For My Sins

by Alex Nye

  I glared at him. “I will not have them removed from my sight.”

  “They will all leave, immediately, whether you will it or not.”

  “Are you so cold and callous in your purpose,” I asked him “that you could do this to your own queen whom you have always served so well? I cannot believe it is in you, Bothwell.”

  James Hepburn looked at me then and said “Begin to believe it. I did not expect you to deny me, Ma’am.

  Twice I did ask you and twice you did refuse. The third time…you will not refuse me. There shall be no gainsaying this.”

  As my servants and ladies-in-waiting were ordered to leave Dunbar, I saw the extent of how Bothwell’s pride had been wounded by my two refusals.

  His mind was made up and he had a force of eight hundred men to prove it.

  I have borne many hard lessons in life and this was but one of them.

  I had thought Bothwell was a good man; I thought I knew the extent of his faults. But I was wrong.

  Once my courtiers had been sent away, I was allowed to ‘rest’.

  I paced the castle ramparts, looking longingly out to sea, wondering how I would bear what was to follow, how I could best defend myself.

  It was but a few hours later that Bothwell came to me in my own private chamber.

  We were alone, and there was no one to protect me. I looked him in the eye and said, “My Lord Bothwell, I did once hold you in higher esteem and regard than I do now – although not high enough to marry you. By forcing me to accompany you here you have not improved your standing with me.”

  There was a short silence.

  “You have wounded my pride, Marie.”

  I looked at him. “You do not address me by my title?”

  He smiled. “I had thought we were making good progress in our affection for one another and felt I had good reason to hope. I had thought we might follow through what had only been hinted at.”

  “Follow through?” I looked at him. “Hinted at? I hinted at nothing!”

  “I beg to differ, Your Majesty,” he said. “The Exchequer House? Do you not remember those times when you turned to me? I know the look in a woman’s eye and can presume to know what it means.”

  “You presume too far, Bothwell.”

  “I think not,” he said.

  “You have…” my voice faltered at this point, “you have ruined what we had…”

  I broke off.

  “Others know what is best for you, Marie,” he said gently. “You should allow us to look after your personal safety. Do I make myself clear?”

  Up until this point I had remained calm. I had no choice if I wished to keep my dignity. I knew that my reputation was perhaps forever tarnished. Women are chattels to be bought and sold; even a monarch, a queen ordained by God, is no exception and can be bargained for like coveted goods.

  Men rule this world we live in and it is their laws and priorities which hold sway. We merely bear their children and their pain, and try to make the best of it.

  What happened next is hard to describe.

  I made a move towards the door, but he barred my way.

  “I wish to leave,” I cried and began to push myself past him in a blind panic, but he did fling me so hard that I hit my head against the bedpost. It was then I began to realise what would follow.

  Bothwell seemed taken aback at his own violence. He made a move to apologize but I slapped him away.

  “For your own good, Ma’am, it would be best for everyone if you were to oblige me by becoming my wife.”

  And my consent, apparently, was not what was needed.

  He forced himself upon me.

  Fotheringhay Castle

  October 1586

  Darnley claps his hands in slow motion, as if congratulating my performance.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  I lift my tapestry and continue to sew in the firelight, calm in the telling of my story.

  “Believe what you like.”

  Dunbar Castle

  April 1567

  Sir James Melville and others were present in the heavily-fortified castle of Dunbar while I was held against my will, and not one of them burst into my private chamber to defend their queen and demand she be freed and taken back to Edinburgh.

  Besides, it was now too late.

  I did not tell anyone what had happened. Abduction is an ugly word, and an ambiguous one. Men like Knox have made it so. Women of my position in life know that the shame of it is too great – so we keep it to ourselves. The secret dies with us. We go to our graves with it sealed away in our hearts.

  Instead I did raise my head high and bore my fate.

  In a letter I wrote to Elizabeth, I spoke true when I said, “Although we found his doings rude and strange, yet were his answer and words gentle. As it has succeeded, so we must make the best of it.”

  If I search my own feelings I cannot deny that I had never found his company objectionable before now. I had sought him out; found his person attractive, his presence a comfort. I had never suspected in my worst nightmares that Bothwell would force himself upon me.

  I had trusted him.

  But something in me changed towards him.

  He would need to ask my forgiveness.

  And ask it, he did.

  Give it, I did not…

  Not at first…

  I then went on to point out the obvious.

  “I am a widow, Bothwell, but you still have a wife. It does not matter how much you coerce your Queen or claim the backing of your supporters – it is a nonsense you speak of. The prospect of any marriage between us is impossible.”

  Bothwell shook his head.

  “A minor obstacle that can be dealt with. Lady Jean Gordon has no strong wish to remain married to me.”

  “In the Catholic Church marriages are not so easily annulled.”

  Bothwell shrugged, as if it were a small matter.

  “Then we will ensure this is not a Catholic marriage!”

  We spent almost two weeks at Dunbar, isolated from the rest of my court circle. Bothwell ensured that we shared the same bedchamber and I allowed myself to sink into the trap that had been made for me.

