A Love Concealed, page 12
“Now, Margaret,” Mary caught her arm and led her towards the door, “walk with me, back to the palace.”
A few minutes later, they were out in the street, a gay torchlit procession heading down Blackfriars Wynd towards Holyrood.
“My dear Margaret,” Mary began, “I hear gossip that you have been spending time with Monsieur Hubert. Are you and Paris becoming attached? I will be sorry to lose you, but it would be good to see you happy.”
“No, ma’am, ’tis nothing like that. He has been asking me about garden herbs. I believe he wants to learn about the properties of plants.”
Mary looked at Margaret from the corner of her eye. “But he is handsome, no? Mayhap a trifle short, but…”
“I can’t say I noticed, ma’am. Besides—” Then she stopped herself. She’d been about to admit her feelings for John.
“I knew it!” Mary clapped her hands. “You are not interested in Paris. You’re in love with the laird!”
“I—” Wrestling with her conscience, Margaret glanced behind them to see if they would be overheard. “I don’t know what to say, ma’am.” She couldn’t bring herself to lie about her feelings, on the Sabbath, of all days. But it was not safe for her to talk about John, not with Bothwell’s spy so close at hand.
“’Tis not like you to be lost for words. Have I guessed your secret?” Mary’s eyes widened. “Yes! You blush. I do believe I have.”
“Ma’am, please, Bastian is to be married in two weeks. We should concentrate on his nuptials. I do not wish to detract from his celebration.”
The queen was silent for a few strides. Then she took Margaret’s hand, and looked her in the eye. “Has Fincastle proposed to you?”
She must have read the answer in Margaret’s expression, because a broad smile lit her face, causing her cheeks to dimple. “He has! I am so happy for you, dear Margaret, the two of you make such a handsome couple. I have thought so since I saw you with him at the masque in Craigmillar.”
“But ma’am, we cannot… We cannot be married. It would not be fair to Bastian.”
Mary frowned. “Do I understand correctly? You don’t want to get married for fear of devaluing Bastian’s wedding?”
Taking a deep breath to calm her spinning brain, Margaret tried to work out what to say that would turn the queen from this topic of conversation. “Yes. T’would not be fair.”
Her mistress was quiet for a brief spell, then she clapped her hands again. “I have it! ’Tis no harder to organise two weddings than one. We will order double of everything, and you can be married the day after Bastian and Christy. We will keep it a secret from all but the priest until after they are wed.”
“The next day? But—”
“You are right. If there is wine, there will be sore heads.” Mary touched a finger to her lips. “Two days later, then. That will give the kitchens more time to prepare a second feast. You must tell Laird Fincastle, and I will alert the priest. Bastian will marry on the Sunday, and you will wed your sweetheart on the Tuesday. It will be a week of weddings, no?”
Margaret’s head reeled as they passed through the Netherbow Port and onto the Canongate. I am to be wed in two weeks! But how would that sit with the laird, and what would happen about the plot against the king?
It was almost midnight the following day when John finally spotted the little torchlit procession making its way down the hill towards him. He stayed hidden under the overhang of the Cowgate Port until they got close enough for him to be sure that the earl and Paris were not with them. Then he slipped out of the shadows and fell in alongside Margaret. “Good evening, my lady.”
Margaret gasped in surprise, and then her face brightened. “’Tis you!” The rest of her party were so engrossed in conversation, they seemed not to have noticed that another had joined their ranks.
“Yes. I am staying at Lord Morton’s house, as you may have heard, and so is Bothwell. So ’twill be difficult to see you, I’m afraid. But I managed to slip out undetected tonight.” Thinking that Fincastle was a man with similar proclivities to himself, Bothwell had not questioned his lie that he was away to visit a brothel.
“’Tis wonderful to see you, and I have so much to tell you. But first,” her brow knitted, and she checked that her companions were not listening before she continued, “is there anything you need me to tell the queen?”
“Not today. Word reached us that the queen will sleep over at the Provost’s House, so nothing can be done until that changes. ’Twould not be safe for her.”
“She is not there during the day.”
He shook his head. “Too many people would see what we did. So we wait for a better opportunity.”
“We?”
How had it suddenly become ‘we’? Rubbing the back of his neck, he grimaced. “’Tis hard, living in that house and trying to make them believe I am a part of it.”
She swallowed. “I understand. I am glad ’tis not me.”
“You said you had news for me?” It seemed politic to change the subject.
“Yes. I’m afraid, the queen has guessed about…” again, she made sure they were not overheard before carrying on, “our future plans.”
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, sensing that there was more to come.
“So she is planning for us to be married two days after Bastian, on the eleventh. She said it is as easy to organise two weddings as one. But I asked her to keep it secret. I said I didn’t want to detract from Bastian’s celebrations.”
Lifting a shoulder, he made a wry face. “What’s done is done. We will just have to pray that things have come to a conclusion with the lords and their plans by then.” He did a quick calculation. “We have two weeks.”
“Yes.” She glanced across at him. “Not long.”
They were approaching the palace now, and he was aware that they only had a minute or two before he would have to leave her. “I will come to you again like this,” he said hurriedly, “if I can. But if Paris or Bothwell are in your party I will not be able to speak.”
