Bond of Passion (19 page)

There she found that Mary was entertaining a small group of her friends. The three remaining Marys were there, as were Riccio and several others. They had eaten an early supper in the apartment’s tiny dining room and now returned to the queen’s dayroom, where a fire burned in the hearth, although the icy north wind blowing through the cracks in the windows made it difficult to heat the chamber. They welcomed Annabella warmly, having come to like the plain-faced but charming Countess of Duin.

“I have come only to say farewell,” Annabella told them. “We leave for Duin on the morrow. Angus is anxious to return home.”

“Back to the dull borders,” Riccio said.

“Living in a beautiful small castle on the sea might prove dull for ye, but it isn’t for me,” Annabella answered.

“Sing a final song for us, madam,” the queen said. “I have come to enjoy yer voice and the simple songs ye have introduced to us. David, accompany the countess.”

They had discovered in the weeks she had been with them that Annabella had a lovely voice, and prevailed upon her often to sing for them. She sang simple songs of the borders and of Scotland. Going over to Master Riccio, Annabella told him the song she would sing, and the Italian tuned the strings on his instrument in preparation.

Lord Darnley entered the queen’s rooms, surprising them all, for he rarely came to see her any longer. Smiling warmly in an effort to ease his obviously nasty mood, the queen beckoned her young husband to her side as Annabella began to sing.

The lute suddenly screeched with discord and crashed to the floor.

Annabella looked up and saw Lord Ruthven pushing into the queen’s chambers, and behind him a group of armed men. They had obviously overcome the queen’s guards to reach this sanctum. Ruthven pointed a bony finger at Riccio, who jumped from her side with all the agility of the amphibian he resembled to get behind the queen. The look of fury on Lord Darnley’s face as the little man struggled to hide himself was terrifying.

“Give us the Italian!” Lord Ruthven said in a dark voice.

“How dare ye enter my chambers uninvited, my lord,” the queen said.

“Give us the Italian!” Lord Ruthven demanded a second time.

“To what purpose?” Mary wanted to know. “It is obvious to me that ye come here with no good outcome in mind. Leave me at once!”

God’s bones
, Annabella thought.
She is so brave, and I am terrified.

“Not wi’out the little rat whose service does ye nae credit. He needs to be put down, madam, and we shall do it this night,” Lord Ruthven said. “We dinna want this papal spy in yer service turning ye from what is right and just for Scotland.”

“Ye are mistaken, my lord,” the queen said. “David is no spy. If ye believe he has done some wrong, then present your proof, but of course ye cannot, for there is none.”

Lord Ruthven’s face grew almost purple in his rage. He took a threatening step toward the queen, and as he did Annabella flung herself, arms outstretched, in front of Mary Stuart. “Remove that bitch!” Ruthven roared.

Several men jumped at his command, attempting to pull the Countess of Duin away from her defensive position in front of the queen. Annabella fought them furiously but was finally pulled away and flung to the floor of the chamber. She struggled to regain her feet, but Lord Darnley stepped forward and delivered several brutal kicks to Annabella’s form, forcing her to remain where she was. Then he restrained his wife as the screaming and shrieking Riccio was dragged from the chamber. Ruthven and his party plunged their daggers into the little man over and over again.

Annabella could not hold on to consciousness after that and slid into darkness. When she managed to regain her senses she was still on the floor, Mary Beaton, one of the queen’s maidens, leaning over her, waving a burning feather beneath her nose. The young woman’s eyes were filled with a mixture of sympathy and admiration. She put her arm about the Countess of Duin’s shoulders and helped her to a seated position.

“Ye were very brave,” Mary Beaton said low.

“What has happened?” Annabella asked. She felt a sticky wetness between her legs and a cramping in her belly.
Dear God! Not the bairn! Not the bairn!

“Ruthven and his ilk have gone,” Mary Beaton said. “The townsfolk gathered before the palace, but that snake Darnley told them all was well, and that a papal spy in the pay of the Spanish king had been discovered and slain. The people dispersed, but Bothwell’s men are battling with the Earl of Morton’s men to reach the queen as we speak.”

Annabella’s glance went to the queen, who was weeping over the murder of her secretary and friend, her head in her hands. “Mistress Beaton,” Annabella said. “Help me from this chamber quickly.” Then she groaned low.

