Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean - Страница 63

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“Then bring me food. Bring me wine. I’ve a thirst that needs quenching.”

“Yes, master… yes, master….”

Paris hurried into the room where the others waited. Dandie thrust the goblet into his hands, but Paris was trembling so violently that some of the wine was spilled.

“For the love of God, you’ll betray us all!” hissed Dandie. “Here, Gabriel. You take it.”

Gabriel cried: “N-No… no. I dare not. I tell you he will know. He knows such things. He has special powers. That is why he has returned this night.”

The door was flung open and Bothwell himself stood on the threshold looking at his servants.

“What is this?” he demanded. “A late night session! Some conspiracy, eh? Or just a friendly feast? And not one woman to enliven the company. Is that wine you have there, Semple? Give it here, man. Did I not tell you I had a thirst?”

Gabriel trembled so much that the wine spilled on his hand, as it had on those of Paris. All the servants watched Gabriel.

“What ails you, Gabriel?” demanded the Earl. “You’re trembling like a virgin nun when the soldiers are about her. What is it, man? I say… what is it?” His great hand gripped Gabriel by the wrist and the wine spilled on the man’s doublet.

“’Tis… ’tis nothing, my lord.”

“’Tis nothing… and you shake like a leaf! You’re plotting something, man. Out with it. What is it? Out with it, I say.”

“’Twas nothing, my lord. ’Twas just that I spilled the wine—”

“Give me the goblet.” He took it, and as he did so he looked from it to the faces of his servants. Then slowly, he put his lips to the goblet, still watching them. Paris gave an audible gasp.

Bothwell sniffed the wine. “It has an odd smell,” he said. “I like it not. How dare you serve me such filthy stuff! How dare you, you varlets!” He threw the remaining liquid into the face of Gabriel, and the goblet at Dandie Pringle’s head. Dandie cried out with the pain as the goblet struck his head, and the Earl laughed.

“Now, you rogues,” he cried, “bring me good food and good drink. And do not dare serve such stuff to me again. If you do, you’ll wish you had never been born, every man of you. I’ll see that you’re boiled in cauldrons over slow fires. I’ll have you cut into collops. I’ll make you wish you had never been born to serve another instead of me. Remember it. And Semple … go and wake that kitchen girl and bid her bring me food. You know the one—plump, ripe Jeanne—and keep your lecherous hands off her; you understand? Go and wake her and bring her to me.”

Gabriel was glad to escape and, during his absence, Bothwell remained eying the others who stood wretchedly before him.

He was no ordinary man, and they knew it. He had uncovered their treachery. That in itself was bad enough; but they understood they had betrayed themselves by their clumsy behavior. It was not that they lacked the courage to carry out this murderous plan, nor that their master had discovered their treachery, which was so alarming; it was his complete indifference to their power to harm him. They were in no doubt that he had witchcraft to aid him, and they knew that they would never dare make an attempt on his life again.

Gabriel returned with the girl from the kitchens. She was young and comely, and Bothwell’s eyes lit up as they rested on her.

“I am returned hungry, girl,” he said. “Bring me food and drink … at once. Let no hands touch it but yours. You understand, my girl?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, hurry and bring plenty, for my hunger is great. Bring it yourself. And hurry … I am waiting for you.”

Then he turned and left them—four guilty men and an excited and expectant girl.

IT WAS FEBRUARY, and that winter was bleak. Even in the far south the weather had been rigorous. The Thames had been so frozen that people could walk across it in safety. The bitter wind buffeted the staunch walls of Wemyss Castle on the Firth of Forth whither the Queen had come to stay with her brother, the Earl of Moray.

The Queen was growing more and more uneasy in her brothers company. She knew that he was against her marriage, either with Don Carlos or one of the French Princes, because neither marriage would serve his plans. He was all for her marrying an Englishman; he was working for Elizabeth and the Protestant Faith.

He had told her that a marriage with Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, would be desirable. If Mary married Leicester, he pointed out, the Queen of England would declare Mary and her heirs successors to the English crown.

Did he not see that the idea was ridiculous? Elizabeth’s cast-off lover! It was meant to be an insult. Whom else did Elizabeth favor? Mad Arran? Robert Dudley’s brother, the Earl of Warwick? Mary smiled to remember the English Queen’s comments on Warwick. He was not, of course, as handsome as his incomparable brother, declared Elizabeth, but he was by no means ugly. Nor was he ungraceful. It was only when compared with Robert that he might seem so. If one did not set him side by side with Robert, one would find him a husband worthy of a great princess. Clearly Elizabeth meant to be insulting.

There was one other who was a possible husband. That was Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley; but Elizabeth, being against the match, would not let him come to Scotland. Yet Lord Lennox, Darnley’s father, who was in Scotland, continually hoped for a meeting between his handsome son and the Queen; so did Darnley’s mother, Lady Lennox, who was in England and at the mercy of Elizabeth.

Mary herself was beginning to wish for the meeting, and she was excited when Lord Lennox sent a message to her.

“My son, Lord Darnley,” ran the message,

has arrived in Scotland. He had the greatest difficulty in leaving England. The Queen however at last gave her consent, though grudgingly, and my son left at once, fearing to be detained once more before he could make his escape. It seems that no sooner had the Queen given her consent than she regretted it and sought means of detaining him, but my son, greatly desiring to see Your Majesty, had already slipped across the Border. He greatly desires to pay his loyal homage to his gracious Queen, and we shall follow this messenger with all speed to wait upon Your Majesty.

Mary smiled. So at last she would see this young man of whom there had been so much talk. She vaguely remembered seeing him at the Court of France, but he had been a boy of fifteen then. Now he was nineteen—a man.

She called to her women.

“Come! What shall I wear? What is most becoming? It is a long time since my Lord Darnley and I met. I would not wish him to think that time had wrought havoc with my looks.”

“Madam,” all four Marys assured her, “time has but enhanced your beauty.”

And, looking into the Venetian mirror brought from Fontainebleau, she believed they were right.

MEANWHILE Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, was riding with his father at the head of his retinue on the way to Wemyss Castle.

He was very tall and slim. His face was smooth, for he wore no beard, and because his complexion was so fair this made him seem younger than he really was. His prominent eyes were deep blue in color, his hair golden, but his chin was weak and his mouth loose. He was so young that the excesses in which he delighted to indulge had scarcely made any mark on his face.

His father was talking to him with great seriousness as they rode along.

“My son, you must act with care. This is the most important moment of your life. It is imperative that you find favor with the Queen. You must curb your drinking habits; and, whilst you are at Court, do not indulge in too much lechery—covertly or otherwise. Make sure that you win the friendship of David Rizzio.”

“That low-born scribe!” said Darnley distastefully.

“Low-born scribe he may be. But what he wills, the Queen does”

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