For My Sins

by Alex Nye

  Perhaps he felt I had come between them.

  I have had plenty of time in which to dwell on these niceties of behaviour.

  When I broke the news of my pregnancy to Darnley in front of our friends, he seemed sullen and guarded.

  Mary Livingstone and Mary Beaton were there, Lady Jean Stewart and Lord Robert and Rizzio, of course.

  There was an awkward silence after I spoke.

  “Well done, Ma’am!” Rizzio cried, and clapped his hands together.

  There were cries of delight from the others in the room, but Darnley was noticeably silent.

  “Darnley?” I murmured quietly. Still, there was no response. “I thought you would be pleased.”

  He spun round then and shot me a quick glance. “I am, Mary. I am!” Then he strode out of the room and left us alone.

  I looked at my friends for advice.

  None dared give any.

  No one would meet my eye except Rizzio who shrugged and said comically, “Men!”

  This caused a ripple of laughter which lightened the mood somewhat, and relieved the awkward tension.

  It was not something I forgot, however, and the incident troubled me. Dark storm clouds began to gather on my horizon.

  Fotheringhay Castle

  October 1586

  “Did they now, Mary?”

  I jump in alarm.

  He is here again – in the darkness of my lonely cell.

  His ghost often slips in without warning, suave in sea-blue satin to match his eyes.

  Angel-face.

  He looks not a day older than when I first met him. A white ruff frames his pale countenance.

  He leans in close and points at the parchment on my writing desk.

  “What are these?” he asks.

  “Letters,” I reply.

  “Still plotting are we, Mary?”

  “Why couldn’t you have been happy with what we had, Darnley? You always wanted more.”

  “More than you could give?”

  “More than anyone could give.”

  He leans forward and kisses me gently on the forehead. I can almost feel the feather-light touch of his lips. But when I reach out my hand there is no one there.

  Am I dreaming?

  Am I mad?

  Am I hallucinating through lack of sleep?

  I pick up my needle and thread, and begin to sew.

  Edinburgh

  November 1565

  Darnley’s nights apart from me became more frequent, despite the secret staircase and the elaborate new bed, and my heart turned slowly to stone.

  Often he was drunk and I could imagine how he spent his evenings. What had seemed daring and risky during those early days – when I accompanied him into the darkened closes of Edinburgh – now seemed sordid and fraught with danger. I thought of his friend, Scythe, and the other men and women who had already seemed to know my husband so well, greeting him like an old friend; and I thought of the tavern with the mermaid sign, and the painted women in their rags. I was not so naïve as to believe he was faithful to me. I wept in my bed at night for what I thought I had lost.

  However, it was not only the women I had reason to be jealous of. Darnley was often described as ‘lady-faced’ in my hearing and I once overheard some of my courtiers calling him Angelica – behind his back. I did not fully comprehend what they meant at the time. But now I know. Now I begin to understand.

  Although I tried to hide my disappointment, my friends were not blind.

  And then there were the nights when he seemed repentant. He would come to me and apologize, promise to change.

  I had grown used to his absence and was therefore surprised when he appeared suddenly in my bedchamber one night, swaying in the shadows.

  I had not heard him approach.

  “Mary, may I come in?” he spoke from beyond the sweeping bed-curtains that partially obscured my view.

  Surprised by his courteous tone I murmured, “Of course,” and held the bed covers open for him.

  He climbed in beside me and we held each other for a moment. Neither of us spoke, and in the stillness I listened to the sound of his heartbeat, his breath in my ear. The warmth of physical contact soothed away my fears. It seemed as if our grievances even now could be put aside, daring me to believe in his regret, but then he broke the silence.

  “Why are you so cold with me nowadays, Mary?”

  My heart sank like a stone.

  “I am not cold, Darnley.”

  “You have a heart of stone.”

  “I don’t mean to be cold, but you make it difficult for me. If only you behaved normally…” I said.

  “How do you know what is normal for me?”

  His words made my blood run cold.

  “I don’t,” I replied.

  He had moved away from me now.

  “You pay more attention to Rizzio nowadays, than you do to me.”

  “Davie?” I said. “You cannot be jealous of him, surely? He is my friend. Yours too.”

  “I’ve noticed! And so has everyone else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “Rumours grow. Even Knox gets to hear of them.”

  “And you would know about that, of course,” I said icily.

  I had heard that Darnley had begun attending some of Knox’s Protestant services in the High Kirk. Did he take delight in listening to the sermons against me?

  “You’re becoming quite the Protestant, I hear!”

  “I like to keep an open mind,” Darnley said. “I never said I was a devout Catholic. It was you who made that assumption. There are a lot of powerful men in this country who are Protestant.”

  “So you sit on the fence?”

  “It pays to appease both sides. That’s always been your own policy, Mary, has it not?”

  I said nothing.

  “Why have you come here? Only to reproach me?”

  “I was trying to make peace.”

  “And so you accuse me of…of what? I don’t even know what it is you are accusing me of.”