“Ye’ve been hurt by Darnley’s blows,” Mary Beaton said, genuinely distressed.

“I am losing the bairn I’ve been carrying,” Annabella said. “I cannot do it before the queen, lest my misfortune cause her to miscarry too. Please, I beg ye, get me from this place now, and find my tiring woman who came wi’ me.”

“Can ye stand?” Mary Beaton asked.

“I must,” Annabella said, struggling slowly to her feet. The cramping was worse now, and she felt blood drizzling down her legs as Mistress Beaton slowly helped her from the queen’s chamber.

Once outside, Mary Beaton spoke to the young guard, who was now disarmed and rubbing his head from the blows he had received when Ruthven and his band had broken into the queen’s apartments. “The Countess of Duin has been injured in the melee. Find and fetch her tiring woman, Jean Ferguson, to her. She will be in my chamber.”

The guard nodded, and went off.

“’Tis not far,” Mary Beaton said as she aided Annabella down a narrow corridor.

Annabella said nothing. How could this have happened? She had come to bid the queen farewell, and got caught up in a maelstrom. They reached Mary Beaton’s chamber, and with the help of Mistress Beaton’s tiring woman, Annabella was able to reach the bed, where she lay down just as she began to weep.

“What has happened, my lady?” Mary Beaton’s serving woman asked fearfully.

Quickly, the young woman explained the situation. She then bent over Annabella, whose eyes were closed, although tears were slipping down her face. “My Susan will stay with you. Your Jeannie will be here soon.” Then she hurried toward the door just as Jean Ferguson dashed into the chamber.

Mary Beaton quickly explained what had happened, and then she left.

Hurrying to Annabella’s side, Jean lifted her mistress’s skirts, gasping at the profusion of blood. “Holy Mother!” She crossed herself, but then, recovering, she began to direct Mary Beaton’s servant. “Can you fetch me cloths to take up the remaining blood? And a basin of cool water, please.” She bent down. “My lady, dinna weep. What’s done is done. Weeping will change nothing.”

“Darnley,” Annabella said, opening her eyes. “Darnley did this, Jeannie! Angus must know if I die.”

“What do ye mean, my lady?” Jean glanced quickly about to see whether Mistress Beaton’s servant had heard, but the woman was on the far side of the chamber.

“I stood before the queen to protect her from the ruffians who had broken into her chamber and were threatening her as they attempted to catch the Italian, Riccio. When they were finally able to pull me away, I was flung to the floor. I attempted to get up, but Lord Darnley kicked me several times, preventing it. He is responsible for my loss.” Her eyes blazed with anger. “I shall have my vengeance upon him, Jeannie. I shall!” Then she fell back as a wave of dizziness overcame her.

“Dinna upset yerself,” Jean cautioned. “If it’s revenge ye would have, then ye must live to take it, my lady.” Taking the small knife that hung at her waist, Jean cut away Annabella’s bloodied skirts and removed her bodice.

Mary Beaton’s serving woman returned to Jean’s side with the basin and a stack of cloths. “I’ll make some yarrow tea to help strengthen her,” she said. “And I’ve also brought ye a small stone jar of comfrey balm.”

“Thank ye,” Jean said. Then she quickly went to work wiping away the layer of blood to see better what had happened. The large clots told the tale. Annabella had indeed lost her bairn. Tears came to her eyes, but she blinked them away. Both her brother and his wife were healthy. There would be other bairns. Carefully, she rubbed the comfrey balm into her mistress’s genital area.

“Here’s one of my mistress’s chemises for yer lady,” the kindly serving woman said. “Ye tuck her right into that bed now. My lady is unlikely to return here tonight.”

She held out a small earthenware mug. “The yarrow tea,” she said.

Jean thanked her, and when she had reclothed Annabella in the chemise and settled her beneath the coverlet, she put the cup to her mistress’s lips. “ ’Twill be bitter,” she said, “but it’s strengthening, my lady.”

Annabella sipped, making a face, for the tea was bitter. She began to cry again. “I’ve lost my bairn,” she sobbed. “I’ve lost my wee laddie.”

“There will be others,” Jean said low. “There is a bond of passion between ye and my brother that makes it impossible to believe otherwise.”

“Where is Angus?” Annabella asked.

“Probably wi’ Bothwell and his men fighting Chancellor Morton and his men,” Jean said. “I saw Morton’s men in the courtyard.”

