Chapter 46
THE NEXT DAY, ELSPET SITS in the garden at Holyrood, snatching a solitary moment and contemplating the craggy heights of Arthur’s Seat.
She thinks of the night Bothwell arrived at Dunrobin, his eyes fixed on hers; he saw right into her, drew her to him.
This is how he’s gathered folk to him, of course, made them do the things they’ve done, things no sane person would entertain under normal circumstances.
But men and women will do almost anything when under the thrall of a powerful, bewitching leader who promises them an escape from their troubles.
Elspet can’t believe she was foolish enough to fall for
his charm and magnetism – she’s supposed to be a wise woman and truth-seer. The truth was right in front of her and she didn’t see it. What else might she have missed?
Her thoughts are interrupted by a scurrying Alexander Barclay, who appears at her side carrying a note.
‘For you, Lady Alvah.’
She manages to wave the apothecary away without conversation and takes the note to Margaret. She can decipher some of the letters but wants to be certain she’s read its message correctly.
‘Meet me at the house with the black door next to The Sheep Heid,’ Margaret reads aloud, her expression darkening. ‘It’s signed JB. You must not go.’
Elspet’s first instinct is to agree. She can’t bear the thought of seeing him now she knows what he’s done. She should inform Mar, send the King’s men after him. But even as these thoughts pass through her mind, she knows they are the height of foolishness.
She needs to know what he knows. She remembers his figure in the shadows at Holyrood, his uncanny ability to always be present. His words in the wynd. It seems neither of us is quite what we seem, Lady Alvah.
There’s something else too, something she doesn’t want to admit, even to herself. Despite everything, she’s curious. How could he have done these things? She wants answers from Bothwell himself.
An hour later, she faces a squat black door, next to an old tavern called The Sheep Heid, her skin crawling and stomach churning.
The door is made of charred wood and rusted metal, with a muckle brass knocker, set back from the narrow close in an alcove.
At least she can be confident this is somewhere no one at Holyrood will see her. Taking a deep breath, she knocks.
The door opens a crack and a woman’s face peers out. Cheeks red, hair uncovered, she has the look of someone just risen from her bed. Elspet wonders if this hoose is a brothel.
‘I’m looking for Jamie Bogge.’ Elspet keeps her voice low. ‘He asked me to meet him here.’
The woman opens the door wide enough for Elspet to step through. ‘Upstairs. First door on your right.’
Bothwell is sitting on a dark wooden chair in the corner of a cramped, low-ceilinged room, a far cry from the grand chambers at Holyrood or Dunrobin. When he sees her, his thick black eyebrows shoot up. ‘Thank you for coming, Lady Alvah Gordon.’
Elspet notes his mocking emphasis of her name with a stab of fear, and clears her throat. His eyes remain trained on her face, a smile playing at his lips.
She takes in his haughty expression – this man she now knows is responsible for the most dreadful acts. They’re only a five-minute walk from Holyrood and the cross where the proclamation of Bothwell’s exile is posted, but here he is, wine in hand, swagger and arrogance restored.
The contempt with which he regards the rest of the world suddenly fills her with anger. ‘It was you. The head of the gatherings in Sutherland. The one they call Jamie Bogge. I should tell everyone who you really are.’
His composure is shaken for just a second before that mocking leer is back in place. ‘I don’t know if you heard, but I’m exiled once more. What danger could there be for me in exposure? What damage could be done to my reputation now?’
‘Plenty,’ Elspet says firmly. ‘You need your allies in the nobility. Some of them are even coming round to support your opposition to the King. But if they knew what you’d really been doing, how many of them would associate with you then?
They call you the Devil. The Earls would never support you.
Lady Jean would hang you herself for what you’ve been doing on her lands. ’
A look of fear flickers over his face but then he shakes his head. ‘I don’t think you or Kitty Muirhead will be exposing me. I do know, you know, that there’s more to you than meets the eye.’
Ranyie pangs roil in Elspet’s belly. ‘What do you mean?’
Bothwell smiles and takes a sip of wine. ‘I’m not the only one who’s been going by a false name, am I – Mistress Elspet Balfour.’
‘What . . . how . . .’ Elspet gasps and stumbles over her words, trying to take it in.
His smile turns predatory as it stretches across his face.
