For My Sins

by Alex Nye

  The old man watches me scratch my signature at the bottom of a letter with a flourish. I leave the parchment to dry while he observes me narrowly, his great grey beard frothing over his chest, his shoulders square and his broad feet splayed apart.

  A man of judgement and ire.

  “Ye are here fer yer sins, Mary, may God have mercy on your soul.”

  I glare at him.

  “What sins would those be, Master Knox?”

  I must lower my voice lest Jane should hear me.

  He doesn’t answer – because only I can answer that.

  “Ye murdered yer own husband.”

  “What proof do you have of that?”

  “There’s evidence aplenty,” he retorts.

  “You are a fool. There was never any proof.”

  “Aye, that’s what you think. Ye should be ashamed o’ yerself,” he roars.

  His roar echoes and resonates in an empty room. There is no one else here.

  I do not regret those nights I spent with Darnley, creeping into the city, wrapped in male disguise.

  It is easy to be a man in this world. Men walk freely, live freely, think freely. They do not take kindly to being ruled by…what was it Knox called us?…the Monstrous Regiment of Women?

  Life is hard for women, unless you can out-fox the men who stand guard around you.

  I think now of the painted women in the tavern with the mermaids on its sign. From the lowest of us to the most high-born, we suffer the consequences of being female.

  I think of Anthony Babington out there, desperately striving to secure my release, and I shiver with excitement and hope.

  Dare I believe?

  In the dim light of the candle, moonlight lancing through the casement windows, I murmur a quick prayer. The beads of my rosary click together with a comforting sound and my fingers explore their smooth roundness. Those beads are worn down with my hopes and fears, my constant pleading with God.

  One day He will hear me and respond. Not the god of John Knox who is all fire and brimstone, but the God of love and peace.

  He will hear me now.

  Holyrood Palace

  July 1565

  Preparations for our wedding began. The Palace was oddly quiet without my half-brother about and I missed his constant presence, although I never voiced this out loud.

  I had other friends, however. Lord Robert Stewart, my half-brother, and my half-sister Jean. There was Rizzio, my Italian-born musician, and there were men who stood by me and continued to counsel me – Maitland of Lethington, for one.

  I always liked Maitland; he was a man of good sense and calm reason. He did not hold with extremism and radical thought, but usually erred on the side of tolerance. For that, I liked him.

  “There are rumours that Moray has been seen in England,” Maitland told me now.

  “Why?”

  “He has taken the idea of your marrying a Catholic very hard, Ma’am. He is seeking Elizabeth’s favours.”

  “In what form?”

  “Men, maybe? Arms? Support?”

  I was furious.

  “How dare he raise an army against his own people, his own sovereign and sister?” I cried.

  Maitland said nothing.

  The plans for our wedding continued and I silenced any misgivings with frenzied activity.

  Life was never peaceful; there was ever a storm brewing somewhere in those turbulent years, just out of sight but never out of mind.

  The date of our wedding drew near. What I had seen and heard during our nights of freedom in the city should have rung an alarm bell for me. What exactly might my future husband be capable of? But I chose not to heed the warnings. I was too far gone and set upon my purpose.

  “Ma’am?” Mary Beaton woke me with a shake of the shoulder. It was dawn, first light.

  The tip of Arthur’s Seat caught the gold rays of the sun.

  No fire in the fireplace.

  Twenty-ninth of July.

  I began to dress quickly to keep the chill from my body. They helped me into a voluminous gown of unrelieved black which I wore over my silk petticoats and kirtle.

  It was my choice. Its layers covered me like the

  plumage of a bird of ill omen. I rustled as I walked along the long dim corridors. Windows flashed past to my right, giving views onto Arthur’s Seat and the great relentless sky of Scotland awakening under a grim new dawn.

  My ladies and courtiers fell into place behind me and once we were set, we processed in state to the Chapel Royal.

  It was six o’clock in the morning and my ladies-in-waiting looked tired and pale in the feeble early light.

  Darnley was waiting for me there and my heart took a lurch at the sight of him. He turned at the altar and watched me process down the aisle towards him.

  Father Mamaret wed us according to the rites of the Catholic Church – which I knew some of the lords

  may not approve of – but I had insisted it should be done this way.

  “I am not a Calvinist and nor can I make myself one to please one or two of my lords. I promised my brother I would respect this country’s religion and I have done so.

  I was also promised that in return I could worship freely.

  I will therefore be married in the Chapel Royal according to the rites of the Catholic Church.”

  No one had dared to dispute this. My brother had vanished. No one else sought to contradict me once I had made my plan known.

  The chapel was wrapped in early morning gloom. Candlelight rippled against the stone of the walls and the wood of the pews, and unbroken statues stood in their niches, watching us in silence. The Reformers had not destroyed them yet.

  I stood beside Darnley and took my vows, dressed in mourning.

  This is the last time I will wear widow’s black, I

  told myself. Once this day is over, I will be a bride once more and will wear what I please.

  The vows were over fairly swiftly, after which Darnley turned to me and, with a quick peck on the cheek, murmured “There. I shall see you later, my love.”