  “Rizzio,” Darnley snarled. “He spends too much time in your presence.”

  “He is in my service. I pay him to be my secretary and if he keeps us entertained at the same time, and makes our evenings more pleasing with his music, then what is wrong with that?”

  “Knox has a great deal to say about what is wrong with that.”

  I turned away from him, exasperated.

  “Why do you have to be like this?”

  “It is you who drive me to it,” he said and rose from the bed.

  Blame and reproach came easily to his lips.

  “Why must you always spoil what we have?” I asked him.

  He stood on the far side of the room now, glowering at me.

  “If anything ever happened to you Mary – God forbid – there are many in this country who would be happy to see me crowned in your place. You know that, don’t you?”

  “And that’s why you married me, is it?”

  There was a long guilty silence.

  “You may think you are powerful, Mary, but I don’t depend on you for my title. I have royal blood on both sides of my family – Tudor and Stuart.”

  “You’ve never borne the responsibilities of kingship,” I murmured. “You know nothing of what it means to be a king.”

  “I have a right to rule Scotland on my own terms,” he said, shocking me into momentary silence. “Either by your side – or not.”

  “You would have no right if I hadn’t given you that right, fool that I was.”

  Only moments before, we had held each other in a tender embrace of forgiveness. Now we were sworn enemies again.

  “And now you tell me you are with child,” he added slowly, nonchalantly. “The
question is…can I be certain it is mine?”

  I fell silent as the implications of what he was saying sank in. A wave of comprehension and fear flooded me in an instant. So this was why he resented our unborn child? This quivering life inside my womb, as yet unseen, would become my heir. Next in line to the Scottish throne – before Darnley.

  My hand moved instinctively to the flat of my stomach in a protective gesture.

  He watched me and turned away.

  Horror filled my soul from top to bottom.

  Where was the dashing young man in sky-blue satin who had led me onto the dance floor in February? What had happened to him? Had he ever existed, or was he a mirage?

  The following night Darnley was contrite, but I hadn’t forgotten our earlier quarrel. His mood was enigmatic, mysterious, as if he was on the verge of some strange new confession.

  He kissed me gently on the forehead.

  “Mary,” he whispered. “Is it possible that you can ever forgive me?”

  “That would depend on what you’ve done,” I said carefully.

  I was wary of him now and felt inclined to handle him as one might a dangerous animal, appeasing him while waiting nervously for the next attack.

  He shook his head. “It’s not what I’ve done. It’s what I am about to do.”

  “You’re drunk,” I told him.

  “Oh no, I’m stone-cold sober.”

  Inspired by greed, what atrocity would he commit against me? How far would he go?

  Alarmed by his behaviour, I confided in my friends. All of them sought to reassure me.

  “Darnley is all bluster,” Lethington told me. “He won’t do anything that would risk his own position. You have nothing to fear – but fear itself.”

  So fear ate away at my peace of mind.

  Edinburgh

  March 1566

  David Rizzio played the lute and the lyre like a dream. He was Italian-born and had first entered my circle as a court musician, but within a short space of time he was promoted to being one of my secretaries. As the years passed he became more and more indispensable to me. He spoke fluent French and dealt with all my French correspondence, and also entertained us in the evenings when the long winter nights closed in. He was small, mischievous of temperament, with a slight hunchback which increased with age. He loved me, and I loved him, but not in any romantic sense.

  The long echoing corridors of Holyrood Palace grew darker and colder as the winter progressed. One of my only comforts was to huddle in the small turret chamber off my main bedchamber of an evening, and play cards or listen to music with those who were closest to me.

  Darnley was sometimes included, often not. He chose to spend his nights elsewhere.

  The Scottish winters were harsh and it was a struggle to keep the rooms warm, even with the fireplaces roaring.

  As I grew larger with child, Holyrood was where I spent most of my time. It lay outside the boundary of the city wall and I thought nothing of this. The whispers of conspiracy did not reach me.

  I knew there were those who resented what they called the ‘foreigners’ in my midst. They did not like French or Italians being amongst my number, and they did not like Catholics either. Knox’s Calvinist grip on the country was strong. I had promised never to impose Catholicism on Scotland and I had observed that promise, even if the Pope and my relatives abroad should urge it. Religion is a matter between an individual and God, and I still see no reason for it to be otherwise.

  As I sit here in semi-darkness and listen to the wind howling outside, it recreates in my mind another memorable night. It was March and the wind battered against the walls of my turret chamber, making us glad of the warm hearth.

  We were clustered together in the room I favoured – a handful of us – with a peat fire blazing in the hearth. There was a large green baize table in the centre, and my half-brother Lord Robert Stewart was dealing out a deck of cards.

  The howl of the wind made us glance at one another uneasily and I turned to Rizzio.

  “Play the lyre for us, Davie. It will cheer us.”

  He smiled and, lifting the instrument into his lap, began to pluck the strings. I listened to the pure sound filling the air, competing with the roar of the elements outside.

  It tinged my thoughts with melancholy and I smiled at my guests to reassure them.