‘It’s probably time I let you know about my meeting with the delightful Henry Colville in the forests of Dunrobin.
’ He takes a long drink of wine, enjoying the effect his words are having.
How could she ever have felt drawn to this man?
‘My family has a long and complicated history with the Stewart Earls of Orkney and I’ve been fortunate enough to meet Patie’s most ruthless lackey a number of times before.
He told me all about you.’ He leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out in front of him.
‘When?’ she stammers. Her blood is caal in her veins. ‘How long have you known?’
‘I knew there was something about you as soon as we met. Lady Jean producing a mysterious ward out of nowhere – someone no one’s ever even heard of – and insisting she’s taken into court. There had to be more to it.’
She remains silent, wary of giving away anything further.
He may know her true identity but there are far worse secrets than that she’s keeping now.
She should have heeded her instincts when she first met him at Dunrobin, paid attention to the way his piercing eyes studied everything, missed nothing.
‘I followed Colville the day he left Dunrobin,’ Bothwell continues, ‘when the countess set him free from her stables after his very interesting conversation with you and Lady Margaret Livingston.’
‘And he told you . . .?’
‘Of course he told me.’ He rises from his chair, putting down his cup of wine and stepping towards her.
‘Poor Henry Colville was in a wretched state after his run-in with the Countess of Sutherland. A friendly face was just what he needed. I can be very persuasive, you know. He was only too happy to tell me everything.’
‘But he promised . . . The agreement with Lady Margaret only stands if . . .’
Bothwell waves her objections away dismissively. ‘I’m sure you weren’t foolish enough to think you could trust that man. I already know you better than that.’
‘But why . . .?’ Elspet splutters. ‘Why haven’t you told anyone?’
Bothwell fixes her with a stare and raises his eyebrows. ‘I think you can probably guess the reason. When you have a secret, especially one as big as mine, other people with secrets can be very useful.’
He continues, ‘Colville was delighted with my offer to keep track of your activity and report back to him and Patie in Orkney. It wouldn’t have served me to reveal your true identity.’
‘You’ve been sending reports about me back to Orkneyjar?’ The meaning of this hits Elspet like a blow to the stomach. ‘Then the Earl of Orkney knows where I am?’
‘Indeed,’ Bothwell says with a shrug, ‘and yet you’re still here. And the King has no idea who you really are – our friend Patie has not sent him word. I think we can ascertain something from that, can’t we?’
Elspet’s mind reels. The Earl of Orkney, the man determined to see her in shackles, or worse, has been receiving information about where she is and what she’s doing in Scotland. Was Margaret’s offer of marriage so attractive he decided to let things play out, or does he have another plan for her?
Bothwell sits again and takes a drink of wine, draining his cup then refilling it from the jug on the table. ‘I want to tell you,’ his voice catches, confidence faltering for a second, ‘I want to tell you what happened . . . how I became Jamie Bogge.’
Elspet finds herself even more disgusted. ‘I’m not interested in your justification. There can be none – surely you see that?’
‘After I was arrested for witchcraft,’ Bothwell says, ignoring her outburst and looking past her into the middle distance, ‘I was kept in a cell like a peasant. For a nobleman like me, prison should not be an unpleasant experience. I should have been afforded every comfort. But not only did James fabricate the charges against me at North Berwick, I was also held in a disgusting sordid hole.’
Her curiosity gets the better of her. ‘There was no truth in the charges?’
‘Not at that time. It was a convenient way for James to remove me as a threat to his monarchy. Curses? Dead cats thrown into the sea? It’s preposterous – of course there was no truth to it.’
‘So what happened? How did you go from that – to this?’
‘The King’s campaign against witchcraft causes outrage and disgust, but in the dark, people are fascinated.
When I got out of that revolting place, I had limited options.
I was an outlaw – I couldn’t return to my family, the places I was used to.
And wherever I went, the only thing anyone asked me about was witchcraft.
They wanted me to help them, grant them powers through supernatural means, even cure their afflictions or take revenge against a bothersome neighbour.
They were willing to pay generously for me to do so. ’
Elspet starts to understand what he’s telling her. Perhaps an innocent man could be drawn into that life, if he felt he had no choice. Jean was right all along – what began as nonsense turned into so much more.