  I stared at him.

  “But…where are you going?”

  “To our bedchamber. It is early yet, is it not?”

  I glanced at the altar where Father Mamaret was poised, looking painfully awkward. The guests tried to avoid my eye, aware of my humiliation, Maitland and Bothwell among them.

  “We haven’t heard Mass yet,” I reminded him.

  “You stay, of course,” Darnley said politely, as if he was giving me permission. “I shall be waiting for you.” He had an air about him that was both insensitive and blind.

  I turned back to face the altar and listened to the rest of the Mass alone. I was conscious of a veil of loneliness falling down upon my shoulders at that moment, swamping me from head to toe. Perhaps I have never yet shrugged off that mantel.

  I was listening to the service on my own, newly-married – the loneliness of my situation was not lost on me.

  The rap of Darnley’s heels against stone faded off into the distance, disturbing any sense of peace I sought from the service.

  I watched Father Mamaret elevate the host, lost in my own stunned silence and disbelief. I tried desperately hard to conceal my thoughts and feelings from the others in attendance.

  Afterwards I caught Bothwell’s eye. There seemed to be a sympathetic gleam there. “Darnley was never a very devout Catholic, Ma’am,” he offered as we turned to leave the chapel.

  “So I gather,” I replied.

  I thought for the first time of my absent brother. Was Moray right? Had he only been trying to warn me of what he already knew?

  Too late now to wonder! I walked back to my bedchamber where I found Darnley waiting for me.

  He surprised me by being an attentive and gentle lover and it was he who
removed every last layer of my widow’s clothing – which my ladies-in-waiting had fastened that morning.

  I had worn black since Francois’ death.

  “You are no longer a French widow, Mary,” Darnley whispered. “You are a Scottish bride. My Scottish bride.”

  The disillusionment and disappointment of the ceremony faded in favour of these more pleasant exchanges. In the privacy of our bedchamber we were united as any young couple must be, and I allowed this to dictate what I felt about Darnley over the next few months.

  I had nothing to resent yet. Almost nothing.

  Fotheringhay Castle

  October 1586

  The fire has burnt low and I am alone again, except for my faithful Geddon who hides beneath my skirts.

  Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle have both retired to their own rooms, and Didier too.

  I light a candle from the fireplace and set it on my escritoire. Then I open my psalter, flick through its pages and carefully remove a letter I received from France a few days ago. Thomas Morgan, my cipher clerk, helped to decipher the hidden message encoded here. According to this letter, there are those in France who would seek to remove Elizabeth and rescue me from her clutches.

  Freedom is what I dream of.

  The word breathes fire through my soul.

  I have hesitated to write a reply before now. Jane is forever warning me of the perils of engaging in this kind of communication. She does not trust Morgan.

  I gather together my writing utensils then smooth out a fresh sheet of parchment. I dip my quill in the ink, lower it and watch the violet-blue squiggles begin to bloom. I love the sound it makes, a pure clean scratching.

  Sometimes I scribe poetry, songs of love and longing, of sorrow and regret. But tonight I write a letter instead – in French to my brother-in-law, the King of France, and to my Guise relatives. Our secret code weaves its way in and out of the sentences as deftly as my needle flies through linen.

  All that can be heard in the silence is the faint scratching of my quill against parchment.

  Outside an owl hoots, and I lift my head. There are bars at the window behind the casement of glass – rumours of my skill at escaping in the past have forced Lord Burleigh to take extra measures. A silver patina of moonlight finds its way into my chamber.

  I ignore the owl and resume writing.

  I continue for some minutes, head bent over my desk, before I realise that I am being watched. Glancing up quickly I see a long thin shape out of the corner of my eye.

  I freeze.

  Darnley is standing behind me, his vague outline shimmering in the moonlight.

  I gasp.

  He fixes me with a long stare. Our eye contact seems to last for minutes before he slowly raises a finger to his lips. He doesn’t speak but the silent gesture indicates a whispered intimacy.

  I glance down at my letter, briefly, and when I look up again he is no longer there. Geddon has run out from beneath my skirts and is barking furiously at the spot where he stood.

  It is not the first time Darnley has visited me and doubtless it will not be the last.

  The ink has dried. I fold it neatly, drop a blob of melted wax on the fold and seal it with my ring. A secret message curls inside that missive. Not even Walsingham will find it, even if he should break open the seal.

  I will hand it to Morgan when he comes in the morning.

  Holyrood Palace

  September 1565

  And so we began our married life.

  In the early days we were distracted by the need to deal with my brother who was stirring up trouble and rebelling against my decision to marry.

  I took to the field, with my new husband beside me. Wearing a pistol and armour I rode across my kingdom seeking my brother out. He had a small rabble of men to support him and I chased them across the lowlands and over the border again, where he could turn to Elizabeth for as much support as he liked.

  Those days of riding in the field, with my new husband at my side, were a welcome distraction and brought us closer together. We were united in our purpose. At night we made love, in whichever of the castles we found ourselves in, and by day we rode to arms.

