by Alex Nye
They showed me no respect.
They were loyal instead to Knox’s tyrannical diatribe against the Monstrous Regiment of Women. He had won. He had coloured their hearts and minds.
I had been betrayed.
I began to hear faint whispers and murmurs.
“Burn her!”
The blood left my face and neck, but rage took hold of me.
“Burn the whore!”
I could not believe it.
I turned to Kirkcaldy then and said to him, “Is this your word, Kirkcaldy? Is this your honour?”
He glanced at me almost apologetically then melted away into the background to be replaced by the rabble of soldiers who surged forward. They pressed in on me. They had their white banner, with my own son on it, praying for vengeance. I leaned forward and grasped it in my fist.
“Is this what you believe?”
I pushed my way through the press of soldiers, a worthy opponent to any of them. They were cowards and I forced a passage through to where I could see Morton in the crowd.
I managed to get close enough in the confusion to cry out, “What is this then, Morton? I am told this is an attempt to seek justice against the King’s murderers. And yet I am also told you are one of them!”
Lindsay appeared at my side then and I grabbed his hand. “I swear by this hand which is now in yours, I shall have your head for this. I shall see my revenge!”
Lindsay choked on his wrath, but felt unable to say aught in reply. I did not give him the chance.
I am ashamed to narrate what happened next, for it does not put my own subjects in a good light. It reveals them as cowards and turn-coats, lily-livered and vulnerable.
Perhaps we are all vulnerable, that is the kindest thought I can muster.
Before long I found myself surrounded by the ordinary soldiers who – at the command of their superiors – were permitted to vent their spleen on me. There were whispers and sighs, which grew to a tumult.
“Burn her! Burn the witch! Burn the whore!”
When I heard that word witch I trembled.
I could not see any of my former councillors and courtiers. Of Maitland, Kirkcaldy, there was no sign.
Lindsay came before me and held up the white banner. “This shall be borne before you on your journey,” he said, his eyes like slits in his reddened face, “as evidence of your crime.”
“My crime, Lindsay? What about yours?”
But he was gone, coward that he was, leaving the banner in the hands of those lesser soldiers who were happy to do the bidding of anyone who paid them enough. Mercenaries – every single one.
It was thus I found myself being forced from Carberry, site of that former battle, twenty years ago, all the way back to Edinburgh. I suppose it was a spectacle of amusement to some of those citizens who came out to stare: to see a queen so humbled, brought so low, is a pantomime not to be missed. Whatever their own thoughts or views on the subject, who would not want to stare?
This journey lasted from seven in the evening until
ten o’ clock at night. I was paraded before them, jostled and jeered at by the soldiers, the white banner with its self-righteous claim searing itself upon the minds of those who looked on. A piece of successful propaganda, it was a lie that has never been fully investigated. A murder mystery, which remains unsolved in the public imagination although I knew the answer long ago, as did those in the Scottish court who had signed bonds and secret agreements, who had conspired together to have Darnley removed.
Having removed him they needed a scapegoat to blame. And while Knox was pointing the finger, what better scapegoat than a weakened sovereign? The Protestants were in ascendency and they knew how to pave the way.
We crossed the old narrow bridge of Musselburgh as the sunset bled its crimson crisis across the sky. On through the village of Niddry we rode, past the towers of Craigmillar where they had plotted at first to be rid of Darnley,
where they had held secret meetings to discuss the threat he posed to the security of the realm. And all the way the soldiers – an ungodly rabble – taunted me with their insults. It took all my dignity and courage to hold my head high and ignore them.
We entered the city by one of the southern ports and they compelled me to ride past the ruins of Kirk o’ Field. Did they truly believe that it was I who had plotted to blow up the house where he stayed, until not a stone was left remaining on another?
Lindsay, demon that he was, ordered the soldiers to pause here so that the Queen “could take stock.”
I glared at him in disbelief, the man who had – along with others – burst in upon me in my private chambers only fifteen months before and slaughtered Rizzio in my presence.
But there was yet worse to come.
In the distance I could see that Knox, ever the opportunist, had chosen this moment to mark his victory and triumph over me. He ventured out from his web with a pack of mischief-makers at his back.
“Scotland has been bewitched!” he roared. “But now, by God’s edict, I break that spell. I set the people free from their bondage that she…” he almost screeched now in his excitement “has put us under. But no more oan it, lassie. No more. Ye’ve had your day!”
I looked at him in astonishment, this consummate actor with his ghastly performances.
“What an angry God you serve, Master Knox,” was all I said, but it was spoken so softly beneath my breath that I doubt he heard. He was too busy shouting withal.
“And now, let us pause to reflect on the sins and crimes of our sovereign!”
Lindsay stepped forward again, to stir up the rabble. “This is where our King met his end! Let us serve his memory by punishing the perpetrator of this dark deed!”
“Burn her! Burn the witch! Burn the whore!”
