For My Sins

by Alex Nye

  Bothwell laughed as he related the story, but I was not amused.

  The tension up at the castle increased as Bothwell rushed to secure his plans.

  When we quarrelled he threatened to return to Lady Jean.

  “Are you aware that some say I am not even divorced from Lady Jean Gordon, that she is my true wife? I could return to her, in fact, and abandon you to your fate.”

  He became cruel in order to secure what he wanted.

  I have a notion that he must have known I was pregnant. He knew I was afraid that my reputation would be ruined.

  “So, my Jezebel,” Bothwell laughed. “We are to be married soon.”

  I turned away from him and murmured, “I need no approval from Master Knox.”

  As I gazed from the windows of the castle that night, I felt the hostile town ranged below me. So many had proved fickle in the end, even my confessor Father Mamaret. Bothwell was my last ally. When the moon broke from under the cloud cover I could see that the waters of the Firth were etched with ripples. A path of silver led to the horizon. If only I could vanish into that horizon, I thought, but I do not have that luxury.

  Father Mamaret was still residing at Holyrood and I sent word to him that I had need of his presence. Word was sent back that the pious father regretted that he found himself indisposed, but would try to attend when he was able.

  Stung by the rebuffal, I waited till the next day and repeated the request. He came that afternoon, but in no great hurry it must be added. A fierce wind blew from the Forth and he met me in the tiny, whitewashed chapel of St. Margaret on its bluff above the city.

  I knelt in the darkness before the candle-glow.

  He had the temerity to ask what I expected of him.

  “God’s blessing,” I replied.

  “I will give you His absolution, Your Majesty, but not His blessing.”

  I kept my composure, and listened carefully to what he had to say.

  “You cannot go through with this marriage, Your Majesty. A Protestant marriage? You must save yourself before it is too late.”

  I frowned at him and considered my words before replying. “I have always freely forgiven those who have sinned against myself. When Rizzio was murdered and my own life was threatened, I forgave the perpetrators of this deed at the instruction of my own councillors. Why am I then never to be forgiven?”

  “Your husband lies dead in the Abbey!”

  “And who put him there? Not I! I know who is guilty of Darnley’s murder. Others have blood on their hands, including those who sit in Parliament and dare to pronounce upon others.”

  “I am not concerned with their sins, Mary, but with yours. You cannot marry Bothwell under the rites of a heretical kirk when he has a wife of his own unlawfully – unlawfully, I say – divorced.”

  “If I must compromise on the religious rites of the ceremony, then it is a necessary evil.”

  “I understand what you feel you must do, Mary. But you must do what is right, and you will find that what is right is also politic.”

  Around us the shadows moved in the candlelight.

  “It would be politic to marry Bothwell. It is my duty to protect the monarchy.”

  “And you think this action will protect it?”

  “I am with child,” I burst out.

  Father Mamaret paled and said nothing for some moments.

  Eventually he rose, made the sign of the cross, and murmured, “May God have mercy on your soul!”

  Then he left me.

  I knelt alone in that tiny, whitewashed building before the glittering painted icons, while a merciless wind howled outside. I prayed to my ancestor, Saint Margaret, who had spent many long hours worshipping in this chapel. My whispers filled the darkness.

  Saint Margaret did not reply.

  Holyrood

  May 1567

  Bothwell, on observing my distress after Father Mamaret’s visit, took me aside and made to offer some comfort.

  “Do not fret, Marie,” he told me. “You need no priest’s blessing. What makes him such an intermediary for God?”

  I regarded him in silence, this rogue soldier of mine who had worked his way into my affections, won my trust, and then taken me by surprise when I least expected it.

  “Am I a good son of the Kirk, for instance, of any Church? Tell me.”

  “You should ask yourself.”

  “I do ask it of myself. No priest can refuse you the right to be forgiven. It is not in his power.”

  “I was talking of the true Church,” I whispered, gazing out at the distant waters of the Firth.

  “So was I,” I heard him breathe at my side.

  The day before our wedding I made Bothwell the Duke of Orkney and the Lord of Shetland and all the Isles, placing the ducal coronet on his head with my own fair hands, trembling as they were. It glittered on his brow, a small token of our pledge to one another – such as it was.

  Bothwell had become kind and reasonably attentive. He had good reason to be, I suppose.

  Tomorrow we would venture down to the Palace where we would be wed.

  It was the middle of the night when we made ourselves ready for departure. It was Bothwell’s idea to leave before dawn.

  What I did not know was that I was leaving that castle for the last time, never to enter its impregnable walls again.

  The iron drawbridge was thrust down and we rode slowly down the stony Castle Hill. Bothwell rode beside me, and in our wake was a long winding train of armed men, hooves slithering and skittering dangerously on the steep cobbles from time to time.

  A pall of silence, so thick it was almost tangible, hung over the city. No lights showed behind any of the shutters; no one was astir at this hour. Our journey went unremarked.

  Holyrood waited for us, its twin towers wrapped in secrecy and silence.

