Chapter 35
Elspet Balfour
THE HALL IN THE PALACE of Holyrood is the sea.
Great wooden structures fill the width of the room, designed to resemble the waves of a tempestuous ocean.
Most impressive of all, the frame of an enormous ship on wheels dominates the centre of the space.
A bustle of folk moves around the structures, pushing waves into position, pulling the ship this way and that.
Players in odd costumes mill around, getting in the way of the scenery, reciting poetry and projecting their voices across the muckle room.
‘What is all this?’ Elspet whispers to Margaret as they enter. Her eyes are drawn left and right by the swirling blue and white of the indoor seascape.
‘They’re preparing for the masque,’ Margaret says.
‘What is a masque? I know the Queen is excited about it.’
Elspet has been at court for over a week now – and keeps a discreet eye on the Queen’s moods.
They’re an important indicator of how her pregnancy is progressing, but Elspet is also anxious for signs she might relax her ultimatum; she’s no closer to understanding how she can possibly give the Queen what she wants.
In the meantime, Queen Anna is following her advice: she eats the glasswort Alexander Barclay has sourced for them three times a day, takes the stewed apples, rose syrup and daily walks in the garden.
The pain in her hands is easing and her skin is growing smoother, less dry and flaky.
But on the matter of putting the responsibility on Elspet’s shoulders to find a way to keep the bairn with her after it’s born, she remains unmoved.
‘If you won’t perform the spell, you will find another way,’ she says, more as a fact than as a threat. But it is a threat nonetheless.
‘In a masque, the players tell a story through performance and music,’ Margaret says.
‘Queen Anna loves them. They’re usually hosted around weddings or baptisms. I suspect the King is attempting to win back her favour with this one.
His anger has not persuaded her to speak to him – perhaps something more pleasant and entertaining will be effective. ’
In the hubbub of the hall, a short, portly man carrying a basket and looking self-important heads over to them.
‘That,’ Margaret says wearily, ‘is the apothecary, Alexander Barclay.’
‘Lady Margaret Livingston,’ he says, loud and fawning, as he approaches with a skip in his step.
‘How are you? I hope the Queen is enjoying the very unusual delicacies I was able to source for her.’ He doesn’t wait for a reply.
‘There aren’t many people who could’ve laid their hands on such a product of course.
Now, I know you are a woman of exquisite taste, Lady Margaret.
But I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting this new lady. ’
‘This is Lady Alvah Gordon – come to us from Sutherland in the Highlands to serve Her Majesty,’ Margaret says.
‘Ah, of course, the Gordons,’ Barclay says.
‘Another wonderful wealthy family. Now, I’m certain these sugared fruits will appeal to someone of the rare tastes of you two fine ladies – they are my latest recipe.
’ He lifts the lid of the basket to reveal shining plums, cherries and grapes, dusted with sugar, sparkling like jewels.
Then he opens the other side to reveal extraordinary shining fish.
‘Or these sugar fish, designed to complement the masque today. Would you care to purchase some? You’ll be the first at court to have them.’
Margaret rolls her eyes, on the verge of refusing, then she shrugs. ‘Why not? I will take five of your sugar fish. Please arrange for them to be delivered to my children.’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ Barclay says, his eyes continuing to scan the room, looking for more cows to milk.
From the other side of the hall, Lady Mary enters, dressed in a flowing white gown. Barclay spots her. ‘Do excuse me. I believe the Countess of Atholl has a penchant for sugared foods.’
Before they can reply, he’s rushed away.
As he does so, a tall, imposing figure strides in from the eastern entrance.
Elspet kens who it is immediately. The Earl of Bothwell.
He’s not in his usual black doublet though: in preparation for the masque, he wears a short, belted robe and sandals. He looks straight at her as he enters.
‘Lady Alvah Gordon,’ he says with a wide smile. ‘How are you settling into life as a lady-in-waiting?’
