The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots Read Online Free PDF

terrible rash—all are caused by this deathly worm.”
    The earl shook his head. “Poor girl, it must not be easy for you. You must try to have a child, you know. That is your only hope. Otherwise—”
    I took a deep breath. I knew what the alternative would be.
    “Otherwise,” I said, “the queen dowager will send me back to Scotland. Back to the wolves.”
    The earl’s smile was rueful. Yet I saw sympathy in his eyes. “You sound like your mother. But now I must go. No doubt Cristy has already found the nearest tavern. I’ll join him, with Your Highness’s permission.”
    “Of course. Thank you,” I added.
    “For what?”
    “For your truthfulness.”
    He nodded. “And I thank you for yours.” We looked at each other then, and smiled, and let the moment linger. I felt something stir deep within me, a sensation for which, then, I had no name. A slowly spreading warmth, a comfort, a sheltering peace. And I was aware once again, as I had been when I first saw him in the courtyard earlier that day, of his bodily strength and vigor.
    “Let’s hunt tomorrow,” he said, “if the day is fine.”
    I nodded.
    “Good night, Your Highness.”
    “Good night, my lord.”



SIX
    Early showers of rain had left muddy patches in the little wood, and as the kennelmen in their leather breeches brought out the hare hounds they splashed through freshets that ran between the chestnuts and the old hornbeams. The dogs yapped as they leapt through the brushwood, and my little roan tossed her head and skittered nervously under me as we waited for the hunting party to assemble.
    I felt a bit guilty, leaving Francis in order to course hares, especially since, of the two of us, he was the one who most loved to hunt. But he was hardly able to leave his chair, much less ride, and I told myself that I was not merely seeking fresh air and exercise, I was taking counsel with my mother’s most faithful supporter, the Earl of Bothwell. Whatever conversation we had, whatever further rapport we developed during the day’s sport, would benefit France and Scotland—and my husband as well.
    “There now, Bravane,” I called to the horse, reaching down to pat her neck, steadying myself on the planchon under my feet. My skirts were damp, the morning had not been kind to my riding clothes. Yet as I looked down at the sadly rumpled taffeta the air seemed to brighten and the sun came out, its sudden warmth cutting through the earlymorning chill. All around me wet leaves glistened as they trembled in the breeze, and the rich smells that rose from the moist earth seemed to grow stronger. Grooms were loading up the horses with baskets of food, and the huntsmen, stamping their feet and flapping their arms, their breaths steaming in the cold air, were signaling to the beaters to begin thrashing the undergrowth with sticks in order to drive the hares toward the open field beyond the wood.
    Just as the horns sounded I glimpsed the earl, cap-a-pie in burgundy velvet and mounted on a dark jennet, riding up to join the party. Then we were off, as one great gray hare after another broke free of the scrub and darted off ahead. Slipped of their collars, the dogs raced after them, barking excitedly, and we on our mounts raced after the dogs, coming to a halt now and then when the clever, nimble hares bounded out of sight and the puzzled hounds paused, yapping and circling, until they caught sight of fresh prey.
    For two hours and more we rode, in and out of copses, through wet expanses of fern and moss, over bare heath and across fields already shorn of their harvest. Hare after hare fell to the kill, though most, it seemed, escaped. They were vermin, they ate the crops and unless they were hunted, their numbers grew far too great. Still, I was glad when they flew across the fields, veering away from the hounds, turning with dizzying speed, their angular movements impossible to predict or follow. I was glad each time the dogs gave up, baying, for I knew that