by Alex Nye
“How?”
“I fear what he might say in public.”
“Have no fear of that, sister. I will be watching him. We will keep him contained.”
A dark dread filled my chest, suddenly crushing my earlier optimism.
“Are you not hungry, Your Grace?” Livie beckoned me. “Come and eat!”
I went with my women to the tables where I took my place at the head of the Great Hall, centre stage as it were.
My eyes were bright.
I must dissemble. I must not let them see the dread that lived in my heart. I must hide it. It sat upon me like an evil spirit, trying to suck the life force out of me, but I would not let it. This was my moment – Scotland’s moment – and I would shine. Never had Scotland seen such festivities in generations, and I was the author of it all.
“Your father would have been proud,” Maitland said, leaning towards me briefly.
I glanced at him without replying, but he nodded his head the once, as if to confirm the truth of his statement.
The absent ghosts of my parents passed through the chamber unremarked, unnoticed by all but me. Where do they vanish to, I wondered? Why do they not stay to help their child?
I felt surrounded by people and yet suddenly alone. This is what it is to be a monarch. It is a burden which Darnley will never understand. I know men who have schemed all of their lives for the chance to become a sovereign Head of State, but they know nothing of the burdens and cares which accompany that role.
There are those who bleat about their right to sovereignty, but it is not merely a birth-right. It is a responsibility. And a heavy one at that.
Platters of food passed before me and I picked at what I was offered. Sweet and salty tastes assaulted my palate, but my main concern was for the comfort and pleasure of my guests.
None would leave this castle in a few days’ time without the idea that they had been feasted and indulged to perfection. Despite the winds which blew, carrying the sting of the north, they would look back upon this time in Stirling Castle as a memory of rich red warmth, lit by candles and lanterns, fireplaces roaring.
There are some passages in the castle precincts where the wind cuts through and howls like a banshee, but one can turn a corner and the air is suddenly calm. I would often take a turn on the ramparts and battlements to admire that view, despite the protestations of my servants. And what I remember most is how the dark oily cobbles of the courtyards were slick with lantern-light, rippling where it fell.
And how the shadows held the ghosts of my parents, ever near.
And how the firelight lit the rooms, bathing them in honeyed warmth.
And how the painted ceilings did glow.
And the stone-carvers and masons had left a forest, a city of figurines, all fetched up and perched on the ramparts and rafters, lined up on the battlements, ogling the crowds below, characters of impish delight with their stony eyes goggling and their jaws working.
I loved it all.
It was a moment of triumph, and my father’s Palace which he had had erected on the Rock (as an addition to what had been there before) was the perfect setting for it.
He had employed an army of skilled workers and craftsmen to design this Palace. My mother had told me often in her letters about the clamour and upheaval that had accompanied its rebuilding: the attention to detail, the bustle of painters, carvers and stonemasons labouring away to make this Palace a jewel in the crown of Scotland.
As far as I was concerned, they had succeeded.
And the fact that my father and forebear was responsible for all of this made it all the more precious to me.
As the banquet continued and we were served dish after dish of Scotland’s finest fare, conjured up in the remote castle kitchens, I became aware of a mood, a certain atmosphere. I caught several pairs of eyes glancing curiously in my direction. Was it my imagination or were people beginning to whisper? I felt under scrutiny all of a sudden, but of the worst kind.
The guests had begun to entertain the idea that Darnley was lurking upstairs, but refusing to attend, and the rumour had spread that there was a rift between us.
As the feasting ended and the dancing began, I rose and clapped my hands to indicate a change in the proceedings. Chairs scraped back noisily against the flags, and my musicians began to pluck the strings of the lyre, threading a trickle of sound onto the night. Outside, the dark air pressed against the window-panes, speaking of an evil weather that blew from the mountains.
I would not have them speak ill of me. I would have them rejoice and be glad that they were here, enjoying the feast and the dancing, instead of out there in the darkness, waiting for the snow to fall.
And it did fall.
The wind howled that night and brought a blizzard with it. The guests turned to watch, pressing against the windows, and there were oohs and aahs, and exclamations about the likelihood of becoming trapped here, our horses and trains unable to negotiate the snowdrifts afterwards.
But that thought was for the future. For now, all that existed in time was this little bubble-world of blissful abandon. No one else existed outside of this drama. Stirling Castle was our theatre and our stage.
The villain of the piece was off-stage at present, threatening to emerge from the wings in the worst possible way, courting disaster.
As I passed between my guests I caught snatches of gossip, which were quickly silenced in my presence.
“Where is he?”
“They say he is ill with an old malady!”
“And what might that be? Jealousy?”
A courtier whose name I did not know – one of the English retinue – paled on meeting my eye. I smiled, and held my head high with studied dignity.
“You will not get the better of me,” was the thought which ran uppermost in my mind.
It was at this point there was a murmur of anticipation and the crowd fell silent. I looked to where they all stared.
