the country was in uproar. Bothwell stood by me, and he had his army to keep us safe. Then he declared us married.”
“Were you not married?” I whisper.
“No,” she says shortly. “Not by my church. Not in my faith. His wife still lives, and now another one, another wife, has thrown him into prison in Denmark for breach of promise. She claims they were married years ago. Who knows with Bothwell? Not I.”
“Did you love him?” I ask, thinking that this is a woman who was once a fool for love.
“We never speak of love,” she says flatly. “Never. We are not some romantic couple writing poetry and exchanging tokens. We never speak of love. I have never said one word of love to him nor he to me.”
There is a silence, and I realize she has not exactly answered me.
“And then?” one of my entranced halfwit women whispers.
“Then my half brother and his treacherous allies called up their army to attack Bothwell and me with him, and Bothwell and I rode out to battle together, side by side, as comrades. But they won—it is as simple as that. Our army drained away as we delayed. Bothwell would have fought at once and we might have won then, but I hoped to avoid bloodshed of kin against kin. I let them delay us with talks and false promises and my army slipped away. We made an agreement and Bothwell got away. They promised me safe conduct but they lied. They held me as a prisoner, and I miscarried my twins; two boys. They made me abdicate while I was ill and broken with grief. My own half brother claimed my throne, the traitor. He sold my pearls, and they have my son…my boy…” Her voice, which has been low and steady, wavers now for the first time.
“You will see him again, for sure,” I say.
“He is mine,” she whispers. “My own son. He should be raised as a Prince of Scotland and England. Not by these heretical fools, not by the murderers of his own father, men who believe neither in God nor king.”
“My husband says that you will be restored to your throne this very summer, any day now,” I say. I do not add that I think him mistaken.
She lifts her head. “I shall need an army to get back my throne,” she says. “It is not a question of simply riding back to Edinburgh. I shall need a husband to dominate the Scots lords and an army to hold them down. Tell Elizabeth when you write to her that she must honor her kinship to me. She must restore me. I shall be Queen of Scotland again.”
“Her Majesty doesn’t take advice from me,” I say. “But I know she is planning for your restoration.” Even if Cecil is not, I think.
“I have made mistakes,” she concedes. “I have not judged very well for myself, after all. But perhaps still I may be forgiven. And at least I do have a son.”
“You will be forgiven,” I say earnestly. “If you have done anything wrong, which I am sure…and anyway, as you say, you do have a son, and a woman with a son is a woman with a future.”
She blinks back the tears and nods. “He will be King of England,” she breathes. “King of England and Scotland.”
I am silent for a moment. It is treason to speak of the queen’s death; it is treason to speculate about her heir. I shoot a hard look at my women, who are all, wisely, eyes down on their sewing now and pretending they cannot hear.
Her mood shifts, as quickly as a child’s. “Ah, here I am becoming as morbid as a Highlander!” she cries out. “Lady Seton, ask a page to come and sing for us and let’s have some dancing. Lady Shrewsbury here will think herself in prison or in mourning!”
I laugh, as if we were not in truth in prison and bereft, and I send for wine and for fruit, and for the musicians. When my lord comes in before dinner he finds us in a whirl of dancing and the Scots queen in the middle, calling the changes and laughing aloud as we get all muddled up and end opposite the wrong partners.
“You must go right! Right!” she calls out. “Gauche et puis à gauche!” She whirls around to laugh at him. “My lord, command your wife! She is making a mockery of me as a dancing