The Galliard (66 page)

They made a strange contrast even in that wan and misty light, the dark scarred face confronting with furious defiance the other’s stern calm. Gordon said no more than, ‘You cannot do this thing.’

‘Christ’s blood, man, but I love her. I’ve waited for her.’

Even then Gordon did not speak of his own love for her. He said, ‘She is a great Queen, and are you to use her as if she were the spoil of a Border foray?’

Bothwell drew in his breath sharply, it sounded like exultation. Gordon’s hand flew to his sword, but in the same instant he dropped it, turned and walked away. Bothwell stared after that lonely figure; for the first time in his life he knew what it was to feel dismay. It could not be that Gordon had turned against him.

He saw him walk through the huge gateway, and then followed him, into the central courtyard of the Castle. A cold fear had fallen on him that Gordon had already gone inside the Castle, but no, he was standing by the fountain, where the figure of the mermaid threw a fantastic shadow on the glimmering dew.

He went up to him and said, ‘What will you do? Will you now warn her against me? It will make no odds, I tell you – except to you and me. Are you going to be my enemy?’

Gordon was so still that he seemed not to have heard. His pale forehead stood up like a rock in the light of the moon; in the hollows carved beneath it his strange light eyes looked through the other, out beyond him at something he had seen long before, when he had watched Bothwell in the Dance Royal of the Galliard with Mary in the torch-lit hall of Crichton – and had turned his head away.

At last he said, ‘No, I’ll not meddle with that which I have seen. You must dree your own weird, and I wish it may come to good. But that cannot be.’

‘Good or ill, I must do it. I’ve waited long enough. I can wait no longer.’

‘Then go your way and I’ll not help you or gainsay you. But this I tell you, that if you take her and do not win her to you, then I will not rest till I have your life.’

He went into the Castle. Bothwell rode away. The courtyard was left empty in the moonlight except for the stone mermaid that would stay there for centuries after the two friends were dead, and the woman they both loved.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Next day she started late in the afternoon with her cortège of thirty men. One had to be a hard rider to keep up with the Queen. She drew in her horse and waited for the breathless Lethington. Edinburgh was only a few miles off among the hills that lay chequered with flying shadows in the stormy evening sunshine. They were now looking down on the river Almond, which they would have to cross either by the ferry or bridge – ‘but I beg Your Grace’s filial piety won’t go so far downstream as the Auld Brig of Cramond, for then we’ll all have to wait while Jock Howison’s Jock’s Jock fetches a jug and basin and towel for you to wash your hands’.

Will he see they’re as dirty as that? And what have they to do with my filial piety?’

‘Only that your royal father was once set on by six ruffians at that bridge when he was riding alone in rough clothes. And the old Jock Howison of that day, who was cutting his oats near by, came to the unknown traveller’s aid with his sickle, and so won a fair estate – and with it the privilege for him and his heirs of bringing wherewithal to wash the hands of every Sovereign of Scotland who crossed the Brig of Cramond ever after, in memory of your father who washed his bloody hands there after the fight.’

‘And did old Jock Howison really not know he was the King?’

‘Not till he came to the Palace next day as summoned, and seeing his Master Redhead of the fight there, said, “Why, the King must be either you or I, since we’re the only two with our hats on.”’

Mary laughed with pleasure. ‘And that only in my father’s time! It sounds like the days of romance. What a pity they’re at an end!’

‘One can never be sure of that,’ said Lethington.

They moved forward towards the new bridge, and as they crossed it they saw the low ground below the hills dark with horsemen. Before she had time even to look back to where Gordon rode with young James Borthwick, some of them had already ridden up to her. At the head of them was Bothwell, who took her bridle and turned her horse’s head.

‘I’ve been watching the water for you since morning,’ he said. ‘You cannot go on to Edinburgh with your handful of men. The Lennox men are out. I have over eight hundred here who’ll bring you safe to Dunbar.’

So he had come back, and once again to the rescue. Relief and gratitude filled her eyes with tears; was there any man in the world so magnanimous? She tried to stammer out her thanks, but never had it been so hard to speak them. He did not want to listen to her; his face was like a mask. He made his men fall in behind her and ordered them forward; her little band, now closely surrounded by his men, were fiercely arguing and disputing. James Borthwick succeeded in thrusting his horse forward and calling to the Queen to know if it were her pleasure that they should all ride to Dunbar.