  We clopped quietly into the courtyard at a walking pace, dismounted, and left the grooms to attend to the horses. Then we entered the Palace in a mood of subdued gloom. It was too early to be of good cheer. The sun was not even beginning to lighten the sky.

  I was dressed in mourning, my alabaster face made all the more pale by the fall of my black veil and sombre draperies.

  We walked down the panelled corridors to the Great Hall, the same where I had wed Lord Darnley.

  How my fortunes had changed! Now beside me was James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, handsome, engaging, roguish, someone I had thought to trust.

  Now…I did not know what to think. All I knew was that he was the father of my unborn child.

  There were no guests present. The Protestant Bishop of Orkney presided. None of my own family were there. Moray was nowhere in sight, as usual. He had fled Edinburgh long ago.

  A makeshift altar had been erected, and a small brass lectern stood to one side. I thought wistfully of the Chapel Royal, with its paintings and icons and sculpted splendour.

  The wedding ceremony was short and abrupt, according to the austerity of the Calvinist Reformed Kirk. There was no organ and no Mass, and I hid behind my veil.

  There was no music, either. Just the words themselves, falling flat and hollow onto empty silence, a ceremony which Knox himself would have been proud of. There were a few short spoken promises, an exchange of rings, and the pact was completed, the bargain sealed. Performed surreptitiously and with all due haste in the darkness of the early hours.

  I remember the Bishop of Orkney preached a long sermon, this being his chance to shine and carve out a place for himself in the new order, so he thought. I paid little attention. This ceremony was not as momentous as the Bishop supposed.

  As the Bishop droned on in his dull monotone, he suddenly made reference to Bothwell’s ‘past life’, his former sinful ways.

  I glanced sideways at Bothwell and saw his dark gaze fixed pointedly on the Bisho
p, giving nothing away.

  After the service there were no masques or banquets. We were too nervous for that kind of celebration. It was a tense atmosphere. We left the Great Hall and went straight back to our chamber. I was exhausted, having risen at such an early hour.

  It was still only five o’ clock in the morning and we did not open any of the shutters. When the sun rose, I did not see it. My head ached with lack of sleep. By the time the shutters were thrown open, a cold grey drizzle had set in.

  That morning a letter arrived from Rome. A page delivered it to me directly where I remained cloistered with Bothwell. I read it in silence and let it fall at my feet.

  “What is it?” Bothwell asked.

  “It is from the Pope. He informs me that he is breaking off all relations with me.”

  Bothwell did not react at first, which quietly enraged me.

  Eventually he shrugged. “It is not the end of the world, surely?”

  “Not for you, perhaps. You are not a Catholic.”

  I waited. Still he did not react.

  “Don’t you understand? Can you not see what this means? I might as well be dead.”

  He got up and came towards me. “We are married now.”

  “Do you not see how much I have lost? Family, friends, everything. They will not accept our marriage – despite this ritual we have conducted today. Life will not go on as you want it to.”

  “This is just the initial uncertainty. One day all this will be in the past.”

  “This will never be in the past,” I insisted, retrieving the letter from where it lay. “Perhaps this is only the beginning.”

  I knew that if the Pope chose to excommunicate me, the rest of Europe could do as they pleased. Anyone could plot for my downfall. I would never be safe again.

  “This is my punishment,” I murmured. “I am justly punished.”

  Bothwell watched me, perplexed. “Justly?”

  “I have forsaken my own Catholic faith…to please you!”

  It was not long before our voices rang out, echoing down the corridors so that, no doubt, the servants could hear our quarrel.

  I dashed away my tears and tried to harden my heart as I had done so in the past.

  As I sit here incarcerated in Elizabeth’s castle, I think on my three husbands. Which of them earned my love or respect? First there was sexless Francois, who loved me as a sister. We were raised together in the nursery. He never awakened any physical love or passion.

  Then there was Darnley, who did at first awaken my delight, but just as quickly quenched it with his irrational depraved behaviour.

  Then there was Bothwell, who charmed me with his dark eyes and his rough embrace. When my person was threatened, he rushed to defend me, and in doing so won my heart. What I did not know was that he had another purpose in mind. He wanted the crown, and now I was beginning to realise it.

  He had deceived me, played a double game, just like the rest of them. I have been ill-used.

  There were no fireworks after this wedding. I did not replenish my wardrobe either, except to have a dress relined and an old black cloak embroidered with gold braid. My wedding gift to Bothwell was some genet fur with which to trim his dressing gown, a symbolic gesture to acknowledge his rise in station. I did not feel inclined to be lavish with extravagances we could ill-afford.

  At noon there was a wedding breakfast. I had sent out a proclamation that the townsfolk were permitted to

  watch us from the courtyard for their entertainment if they should so desire. It was an attempt to include them in the pageant, but I regretted it the instant the command went out. I did not feel like being observed, my spirits were so low.

  Bothwell and I sat out our ordeal in the dining-room on the first floor, our chairs scraping awkwardly against the floorboards as we sat down. We had been quarrelling all morning and there was a mood of tension between us as we avoided one another’s gaze. We had left our quarrel unresolved and it nettled us both.

