Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (118 page)

She laughed. "Sometimes you seem so innocent," she said. "While you
were at the trial, a letter came from Queen Elizabeth, more or less
threatening me. She calls my honour into question." She thrust the
letter at him. Wearily he read the important part:

For the love of God, Madame, use such sincerity and prudence in this
matter, which touches you so nearly, that all the world may feel
justified in believing you innocent of so enormous a crime, which, if
you were not, would be good cause for degrading you from the rank of
princess, and bringing upon you the scorn of the vulgar. Sooner than
that this should befall you, I would wish you an honourable grave,
rather than a dishonoured life.

She snatched the letter back. "And we are not safe even now," she
continued. "Something much more distressing than the letter from
Elizabeth has come." She handed him a large creamy envelope. "It is
from my ambassador to France."

But alas, Madame, this day over all Europe there is no subject so
frequently discussed as that of your Majesty and of the present state
of your realm, which is for the most part interpreted sinisterly. I
fear this to be only the beginning and first act of the tragedy, and
all to run from evil to worse. I did thank the Ambassador of Spain on
your behalf of the warning he had given you, although it came too late.
He has yet desired me to remind your Majesty that he is informed by the
same source that there is yet some notable enterprise against you,
wherewith he wishes you to beware in time. I write this far with great
regret, by reason I can come no ways to the knowledge of any
particulars of his master.

Bothwell's eyes flicked over the letter. "Whoever it is, it must be
the same party who so carefully set up the false clues of the barrel
and the party of men parading about the streets shouting my name. And
directs the placards, and the mysterious crier."

"So it is a party, not just one man?"

"I am the only man who acts alone. Everyone else acts in a party." He
was aware that it sounded like boasting when he said it, but that it
was true, and to his own manifest danger. In Scotland, it seemed, the
man who walked alone did not walk long.

"Fie on all this!" He put the letter down, where it rested on top of
the one from Elizabeth. "We are surrounded by dangerous enemies. But
we must be stronger than they."

He looked tired, and, though he would have been shamed if he had known
it, warily afraid. She wished to protect him, to do everything in her
power to spare him the coming ordeal. But at the same time she wished
to lie in his arms, even though it was the most dangerous thing she
could do to him.

"Come to my bed," she suddenly said. "It is my command."

With an indescribable look of relief? disbelief? reluctance? he
bowed his head in compliance.

"Take off your clothes," she said, "and quickly. All of them."

Again he complied, and stood before her naked. But she did not stand
and gaze at him, but pulled him into her bed, where she had quickly
undressed and covered herself.

"I am not sure I can make love on command," he demurred.

"I am quite sure you can," she said, touching him. "I know that we
need this in order to be strong enough to face the next tests."

"You make it into a sacrament," he said.

"To me it is," she said.

"Mary," he said, holding her later, "do you trust me?"

"With my life," she murmured, her lips against his neck, her voice
drowsy. "Then you must trust me to bring about that which we most
want, in my own fashion. Whatever I do, do not question me or, for a
moment, lose faith in me."

"I told you, I trust you with my life."

FIFTY-TWO

Mary walked slowly in procession from the closing of Parliament. Ahead
of her, with stately pace, walked the Earl of Argyll bearing the crown,
Bothwell bearing the sceptre; behind her was Huntly bearing the sword
of state. She was aware of the hostile eyes of the people lining the
street. Never before had she experienced this; always there had been
nothing but adoration in the eyes of her common subjects. Only John
Knox had ever caused such looks to be directed at her, and it was
horrible to encounter him multiplied a thousand times, as it were. She
smiled, hoping to elicit smiles in return. There were some, and one
woman called, "God bless you, if you are indeed innocent of the King's
death." It sent a chill through her.

If you are innocent of the King's death. How could they think
otherwise? Do they turn on me so soon, and for no evidence? She
shuddered.

Bothwell's straight back ahead of her comforted her. Yet he was only
one man, and they were so many.

Already they were calling the Parliament "the cleansing of Bothwell,"
although it was no such thing. He had been confirmed in his office as
Lord High Admiral and Lieutenant of the Borders, and granted complete
authority over Dunbar Castle in recognition of his "great and manifold
service," but others had been recognized as well: Huntly had been
formally restored to his titles and estates, as had Morton and Lord
James. All the old traitors had been forgiven and restored. It was a
new beginning, at least on paper.

Bothwell had given no indication of his plan. She had not seen him
alone since the night of his trial.

It would be a relief to be able to leave Edinburgh. She planned to go
to Stirling and see her child, to see for herself how Erskine and his
wife were raising him. Had they left up the painting of the Virgin
over his cradle, or had that been taken down and replaced by a Bible
text? Oh, Mary, Mary, she told herself. You are tired and think ill
of everything around you. Weariness has dulled your sense of
discernment and shaded even the bright things. You badly need the open
air of Stirling, and to hold your baby.

