For My Sins

by Alex Nye

  My worries and anxieties back then on that winter’s day in 1566 seemed grave indeed, but how much graver have they become? I had no way of knowing what the future had in store for me, that I would spend much of my adult life as a prisoner, a captive queen!

  I settled into my private apartments immediately. My bearers unpacked the chests and unrolled the rich red rugs and tapestries which always accompanied us, until the walls and floors were adorned with them. There was a desk before the great fire, so that I could sit with my back to the flames as I worked or signed documents, or met with my ministers to discuss matters of state – for there was always business to attend to. The painted ceiling above me was loud with symbolism and motifs, brightly picked out against the dark of the wood.

  A prie-dieu sat in a corner, with a painted icon above it where I could pray. It would have Knox grinding his teeth if he could see it, but he was not invited to the festivities. He remained outside my inner circle, along with his radical minority, agitating for violent extremism. He liked to pretend that he spoke for Scotland, but the people were only grudgingly obedient to his example. In their hearts they still looked to the old ways.

  But high on our rock at Stirling Castle I felt safe and far away from John Knox and his ilk. This was not Edinburgh, where my nemesis could hold sway and dominate and march about the streets with impunity. This was my domain. Knox would have to knock many times before the great gates would open to him and no one would be listening to his sermons here.

  My son would be baptised in the Chapel Royal according to the old rites of the Catholic religion and the world would be there to witness it. I would entertain them magnificently and show them how Scotland could rise to the occasion with its own traditions. There would be four days of feasting, dancing, masques and musicians, the great rooms of the castle filled with music and light. Candles and lanterns would flutter, fireplaces would roar, tapestries would gleam and glint, costumes would sparkle, platters of food would entice, and outside the wind might howl and the snow might fall, but inside all would be merriment and laughter.

  From far away, people on the plains might see the windows flicker and catch the strain of a madrigal, but they would be too far away to smell the roasting of the meats. The only fowl they would smell would be those still wild on the carse, trying to avoid being hunted. The mountains and the stars would watch us from a distance.

  Within an hour of arriving Moray marched into my chamber, smiling for once.

  “You look well, my sister.”

  “I feel it, Lord James,” I returned.

  “Do we have word yet of whether your precious little husband will be with us?”

  I eyed him sceptically. I had half a mind to question his disrespectful attitude towards Darnley.

  “He is due to arrive, but I have no way of knowing if he will keep to that arrangement. You know as much as I.”

  “If he does not appear it puts us in a difficult position. I shall send another messenger to his father, Lennox, and insist his son attends. We shall see what good that achieves.”

  In fact, my errant husband arrived at Stirling the following day. I heard a commotion in the outer close and was aware of his presence before I saw him. I felt strangely nervous, uneasy in my mind. This was the first time in months that we had seen each other for any great length of time. It was painful to meet. We were a constant reminder to each other of our mutual failure and the ruin of our blighted hopes of two years before.

  When he came into my presence I was shocked. He appeared a changed man. His eyes were darkly shadowed beneath, and his countenance was pale as if he was harbouring some sort of illness that had yet to come to the fore. He seemed agitated and restless.

  He came into the chamber with a surly demeanour that did not bode well for our celebrations.

  “I am delighted that you’ve come, Henry,” I said quietly, trying to mean what I said.

  He eyed me suspiciously.

  “I do not feel particularly welcome.”

  “Is your room not to your liking? We have made every effort to ensure that you feel welcome…”

  “You want me to speak truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “It feels as if I have walked into the lion’s den. I am surrounded by smiling enemies pretending to be my friends. I trust no one.”

  “You can trust me.”

  He laughed bitterly.

  “You are the last person I should trust.”

  “Why would you say that…?” It came out as a whisper only. I reined in my fury and smothered it.

  He went on… “I have no friends left. You have succeeded in turning everyone against me.”

  I felt a wave of indignation rise in my chest. “That is not true, Darnley, and you know it. If you are friendless and isolated, you have brought about that state of affairs yourself.”

  “You have never loved me, Mary…You have a heart of stone.”

  It was impossible to contain my despair and anger any longer, and I burst out at this accusation. “How can you reproach me when I have done everything in my power to resolve our differences, after all you have done?”

  I realised we were no longer alone when my brother Moray appeared in the doorway behind us.

  “Lord Darnley!” he inclined his head politely, but the sneer upon his face was not so easily hidden. “We are hopeful that you will govern yourself in a fitting manner at these festivities. There will be many there to observe what passes.”

  Darnley shot a look of resentment in my brother’s direction, but said nothing. He brushed past him and disappeared into the outer chamber, no doubt

  intending to make his way to his own apartments.

  Moray and I watched him go then exchanged glances.

  “Let us hope he deports himself with dignity,” my brother added. “If he does not, the whole of Europe will know.”

  I stood at the window of the Great Hall, staring out. Flakes of snow still fell beyond the tiny window-panes, speckling the cobbles. I rubbed the glass and gazed out at the mountains in the distance, their summits serene and snow-covered. It was not often I enjoyed a quiet moment, surrounded as I always was by the affairs and business of state.

