A Love Concealed, page 13
But that proved to be a fateful mistake.
At the turning of the stair, his foot caught on something—he never saw what—and he tumbled forward, striking his head on the opposite rail. That was the last thing he knew.
The timbered door of the Old Provost’s House creaked eerily as Margaret pushed it open. She wanted to shush it to be quiet, but instead she crept in, and hurried towards the stairs. The air inside the house was still, but it had an acrid, sulphurous tang to it that she didn’t remember from earlier.
She was part-way up the flight when the front door closed with a thud, a key rattled in the lock, and the bolt engaged. Her eyes widened. I am locked in! Then she remembered that there were windows in the king’s room, and her pulse slowed a little.
With the door closed it was even gloomier inside, and Margaret cursed herself for not thinking to take a candle—but then, would a candle have been the safest thing in a house that was filled with gunpowder? Mayhap not.
At the turn of the stair, she almost tripped over something, then gasped out loud when she realised what it was. John! Fingers shaking, she pushed at his shoulder to roll him onto his back, and almost sang with joy when the movement caused him to puff out a breath.
Her heart began to beat once more, and she examined him quickly, using her hands, since her eyes could see little. She was reassured to feel no stickiness of blood, but he seemed to be in a stupor. “John,” she whispered urgently, shaking him, “wake up!”
Groggily, he muttered at her. “Margaret. Why—”
“There’s no time for that. We need to escape, and tell the king. Get up!”
Heaving at his elbow, she attempted to pull him upright, but it was like a mouse trying to move a mountain. It must have been a full minute before he was on his feet and they were headed towards the royal chamber. “What happened to you? Did someone knock you out?”
He looked sheepish. “I fell. Couldn’t see where I was going.”
Margaret held him tighter. It felt so good to be with him again, she had missed him so… But she could not think on that now, for they were passing through the outer chamber and about to reach the king. She stopped abruptly. “Before we wake him, I assume the gunpowder is here and they plan to blow it tonight?”
“Aye, in the cellar,” the laird whispered back. “Could you no’ smell it? They were about to light the slow fuse when I slipped away and came to warn the king.” He swayed on his feet, looking like a feather would blow him over.
Grabbing John’s elbow to steady him, Margaret knocked quickly on the king’s door, then pushed it open, expecting to find him sleeping in the lilac four-poster.
Instead they were met by the sight of the king and his valet du chambre, William Taylor, both wearing nothing but their nightshirts. They had been standing close together at the end of the bed, but sprung apart as soon as Margaret and John entered the room. “Wh—what is the meaning of this intrusion?” the king blustered, pulling at his rumpled chemise.
“There is a plot against you, sire,” Margaret explained quickly, averting her eyes from his bare legs, “they have filled the basement with gunpowder and lit the fuse. We need to escape!”
Darnley stepped towards the door. “Come, William, let us go.”
“No, they have locked us in.” Margaret pointed at the window. “We need to escape this way.”
Quickly, she and the valet knotted bedsheets together while Darnley and the laird wrestled with the window. John was little use, still wobbly on his feet, but fortunately the king seemed to know what to do.
They tied the makeshift rope to the nearest corner post of the bed, and dropped the end out of the window. William leaned out. “’Tis long enough, it reaches the garden.”
“Good.” Darnley pushed him aside. “I will go first.” Without further ado, he clambered onto the stone windowsill and shimmied down to the ground.
Cold night air blew in through the open window, bringing with it the smell of a midden heap from somewhere nearby, and the unearthly screech of an owl.
John looked at Margaret, in her voluminous dress, then he frowned at William. “She cannot climb, wearing that.”
“Here.” William grabbed the queen’s purple chair. “She can sit in that and we can lower her down.”
In a trice, they had fashioned some sort of cradle, fastened her into it, and somehow wrestled the contraption over the windowsill.
As she spun on the end of the rope with her eyes closed and her heart in her throat, Margaret thought that this was quite the most frightening thing she’d ever done—even worse than Ember bolting and dumping her in Saint Margaret’s Loch.
Half a lifetime later, she landed on the grass with a thump, sucked air into her paralysed lungs, and sent up a silent prayer of thanks.
Darnley was there—surprisingly he had not fled—to help her undo the knots, and then they tossed the chair to the side to allow John to descend.
There were a couple of moments when he lost his grip and Margaret thought that he was about to fall, but he finally made it down and almost fell into her arms.
Pushing them out of the way, the king grasped the end of the rope, gazing anxiously up at his servant. “Quickly, William.”
Seeing that the king would obviously not leave until his valet was safe, Margaret led John towards the garden gate, calling back over her shoulder, “This way sire, as soon as you can.”
It was not a large garden, more a patch of grass, and it backed onto a dirt track that ran down to the city walls beyond. Thankfully, it was hidden from the quadrangle the house fronted onto, so the earl and his men should not see their escape.
The latch on the gate was stiff, and, in her haste, Margaret cut her thumb opening it. But, seconds later, they were in the lane outside the garden wall, and she felt a little safer. Glancing at the laird, whose pale face and shallow breathing was concerning her, she asked, “Why has the gunpowder not gone off yet?”