‘Indeed yes, since it’s my Lord Bothwell’s advice,’ she called back, but then turned to Bothwell and suggested that young Borthwick should, instead of accompanying them, ride straight to Edinburgh to warn the authorities of the rising, and call the citizens to arms. He did not seem to welcome the suggestion, though it was the obvious thing to do, but he did not gainsay it, and Borthwick started off. Captain Blackadder spoke a few words to him, low, before he rode away, and then the whole little army swung into the route for Dunbar, with Mary, Bothwell and Blackadder at the head of it, and far away, near the end of the long line of eight hundred horsemen, Lethington and Gordon and her thirty soldiers, with Bothwell’s men guarding the rear.

She was full of eager questions, to which Bothwell replied somewhat surlily; but that naturally did not surprise her after her
dismissal of him at their last meeting. When had he heard of the rising? How was it he had been able to come so quickly to her aid? Where had he and his men been last night? He told her, at his house of Calder close by here.

‘But why Calder? That was no use for a raid into Liddesdale.’

‘You’re in the right of it, Madam. But it turned out very handy for watching your route from Linlithgow!’ He had some right to that sardonic tone, she thought, in echo from her last night’s repentance. She was in danger, so he came and rescued her, as he had done again and agan. She began again tentatively to speak her thanks, but he cut her short with amazing rudeness, saying that her thanks were the last thing he wanted of her. She had thought she hated him; now she wondered if she had made him hate her.

But for all his scowling face beside her, she could not quite believe it; he
must
feel, as she did, how natural it was for them to be riding off together on another adventure. And the evening was so lovely; as they passed Edinburgh Castle, perched up on its rock, now just within a mile of them, it looked like a fairy city that had floated down from the flaming sunset clouds. The Common Bell clanging within the city, summoning her loyal citizens to arms in her defence, chimed absurdly with the cuckoos shouting near her. The very birds of spring had joined in this adventure and were singing in concert with her heart.

A roar, a puff of smoke, another and then another came from that fairy city on the great rock. The guns of Edinburgh Castle had opened fire on them.

They hit no one; it would be luck if cannon nearly a mile off managed to hit a moving target. And the target was quickly moving out of range. As they galloped past the city they looked back and saw the Town Bands hurrying out through the city gates after them, but as these were on foot they would have no chance to catch up with the horsemen.

Bothwell rode apart a little way with Captain Blackadder.

‘What the devil did you say to young Borthwick?’

‘Why, that all was being done with the Queen’s consent – but it’s plain he doesn’t believe it, since he’s got them to attack us.’

‘Who gave you leave to speak that lie of the Queen’s consent?’

The muttered tone was so enraged that Blackadder edged his horse away. He had only thought to ease matters, ‘and anyway,’ he argued, ‘if she’s not yet given her consent, she’ll soon have to.’

The two men rode on together, still talking in low voices. Mary had nothing but the moss-troopers now close round her, and no chance to ask any explanation of the extraordinary conduct of her loyal citizens of Edinburgh. The sky darkened as the clouds marched across it, trailing their long grey skirts over the hills, and now a spurt of rain fell, stinging her face. The wind had turned colder; it would be a long ride to Dunbar. Why did Bothwell not come back to her? Why did he leave her so long alone, and why had he separated her by the whole length of his column from Gordon and Lethington? Was he deliberately preventing them from coming up to her?

Fear grew – but not of the citizens of Edinburgh. They had been warned of a rising; but it was on Bothwell and his troops that they had fired. What reason had they to take him for the rebel? Was he – could he – after all his loyal service – become a rebel? It was not possible. But she had thought so many and such violently contradictory things of him in the last three days that now almost anything seemed possible. Were his enemies right about him after all, and Sir Thomas Wyatt all wrong?

Night came down on her, but not at the exquisite lingering pace of yesterday, the sun setting, the moon rising as if to slow music in the formal measure of some gracious pavan of the skies. Now it was driven in scurrying gusts of wind and rain, and the moon went in and out among the clouds like a hunted thing. ‘Thou’rt safe if thou canst reach Dunbar.’
Would
she be safe at Dunbar?