  We slept together, ate together, lived together, and waited…

  Sometimes Bothwell walked with me along the battlements where I liked to retreat for some ‘air’. The wind was so strong up here that it swept back my cloak and hood and almost blew me from my feet. I watched the surf endlessly crashing and pulling back, far below in a relentless rhythm. At one point I went up there alone, despite – or almost because of – an ominous horizon. While I stood there I felt the sky darken, moment by moment. A storm was imminent.

  What is going to happen? I wondered, as the clouds met overhead and day turned to night.

  I did not move. I wanted to stay and witness the cataclysm.

  Bothwell suddenly appeared at my side and insisted I take shelter below, while above us the sky cracked and a deluge drowned the ramparts.

  Once inside an inner passageway, where the wind still howled, I shivered, drenched in every part.

  “What are you about, Marie – in this?” He had taken to calling me by my French name, as a sign of affection.

  I blinked away the rainwater from my eyes and saw his face swimming in a blurred fashion before me. Was he real, or imagined?

  I thought I saw concern written there.

  Then he did something that took me by surprise. He pulled me quickly towards him and stroked the damp hair from my face. It was as if he suddenly saw for a moment the toll his actions had taken upon me.

  “Marie,” he murmured.

  He kissed my forehead then put me aside again. His actions merely confused me further. I did not know what to believe.

  “Come, we’ll escape the stor
m inside.”

  But there was a worse storm coming. One we would never escape. I knew this as I watched the torches guttering against the darkened walls, slick with wet.

  Life was beginning to race ahead of me, like a stallion out of control, and I struggled to rein it in.

  Those twelve days became a strange dream-like retreat in the end, from all the cares of governing. I almost gave up, sacrificed control. Part of me had no choice. Although spring was not far away, that ferocious ocean surged and moaned like a wild beast, so that fountains of spray continually shot almost as high as the castle ramparts.

  One morning I woke with a familiar feeling in my body. I felt leaden, exhausted. Nausea pervaded every fibre of my being, and although I was not physically sick, every sense seemed to be invaded by it. Everything I looked at, touched, smelled, came to me through a miasma of sickness.

  I told no one. This was a child conceived out of wedlock. It would be a bastard, like my brother Moray who had ever resented the fact. I thought of Knox back in Edinburgh, his insufferable glee and triumphalism if he ever got wind of my predicament, and I struggled to hide my condition even from Bothwell.

  Pregnancy does not agree with me; it makes me grow despondent.

  Bothwell was restless, nervous. I could sense this during our nights secluded together in a high chamber.

  I do not know what Bothwell noticed. He was too bound up with his own ambition. He had once been a favourite of my mother’s, Marie of Guise, and he had foolishly fixed his sights upon her daughter. What had seemed like endearing loyalty had become something else entirely.

  “Marie,” he said at one point. “You need me now. When we return to Edinburgh, the world will be waiting for us, and you will need me by your side.”

  I looked at him, and wondered precisely what would be waiting for me out there.

  When I rode back into Edinburgh almost two weeks later, it was with a heavy heart.

  What I had already suspected turned out in fact to be true: I was with child. There was no alternative, and I must salvage what I could of the situation.

  Edinburgh

  May 1567

  The sea fortress receded into the background as we made our way towards Edinburgh. Dunbar is a memory, a stain on my conscience, and only I know what secrets took place there. I confide in no one, not even the ghosts who inhabit my lonely chamber here at Fotheringhay; not even my Catholic confessor will ever know what unfolded behind the scenes.

  Bothwell kept me there for twelve days, and in that time no one made a move to defend me – not even Melville, or Maitland, or my brother Moray.

  During our enforced seclusion Bothwell had become gentle, even apologetic, almost, but he insisted it was for the best and almost persuaded me of the fact.

  He had a purpose in mind. “With me by your side, Marie, you will be stronger, safer.”

  I did my best to believe him. There was at least some truth in his assertion that with his army at my disposal I could defend the throne for my son. Certainly no others had rushed to my defence.

  While we remained at Dunbar, Bothwell sent instructions through to Edinburgh that a divorce should be obtained from the law courts. Word came through that Lady Jean was in agreement; she was happy to see the proceedings rushed through in all haste.

  I recalled that she had been reluctant to marry Bothwell, having been promised to Alexander Ogilvie, and still held that man in great affection. She was no doubt relieved to be shot of a partnership which had ever been irksome to her.

  By the time we left Dunbar I was suffering from morning sickness. I was left with little alternative. My plight could not be mended other than by agreeing to marry Bothwell, father of my unborn child.

  We entered the town through the West Port, in as discreet a fashion as possible, and travelled up the steep cobbled Bow to the castle on its platform of polished black rock. A strange hush descended on the people who saw me pass by. Did they know I was, in part, a captive queen?

  Bothwell still held my horse by the bridle all the way. As I looked to left and right, I saw the townsfolk line the streets and stop what they were doing to stare. I saw looks of pity, confusion and bewilderment on their faces.

