The Flower Reader (38 page)

“All the better. My queen is particularly interested in the ciphered notes of the former queen regent of Scotland, although she also wishes to obtain the prophecies of Nostradamus for her own astrologer’s consideration. And to keep them out of the hands of…another lady, you understand.”

“I understand.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Very well,” he said. “Let us be frank. How much do you think—”

“Trying to buy my wife’s favors, Englishman?”

We both jumped. People say their hearts sink when something frightening happens, but it is not the heart; it is the stomach. I suddenly felt so sick I feared I might disgrace myself there in the great hall of Inveraray Castle, in front of everyone.

“Not at all, Master Hamilton.” Here I had just been thinking what a deceiver I was. Thomas Randolph put me to shame with his coolheaded craft. “I was asking your lady how much she thought it had cost the Earl of Argyll to purchase ice in July, to cool our wine tonight.”

“I have never had ice-cold wine in the summer,” I added faintly. “It must be very expensive.”

Rannoch Hamilton looked at me, then at Thomas Randolph, then at me again. “The queen is asking for you, wife,” he said. “Come with me.”

He jerked me away without any polite word to Thomas Randolph. The Englishman’s eyes met mine briefly but he said nothing. I knew he would find another way to speak to me. Difficulty might even make the prize richer.

“Stay away from him,” Rannoch Hamilton said under his breath as he dragged me across the hall. “You belong to me and I don’t want other men’s eyes upon you.”

“I am not a piece of furniture to belong to you or anyone. And I can hardly avoid men’s eyes altogether. You are hurting me, Master Hamilton, and people are looking.”

“Let them look, Green Lady. They will see a husband properly taking charge of his wife.”

I felt that unpleasant sick sinking feeling in my stomach again. Someday I will be free of you, I thought. I will wash every trace of you off my skin and out of my hair. I will burn every piece of my clothing you have ever touched. I will take Gill with me, and that is all. In every other way I will be free of you, and I will never, never—

A shocking high shriek of terror cut short my thought. I turned toward the sound; everyone in the great hall turned toward the sound. It was Mary Seton screaming—Mary Seton? Meek and pious Mary Seton, who never raised her voice? She stumbled toward the queen. The front of her carnation-colored gown was wet, darkened. Had she spilled some water? Why would she scream so about spilling water?

Then I saw her hands, red and shiny, and I realized the dark wetness was blood.

“Madame, madame,” she cried. She threw herself at the queen’s feet. The queen drew back, surprised and uncertain; at her side the Earl of Argyll put his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

“Sieur Nico,” Mary Seton sobbed. “I found him. Holy Mother, the blood.”

My heart stopped.

“Blood?” the queen said. “But I only sent him to bring me a book of music. You must be mistaken.”

“It was Sieur Nico, madame, I swear it. I found him in the passageway. He was—”

“He is perfectly well.”

Our heads all jerked around at once. Nicolas de Clerac stood just inside the great hall with one hand pressed to his throat. He looked unsteady but he was on his feet. There was a great deal of blood on his white shirt and his elegant hunter’s-green jacket. On the jacket it looked black. On the shirt it was bright red. In his other hand he carried a music book, bound in soft violet leather and stamped with the queen’s monogram.

“I had hoped,” he said, “to avoid creating a sensation. Madame, I have brought your music book.”

He took a step forward and fell full-length on the paving stones.

T
HE QUEEN HERSELF TENDED HIM
that night. I was frantic with terror that he would die, as Richard Wetheral had died, as Alexander had
died, but no one would tell me anything, I had no opportunity to speak with Nico alone, and I could not let Rannoch Hamilton see my distress. The queen’s physician and the Earl of Argyll’s chirurgeon consulted together through all the next day; the queen remained by Nico’s side and left the rest of us kicking our heels. On the second day I was finally invited to attend upon the queen. I found them all sitting perfectly prosaically in the solar set apart for the queen, with David Riccio and the queen herself playing their lutes.

“I am not seriously hurt, you know.” Nico looked at me once and looked away—
I am all right; do not be afraid
—and he acted as if he were speaking to the queen. “I am not such a fool as to walk alone in a dark passageway without being on my guard. The assassin did not expect that.”

He stressed the word
assassin
very slightly. Was he telling me that it was a member of the
Escadron Volant
with a falcon dagger who had attacked him?

As you might imagine, such questions are dangerous.

“Argyll is beside himself,” the queen said. She fingered a difficult chord. “Such a failure of hospitality, to have a guest’s throat cut in his own castle. Well, cut only a little.”

She smiled at him. Clearly it was a
plaisanterie
, a repeated jest, between them.

“Only a little,” he repeated. “And I will heal. Unlike poor Master Richard Wetheral.”

The queen tilted her head and frowned. Again I felt distinctly that Nico was speaking to me in the only way he could.

“Think you there is a connection?” The queen was dubious. “That was back at Holyrood, and months ago.”

“Even so, there are too many similarities. I was walking in a dark corridor, and was attacked from behind, pushed against the wall. If I had not been half expecting it, I would be dead in exactly the same manner Master Wetheral died, with my throat cut.”

“
Grâce à Dieu
you were able to fight him off. Whoever he was, I wish you had managed to kill him. Or see his face, so he could be
arrested. I do not care for the thought that an assassin is traveling with our progress.”

“You are in no danger, madame, and in any case you are well guarded, day and night,” Nico said. “But I think it would be wise for the rest of us—”

He stopped. He looked directly at me for a fraction of a second, before returning his attention to the queen.

“Wise for the rest of us,” he said again, “to look closely at dark passageways before venturing into them.”