  Bothwell tried to relieve the mood with a false heartiness at times. He rose from his seat at one point and shouted down to the assembled crowd below who had wandered into the courtyard to observe us.

  “Make merry,” he bellowed. “Share with us this cause for national celebration!”

  A cheer went up, but there are always those who will cheer at anything. I noted that an enterprising vendor was weaving his way between the people selling burnt toffee and other sweetmeats.

  For a moment I envied them their ordinary poverty – strange to say – although these people were not the true poor. They had shelter at night, a hearth to cook food upon. I had seen others in the vennels much worse off than these folk; poor souls who lay in the mire and the dirt, whisky-addled in an attempt to dull the pain of their condition. I had seen it on those nights when I walked abroad after dusk with Darnley, in disguise.

  But I did not wish to think on that. I focused on my plate, but found it hard to eat. I was still suffering from nausea.

  Bothwell tried to engage me once or twice with a witty rejoinder, but grew frustrated when his attempts fell on parched soil. We fell instead into laconic silence, lifting the food to our mouths like wooden puppets.

  At last, Bothwell stood up, pushing his chair back almost violently in his frustration.

  “I consider we are done with this wedding breakfast. I can eat no more. You?” Then he turned to me, his queen. “You are done also…Ma’am?”

  I inclined my head slightly.

  He held out his hand to me, which I took, and raised me up from the chair where I sat. I was glad this pantomime was drawing to a close, as I was growing increasingly uncomfortable under the gaze of the townsfolk. I felt that many had gathered out of curiosity rather than

  genuine support for our cause. The doings and proceedings of ‘great folk’ are ever a cause of wonder to the poor, and I do not doubt that we offer them entertainment of a sort.

  We went to the window and bowed to the crowd, who released another desultory cheer then we retired from the public gaze.

  My mask of cheer instantly dropped. I could disguise it no more. My misery was complete.

  That afternoon I heard it whispered that Father Mamaret was leaving for France. Bothwell was discussing it with one of his men when I came across them in the outer chamber.

  “What news is this?” I asked.

  There was nothing in this room but a long polished table, paintings on the walls, and no fire set in the great hearth, it being May.

  “It is Father Mamaret. He is leaving. I came across his valet, packing. They intend to leave for France as soon as possible.”

  “Why was I not informed of this decision?”

  No one replied.

  “I must go and say farewell to him!”

  “Wait!” Bothwell stopped me. “Don’t you think it would be wise to leave well alone?”

  “He came with me to Scotland, eight years ago, and has been with me ever since. Why would I not bid him farewell?”

  Bothwell stood aside with a shrug and said no more.

  My Catholic confessor’s office was at the furthest end of the Palace from my own rooms, next to the Chapel Royal. As I stood outside I heard movement from within, chests being shifted and dragged across the boards.

  I pushed open the door onto a scene of ordered chaos, towers of books spilling across the floor, one or two servants busy at their work of packing eight years worth of accumulated possessions. The icons and religious paintings that had once graced the walls had been taken down, leaving grey, discoloured rectangles as evidence of where they had hung. It was a depressing sight.

  “I heard you were leaving, Father Mamaret.” I looked him pointedly in the eye.

  He avoided my gaze.

  “You thought to leave without a parting word, after all these years?”

  He struggled
with his composure and I could see that my directness and honesty made him uneasy. He rallied, however, in front of his servants and said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I thought we had concluded our business the other day.”

  “Did you?” I said. “So you are leaving for France? You must feel very glad.”

  “I cannot deny that I shall be glad to see the shores of my own country again, after all these years. It has been a long time for an old man like myself.”

  “Pah! You are not so old, Father Mamaret. It has been a long time for me too. You must send my warmest regards to my relatives in France.”

  He bowed his head. “Your Majesty. But you must not pine for France still.”

  “I do not pine!” I retorted acidly.

  He carried on as if I had not spoken. “This is your adopted country now, Ma’am. Here is where your duties lie.”

  I stared at him. “I am well aware of where my duties lie, thank you, Father Mamaret.”

  He looked alarmed for a moment.

  “I wish you God speed on your journey!” I said, before turning my back on him.

  I heard him beginning to utter some words, “Ma’am…” but it was too late. I had swept away from him.

  Bothwell had been right. It had been a mistake to visit him. He did not hanker for my farewells.

  As I moved away down the corridor, I heard the door being closed behind me by one of his servants and I stood a moment to listen. That door closed on a childhood of memories and trust. If I had any unfinished business with God, I would deal with it myself. My salvation was in my own hands – where it has always been.

  Bothwell was correct in as much as no one truly needs an intercessor to mediate between themselves and God – even in the Catholic Church. My psalter, prayer book and rosary beads would suffice, and my own earnest prayers to a benevolent God.

  Father Mamaret left Holyrood for the port of Leith that day, and from there sailed away to France. I never saw him again, nor received any letters from him, despite our shared experiences over the preceding eight years of my reign. I never wrote to him either, having no desire to do so. I have learned the hard way which servants are deserving of my loyalty.