If I write this narrative in my own blood, will you believe me?
The procession moved on again, towards the town. I saw people pouring out of their houses, leaning from the windows and crowding the outside stairheads, but they did not join in flinging curses at me. They merely watched in astonishment.
“Leave her be!” a voice cried from above, and I glanced upwards hopefully.
I could not locate the owner of the voice.
They were too afraid to counter this rabble. Those who conveyed me through the streets of Edinburgh were the ones with the weapons in their hands, the weight of armour at their disposal. No one would dare defy them.
Any who still loved their Sovereign would need to wait a while before daring to express loyalty.
Night had fallen by now and I was fatigued beyond bearing. No one at this stage knew that I was with child. I carried my burden in silence.
Now that we were within the town I looked forward to regaining the sanctuary of Holyrood where I could at least rest from the inspection of the crowd. But instead of taking me to the Palace as Kirkcaldy had promised, they led me on, through the dark and narrow vennels to the Provost’s House at the head of Peebles’ Wynd, near the Cross. This was a bleak bare building, opening off a stair called the Black Turnpike.
I was then led down the steep stair and thrust into a small chamber, cell-like in dimension, thirteen feet wide and eight feet high, no bigger than an outhouse. There was one narrow, barred window, high in the wall, through which I could see the cobbles of the street and feet passing by.
I would have no privacy here.
I watched in shock as they banged the door shut behind me, and left me there. When I turned about I saw that I was not alone. Two armed guards stood in the darkness behind me. Evidently they were to share the room with me for the night.
I sat down on the narrow bunk provided and wept.
I had borne as much as I could bear.
As I dried my tears, I heard movement and noticed a handkerchief being thrust towards me.
I looked up.
<
br /> One of the guards proffered it while the other stood by, looking at his feet awkwardly.
I thanked him.
Nothing more was said.
“I am thirsty,” I said after a while.
The same guard rattled the bars and called out to those posted nearby. “Her Majesty is thirsty.”
“If you show her too much compassion, they’ll not like it,” the other muttered.
“I care not! Look at her. She’s undone.”
“What are your names?” I asked them, through lips that were cracked and dry.
They hesitated. Perhaps they had heard tell of my ability to escape any trap.
“I only ask because you have been kind.”
“He has been kind,” the guard said, gesturing at his partner. “Not me!”
I made no remark to this, but when the other guard managed to procure a jug of water for me, I drank from it thirstily. It was dusty and impure, but to me it tasted like nectar.
The Black Turnpike
Edinburgh
June 1567
What little light there was fell into my cell through the bars, and through that barred window I could hear heavy footfalls on the stair. I glanced up in hope, espying the glint of armour in the gloom.
I took heart at first, but then I saw the owner of that shining breastplate. Lindsay’s dark face appeared at the window, fixing the white banner in place.
“In case you should forget why you are here – Your Majesty!”
His dark outline blotted out the light for an instant then he left me. I was too exhausted to utter a rebuke. I lay down and closed my eyes against the wash of moonlight that filtered through the bars.
I could hear the confederate lords sitting down to supper in another part of the house, eating, feasting and drinking. Perhaps they were toasting their success. My stomach rumbled in protest. I had been offered nothing to eat or drink, except what the guard had procured for me.
Inside my womb I felt the child stirring and my thoughts flew to Prince James. Was he still safely in his nursery at Stirling Castle? Would the Earl of Mar protect him? Anxiety swept through me in waves and there was no comfort to be had in that bare cell, with the two guards watching from the shadows.
I heard movement.
When I opened my eyes I saw that they had lowered themselves to the floor and were sitting upright with their legs stretched before them.
They would need to sleep, as would I.
I glanced at those bars at the window, at the locked door.
Could I convince one of them to set me free?
Was Bothwell even now arranging a few loyal soldiers to enter Edinburgh by stealth under cover of darkness? How would he know where to find me?
Towards midnight I slept.
The early grey light of dawn filtered through the bars. I woke with a start, opened my eyes and blinked. I had not dreamt it then. This was the stark reality.
The guards still slept, their legs stretched out, though they had been commanded not to.
I picked myself up and reached up to the bars of the window. I could not quite see the stern black buttresses of St. Giles’ High Kirk, even when craning my neck, but I knew it would be there, bathed in the early rays. I watched as the High Street slowly came to life.
I held my breath.
The world looked so beautiful outside, even in its poverty and misery and viewed from this angle, my eyes close to the cobbles. And yet I was confined behind bars. The cruelty of that burnt into my soul, where it has left a mark ever since.
For nineteen years I have suffered the terrible torture of being imprisoned. I have longed for freedom, but longed in vain. I grow old by degrees and am quite diminished by age, which has come early due to my straitened circumstances. For nineteen years I have prayed to a merciful God, I have lifted my needle and thread and stitched elaborate tapestries for which I am renowned. And I have tried so hard to forgive those who have sinned against me, for it is what the law of God demands.