  The ceilings above me were arched like the ribs of a giant ship upturned on its belly, golden oak glowing in the light from the lanterns that flared from the wall sconces. My father’s initials were carved and mounted on the wooden panels above the windows. He had left his mark on this castle. I could feel his presence. I imagined him sitting in the grand oak chair before the fireplace, slumped to one side, thoughtful, stern, taciturn, afraid of the future and what it might bring. He had had wars to fight, worries to consume him, children to rear…

  What had he thought about my birth when I arrived? A female, a girl, a legitimate heir…

  They have told me stories, tales, legends. Some say he was disappointed, afeart at what might happen to his kingdom after his death.

  “Alas, it came wi’ a lass and it will gang wi’ a lass.” They told me these were his dying words, as he turned to face the wall.

  I turn my head and search the shadows of the Great Hall for his ghost.

  Is that a figure in the far corner? Footsteps cross the flags towards me. Confusion fogs my poor brain. Is this Stirling Castle I sit in, or Fotheringhay? Am I in Scotland, or Norfolk?

  “Your Highness, the men are looking to you for advice!”

  A voice broke into my thoughts.

  “Advice? But of course, I was just …”

  Mary Seton smiles and together we make haste back into the fray.

  The rest of Stirling Castle is awhirl with activity. The kitchen fires belch out smoke, the stoves are red-hot, servants carry panniers of water up and down stairs and along corridors. Canopies have been beaten to expel the dust; wine and ale are uncorked and flow freely; bread and spiced meats scent the
air; candles and lanterns are lit, fires built high with coal. It is bitter outside, and it will be a battle to keep the cold at bay.

  After a day or two the guests at last begin arriving. The courtyards and hallways seethe with the hundreds of stalwarts who have braved the cold. Foreign ambassadors, heads of state, dukes and cardinals come in their scores as my guests of honour. Elizabeth’s ambassador is there of course; she is to be godmother to be my little son, and although she is not present herself, Melville is here to represent her as proxy. My former brother-in-law the King of France and the Duke of Savoy are the other two named godparents. Neither of them will attend in person, but their ambassadors have been sent ahead, and can report back on the occasion and its lavish surroundings.

  No expense has been spared – thanks to the coffers of the merchants of Edinburgh who helped us to raise the funds. I would pay them back in kind. The whole event has been planned with infinite care in a conscious effort to impress the rest of Europe. I will not have them thinking that Scotland is a poor kingdom; I intend to show my country off to its best advantage. Scotland may not have the fruits and sunshine and glinting white palaces of France or Spain, but Scotland has its own charm, its own traditions, its own ineradicable character.

  Each of my nobles and their retinues were dressed in their own colours, chosen by me. I could hear them grumbling in the corridor as I passed with Mary Seton. Moray and Bothwell – who normally communicated little – had their heads together whilst viewing the aspect of the other in a slightly calculating fashion. Suddenly there was a burst of conspiratorial laughter between them, and Bothwell slapped my brother on the back.

  I stared at them, amused. “It is not like the two of you to be so cooried in together. Tell me what amuses you so?”

  “Oh, nothing, dear sister,” my brother said. “Lord Bothwell here was just filling me in on one or two details.”

  “You like your costume?”

  Moray glanced down at his suit of green velvet trimmed with red and gold.

  “It’s very fine, Your Highness.”

  “And you, Lord Bothwell. Like you your livery?” He was covered from head to toe in blue velvet, trimmed with silver and white, as were his men.

  “Indeed I do, Your Highness. It is very… blue. And like as not our men will not get themselves muddled up if a brawl breaks out. They can easily distinguish the one from the other.”

  “I hope there won’t be any brawls, Lord Bothwell. Not at this time.”

  “Exactly!” Moray said. “We want no disagreements. We shall have enough on our hands keeping Darnley from misbehaving without worrying about our own men breaking out in feuds.”

  I smiled. It was good to hear them engaging in light-hearted banter. The mood of the castle was becoming infected with good cheer. I wanted nothing to spoil the atmosphere.

  Mary Seton and I retreated to my private chambers to see to the ordering of my own wardrobe. I would shed my plainer gowns. For the next few days I would glitter in cloth of gold with diamonds at my throat, or deep crimson velvet with great rubies like drops of blood on my fingers, or orange damask embroidered all over with silver filigree. And for the baptism itself – a gown of silver cloth, mounted with lace and covered in intricate embroidery, the like of which I would have gladly stitched myself, swirls, whorls and arabesques of silver, dove-grey and pure white. I would glitter like a column of ice.

  So impressive… So cold to the touch… A warm heart beating beneath.

  To finish, Scottish pearls were wound about my throat and threaded into the tresses of my hair. My own flowing auburn hair, pinned and coiffed to perfection.

  Ah, then I had hair. Now I have none. My bald pate glistens beneath the wigs I wear, although none shall see it.