“Slow fuse,” he said succinctly, “hard to predict. But be careful of what you wish for. There are enough barrels to blow up half the street. We need to get away.”
With a nod, she put her arm around his waist and they stumbled further up the lane, barely able to see because there was no moon in the sky. Again, Margaret cursed herself for not bringing a candle.
Behind them, she heard the gate creak, and spotted the white shirts of the king and his valet, looking like ghosts through the gloom. But, instead of following their rescuers up the track, they turned into a garden on the opposite side, perhaps thinking that was the best way to distance themselves from the coming blast.
Then the sound of pounding feet—booted feet—reached Margaret’s ears over the sound of her rasping breaths. Hastily, John pulled her into the recess of a nearby gate, putting a hand over her mouth. “Quiet,” he hissed in her ear, “they may be Bothwell’s men.”
She nodded, and he uncovered her mouth, but still held her close. Even in this dangerous situation, she somehow felt safe in his arms, as if no harm could ever come to her when she was with him. Feeling for his hand, she gave it a quick squeeze.
At that moment, triumphant shout echoed down the lane. “In here!” A gate creaked, heavy footsteps crunched, and Margaret could almost smell the fear wafting towards them on the night air as a voice that sounded like Darnley screamed, “You cannot do—” But whatever he meant to say was silenced, and Margaret heard no more because suddenly the night sky was rent by the most tremendous explosion she had ever heard, louder even than the fireworks at Stirling.
The laird pushed her against the rough wood of the gate, leaning over her to protect her from the debris that rained down on them from the ruins of the Provost’s House.
As soon as the worst of the shrapnel and flying stones had stopped, John grabbed her hand and pulled her further up the lane. “We need to get away, before they blame us,” he shouted.
“Or before Bothwell’s men catch us,” she mouthed back.
He nodded. “That too.”
Ears ringing from the aftermath of the blast, and eyes stinging from the dust that hung in the air and peppered their clothes, making them look like vagabonds, they hurried away from the scene. And then Margaret pulled at John’s arm, making him stop. “What about the king?” she said anxiously, peering behind them as if she could see through the garden walls. “We should help him.” She began to drag him back the way they’d come.
John’s mouth set in a line, and he dug in his heels. “I fear he is beyond help now, if that was indeed Bothwell’s men. They will have smothered him, most like, to make it look like he was killed in the explosion. And I have no weapon to fight them.” He gestured at his empty hip, where a sword would normally hang.
“But…” Then Margaret’s eyes filled with tears, as she realised the truth of his words.
“We tried to save him, we did the best we—” Then he grabbed her hand and hissed at her, “Limp!” just as a gaggle of goodwives rounded the corner, their eyes wide and their mouths wider.
“Oh my!” said the nearest woman, pulling her apron up over her face as if to hide the scene before her. “The Provost’s house—’tis gone!”
“There’s nothing but rubble,” said another, who had but two teeth in her whole head. “How can that have happened?”
“Sire,” the third addressed the laird, her grey hair covered by a mop cap and her face creased with concern, “are you injured?”
“Aye,” said John, hobbling theatrically, “and my lady also.”
Margaret took her cue, and dragged a foot as if it pained her.
“We were out—ah, taking the night air, when there was the most almighty bang. Did you hear it?” he added unnecessarily, for that was surely what had alerted the women.
“Oh yes, woke me right up it did, and I came straight out to see what happened,” said the first lady, smoothing her apron back into place.
Her companion stood on tiptoe to peer over John’s shoulder. “Is there anyone else hurt? Who was in the house?”
“I don’t know—” John started to say, but then he was interrupted by the first woman.
“Was that not where the king was staying? Oh my!” The apron covered her face again, and she started to howl.
“We should go see, Elsie,” one of her companions pulled at her arm, “mayhap he needs rescuing. Stop that noise and come wi’ me.”
“I must get my lady to a doctor,” John spoke to their retreating backs, “but I will return to help as soon as I’m able.”
“You will?” Margaret asked. “I thought we were escaping.”
“They don’t know that. Oh!” He spun her round to face back the way they’d come, as more footsteps echoed down the lane, and a crowd of townsfolk came up behind them, quickly overtaking them.
Margaret pulled him into the nearest garden, checked that they were not overlooked, then took out her handkerchief and began dusting the grime from her gown. “We cannot go back into town looking like this. Everyone will know where we came from.”
“You are right,” John said, leaning over and tousling his hair to dislodge the dirt. “And if any of Bothwell’s men see us, they will know what we did.”
Two minutes later, they were almost presentable, and mingling with the crowds who’d gathered to view the site of the explosion.
As the women had said, the Old Provost’s House had been razed by the blast, and only a smoking pile of stones remained to show where it had been. The sound of wailing came from the garden opposite, which seemed to confirm John’s guess about the king’s fate.
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears again. “I must tell the queen. She will be beside herself.”