“Poor queen,” Annabella sad sadly. “She can trust no one.”

“She can trust Bothwell,” Jean replied. “Now go to sleep, my lady. Ye’re safe, and I will sit by yer side.”

“I want to go home,” Annabella said low.

“Soon,” Jean promised. “Soon.”

But it was not as soon as they wished. Mary Beaton did not come back, and after telling Jean to remain as long as she liked, the serving woman, Susan, disappeared. Holyrood Palace was suddenly very quiet but for the occasional tramping of booted feet in the corridors outside.

When morning dawned gray and drizzly, Jean Ferguson, assured that her mistress would not awaken for some time, made her way to the kitchens to fetch them some food. The queen’s French cook and his assistants were surprised to see her, but glad to share what news they had, along with some food.

“Bothwell and Huntley are gone,” the cook told her in his mixture of French and Scots English. “Ze queen’s attendants have all been dismissed.”

Jean, whose own mother was French, understood him, and was able to communicate with the cook. “Who is left in the palace?” she asked.

“
La reine
, and the craven coward she wed who calls himself
le roi
,” the cook responded. “The old dowager of Huntley, who is caring for our mistress. Ruthven’s and Morton’s men. They say the Earl of Moray has returned from exile, and will reason with his sister. How is it ye remain? Almost everyone was sent away.”

“My mistress was gravely injured in defense of the queen,” Jean said. “She has miscarried her bairn. She insisted on being taken out of the queen’s sight lest she cause the queen distress. Mistress Beaton offered her chambers.”

“Your mistress lived through the night?”

“She is young and will survive, but I must bring her nourishment to help strengthen her so we can leave this place,” Jean explained.

“Sit down,” the cook said. “I will prepare something myself for
la pauvre
.”

Jean sat, and immediately a mug of cider and a bowl of hot oats were given her. She ate quickly as the cook prepared a meal for Annabella. The tray she carried back upstairs to Mistress Beaton’s quarters contained an egg custard, a soft fresh roll, butter, jam, and a cup of wine with herbs. The few guards she passed glanced briefly at her, then nodded for her to go on. Reaching her destination she slipped back into the chamber, setting the tray aside, and seated herself back down next to the bed, waiting for her mistress to awaken.

In midmorning, Annabella opened her eyes. At first she was confused as to where she was, and why. Then the memory of the previous evening flooded back, and she sat straight up. “Jeannie!”

“I’m here,” her tiring woman said. “I’ve brought ye some food.”

Annabella shook her head. “I canna eat! I want to leave this place.”

“Eat what I’ve brought ye,” Jean said quietly. “Then I will find a way for us to return back to the house.” Bringing the tray, she set it on her mistress’s lap. “The queen’s own cook made ye this nice egg custard. ’Twill strengthen ye. And the wine has healing herbs for ye.” She sat back down and, spooning a bit of the custard, held it to Annabella’s lips. “Come, now, my lady; eat,” she coaxed.

Taking the spoon from Jean, Annabella ate. She wasn’t a silly bairn. She had suffered a needless loss, but she was alive. Alive to plot her revenge, and she would.

“I will find a litter for ye, and we will return to our house as quickly as possible. I have nae doubt Angus will be worried,” Jean said. “I know ye’re weak, but if we can reach the house I can nurse ye better.”

“Find someone to carry us there,” Annabella said. “I dinna want to remain here. What word of the queen?”

“Her French cook says she is confined to her apartments wi’ old Lady Huntley to watch over her. Her servants have been dismissed by Morton, but they’ve nae gone far. The rebels conspire wi’ one another, and the Earl of Moray will come soon. They believe that, even though she sent him away, he is the one who can best reason wi’ her.”

“He has arrived rather quickly from his exile in England,” Annabella said dryly.

Jean snickered. “Aye. He hae been waiting in the background during all of this, and was certainly involved in the plot to murder the little toad man. I saw his body at the foot of a flight of stairs. They had stripped him naked and he was covered in stab wounds. I hope someone has the kindness to bury him.”

“He was a fool,” Annabella said in a hard voice as she spooned the egg custard into her mouth. “He made no effort whatsoever to placate those in positions of power who resented his influence wi’ the queen. Indeed, he flaunted himself about. But God knows I should not have wished such a fate upon him as he suffered last night.”