  Again we heard the wind sigh and moan above the turrets.

  The walls were lined with rich tapestries for warmth, and it felt safe and pleasant to be here with my friends. There was my half-sister, Lady Jean, the Countess of Argyll, my half-brother Lord Robert Stewart, Mary Livingstone, Mary Seton, and of course, Rizzio. There was a world out there that I was afraid of, but inside, for a few hours, we formed a tight circle of intimacy that no one could break.

  So I was surprised when I saw the tapestry move aside and Darnley appear from the secret doorway to our staircase which connected his private rooms to my own.

  “Darnley?” I said. “I didn’t expect you to be home tonight. Come and join us.” I made room for him at the table. He sat down with his arm around my shoulder and I smiled at him, warmed by the unexpected gesture of affection. Ah, I was so quick to forgive in those early days.

  “Mary, you are winning again?” he asked me.

  “Of course,” but he seemed a little tense, so I squeezed his hand and laid his fingers to rest gently on the small mound of my belly where our unborn child grew. He gave me a quick guilty look which I was unable to read. A puzzled frown lit my brow.

  “Why so tense, Darnley?” I whispered.

  “I’m not tense,” he replied.

  The others were busy playing cards, and the exquisite sound of Rizzio’s playing drowned out our low voices and kept our exchange private.

  Darnley had to lean close to hear me – so close – and he must have felt the brush of my lips against his earlobe. Time seemed to slow down and I stared for the longest moment into the elaborate seashell whorl of his ear.

  This was the moment – the precious moment – before our world exploded apart. I remember it well.

  I can see myself glancing up as the tapestry was moved aside for a second time, and another figure emerged.

  Lord Ruthven, dressed in black armour, with a face as pale as death. His ghostly countenance alone was

  enough to shock us – he had not been well for months,

  and he still bore the marks of the illness that had

  ravaged him. I heard Lady Jean draw in a gasp and Rizzio stopped playing.

  We all looked at the intruder. His fist moved menacingly towards the hilt of his sword.

  Time stood still and our future hung in the balance.

  No one spoke.

  It was clear that Lord Ruthven had not used my private staircase for a courtesy visit, but had some other, more nefarious, purpose in mind.

  “What is it you require of us, Lord Ruthven?” I asked, finding my tongue at last, and deciding to assert my own authority.

  He avoided my eye, but looked instead in Rizzio’s direction. Poor Rizzio had grown pale.

  “Our business is not with you, Ma’am. It is with Davie.”

  There were more gasps from around the room.

  “Would it please Your Majesty to allow Davie to accompany us?”

  “Why?”

  “We wish to escort him outside,” Ruthven answered blackly.

  I knew instinctively that Rizzio should remain with us in this room; I would protect him with every last ounce of my dignity.

  “No, we prefer Davie to stay among us for now. There is no need for him to leave.”

  “I think there is every reason,” Lord Ruthven growled.

  I glared at him.

  “He has already been in your private chamber far too long.”

  There was an uneasy silence; I wished suddenly that my half-bro
ther Moray was not so far away in England but had stayed by my side in Edinburgh, that we had not quarrelled. I missed his support now.

  “He has done nothing wrong.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “What offence has he committed?” I said, standing up now and shielding Rizzio with my own body.

  “Great offence! An offence deserving death!” Ruthven roared.

  At this Rizzio trembled, and I suffered a terrible dawning of revelation. Of course, I knew it.

  I spun round and confronted my husband.

  “What do you know of this?” I cried. How else could Ruthven have gained access to our private staircase, except through Darnley?

  My husband shot me a look of triumph mixed with shame. He had succeeded in having his revenge for whatever

  I was supposed to have done, or not done.

  I heard the thunder of heavy footsteps cascading up the stone staircase, accompanied by the clash of steel weapons. Suddenly the room was filled with dangerous men,

  armed to the teeth, and my poor friend Rizzio was vulnerable to attack. His precious lyre lay discarded

  and broken on the stone flags. I struggled against

  Darnley’s embrace and cried, “If he has done anything wrong, then put him to a court of law – not this!”

  But no one listened.

  Rizzio was still behind me, and I had presumed no one would dare strike him if I stood in his defence. But I was wrong.

  The first blow was struck over my shoulder by George Douglas, narrowly missing myself. Drops of Rizzio’s blood spattered my gown. Darnley held me back and then – amidst all the confusion and noise there was a moment of terrible clarity – I saw someone produce a pistol that was pointed and jabbed at my stomach where our unborn child lay. I held Darnley’s eye, and again time seemed to slow down, holding us in that moment forever, while the world around us exploded in chaos.

  “Dare you?” I snarled, looking him in the eye. “Dare you?” The rage I felt then was so loud it drowned out the horror of the fighting around me and the howling of the March winds outside.

  The room was now filled with men, armed and bearing daggers. In the confusion the table was overturned, but Lady Jean had the foresight to grab one of the candlesticks before it crashed to the floor and plunged us all in darkness.