  I had no choice but to endure. How could I tell the world that I – a ruler by divine right – had been coldly taken by a man I trusted? The world does not listen to women, even those ordained by God to rule. As the world knows, it is always the fault of the woman. She must take the blame, bear the shame.

  The drawbridge was thrust down with a reverberating creak of straining timbers; we passed over it into the mouth of the castle and the heavy doors clanged shut behind us.

  Bothwell proposed that we should remain in the castle while the banns were being called. He did not relish the thought of staying in Holyrood until he could be sure of his position.

  I felt like a prisoner on that windswept summit, the hostile town stretched below me. Bothwell had a retinue of professional armed arquebusiers ringed round to ‘protect’ us.

  “I have never felt quite so heavily protected in my life before, James,” I ventured to remark.

  The sarcasm of this comment was not lost on him.

  We kept to the rooms in the south-east tower, where I had given birth to my little son one year before. There was a strained atmosphere in the castle which the few servants permitted to remain near me remarked upon. I still longed to have my ladies-in-waiting with me, but Bothwell refused. He promised that they would be part of the household once we were safely established in Holyrood as a married couple.

  I protested, but in vain.

  Was there any comfort to be had in this relationship?

  I reflect on it now that the years have passed. Bothwell has become a fading memory, but he once loomed large on my horizon. He changed the course of my destiny.

  I cannot deny that as the days went by there did begin to be some warmth in our physical relationship. I was isolated, cut off from my friends, with only Bothwell to keep me company. He showed concern for my welfare; at length I began to return the warmth.

  But it was a bad beginning, and as such, it would be hard to fix.

  Up in the tower, I took time to sit at my desk and wrote to the foreign heads of state, including Elizabeth, informing them of my decision to marry Bothwell. I needed to argue the case as I could appreciate their protestations, but the one salient point which I forebore to mention was my abduction and subsequent pregnancy.

  I hinted at it between the lines, but whether they recognized the import of it, I do not know. Elizabeth was genuinely horrified at the dangerous position I had been placed in, but she did not know that I was with child.

  No one knew.

  At this point I had not even confided in my ladies-in-waiting because they had not yet been allowed to attend me. There were now no friends nearby I could tell.

  The facts of the matter are these. When a woman is coldly taken against her will, she is expected to marry her attacker in order to rescue her own honour. There is no other way forward. Otherwise she is damned. Look across Europe, and even among ladies of the nobility and crowned heads of state, the same holds true. It is, however, rare for a man like Bothwell to have the audacity to abduct a queen and force her against her will.

  I couched my letters in words which did hint at my predicament, and explained that it did seem that my advisers and councillors were keen for me to marry a Scotsman rather than a foreigner, and one with adequate forces at his disposal. This being the case, Bothwell seemed a likely candidate.

  I got no encouragement or support from my old friends and relatives in France. I was almost too tired and worn down to care about what foreigners abroad might think.

  I had a rugged country to control, one which my mother before me had also struggled with. I saw that I would need to concentrate my efforts to rescue the situation and use what troops I had at my
disposal to strengthen my position. It was imperative that I should stop factions from rising up and brewing more trouble.

  If Bothwell could help me with that, then so be it!

  Knox refused to publish the banns of marriage, of course. Instead, he preached fire and brimstone from his ugly pulpit and the people had no choice but to sit and listen. If they were Protestant they filed into the High Kirk and endured his wrath. A storm of torrential abuse against me was unleashed, as far as I could tell.

  I wept tears of frustration, but Bothwell told me to remain calm. “Knox can be dealt with once we are married. You will not need to endure his abuse for much longer.”

  “And yet you tell me that you prefer to be married by Protestant instead of Catholic rites? How can I agree to that?”

  His face hardened. “Do you recall when you arranged my first marriage, to Lady Jean? You could not persuade me to marry under the Catholic Church then, and you will not do so now.”

  “If we wait for Knox to declare the banns of marriage, then we will be waiting for ever and by that time…” I stopped myself short and realised that my hand had drifted instinctively towards my belly.

  Bothwell was watching me carefully. If he guessed, he said nothing.

  Our quarrel raged on, so that the servants could hear, and I was left alone in my chamber, weeping. If I could have found a way out of my predicament, I would gladly have taken it, but there was a child in my womb. And that child did not belong to my dead husband. It was Bothwell’s and he had but lately been married to another.

  The atmosphere in Edinburgh was explosive. John Knox was preaching like fury from his pulpit. Bothwell – although he was never a godly man – attended a service at St. Giles’ High Kirk. Afterwards he informed me that Knox took the story of Ahab from the Scriptures and screeched it above the heads of his gathered congregation until no one had known where to look.

  “Ahab did not walk in the way of the Lord, and look what happened to him,” he shrieked. “He took a wife. Jezebel – who tempted her husband to commit wicked atrocities. Elisha said ‘and the dogs shall eat Jezebel, and there shall be none to bury her!’”