed by a
ball for all that Bothwell professed himself a Knoxian, thought Mary.
Indeed, the Protestants seemed to savour the entire experience much
more than they ought, and the musicians played so long and so
enthusiastically, she wondered where they had obtained their musical
scores. From forbidden France?

By dancing with him and talking with him, Mary managed to keep Darnley
away from the wine servers, and indeed he was quiet and polite for most
of the evening, occasionally speaking at length with the Earl of Morton
and several of his Douglas clansmen, then breaking off with a smile for
another dance.

On their slow and stately passage back down the High Street toward
Holyrood afterwards, they passed the dark, hulking Tolbooth.

"Do you still plan to pass the Bill of Attainder against Lord James and
all his men when Parliament meets next month?" he suddenly said.

"You once pointed out that he had far too much land," Mary replied.
"Now he shall have none. Yes, the Lord James and all his supporters,
now hiding in England, shall forfeit their land for their treason. I
am surprised that you ask. Why is that?" She was suddenly
suspicious.

"No reason. Only that perhaps it is unwise, perhaps there might be
some other way "

"There is no other way, Damley."

As she got into bed that night, she wondered what approach Bothwell
would make might at that very moment be making to his new wife in the
bridal bed. She hated to think about it. Poor Lady Bothwell!

TWENTY-EIGHT

The winter seemed to be a whining dog, sinking its teeth into human
bones and gnawing, refusing to let go, worrying and teasing its victim.
Some days the sky would lighten and a hint of warm air, seemingly from
Italy somewhere, would spread out over the land. Courtiers would be
able to play tennis and practise archery. Then the leaden pall of
cloud would clap shut overhead once more, and the light, singing air of
the south would vanish, squeezed into nothingness by the abrupt grip of
Arctic air.