‘Well, thank you,’ she says, meeting his piercing gaze. ‘What role are you taking in the masque?’
‘I am Idas of Messene, a prince and one of the argonauts that loyally serve our own new Jason.’
‘Jason and the Argonauts?’ Margaret says. ‘This is the chosen masque?’
‘The King wishes to play homage to his own beloved Medea with this most romantic of stories,’ Bothwell says with a mocking laugh. ‘Could we persuade either of you to take a role? I believe Lady Beatrix is participating.’
‘I’m sure she is,’ Margaret says, ‘but no, I don’t enjoy performing.’
Lady Mary has extricated herself from Barclay and joins them.
She touches Bothwell on the back and a look of annoyance passes over his face, but Mary is oblivious.
‘Francis,’ she says. ‘Your costume is marvellous, as always – what a dashing figure. The King must be pleased you’re back in the good books so as to perform. ’
Bothwell laughs. ‘I doubt I’ll be staying in the good books for long, you know how it is – I need to make the most of court luxury while I can. I was trying to persuade the ladies to join. Lady Margaret refuses outright, unfortunately.’
‘I’m sure Lady Margaret is above all this foolishness,’ Lady Mary says, then turns to Elspet. ‘What about you, Lady Alvah? Could you be convinced to play a character?’
Elspet forces herself to keep her expression neutral. She returns Mary’s gaze and sees only derision. ‘You’re very kind but I would rather watch. Masques are new to me.’
Lady Mary’s face cracks into a thin smile. ‘These are the sort of sophisticated entertainments you find at a royal court, of course. They haven’t reached the Highlands.’
‘What role are you taking?’ Margaret asks her.
‘I’m Queen Idyia of Colchis,’ Mary says, drawing herself up, preening like a peacock.
Margaret’s eyebrows twitch ever so slightly. ‘Impressive.’
‘It’s a demanding role,’ Lady Mary says. ‘Idyia is the mother of Medea – the role the Queen will be playing. I’m sure I’ve been given this part in recognition of my closeness to Her Majesty. I must prepare – I expect the Queen will want to rehearse together.’ With this, she turns and walks away.
Bothwell waits until she’s out of earshot and lets out a scoff. ‘God, they’re unbearable, aren’t they? We never thought Iain would find someone who’d tolerate his self-importance, but his Lady Mary’s even worse than he is.’
Margaret stifles a smile but doesn’t reply.
‘Have you been friends with Atholl all your life?’ Elspet asks.
‘I wouldn’t say friends. The man’s as insufferable as his father was. But I’m sure you know, I need all the allies I can get. He’s useful and was a member of the jury who acquitted me, of course, so I should probably show him more gratitude.’
Elspet’s curiosity gets the better of her. ‘Useful ally in what? What is it that you want?’
Margaret’s eyes fly to her – she’s made an error by asking such a direct question. But Bothwell only laughs and leans in closer to her. ‘I only ever wanted what was rightfully mine, Lady Alvah Gordon – the throne of Scotland.’
Elspet gasps – even she knows this is treason – and this makes Bothwell laugh again. ‘I see I have shocked you.’
It’s not only the audacity of what he says though, it’s the foolishness.
Her mind darts back to the Earl of Orkney – another cousin of the King, another man who covets a crown that brings only misery and danger.
She thinks of King James, his frustration at the betrayals of the men he believed to be his friends – he’s supposedly the most powerful man in Scotland, but his power is meaningless.
Why do men crave to be locked in this prison? Can they not see what a curse has been placed on poor James’s head? Maybe they think it will be different for them – that if they wear the crown it will not come at such a price. But Elspet doubts they are right.
She wants to probe further and ask him about his conviction for witchcraft, about the trial and being held captive. What must it have been like for him? But she feels Margaret at her side, her silent warning not to ask more questions.
They look up to see Barclay skipping back towards them, basket in hand.
‘We should be going, Lady Alvah,’ Margaret says quickly. ‘Good luck, Idas of Messene.’