Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean (читать книги полностью без сокращений .txt) 📗

There was nothing Bessie could do but obey.

Bothwell shrugged his shoulders when he heard what had happened. Then he burst out laughing.

“So you’re jealous, eh?” he said. “Jealous of a sewing girl!”

“Not jealous,” his wife replied. “Pray visit her if you wish. I have no objection now that she will be no longer here. It is merely that I cannot have you making demands on her time when she is working for me.”

He was astonished. He had never known such a woman.

After that he had Bessie brought to him on one or two occasions. The tradesmen of the town were obliging, providing rooms where they could meet, and carrying messages to and from the smithy; but he grew tired of such arrangements. His lust always demanded satisfaction without delay. By the time matters could be arranged his ardor had cooled or been slaked elsewhere.

So … he returned to Edinburgh.

IT WAS Saturday evening. The March winds howled down the great chimneys as the Queen was taking supper in the small closet next to her bedroom. She was in her sixth month of pregnancy and her physicians had advised her to fortify her strength by eating meat although this was the Lenten season; they had also prescribed quiet for the royal patient. The servants were hurrying into the closet with dishes of meat which they set on the small table. Mary was reclining on a couch and beside her were her bastard sister Jane, Countess of Argyle, and her bastard brother, Lord Robert Stuart. It was a small party in view of the doctor’s advice, and the Lord of Creich her master of the household, Arthur Erskine, her equerry, the Queens doctor, David Rizzio and a few servants completed it.

The beef was delicious, and with it they drank French wine.

“This wine always reminds me of Chenonceaux,” said Mary wistfully. “Oh, what happy days they were!”

“Would Your Grace go back?” asked Robert.

“Nay, brother. If I went back I should have to return again by the same road, and at times I found the going tedious.”

“Signor Davie looks grand this night,” said the Countess.

David looked down at his damask gown which was trimmed with rich fur. His doublet was made of best satin; and his hose were of russet velvet. There was a fine feather in his cap, and about his neck hung a great ruby, a gift from the Queen.

“Yes, Davie,” said Mary, “’tis true.”

“I should consider it an insult to Your Majesty to appear clad in anything but the best I could assemble,” said David.

“You are right, Davie,” said the Queen. “I like not drab garments. Sing us something of France, please. I have a longing to hear French songs tonight. Master Erskine, I beg of you pass Davie his guitar.” She turned to one of the serving men. “Can you pull the curtains a little closer? There is a draft.”

“The wind is fierce tonight, Madam,” said the Lord of Creich.

The servant had gone to the window. For a few seconds he looked out and saw figures moving about below. They were numerous and they were in steel bonnets, with guns, swords, Jedburgh staves and bucklers.

What were these men doing out there? He had heard of no reason why they should be there. They might be troopers. What was afoot tonight? Some exercise, he supposed. He would have mentioned it to the company but, as he turned from the window, Signor David was already playing his guitar and his rich voice was filling the small chamber.

When the song was ended, the servant left the apartment. He was going to make sure that he had interpreted correctly what he had seen. He quickly discovered that there were many—possibly more than a hundred—armed men stationed about the palace.

Almost as soon as he had gone, the door which led to the private staircase was opened and Darnley came in. Mary frowned. He appeared to have been drinking. He came to where she sat and slumped on the couch beside her; he laid a hot hand on her arm.

“Have you had your supper?” she asked coldly.

The company had become silent and tense, waiting for one of those scenes which seemed now inevitable when the Queen and her husband were together.

Darnley had not answered her, and suddenly all except the Queen had risen to their feet, for, standing in the doorway through which Darnley had just come, was Lord Ruthven. His face was yellow above his gleaming armor; his hair was wild and there was a look of death on his face. For a moment they thought they were seeing Ruthven’s ghost, as they knew he was near to death and not expected to leave his bed again; moreover he had always been suspected of having magical powers.

No one spoke in those frightening first moments as Ruthven’s hollow eyes ranged about the room and came to rest on David Rizzio.

Then Mary saw that Ruthven was not alone. Behind him, through the narrow doorway she caught glimpses of Morton, Lindsay, Kerr and others. Ruthven suddenly lifted his hand and pointed to David.

“Come out, David,” he said slowly. “You are wanted without.”

David did not move. His great eyes seemed to have grown still larger; his trembling hand reached for the Queens skirt.

Ruthven began to shout: “Come out, David Rizzio. Come out from the Queens chamber. You have been there too long.”

Mary stood up and confronted Ruthven. “How dare you, my lord, thus come into my chamber? How dare you! You shall pay dearly for this. What means this intrusion? Who are those who follow you here? Why have you comer

“We come for David Rizzio, Madam.”

“Then go away,” commanded the Queen. “If David is here it is my wish that he should be.” She turned fiercely to Darnley: “What means this outrage, my lord? Do you know aught of this?”

Darnley did not reply for a second or so. Then he mumbled: “N-No. But it is a dishonor that David should sup with you, and your husband be kept out.”

Ruthven caught the hangings to prevent himself falling from exhaustion. Mary looked around at the terrified company. Catching her look, Erskine and the Lord of Creich started forward. Ruthven cried in a hollow voice: “Let no one touch me. They will regret it.” He looked supernatural in that moment, and the two men stood where they were as though held there by Ruthven’s uncanny powers.

Mary cried out: “Leave at once! Go! I command you to go.”

“I have come for Rizzio,” persisted the grim-faced Ruthven. And with those words he unsheathed his dagger.

It was the signal. His accomplices rushed into the chamber.

Rizzio gave a great cry and, falling to the floor, gripped Marys skirts and tried to hide himself in their folds. Dishes were swept aside; the table toppled over. The Countess of Argyle picked up the candelabra in time and held it high above her head.

Mary felt the child protest within her; nauseated, she tried not to faint. Rizzio was clinging to her and she made an effort to put herself between him and those men who, she knew, had come to kill him.

George Douglas had twisted Rizzio’s arm so that, with a cry of pain, he released his grip on Mary’s gown.

She saw their faces vaguely, distorted with bloodlust, and the desire to kill not only Rizzio, she believed, but herself and the child she carried.

“Take the Queen,” someone said, and she saw Darnley close beside her. He put an arm about her and held her; she turned from him in revulsion just in time to see George Douglas snatch the dagger from Darnley’s belt and drive it into the cowering, shrieking Rizzio.

Hands were clutching the terrified David who was bleeding from the wound. She watched him as they dragged him across the floor, and his terrified eyes never left her face. She stretched out her arms to him.

“Oh, Davie… Davie …,” she sobbed. “They are killing you, Davie. They are killing us both. Where are my friends? Is this the way to treat the Queen?”

“Be quiet!” hissed Kerr. “If you are not, I shall be forced to cut you into collops.”