She nodded. “We are lucky. The queen asked for Paris to stay over at Blackfriars tonight.”
“And I am glad. It has lifted my spirits to see you, even though briefly.” He wanted so much to embrace her, but instead had to make do with a brief touch on her arm. “The lords have been invited to Bastian’s wedding party, so I shall see you there at the very least.”
“I shall look forward to it.” Her face glowed. “And to ours.”
Onlookers be damned, he thought, and quickly raised her hand to his lips. “I love you,” he whispered, and kissed her knuckles, before turning and disappearing into the shadows once more.
In two weeks, this hateful subterfuge would be over—one way or another—and their love would be concealed no longer. He could not wait.
Chapter 18
Sunday 9th February 1567
As Mary progressed out of the chapel after morning mass, her half-brother, the Earl of Moray, approached her, looking agitated.
“What ails you, my lord? You look like you sat on a hedgehog.”
“’Tis my wife, Your Grace. I have received word that she has lost the baby. I apologise, but I feel I must go to her.”
Mary’s shoulders sagged. “Of course you must! Poor Agnes. Please give the countess my best wishes, and tell her I shall say a rosary for the bairn.” Mary could not imagine what it must be like to miscarry a child, and she thanked God daily for bringing young James safely into the world. She would have been bereft without him.
Moray bent at the waist, his long, sharp nose looking like it would almost peck the ground. “Thank you, ma’am. I will away. My apologies for any privy council meetings I may miss.” Then he strode off towards the stables without a backward glance.
Doctor Nau was the next to approach her. He swept his hat off and bowed, his dark hair streaked with chestnut and glistening in the winter sunshine.
“Bonjour, Doctor. How are you this fine morning?”
“Bonjour, Your Grace. I am well, thank you.”
“Walk with me,” she commanded, pointing the way, “and tell me, how is the king today?”
“That is why I wanted to speak with you, ma’am. I am pleased to say that the treatment seems to have worked. Or perhaps the country air at Kirk o’ Field has been good for him. Whatever,” he raised his palm, “I can do no more for him at this point. He is recovered.”
Mary’s heart lightened and she almost skipped for a couple of steps. “Bien! Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Nau.” These last days and weeks with Darnley had been good. She had actually enjoyed her visits with him, even though they had initially started as a work of charity.
For his part, the disfigurements caused by his mercury treatment had caused the king to stay housebound, rather than carousing in the taverns and whorehouses of Edinburgh as had been his habit.
It had kept him sober, and made him a more genial companion. He had almost become the man she thought she had married; the dream she had painted in her mind of the tall, handsome lord who would stay by her side and support her as she ruled her kingdom.
And now he was well again! Would he stay by her side this time? There is only one way to know.
Beckoning at a page, she gave him a message to take to Kirk o’ Field. “Tell the king we will dine with him tonight, and then I shall attend Bastian’s wedding party. On the morrow, arrange for his bed and things to be transported back to the palace, and tell him I will look forward to his return. We can have luncheon together in my chamber.”
Tomorrow would start a new phase in her life.
Either the king would finally be with her, heart and soul, or, now healed, he would return to his old ways, and she would have to speak to Maitland about divorce and a dispensation from the pope.
But she was decided. She would have the husband she deserved, or she would have none. There was no other way.
Eyes gleaming, Bothwell slapped his cards on the table. “Supremus! I win.” Reaching across the table, he made to take the pot.
“I think not.” Darnley shook his head primly and fanned out his four cards for all to see. “Primero. I win.”
Before Bothwell could accuse the blackguard of cheating, Mary took a sip from her wine glass and smiled across the table at the king. “Well done, my husband, you have bested us all.”
In that moment, a fire burned in Bothwell’s chest, and he hated Darnley more than he ever had before. Just when he had wangled his way into the queen’s good graces and was in prime position to take her heart, that knave had to turn over a new leaf and start behaving like a choirboy.
But I will have my revenge. In his rage, Bothwell had almost forgotten the stack of barrels destined for the cellar of the Old Provost’s House.
The queen’s announcement that the king was recovered and would be returning to Holyrood tomorrow had given the conspirators an immutable deadline. Of course, as usual, the bastard Moray had found a convenient excuse to leave Edinburgh, disassociating himself from their plot, as was his wont.
But that left Bothwell in charge, and he meant to see it was done, and done properly. Moray would get his comeuppance later—when Bothwell was king.
It would have been easier, and they could have done the deed much sooner, if Mary had not taken to sleeping in the lower room at House o’ Field, to save her walking back in the dark. It had meant that they could not attack the king without also endangering the queen. But tonight was their chance.
Mary stood, and smoothed her skirts. “It is time, I must depart. Bastian and Christy await. We must go.” Briefly, she touched her husband’s fingers. “Henry, I shall see you tomorrow. Sleep well!”
Sleep well, indeed, my king. Bothwell almost rubbed his hands together. With Mary at the wedding of that coxcomb, Pages, the king would be alone, and he would be at their mercy.
