There were matters to be attended to on the estate. Jean was doing for Haddington what she had done for Crichton; she was never idle; even when she sat resting she would have her embroidery in her hands.

He saw Bessie often. Her great eyes would follow him, waiting for the signal. Upstairs in the loft… this minute … or out in the fields away from the Abbey… Bessie would be there—a small, quiet girl who could be aroused at his touch to a passion which equalled his own.

He liked Bessie. Between them they—she and Jean—were responsible for his long stay on his estates. He might have continued to stay but for one thing.

It happened quite simply. He went to the sewing room because he had been reminded suddenly of Bessie and felt an immediate need of her company. Bessie was there alone; his wife had been with her, for they were working together on the same piece of tapestry; but when he arrived Jeans chair was empty.

He said: “To the loft! Wait there for me.”

Bessie scrambled up. Her eyes were anxious. She began: “My lord … I cannot—”

“Go, my girl. Go up, I say.”

She stammered: “My lord… my lady …”

He seized her by the shoulders and pushed her toward the door. She almost fell, laughing on a note of high-pitched laughter that betrayed the rising excitement, that complete abandonment to his will. She picked herself up, dropped a hurried curtsy and ran from the room.

He laughed, and after a few moments followed her to the loft.

Bessie was always inarticulate with him. They had exchanged few words. Words were unnecessary in such a relationship. But now it seemed she was trying to tell him something. She had work to do. She must not be long. He would not listen; he did not want chatter from Bessie. He forced her down on to the dusty floor of the loft. The very fact that she wished to go made him determined to keep her there. He liked resistance; he had come to expect it on the Border.

So he kept her there longer than usual, and Bessie, while she could temporarily forget her anxiety, found that it had returned to her when she was at last released.

She made her way down to the sewing room. The Countess was there; so were several of the servants.

Bessie, red-faced, her dress dusty, put in a shamefaced appearance.

“And where have you been?” demanded Jean.

“Please, my lady… I—”

“Look at the dust on your dress. What has happened?”

Bessie stammered: “I… I… went to the loft—”

“You went to the loft when you should have been using your needle! Look at your hands. They’re filthy. Go and wash them. You must not do delicate needlework with hands like that. Then I shall want to know why you left the sewing room to go there.”

Bessie, glad to escape, almost collided with the Earl who was then coming into the room. Bessie ran. The Earl scarcely looked at her. But he was betrayed. His clothes were as dusty as those of Bessie. It was a strange sort of dust. Remains of cobwebs could be seen attached to his doublet as they had been to Bessie’s hair.

Jean looked at him sharply. She knew that the servants were looking too. She was aware of suppressed laughter. Knowing the Earl, and understanding Bessie, there was only one conclusion to be drawn.

She said nothing to her husband, but mentioning that she had work for them to do, she commanded the servants whom she would need, to accompany her to the kitchens where she wished to make arrangements for that night’s supper.

Half an hour later she returned to the sewing room where Bessie—the dust brushed from her dress and her hands clean—was diligently working.

“Oh, Bessie,” said Jean, “your father lives in the smithy outside Haddington town, I believe.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“That is fortunate for you. Gather your things together and go to him immediately.”

“Go… m’lady?”

“Yes, Bessie. I find that I no longer require your services.”

Bessie blushed and stammered, then burst into tears. To leave this wonderful house, to live in her father’s wretched smithy, to help at the anvil instead of doing fine needlework, to have as a lover some village lout instead of the great Earl of Bothwell—it was too much to be borne!

“Now, Bessie, it is no use weeping. Get ready. Go at once. I shall expect you to be gone in an hour.”

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