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HE CAME INTO her presence, arrogant as ever; and she was conscious of his veiled insolence.
“My lord Bothwell, you have been guilty of an outrage. You have broken into the house of peaceful citizens and caused much distress. I know that you were not alone. You had two companions. One is a guest in this kingdom—my own guest; the other is a young and impressionable boy. Therefore I hold you responsible for this disturbance.”
“Would you not cast a little blame on the Hamiltons, Madam?”
“From what I hear the trouble started when you forced an entry into a house in St. Mary’s Wynd.”
“The trouble started long before that, Madam. If you wish for an account of the scores I have to settle with Arran, I shall be pleased to give it.”
Mary waved her hand impatiently. “Please … I beg of you… tell me no more. I am tired of your perpetual bickering. You are dismissed the Court. Go back to the Border. Go anywhere, and if you are not soon gone I shall be forced to make your punishment more drastic.”
“Madam,” began Bothwell, “I appeal to your sense of justice. If you feel I have done aught to deserve blame, then must you cast some blame on Arran. Let me meet him in single combat and settle our affairs thus.”
“No, my lord,” she said sternly, “there shall be no more bloodshed if I can prevent it.”
She looked up into his face helplessly. Her glance clearly said: What can I do? How can I punish Arran with his father, Châtelherault, and the whole Hamilton clan behind him—to say nothing of his supporter John Knox? Go away. If you must fight, fight the English on the Border. I want Scotland left in peace.
“Leave the Court,” she said. “Go at once.” She smiled suddenly. “You will have many preparations to make for your sisters wedding.”
His smile answered hers.
He would retire from Court; he would proceed with his preparations for his sisters wedding; and when the Queen’s brother became his brother-in-law, he would be better fitted to pit himself against Lord James and the whole Hamilton clan.
“My sister,” he said, “will be a sad woman if Your Majesty does not honor us at Crichton with your presence.”
The Queen was still smiling. So he was going. He was not going to plunge into one of those Knox-like arguments which distressed her. “Of a certainty I shall wish to be present at my brother’s wedding,” she told him.
LESS THAN TWO weeks later Mary set out for Crichton Castle, the chief seat of the Hepburn family.
John Knox thundered against the marriage of these wicked people who disgusted virtuous Scotsmen with their fornications and lecherous lives. This baseborn brother of the whore of Babylon, he declared, was known to be a whoremonger; and what of the woman he was marrying? “A sufficient woman for such a man!”
Knox was left in Edinburgh reviving old scandals.
“Janet Hepburn, the bride-to-be!” he cried. “To how many has she been handfast, I should like to know—or rather I should shudder to know—before she prepares herself to enter into this most unholy matrimony with the sanction of the Queen?”
Mary was glad to put many miles between herself and the ranting preacher. She was glad to enter the old castle whose unscalable walls had been built to resist the ruffian raiders from across the Border. Sternly it faced the Cheviots and the Tyne—the Hepburns’ challenge to marauding Englishmen.
Here she dwelt as the guest of Lord Bothwell. She liked the wild outspoken girl who was as bold as her brother, and was not surprised that John wished to marry her.
Lord James, who accompanied her, was more dour than ever. He did not approve of this alliance with the Hepburns. The girl was wild, he complained to Mary. John was too young to be saddled with such a wife. There were nobles of higher standing who would have been delighted with the honor of marrying a Stuart.
She refused to listen to his gloomy prophecies. Here was an occasion for merriment—a wedding, and the wedding of her own brother at that. Lord Bothwell was making a great entertainment for her and she was determined to enjoy it.
“James,” she coaxed, “now that Robert and John are married, you must be the next.”
James listened soberly. He had been thinking for a long time of marriage with the Lady Agnes Keith, who was the daughter of the Earl Marischal. Marry he would, but his marriage would in no way resemble this one between Janet Hepburn and his brother John. For all he knew, John had been caught by the woman at one of the handfast ceremonies where young men and women met round a bonfire and went off to copulate in the woods. Lord James had no desire for such questionable pleasures. When he married Lady Agnes it would be because he had made up his mind that such a match would be advantageous. As yet he was hesitant.
Mary was laughing at him. “Yes, James,” she said, “I shall insist. Your marriage shall be the next. You ca
Lord James pressed her hand in a brotherly, affectionate way. It was impossible not to be fond of her. She was so charming and so ready to take his advice.
Mary gave herself up to the pleasure of being entertained. And what an entertainment Lord Bothwell had prepared for her! She knew that he had sent raiders beyond the Border to procure that which made their feast, but what of that! He was a Borderer with many a score to settle. The eighteen hundred does and roes, the rabbits, geese, fowls, plovers and partridges in hundreds, may have come from the land of the old enemy, but it mattered not at all. They made good feasting. And after the feast there were sports on the green haugh below the castle as had rarely been seen in Scotland, and the leaping and dancing of the bridegroom won the acclamation of all.
MARY NOW felt better and happier than she had for many weeks. Could it be true—as her Marys suggested—that her native land was more beneficial to her health than France had been? It was absurd. These draughty castles, so comfortless compared with the luxury of the French châteaux, and food which although plentiful was less invitingly prepared… could it be possible that these discomforts could make her better? Perhaps it was the rigorous climate, though often when the mist hung about the rooms she felt twinges in her limbs. No. She was growing out of her ailments—that must be it. Of course her Marys declared it was due to Scotland because they were fast becoming reconciled to Scotland: Flem through Maitland; Livy through John Sempill; Beaton through the Englishman, Randolph; and Seton… well, Seton was just happy to see the others happy.
When would Mary’s time come; and who would be her husband? It seemed to Mary that every day the name of some suitor was presented to her.
The Queen of England was anxious to have a say in plans for Marys marriage. If the bridegroom did not please her, she had hinted, she would certainly not name Mary and her heirs as successors to the English throne. That spy Randolph—why was poor Beaton so taken with the man?—always seemed to be at her elbow. She pictured him in his apartment, scribbling hard, determined that his mistress should miss little of what went on in Marys Court.
And now there was to be another marriage. Lord James was at last going to marry Lady Agnes.
Mary wanted to show her gratitude to her brother, and what better time could there be than the occasion of his marriage? She longed to give him what he craved—the Earldom of Moray; but how could she grant him that Earldom when old Huntley, the Cock o’ the North—and not without reason—laid claim to it? Instead she would make him Earl of Mar and beg him to be satisfied with that.
Now for the pleasant occupation of arranging the masques and mummeries. She called her Marys to her, and they fell to discussing the music for the wedding. That led to sending for Signor David whose company never failed to delight Mary. It was always such a pleasure to hear his voice, and now and then she would command him to sing for her.