Baby James seemed to have absorbed her malaise, for he whined and
twisted when she picked him up. He had grown heavy; Lady Erskine said
he had already tripled his weight, and had outgrown all the clothes
that had come with him.

"But he's a long babe," she said, "and will never be fat!"

James started slapping Mary's face. She turned her head slightly to
deflect him, but he kept on. It hurt, and it also hurt her feelings,
although she knew it should not have.

"What toys does he especially like?" Mary asked, turning her head back
the other way.

"He has a set of boxes that fit one inside the other," she answered.
"He likes to put them together. And Peter here, the carpenter, he made
him a box that has different-shaped holes in it, and then little blocks
that fit the holes; there are round ones and square ones and
star-shaped ones, and he likes to put them in there. He is most solemn
when he does it."

Just then James yanked on her hair. "Does he like to play outdoors? It
is a lovely day today. Would he like to see the swans on the pond down
below?" She handed him back to Lady Erskine.

"He has never seen them," she said. "Let us take him down there."

Lord Erskine suddenly came into the room. His elongated face broke
into a smile. "Such a bonny prince," he said. "It is our great honour
to be entrusted with his safety." James gurgled and reached out a
plump hand to Erskine, causing Mary a stab of pain.

My son, my son, she thought, already I am a stranger to you.

They went out into the courtyard of the palace, where the keen fresh
winds of April were sweeping through and whistling around the corners.
The watery, melting-snow smell and the whisking noise slammed into her,
and suddenly it was April of two years ago, when Darnley lay ill here
at Stirling and she had been overcome with love for him, and defiant of
the Lords and Elizabeth.. ..

They descended the long, sloping pathway to the castle grounds so far
below, where the white peacocks strolled and the swans, back from
wherever they went in the winter, floated on the waters of the
ornamental ponds. Lord Erskine carried James, and the baby squealed
and laughed as he bounced along. At length he put him down on the soft
new grass, where he crawled away, his little bonnet bobbing up and
down.

"Your Majesty, you look weary," said Erskine solicitously. "I trust I
may speak freely to you, as a friend as well as a subject? We have
known each other for so long, and I have seen you in so many conditions
even one hour after the birth of the Prince."

"I feel weary," she admitted. "But I hope to rest soon. If such a
thing is permitted to rulers."

Erskine was looking at her with deep concern. "The past two years have
been so difficult, one cannot help but feel that they are part of a
divine plan."

Not that. "Knox is away," she said with a smile. "Pray, let us rest
from such speculations. I am content, as you know" here was the
difficult subject "to have the Prince instructed in the Reformed Faith.
To be ignorant of his subjects' faith would be a great gap for him. "

"Then why do not you study it?" he asked bluntly.

"Those who would teach me have been vindictive," she said. "Knox and
his foul words and curses do not entice me to come closer."

"That is a great pity," admitted Erskine. "For he is a man of the
country, and surely he has heard the common saying, "You catch more
flies with honey than with vinegar." He proclaims the sweetness of the
Gospel, but he makes it sour."

She smiled. " "Tis no matter. Oh, look, the Prince is trying to
stand!"

Lady Erskine held up James's arms and let him walk a few steps. "He
pulls himself up and walks if he has support, " she said. "The next
time you see him, he will be walking alone."

"The next time you see him," said Erskine, "he will be a right proper
young Prince!"

The way back promised to give Mary and her accompanying party a
pleasant ride in the countryside. Spring was now well advanced, and as
Mary, Melville, Huntly, and Maitland made their way slowly along the
soft path through meadows and woodland, she felt her spirits lifting.
The breeze, turned warm since only the day before, was now lulling, and
everywhere the birds were talking to each other, chattering, bickering,
wooing, warning. Their active, energetic movements, hopping and
jumping from limb to limb, stirred Mary's sluggish mood.

"The birds are rejoicing," she said, turning her head to speak to
Maitland. "They are like little children let out of a lesson."

Maitland gave a wan smile. "Yes, Your Majesty," he said, with no joy
at all in his voice.

Poor Flamina! thought Mary. He has only been married four months, and
already he turns a deaf ear to spring? Perhaps he is too old for her,
after all.

Behind him Huntly plodded along, his face equally glum. Usually Huntly
had a smile and a rather lighthearted air about him; that was what made
him a good companion, despite his limited mental powers. But he was
clearly unhappy today.

The sun rose higher, shining through the mist of green on the tree
limbs that had been bare only a week earlier. Back in the deeper parts
of the woods, the green was barely discernible in the shade, but little
spots of white from the earliest wood flowers were winking at them.
And everywhere was the sound of the rushing, gurgling, and dripping of
water released from the long lock of winter.