Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (111 page)

"How?" Her voice was small.

"Gunpowder."

"What?"

"He has prepared the cellars, packed them tight. It has taken many
days. Now his mysterious choice of Kirk O'Field is made clear."

She was so stunned she could not speak. His entreaties that she return
.. .

"We want your permission to arrest him," Traquair said gently. "He is
a traitor."

She began to weep wildly. The perfidy, the gloating cold-blooded ness
of it, was beyond her comprehension. It was demonic.

I shall be kal and true to my Sovereign Lady, the Queen of Scotland. I
shall never bear treason about in my heart against our Sovereign Lady
the Queen, but shall discover the same to her. So help me God.

"He has broken his vows," she whispered.

Bothwell shot a look at Traquair. What an irrelevant thing to say.

"When he became a Knight of the Thistle, he swore "

"Have we your permission to take him?" insisted Bothwell. "We must
act under your orders. He is a traitor."

Already Bothwell was turning away to do it, but she reached out for
him. "Do not harm him," she said.

"If he resists arrest, I cannot speak for his safety," he shot back.
"He is dangerous, and must be treated as such. " He shot a look at
Traquair. "Escort the Queen to bed. I will await you outside."

But once he reached the stairs, he took them two at a time in order to
get to Kirk O'Field way ahead of Traquair. The fuse was waiting. There
would be no "arrest." But let Mary think there was.

The way Darnley had touched her and hung on her ... it nauseated him.
The traitor the vile, unnatural traitor!

Running through the back streets of Edinburgh and making his way to
Kirk O'Field through the old monastery garden, he felt the cold air
biting into his lungs. He slowed a bit; it was dark, with no moon to
guide his footsteps. He was gasping for breath and making too much
noise.

Now he was at the house. No candles were burning. Damley and his
servants had retired.

Waiting in the south garden were Archibald Douglas and his men, hooded
and swathed. Their breaths rose in little streams, like smoking
chimneys. They were cold but dared not stamp their feet and move
about.

French Paris, William Powrie, John Hay, and John Hepburn were waiting
for him on the east side of the house. The powder train lay like a
snake on the ground, barely visible.

No one had a torch, so Bothwell demanded a flint and struck it several
times before he succeeded in lighting a small wick. Then,
ceremoniously, he bent down and touched the wick to the powder. Slowly
it glowed and caught. Bothwell watched as the smoke and the red glow
began creeping toward the house.

"Remember, you are the one who actually lit it," said Paris. His voice
was shaking.

"Gentlemen, it was my pleasure," Bothwell replied. "Indeed, it was my
privilege to preside at this unparalleled occasion."

"Run!" said Paris.

But Bothwell stood rooted, staring at the glow as it ate its way toward
its goal.

Damley was dreaming: dreaming of himself whole and strong and well, a
knight storming the walls of Jerusalem, slaying the infidel. He looked
over to his right, seeing through the slit in his helmet his commander,
Richard the Lionheart. Only suddenly, he became Richard, took on all
his courage and might.... Abruptly he awoke. Disappointment flooded
him as the shreds of the dream melted away. He could not hold them..
..

And there was something else besides .. . something sad, something
bad.. ..

Mary had got away. He had failed.

He had waited up until one, hoping. He had made his entreaties so
pleadingly; she might relent and come back. She was impulsive and
kind-hearted. If Bothwell had not prevented her, that is.... Never had
he felt more powerful and yet more balked and thwarted. The plan had
been perfect; Balfour and Standen had executed it according to his
exact wishes.

Executed it. He chuckled at the words. Then he began to cry.

I could still kill myself, he thought. But without her here, it isn't
right. And could I bear to hover unseen, a ghost, and watch Bothwell
enjoying her afterwards?

Perhaps that way I could take my revenge.

But no. I am more powerful in the flesh than I would ever be in
death.

Anger fluctuated with misery as he lay rigid in bed. The house was so
silent it seemed already like a tomb. A stone sepulchre, dark, cold,
still .. . The sleeping forms of his attendants looked like effigies in
a church, stretched out in stone, sleeping for eternity.

He began to drift off in sleep again, when suddenly a faint noise came
to him. A scurrying, a scuffling.

Rats! He felt himself shiver, and pulled up the covers tighter. He
hated rats; he had never been able to accustom himself to their
constant presence no matter how well furnished the dwelling.

Scrape.

It was a big one. O dear God, don't let him come out in the middle of
the room!

A murmur. Human voices. Outside. Then that scuffling movement. But
it, too, was outside.

He held his breath to hear more clearly. But there was nothing. His
head began to spin from lack of air. He breathed out, then in.

A smell of burning. But not ordinary burning. It was not a wood fire,
or a candle, or straw. It was

Gunpowder! Someone had lit the powder!

