by Alex Nye
“It is I!” he seemed to say.
The moment lasted and stretched while the din of the birthing-chamber went on apace.
The apothecary attended to me and care was taken to remove the sack of the placenta from inside, all of which indignities I had not quite been expecting. It felt like an assault upon my body. But afterwards, when the sheets were changed and my baby washed clean, the room returned to some kind of order and calm.
“I shall call him James,” I said. “For his grandfather.”
I had never met my own father. He died just six days after I was born, but his spirit had never been far from my conscience. Like my mother, he made himself felt in absence.
I held my little son in my arms and a love I had never expected to feel poured out in an instant, binding me to him forever.
It has been my sad fate ever to be parted from those I love best in this world.
Nurseries and wet-nurses would intervene at first, and then the larger arena of world politics. But for now, my little babe and I were alone in the south-eastern tower of the castle, attended by my ladies and the midwives, comforted, cossetted, wrapped in peace.
Darnley appeared that day, amid the sweat and mire of the bedchamber. I lifted little James in my arms slightly, the better to display him to his father.
I do not know what I expected, but what I did not expect was Darnley’s cold reaction. It shocked me to the core. He did not lean forward to peer closer, or touch, he showed no warmth or affection for this child of his own loins, the sight of which moved him not.
“Does it not warm your heart to see him?” I asked.
His cold eyes slid towards mine.
“How do I know it’s mine!”
There was an audible in-take of breath around the room. All those watching dare not utter a word, of contradiction or otherwise.
I was shocked. Darnley had spoken the unthinkable.
“And exactly whose child do you think he is?” I dared to ask.
He met my gaze, but uttered not a word. “Oh, he’s your child alright, Darnley. In fact, so much so that I fear for him. I would not have him grow up to be like you.”
I muttered these words quietly so that it was hard for others in the room to hear this exchange, but Darnley shot me a look of pure vitriol.
“So much for your promise of loyalty, Henry,” I murmured.
He did not stay long after this.
My ladies tried to comfort me with distractions. They made me comfortable, until exhaustion claimed me at last.
While I slept the battle-wounds of birth began to heal, leaving their scars behind – the scars of experience.
I woke to the sound of gunfire and explosion. I started up from my pillows in a panic, white-faced with alarm.
“Have no fear, Madam,” Lady Huntly smiled. “They are simply discharging the artillery of the castle above the town, to celebrate the birth of a son and heir.”
Five hundred bonfires were lit throughout Edinburgh, and their orange flames cast a ruddy glow across the buttresses and dome of St. Giles’ High Kirk, softening
its bleak austerity. Scotland was glad, for it had a
male heir at last, having suffered a ‘monstrous regiment’ of French women for the past two generations. I thought of John Knox in his lair and wondered what he would be making of it all.
Then I turned to mind my son.
I leaned over the cot, but it was empty.
My cries of alarm brought a guard rushing in.
“Where is he?” I cried. “My son!”
“Calm yourself, Your Majesty,” a midwife soothed. “Do not fret so. He is with the wet-nurse at the moment. We are trying to ensure you get some rest, Ma’am.”
“Bring him to me at once. I can feed him myself.”
And so it went on, as they conspired to keep us forever divided, from the moment of his birth.
I wanted him by my side, but the cares of estate meant that this could not always be the case. As it began, so it would end…
Fotheringhay Castle
October 1586
My son never communicates with me in this cold friendless place. He does not answer my letters.
I remember the day he entered this world.
He does not.
I remember how I held him close and feared for his safety always.
He does not.
I still fear for him.
My heart is a broken vessel. It lies on the floor in shards.
When he was a child I heard that his tutors beat him and I could do nothing to stop it, incarcerated as I was, far from my land. He was a lonely little boy, by all accounts, whose father was murdered and whose mother was forced to abdicate and leave her son to the wolves. My enemies, those who threatened my life, raised him. My brother Moray acted as Regent over him for a while. He was vulnerable, my little boy; they forced him to become a King who would do as he was told, and they reared him to think the worst of his own mother.
It is not his fault if he ended up believing their lies.
I do not blame him.
I mourn for him.
I lost my little boy many years ago, and I have been pining for him ever since.
I failed to protect him from their ravages.
While my brother Moray and the cut-throat Morton treated him cruelly, I had no way of intervening, no power to change what was happening to my son.
When Sir James Melville visited me, I demanded to know the truth.
“How do they treat him? What is he like?”
Melville was reluctant to speak at first.
“He is a very dour child. He does not smile.”
“They beat him?”
“They strive to teach him the ways of kingship…but harshly. I do not rate their methods. And nor would you, my lady.”
When I hid my face he added “I did not wish to speak of this, Ma’am.”
“I am glad you told me the truth. I am surrounded by liars. I want no more lies. What can I do to improve his lot?”
Melville opened his hands in despair.
