Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (95 page)

She would imagine him lying directly beneath her, and it charged each
footstep she took, as she pictured him hearing it in his chamber.

On the fifth day after his arrival, she invited him to dine with her on
her floor. He had no trouble negotiating the steps his legs had not
been injured and emerged looking rather robust, considering his recent
experience.

"I am gratified to see you mend so quickly," she said.

"A soldier cannot afford to take very long," he answered. "After the
first week, the wounds have healed quickly. And you you were taken
suddenly, gravely ill!"

She had forgotten she had not spoken to him since; he had undoubtedly
heard it from others. "Yes. I was thrown in the mire in the dark, and
afterwards ... I fell victim to a mysterious collapse."

But you know what it was, do you not? she thought. It seemed to her
as if he could surely read her mind, as if he had been present with her
every second since she rode away from the Hermitage that afternoon. But
that was a foolish fancy.

"I am grieved to hear it." He was looking at her, taking in her new
frailty.

"It is past now." She saw his look and wondered if she still looked
ill. "I have been reading your reports.... Is it true that .. . ?"

For the rest of the dinner she attempted to discuss the Borders with
him, and his duties there. "It is said here, in this patent, that your
post carries the power to allow you to ride against rebels, attack them
with fire and sword, besiege and overthrow houses held against you. It
even says you can command assistance from neighbours, under pain of
death, and direct letters in my name."

"Yes, Madam."

"Have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Directed letters in my name?"

"No, never. I would not hide behind your skirts, so to speak."

Darnley arrived, almost two weeks from the time she had been taken ill.
She had seen his white horse approaching, seen his blue feathered hat
from above, and been able to prepare herself. She drew on her robe and
her velvet slippers and attempted to arrange her hair.

The door creaked open and Darnley poked his head in. His hat was
cocked so that it was the feather she saw first, protruding into the
room. Then his head followed.

"Oh, my love," he said, rushing to her side. He reached down to kiss
her, and she turned her face so it was a cheek kiss.

Had he forgotten that the last time he had seen her he had threatened
her life? How could he forget or expect her to?

"I heard you were mortally ill!" he said.

"Yet continued hawking," she said matter-of-factly.

"Nay! I did not! I only heard two days ago! Someone kept the news
from me! Someone and there are many who wish us ill!"

"You are chief amongst them. You play into their hands with your
sulking, your statements against me, your withdrawals."

Yet could I bear it if he were underfoot, constantly attendant on me?
she asked herself.

"If you would only listen to me .. he began, pacing. "Yet even here, I
see, there is no place provided for me to stay! Lord Bothwell occupies
my quarters! He keeps state there "

"He recuperates. He almost lost his life in the defence of the realm."
While you were hawking.

"He has no rights to the King's quarters!"

"They are not 'the King's quarters." And am I obliged to keep chambers
empty for you? They waited, Sire, whilst I alone sat for the justice
court. They sat empty, as did your chair of estate, screaming, "No
King here, no King!" It is less conspicuous to have them filled. It
calls less attention to your negligence!"

He glared at her. "I see I am not welcome here!"

"You are always welcome, when you are not drinking or in a rage," she
said wearily. "But your arrival now is a bit after the fact."

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers. He wanted some confirmation
of his importance to her, she realized. The same as I want from
Bothwell. But I cannot give it.

"Adieu, then!" he said, flinging open the door and making for the
stairs.

From the window she watched him gallop away, the muscular rump of his
horse rounded and perfect.

He always had good taste in horses, she thought. She felt limp and
weak, and climbed back into bed.

She had recovered, Bothwell had recovered, and it was early November.
Time to leave this strange place of wounding and illness.

They set out, the entire company, riding eastward. Before her illness,
Mary had meant to show herself to the people in this eastern march. It
was the tamest of the three "marches," or districts, lining the border,
each with its English counterpart on the other side. It was the
corridor by which invaders always came up to Scotland, for the land was
flatter and held fewer bogs.

At Kelso a company of a thousand horsemen joined them, under the
command of the warden of the East March, Lord Home, to give ceremony to
their passage. They made their way to the sea, but before turning
northward Mary stopped and looked south. England lay spread out like a
soft green blanket beyond the glittering River Tweed.

Maitland was riding beside her as she murmured, "England."

He edged closer and she became aware of his presence.

"I have never seen England," she said. "I imagined one could see the
border, that it would be a tangible thing. Instead, one country just
shades into another. They are not so different after all."

