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“My dear Flem, if he was allowed to indulge his passions freely, I have no doubt that is what Bothwell would call a happy childhood.”
“Yes, but it has made him the man he is.”
“So the Bishop has been sounding you, has he?”
“He has spoken to me. He tells me that Bothwell is in dire poverty. He has mortgaged his lands to raise money; he reminds me that he has ever been faithful to Your Majesty.”
“Faithful to me… when he pla
“A madman’s fancy, Madam.”
“How can we be sure of that, dear Flem?”
“At least we know that Arran is mad now. He is put away from the world on account of his madness.”
“And because of this you think Bothwell’s sins should be forgiven and he should be invited to return to Court?”
“No, Madam, I do not think that, but… the Scottish Captain of the Guard in France has recently died. That post is vacant.”
“And you suggest Bothwell would comfortably fill it?”
“At least it would help him to live, Madam. His finances are in a poor state. He is an exile from his own country.”
“Flem dear, ask someone to bring David here.”
Flem rose. She thought: Nothing is done now without the sanction of this David. The Piedmontese is becoming more powerful than Moray, or my dear lord Maitland.
Rizzio came at once to the apartment. How grand he looked these days! His clothes were as magnificent as anyone’s at Court. How polished were his ma
“Davie,” said Mary, and all her affection for the young man was in the Queens voice as she said his name, “I have received a request.” She smiled at Flem. “It is that Bothwell should be given command of the Scottish Guard in France. In your opinion would that be a worthy appointment?”
Rizzio considered this gravely. Bothwell was regarded as a dangerous man by Moray, and Moray was David’s enemy. Moray did not know as yet how deep David Rizzio was in the Queens counsels, but he was begi
“Madam,” he said, “this is a brave man, whatever else may be said of him. His bravery makes him stand ahead of his fellows, even in this warlike country where courage would seem to come to men as naturally as breathing. He will do you no discredit as Captain of the Scottish Guard.”
So James Hepburn, Lord Bothwell, found his fortunes taking a turn for the better. He was no longer obliged to borrow money, and, although still an exile from his country, he enjoyed some standing in France as Captain of the Scottish Guard.
MORAY WAS displeased by the appointment. He discussed it with Maitland. They both agreed that it had probably been made at the instigation of David Rizzio, and they were becoming more and more disturbed by the presumption of the Italian and the favor shown to him by the Queen.
But at the moment their main concern was with Bothwell.
“You can depend upon it,” said Moray, “that man has friends in Scotland still. ’Tis witchcraft, I’ll swear. He has but to look at a woman, and she’s a willing victim. He seduces her and rides away, and if he should return she is ready to be his slave. How could he have got out of the country in the first place, if there had not been a chain of women ready to feed him, offer him a bed for the night—and a bedfellow too—as well as food, money and horses, to speed him on his way!”
“He has friends in the Queen’s circle,” admitted Maitland. “That much is evident.”
“What ma
“A parcel of rogues,” replied Maitland.
They smiled at each other. There was no need to say more.
THE CAPTAIN of the Scottish Guard was not in his house that night. He was, his servants believed, sleeping in the lodging of his latest light-o’-love.
They sat around the table whispering together, listening all the time for his footsteps, though they did not think it likely that he would be home before dawn.
A pity! they all agreed. They had pla
But was it a pity? In the guttering candlelight, relief showed plainly on every face.
They pictured him, their master. Taller than most men, loud of voice, stronger than two men, his lightest cuff would send any one of them sprawling across the room, and would leave a bruise that would last for days. They feared him and admired him, for he was every inch a man; he was more than a man, they believed. There was magic in him—or some witchcraft. And because he towered above them in all ma
French Paris regarded the Scotsmen about the table. There was Gabriel Semple, Walter Murray and Dandie Pringle. Paris had no great liking for the task, but he had been drawn into it by the others.
Dandie was in charge of operations. He had arranged with his lordships barber—who was also in on the plot because he understood something of poisons—that the powder should be mixed with his lordships wine. There was the wine, already poured in the goblet, and mixed with it was the poison; but his lordship, as though Fate had intervened, had not come home that evening.
That was what made superstitious Paris tremble.
“Mayhap he knows!” he muttered, his teeth chattering.
“How could he know, man?” demanded Dandie. “Unless you’ve told him.”
“I have told him nothing, but he is no ordinary man.”
“We shall see,” said Dandie Pringle with a sneer, “where he is so much mightier than ordinary men as that the barbers poison will not affect him. Now, Gabriel, when you take up his lordships goblet to offer it, you must behave as you always do. You must show no sign that the wine you offer is any different from that which he drinks every day of his life.”
“N-No,” stuttered Gabriel.
“Would this night’s work were done with!” said Murray.
“’Twill soon be over,” promised Dandie, “and then we shall all go back to bo
“I tell you,” said Paris, “our master is no ordinary man.”
“Is he not then?” sneered Dandie.
“He is not,” persisted Paris. “You have seen what a way he has with the women. There’s none can resist him.”
“There is one I know of,” said Dandie. “The Queen herself! Did he not ask her if he might go home, and was he not refused?”
“The Queen, so says the master, is but half a woman,” declared Paris. “She and the Queen of England between them would not make one woman, so he says.”
“He says that,” put in Murray, “because they are two who did not immediately invite him to their bedchambers.”
“And he, feeling himself to tower above all men, is therefore piqued,” laughed Dandie.
“He says,” went on Paris, “that, when she was in France, the Queen was the mistress of her uncle the Cardinal.”
“Nor would it surprise me,” said Dandie, “for Cardinals are but human behind locked doors. Hark! He returns.”
It was true. The outer door had been flung open and a well-known voice shouted: “Is no one at home? Where are you? Paris! Semple! I am returned… and hungry.”
There was a second’s silence, and all eyes were fixed on the goblet in which was the poisoned wine.
“Take it to him, Gabriel,” said Dandie.
Paris had hurried to his master.
“Not abed then!” said Bothwell. “How comes it that you are abroad at this hour? Have you quarreled with your kitchen slut?”
“Nay, master,” stammered Paris. “But I thought you might return, and so waited.”
Paris was trembling under his master’s gaze. Bothwell was looking at him as though he knew something unusual was afoot.