W
ITHIN A FEW DAYS HE
was up and about with a bandage under his left ear; he wore elegant high collars to conceal it. I myself was far from elegant. I felt sick more often, and my blue riding habit was tighter over my breasts. We continued on our progress, riding south along the shore of Loch Fyne and crossing the Firth of Clyde to Ayr, then passing through the forest of Galloway as we turned to the east again.

We arrived at Saint Mary’s Isle in the estuary of the River Dee late one night in mid-August. We were to stay at the priory there, which had been secularized and was now held by a Protestant commendator at the queen’s pleasure. For once the queen went straight to the chamber set aside for her. I slept in the same room with her as usual. The next morning, by the time she had dressed and broken her fast and released me, I was dizzy with sickness, and barely managed to find a basin and an isolated corner before doubling over to my knees and vomiting helplessly.

“I’ll be looking for a big belly on you in two or three more months, wife.”

He followed me everywhere. He would drive me mad with his following. I tasted the salt of tears with the bitterness of bile.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” Rannoch Hamilton said, with great satisfaction. “That’s
my seed inside you, swelling up and giving you the cowk every morning. What do you think your Green Lady has to say to that?”

“I can cast it out,” I said through my teeth. “The Green Lady can do that much.”

“If you wanted to do that, you’d have done it already.”

I turned my face away from him. Some of my hair had come loose, and it fell over my cheek. At least it hid my tears.

“Give me the old queen’s silver casket,” he said. “Give it to me, not Rothes or Moray. I’ll treat with the queen direct, and I’ll be Duke of Kinmeall before I’m finished. Who knows, the queen herself might take a fancy to me. I’ve seen her look at me, and ’tis said she likes a spice of rough with her smooth.”

“You are mad,” I whispered.

“So you say.” He laughed. “Give me the casket and I’ll divorce you and send you home to Granmuir.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’ve had what I wanted from you. Look at you, on your knees a-cowking with your hair hanging down like a scullery maid’s. What do you think your gold-headed angel boy would say if he could see you now?”

“Leave me alone,” I said, my voice shaking with fury and anguish. “I will never give you the casket, because I will not give you the satisfaction.”

I will never give you the casket,
I thought helplessly,
because I do not have it
.

“You will,” he said. He drew back one boot, and before I could comprehend what he intended to do, he kicked me hard in my ribs just under my arm. I cried out once, in shock and pain, then bit my lips to keep from making another sound. Involuntarily my body curled itself into a ball to protect my belly.

“I will not,” I said through my clenched teeth.

“I’ve given you chance after chance to be a proper wife,” he said with vicious bitterness. “I’ve tried to be gentle with you, but nothing I’ve done’s
been good enough. I’m finished with trying. If you won’t give the casket to me, I’ll see you don’t give it to anyone.”

He walked away.

I did not move, not until I could not hear his footsteps any longer.

I hated him, hated him, hated him. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to take a knife and carve his seed out of my belly with my own hands and die there on beautiful Saint Mary’s Isle, happy and free.

T
he queen closed her eyes, listening. We all listened. David Riccio’s voice was so glorious, so deep and true. He might have been Sir Tristan singing to Iseult.

An thou were my ain thing

I would love thee, I would love thee,

An thou were my ain thing

Sae dearly I would love thee.

“Stop,” the queen said. “Signor Davy, can you arrange that with quarter notes?” She sang the first two bars in her own pretty voice. “An thou were my ai-ai-ain thing.”

“Indeed I can, Madonna,” David Riccio said. He had become so familiar with her that he no longer called her
Sua Maestà
. He plucked the notes on his inlaid guitar. “Yes, I like it that way. Messer Nico, what do you think?”

“I like it,” Nico said. “Perhaps you could write a leading for the tenor voice as well.”

We were gathered in a small arched room off the great hall in the central tower of Craigmillar Castle. The progress was over. The queen had declared she would never again plan such a long progress with so many different stops along the way.

“Marianette,” she said. “My head aches. Give me more of your herbs, please.”

I stepped forward and gave her a fresh sachet of herbs and flowers. I wished I could have had one for myself, and a quiet dark room to rest in. I felt awful. I looked worse—in my mirror I saw a swollen face and lank hair and eyes sunk in dark-ringed hollows. It was as if Rannoch Hamilton’s child were sucking the light and life out of me.

“Sing another verse, Signor Davy,” the queen said. “Marianette, what flowers are in this? Did they speak to you when you gathered them?”

I would take thee in my arms

I’d secure thee from all harms,

For above mortals thou hast charms

Sae dearly do I love thee.

“There is sweet cicely, madame, which is calming,” I said. “Some of the French sorrel you yourself planted when you first came to Craigmillar—sorrel is cooling. A little mallow and comfrey for ease, and some alkanet for its strawberry scent and the beautiful blue color of its flowers.”

“But did they speak?” the queen said fretfully. “The flowers?”

“No, madame.”

“You must pick some more tomorrow. Perhaps they will tell me who this mysterious husband is that the queen of England dangles before me.” She pressed the sachet against her forehead. “I thought I would go mad listening to Master Randolph with his cryptic messages. ‘A husband such as I might hardly think she would agree to,’ indeed. What good is it to tell me riddles when there are no answers?”

“Someone we would hardly believe she would agree to,”
repeated the Earl of Moray. He was cracking hazelnuts on the table. “Perhaps it is not an Englishman at all. I would hardly believe she would agree to Don Carlos of Spain.”

The queen laughed. All of a sudden she was in a merry mood again, and put aside the sachet. “Or Archduke Karl of Austria. Or my brother-in-law King Charles of France. Isn’t it strange they all have the same name? Carlos, Karl, Charles.”