The Queen’s Consort: The Story of Mary Queen of Scots and Lord Darnley by Steven Veerapen

Author:Steven Veerapen [Veerapen, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B07F745LPB
Publisher: Sharpe Books
Published: 2018-07-02T06:00:00+00:00

16

Darnley stood preening in front of the mirror at Holyroodhouse, stepping back to admire the effect of the regal, manly beard with which he was attempting to strengthen his jawline. It was wispy and flaxen, but it was a beard all the same. No one would ever call the King of Scots lady-faced. It was November, and in the weeks since the end of the civil war (which he still insisted on the skirmish being called), he had felt curiously out of sorts. At the start of the month Mary had been struck down by a bout of vomiting in the morning and briefly confined to bed, leaving him in charge of government. Yet he noticed that in Privy Council meetings, now reduced to a small rump of lords, his voice was often given polite hearing and then ignored. Conversely, recent attendees Bothwell and the nervous, jittery Huntly were given undue respect. In response he had tried seeking out his lords individually to give his opinion on matters man-to-man but was barely humoured. His father had returned to Glasgow, ostensibly mopping up lingering rebel support, leaving him with no partisans. He was crestfallen. He had hoped to see behind the veil, to glimpse the mysteries and secrets of power. Disappointingly, its true source seemed to be a fiction, always deferred, fragmented and deputised.

Where previously Mary had been an enthusiastic bedfellow she now came to his chambers to do her marital duty only sporadically. At first he assumed her illness was to blame, but she made no attempt to resume the regularity of her visits after being released from her sickbed. He missed her. After years of sexual inactivity, he had enjoyed the private aspects of married life, and enjoyed equally the private talks afterwards, before she returned to her own rooms. And David Riccio, who had been a poor, humble little wretch when Darnley had come to Scotland now paraded around in finery, the little traitor having all but abandoned their friendship to spend his time in the queen’s shadow. These were strange times indeed.

He gave himself a final pout in the mirror then crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. He was running late for a Privy Council meeting, hoping to keep them all waiting. He had come to his rooms to be pinned and laced into a new suit in the hopes that a bolder outfit would turn some attention to his opinions when he made a grand, belated entrance. He went in a cloud of aniseed and perfume towards the Council Chamber. To his surprise, before he could reach it he found his councillors pouring out of the north range of the palace.

‘Your Grace,’ Atholl nodded. The lumbering bear, usually so jocular, averted his eyes.

‘My lord. We are to be in council.’

‘The Council has taken place, your Grace.’ This was Bothwell. ‘Her Grace was insistent that it not be delayed.’

‘Her Majesty cannot do that. Meetings of the Privy Council must await the presence of the king.’

‘I suggest you take that up with your wife.

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