I blamed my distaste for him on my discovery of the sort of man he was, but the truth was worse than that—far worse. I remember Bothwell coming to my court at Holyrood, the shabby ladies and the uncouth men of my Scottish court falling back to make way, as they always did, for Bothwell, who came forward, unsmiling and powerful, head and shoulders above everyone else. Someone gave a little hiss of distaste, and someone left slamming the door, and three men drew away and fingered their belts where their swords should be, and instead of being angered at the disrespect, I just caught my breath at the scent of a man who was at least a man and not a half peasant, like these Scots lords, nor a half girl, like my lightweight husband, but a man who would stand to look a king in the face, a man like my father-in-law, the King of France, who knew himself to be the greatest man in the room, whoever else was there.

I see him and I want him. It is as simple and as sinful as that. I see him, and I know he can hold this throne for me, defeat these lickspittle turncoats for me, confront John Knox and the men who hate me, knock these warring lords together, command my allowance from France, defend me from England, and make me queen here. No one else can do it. They fear no one but him. And so I want no one but him. He is the only man who can keep me safe, who can save me from these barbarians. A savage himself, he can rule them. I look at him and I know he is the man who will take me to my destiny. With him I will command Scotland; with him I could invade England.

Does he know this, the minute he sees me—composed and beautiful on my throne? I am not such a fool as to let my desire show in my face. I look at him calmly and I nod my head at him and remark that my mother trusted him above all the other lords and he served her with honor. Does he know that as I am speaking so coolly I can feel my heart pounding underneath my gown and my body prickle with nervous sweat?

I don’t know; even later, I still don’t know. He will never tell me, not even when we are lovers whispering in the night; he won’t tell me then, and when I ask, he laughs lazily, and says, “A man and a maid...”

“Hardly a maid,” I say.

“Far worse,” he says. “A married woman, a much-married woman, and a queen.”

“So did you know I wanted you?”

“Sweetheart, I knew you were a woman, so you would be bound to want somebody.”

“But did you know it was you?”

“Well, who else was there?”

“Will you not say?”