Darnley had appeared in the archway.
He looked up, surprised at the attention his appearance commanded.
I watched him from the other side of the Great Hall, my heart thumping in my chest loud enough to wake the dead.
The musicians, sensing the atmosphere, slowly drew to a halt and the last note faded away.
It was my brother Moray who rescued the situation, stepping forward smoothly, his hand outstretched.
“Ah, Your Highness has decided to grace us with his presence at last. We are delighted you are feeling so much better after your rest.”
The guests watched.
Darnley stared at the advancing figure of his brother-in-law in the pause created by the musicians. I felt conscious of Bothwell’s eyes on me too, studying what I would do next, and willing me to do the right thing.
I gathered myself and added to the greeting, unsure of how Darnley would respond.
He wavered a moment, his eyes blurred.
For a moment I fancied he was about to make some portentous announcement to the assembled company, to declare that he was leaving the castle as the child we were baptizing was not in fact his. It was, after all, what he had threatened to do. Sabotage the whole affair.
I watched and waited, anticipating disaster. It felt like the longest moment, wondering if he would destroy everything I had built with the delivery of one slanderous line.
The slander was a complete lie, of course, but I was a mere woman. Once tainted and tarred with the brush of scandal, who would not believe the lies? Mud sticks! There is no smoke without fire! All the old adages apply. A man like my father can sire a dozen illegitimate children if he so pleases, but let a woman once be suspected of committing adultery and the consequences are dire.
And I was no adulteress.
There was a whiff of scandal here for the guests to sniff and they were quick to join the hu
nt.
To my relief, however, Darnley did not make a fuss.
He merely accepted my brother’s greeting. I did not ask him to dance for fear that he would refuse me in front of all our guests. I instructed the musicians to resume, and they did, their music spiralling high to the rafters.
The guests began to relax again and I stood with Darnley, murmuring to him in private.
“I am glad you decided to join us, Henry.”
He looked at me. “My sweet wife,” he said in a low voice. There was a look in his eye that frightened me, but I did my best to smile and act the part of a loving wife.
Someone – I think it was Livie and Mary Seton between them – had commanded the guests to begin a new dance that distracted the attention from us, and for this I was grateful. As the guests formally requested the attention of potential partners and assumed positions for the courtly dance, I felt a sigh of relief.
The moment of danger had passed.
The villain of the piece had appeared on-stage, but had not yet disrupted the performance. The drama would continue.
For four days the halls and corridors of the castle reverberated to footsteps and the silver-noted playing of my musicians. Rooms that were normally quiet and bare were filled with festivity. Every wing of the castle, every remote corner and distant garret was thrown open to the celebrations. One night there were fireworks exploding above the battlements, great arcs and ribbons of light shooting up into the December sky, showering the guests with colour, the smell of cordite and gunpowder tangy on the night air, peppering the snow with black soot. I felt a rush of exhilaration on seeing the display. It was so beautiful, so enchanting. My son – for whom all of this was in honour – gazed up at the star-shaped contours in the sky and his little face creased in dismay at the bangs and explosions.
“Do not be alarmed, my little one,” I smiled, leaning in close to comfort him. He still recognized me in those days.
The snow continued to fall, thick and fast, and there were genuine fears of being unable to leave the castle for days.
Maitland assured the guests that they could remain for as long as they needed if the weather did not lift.
There was some anxiety at being stranded in Scotland. The Count of Brienne, the Dukes of Savoy and Piedmont were delighted to have attended such a lavish event, but I could surmise that they did not relish the idea of a delayed departure.
Darnley remained an outsider at the castle throughout. My councillors and advisers, Maitland and Moray in particular, engineered events so that he was disregarded. We would thole him as much as we were able, but he was largely an outcast, isolated by his own behaviour. He resented it bitterly.
On Christmas Eve there was a masque. Guests appeared with black velvet masks across their eyes to perform their courtly dances.
Bothwell and Moray looked dour and muttered about self-indulgence, that the lavish affair had gone too far, but I assured them it was necessary to mark the occasion and teased them accordingly.
Then came the moment I had feared. Maitland reminded me of my promise which had been made in Craigmillar Castle back in November.
At midnight I silenced the guests with a gesture. A sea of faces turned to regard me.
“As we celebrate this most auspicious feast, I have an announcement to make. The Catholic religion has forgiveness and mercy at its heart. In light of this fact, I have considered the request of the former rebel lords – Morton, Ruthven and Lindsay – who have assured me of their loyalty to our royal person and who long to return from exile in England. I have decided to grant their request as a goodwill gesture, to formally pardon them and welcome them home to Scotland.”
A deafening silence met this announcement. It was known these men were responsible for the murder of my beloved Davie Rizzio.
Maitland applauded loudly and stepped forward. “Well done, Your Highness. Such a magnanimous gesture will not go unnoticed, and marks Your Grace apart as a ruler of tolerance and virtue.”