‘In Sutherland, safe from the long arm of the King, I started to establish myself,’ he continues. ‘I had to adopt an alias, of course. I gathered money, power and the loyalty of many people.’
‘But at what cost?’ Elspet can’t help saying. ‘The things you did . . .’
Bothwell shakes his head. ‘At first, I thought I could just spin a few yarns, tell a few tales, and people would believe I had the powers I claimed – give me money if I promised to curse someone, that sort of thing. But people expect more. They expect something dramatic. What was I supposed to do?’
‘Not this,’ Elspet says, the words out of her mouth before she realises she’s spoken. ‘I understand feeling trapped, believe me, but the rituals in the kirkyard, the desecration of the dead, the manipulation of women, poor Kitty and how many more?’
Bothwell nods. ‘You’re right, of course.
But I had to be their leader; I had to be the one in charge, if I was going to take their pledges, get what I needed.
To take charge you need to be the one who goes the furthest, takes the most shocking, abominable action.
Or they don’t believe you are who you say you are. ’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ Elspet asks. ‘Why do you care what I think?’
He looks intently at his wine, takes a sip and then meets her gaze with that intense focus of his. ‘You’re a woman of great skill and resources. I’ve been impressed by you since the day we met. I will move against the King soon, and I want you to join me.’
Elspet’s mind reels. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a connection between us. We have more in common than you’d like to admit. You would be a great asset to my cause.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ Elspet gasps. ‘We have nothing in common – the things you’ve done are dreadful. And I’ve given my word I’ll care for the Queen of Scotland.’
‘In return for her protection from Patie, no doubt?’
Elspet shrugs. There’s no point denying it now.
‘She won’t protect you, you know,’ he says simply. ‘The Queen is a flighty child. She wants your help, but you can’t rely on her. If you were to ally yourself with me, Patie wouldn’t dare move against you. Your future would be secure.’
Elspet is silent, allowing herself to wonder for a moment if what he says could be true. She remembers the Queen’s erratic temper when she arrived in Edinburgh. But she pulls herself together. He’s trying to manipulate her like he’s manipulated so many before.
‘You say I can’t rely on the Queen. I hope you don’t believe me stupid enough to think I could rely on you. We saw you, that day in Culmaily kirkyard, when you set those wolves on Kitty, when you instructed them to attack her. You were all alone. There was nobody to impress.’
‘Oh, I’m too far gone now to behave any other way,’ Bothwell says. ‘She threatened to expose me and things got way out of control. You play a role for long enough, and you become that person. Surely you of all people can understand that?’
Elspet looks down at her gown of green velvet, embroidered with silk.
Yes, there have been moments when she’s felt like Lady Alvah Gordon.
She’s become more comfortable in the guise of a lady-in-waiting than she ever believed possible.
She thinks of Kitty, locked in that room at New-Frater House, throwing herself against the door until her arm bleeds.
She’s certainly done things she’s not proud of.
Is she still Elspet Balfour, Orkneyjar spae-wife – truth-seer, wise woman and healer?
In that moment, she wants to cry. But she pushes the thoughts away – she’s here doing good, helping folk who need her.
She will not let this man use her. She could never understand becoming something as foul, as poisonous, as Jamie Bogge.
No matter what he says, he had a choice – he didn’t have to take this path.
Despite all this, though, she knows she must be careful. This man knows her true identity and is in contact with Patie. But for all his lurking in the shadows at Holyrood, it doesn’t sound like he’s learnt of their plot to swap the babies. Thank God for that. She doesn’t want to anger him.
‘We’ll keep your secret,’ she says. ‘We won’t tell anyone the terrible things you’ve been doing in Sutherland.’
Bothwell takes this in. ‘You judge me harshly for these things?’
‘How could I not? But your secret is safe with me, as long as you leave Kitty Muirhead alone and do not give me away to the King or to Patie.’
‘I keep your identity secret in exchange for your doing the same for me?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And will you at least consider my offer?’
She looks around the room, trapped by the low ceiling, the closed door and Bothwell’s gaze, as fixed and steady as ever. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Elspet tells herself she’s appeasing him, that she’s not refusing him outright in order to avoid his wrath and further scrutiny.
But in that moment, she’s surprised to find herself moved by his sad and studious expression, and wishing she’d met him before all this.
Before he became Jamie Bogge, before he was imprisoned, before he chose this path.