Gladly then he agreed to return with her to Holyrood.
“Not to Holyrood,” she said. “At least, not until your health is mended, lest you should carry thither infection dangerous to your little son.”
“Whither then?” he asked her, and when she mentioned Craigmillar, he started up in bed, so that the taffeta slipped from his face, and it was with difficulty that she dissembled the loathing with which the sight of its pustules inspired her.
“Craigmillar!” he cried. “Then what I was told is true.”
“What were you told?” quoth she, staring at him, brows knit, her face blank.
A rumour had filtered through to him of the Craigmillar bond. He had been told that a letter drawn up there had been presented to her for her signature, which she had refused. Thus much he told her, adding that he could not believe that she would do him any hurt; and yet why did she desire to bear him to Craigmillar?
“You have been told lies,” she answered him. “I saw no such letter; I subscribed none, nor was ever asked to subscribe any,” which indeed was literally true. “To this I swear. As for your going to Craigmillar, you shall go whithersoever you please, yourself.”
He sank back on his pillows, and his trembling subsided.
“I believe thee, Mary. I believe thou'ld never do me any harm,” he repeated, “and if any other would,” he added on a bombastic note, “they shall buy it dear, unless they take me sleeping. But I'll never to Craigmillar.”
“I have said you shall go where you please,” she assured him again.