At last, far off, she heard the roaring of the sea.

It was midnight when they reached Dunbar. The soldiers held up torches on either side of the drawbridge, her horse’s hoofs clattered hollowly over it, and those roaring waves, now very near, came thundering and crashing on the rocks below the Castle. She had none of her women with her, but one of the garrison’s wives took her upstairs to a room that had been hastily furnished as a
bedroom for her, put out her things and helped her out of her wet riding-dress into a loose gown. Some hot broth and cold chicken, bread and wine, were laid out on a little table.

She was very tired, but could not go to bed until Bothwell, and Gordon and Lethington too, came and told her what was happening. She told the woman to let them know she was expecting them; to which however she only shook her head, and said she could not say what was the Lord’s will.

It was an uncomfortable reminder that Bothwell’s power was absolute in his own fortresses, where the Sovereign herself was regarded only as the Queen of Fife and Lothian. Dunbar was Hepburn to the very bone of its blood-red rock; it was known as Lord Patrick’s Stronghold ever since Bothwell’s great-great-great-grandfather had defended it with the widowed Queen of James I against his subjects. She had died here after a few weeks, the chronicle did not say how or why – nor if Lord Patrick had been her lover, though she remembered Bothwell telling her something of the sort years ago – yes, at breakfast at Crichton, the morning after his sister’s wedding – and asking her with an impudent cock of his eyebrow how had she slept in Queen Joan’s and Lord Patrick’s bed!

How young they had all been then! He had been so found of Johnnie, and surely of herself too in his odd mocking way. He could not turn against her now. But why did he not come?

Why did none of them come? She looked round her at the massive stone walls; the terrifying question flashed into her mind: Did Gordon and Lethington not come because they were his prisoners? Was she herself his prisoner? Suddenly she remembered his coming towards her down the long gallery at Holyrood, coming in answer to her call for aid. She had seen then that he had changed; thought something that she had not thought of since – that those who called the devil to their aid had sooner or later to pay a price.

She shook herself: she would not get worked up by these foolish fancies; this was a dismal flight compared with her last to this place, but that was all. She drank her broth, warming her feet by the fire.

She heard a man’s tread on the stone stair; there came a knock on the door, and Bothwell stood inside the room, stood still by the door, not advancing to her, but staring, almost as if he had not expected to see her there. A stranger had entered the room.

She tried to shut out her fear; she exclaimed, ‘What does it all mean? Have you had fresh news? But this is the strongest of your fortresses.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and still stood there by the door: then, slowly, as though talking to himself rather than her, ‘I have loved you too long, I think, and now I’ve nothing left to say of it, I’ve said it so often in my mind. I’ve been dazed with love of you and could not think clearly. You’ve stood between me and sleep – the only woman who ever did that – when absent.’

She scarcely heard his words, only that twisted laugh at the end of them. Her voice came sharp and angry with the fear she tried to control. ‘Why aren’t Gordon and Lethington with you? Why have you brought me here? You said an enemy, but there’s been no sign of one – unless it’s yourself!’

‘I’ve never been your enemy. Don’t make me so now. You know I love you.’

‘What use to talk of love—’

‘None! You don’t even listen.’

‘Not to a rebel – if you are that.’

Their voices clashed like swords. His eyes were narrowed to slits of angry light. He brushed his hand across them and still did not move from the door; he said, ‘I’ve been blind mad for you. I don’t want to be now. I blundered at Seton and spoilt it all. Now I’ve had to do this.’

She gave a gasping cry, ‘Then this is all a trick! You pretended a rising in order to carry me off yourself –
you
– whom I thought my most loyal servant!’

‘Is it disloyal to love you – crave you – as you’ve shown you do me, for all you’ve gone back on it! There’s been too much of this havering.’

And suddenly he was across the room and had caught her up, kissing her, not roughly as at Seton, but with a bewildering intensity
that made her forget everything but that she was in his arms, as she had longed to be last night. But tonight she was his prisoner. That came back into her drowning consciousness, and with it a furious and desperate pride. She would never be a willing captive. She struck out at his face and tore herself away and shrieked for help. He let her go, and waited that she might hear the echo of her voice die away and none answer.