The guests began to move and talk again, but an abrupt movement in the far corner caught my eye. Darnley had left the Great Hall. Before he went I noticed he was white-faced as a spectre.
A couple of hours later, as the guests continued to dance and music drifted along the stone passageways and staircases, I took the opportunity of a quiet moment to retreat to my own apartments. My brother Moray met me on the stair.
“Darnley has left,” he informed me.
“What do you mean?”
“He fled, shortly after your announcement.”
“In this weather?”
“He and his few men took horses and rode out into the night, Your Grace.”
“Where is he heading?”
“Lennox country, no doubt. Have no fear, Ma’am,” Moray reassured me on seeing my face. “It is not far to Glasgow. He will not perish tonight, although…” I glanced at him quickly. The lantern-light flickered fitfully over his features “…more’s the pity. It would save us a most persistent problem.”
There was no one else present to hear him say this. My brother Moray was nothing if not cautious. He would not be seen to admit to such a confession before witnesses. There were only he and I present, in a bend of the staircase, lanterns flickering on the walls. The walls have ears, they say. There was a small window set in the thick wall beside us, reflecting the flicker and glow of candlelight. Beyond that reflection was the bleak midwinter’s night which Darnley had chosen to ride out into.
“I like not the way you talk, Moray. My husband causes me great grief and anxiety, but I would not have him perish.”
Moray looked me in the eye. “Would you not, Marie?”
The note of intimacy and warmth took me off guard. I felt the Devil’s breath in my ear, an invisible sigh emanating from the dark.
“No, I would not.”
I glanced back over my shoulder, but the corridor beyond our staircase was empty. A long tunnel of darkness.
Did someone walk across my grave that night?
Fotheringhay Castle
October 1586
I raise my eyes from my quiet stitching.
A shape in the corner attracts my attention. I glance up to see if Jane has noticed.
He who never visits me has appeared at last. A silent phantom.
I can’t quite make out his features. Is it Bothwell?
Or is it Darnley?
I put down my sewing to stare.
He merges with the crimson drapes behind him so that it is hard to see…
The darkness hurts my eyes, the hours of stitching by candlelight have taken their toll.
He moves gradually forward by degrees.
It is Bothwell, I am sure.
But he is completely silent.
Not one single word passes his lips.
Jane shifts on her stool, and my little dog Geddon whimpers at my feet.
I drop my hand and let it rest on the flat of his head. A low growl still rumbles in his throat. I feel the vibration of it rising through his skull.
Jane looks up in surprise.
“What ails thee, little Geddon?”
She glances at the spot where Geddon and I both stare.
She sees nothing there, of course.
But she is unnerved, and asks to be excused for one moment.
Even after she has left the ghost does not speak.
We regard each other in silence.
Glasgow
January 1567
The winds stopped howling and the guests were eventually able to leave. Stirling Castle felt strangely empty afterwards. With the departure of the last guest the corridors fell silent. They no longer rang to the sound of livery and horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles. There were only our own courtiers and servants left in residence.
“Well, Your Grace,” Maitland sighed. “The
celebrations went better than we could have hoped.”
“Apart from my husband!”
“We contained the problem, though, Your Highness,” he added.
“And now the outlawed lords, Morton, Ruthven and Lindsay are on their way back to Scotland,” I murmured, “even as we speak!”
Moray and Maitland coughed and avoided my eye.
“Exactly so, Your Grace!” Moray said. “It was the right action to take, under the circumstances.”
“Under what circumstances?”
Moray was caught off-guard and did not answer at first.
“Your husband Darnley needs to be warned off his present behaviour, Your Highness. And this is one way of achieving that,” Maitland said. “Besides, they have sworn their allegiance to you, Ma’am, and are heartily sorry for former misdemeanours.”
“Misdemeanours…” I sighed. “Is that what you call them?”
I had had no choice in the matter. Like my brother Moray, I was learning to be pragmatic. Courtly intrigue is full of these volte-faces. One moment they are in favour, the next they are out; one moment they can be trusted, the next they cannot. It is the way of courtly life.
I decided to escape onto the battlements. A narrow stone tunnel led me out onto the ramparts and a blast of wind greeted me. The view below was astounding. The castle is perched so high upon its rock, higher even than Edinburgh. Its height has always thrilled me. The flat plains stretched as far as the eye could see, with the mountains rising in the distance. The cold air cut through me but I did not notice.
Something caught my eye. Far below I espied movement. A single rider making his way at great speed across the carse. I watched as he headed straight for the castle esplanade.
“What now?” I wondered.
I was to find out soon enough.
“Your Highness,” Maitland burst out, when I returned to my apartments. “We have news of your husband, Darnley.”
I waited.
“He lies dangerously ill in Glasgow where he has fled to his father’s estate.”