Darnley’s valet, William Taylor, held the door open for them as they filed out of the king’s room and through the chamber beyond, where the servants waited. There was a scraping of chairs as they jumped to their feet and began gathering their things.
Bothwell signalled to Paris, who fell into step beside him. “Wait half an hour,” he whispered, “till they are snoring, then start moving the barrels. I will return with Fincastle to set the charge.”
It would not be long now.
The king would be gone, and the queen would be left alone in this world, in need of a strong man to protect her against her foes. And who had done that job countless times already? He smirked to himself.
With a swagger, Bothwell settled his hat on his head and followed the rest of the party to Holyrood. Not long now.
“Fincastle, there you are.”
The earl of Bothwell strode towards John, who was standing in the dining room off the great hall, eating a plate of cold meats from the array on the table by the wall.
“I have just come from the Rector’s house with the queen. The king is there. Alone.” Bothwell dipped his head to emphasise this last word. “Finally, we can make our move. I have left Paris in charge of moving the—ah—goods. But we will need you to come and set things up for us.”
John frowned. “Set things up?”
The earl glanced around them to be sure they were not overheard. “The fuse,” he whispered.
“Ah.” John nodded his head slowly. “Of course.” Thankful for the acting lessons he’d had from Bastian, he kept his face neutral. But his heart rate had increased, and he was finding it hard to get air into his lungs. The time was now, and he had not yet been able to warn the king. Or Margaret.
I will just have to find a way. Even if it meant he could be caught in the explosion, he would somehow evade Bothwell and do his duty to save Darnley from this foul plot. It was the least he could do, for one who was the God-given king of this land.
Bastian and Christy’s wedding party was in full flow, and Margaret gazed around the room, her eyes wide at the thought that this would be happening to her too, in just two days time. Hundreds of oil lamps and candelabra placed around the grand hall made it twinkle like some magical fairy grotto, lighting the faces of the guests as they ate and drank and laughed together.
Over in the corner, the musicians began to play a gavotte, and some intrepid partygoers formed themselves into a square, stretched out their arms and began to skip and jig in time with the lively melody. Margaret smiled to herself, remembering the time she’d danced with John at Stirling.
Then she frowned. Where was John?
He had been here not that long ago, although they had not been able to speak for fear of being spotted by Bothwell. Come to think on it—where was Bothwell? Circling the revellers on the outskirts of the room, Margaret scanned each face, searching for the lanky laird or the squat earl. But she found neither, and dread grew in her stomach. There was no sign of Paris, either.
“Anthony,” she addressed the queen’s page, who was distributing honey almonds and candied apples, “have you seen Lord Bothwell anywhere?”
“Not for a while, my lady. He were talking with that Highlander, the black-haired one. And then I think they went out.” He held out the tray. “Sweetmeat?”
All the warmth left Margaret’s body. She shook her head distractedly. “How long ago?”
“Oh,” he rolled his eyes heavenwards, thinking.
Margaret had to clasp her hands together to stop from shaking the boy’s teeth out of his head in an attempt to get an answer out of him more quickly.
“Mayhap twenty minutes?”
Using all her acting skills to keep her expression featureless, Margaret nodded. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth as if she’d just thought of something. “Oh!”
“What is it?”
“I just realised. I left the queen’s fur stole at the Old Provost’s Lodging. I must go and fetch it.”
“I’ll get it for you, my lady,” Anthony offered, “’twill be no bother.”
“No, no, I will fetch it.” She passed the back of her hand across her forehead. “The night air will do me good. You should enjoy the party.”
“If you are sure.” The page bowed, and then turned on his heel and disappeared into the throng of revellers.
Quickly, Margaret made for the door, pausing only to pick up a cloak. I must run, or ’twill be too late.
Chapter 19
John unrolled the last of the hemp rope, his nose twitching at the musty smell of it. “There,” he whispered, “that should be enough.” He stood up, stretching his back.
“Enough for us to be able to get away?” Bothwell frowned at him.
“Aye. The fuse should burn for a few minutes, giving us plenty of time to escape. I can light it, if you want?”
The earl shook his head. “I’ll get Paris to do it. You should go.”
“Very well. Tell him to make sure the cord is burning properly before he leaves. They will sometimes fizzle out if they haven’t caught properly.”
Bothwell put his hands on his hips and surveyed the barrels stacked in the vaulted basement. “You are sure this is enough to do the job?”
“More than enough. It will likely take out the houses either side as well, depending on how well they are built.” He hoped those houses were empty.
“As long as this one falls.” Bothwell jerked his chin, then lifted his lamp higher and started towards the stone steps that led out of the wine cellar. As he passed a wooden rack filled with green glass bottles, he grabbed one with his free hand. “Shame to waste it,” he said, tucking it under his arm.
When they got outside, the earl stopped abruptly, swearing under his breath.
“What?” John whispered.
“Paris. He should be on guard here.” With another muttered curse, Bothwell hurried away around the corner of the building, in search of his man.
John couldn’t believe his luck. Finally he was alone, and able to warn the king—before the fuse had even been set! With one last quick look behind him to make sure he was unseen, he tiptoed back into the house and hurried up the stair without waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Instead, he used the smooth wooden bannister to guide his way.
