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“Was it true,” asked the people of Edinburgh, “that Signor Davie was the Queen’s lover?” It was said that he spent long hours alone with her. He was not handsome, but he had beautiful eyes and he played the guitar with great skill. This guitar in itself was believed to be a magic thing; it was made of tortoiseshell, mother o’ pearl, ebony and ivory. It could make any who heard it its slave. When Signor Davie played it before the Queen, he cast a spell upon her so that she was eager for his embrace.
Such were the tales which were circulating through Scotland.
Meanwhile heartening news came from London of Elizabeth’s reception of Moray, which had been quite different from his expectations. The Queen had received him with great hostility, upbraiding him for daring to question her “dear sister’s rule.” All knew that this was a ruse of Elizabeth’s; all knew that she had promised aid to Moray, and that, had he shown signs of succeeding, it would have been given. But it was a heartening sign to Mary and her friends that Elizabeth should consider it politic to scold Moray for daring to rise against his Queen.
The affairs of the Queen of Scots were more satisfactory than they had ever been before. She was strong now and, while determined to be tolerant in religious matters, was celebrating the Mass with less caution than hitherto.
Mary could have been happy but for the fact that Darnley was growing more and more ill-tempered and arrogant. Her own temper—always ready to break out—had on several occasions flared up against him. Bickering had broken out between them; even their sexual relationship was no longer completely satisfactory. He had changed; he was no longer the tender lover, and his one thought was to exert his superiority over her. Her dignity was in rebellion and her sensuality could not subdue it.
Often she reflected: I could be quite happy now if Henry were only as he used to be.
But gradually she became aware of that other menace; the growing scandals concerning Rizzio.
IN THE Canongate Church Lord Bothwell was being married. Outside the kirk the citizens waited to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom as they passed from there to Kinloch House, where the celebrations would take place.
There was a look of satisfaction on the face of the Border Earl. He was pleased with this wedding of his and with the general turn of events. Here he was, after years of exile and imprisonment, rising and likely to become one of the most important men in Scotland.
He liked his bride—Jean Gordon, sister of the Earl of Huntley—who brought him all he wanted. She was rich, of high birth and a good woman.
At the moment she was pale and a little sullen. She was not as pleased to marry the Earl of Bothwell as he was to marry her; that in itself had provided a certain piquancy, for he was accustomed to being much sought after. Strange that the woman he should honor with his hand in marriage should be one of the few reluctant ones he had ever encountered.
Jean was twenty, very pale, with sandy hair, large eyes and the long Gordon nose. She was proud and cold, he imagined; but that would be a change. Too many had been too warm toward him.
When he had asked her to marry him—having previously obtained the consent of her brother and the Queen—she was cool and distant. Another woman might have been frightened, and he would have known how to deal with such fear; but Jean was too proud to show fear.
She obviously wondered why her brother should have considered a man from the Border, and of such reputation, worthy of her. Only the well arched brows betrayed the thought, but they betrayed it completely.
“I do not see, my lord, how such a marriage could be,” she had replied to his proposal, “since I have already been promised to Alexander Ogilvie of Boyne.”
“Ogilvie!” Bothwell had cried. “Let that not trouble you. I will deal with Ogilvie of Boyne.”
“Deal with him? I do not wish you to deal with him. I am telling you that he and I are betrothed.”
“I have the consent of your family to the match,” he had told her grimly, and he had taken her proud face in his hands and given her his bold stare. It had not had its usual effect, and the faintest shadow of distaste crossed her face as he kissed her full on the lips with a laugh.
But of course it was useless for her to protest. The marriage had been arranged. The Queen had given her consent and Jean’s brother had decided to unite his fortunes with the rising ones of Bothwell.
Bothwell needed this marriage. Lord John Stuart, who had married Janet Hepburn, had died recently, and that marriage, from which Bothwell had hoped much since it brought him the Queen’s own brother as his brother-in-law, had availed him little. Now that the Gordons were back in favor Jean was an admirable match, and he was determined that she should be his wife.
So they were married, for Ogilvie was not the man to stand out against the Queen’s wishes and those of such a powerful nobleman as Huntley had become. Jean’s wishes went for little, and here she was—Bothwell’s bride.
Her hand was limp in his. Never mind, he thought. We shall soon change that.
He felt grand and powerful, ready to achieve anything. The Queen had wished the ceremony to take place in the chapel at Holyrood, but Bothwell, declaring that he was a Protestant, had insisted that it should take place in the Canongate Kirk.
The Queen had given way graciously. She was pleased with Bothwell; she had even forgiven him for the slander he had spoken against her, accepting his word that it had been a fabrication of the foul-minded Dandie Pringle.
In Kinloch House the Queen was the guest of honor. The King had accompanied her, but not very graciously. He was grumbling that one of his high estate should be expected to attend celebrations at Kinloch House. It was a large house, a luxurious house, the property of a rich townsman who was a favorite at the Court; but Darnley, newly come to royalty, could not deign to approve of anything that was not entirely royal. Moreover he hated Bothwell for his manliness and for the fact that he would have made a better general than Darnley’s father. Darnley knew that had Bothwell commanded the army and acted as he wished, the rebels would now be the Queen’s captives and not enjoying their freedom in England, where they were doubtless being encouraged to make fresh plots against the Queen.
Mary found the wedding less enjoyable than others she had attended. The bridegroom made her uneasy. She remembered clearly the first time she had seen him when she was in France, and how his appraising, almost insolent gaze had made her uncomfortable. He had not lost that habit. Now, in his doublet made of gold-colored silk with its puffed sleeves, its inlets of satin, and with narrow lace ruff about his sunburned neck, he looked more virile in his finery than he did when less splendidly clad, for the colorful, almost womanish garments, called attention to his strength and masculinity. Those powerful shoulders, those strong hands, that hard face engraved with the strains of many adventures which had not always turned out happily, that sensual mouth touched with bitterness which must have consumed him during his exile, made of Jean Gordon’s husband a complete contrast to the handsome young man whom Mary had married.
Mary felt a qualm of conscience about Jean, who had wanted Alexander of Ogilvie. Jean had been one of her ladies of the bedchamber since Livy had gone and the Gordons had come back into favor, and Mary knew her well. She was a practical girl, and Mary assured herself that she would not allow her disappointment to warp her outlook. She was calm and would prove a steadying influence on the Borderer.
Jean must be proud, continued Mary’s thoughts, to see Bothwell so shine in the jousts. He was undoubtedly the victor of the tournament, which was very satisfactory indeed, since he was the man of the moment on this his wedding day.