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He said: “He must be brought from his father’s territory. He could stay there for months surrounded by Le
“Who will bring him?”
“There is only one who can.”
“No!” she cried.
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “He would come if you went to him. You could bring him from his father’s territory. We need him here in Edinburgh.”
“He is sick.”
“All the more reason why you should look after him.”
“I have told him that all is over between us.”
“Women… even queens… change their minds.”
She said faintly: “You had better speak plainly.”
“Go to him. Promise him anything. But bring him out of his hiding place.”
“Promise him… anything?”
Bothwell laughed. “It is hardly likely that he will be in a condition to ask you to redeem your promises.”
She turned away. “I ca
He seized her, and forced her to look into his face.
“You will do it,” he said. “You will consider what it means to us, and you will do it.”
She could refuse him nothing. He knew it, and she knew it. Now she cried: “No, I ca
He did not urge her then. He laughed; he caressed her; he reduced her to that state of mind and body when she had no thought or wishes beyond the immediate moment.
“You will,” he said, “do this for me.”
And she knew she would.
When he had left her she remained alone and in torment.
She picked up her pen and, because she dared not write of the terrible thing which was in her mind, she wrote of her passion for the man who had completely enslaved her. She wrote of the tears she had wept on his account, of that first brutal encounter which had taken place before she had known this overwhelming love.
RIDING TOWARD Glasgow in the bitter weather, Mary felt like a woman in a trance. She knew that she would play the part which was desired of her. Her own will was subdued. Her lover had as complete possession of her mind as he had of her body. There was one thing which could help her do this: her hatred of Darnley.
When she reached the castle she was taken at once to Darnley. If he had sickened her before, he did so doubly now. The marks of his disease were on his face and the room was unpleasantly odorous. He wore a piece of fine gauze over his face to hide the disfigurement as best he could. But he was pleased to see her.
“It is good of Your Majesty to come hither to see me,” he said humbly.
“There is much I have to say to you. You are very sick.”
“I shall recover.”
She could not bear to look at him. She said: “Why have you behaved so badly? If you had not… But tell me why you write letters complaining of the cruelty of ’some people.’ You mean your wife, of course. What have I done to be treated so by you?”
“You will not forgive me. You turn from me. I long to resume our normal married life and you will have none of it. I know that I have acted very foolishly, even wickedly. Madam, I am very young. I am not twenty-one yet. I am younger than you are. Let us try again. There is only one thing I desire: to get back to that happy relationship which was ours. Oh, Mary, you loved me once. Have you forgotten?”
She shuddered. “It was so long ago. I did not know you then.”
“You knew part of me. I was like that. I could be like that again. I have been led astray by my own folly … by the folly of others. I think of you constantly … as my Queen and as my wife. How could I ever be content without you, having known you?”
“I ca
“Then you would take me back? You would let me be with you again?”
“How could I trust you?”
“You could! You could!”
“Hush! Do not excite yourself so. It is bad for you. Lie still. Speak calmly.”
“Speak calmly when you are here, when you have ridden here to see me?”
“I am uncertain—” she began.
“Mary, I will be a good husband to you. Mary, why should we not be happy together? We have a child … a son. We could be happy.”
“If we were different people we might be. I … I have brought a horse-litter for you.”
He was pathetically alert. “Why so? Why so?”
“I wish to take you back with me to Edinburgh.”
“To take me back!” He looked wildly about the room. “To take me back, Mary? I have too many enemies at the Court. They have sworn to be revenged on me for …”
“For David’s death,” she said. Her eyes were brilliant as she looked full at him and went on: “It is just a year since David died.” The memory of David, pulling at her skirts as he was being dragged across the floor, gave her courage. He—this sick and repulsive boy lying in the bed—had had no compunction in sending David to his death. She went on: “That is what you are thinking of, is it not? You fear them because you plotted with them to kill David and then deserted them and informed against them.”
He nodded slowly and fearfully. He said: “I hear that they have plotted to do me harm. But I would not believe that you would join them in that. Why do you wish me to go back to Edinburgh?”
“Because so many talk of the strained relations between us. I would have us appear to the world to be living in amity together.”
“Mary,” he said, “I will come back on one condition. I will rise from my sickbed and come back to Edinburgh if you will give me your promise to be my wife … in all things.”
She hesitated.
He went on: “If not, I shall stay here. I want your solemn promise, Mary. You and I shall be at bed and board as husband and wife. Promise me this, and I will leave with you tomorrow.”
She was silent for so long that he said sulkily: “Very well then, I remain here. It is far too cold for me to travel.”
“You would be comfortable in your litter. You would have the utmost care. In Edinburgh we should all be together… you, I and the child. I would care for you myself.”
“I will come only if you promise me that one thing: we shall be as husband and wife and you will never leave me as long as I live.”
“As long as you live,” she repeated, and the shivering took possession of her again. She went on: “But it would have to be after you have recovered. We could not be together until then.”
“I will recover quickly,” he said eagerly.
“Very well. We shall start tomorrow.”
“Your promise, Mary?”
“I give it.”
“And never to leave me as long as I live?”
“Never to leave you as long as you live,” she repeated.
“Then let us set out tomorrow.”
Shaken, relieved and horrified, she said to herself: It is done. Soon my task will be over.
DARNLEY WAS sleeping deeply, his disfigured face turned away from her. Mary sat in the sickroom watching through the long night. She was too distressed to sleep and she could not sit idly; so she took up her pen and wrote to her lover.
“I am weary and sleepy, yet I ca
She had been writing for some time without considering what she wrote but setting down her thoughts as they came into her mind. She glanced back over the paper and read:
“He would not let me go but would have me watch with him. Fain would I have excused myself from spending this night sitting up with him….
“I do a work here which I hate much….
“Excuse me if I write ill. I am ill at ease and glad to write unto you when others be asleep, seeing that I ca