Bothwell hesitated, but only for a moment. He was sharp enough to see that this man could prevent his meeting with the Queen.

“I give my word,” he said.

The Cardinal was satisfied. There was that about the Scottish adventurer which implied that having given his word he would keep it.

JAMES HEPBURN, Earl of Bothwell, stood before the Queen of France and Scotland.

He had knelt and kissed her hand and had now been bidden to rise. He was acutely aware, among those about her, of the red-clad figure of the Cardinal.

So here was the Queen of Scotland! he pondered. This was the young woman of whom he had heard so much. This was the “skittering lass” the Hamiltons referred to. She was but a pale and delicate girl.

It was characteristic of James Hepburn that in those few seconds he had stripped her of her royalty and had seen her as a woman. He was aware of curling chestnut hair that gleamed red and gold in places, long—but not large—eyes, a gentle and smiling mouth, a skin that was pale and delicate, a carriage which suggested pride of race and great dignity. He thought her fair enough, but he had been expecting one more dazzling. He thought of Anna’s dark beauty; Mary Stuart’s was of a different kind.

That underlying, but as yet unawakened sensuality which was the secret cause—far more than her beauty—of Mary’s attractiveness, was beyond his perception. He was attracted by the obvious. He thought Mary unhealthy and the unhealthy did not please him. She was French, for all she called herself the Queen of Scots. Her dress and manners—everything about her—was French. She was a fragile and pretty creature—that was all as far as he could judge.

That she was his Queen was quite another matter.

“My Lord Bothwell,” she addressed him, “you have brought letters from my mother.”

He said this was so and that he was honored and delighted to have the opportunity of offering them to her.

He took them from the pocket of his doublet and gave them to her. Smiling, she took them. Then he saw her charm. A pretty wench, he thought, but, alas, not a bonny one.

The Cardinal was murmuring to the Queen: “I will relieve Your Majesty of these documents.” Mary handed them to him. “Later,” went on the Cardinal, “if it is Your Majesty’s pleasure, we will go through them together.”

“That is my pleasure,” said the Queen.

Bothwell’s lips tightened. He himself might just as well have handed the documents to the Cardinal. Did she never do anything unless this man allowed her to?

The Queen was smiling at Bothwell. “Pray sit down,” she said. “Here beside me. There is much I wish to hear of Scotland.”

He sat down. She threw a sidelong look at him. That virility alarmed while it fascinated. She was not sure whether she found it attractive or repulsive. With the Cardinal hovering beside her she believed she found it repulsive. She had heard of this Bothwell; he was the successful Lieutenant of the Border and would have been living a wild life. She pictured him, ravishing the towns across the Border, driving the cattle before him, herding the women… like cattle. She had heard of such things. He would be brutal, this man. He made her shiver.

“You have come by way of Denmark,” she said.

“Yes, Your Majesty. It was the wish of the Queen, your mother, that I should visit the Court of King Frederick to make requests of him.”

“She will doubtless have told me of these requests in the letters you bring.”

Bothwell was astounded. Did she know nothing? Was she left entirely in the dark? He had come to warn her of the state of her Scottish realm. He had come to warn her of the claims of Arran, the treachery she might expect from the Bastard, Lord James Stuart; he had come to warn her of the machinations of Elizabeth of England and her minister Cecil. There was an immediate need to appoint a new Regent. Yet she—a silly, simpering girl—seemed to know nothing of these matters. Could it be true that she gave no thought to anything but dancing prettily and writing and reading verses?

God help Scotland with such a queen! Bothwell thought with deep regret and affection of the valiant woman who had recently died after enduring continued hardship, fighting a desperate battle, not only against the English, but against her own rebel lords, while this girl, the real Queen, mimed and danced in French châteaux, making simpering Frenchmen fall in love with her!

Bothwell was about to speak, but the Cardinal forestalled him.

“Your Majesty, my lord Bothwell will be at Court for some time. You are tired now. Retire to your apartments and we will read these letters from your mother, the contents of which I am sure you will wish, above all things, to know, and most speedily. Promise Lord Bothwell that he shall have audience tomorrow. Then you will feel strong enough to hear his news.”

Mary hesitated. Then she said: “Lord Bothwell, please present yourself at this hour tomorrow.”

James bowed. “Your Majesty’s servant.”

The Queen rose and laid her hand on the arm of the Cardinal with whom she went from the chamber.

MARY WAS THINKING of Bothwell while the Cardinal broke the seals of her mothers letters and began to read them aloud to her.

He had made her uneasy. There was a certain insolence in his gaze. She could not complain; he had bowed low enough; he had kissed her hand in the appropriate manner; he had said the right words; but the eyes—that bold glance… how could she describe it? Insolent! It was not one of those passionate looks which she so often received and which she understood meant that the one who gave them longed to be her lover. This man was arrogant and cold and yet in a way he seemed to hint that he too imagined himself making love to her. It was too much to endure. Yet how could she complain?

She had not really known whether she wanted to remain with him or dismiss him. She had chosen to dismiss him because she felt he should know that it was for her to command. That was not entirely true. The Cardinal had intervened, had suggested she should retire because she was tired; and she had obeyed.

The Cardinal now saw that her attention wandered. He said: “What did you think of the messenger? Was he not a crude clown? It is a sad thing that your mother could not find one more worthy of the mission. But, by all accounts, he may be trusted, which is more than can be said for most of these Scotsmen. A rough fellow—but he did good work on the Border. Such works suits him better, I’ll vow, than playing ambassador. Murder and rape are his profession. We shall have to warn our ladies. We do not want him to offend them. We shall have to protect our serving girls. I hear he has a fondness for such.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Mary. “My mother says he is a faithful servant. I should not like her ambassador to make trouble here… even if it were only with serving girls.”

“I had him watched in Denmark and Flanders. He is in some trouble with a woman now. It is unfortunate. She is the daughter of a retired admiral—Christopher Throndsen, a man of some standing in Copenhagen. He promised the girl marriage, promptly seduced her, and now there is to be a child and he has left her to fend for herself in Flanders.”

“It is clear that he is a brute,” said Mary.

“He considers, I fancy, that he has behaved with decorum. Seduction is new to him; rape is his business.”

Mary shuddered. “Dearest uncle, do you mind if we speak of his affairs no more? I find them distasteful.”

The faintest satisfaction showed in the Cardinal’s face. All was well. The man disgusted her. Her womanhood still slumbered.

LORD BOTHWELL stretched his legs on the bed in the apartment which had been assigned to him. His page, whom he had engaged recently because the fellow’s cheeky manners appealed to him, and whom he called “French Paris” though his name was really Nicholas Hubert, knelt to take off his master’s boots.