  It was the morning of the baptism. The nineteenth day of December. Mary Seton and Mary Livingstone and others had finished my toilette. We had been up since before dawn, pulling back the bed drapes and the shutters onto a cold dark night. Candles were lit and my servant, Christina Hogg, attended to the fire until it roared up the wide chimney breast. I shivered next to its warmth in my gown.

  “Be careful you don’t melt, Your Grace,” Mary Seton said.

  I held the stiffly-embroidered cloth between my fingers. “This will never melt. Where is my son, Christina?”

  “They will be bringing him soon, Ma’am.”

  “I like to have him sleep here in the chamber with me. Could we not manage to arrange this, Mary?”

  “I see no reason why not…” Mary Seton replied.

  “The wet-nurse, Ma’am. He has not yet been weaned.”

  “Then let the wet-nurse sleep here too. I miss my son so…I hope the others are readying themselves.”

  “Her Highness Queen Elizabeth has sent a huge silver font as a christening gift, Ma’am. The Duke of Bedford conveyed it himself, it would seem.”

  My women laughed at the vision of the duke struggling under its weight.

  “Surely not?”

  “It is a great, cumbersome object, covered with gems.”

  “Then our cousin has extended herself. It is not like her to be so extravagant with her purse.”

  “Ma’am!” Mary Seton chastised me.

  Elizabeth has never been one for wasting money on fripperies. We all knew that. So I was amazed that she should have gone to all the trouble of transporting a baptismal font of solid silver for my son to be baptised in. I suppose she wanted to place herself conspicuously at the centre of the ceremony, even if only by proxy.

  It was an hour or two later that Moray burst into my chamber.

  “He’s refusing to attend the ceremony!”

  “What? Who, my lord?”

  “Your husband…” Moray said, adding “Your Grace.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s refusing to leave his room. He is adamant that he will not be attending under any circumstances.”

  “Then let him sulk…”

  “Your Grace, do you not see how that will appear to our guests? It will be a clear statement to them. He is already suggesting that Prince James is not…” He hesitated for a moment, glancing awkwardly at the gathered company in my room, “…is not his son.”

  “Well, then who the devil does he think is the father?” I burst out, indignant and furious.

  Moray cleared his throat, but no one said anything.

  “This is ridiculous,” I wept, wringing my hands until the rings bit into my fingers. “What does he expect

  to gain? He seeks to ruin everything.”

  Moray was enraged. “Your Grace, we shall pay him a visit. Together.”

  “I am almost more afraid of him appearing at the ceremony. What if he stands there before all the guests and denies our son? What then? He would do anything to embarrass and humiliate me!”

  “Your Grace, we shall not give him that opportunity. Come!”

  My brother Moray beckoned me to follow him as he strode to the King’s apartments. Our feet rang out loudly along the stone passageways. Moray threw open the heavy oak door at once and marched straight into King Henry’s presence.

  King Henry, I am ashamed to say, was skulking in a corner near the fireplace, almost cowering, and part of me felt a painful twist of pity, despite my fury at his behaviour.

  “Lord Darnley!” Moray began.

  “King Henry – to you!”

  “However you style yourself, Your Grace, I demand to know the meaning of your behaviour!”

  Darnley interrupted him. “So, she gets her henchmen to deal with me now, does she?” He shot me a vindictive glance.

  “Do you have any idea,” Moray barked at him “how this will look?”

  Darnley gave an innocent shrug of the shoulders. He was deliberately trying to be provocative.

  Moray stepped forward. “I would advise you,” he muttered, “to trea
t Her Highness with a little more respect, if only for your own sake!”

  Darnley locked eyes with him. “I’ll treat my wife as I please!”

  My brother’s eyes flashed and he said in a quiet, menacing tone, “Not in my presence you won’t.”

  I was surprised and moved by Moray’s defence of me. In spite of our differences he seemed intent on defending my honour.

  “You have made a grave mistake, Darnley. If you refuse to take your place by Her Highness’s side at this ceremony, then I cannot answer for your personal safety.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath. The air of the chamber seemed suddenly suffocating, poisonous with threat. The three of us were caught in a tableau that will never be erased from my mind.

  As he spoke Moray pushed my husband back against the wall and pinioned him there, with one hand on his throat. I almost pitied Darnley in that moment.

  “Is this a threat?” he whispered.

  “Well done!” Moray hissed.

  “I’ll set my men on you,” Darnley protested weakly, struggling against my brother’s stranglehold. “I’ll let everyone know how you’ve treated me. I’ll tell them all – your precious foreign guests. I’ll let them know what you’re plotting, what you’re up to. I’m not blind. I have eyes and I can see…”

  “You see nothing,” Moray spat.

  Then Moray pulled back his arm and I heard the sound of a slap ringing on the air. He pulled at Darnley’s open shirt.

  “Get dressed!” he ordered.

  The slap had sobered Darnley in an instant, and shocked me. A red weal had appeared across his cheek where Moray’s ring had bit deep and drawn blood. He did not protest any more.