John gripped her hand tighter. “You cannot tell her it was the earl. He will be sure to blame me if anyone challenges him.”
“Of course. Because you provided the—”
He raised a finger to his lips. “Say it not, lest we are overheard. We must keep this to ourselves.”
Margaret jerked her chin back. “Forever?” She could not imagine keeping such a thing from her mistress.
The laird’s face was grim. “Aye.” A second passed, and then a smile crinkled his eyes. “But we will be married soon, and then you will be in Perthshire with me, and away from all this madness.” He gestured at the gawping crowd around them. “We should be safe there.”
“Forever,” she said again, tasting the word on her lips.
Suddenly the terrible secret seemed less of a burden to bear. She had this wonderful man to share her life with, who would keep her free from harm, and love her always, to the ends of the earth.
It would be a new life, and it would be a better life, she was sure of it. She would be with her laird, and everything would be fine.
Forever.
Epilogue
Tuesday 11th February 1567
Mary wiped a tear from her eye as John and Margaret said their vows, staring at each other like nobody else existed.
They made such an attractive couple, it was like they had been created for one another, and Mary congratulated herself for pushing them together.
The bride wore a black silk dress made in the Spanish fashion, given to her by Mary for her wedding. Against the dark gown, Margaret’s flame-red hair was a stunning contrast, and her milky skin glowed lustrously in the candlelight. The laird could hardly take his eyes off her.
The groom was also looking very handsome, with his broad shoulders covered in a brocade and velvet doublet and his black hair curling around his neck. He had the high cheekbones of a Highlander, and a rich voice that could be heard clearly throughout the nave.
They will make beautiful babies, Mary thought, and with that her mind turned to her own son, and the blessing that had recently been performed for them.
With growing certainty, she felt that God, in His goodness, had released her from a marriage that was going nowhere. She had trusted Him, and asked for His help, and He had given it.
She knew that she ought to be sad about her husband’s death, and if she was truthful she was somewhat stunned and upset. But it was the thought that someone would hate Darnley enough to murder him that bothered her. Who would dare do such a thing to the king? It was unthinkable.
Clasping her hands, she let out a sigh. At least she could be thankful that the explosion would have killed the king—and his valet—instantly, and they wouldn’t have suffered.
That was the other thing that dulled her sorrow. Despite the change of heart he’d professed to have since returning to Edinburgh, it appeared the king had not changed his profligate ways after all. Had he not been found with his valet, and both of them almost naked? And such a dalliance might explain why he didn’t insist on accompanying his wife to Bastian’s party.
At the altar, the priest gave his final blessing, and then the small congregation stood to watch the newlyweds process out, their first act as a married couple.
Beside her, the earl of Bothwell puffed out his chest and lifted his chin, a slow grin spreading across his face. It seemed as if he, too, had been touched by the scene.
“I love weddings,” she murmured.
He turned towards her, his eyes hooded. “Me too, my queen.”
Somehow, she had the feeling there was more to his words than there appeared to be. But she found it hard to read the man, and she quickly dismissed the thought as Lady Carwood—or Lady Fincastle, as she would be now—stopped in front of the queen and dropped a curtsey. The laird, not to be outdone, gave a deep bow.
“Congratulations to you both!” Mary said. “May you be very happy together.”
Margaret beamed at her. “Thank you ma’am. For all you have done. And for my lovely gown.” She smoothed the skirts of the ornately embroidered dress.
“’Tis no less than you deserve for your years of faithful service. You were always my favourite lady, and I will miss you greatly. But I hope that you will have very many blessed years of marriage with your laird.”
“As do we, ma’am.” Margaret looked up at her husband, her eyes shining, and he lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “As do we.”
THE END
A Note on the History
Of all the Mary’s Ladies books, this story was the most difficult to write. I think that was because our hero and heroine, John and Margaret, were real people who did indeed marry just two days after Darnley’s death (and two days after the nuptials of Bastian Pages and Christy Hogg).
The previous two books were set largely in Jedburgh, and I was desperate to move us on to Edinburgh, where Bothwell, Maitland and some other lords entered into the ‘Craigmillar Bond’ to kill the king.
But having John and Margaret meet at Craigmillar, at the beginning of December, and knowing they were married at the beginning of February, I had to make them fall in love and decide to get married in very short order.
In those days it was common for engagements to be short, but would a man-hating woman fall for a Highland laird that quickly, even with the queen playing matchmaker? I hope you feel I succeeded in making that part of the story believable!
True history
Because of the close proximity of John and Margaret’s wedding with that of Bastian and Christy, some historians have have confused the events, and have Bastian marrying Margaret. But there is written evidence that in later years he and his wife Christy were still in Mary’s service.
I also found papers mentioning Margaret and John Stewart of Tulliepowries, and how they sold her half of Carwood House to her sister Janet and Janet’s husband John Fleming of Persellands.
At the discovery of that text, I was rather sad, and almost had to re-write most of my first chapters. What made me sad was that John’s signature was made by another hand—so he obviously couldn’t write, and presumably couldn’t read masque scripts either.