  However, on our return to Edinburgh, I noticed the cracks begin to show. My new husband seemed restless, increasingly demanding. When we signed official documents he made sure his signature was larger and bolder than my own. He wanted the privilege to be able to call himself King in his own right, and was angry at my reluctance to grant him his wish.

  A new coin emerged from the royal mint – in honour of our marriage – but I sent it back with the instruction that they were to withdraw it immediately from circulation. They had had the audacity to show his name in the ascendancy, as if he was the ruling monarch and I merely his consort or paramour.

  When Darnley got to hear about it, he grew angry. I was still of a mind at the time to try and appease him with gifts, so I bought my new husband a bed. It was magnificent, hung with violet-brown velvet, cloth of gold and silver, encrusted with elaborate monograms and flowers, sewn with delicate gold and silver thread. It was draped with curtains of damask, adorned with plump pillows of white satin, and covered with a blue taffeta quilt stitched with crimson, as well as layers of linen sheets imported from Holland. I supervised its installation myself while Darnley was away on a hunting trip. It was to be a surprise for him on his return. I smoothed the sheets and admired the finished work. It was a fortress of a bed – a bed to build dreams upon.

  His own private apartments were directly beneath my own and a secret staircase connected us. The doorway was obscured by a hanging tapestry in the small turret chamber just off my bedchamber. Not many people knew of its existence.

  Now I waited anxiously for his return. I had been feeling unwell of late. I rested on the new bed in Darnley’s room, away from prying eyes. It was more elaborate and luxurious than anything I had in my own bedchamber and I hoped he would receive it as a token of my love for him.

  Darnley was late in returning and I fell asleep where I was, exhausted by the bouts of sickness I’d suffered. I suspected I might be pregnant.

  I woke with a start when the door banged open. Darnley crossed the room in the dark.

  “Is there no light, dammit?” he mumbled. His voice seemed slurred with drink and an ominous smell followed him into the room.

  I roused myself and tried to light a candle while Darnley stumbled into the bed. One of the curtains became entangled in his legs and there was a ripping sound. He cursed loudly, and struggled with the bedding.

  “What the…?” He hadn’t expected to find me, or the new bed, in his chamber.

  “You here, Mary? Cannot resist my charms, eh?”

  I backed away from him and succeeded in lighting the candle. Light flickered and bounced around the room.

  He looked surprised at the sight of the bed.

  “I fell asleep here,” I said. “I have been feeling unwell.”

  “Ahhh…” he grinned “and you’ve been waiting for my return!” He leant in close, but I reacted instinctively and pushed him away.

  His brow darkened, and there was a glint in his eye I did not like.

  “That’s no way to receive your husband is it, Mary? Am I not good enough for you, perhaps?”

  “Don’t be silly, Darnley. You smell of the taverns.”

  “Since when has it been a crime for a husband…a king, in fact, to visit his old friends?”

  I rose from the bed where he lay sprawled against the plump soft furnishings and pillows. Disappointment flooded me.

  “I bought you this as a gift.” I added, “It was to be a surprise.”

  He gazed about him drunkenly. “Surprise!” he echoed in a high weak voice.

  “I’ll go now, Darnley, and receive you in the morning.”

  “Don’t go,” he mumbled. “Come
, Mary, you and I can have a little fun.”

  “When you’re sober, perhaps,” I replied, and opened the door to our secret staircase which led up to my own apartments.

  I wasn’t sure if he would even remember the incident in the morning.

  I watched my own slippered feet as I climbed the dark stone staircase, struggling against the great weariness I felt. I had taken the candle with me, leaving Darnley in darkness. I did not trust him with a candle in that room.

  I lay down in my own bedchamber and placed my hands across my stomach. I could sense the new life stirring there and my heart gave a flutter of fear.

  What have I done? I thought now, watching the darkness deepen around me. It was hours before I slept that night.

  As Darnley and I grew more remote with one another there was one in my inner circle who filled the gap, as it were. Davie Rizzio had started his life as a courtier, sleeping on an oak chest in the corridors of the Palace, and making himself useful where he could. As the weeks went by, his ready charm and wit made him indispensable in our company, and it was a short step from there to becoming a constant presence in my inner circle.

  Rizzio was fun, mischievous, warm and witty. He made me laugh, and I turned to him for advice and reassurance. I was not attracted to him, and there was nothing physical between us. If truth be told, I do not think it was women he was particularly interested in.

  Darnley himself seemed drawn to Rizzio, and at one stage they appeared to be firm friends. They would walk along the corridor with an arm thrown across each other’s shoulder. Their friendship flowered to such an extent that I even found myself standing outside of it, wondering at their closeness. Then suddenly their bonhomie evaporated, as quickly as it had begun. Where once they had sought each other out and laughed and even shared a bed at times, when the Palace was particularly crowded, suddenly they were icy with one another, cold, as if their purpose had been served.

  Darnley began to be jealous of Rizzio’s time spent with me.

  I wondered at that. Was he jealous of me, or jealous of his new friend Rizzio?