The servants were now streaming into the hall with bowls, dishes, and platters of food. Annabella had never seen such a variety. There were oysters, which the men enjoyed, cracking open the shells and swallowing down the slimy mollusks. Annabella didn’t think they looked very appetizing. The prawns had been steamed in white wine. There were platters of fresh salmon and river trout. There was a bowl of creamed cod.
She saw a side of beef crusted in rock salt carried in on its spit, which was set between two iron holders and later carved. A roasted boar, an apple between its jaws, was brought into the hall on a great silver server that sat on the shoulders of four brawny serving men, who paraded it among the trestles before presenting it to the high board. There were a good half dozen legs of lamb, several bowls each of venison stew, and rabbit stew with bits of carrot, celery, and herbs flavoring the wine gravy.
There were capons in plum sauce, geese and ducks roasted until their skins were crisp, the meat beneath succulent and juicy. There were lettuces braised in white wine, tiny onions in a cream sauce flavored with dill, and bowls of late peas. Each table had its own bread, butter, and small wheel of cheese. October ale, cider, and sweet wine flowed generously.
“I have never seen so much food in one place at one time,” Annabella exclaimed.
“I thought our union worthy of a great feast,” the earl answered her.
“Oh, tell the lass the truth, Angus. We eat like this every night,” Matthew teased.
Everyone laughed, even the solemn Pastor Blaine, who knew the earl to be a careful and prudent man, even if he stubbornly persisted in holding to the old faith. The lord of Duin was a good master, and a charitable one. The pastor could find no real fault with him, although he would wager that John Knox would. Still, John Knox was far away.
The hall was noisy but reasonably free of smoke, for the four large fireplaces burned cleanly. Somewhere a harp was being played most sweetly, but Annabella was fascinated by the conversation going on at the table. Lord Bothwell was in high dudgeon.
He had brought them word of the queen’s marriage in late July, and his opinion of Mary Stuart’s bridegroom was not a kind one.
“Damned fool woman fancies herself in love wi’ the pretty creature she wed. Pah! He makes me sick,” James Hepburn growled.
“Whom has she wed, my lord?” Annabella asked. She wondered why Bothwell was so irate.
“Her cousin Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley,” came the answer. “She even got a dispensation from the pope because of the degree of kinship between them. Her grandmother, Margaret Tudor, James the Fourth’s widow, remarried. Her daughter from her second marriage, Margaret Douglas, wed Matthew Stuart, Earl of Lennox. This barefaced boy, Lord Darnley, is their offspring.”
“What’s wrong wi’ him, Jamie?” Angus Ferguson asked.
“He’s a conniver, a liar, a fop. He fancies himself king now that he has wedded her, but she’s nae said it. The little turd makes me want to puke,” Bothwell snarled. “The kirk is not happy, I can tell ye. Knox is fit to be tied, but he’s a fool if he thought she would take a Protestant for a husband. And Elizabeth Tudor is horrified that her mischief making has resulted in this turn of affairs. She hardly expected Mary Stuart to take her advice in the matter of marriage.”
“What the hell has the queen of England got to do with this?” the earl wanted to know. “I would think she had enough trouble seeking a husband of her own.”
“Our queen thought it prudent to ask her queenly cousin for advice in the matter of a prospective husband. I do not believe the English queen is interested in marrying herself. Certainly not with the example her father set. Two queens executed. Two shed by legal means. One dead of a childbed fever. But neither does she wish to see Mary remarried, for Mary stands closest to Elizabeth’s own throne. Indeed, there are those who still question the legitimacy of England’s queen, and believe that Mary Stuart is the rightful heir to Mary Tudor,” Lord Bothwell said.
“But if the English queen has no heirs and our queen has no heirs, then who stands to inherit either throne?” Annabella asked.
“I don’t believe Elizabeth Tudor cares, as long as she may rule unfettered,” he answered her.How interesting, James Hepburn thought.Angus’s wife seems to understand the complexities of the political situation.