"Make no mistake, Your Majesty," he said. "They are quite different.
And as for a border one can see, there once was one: the old Roman
wall. But it is farther south. So the English can congratulate
themselves that they succeeded in extending their borders and
encroaching on our territory."

"It looks so beguiling, so harmless," she said, staring at it. Prince
James would rule there one day, she knew.

"Like a snake underneath a green leaf," said Bothwell, suddenly beside
her. His voice was as strong and sure as ever. "Believe me, danger
lurks there, however beguiling it may appear."

She cast a last look at it. "Someday the realms may be one, and this
border no more than a memory."

"Not in your lifetime, it goes without saying," said Bothwell.

She winced to hear him speak of her death so offhandedly.

They turned north now, and the cavalcade made its showy progress toward
Edinburgh through Eyemouth, Coldingham, Dunbar, and Tantallon Castle.
Mary wore the costumes she had brought for such an occasion, and put on
the embroidered taffeta hats with their coloured feathers, the Highland
mantles lined with satin, the riding habits trimmed in gold braid and
ornamented with pearls and topaz. She waved and smiled to ever-greater
crowds who gathered along the main road.

But she was still weak, and at the invitation of the Laird of
Craigmillar Castle, and the urging of Bourgoing, she agreed to stop two
miles short of Edinburgh and spend further time recuperating at the
castle, a stone bastion situated on high ground, with a distant view of
the sea.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Bothwell slammed his fist into the straw-stuffed calf's skin as hard as
he was able. He felt the pain hit his belly, travelling along the
exact lines of his wound, and spread even into his good arm. Gritting
his teeth, he pulled back his fist to do it again. He would do it as
many times as necessary to build his strength back up. It hurt less
today than it had yesterday. Being even temporarily crippled was a
horrible experience, and he intended to stay that way as short a time
as possible.

The stuffed calf's skin had been his idea, whereas the hot compresses
and stretching had been the Queen's physician's recommendation that
affable Frenchman. Yet he seemed to know medicine well, Bothwell had
to admit.

"Good day." The chamber door opened and Bourgoing entered. He nodded
toward the stuffed skin, tied between two chests in this dry but cold
and barren chamber in Craigmillar Castle. "I have already sent for the
heated oil and water," he announced. "It is time to change the
bandages." He patted a thick bundle of clean white linens under his
arm.

Bothwell lowered his arm, which was aching. He was glad for an excuse
to rest. Obediently he peeled off his shirt and waited, shivering, for
Bour-going's ministrations.

The French physician deftly removed the stained bandages and felt
gently along the scabbed ridge of the great belly wound. "Mmm .. . mmm
..." was all he said. He massaged unguent into the reddened skin.
"This was an enormous wound. You will have a formidable scar."

"I await the day when the scab turns into a scar. I do not mind
scars."

Bourgoing poked one of Bothwell's chest muscles and was surprised to
find his finger could barely press it down. The man surely had muscles
of iron, or as near iron as flesh could get. He murmured in
admiration, "You will soon be out fighting again."

"Good. It is my charge and livelihood." Bothwell put his shirt back
on.

"This evening you should apply the warm compresses," Bourgoing said.

"It will be a task for French Paris," said Bothwell. "You need not
take your time for a valet's task." He grinned at the physician,
reading his thoughts. "I promise to follow your instructions," he
said.

When Bourgoing had left the grey, dull chamber, Bothwell turned again
to the punching-skin. He pounded it with his fist, imagining it to be
an enemy. Imagining it to be his greatest undoing, his lust for the
Queen.

No intelligent man is undone by lust, he told himself.

Whop! His fist struck the skin.

That is for students and apprentices and old fools. An intelligent man
harnesses his lust, brings it under subjugation, like an unruly horse.
Or he even lets it serve him and bring him fortune ... if another's
lust proves his or her undoing.

Wop!

The business with the Queen .. .

He flinched as he remembered that shameful weakness on his part when he
had kissed her at the Exchequer House. She had been alone, and he had
always found her bonny.. . but it was a foolish thing to have done.
Had he amended it sufficiently? Why did he feel as though it was still
unsettled, or hanging over them? Yet to mention it again, to try to
re-apologize, would be to emphasize it, give it new life.

Whap! That was what was so much better about encounters in the field
no ambiguity. Just fighting, the simpler the better. The best was
single combat to settle an issue. But no one wanted to do that
anymore. They preferred this business with "bonds" and
assassinations.. ..

Now pain began to tear through him. His left arm felt as though it
were on fire.

"So perish all the Queen's enemies," said a flat voice behind him. The
Lord James stood in the doorway, his head cocked appreciatively, his
gloves held in one flat palm.