But it is not easy. Vengeance is never far from my heart.
My little dog, Geddon, is the most reliable companion I have. My servants are kind, and if my end comes soon I will remember them in my will. Let it never be said that Mary Queen of Scots does not repay her servants with kindness, nor pay her debts. I will speak to my brother-in-law in France and request that he pay them any wages they are owed, and although the Catholic princes abroad have not been able to free me from captivity, I know that my brother-in-marriage will fulfil my final request and see that my servants are paid in full. This will be some comfort to me.
Paget, Jane Kennedy, Elizabeth Curle…they have served me kindly at the last. However, I am aware that they sometimes think me ‘touched’ or mad.
I am not mad, merely haunted.
If I had fresh air, regular walks when I wanted, if I was free to choose my place of residence, this incarceration would be easier to bear. As I lift my needle and begin to sew, the bright threads slip through my fingers, and my thoughts slip through the air like gossamer, winged angels in flight.
A secret code finds its way into the letters I write. I labour still for a bright new future. I think of my son and how he has not cherished his mother’s memory, but chose instead to believe the lies against me.
He broke my heart.
They took him from me: they moulded him in their own image.
My brother Moray got what he wanted in the end. He became Regent over my son for a time. I heard from ambassadors and the like that his tutors beat him at the command of Morton and others. They once gave me a portrait of my son when he was a child, and I saw in his eyes and his pale face that he was dealt with harshly. I could read it all there as clearly as if the artist had whispered the truth in my ear.
I focus on my future.
Elizabeth little suspects how one day soon the earth will be rocked beneath her feet.
Twenty years ago, in the Provost’s House at the top of Peebles’ Wynd, just off the High Street, I gazed out at the black cobbles steaming in the early morning sunrise, and I longed for freedom with a hunger that only the young can feel. I wanted to be outside. I cared for nothing but my freedom – and my desire to see my son again. I could see no further than that.
I remembered how Bothwell had come to my aid fifteen months before as we escaped from Holyrood during the night. He had waited with horses beneath the churchyard wall and we had galloped away under cover of darkness. Darnley had ridden ahead, terrified that Morton, Ruthven and Lindsay would catch up with him. He had good reason to fear those men.
I heard whistling.
Someone was whistling in the dawn sunrise as they rolled a cart along the street. How I longed to be free of the burden of royalty in that moment, and how I longed to be just like them. I could not see their faces,
but I could hear the rumble of cart wheels. Then I saw a little boy clad in rags, his face full of mischief and hunger. He grabbed a small bannock from a passing cart and disappeared.
I watched the High Street going about its business; I listened to the voices, the sounds of wheels and horses’ hooves, and I waited.
The guards were changed, and those who took their place were less kind. They did not speak to me and I did not speak to them.
Towards the middle of the afternoon I saw a figure descending the stairs, his hat pulled low, and I recognized the face of my brother.
“Moray,” I cried.
When he made as if to walk on I called out. “Would you ignore me?”
He stopped and turned. The door was unbolted and he came into my cell.
I am ashamed to say that I wept on seeing him. “If you had been here, my brother, none of this would have happened! They would not have treated me so.”
In my desperation it did not occur to me to wonder why he was always absent whenever there was conspiracy af
oot.
“I have not been able to wash or change my clothes,” I said. “And they have threatened me. They have said that they will burn me. I am not afraid to die!” I added. “If that is their wish.”
“You will not die, Mary,” he assured me. “They’ll not burn you.”
“Will you help me, my brother?”
He avoided my eye. “Did you renounce Bothwell?”
“I asked if they would let him leave the field unharmed. That they did. I will not renounce him, for he is still my husband in the eyes of God, and in the eyes of the law.”
“Then I cannot help you,” Moray said flatly.
I stared at him. “He is also the father of my unborn child,” I said, admitting what I had so far never breathed a word of.
Moray stopped, and frowned. “Bastard!” he corrected.
I looked at him, taken aback.
“He is the father of your bastard.”
“And you would know about that, of course?”
Moray was angry. I had touched a raw nerve. “He was never lawfully separated from his wife. Your church does not recognize this so-called marriage of yours.”
Suddenly the scales fell from my eyes and I realised who was my real enemy in all of this. It is always the one you least suspect. Always.
A sudden memory of Maitland at Craigmillar Castle saying, “After all, Moray here will look through his fingers at the deed, and say nothing!”
My brother was always absent from Edinburgh on business whenever conspirators came knocking at
the door. If there was trouble brewing, if a fight broke out,
if the rebels ever got the upper hand and scored
an advantage against me, Moray was nowhere to be seen.
I had often said to Bothwell, “Someone else is behind of all this. I will find out who.”
As the years have passed I have even suspected Lord Burleigh and Elizabeth of engineering my downfall. Cecil did not want me in power. A Catholic Queen? Just over the border? I think not.
Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer.
