“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 manners, and how subtly he flattered the Queen!

“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 beginning to learn. The very fact that Bothwell was an enemy of Moray seemed to Rizzio a good enough reason for his receiving this sign of the Queen’s favor.

“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 manner of men are his servants?” asked Moray.

“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 planned the deed for this night.

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 manner of ways, they were conscious of envy; and because of envy they had agreed to carry out instructions which had been given them. Greed too played a part in their willingness, for they would be well paid for their work.

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 bonny Scotland where we belong; and there we’ll live our lives in luxury for this night’s work.”

“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.

“Then bring me food. Bring me wine. I’ve a thirst that needs quenching.”

“Yes, master… yes, master….”

Paris hurried into the room where the others waited. Dandie thrust the goblet into his hands, but Paris was trembling so violently that some of the wine was spilled.

“For the love of God, you’ll betray us all!” hissed Dandie. “Here, Gabriel. You take it.”

Gabriel cried: “N-No… no. I dare not. I tell you he will know. He knows such things. He has special powers. That is why he has returned this night.”

The door was flung open and Bothwell himself stood on the threshold looking at his servants.

“What is this?” he demanded. “A late night session! Some conspiracy, eh? Or just a friendly feast? And not one woman to enliven the company. Is that wine you have there, Semple? Give it here, man. Did I not tell you I had a thirst?”

Gabriel trembled so much that the wine spilled on his hand, as it had on those of Paris. All the servants watched Gabriel.

“What ails you, Gabriel?” demanded the Earl. “You’re trembling like a virgin nun when the soldiers are about her. What is it, man? I say… what is it?” His great hand gripped Gabriel by the wrist and the wine spilled on the man’s doublet.

“’Tis… ’tis nothing, my lord.”

“’Tis nothing… and you shake like a leaf! You’re plotting something, man. Out with it. What is it? Out with it, I say.”

“’Twas nothing, my lord. ’Twas just that I spilled the wine—”

“Give me the goblet.” He took it, and as he did so he looked from it to the faces of his servants. Then slowly, he put his lips to the goblet, still watching them. Paris gave an audible gasp.

Bothwell sniffed the wine. “It has an odd smell,” he said. “I like it not. How dare you serve me such filthy stuff! How dare you, you varlets!” He threw the remaining liquid into the face of Gabriel, and the goblet at Dandie Pringle’s head. Dandie cried out with the pain as the goblet struck his head, and the Earl laughed.

“Now, you rogues,” he cried, “bring me good food and good drink. And do not dare serve such stuff to me again. If you do, you’ll wish you had never been born, every man of you. I’ll see that you’re boiled in cauldrons over slow fires. I’ll have you cut into collops. I’ll make you wish you had never been born to serve another instead of me. Remember it. And Semple … go and wake that kitchen girl and bid her bring me food. You know the one—plump, ripe Jeanne—and keep your lecherous hands off her; you understand? Go and wake her and bring her to me.”

Gabriel was glad to escape and, during his absence, Bothwell remained eying the others who stood wretchedly before him.

He was no ordinary man, and they knew it. He had uncovered their treachery. That in itself was bad enough; but they understood they had betrayed themselves by their clumsy behavior. It was not that they lacked the courage to carry out this murderous plan, nor that their master had discovered their treachery, which was so alarming; it was his complete indifference to their power to harm him. They were in no doubt that he had witchcraft to aid him, and they knew that they would never dare make an attempt on his life again.