“Is there nothing anyone can do?”
“Ma’am, you are a captive and prisoner of Her Majesty, the Queen of England. If we raise a hand to help you in this matter, we are committing treason. What can any of us do, but hope?”
“I have no room in my heart for hope anymore,” I said quietly. “It is too brim-full of sorrow.”
I have had my helpers and supporters, those who have fought my cause, but none were able to rescue my son from the lions’ den when he was growing up. My brother and my enemies shaped and moulded him with their cruelty, using him as a bargaining tool to power.
And now…it is too late.
It is painful for me to remember those days in the castle after he was born, how the country celebrated, and how I held him close for fear of the world coming between us. Events conspired to separate us and now I know him not.
Crookston Castle
August 1566
After our son was born, Darnley kept his distance and I did not see him for months at a time. He kept to his own affairs; I kept to mine. In many ways it was a relief to be free of his company, but the drawback was that I did not know what he was about.
I avoided Holyrood. For me the place would remain forever haunted.
Once I was fully recovered from the birth, I rode about Scotland, re-acquainting myself with my kingdom. I was in the saddle for hours at a time, my Spanish
riding cloak falling in folds across the flanks of my horse, compelled to keep moving, in a vain attempt to quell my anxiety about Darnley. It was as if I was possessed by some restless demon. If my people saw me, they would be more inclined to give me their loyalty in
times of trouble. And times of trouble I could certainly see ahead.
Bothwell rode with me
, offering the support of his retinue – fierce fighting Borderers.
We were at supper one night in Crookston Castle, not far from the Clyde, when my secretary, Maitland, took me aside.
“Madam, there are those of us who are beginning to grow anxious at the amount of influence my Lord Bothwell appears to have over Your Majesty. Do you think it wise to create such unease?”
The banqueting hall was small and secluded, and our host was not present, having gone out to request the servants bring in more firewood. Firelight flickered against the stone walls. Two candles sat at the long table, casting their shadows across our faces.
“Maitland, do I really need to answer that?”
He cleared his throat.
“I am merely giving voice to the concerns I have overheard.”
My gaze lingered on the narrow window where I could see the moon – a cold coin in the night sky.
He leant forward to pour himself more wine.
“I myself do not hold with these rumours, but they grow apace.”
There was a lengthy pause; a log cracked noisily in the fireplace.
“There are some who say that Bothwell wants to be King.”
I looked at him.
“I cannot help what people say!”
“Even so, you can avoid encouraging it.”
I stood up in frustration.
“Am I to be forever surrounded by petty jealousies and rivalries?”
Maitland flinched suddenly on hearing a noise in the passage beyond. The doorway was in darkness. We could not see who stood there.
“Come!” Maitland called, waiting for a servant or our host to reappear. But the shadows remained still. No one moved.
“And if Bothwell does not support me with his army, who then do you propose will?”
“You have many faithful followers, Madam. You are surrounded by love and loyalty.”
I gave him a wry look. “So much so they thought to threaten me in my own Palace!”
At this point my gaze returned to the doorway where I sensed rather than saw a presence in the shadows. Who was it, lurking there? To this day, I do not know. We heard a step on the flags.
“Come forward, I say,” Maitland barked and rose from the table to cross the room.
Firelight streaked his boots, and the shadows rippled closer.
I watched as he pulled the curtain aside that obscured the door. He turned back to me, disappointed.
“Ghosts!” he said.
I nodded and turned back to the table.
“Are there ghosts at Crookston Castle?”
“We should ask our host that question,” Maitland said.
“Where is Bothwell?” he asked now.
“I do not know his every movement. But I believe he is out with his men, seeing to the horses.”
Maitland took his seat again at table.
“Have you thought any more about the little Prince’s baptism, Your Majesty?”
“I have indeed, Maitland. It will be a lavish affair. I intend to impress upon the foreign heads of state throughout Europe what a noble kingdom is ours. They shall soon learn what Scotland is capable of.”
“Quite so. Then you shall have need to make financial arrangements soon.”
I nodded. “I will be staying at the Exchequer House on my return to Edinburgh, in order to do just that. My lord Bothwell will help me in this.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Bothwell?”
“That is right. He will assist us. And you too, Maitland, of course.”
“And you will stay at the Exchequer House?”
I strove to hide my impatience.
“I do not wish to stay at Holyrood, if that is what you are implying, and it means I am on hand to work as hard as need be to see the job done.”
Maitland did not comment, but I could feel his disapproval. I chose to ignore it. At this point our host returned with a servant.
“Ah, more firewood,” I smiled.
By the time Bothwell joined us, all talk of the Exchequer House had ended and we spoke merely polite pleasantries, while Maitland quietly fumed.
Exchequer House
Edinburgh
September 1566
Night had fallen when I arrived in Edinburgh. The streets were deserted, the people disappearing into the darkness of their houses and tenements.