“How did Darnley come to the queen’s attention then?” the earl asked his friend.
“Mary asked her cousin to suggest suitable gentlemen for her hand. Elizabeth, egged on by that clever devil William Cecil, I’ve nae a doubt, suggested two men. The first was Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, her horsemaster, and rumored to be her lover, though I think that is but gossip. The Tudor lass is far too canny to be compromised by anyone. The second man was Darnley, for he is Elizabeth’s cousin too, and stands near her throne as closely as does our queen. Neither man was a suitable suggestion, and Dudley would not even come to Scotland to be inspected. Henry Stuart, however, did.
“One look at the laddie and she fancied herself in love. Ye’ve nae met her, Angus, but she is a tall woman, standing six feet in height. It but adds to her queenly stature, but few men stand tall enough to meet her eye.” He chuckled. “How Knox hated meeting with her, for she made it a point to always stand when he was in her presence, and he was forced to look up at her. Lord Darnley, however, stands a wee bit taller than the queen.
“He is very tall and slender. He has golden curls, and eyes the blue of the sky. He is all rose and white, more like a lass in features. He simpers. He minces. But his French is absolutely flawless, and ’tis the language she learned to speak from infancy, although she speaks perfectly good Scots English. He writes poetry for her, and recites it before the court in praise of her. The queen is a romantic lass at heart, and Darnley has enchanted her. She has not seen him drunk and in his cups, as I have. He tends to sulk when he cannot get his own way. Against her councilors’ advice, she has wed him. Now the young fool struts about demanding he be treated like a king. I could not remain at court and watch.
“The queen is no fool, and when she comes to her senses she will see that she has wed a buffoon and a fool, but it will be too late. Unlike her great-uncle Henry, she will not dispose of this unsuitable husband that she has shackled herself to, but will rather bear him, and his boorish behavior, until something, God only knows what, happens to rid her of this mistake in her queenly judgment.”
Lord Bothwell’s gossip and his opinion were fascinating, but Annabella was starting to feel the effects of the last week. She felt herself beginning to wilt as exhaustion set in, and she struggled to keep her eyes open as she nibbled upon a sweet sugar wafer. She had eaten little, for the quantity of food had overwhelmed her. She was simply too tired to cope with making choices. She was also overwhelmed with homesickness, and wished her whole family had been here to share this day with her.
Suddenly the earl was whispering in her ear. “Ye must gather yer strength but one more time today, madam. We must dance before ye may be excused.”
She didn’t dare turn to look at him, for his face was so close to her ear. She nodded. Annabella knew that their guests were expecting to see her dance with Angus. They would be disappointed if she did not. “Can it be soon?” she asked him softly.
“It can be now,” he answered, standing and drawing her up with him.
A cheer went up, and then the hall grew silent as Angus Ferguson led his bride to the open space between the high board and the trestles. The music—a harp, a drum, a flute—began to play. Annabella looked up at her new husband, giving him a tremulous smile. He smiled his gorgeous smile back at her. Then together they began to dance. They moved slowly at first, weaving a pattern across the stone floor, her left hand and his right one raised palms-out but not touching as they swayed back and forth. Then the tenor of the music grew livelier as a bagpipe joined in. They pranced and capered across the floor while the guests began to clap around them. He lifted her up off the floor, swinging her as her yellow skirts blossomed about her. Then, as suddenly, he set her down, leaning forward to kiss her mouth. The music stopped. The guests cheered.
Covered in blushes, Annabella looked up into his handsome face. She felt an odd burst of emotion, although she could not have said what it meant, or from where it had come. Green eyes met gray eyes as she suddenly realized that this was a truly good match she had made. She lowered her eyes, her dark lashes brushing her pale cheek.
At that moment Angus Ferguson suddenly realized that it mattered not at all that his bride was plain of face. To his surprise he became aware of the feeling that by some odd stroke of fate they seemed to match. She was as thoughtful and careful as he himself was.