With pure terror, he bolted out of bed and ran to the east window.

There was movement there. Men. How many he couldn't see. It was
almost completely dark.

But there was a small spot of light, moving.

The powder train!

For an agonizing long instant he stood, shaking. His bare feet and
legs were like ice. He was wearing only a thin nightgown.

But there was no time to dress. Even as he watched, the spark was
coming closer. And he knew how many thousands of pounds of gunpowder
were waiting to explode, and what would happen if it did.

He rushed for the enclosed balcony that opened off the sleeping
chamber. He could climb out and drop down onto the town wall directly
beneath it, then escape across the old orchard to open fields. The
standing town wall would act as a shield to protect him from the
greatest force of the explosion.

He stumbled over William Taylor's bed and woke him.

"Uhhh " groaned the attendant.

"We must escape!" shrieked Darnley, but fear made his voice a whisper.
He rushed to the side of the balcony and began climbing over it and out
the window.

"My lord, wait. I will get warm clothes, and a rope, and a chair for
the descent. I beg you, wait!" Taylor determinedly began gathering up
the items he deemed necessary, not understanding the need for frantic
haste.

Damley could not wait. He hung by his fingers to the window ledge. The
bitter cold made his legs numb, so he had no feeling in his bare feet
as he let go and attempted to land on top of the wall. He stumbled and
lost his balance, tumbling over and falling, unhurt, on the frozen
ground beneath.

He was safe! The dark house still stood, and the wall stood sentinel
in between. He heard Taylor trying to follow with all the apparatus of
the chair and rope and garments; he was making a frightful lot of
noise.

Darnley began to run barefoot across the orchard ground, gasping for
breath. His sweat felt as if it were freezing on his skin, encasing
him in cold.

Suddenly he ran smack into something. A tree. No. A man.

"Halt!" said the man in a deep, familiar voice. Others surrounded
him. There was a company of them.

A rough, gloved hand grabbed Darnley's shoulder and someone else pinned
both his arms behind him and held him immobile against a broad,
battle-padded chest. The man reared back and Darnley was lifted off
the ground, his numb feet kicking helplessly.

"You must not hope to escape," said the familiar voice, as if
explaining something very simple. "You must pay your debt."

"What debt?" squeaked Darnley.

"The unforgivable debt of betraying your kinsmen. He who betrays his
clan and kin is not fit to live."

Archibald Douglas!

Thank God, it was not Bothwell.

"Oh, cousin," whined Darnley, "do not commit the worse crime of
murdering your own blood. Then blood shall call to blood and yours be
spilt in revenge."

There was a soft laughter. Douglas stuck his face up in Darnley's.

"You are simple, cousin. Why, 'tis not we who will bear the blame. Tis
Bothwell." He put his massive hands around Darnley's slender neck.

"No! No! Please, please have mercy on me! Ah, kinsman, in the name
of He who had mercy on all the world, spare me!"

Douglas kept on squeezing, smiling all the while. He could feel the
neck contracting and heard the wheezing. Darnley twisted and bucked,
but the nameless man behind him held him fast, legs dangling.

Darnley struggled so long that Douglas's hands began to ache.

"He's a long time dying," he said matter-of-factly. "Who would have
thought he had any strength left in him?"

Just then Taylor came clumping up, hugging the chair. The company of
men turned toward him, leaving Douglas and his partner holding the long
pale form of Darnley suspended.

"Another one," said Douglas. "Kill him."

Taylor dropped the chair and ran in the opposite direction, but three
Douglases chased him, caught him, and strangled him.

"A good night's work," said Archibald Douglas. "Lay them out."

They placed the bodies beneath one of the pear trees of the old
orchard, then arranged the articles Taylor had been carrying, like
offerings to their fierce clan gods.

Bothwell had been standing at a safe distance a long time, and nothing
had happened. Had the fuse gone out?

"I will go check the powder train," he whispered to Paris.

"No!" The page clung to BothwelPs waist. "Do not go close to look! It
is too dangerous!"

Bothwell shook him off and walked quickly back toward the house.
Suddenly a massive crack and force deafened him and threw him to the
ground. He felt searing heat on his right side and looked out from
under his arm to see an explosion beyond his imagination. The house
was actually rising up from its foundations, the very stones separating
he could see the vivid red between the straight black lines of the cut
stones and raining outward. He scrambled to his feet and ran as fast
as he could, debris thudding all around him. Just one of the stones
would have the effect of a direct hit from a cannonball.

At last, far out of range of the deadly hail, he watched in macabre
fascination as the house destroyed itself. The power of gunpowder was
stupefying. It could have destroyed a hundred people, five hundred..
..