I went to Holyrood first, spent one night there, and rode up the High Street early the next morning, through the Netherbow Gate, to begin work at the Exchequer. Holyrood lies outside the city walls; it is low-lying and damp. I ne’er did like its prospect, overshadowed as it was by Arthur’s Seat, and I was glad to escape into the town.
At the Exchequer House I met up with Bothwell and Maitland to begin work on the financial arrangements for the baptism of my son, Prince James. I wanted the celebration to be a sumptuous affair. There would be invitations to all the crowned heads of Europe, whether they came or not. I wanted to prove to my contemporaries that Scotland was not to be dismissed lightly, that it was a kingdom to be reckoned with, a state player on the stage of world politics. It would take about a week in all to complete my business. I was not overjoyed to be staying long in Edinburgh.
The Exchequer House itself sat opposite St. Giles’ High Kirk, the seat of that most powerful and most despicable of men – Master Knox. I’d heard he was in Edinburgh too, but I had no wish to encounter him. He owned a tall house on the High Street, with several rows of windows and an outside staircase to the upper floors. He was a wealthy man for one so committed to the word of God. And a happy one too, by all accounts. He had recently re-married. Although he liked to compose long treatises against the ‘monstrous regiment of women’, and complain about us in the pulpit, he did not believe in depriving himself of the pleasures of the flesh.
“The vow of celibacy is a Papist construction,” he roared from on high. “It has no basis in the word of the Lord as spoken in the Bible.”
Did his young bride help him to do God’s work, I wonder?
Did I feel his eyes upon me as I rode up the Canongate and the High Street towards the Exchequer House?
In the library of the Exchequer House we lit candles even in the daylight. The rooms were dark and as we set to work with the ledgers, I took up my sewing. T’was a habit of mine. I ever did take up my needle while my councillors and advisers did sit or pace around me, discussing matters of state importance. With my head bent to my sewing, I could listen carefully without appearing as a threat.
My needlework neutralized me, as well as soothed me.
My hands were never idle. It was a habit I had learned from Catherine de Medici.
“What can we afford, Maitland?” Bothwell asked.
Maitland gave him an uneasy glance and moved the books slightly away from him. “You are getting a little ahead of yourself, Lord Bothwell.”
Bothwell looked stung and I stepped in smoothly.
“I appreciate the advice and support you are giving me, Lord Bothwell, and would not have it otherwise. I am reminded again of my mother’s words to me.” I bent my head, pulling the needle in and out, weaving a spell. “How well she could rely upon your services. If ever I needed support, Bothwell was there – she wrote. If you have need of the same, my daughter, follow suit. That was ever her advice to me, and I remember it.”
Maitland was shocked into uneasy silence.
“I want this to be a lavish affair. It is our opportunity to prove to the rest of Europe what Scotland is made of.”
Maitland looked sardonic.
“Scotland is made of many things, Your Highness, but what it is not made of is money.”
I looked at him askance.
“The coffers are bare, Ma’am.”
“Then how…?”
“We have means at our disposal. We can le
vy a tax.”
“I have never levied a tax before now,” I demurred.
“No. In which case, the merchants will be more likely to oblige. Let us calculate how much we need and then debate the figures.”
I felt their eyes upon my needle as it wove its way through the linen, describing the most delicate of pearl-like stitches.
“Well, there would need to be masques and musicians, banquets and dancing for a period of days. If people have travelled across the high seas to be with us, we cannot send them home without some form of entertainment.”
Bothwell smirked to himself.
“What is it, Lord Bothwell?” I asked.
“If Master Knox could see what we are about…”
“What?” Maitland snapped. Normally suave and urbane, he had become uncharacteristically irritable of late.
“Well, it is a very Catholic affair, is it not?” Bothwell went on. “Knox never did approve of the dancing. Is it not that which has caused him to spit vitriol about Your Grace from the pulpit?”
“The fact that I sing and dance and make music? That I am merry, and perhaps a little too French?”
“Knox never did like foreigners,” Bothwell added.
“God forbid we should take pleasure in life…” I added. “Besides, I care not for what Knox thinks.”
However, I did care. I never sought to displease anyone in my life before.
“I am not sure he would approve of masques and musicians as part of the baptismal celebrations,” Bothwell went on.
“I seek not Master Knox’s approval,” I broke in. “Nor will I be extending an invitation to him.”
“He is a man of the people, we are told. I doubt he would want a place amongst royalty.”
“Nor does he merit one,” I snapped. “I like not the man.”
“With good reason.”
“Let us attend to our business,” Maitland said. “Do you have any objection, Bothwell, to our lavish preparations? Perhaps it offends your own Protestant sensibilities?”
Bothwell’s brow darkened.
“Not at all. If it pleases Her Grace to impress the rest of Europe, then it pleases me. And it serves our purpose.”
